The Accidental Bride (Black Lace) Page 2

  ‘Are you cold? Would you like a blanket?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, master. I’m fine. Quite comfortable.’

  He laughed. ‘Really? Well, we’d better change that, hadn’t we?’ His voice was merry, and she could imagine his blue eyes twinkling behind the mask. She wanted to twist round and look at him, but she had to stay still and compliant, no wriggling and no looking. Focusing on the sight of moonlight filtering through the green darkness of the shrubs and trees, she reached for a calm place.

  It was tough, though, when she heard him open the box, and she couldn’t see what it was that he took out.

  All she could hear was tiny, deft little movements, so quiet they were indecipherable. It was only when something very cold and slick made contact with the entrance of her vagina that she knew, or at least could guess, what was coming.

  He was applying lube. Lots of it, even though she barely needed it. She was pretty sure she was already making a wet spot on the table edge, she was so slippery. He pushed plenty in, though, compelling it into her with two unyielding fingers. More, then more. She was scared she’d squelch in a most uncouth way.

  ‘Steady.’ His free hand on the small of her back, he applied more, then, before she could prepare herself, he reached for something and pressed it against her, cold, smooth and hard.

  An egg. A tempered glass egg. Quite a big one. Despite her resolve to stay quiet, to best him with silence, she moaned as he pushed the devilish thing into her. Its unyielding bulk taxed her as it went in, nudging around inside, pushing against the muscular channel as he pressed it higher. When it settled against her womb, it felt gigantic inside her, jostling the root of her clitoris from within as she breathed. She could feel the tickle of a fine silk cord, too, trailing from her entrance.

  You devil. You know how this gets to me. You know I’m already almost coming, before you’ve even got started!

  She didn’t have to speak it. She knew he’d heard her.

  ‘I bet you’d really like to touch yourself, wouldn’t you?’ he said, striding around behind her, clearly admiring the way she was arranged, her thighs parted and the little cord dangling. Was it white? Or black? Or some other colour?

  ‘Yes … Yes, master. I do want to touch myself.’ Defiantly, she churned her hips, then yelped out loud at the wicked sensations of the rolling egg inside her. Her clit felt enormous, as if it were bulging out from between her pussy lips, pushed by the obstruction inside her body.

  ‘Be still, wicked girl. Be still.’ He reached beneath her, just stroking her entrance, then giving the tiniest tug on the cord.

  Breathing hard, she fought not to whine. God, if she was like this now, how on earth would she feel like when he really went to work?

  ‘Would you like me to make you come? It might make the ordeal easier if your body is filled with pleasure endorphins.’

  ‘No! That’s no true test … master. And I’m an old-fashioned girl. I’m used to earning my rewards. I enjoy them more that way.’

  It was nonsense. She was dying to come. But it seemed a better way to play the game.

  He leaned over the table at her side, and she could feel his mouth close to her ear, and his breathing ruffling strands of her hair. ‘I adore you. You know that, don’t you?’ said her lover, not her master, his voice softer, gentler, more emotional.

  She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. He knew she adored him right back.

  Then, he straightened again, and passed his hands over her buttocks and thighs, in a slow, almost insulting glide. He was testing her muscle tone, assessing her susceptibility, and that made her hornier than ever. His arrogance made her want to touch herself all the more.

  ‘Very well, then. Let’s proceed.’ As he spoke, he lifted the wide strip of leather – the slapper – and trailed it over her bottom slowly and tauntingly. It was supple, yet substantial, and she feared it. He’d spanked her with his hands, and with rulers and switches, and even with a table tennis bat, when they’d been fooling about, back at home. But he’d never punished her with actual leather before, apart from the sole of his slipper once, ad hoc, and then only a couple of strokes. She had a feeling this would be far more momentous. Far more painful.

  She didn’t know why she wanted it. But she did.

  ‘Be ready, dear slave.’ He let the leather rest horizontally across her bottom as if he were sighting the first blow, measuring exactly where he wanted it to fall, and then he lifted it up.

  Holding her breath, she willed him: Do it! Do it!

  And he did.

