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  I can’t stop looking at it. This book I found tucked at the back of the bookshelf in our holiday cottage. I’m reading the Blue Book, or more accurately, looking at its pictures again and again. It must be based on some real need. Some real kink. Somebody must have wanted it.

  I think I do…

  Simon and Suzanne are in a committed relationship—even if the sex is a little predictable. But while on vacation at a secluded cabin they discover the Blue Book, an erotic tome filled with vintage photos of men disciplining their submissive. Both Simon and Suzanne are turned on by the sensual images of domination—leading to experiments of their own that reveal all their secret, wicked desires....

  Book one of Portia Da Costa’s 3 Colors Sexy series. Read more of Simon and Suzanne’s erotic adventures in Ritual of the Red Chair and Ecstasy in the White Room.

  Discipline of the Blue Book

  3 Colors Sexy

  Portia Da Costa

  www.spice-books.co.uk

  Contents

  Discipline of the Blue Book

  Copyright

  I can’t stop looking at it. This book I found tucked at the back of the bookshelf in our holiday cottage.

  I can’t stop looking at it and wondering whether Simon’s out there imagining me in here looking at it. And if he is, what does he think? How does he feel?

  The sun’s beating down outside, drowning the patio in light, so I’ve got a good excuse for lurking indoors, in the shade. I’m reading the Blue Book, or more accurately, perving over its pictures again and again. He’s out there, catching a few more rays before he comes inside and probably does some work on his laptop or watches football on the television. By unspoken agreement, this was supposed to be a “togetherness” holiday, but so far we’ve pretty much done our own things, as per usual. My current thing seems to be looking at vintage photographs of wide-eyed Victorian “pretty maidens” baring their rather anemic-looking bottoms and getting spanked.

  Just look at this one, eh?

  A black-haired beauty in layers of voluminous undergarments is stretched across the lap of a stern-looking gentleman with a very serious mustache. The penitent’s old-fashioned drawers are all pulled open to reveal her plump, pallid buttocks, and her husband, lover, disciplinarian or whatever he is, has his hand raised, just about to wallop her one.

  Is it for real? Surely not. It’s got to be posed; a naughty, porny, underground piece of titillation to be sold to respectable gentlemen under the counter, for a tidy price.

  But it must be based on some real need, I guess. Some real kink. Somebody must have wanted it, and somebody must have wanted what it represented too.

  I think I do, even if it hurts. Maybe even because it hurts. Who knows? I don’t, not categorically, not for sure. But I do know how I feel when I look at the Blue Book. I feel horny, and I want to be touched, and maybe more.

  Wriggling a bit, I glance out of the French window toward Simon on his lounger.

  What about you? Does the Blue Book make you horny too, my love?

  It must do. It has to. Mainly because it’s full of bare female bottoms, something he must have noticed when I left it out on the sideboard last night. What man’s eyes wouldn’t be drawn to a sight like that? I know for certain that he must have looked at the Blue Book because the dust wrapper was tucked in at a different page just now, and there’s only been the two of us in the house since then.

  So why haven’t you said anything, you contrary devil? Are you waiting for me to be the one to make the first move?

  I look at him, toasting his well-basted body in the sun out there. I love him to pieces, but he’s not straightforward guy, not a pussycat. He’s a reserved and reticent man. Not a liar or deceiver but somehow always giving the impression of not exactly revealing his whole self to me, of maybe hiding a secret, private Simon.

  Is this it? Your hidden desire?

  I look down at the man in the photo. He’s vintage, of course; older, darker and far more whiskery than my blond, golden Simon, but still, there’s something about the two men that echoes across the centuries. Even allowing for the posed quality of the picture and its fuzzy reproduction, there’s a look in the eye, a gleam that’s vaguely challenging and quietly confident.

  There’s an air about that mustachioed Victorian gentleman that would make a woman do anything he wanted. Even drape herself across his lap with her bottom bare, ready to take a spanking.

