Gracefully Aroused: The Best of K D Grace (2 page)

As she left the bathroom, she lingered to caress his Columbia University T-shirt, which still smelled of his sweat and the fine rich loam of her fields.

She stroked the fabric and lifted it to her nose, inhaling deeply the scent of him while her other hand, as though it had a mind of its own, moved inside the elastic waist of her athletic shorts seeking out the humid, warm crevices, the aching landscape of her that shivered and moistened at the thought of Tim leaning against the tractor, bare bottom raised to her switch, cock twitching and growing harder with each smack. How could she have been so brazen? She should apologise to him. She was lucky he didn’t have her up on charges, and yet all she wanted was to do it again. She buried her face in his shirt and moaned, practically riding her fingers.

‘You’re trespassing.’

With a yelp, she turned to find Tim standing at the door, arms folded across his rain-soaked T-shirt, nipples drilling through the thin fabric. She didn’t even attempt to take her hand out of her shorts. She’d been caught.

‘I’ve been wondering how long it would take you.’ His gaze raked her with near physicality, lingering on her braless breasts then her hand inside her shorts, curved around her pubis. He clucked his tongue. ‘Once a bad girl, always a bad girl.’

‘Wha …?’ Her words stuck in her throat as he undid his heavy western belt buckle, which rested precariously above his growing bulge. Then he slid the belt from his Levis.

‘The only thing I like better than taking punishment, Suzie, is giving punishment. And I especially love giving it to very naughty girls who invade my privacy.’

There was no escape. He stood, legs apart, dripping rain on the floor between her and the door. Outside there was a loud clap of thunder and a bright flash of lightning as he stepped forward. He pulled out the heavy wooden chair from beneath the makeshift desk, sat down, and patted his knee. ‘You’ve been a very bad girl, Suzie Sheridan, from the beginning, misjudging me so badly, blaming me for your nasty thoughts and desires when I think there’s no one to blame but you.’ He patted his knee again. ‘I think it’s time you paid for your bad behaviour.’

Slowly, she approached him, and when she stood squarely in front of him, he stopped her. ‘Take off your shirt. I want to feel how hard your nipples get when I spank your little bare arse.’ He smacked the palm of his hand with the looped belt.

She feared she’d be beaten to death by her own hammering heart. She could almost get to the door and make a run for it. But she didn’t. Instead she did as he asked, pulling the wet tank top off over her head, exposing her already engorged nipples to his scrutiny. With his free hand he gave each breast a stinging slap and pinched her nipples until she winced.

Then he grabbed the waistband of her shorts and pulled her to him, guiding her down over his lap, bending her over his knees. If his cock had been a knife, she would have been mortally wounded, the way it jabbed against her belly as he tugged her shorts down over her hips, and she wriggled and manoeuvred to help him, both anxious for and frightened of what was to come.

‘What? No panties? You really are a dirty girl, aren’t you?’ Without so much as a warning, the belt came down with a loud snap against her bottom. She yelped and squirmed. The sting of it was strong enough to take her breath away. But she wasn’t sure if the tears were from the sting or from the strange cocktail of humiliation and anger that it seemed to induce. ‘That hurt,’ she hissed between clenched teeth.

‘It’s supposed to hurt,’ he replied, kneading and caressing the arse cheek he had just smacked. ‘It’s punishment.’

Smack!

The belt came down again. And she would have bucked right off his lap if he hadn’t held her firmly. My God, it hurt. And if he ever let her up, she’d strangle him with his own belt.

But he didn’t let her up. He smacked her again, and this time, as quickly as the pain registered in her brain, it was translated into twitching, swelling, humid impatience in her cunt. Impatience for the next smack, which came along with a stiff probing of her slit with his finger.

‘You’re getting pussy juice on my best Levis,’ he breathed. ‘That’ll only make the punishment worse.’