  There was a whoosh through the air, and then the impact. For a moment she couldn’t even quantify the sensations. Had it hurt? She couldn’t tell. She could only mewl out, like an animal, but she didn’t know whether it was from leather on flesh, or the way the egg bounced inside her, rocking against sensitive nerve ends and stimulating her clit from within. Was she coming? Perhaps … But just as pleasure bloomed, a flaming wall of red agony slammed into the muscles of her backside, the sensation delayed by warped time and perception.

  Not sure whether she was in heaven or hell, and suspecting it was both, she rocked and squirmed against the wood, hands clutching her buttocks as if that might assuage the fire. Her clit throbbed in time to the pulsation of heat in her buttocks.

  God, yes, she was coming! Her vagina clenched, rocking the egg more, making things worse … better … worse … Fuck alone knew!

  ‘No, no, you know better than that.’ He dropped the leather for a moment, and prised her hands away from her bum. ‘Hold on to the table.’ Gently, he drew her hands forward, and reaching out, she obeyed him, grasping the far edge.

  He didn’t speak again, but the leather spoke for him, flashing down again, hitting her like a chunk of the very wood she was lying against. So hard. So merciless. Pummelling. Pounding. He whole rear was in flames after one, or was it two blows? She’d lost the ability to count. Holding the table as if it were the last spar of a wrecked ship that had gone down, she hurled her pelvis to and fro, grinding her crotch against its resistance, still not sure if she was climaxing even while she burned. Her bottom felt as if it had been savaged, yet, wildly, she lifted it. Enticing him. Give me more, her sizzling, walloped flesh seemed to be saying. Do your worst, you demon, fuck you, I can take it!

  How long had he been spanking her? Part of her mind suggested hours, a thousand long hours, but the one last little bit of her consciousness that was still able to record such things told her he’d laid on only five blows and it had taken less than a minute.

  ‘Oh my darling …’ His voice cracked and she heard the leather slapper fall on the stone flags, somewhere at their feet. He flung his body over hers, his thighs and the fly of his trousers cruel against the agony in her buttocks. He slid his hands along her arms, lacing his fingers with hers at the edge of the table, circling his hips, stirring her pain, yet pressing her against the table’s edge to give delicious pressure to her clit, working it, massaging it. She cried out, high and clear, her soaring voice nothing to do with the torture in her bum, and everything to do with a fresh orgasm that melted beauty in her loins, circling and knotting around the obstruction of the egg. He completed it by reaching beneath her to stroke between her legs.

  ‘Oh God …Oh hell …’ She surged again, writhing beneath him, arching and pushing against him. She didn’t need the table edge now; he was doing the work, rubbing her clit with his fingers, working it with a rough, tender magic.

  ‘I love you,’ he gasped, and she broke apart into a million happy pieces. How she’d wanted to hear those words, even when she’d told herself that they didn’t matter, and it was actions that mattered more, and loving deeds. He still didn’t speak them randomly, spilling them meaninglessly at every opportunity. When her lover said ‘I love you’ it was always with momentum, always fresh and as precious as the first time.

  ‘I love you,’ she answered, rubbing her painful bottom against his groin, actions complementing words again. ‘I want you,
’ she added, barely any breath to get it out as her body gathered, ready to shine again.

  ‘Here? Now?’ he asked, as if she were offering to grant him a magnificent privilege. He was still her master, but she was his mistress now, his equal. They were matched creatures, sex deities of the night.

  ‘Hell yes!’ she cried, widening her stance to invite him in. ‘Bloody well have me! But you’d better get that fucking egg out of me first. You’re a big man, lover, there isn’t room for both of you!’

  He laughed; the sound was pure happiness. Levering himself away from her, he reached down and plucked at the string. At another time, he might have withdrawn the egg slowly, teasingly, but the need that flashed between them was too great to dally. She growled like a she-wolf as it popped from her body, creating another fleeting orgasm. His fingers had plied her clit, all the while.

  The egg rattled and rolled across the flags when it landed, forgotten for the moment.

