Table of Contents
Copyright
Naughty Thoughts
About Portia Da Costa
Delicious Masters series
In Sebastian's Hands - excerpt
Naughty Thoughts
Copyright 2012 by Portia Da Costa
This story is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. With exception of quotes used in reviews, this story may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the author.
Please be aware that this story contains sensual content that is only suitable for adult readers who are comfortable with frank language and descriptions of erotic scenarios
Please note: Naughty Thoughts is also available as part of the Daring Interludes anthology
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Naughty Thoughts
"Are you having those naughty thoughts again, you bad girl? I can always tell, because your eyes start to cross."
Terrence accompanies his accusation with a swirl of his hips, a move that nearly blows the top of my head off. It also nearly dislodges said naughty thoughts he's accusing me of. But not quite. They're so naughty that I can't seem to shake them, despite another virtuoso hip-swirl that makes me groan and claw his back.
"Back with us again, are we?" he gasps, laughing as he shags. He really is the most fabulous, fabulous fuck.
"Yes! Yes!" It's half gasp, half cry, all genuine. I don't have to do a Meg Ryan when I'm with Terrence. He's just gorgeous and he knows how to do the business. And if that wasn't enough, he looks like a movie star too. And not one of those mindless action hunks, mind you, all pecs and teeth and tan. No, he's like the more thoughtful kind of star, one with lots of grey cells, and a major league sense of humor to go with his exceptional body.
And he's on top of me now, going like a jackhammer.
Or he was.
For a moment, he raises himself up on his elbows and looks down on me. His handsome face is sweaty and a little flushed, but that only makes him sexier than ever. And even hotter for the look in his eyes. They're narrowed, sort of cute but sly, and shiver-inducingly knowing. He gives a little shake of his head as if he's read my mind. I hope he has, and I hope he likes what's in there.
He gives me a soft little kiss, on the corner of my mouth. "Maybe I should go down on you again for a while. That'll stop you wool-gathering while I'm giving you my fanciest moves, you naughty bitch." He licks his lips and that makes him look incredibly naughty.
You could spank me.
I open my mouth. I almost say it. But I don't. Not yet. That's a delicious treat I'm saving to surprise him. Doesn't stop me thinking about it though.
"I like your moves. I love them!"
He tilts his head, and a comma of thick brown hair dangles in his eyes. "I should bloody well think so, woman." He smoothes my hair out of my eyes too, and wipes the sweat from my brow. "You'd better brace yourself, because there's more of the same incoming."
"Do your worst!" I growl, and he swirls again. "Or preferably, your best!"
I have to close my eyes now, because they're crossing from the pleasure of him this time, and either way, I must look like an idiot. Hitching around beneath him, I find an even better angle, if that's possible, and with another small kiss, then a bigger one, he starts to swing in and out again, with all the smooth power of a human reciprocating engine. Supporting himself on one arm, he strokes my body at the same time, his fingers as clever as his hips and cock are potent.
I start to rise higher, straining against him, arching, reaching, savoring.
And the naughty thoughts return to sweeten climb.
In my mind, in a heartbeat, we're in a dark, dangerous room somewhere together. Is it a dungeon? Why, yes, it is... Here are the dingy, encrusted walls, the flickering torches in their sconces, the chains. And here's Terrence, but not quite the man who's currently fucking me. Well, he's the same, and just as sumptuous, but a darker version, more dangerous and exotic.
In bed, I grab at him, excitement building, my fluttering sex roused aroused anew by my kinky, yummy notions. "Baby," he growls, sensing every subtle and not so subtle response.
In my imaginary subterranean prison, he prowls around me, a slightly smiling figure all done up like the dream of a master. He's stripped to the waist, clad only in form-fitting leather jeans and knee high boots - apart from a platinum-studded collar round his neck. His thick brown hair is slicked back with water or gel or pomade, and his bare chest gleams in the torchlight as if he's oiled.
"Well, well, slave," he purrs in the mirror world.