As a last act of defiance, she ground her wetness against him. But he wasn’t taking any of her sass. He scooped her around the waist and, with amazing strength, tossed her on her back on his bed. ‘You’re only making it harder for yourself.’ His voice was breathless as he grabbed her ankles in one large hand and shoved them up over her head as though she were an infant and he were about to change her diaper. Instead the belt came down in three rapid, stinging whooshes against her exposed bottom, no doubt now glowing pinker than a sunburn.

Before she could do more than squirm and bounce on the bed, he tossed the belt aside, ripped open his fly and his cock sprang free. He held it like it was a power tool and he was the handyman, who knew how to use it. There was no foreplay, no making nicey-nice. He just thrust into her hard, shoving the breath from her lungs, kick-starting the orgasm that had been on the verge of exploding since he threatened to spank her. Her legs were still over her head, ankles still held firmly in his cast-iron grip, as he spanked her on the inside with his cock. Jesus! She didn’t want the punishment to end.

‘You naughty, dirty, girl,’ he rasped, thrusting each word for emphasis. ‘You have –‘ thrust ‘– to be –’ punished –’ Thrust. He released her legs and she wrapped them around his neck, arching up to meet her punishment over and over until he grunted. It was more like a roar actually, then he ejaculated so hard that she was sure she’d never hold it all, but it hardly mattered with her own orgasm spasming and threatening to rip her apart.

‘Are you sorry for your bad behaviour?’ he asked, much later, curled around her in his bed while they listened to the storm rage outside.

‘Terribly,’ she lied.

‘Farming takes discipline,’ he lectured.

‘Right. And just how much farming can you do in London?’

He clucked his tongue and rolled his eyes. ‘I don’t live in London. I help feed London, or used to. My family owns a farm in Kent. My uncle owns a farm in Illinois. I’ve provided cheap labour for both. My hands got soft while I was away at university.’ He wiggled his eyebrows. ‘Thanks to you they’re hard again.’

She winced slightly as his newly calloused hand moved down to stroke her tender bottom. When she was no longer speechless from his revelation, she spoke. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘And spoil your fun? You were dying to spank my city-boy arse from day one, admit it. Besides –’ he slipped his fingers back into the silken wetness of her pussy ‘– I’m sure the more disciplining I get the better farmer I’ll be. And you, you’re such a naughty girl, I may wear my belt out on your little bare bottom.’

‘Don’t worry.’ She shoved him onto his back and mounted him. ‘If you wear out your belt, there are plenty of willow switches.’

Personal Trainer

The only people named Hawk are either on the pages of sleazy romance novels or in testosterone-crazed shoot-’em-up films. Hawk Sturgis looks like he could fit the bill in either case. His blond hair is a military buzz cut. His trousers are army surplus camouflage tucked into boots that look like they weigh several kilos each. The Rambo look is pulled together with a khaki muscle shirt that, for all I know, could be painted across hard pecs and washboard abs. I look him up and down thinking he’s good looking in a strange GI Joe sort of way. And he looks me up and down like a drill sergeant with a new recruit, one he’s not particularly pleased with.

Because he has insisted we meet at five in the morning, and it’s still dark outside, I’m already mentally asking myself if I really want to do this. Then he barks. ‘Davis, Penelope.’

In spite of myself, I snap to attention. My friend, Alison, warned me Hawk’s methods are unorthodox. I think about Alison, all sleek and slender and glowing in her minuscule new swimsuit, and I grit my teeth. Getting up in the middle of the night may take some getting used to, but if it’ll get me looking hot in my new bikini for the summer hols, I can live with it. And if Alison’s fab new body is any indication of what the man can do, well, I can learn to salute. ‘Call me Penny, please.’

He studies me from under tightly drawn brows. ‘Barnet tells me you want to hire my services.’

Barnet? Oh, Alison. Right. I do, yes. Come in. Tea? Coffee? Water?’

No. Nothing. Barnet says you want the standard beach job. ’Zat right?’

‘The standard beach job?’