  The sound of his smooth-running zip was like heaven to her ears, as was the barely audible rustle and tear, the condom being unwrapped. The feel of his cock, hot and large, was the perfect pressure against her entrance, the longed for thing. She wiggled and he pushed in, sure and deep, barely noticing the way the teeth of the zip pushed against her burning bottom as he thrust and thrust, ploughing into her, his curse words of happiness almost like lighted sigils flying out into the perfumed air amongst the trees.

  ‘Yes! Oh John, my darling John! Yes! Yes! Yes!’ she cried, dishing her back, still gripping the table for purchase as she pushed her punished flesh against him, her hips working in a reciprocating action. She barely needed his touch, but still he bestowed it, caressing her even as he growled and blasphemed and flung his body at her.

  ‘Oh Lizzie,’ he answered, his own voice strange with pleasure, broken with joy. His hips hammered, hammered, hammered in the old familiar strokes, and deep where the egg had rocked, his hot seed pulsed and spurted inside latex.

  As they collapsed against the table, she came again.

  It didn’t feel too bad. Not really. Not at all.

  Craning around to look over her shoulder into the mirror, Lizzie hiked her nightdress up with one hand and gave her pink bottom cheek a tentative prod with the other. It wasn’t even sore enough to make her yelp, but she did suck in her breath rather sharply.

  You clever devil. It’s just enough to make me know I’ve been seen to, but not so fierce that it’d ever put me off wanting it again. I knew a little bit about BDSM before we started, but I didn’t know people could do what you do. I never knew a man could have such crafty skills, Mr Smith.

  Her bottom actually looked quite pretty in a bizarre sort of way. The crown of each cheek had a ragged patch of rosy pink spreading across it, like the map of some obscure independent principality, and she could see faint, finer lines within the redness, which marked out the point of impact of the leather. She knew a lot of people would be horrified by the sight of her marked arse, but to her, the splodges were badges of honour, marks of regard, hard won, but richly rewarded.

  He’d been like a wild beast across that flipping table, though, and she was sure she still had splinters in her belly to prove it. Pulling up the long, peach satin nightdress at the front too, she hooked the slithery material in a bunch at her hip, and ran her fingertips over her abdomen. No splinters. Well, none she could detect. She pinched the flesh there. No, no extra inches as yet. They were both eating like horses, here at the villa. The Provençal food was so sumptuous and fresh, with loads of tomatoes and olives and delicious fish. But she supposed the enormous amount of sex they were having, coupled with plenty of healthy walks, and even a few jaunts out on bicycles, was offsetting the billions of calories they were consuming.

  ‘Well, that’s the most beautiful view in the entire south of France, and I’ll fight any man who says otherwise.’

  Lizzie spun round at the sound of his voice. His dear, familiar, low, thrilling voice. John was standing in the open doorway, leaning on the jamb, admiring her. He had that twinkle-eyed predatory look in his eyes, and his lips were curved in a possessive masculine smile. When she prepared to loosen her grip on her nightdress, and let it fall over her belly and legs, he said, ‘Uh oh, leave it as it is,’ almost before her brain had sent the message to her hand.

  He strode towards her, and took up his station right behind her, peering into the mirror.

  ‘Turn,’ he instructed, and when she did, he ran his hand down the outer slope of her hip and thigh, thumb just skirting the rosy pink patch he’d created. ‘That looks very pretty.’ His thumb slid across the punished acreage, testing, assessing, making Lizzie wriggle with a mix of discomfort and renewed desire.

  She couldn’t believe that she wanted sex all the time. But she did. Being on holiday with John made her libido go ballistic.

  ‘I’m not sure it feels pretty. It feels a bit sore to me.’ She rocked against him, still clutching at her skirt, rubbing against his hip. He was wearing midnight-blue pyjama bottoms, and nothing else, and the cotton was very light. Swaying closer, she pressed against the inevitable bulge. She wasn’t the only person this trip was turning into a horn-dog.

