Naughty Bits 2 (3 page)

When he says, “Did you hear me, Rose?” in a soft tone of remonstration, I realize I'm just standing here dithering.

I peel off my cardigan, and to my surprise he takes it from me and places it over the arm of the chair. Nothing too fright
ening there. But next, it's my little buttoned top, and I fumble with the fastenings as if I have five thumbs.

The marquess sighs softly, gently puts my hands down at my sides and then undoes the top himself, divesting me of it with precise efficiency as if he undresses clumsy women all the time. Maybe he does. Well, not necessarily clumsy ones…but who knows whom he sees when he's not here at the manor overseeing the renovation.

Now, on top, I'm left just in my bra, and the marquess studies it, doing that little head tilt thing of his again, as if he's grading me on the quality of my underwear. I swallow hard, wondering how my choice stands up. It's a delicate white lace number, my best…I hope it passes muster. I hope my breasts do as well, beneath. They're not big, but they're perky, and right now my nipples are as pink and hard as cherry stones. Something the marquess takes note of by reaching out to squeeze one. I moan like a whore as he twists it delicately through the lace.

Lust and blood and hormones career wildly through my body. It's as if I've got too much energy to fit inside my skin. I close my eyes tightly, ashamed of my own wantonness as my hips begin to weave in time with the delicate tweaking. But the marquess says, “No,” and with his free hand he cups my chin. “Look at me, Rose. Give me your feelings. Don't deny me them.”

I open my eyes, aware that they're swimming, but it's not from the pain. It's that overflow again, that wild abundance of emotion and sensation; it's welling over in the form of sudden tears.

The marquess's eyes are amazing—deep as the ocean, unfathomable and yet on fire. He reaches for my other nipple and as he plays with that, I wriggle anew as if my pelvis had a wicked life of its own.

“You're willful, sweet Rose,” he purrs, tugging, tugging,
first one nipple then the other. This simple punishment is far more testing than any amount of smacking or spanking, I sense, and suddenly I'm proud to be put to such a test.

The marquess's eyes glitter as if he's read my sudden thought, and he permits me the beneficence of a slight smile. Then he draws a deep breath and leans back in the chair, abandoning my breasts.

I feel bereft until he tells me, “Continue.”

Slipping off my bra, he gives my breasts and my rosy, swollen nipples a swift once-over, as if without covering they don't interest him quite as much. I hesitate and he nods to indicate I should take off my skirt.

First I slip my feet out of my shoes and kick them away, then I unfasten the button and zipper of my skirt. For a moment, I clutch at it, suddenly nervous despite everything. Then I let it drop, and kick it away, standing as proudly as I can in just a very tiny G-string.

I keep my own smile inside, but elation geysers up inside me as the marquess can't disguise his grin.

“Oh, how splendid…how splendid….” he murmurs, and that naughty pink tongue of his slips out again, touching the center of his lush lower lip. Reaching out, he runs the backs of his fingers over the little triangle of lace and over the fluffy pubic hair that peeks out on either side. Fleetingly, I wish I'd had a chance to visit a salon and get a Brazilian, then I change my mind as his fingertips coil in my floss and gently tug it. He seems to like me
au naturel,
and whatever the marquess likes, I like, too.

He tweaks a little harder and the tension transfers directly to my clitoris. I'm so excited I almost come; I'm so close to the edge. As it is, I let out a groan, I just can't help myself.

The marquess pulls again, making a tiny pain, a little hurt, prick and niggle at the roots of the little curl he's playing with. But at the same time, he reaches up with his free hand and places his fingers across my lips.

“Now, now, Rose, you must learn to control yourself,” he reprimands quietly, but without rancor. “A good submissive is quiet and still, bearing discomfort—” he twists a little more tightly “—with perfect grace and fortitude. You have a long way to go yet, my dear, but I hope that you'll learn.”

The tears trickle down my face. This isn't quite what I expected, and somehow I feel reduced to some kind of wayward little girl for a moment. But this excites me, and inside, deeper than my confusion, is a brighter glow. It's a game, and my body loves it even though my mind is still learning.

It isn't only my tears that are trickling.