He stops in the centre of the lounge and folds pile driver arms across his chest, giving me a tight-faced look that lets me know in no uncertain terms my ignorance is insufferable. ‘Beach? Bathing costume?’ His enormous hands drop to his hips, and he takes a step closer. ‘You don’t want to look like a lard-arse in your new bikini. ’Zat it?’

I blush hard. ‘That about sums it up, yes.’

He gives me another disapproving onceover, like he can see every extra inch of pale, unfit flesh hiding beneath my baggy gym suit. ‘Gonna cost you a hundred quid an hour,’ he says.

I grab for the arm of the sofa like I’ve been gut punched. ‘A hundred quid an hour?’

He nods.

‘That’s a little out of my price range.’

‘You get what you pay for,’ he says.

‘I understand that, of course, I do.’ I offer an anaemic smile. ‘It’s just, well, Alison said you were affordable. That’s all.’

He holds me in his cold blue stare. ‘Barnet was on the contingency plan. That’s a different matter altogether, more demanding.’

I’m up at five in the fucking morning. How much more demanding can it be? I wonder. ‘But it’s more affordable?’ I ask.

He shrugs. ‘There are certain terms and conditions. Certain arrangements to be taken into account.’

‘Tell me,’ I say, feeling my heart hammering in my throat. I do not want to go to the beach this summer hiding behind a wrap or a sloppy T-shirt.

‘Here are the terms.’ He moves a step closer. ‘You do exactly as I say at all times, and if you don’t, you take the consequences without complaint. You do that, and I guarantee results by the end of our contract period.’

‘OK,’ I nod. ‘And if I do exactly what you say to the end of our contract period,
then
what does it cost?’

He looks at me like I’m an imbecile. ‘That is the cost.’

‘That’s all? That’s it. I just have to do as you say?’

‘Exactly as I say. At all times.’

‘So, what’s the catch?’

He folds his arms across his chest again and glares down at me. ‘Look, do you want the contingency plan or not? If not, stop wasting my time. I got paying clients.’ He turns toward the door.

‘All right! All right. If you can get me the results you got for Alis … for Barnet then I’ll take the contingency plan.’

I’m expecting a handshake or a “You won’t regret it”, or something. Instead, he holds me in a cast-iron gaze until I start to squirm, folding my arms across my breasts, feeling like maybe he has X-ray vision. At last he speaks. ‘You sure you’re up for this level of commitment?’

‘Yes, of course I am. I mean if Barnet can do it, surely I can do it, Mr Sturgis, Hawk.’

He grinds his teeth and his jaw clenches like a vice grip. ‘You will address me as “sir” for the duration of our association, Davis. Are we clear?’

I square my shoulders even more square. ‘Yes, sir, we’re clear.’

‘You will do exactly as I say.’

‘Sir, yes, sir.’

‘You will not question my authority. Ever. You got that?’

‘Sir, yes, sir.’

He moves nose to nose with me, practically breathing fire. ‘This is no joke, Davis. Man’s body is his temple. Keeping it fit and healthy is serious business.’

‘Yes, sir.’ I figure now might not be the best time to tell him I’m not a man. Surely he must have noticed that – me with the tits and long hair and lippy and all.

‘Good. Then we start now. I got a gym I use not far from here. This early we have it to ourselves, but only for an hour, so move your arse.’ He nods towards the door.

I grab my car keys from the hook by the sink, but he shakes his head.

‘We walk?’

He shakes his head again. ‘We run.’ Then he gives my trainer-clad body a sceptical look. ‘I need to know how bad it is.’

When we finally arrive at the gym, and he unlocks the door, I’m thinking death is imminent. He places a meaty hand against my neck and eyeballs his chronograph to check my pulse. I’m wondering if it’s even possible to count that fast. I’m not sure if the resulting grunt means it’s acceptable, or that he’s totally disgusted with my lack of fitness, but at least he’s not dialling an ambulance.