Me, I'm strung up, my wrists in cuffs that dangle on chains from the smoky ceiling. I'm all done up like the dream of a slave, my body trussed in a corset of tight-laced satin, my feet in high heeled pumps, a gag in my mouth.
A shudder runs through me in each parallel world, as he tweaks my nipple and makes me squirm.
Oh god, he's so beautiful when he's stern. The mouth that kisses so softly is sculpted and cruel, and his warm brown eyes are black with power and lust.
As he slaps my bottom with the flat of his hand, I start to come. And come in the real world too, in bed, lying underneath him. Straining for the best, the finest, the highest orgasm, I arch against Terrence, my heels dragging against the backs of his calves, my fingers flexing like talons, gripping his bottom.
I scream as I soar to heaven, while his phantom self smacks my naked flesh, again and again.
*** *** ***
Afterwards, we lie against the pillows, both slumped and sweaty, breathing hard. Multiple orgasms have knocked the stuffing out of me, and even Terrence, with all his prodigious sexual stamina, looks momentarily shattered.
"What the hell were you thinking, Vickie?" He turns to me, and I see he's sharper and more with it than I imagined. Those clever brown eyes of his gleam with knowledge, almost as if he really were the master of my fantasy. "There was something dirty and devious going on that turned you into a wildcat, wasn't there?" He does that sinful lip licking thing again. "Come on, woman, tell the truth or you'll regret it." His mouth curves into a deliciously evil smile, and I'm back in heaven.
Oh, the threats... oh, please bring them on!
Suddenly I'm not tired at all. Now's the time to tell him. Because I've a sneaky feeling he probably knows already. He's got this uncanny knack of reading me, and it turns me on.
I prevaricate, gnawing my lip. An act, obviously.
"Vickie?" he prompts. There's a hint of sternness there, and for a vertiginous second, I can't tell whether it's real or fabricated. My pussy flickers again despite my previous surfeit of pleasure.
"I... um... well, it was just a little fantasy I sometimes have." Little? Who am I kidding? It's big and it's bad and it's beautiful. "I... I don't mean that fucking you isn't satisfying... it's just I have these thoughts sometimes." Lots of the time, and I'm dying to share them. "I can't help myself, but it's not you, it's me. I... You're a fabulous lover."
His eyes are on me. Steady and strangely bright. Knowing again. The devil, he's teasing me. He's read my mind as easily as if my eyes were made of glass. Suddenly he is the man in the dungeon, and twice as dangerous.
"But not quite fabulous enough," he growls, pursing his lips, fighting that sunny, sexy "let's get it on smile" of his. "Spit it out. What do you want? What dark and depraved perversion do you think about when you're already having bloody good sex start with?"
I would point out to him that he has a very high opinion of himsel
f, but now's not the moment. Especially as I hold that high opinion also.
"Well, you see... it's like this. I sort of like men to spank me. It's a 'thing' of mine, you know?"
His eyes widen. He chews his lip. He looks perplexed. Oh, give the man an Oscar! But he can't disguise the merriment in his eyes.
"Good lord, you are a wicked little pervert, aren't you?"
"But I do like ordinary shagging too, honest! I just that like I spanking as well."
"I see." He's killing himself here. I swear he's dying to burst out laughing.
"Perhaps I'd better go." Throwing myself into my penitent role, I start to slide out of bed, ready to feign a search for my scattered clothes.
But he stops me with a firm hand on my wrist. "Oh no you don't! I think we need to get to the bottom of this." He has to turn away then, and I can see his broad shoulders shaking. "I'm going to get a bottle of wine. And then we'll discuss it properly. No messing about."
Then he strides naked across the room, stalking towards the door, his gorgeous cock swinging. It's a bit perky again. More than perky.
Oh God, I can't wait!
A few minutes later, after I've rushed to the bathroom and tidied my hair and everything, I sneak back into the bedroom, and he's already returned.