  I blink, looking down again, and it’s like a screen-wipe. A perception shift. I see myself and Simon in the faded sepia photograph, and at the same time I feel as if I’m in the scene too, across his knee.

  His thighs feel strong and rock solid beneath me, comforting me. Cooler air wafts across the naked skin of my bottom, emphasizing its exposure. Every millimeter of epidermis is hypersensitized, every last skin cell, every last pore, waiting, waiting....

  I want Simon to spank me, but I’m not sure why. It can’t be because I crave pain, because I don’t. I hate pain. I avoid it at all costs, and I cringe and whine like a baby when I have to pluck or wax various bits of myself, or when I stub my toe or cut my finger on a sheet of paper.

  It doesn’t make sense, but despite that fact, I still do want it.

  I stare out toward the patio again, trying to will him into knowing what I want from him. Like an idiot, I scrunch my face up and concentrate hard, as if that’ll make a difference.

  But I’m no mentalist, and golden Simon still sleeps on.

  * * *

  Later, though, he doesn’t sleep. In bed he’s fierce, delicious, wonderful, pounding me hard, unstoppable. We fuck until it is almost painful, wrenching agonizing orgasms from each other, my head full of visions from the Blue Book all the while. What’s in his head, I don’t know, but I hope it’s the same. It could be. Something’s turned him into a rampant sexual cyclone.

  “What was all that about?” I gasp as he flings himself off me, his chest heaving. His subsiding cock still looks red even though it’s soft again. Maybe the furious friction’s made it glow?

  Blotting me with the sheet, he gives me a tricky sort of smile, narrow eyed and very, very sexy. “What do you think it was about?”

  He’s like this sometimes. Deliberately provocative and combative. The man has a heart of gold and would do anything for me, but he does like to play his little mind games now and again.

  I could go a few rounds with him, prevaricating and giving as good as I get, but instead, I just say, “Well, it was that damn Blue Book that got me going. How about you?”

  He laughs. “Ditto.” Then he rolls onto his back, his hand draped across me, cupping my crotch in a way that’s more friendly than sexual.

  “So? Aren’t you going to elaborate? Tell me why it turned you on so? Whether you’re into that sort of thing?”

  “Oh, ‘that sort of thing’?” he murmurs, looking at me from beneath lowered lids that still don’t hide the blue glitter in his eyes. “Yes, I suppose so. I never thought much about it before. I’ve seen the odd porno with French maids getting their bums smacked and all that…and tossed off to them, naturally.” His beautiful mouth curves into a splendid grin. “But I never really thought about actually doing it? What about you?”

  “I don’t know.... Not really. I mean, there’s kinky stuff in ads and videos and movies, and I’ve read s
ome sexy books.” His sandy eyebrows arch at that. “But there’s a big difference between that and actually wondering whether I’d like it myself.”

  “Bullshit! I bet you have. I bet you’ve thought about it a lot.”

  “Bullshit yourself! If you’ve wanked to porno videos of spanking, you must have thought about doing it!” I give him a punch on the arm, and he grimaces, making me realize I’ve got more energy left than I thought.

  “That hurt!” He’s smiling, though. Really smiling. And it’s still tricky. I can almost see the cogs of deviousness whirring behind that handsome, intelligent brow of his. “That hurt,” he repeated more quietly, the smile suddenly gone except for the merest trace that could or could not be a trick of perception.

  I feel strange. My heart thuds, and it’s nothing to do with the exertions of a terrific fuck. I understand at last what butterflies in the tummy feel like. There are tons of them in there, battering around and careening off my rib cage as my heart flutters too.

  Simon stares at me steadily. If he feels the same excitement, he’s not showing it. He looks composed, at the center of himself. In control.

  “I’m sorry,” I say in the smallest of voices.

  “So you should be.”

  It’s not said in a bossy way. There’s nothing stroppy or dictatorial about him. He’s calm, almost serene. He looks as if he’s on a higher plane somehow, even though his curly hair is all sweaty and tousled and his face is still flushed from his recent orgasm.