  ‘Not too sore, I hope,’ he said, pressing his face into her hair. In the mirror, his tanned skin looked startling against the black. They’d both caught the sun in the two weeks they’d been here, and although Lizzie would have said it was impossible for John to look more handsome than he normally did, somehow, with a sun-kissed glow, he was managing to. Her own tan was very light, because her skin was fair, and she burned if she wasn’t careful. John was scrupulous, though, keeping a watch on her, and commanding her to get into the shade after a strictly monitored amount of sun. Sometimes, she felt like defying him, just for the sake of it, because he was so prone to act like a boss, but it thrilled her too, his benign domination. She knew he had her welfare at heart, but being a man so used to giving orders, calling the shots, in all things, was second nature to him.

  ‘No … Not really. Just, well, making itself known. Leather makes more of an impact than hands, or plastic rulers, or even switches.’

  He frowned in the mirror, his eyes full of concern.

  ‘So it does,’ he said quietly. ‘You will always tell me, won’t you, if I get a bit too enthusiastic for you? You’re a rare and cherished treasure to me, you know that, and I can’t bear the thought that I might push you too far.’

  As they sometimes – in fact quite often – did, the imps of curiosity and jealousy came out to dance. It was daft to be envious of women he’d had and played with before her, but she couldn’t help herself.

  ‘Don’t worry. If I don’t like anything, I’ll holler “chintz”. But I trust you, John, and I know you’ve had plenty of practice to perfect your techniques. With plenty of lucky women getting the benefit … I know there have been parties and whatnot. Like the one at the mansion. Lots of gorgeous women there to spank, I guess.’

  He slid his arm around her, and as she reciprocated, her nightdress slithered down, the sleek fabric gliding over her punished flesh like a breath. The nightgown was one of quite a few he’d bought her, part of a great haul of gorgeous lingerie. But John was thoughtful. He didn’t just buy her things that he liked. Yes, she now owned a lot of delicate, slinky items like this one, but he also bought plenty of the kind of thing she’d have chosen for herself: funky pyjama bottoms in stripes and wild patterns, simple T-shirts and vests, white and coloured. She’d chosen the peach silk number tonight because the delicate fabric was kind to a punished rear.

  John turned her in his arms, and looked down at her, his blue eyes clear as the noon day sky here. Honest.

  ‘Yes, there have been women. You know that, love. I’ve never denied it.’

  ‘I do … I suppose I’m just jealous.’ Why lie? ‘Women are like that about the ex-girlfriends of the men they love.’

  He slid his hand against her cheek, gently cradling, and then pressed his lips to hers in a soft, intense kiss. As she�
��d noted in the garden, he still didn’t come out and say the ‘L’ word all that often, but he kissed in a way that was just as telling.

  ‘I wouldn’t call most of them that. They were more like liaisons than girlfriends.’ He kissed her forehead now, his breath ruffling her black fringe. ‘In fact, I’ve never had a girlfriend quite like you before. Never one who’s actually been a girl.’

  A word, a name, clanged in her brain. Clara!

  What was she, then, Mr Smith? She must have been a girlfriend, once. You must have been around the same age. You still are around the same age.

  But she didn’t mention the ‘C’ word. It was as rarely heard as the ‘L’ word. It felt bitchy to remind John of the woman who’d hurt him so much, twice over. Lizzie knew, though, that he knew she was thinking about the woman she considered her rival.

  ‘Don’t start the age thing again,’ she said instead, sidetracking him with another issue, that wasn’t an issue, really, more of a running joke between them.

  ‘I can’t help myself. I’m twenty-two years older than you, love.’

  ‘Look, granddad, you’re forty-six, that’s all. If you were ninety-six, we might have a problem, but you’re not, so just be told, will you?’

  John grinned. ‘Stroppy madam!’

  ‘Bossy tyrant!’

  ‘Shrew!’

  ‘Despot!’

  Laughing, he held her face between his two hands, and kissed her again. Hard, this time, tongue pushing in. It was a bossy kiss, a possession of her mouth, but boy, how she liked it.

  She was gasping when he freed her mouth, smiling at him, feeling a tenderness in her lips that was a pale echo of the simmering glow in her buttocks.

  ‘But seriously, Lizzie, you’re going to have to accept that from time to time, the age difference between us will bother me. And make me feel guilty.’