He marches me at a fast trot to a back room with mirrored walls and free weights.

I head straight for the nearest weight bench. It’s the perfect place to collapse and have a whimper. But I don’t get far.

‘Davis! About face!’ he huffs.

And I’m standing at attention again, while he walks around me, hands on his hips muttering. ‘Uh huh, mmm hmm, right.’ He nods to my blue trainer bottoms. ‘Take ’em off.’

‘Sir?’ My voice cracks.

‘You want a beach job, I need to know what I’ve got to work with.’

‘I have a leotard, back home. Believe me, it doesn’t hide anything. If we could just wait –’

‘Take. Them. Off.’ Between each word he makes a stabbing motion at my trackie bottoms with an index finger that looks like it might be a registered weapon.

I shove the trousers down and step out of them, embarrassed by the comfy, and now sweaty, granny panties I wore to work out in. I never expected to have to display them.

‘And the top.’

‘Really, I’d feel a lot more comfortable if we could do this after I get home and then I’ll just slip into the leotard and –’

‘Davis, you will do as I say or find yourself another personal trainer. I will not tolerate insubordination.’

The thought of one hundred quid an hour flashes through my mind, followed in quick succession by the thought of a svelte, sleek new me in a red bikini, and I peel off the shirt to reveal an equally ugly white sports bra.

But he doesn’t notice the bra or the knickers, instead he yells in my ear. ‘Drop and give me ten!’

‘Wha –?’

‘Make it 20. Now!’

I fall to the floor with all the grace of a wildebeest on ice, then I struggle through eight push-ups, arms trembling like I’ve got some spastic muscle disease just before I collapse on the floor in a heap.

And suddenly he’s arched over me like he’s gonna put some kind of painful wrestling move on me. But just as I muster the breath to beg for my life, he wraps one tree-trunk of an arm half around my waist and supports himself with the other. ‘I’ll spot you,’ he says. ‘When I say 20 push-ups, I mean 20 push-ups.’ And there he is doing push-ups on top of my push-ups, all supported on three limbs, like a tripod, his hand splayed low on my belly, pulling me up every time he pumps up. He gives me just enough help to struggle through.

It’s impossible for me to count. It’s impossible for me to think of anything other than Hawk Sturgis arched over me, his big hand pressing dangerously close to my pubic bone, his camouflaged crotch raking against my granny-pantied arse with each upward thrust. When I’m finished, he hauls me to my feet, pressed tightly against acres of hard muscle, and I’m very aware that one of those hard muscles just happens to be his cock.

I’m surprised when he says, ‘Not bad, Davis. Most women have no upper body conditioning. You’d think they’d work a little harder on those pecs, do a few more push-ups, some flies. After all, it’s upper body conditioning that makes for good cleavage.’ I don’t know how he does it, but with a little shrug, and some sleight of hand, he unhooks my bra, slides the straps down off my shoulders and shoves it forward onto the floor. I try to cover myself with folded arms as he steps back and turns me to face him. ‘You got nice full breasts, Davis.’ He wedges my arms apart with his big hands and rakes a calloused thumb over each of my burgeoning nipples in doing so. ‘A few push-ups, maybe some dumbbell flies and your cleavage will give every bloke on the beach wood.’

His gaze is like a magnet pulling my nipples all taut, and I wonder if it’s my cleavage that has given him wood, or if it’s just a permanent condition for the macho commando type. He motions for me to turn around, completely oblivious to the blush clawing its way up my chest and neck. ‘Your glutes are nice and poochy, the kind that will look good in a thong. It is a thong, isn’t it? Your bikini?’

Before I can utter an embarrassed no, he hooks a thick finger in the elastic of my knickers and tugs them down until my arse is on candid camera. He ignores my yelp of surprise and keeps a good grip on the elastic while he offers a running commentary on the foibles and glories of my bottom. ‘No cellulite. That’s good. Nice heart shape.’ He cups each buttock and gives it a kneading squeeze. ‘Needs some firming. Nothing a few squats, some hack squats and a good running regimen won’t cure.’