  “I’m sorry,” I repeat, ever more mouselike. “Perhaps…er…I…um…ought to be punished.”

  Simon’s lips quirk. So do mine. Neither of us really knows exactly what we’re doing, but a silent agreement passes between us in perhaps a sixteenth of a second. We’re going to try this thing, see if we can do it. Have a bash.

  “Indeed,” he says, “indeed.”

  I sit up and do a sort of shuffle toward him without the faintest clue how to get myself across his knee with any kind of grace. Despite spending hours breathlessly perusing the Blue Book, I really don’t know how to do this.

  Simon sits up too, and takes me by the shoulders. Without a word, he gives me a soft, exquisitely tender kiss on the lips, then brushes my hair back from my brow.

  “I think we should do this properly, love.” His thumb cruises my forehead, the line of my brow. “Tomorrow. Maybe in the afternoon, before tea. Make a thing of it, eh?”

  He’s right. We’re both hot, sweaty, and weary in every limb. Shagged out, you might say. This thing we’re going to do needs us to be sharp and fully alive, with every sense honed. I don’t know how I know these things, but somehow I do, and I’m growing in knowledge all the time.

  “Yeah, you’re right.” Even so, I’m a little disappointed. But he makes it all right by drawing me to him as he slumps back against the pillow.

  He strokes my hair as we both drift into sleep. His hand is gentle now, a nurturer’s rather than a lover’s.

  How different will it be, how ungentle, come tomorrow?

  * * *

  I don’t know why either of us imagines we can avoid thinking about our afternoon plans. They’re there all the time, looming large like some sort of bizarre, sexy elephant in the room. But we try and go through the motions, pretending it’s a normal day, nothing special, no big deal.

  Yet all the time, I’m on super, hyper red alert and I know in every fiber and molecule that Simon is too. Even when he’s sitting or lying still, he’s almost zinging with energy, his eyes bright, studying me constantly when he thinks I’m not studying him. He’s on a high, eager and ready, and so am I. I keep thinking I might suggest to him that we don’t wait, but always, at the last second, I hold my tongue. The more we do wait, the sweeter the tension, and the tighter the winding spring, poised for release.

  When lunch is ready and he doesn’t hear my call, I happen upon him clandestinely, reading in the sitting room. He’s so intent that I have time to stop short and hide just out of view.

  Simon is reading the Blue Book, studying it with purpose, his eyes studious behind his reading glasses.

  I almost laugh out loud. He’s swatting up for our little appointment with sexual experimentation. Just like me, this is something new for him, and bless him, he doesn’t want to take a wrong step and disappoint me. I see that and I’m impressed. If he doesn’t get his role correct, it’s just as bad as me messing things up. Worse even.

  My heart turns over. He cares so much. He’s not a sentimental guy, not soppy or overly demonstrative, but when it matters, what matters to me is his priority.

  He turns pages, his brow puckering as he peruses the images, flipping back now and again to ones he’s already looked at. Gnawing his plush lower lip, he pauses, then pushes the book down toward his knees. I dart back into the shadows when he flashes the furtive glance of a naughty boy toward the doorway, then reaches down to cup his crotch with his right hand.

  Bingo! If I ever had any doubts, or notions that he was simply indulging me and my kinks, they’re all dispelled now.

  He’s really into it!

  I sneak away and put the biggest piece of roast chicken on his lunch plate, to reward him.

  * * *

  The appointed hour swings around. We’ve been tacitly avoiding each other most of the afternoon, both lost in our own thoughts and respecting territories and observing demarcation lines. When I returned from a walk by the lake, Simon was reading again, but not the Blue Book. His eyes were serious as he perused a file from the work he was not supposed to have brought on holiday with him

  The idea that I might not be the only person who deserves a spanking bobs up like a fluorescent marker buoy for an instant, then I squash it and file that away for another time.