As if he, too, has detected my welling arousal, the marquess's nostrils flare eloquently. His deep chest lifts as if he's breathing in my foxy, fruity smell. A slow smile curves his lips and I half expect him to lick them again, savoring my aroma.

A moment later, I'm gasping, fighting for breath, desperate to obey his wishes, and at the same time on the point of shouting out and jerking my hips.

In a sly, deft, sleight-of-hand motion, the marquess has abandoned my pubic curls and slid his fingertips into my cleft beneath the lacy triangle of my underwear. One finger zeroes in like a guided missile and pushes right inside me. He presses in deep and lifts his hand, and I rise on my toes, speared and fluttering.

When he rocks the digit inside me, I grab his shoulders, almost fainting as I come. My resolution crumbles when he squashes his thumb down flat onto my clit and I groan like an animal, lost in pleasure.

Pulsing, sweating, burbling nonsense, I lose all strength as my knees turn to jelly. The marquess's free arm snakes around my waist to hold me up, while between my legs, he both supports and manipulates me, his finger lodged inside me while his thumb presses and releases, presses and releases, presses and releases…tormenting me by lifting me to orgasm again and again.

I hold on. My body clamps down on him again and again. Time passes.

Eventually, the tumult ebbs and I flush with shame and a strange, tangled happiness as I regain the ability to stand up straight.

The marquess's strong, straight digit is still inside me.

And it stays there, his hand cupping my mound, as he speaks to me.

“You have so much to learn, sweet Rose, so much to learn.” He looks into my face, his beautiful brown eyes gleaming with sex, yet somehow almost regretful. “And we have so little time, you and I, don't we? Just a week or two.”

What the hell is he talking about? I could stand here forever, possessed by him, my sex his plaything.

And then I remember that all this is temporary. There's my dream job of a lifetime waiting for me in the Caribbean in a few weeks, and I'll be thousands of miles away from the marquess and his hand, his eyes, his body.

The shock must show on my face because he smiles kindly. “Don't worry, my dear. All the more reason to make the most of things while we can.” His finger crooks inside me and finds a sweet spot, forcing me to grunt aloud, flex my knees and bear down. “Usually, I start with a little pain before the pleasure. But in your case, I couldn't resist handling your delightful pussy and making you come.”

He flexes his finger a little more.

I cry out, “Oh, God!” and come again.

It's quick. It's hard. It satisfies, yet primes me for more. But instead of either working me to more orgasms, or just pushing me down on the rug, unzipping and thrusting into me, the marquess withdraws his finger, suddenly and shockingly, and offers it to me.

My head whirling, I wonder what he means, but then it dawns on me that he wants me to clean it off.

My face flaming, I suck my own musk from his warm skin as more flows between my legs to quickly replace it.

I feel bereft when he withdraws the digit and then dries it methodically with his perfectly laundered handkerchief.

“And now to business,” he says briskly, as if implying that I've deliberately kept him from it with my orgasms. “I think I'd like to bind you. Are you okay with that?”

Speechless, I nod like an idiot as he reaches down the side of his chair and pulls out a length of soft, silky cord. I feel it slide over my hip and flank as he turns me to face away from him, and then, bringing my hands behind me, he fastens them at the wrist.

I think that this is it, but suddenly he produces another length of cord and, pulling my arms back tighter, he winds it around my elbows, drawing them together.

Twice bound like this, I start to sweat even harder. While not really painful, the position is uncomfortable, and what's more, it forces my breasts to rise and become more prominent, vulnerable and presented.

When he spins me around again, I feel almost faint as he leans forward and slowly licks and sucks each of my nipples. His silky hair swings and slides against the skin of my midriff and the scent of an expensive man's shampoo fills my nostrils.

As he torments me with his tongue, I feel his fingers at my thong. He plucks at the lace and elastic and tugs the thing up tight into the division of my sex lips. When the sodden cloth is pressing hard on my clit, he reaches around behind me, working beneath my shackled wrists, and makes a little knot somehow at the small of my back, to keep it taut.

He licks at me a moment or two more, then leans back, almost indolent in his great chair as he cocks his head to one side and regards his handiwork.