He kneels so his nose is just inches away from my exposed bottom, shoves the panties down until they pool around my ankles, then cups my arse cheeks like they’re two melons he’s contemplating at the market. And all the while he’s contemplating my arse cheeks, his hot breath is blowing its way right up the valley in between, straight to my cunt, and my labia are parting like the Red Sea in full anticipation. Bloody hell! This isn’t what I expected.

‘Spread your legs, Davis,’ he says. ‘I need to get a feel of your thigh muscles.’

I do as he says, knowing full well that while he’s feeling my thighs, he’s getting a bird’s eye view of my puss. Did Alison go through this? Did she mind? ’Cause each time I feel his breath on my slit, I mind less and less. As he squeezes and kneads my upper thigh muscles, the tip of his heavy thumb just grazes my swelling pout, and I jump and gasp at the delicious shock of it. It’s like someone pressed the turned-on switch, and if I wasn’t hot and bothered before, I certainly am now. I’m tilting my hips forward, gripping and relaxing, gripping and relaxing, giving all those girlie muscles a stealthy workout. I’m trying not to hump air in my efforts to reel in his hot breath and wrap it all around my grasping cunt.

‘You’re carrying a lot of tension below deck, Davis. You have regular sex?’ he asks.

I respond with several fish gasps before I find my voice. ‘Not regular, no.’ I figure that’ll be good news to him. That means I won’t have to give up sex to stay focused while he rebuilds my body into a temple.

‘Sex is like calisthenics on steroids,’ he says. ‘Damned important part of any training regimen. Any good one at least.’

Before I can utter my surprise, he says, ‘We’ll start out with three times a week. See how you manage that, then we’ll work our way up from there.’

He ignores my sputters of shock and continues talking to my arse. ‘Some people get really turned on by working out. They need sex afterwards to unwind and relax. Others want sex before they work out. They like the extra rush of endorphins. Me –’ He heaves a sigh that I feel on my pussy like a gale force wind. ‘Me, I could go either way. Sometimes both. Your body will tell you what works.’

I offer up a couple more fish gasps through a flaming blush before I manage to croak. ‘You mean you want me to … mmm … to masturbate as a part of my training schedule?’

‘I didn’t say masturbate, did I, Davis? I said you should have sex. The wanking, well it’ll do if you don’t have a proper workout partner. Mind you, masturbation’s a good way to burn a few extra calories, I’ll grant you that, so yeah, I’d say have a wank whenever you feel the urge. But I’m not talking about self-pleasure here. I’m talking about real, genuine bumping and grinding. There’s no better workout.’ He manoeuvres himself to kneel in front of me, moving his hands up over my hips and abs, deep massaging the muscles like they’re dough and he plans to make some serious bread.

‘But, I don’t have a proper workout partner,’ I say, trying not to grind my hips against his massaging hands.

He gives me that how-long-must-I-suffer-fools look and shakes his head. ‘Your body, I can do something about, Davis. But it’s up to you to exercise the muscle between your ears.’ He taps a finger against my temple, emphasising each word. ‘There’s just you and me. I’m your trainer
and
your workout partner. That’s what you pay me for.’

The light bulb finally comes on in my head, and my stomach manages half a flip-flop before the hand that has been massaging my abdominal muscles so expertly suddenly slides down until it nestles against my pubes. His thumb rakes my clit, causing me to offer up an undignified grunt. He knows he’s found the control switch, and, holy crap, does he know how to use it! The rough pad of his thumb circles and rakes, and circles and rakes my nib until it feels like a lead weight straining against his fingers.

He nods to the bench I’ve been coveting, never taking his steel-blue gaze off my face. The hand not circling and raking moves to cup and squeeze my tits in turn. Then he scooches me back, and back, and back, almost like he’s herding me with his thumb on my clit until I plop down on the bench.