* * *
On Sunday morning I woke up and as I got my bearings, my first thoughts were feck, where’s Michael. The space he had occupied the night before was empty. Crap. He was avoiding me. Claire was right; I’d put out too soon. Just as I was climbing back into my underwear, the bedroom door opened and Michael entered, followed by the appetising aromas of coffee and eggs.
“Where are you sneaking off to?” he asked.
“Uh, I woke up, you weren’t here. I thought you’d want me gone.”
“We’re only starting,” he said ominously. And somehow I knew he meant it.
“What about tomorrow, Michael, and the day after that?” I asked, thinking I’d found his Achilles heel. “We have to work together.”
“So?” he asked.
“So, what are you going to do tomorrow morning when I meet you on the way into the store?”
“Shit, Siobhan, I’m going to stop and speak to you the way I do every other morning; why’s tomorrow going to be so different?”
“You don’t usually stop and speak to me,” I countered crossly.
“Yes, I do, but half the time you’re like a rabbit in the headlights of the oncoming traffic.”
Again, this was all news to me. My perception of Michael and his of me seemed to have got crossed somewhere along the way to here.
“I don’t want anyone to know,” I said quietly.
“Fine, whatever, Siobhan, but you’re not walking out of here like last night didn’t happen. It did happen. And it was fucking brilliant, and I want it to happen again, over and over. We can pretend it didn’t at work, but not with each other,” he warned. “Now, breakfast is ready.”
Whoa, bossy Michael was quite attractive.
“OK,” I agreed. He threw me a bathrobe and I put it on. He had prepared scrambled eggs with smoked salmon; how could I resist? Besides, I was starving after the exertions of the previous night. After breakfast, he retired to the shower. I could hear the pounding of the water and my head was still ringing with his accusations. It was his fault; he was always disapproving, wasn’t he? I followed him to the bathroom to give him a much deserved mouthful.
His silhouette behind the shower door was wonderful and I was getting hot and bothered again. He seemed totally oblivious to my presence. As he hummed, barely audibly above the sound of the water, I slipped the robe down over my shoulders and felt it trickle off my alert body, creating a puddle of terrycloth at my feet. Before he even knew I was in the room, I was beside him under the cascading water. He turned to me, shocked. Without giving him a chance to object, I went down on my knees and took him in my mouth. With one hand, he grabbed me by my hair and I sucked and thrust my moist mouth up and down on his shaft. Ok ,that wasn’t the mouthful I had been intending, but hey, it was still a mouthful.
I felt him harden rapidly. He used his other hand to steady himself against the shower wall as he pumped himself into me, the first still tugging on my hair. He pulled back to stop himself, but I thrust my mouth harder and pulled against my thrust with my hand at the base of his hard shaft, making the feeling more intense. The more I felt him resist, the more determined I became, until he had no choice but to shoot his load into my moist welcoming throat. I filled my mouth with shower water to help it slip down. I’d never had a man come in my mouth before and I wasn’t too sure what it’d be like. All I remember was the triumph, not the taste or the texture. He collapsed against the walls of the shower, unable to talk or move for a couple of minutes, and I felt like some sort of invincible siren. I may have been the submissive, but I still held some power.
“What happened to the innocent Irish lassie?” he asked.
“She got corrupted by the English and their heathen ways,” I teased.
I showered and shampooed as he recovered. Then his hands were exploring my body. I felt his fingers penetrate my already swollen sex. He pushed me with his full body weight against the cold walls and I could feel my breasts being forced against the tiles. His head trailed down the length of my body ‘til his mouth was on my behind. He licked, sucked, and nipped. As he turned me around, I felt his mouth trail my navel and thighs until it reached there, that spot where I so badly wanted to feel it. Still nipping and biting, interspersed with licks and kisses causing an exquisite mix of pain and pleasure. I begged him to stop. I’d never known how closely they were related. His mouth was warm, the water was scalding, but his hands were freezing from holding on to the shower wall. All the different sensations assaulted me at once and I didn’t know which one to focus on. His cold fingers pumped me in and out rapidly as his hot tongue worked my clit. I soon lost all control of my body and could not prevent the inevitable and explosive orgasm.
“I’m taking you to lunch,” he announced as I leaned against shower, recovering under the hot steamy cascade. Again with the demand, no polite invitation or consideration that I might have other plans. This seemed to be his modus operandi. He said jump, and all I was allowed to reply was “How high, Sir?”
“Mmm, I need to change, I can’t go to lunch in yesterday’s clothes,” I reminded him.
“I guess not! We’ll go via your house; you can change: then I’ll bring you for lunch.”
“Only if I’m paying,” I countered.
“No deal, I asked you, I’m paying.”