  When I descend from the bathroom a little while later, all bathed and prepped and gussied up in pretty top and a long skirt, I find my lover waiting calmly for me. Relaxed on the sofa in the sitting room, he’s half-lying, with his head tipped back against the upholstery and his eyes closed, his long elegant hands flat on the seat beside him. Is he meditating, or just planning his strategy?

  His eyes snap open as I step into the room, even though I could swear I’ve not made a sound.

  We stare at each other, silently sealing our agreement. My heart thuds, and so does my sex, excited by his utter composure. He knows what to do, I know he does. Maybe it’s coded into his genes and he only had to see the Blue Book to discover it?

  Lifting his hand, he makes an elegant summoning gesture and I go to him, drawn by his raw, sexy magnetism. As I approach, and to my surprise, he parts his thighs, and when I’m right up to him, he draws me in to stand between them, his hand firm and cool around mine.

  “Ready?” For a brief moment he’s out of his role. He’s just a handsome, sweet, caring man, and my lover. Then, hey presto, he’s this new person again. This transformed man who makes me understand how it feels to be weak at the knees, and who sets an unprecedented river of lust flowing between my thighs.

  Helpless, hopeless and hapless, I nod, and he acknowledges it infinitesimally, his thumb stroking the back of my hand for a moment before he releases it.

  He tips his head on one side, and from somewhere a breeze ruffles his blond curls. He looks gorgeous this afternoon, dressed up, like me, for the occasion. He’s put on the waistcoat and trousers of the gray city suit that he traveled in, with a baby-blue shirt, open at the throat. Even as I gobble up his lush male pulchritude, he attacks the sleeves of his shirt, rolling them up, ready for action.

  “So…how to begin?” he muses, and his tongue sweeps his lips, so provocative. “Perhaps you’d better start by showing me your knickers?”

  It’s not precisely what I expected, but on reflection, it fits. In the Blue Book, there are quite a number of pictures of ladies in various stages of hauling up their skirts a
nd cheerfully exhibiting their gigantic Victorian knickers, purely for the hell of it. I almost wish I had a pair of those antique underdrawers now, just to send Simon’s eyebrows shooting up in surprise. But he seems pleased enough with my cotton and lace confections when I hike up my skirt at the front and hold it bunched so he can see them.

  “Back and front, please.”

  I comply, my fingers fumbling and defying me. I feel most peculiar, but in a wonderful way. My head feels as if it’s floating, and I want to breathe heavily, pant as if I’ve been running. Life as I know it seems to be shifting and changing, and almost with a click, it’s like I’m in another world where scenarios such as this—me standing in the middle of the sitting room with my skirt around my waist, formally showing my panties to my boyfriend—are a perfectly natural and normal everyday occurrence.

  He regards me, his gaze gliding leisurely from my face to my underwear and back again, and I do believe he can smell my arousal, because his nostrils flare. As he acknowledges it, so do I, and I realize I’m quite foxy beneath the lily of the valley toilette water I’ve applied to my pulse points.

  As our eyes lock, it’s like I’m hit by a tidal wave, a great crest of grinding desire that screams through my bloodstream, demanding resolution. My fingers tingle where they grip the layers of cloth, burning with the urge to touch my sex.

  Never before have I wanted to masturbate so hard, and my hands flex around the bundle of my skirts. Simon’s eyes flash, and it’s as if he knows exactly what the minute movement means. He gives me a stern look and even wags a warning finger in my direction.

  “Tut-tut. None of that. Not yet.”

  My mind whirls as if I’m going to faint. How can I feel like this? I love Simon with all my heart, but our relationship has always been egalitarian. Now though, all I want to do is throw myself to my knees, and then face down on the carpet, even. I want to grovel before him, worshipping him as a god.

  I’m not quite sure how he knows what to do, but he seems to have grown into his role like it was a second skin. He studies me archly, almost with hauteur, his star-blue eyes glittering beneath slightly lowered lids. His fingertips meet before him in a little steeple, and he surveys me as his subject, his handmaiden.