I feel like a firecracker in a bottle, an explosion of sexual energy and need contained by my bonds. I'm desperate to
come again, but I'm reaching and yearning for more than just simple gratification. The marquess smiles as if he understands me completely.

“And now we really begin,” he says softly, taking me by the waist and pushing me from between his knees. Then, settling himself more comfortably in the chair, and setting his booted feet more squarely on the floor, he nods to me, his eyes dancing with lights and a subtle smile on his handsome face.

I know what he's indicating. That I should assume the position.

It's difficult to settle elegantly across his lap with my hands tied, but I do the best I can, not wanting to disgrace myself. Even so, he has to more or less grapple me into place, setting me at precisely the right angle and elevation and disposing my limbs and torso in the optimum position to present my bottom to his hand.

I wait for the first spank. The first real one…the tap the other day was nothing, I suspect.

But it doesn't come yet.

“Mmmm…”

It's a low, contemplative sound, and as he utters it, the marquess gently cups my bottom cheek, testing its resilience. The feeling is entirely different this time; his fingers on my bare skin feel like traveling points of electricity, sparking me and goading me as they rove. He grips me harder and I have this sense of some kind of computer in his brain calculating, calculating. How hard to hit. How high to lift his hand for the downstroke. How many slaps is optimum.

“Ready?” he asks, to my surprise. I'd expected him to just take what he wanted. He's in charge, after all.

And yet, is he? I bet if I said “no,” even now, he'd immediately desist and help me restore my clothing to decency and propriety. But no way would I do that. I want what I want, and it's what he wants, too.

“Yes,” I whisper, barely able to hear my own breathy voice over the bashing and thudding of my heart.

“Good girl.”

And then he spanks me.

Oh, dear God! It hurts! It hurts so much!

What a shock! I'd expected a tingle, a little burn…something that's as much pleasure as pain.

Bloody hell, how wrong can you be?

It's like he's slapped me with a solid hunk of wood rather than his strong, but only human, hand. For a moment, both mind and bottom are numbed by it, but then sensation whirls in like a hurricane, I shout out loud—something indistinguishable—and my left buttock feels like it's on fire.

And that's just one blow.

As more and more land, I realize in astonishment that in that first shot, he was actually holding back….

Slap! Slap! Slap!

Spank! Spank! Spank!

The whole of my rear is very quickly an inferno, and the heat sinks like lava into the channel of my sex, reigniting the desire, the grinding longing I felt before my orgasms, and rendering it slight and inconsequential.

I know I should be quiet and still and obedient. I know I should just accept my punishment like a good little girl. Instinct tells me that a master appreciates that in a supplicant. Perfect poise. The perfect ability to absorb the punishment with grace and decorum.

But me, I'm rocking and wriggling about, struggling against my bonds, plaguing my own clit with my wild pony bucking and jerking that makes my pulled-tight thong press and rub against it.

I feel as if I'm going out of my mind, and yet I know, in some still-sane part of it, that I've never been happier in my life. Despite the pain and the strangeness and the sheer, unadulterated kink of what's happening to me, I know that this is where I should be and who I should be with.

The marquess lands a particularly sharp blow, and I let out a gulping, anguished cry. But it's not from the impact, or the raging fire in my bottom cheeks.

No, what pains me the most is that in two weeks I'll be thousands of miles away from the hand that's spanking me.

Still squirming about, my backside still in torment, still almost about to orgasm, I begin to cry piteously, completely out of control and racked by raw, illogical heartache.

As if he were plugged right into my psyche on the deepest level, the marquess stops spanking me immediately.

Strong and sure, he turns me over as if I were as light as a feather across his lap. I gasp as my sore bottom rubs against his denim jeans, but he takes the exhalation into his own mouth as he swoops down to kiss my very breath.

With his tongue still in my mouth, he unfastens my hands and elbows, then, with a swift, sharp jerk that snaps the lace like a cobweb, he wrenches the thong from between my legs and replaces it with his fingertips. His gentle fingertips that love me to a swift, sweet, pain-stealing orgasm.