“Technically, Michael, you didn’t ask me, you informed me…”
“Same thing and I’m still paying,” he grinned.
Hmm, I’d see about that. I had my ways and my means. No point in wasting time arguing about it. We drove out to Ruislip. The house was thankfully empty and I quickly changed out of the evening dress into a pair of light blue skinny three-quarter-length jeans, a camisole and a pastel blue chiffon blouse. I left Michael in the kitchen drinking a coffee.
“You look lovely in casuals, Siobhan,” he said, appreciatively grabbing my backside. “In fact, you look lovely in everything, but best naked,” he continued, trying to undo the buttons of my shirt. I lightly slapped his hand away.
“I thought we were going for lunch,” I admonished, my breath quickening. “If you start that, we’ll be going nowhere.”
He accepted defeat and we went back to the car. God, this trip was so much easier than our first together. He had the same ‘80s music playing, but today it was a background noise, not the main feature.
“Where’re we going?” I asked as he took the turn for the M40.
“Oxford. There’s a place I want to bring you to, it’s lovely on a summer’s day.”
“Oxford, why there? That’s a long drive.”
“I went to college there and I love it.”
“Ooh, brain-box,” I teased. “What did you read?”
“Master’s in Business Management. It’s a great city, have you been?”
He was disappointed to learn I had indeed been, quite a few times. It was unarguably a lovely place, just perfect to stroll around on a warm summer’s day. To my surprise he drove to a country pub, out in the rural environs, somewhere I’d never been before. The sweet smells of honeysuckle and clover filled the air. I closed my eyes. It could have been a summer’s day in Ireland. The sounds were the wind rustling in the trees, the buzz of bees collecting nectar from the clover, and the birds busily chirping their daily report. It was magical. I felt a kiss and opened my eyes.
“Sorry, I was miles away,” I apologised.
“Mmm, I can see that. Where were you, somewhere nice?”
“Home. Come on, let’s go in, I’m starving!”
We ordered the dish of the day, which was pheasant casserole, and two mineral waters, and sat outside in the sunshine. The food was a gourmet delight, with apples and wild mushrooms permeating the gamey pheasant flavour. Michael was quizzing me about home.
“I grew up in Easkey. It’s a fishing village about forty minutes from Sligo City; well, what we call a city—to you it’d be a small town. The village has one main street, a couple of pubs and shops, and that’s about it, but I love it. It’s h
ome. The best thing about it is the surfing.”
“Do places like that really still exist?” he asked, looking as if he didn’t quite believe me.
“There are loads of them in Ireland. They’re impossible to visualise if you’re from a city. They’re great in one way, but there’s no future for most of the young people there; that’s why we nearly all leave.”
“And what about your family? Have they all left?”
“God, no,” I laughed. “I’m the eldest, there’s two still at school and my brother’s in college.”
“Four children. And what about your parents, tell me about them?”
“Dad works in Sligo; he’s a lecturer during the week and a hobby farmer at the weekend. Mam quit working when I was small; she was a recruitment consultant when she lived here and there wasn’t much call for that when she moved back to Sligo in the eighties. The country was in the middle of a massive recession. Anyway, with four kids, it wouldn’t have paid her to work.”
“So what’d you do in your spare time growing up?”
“Surfed, read, went to Foroige—that’s a youth club—hung out in a café, went to discos, normal stuff teenagers do. Played camogie. If we were lucky, we got into Sligo once in a while.”
“What on earth is camogie?”
“Ha ha, of course,” I checked myself. “It’s kinda like hockey, but rougher, faster, and you can hit the ball in mid-air. Anyway, what about you?”
“I moved to France at eleven. Gaston, my stepfather, wanted to go and run his father’s vineyard. It was great, really rural but close to Paris. I grew up swimming and horse-riding. It was strange starting school there though, because I didn’t speak a lot of French, but I soon got the hang of it. Then I came back to go to college here. And it was strange to be around English people again. Sometimes I nearly forget where I belong. I love Paris, but it’s what I’m most used to.”
“You don’t think you’ll settle here, then?” I asked.
“I don’t honestly know. My mother wanted me to come back; I think she feels guilty for all the years I was away from my dad. In the end I agreed to a trial.”
“So do you see your father often then?” I asked.
“Yes, quite a lot; you finished your food?”
And so ended that conversation; Paris he’d talk about all day, England was a real no-go. I wondered why. I said I just needed the ladies’. On the way in I paid for the food and then used the bathroom. When I emerged, Michael was standing at the bar and he didn’t look too happy.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, totally perplexed.
“Get in the car,” he snapped icily.
Hell’s bells! I knew nice Michael was too good to last. He’d been hanging around for twenty-four hours now; his time limit was up. He opened the door and slammed it behind me.