But he's not in bed. Chin resting on his steepled fingers, he's sitting in the armchair, dressed again. Well, sort of. He's wearing his black jeans, but his chest and his feet are still bare. Whether by accident or design, he's managed to make himself even more magnificent than ever. He's the man of my dreams, literally and figuratively, and covering up his gorgeous goods only makes me feel more vulnerable by contrast.
"So, spanking, eh? There's a thing," he says, his voice level. He takes a measured sip of red wine from the glass that he's set on the bedside table at his elbow, and staring at me, his smooth brow crinkles in a little manufactured frown.
I feel awkward. Unsure of myself. This is all so real, all of sudden. Do I get back into bed? Or just sit on the edge of it? I feel off balance, standing here naked while he's sitting, clothed, and calmly drinking his wine.
He doesn't seem to have poured a glass for me.
"Yes... sorry... it's just a kink of mine. I can't help it."
His fine eyes narrow. Is he cross? Because I haven't shared this with him sooner. I start to feel shakier than ever, even though my pussy is already swimming.
"I never said there was anything wrong with it."
I'm starting to feel more and more disorientated, but in a good way. When I begin to edge towards the bed, he makes a little quirk of his lips that's so perfect it almost stops my heart. So I hover, feeling giddy, out of my depth.
He draws in a deep breath, sets aside his glass and stretches, "So, I suppose we could try a bit of this spanking. Give it a whirl."
My heart thuds madly. I feel a new rush of hot honey between my legs. If he really is what I suddenly suspect he is, I've hit the mother lode here.
He's Mister Perfectamundo. Everything I've ever wanted and a whole lot more.
"So, how does it go? What do you usually do?" He clasps his hands loosely in front of him, his head tipped slightly on one side, the glow from the lamp shining on his sleek dark hair.
"All sorts of things. Sometimes the man spanks me over his knee. Sometimes I lie across the bed, on my face, and he punishes me."
"What with? His hand? Or something else?"
We really are getting in deep here. Sliding through layers and layers. My heart flutters like a bat on crack. "Yes, sometimes his hand. Sometimes something like a belt, or even a leather slipper. Sometimes, um, toys."
"Toys?"
"Something like spanking paddle... or a ruler... or even a riding crop."
Now, for some reason, I find it hard to look at him. His gaze is like a laser, sweeping over me.
"Fascinating." He pauses, a long slow beat. "But how do you want to start? What do you think is the best way to begin?"
My eyes are cast down. I stare at the carpet. But in my mind I can see his strong legs, his experienced thighs spread just the precisely right amount. His lap - with a growing bulge beneath the dark denim of his jeans. He's become his mirror self from my dungeon fantasy.
I drag in a breath with all the effort I would have to exert if the atmosphere had turned to water, or to gel. "I... I think I'd like you to spank me across your knee, if that's all right?"
"Yes, I think that would be okay." His voice is neutral, serene, soft. And yet humming with subliminal power. "But isn't there some kind of ceremony, a form of words at least? Don't you think it would be a good idea, maybe, to call me "master" or something?"
That thud in my heart picks up speed. I feel as if I'm in the middle of a vortex. "Y- yes, master."
"Well, let's get started, shall we?"
Eyes still down, I pad across to him, and he offers a hand to help me go across him, and assume the age old position. His thighs feel firm and solid beneath the rough denim, his feet perfectly planted, everything in balance. As I go over, I feel safe. He won't let me fall.
As he adjusts his position slightly, and I adjust mine, his hand settles on the small of my back to steady me.
"You have a beautiful bottom, slave," he purrs quietly, with just a microsecond of artistic hesitation. That warm hand of his brushes my bare cheeks, first one, then the other. And again, stroking lightly, burning hot. I suppress a pathetic mewl when one finger traverses the length of my bottom crease.
"So, these men who spank you... Do they just play at it, or do they really spank you hard?"
"Yes. Sometimes. Quite hard." The words are difficult to get out. I can barely breathe.
"And do you like that?" He touches my anus and I squeak. Which he seems to ignore as a regrettable aberration.
"Yes! No! Sort of!" I can't see his face, but my imagination presents me with him smiling. Supreme. A happy god, playing with me in ways other than physical. But when he speaks, he still imbues his voice with that thread of theatrical doubt.
"Well, I'll have to see what I can do then. Wouldn't want to disappoint you after all this hard, serious spanking you've had in the past."
I open my mouth to protest that it isn't all that much, but then, out of the blue, his first smack lands and it just takes my words away.
It's not a heavy slap, but not light either. It hurts. And it isn't by luck or blind intuition it's landed right on the crown of one bottom cheek. He knows exactly what he's doing, and has done all along.
"That's amazing," he says, sounding strangely awestruck.
That is amazing, I think, just struck.
He's hit me in the perfect place and with the perfect weight. Like Pavlov's dog, my body responds. My pussy ripples in anticipation of more, more, more and my lubrication starts to seep down onto his jeans. Unable to control myself, I wriggle and rub myself against him.
"Are you supposed to do that?" His voice is mildly questioning, but there's nothing unsure about the way his fingertips trace the hot hand-shaped mark they've just created. And there's nothing tentative about the way he slaps me again, on the other cheek this time.
I squeal, already out of control in a way I've never been before. But of course, I've never been with a master this experienced.
How on earth has it taken me this long to realize that fact?
"I'll bet you're not supposed to do that, either," he remarks, sounding joyful, as if he's really enjoying getting into the swing of things. His arm certainly is, because he's slapping steadily now. If I had brain cells left over to ponder such matters, I'd wonder what on earth I've done to deserve this bounty, a man with a perfect natural gift for corporal punishment and a beautifully honed skill. But I have very little brain power available at the moment, nothing left over from the writhing, the whimpering and the blatant and desperate way I massage my crotch against his hard thigh beneath dark denim.
He smacks and smacks. I squirrel around and sob. And what happens eventually is almost inevitable, I suppose.
It all gets too much for me, and hitching myself up a bit, I sneak a hand beneath myself and slither fingers into my pussy. While he's still spanking me, I find my clit and rub it feverishly.
After that I'm a lost cause, and within seconds, I climax hard. Very hard. Almost too hard. I jack-knife on his knee, almost fall off, but he holds me tight. My pleasure soars as his fingers press my tender redness.
I fall back into my body again as a sniveling, glowing, still pulsing, incredibly happy mess. As I half slide and half fall in a guided fashion to the carpet at his feet, he reaches into his pocket and then hands me a handkerchief.
"You've done that a hundred times before, you sly brute, haven't you?" I accuse him from my lowly position as my brain clicks back into operating mode and I start to grin. "All that BS about making me tell you what my fantasies are... You've known all along. You could read the signs, couldn't you? Why didn't you tell me you were into exactly the same thing as me?"
He cups my face, makes me look up at him. His eyes are radiant with knowledge and mischief and power, utterly entrancing - although there's a base part of me that's more interested in his enormous erection and is dying to check that out.
"I suppose I should say sorry for stringing you along," he says softly, the stroke of his finger beneath my chin an elegant counterpoint to the throb, throb in my bottom and in my pussy, "But a master doesn't usually apologize, does he?"
The "M" word makes the pulsation between my legs deeper, hotter – even though it's barely minutes since I came. "No, but you still could have told me," I persist, wondering and hoping that if I provoke him enough he might do more, more, more.
"Indeed... indeed I could." His beautiful eyes glitter with excitement, danger, desire and dominance, holding me utterly as he goes on to remind me of the party where we met, and how he sought me out. I'd wondered why he – this peach of a man – had selected me when there were much, much sexier girls on the prowl. I'm pretty enough, but I know I'm a quiet bloomer.
"You're right. I could – I can – read you. I could tell you shared my interests... it's patently obvious from the way you carry yourself." I shudder at the thought of me beaming out those secret signals, an open book to a cognoscento like Terrence. "So I decided to see how long it would take for you to admit it."
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