“What the fuck is eating you?” I shouted. The redheaded temper was well roused now and I wasn’t putting up with this crap from anyone.
“I thought we had sorted the paying issue before we went for lunch,” he said stonily, in complete contrast to my yelling.
“Fuck it, Michael, could you not just say thank you and let it go. I earn too, you know,” I shouted again.
“Control your temper, Siobhan, and don’t swear at me. I don’t like it.” His voice remained steely calm; the more I showed my temper, the more he seemed to rein his in.
“And I don’t like you acting like a fucking baby,” I snapped.
Michael headed back on the M40, driving too fast. We both kept a stony silence until we arrived at my house. I jumped out of the car, slamming the door. As I went in the house, I was surprised to see him follow me in. I called out to see if the girls were back, but to my consternation, there was no reply. Michael went uninvited into the living room. I followed him and he looked at me, fury emanating from his eyes. But still he retained control.
“Michael, this is bloody ridiculous, being so angry over me paying for lunch; you paid for everything yesterday and I just wanted to show my appreciation. Stop being such a spoiled ungrateful brat.”
“You think this is about you paying for lunch? Maybe it started that way, Siobhan, but honestly, the way you yelled and swore, you were like a three-year-old having a tantrum. With a foul mouth like that, you deserve a good spanking.”
Uh oh, he really shouldn’t have said that. The headmaster image was back in my head in a flash and boy, was I ready to play out the role of the naughty schoolgirl. The thought was really hot. I could feel something deep inside me stirring, an awakening of my true self.
“Do it then! Put your money where your mouth is. You’re angry, you want to spank me, then go ahead,” I challenged without engaging my brain. What the fuck was I thinking?
“Pardon?” His eyes were wide and his jaw kind of hanging open.
“You heard me. I said if you think I should be spanked, then do it,” I goaded further.
That was it. He grabbed me by the waist and dragged me over to the sofa. Before I knew what was what, I was flipped across his lap and he was trying to pull down my jeans. They were a snug fit and he couldn’t get them down.
“Bare yourself,” he snapped.
“What, you must be joking.” I felt his hand come down hard twice, once on each buttock. I squealed.
“I’m going to keep doing this until you bare yourself, then I’m going to give you twenty hard smacks. Now it can be just those twenty, or it can be as many as you want.”
Bloody hell, that was some choice, I quickly undid my jeans and rolled them down.
“And your panties,” he warned, raising his hand. I quickly obliged.” Now back across my lap.”
I felt each one of those stingers on alternating cheeks, a firm hard slap followed by a soothing rub, followed by another slap. I was squealing—I really didn’t expect it to be so sore. He counted them out, lecturing me between spanks about how I was to show more respect. It was humiliating and painful. But it was turning me on in spite of that, or indeed maybe because of that. I mentally counted each stroke. At first as he raised his hand, I clenched my bottom in anxiety, but I soon learned that it was less painful if I tried to relax. Finally he was done.
“Have you something to say, Siobhan?” he asked in that schoolmaster voice.
“I’m sorry for losing my temper and swearing at you,” I offered humbly. I was still lying across his lap with my bare bottom exposed and scorched. I was sore, embarrassed, and horny as hell. He was rubbing it all the while and it felt so good. I felt his fingers travel down to my clit and he started to chuckle.
“You’re such a naughty girl, you liked that. You’re soaking.”
I was mortified, but it was true. As I felt the blush rise, I figured the hue of my face cheeks were probably matching my bottom cheeks at this moment. I really wanted to be fucked there and then. His fingers penetrated my pussy and I moaned with ecstasy. I dragged him up to my bedroom, afraid the girls could arrive any moment. The horrific thought that we were bloody lucky not to have been caught as he spanked me suddenly jolted me into reality. Once upstairs, he quickly undressed and I soon saw I wasn’t the only one excited by the spanking. He was hard as hell. I knelt down and took him in my mouth. It just seemed like the natural thing to do, almost a gratitude for his punishing me. I sucked hard until he pulled me away, barking an order at me. He was forever with the orders, but this one I didn’t question.
“Lean over the bed standing up.”
I did as I was bid and my red tender bottom was protruding in that position. I heard a sharp excited inhalation.
“You look so fucking hot like that,” he exclaimed.
I could hear him fumble with the foil and within seconds, with no foreplay or touching me, he grasped me by the hips and pushed inside, thrusting hard and mercilessly. He simply took me; this was no lovemaking, it was pure hard riding, animalistic coupling. And it was out of this world. I could feel my body clench and I knew my orgasm would be merciless. I was having difficulty keeping standing. Michael held me
in place by my tender buttocks and hips, preventing my legs from giving way beneath me. The slap of his navel against my tender buttocks was deliciously punishing, reminding me of my submission, and I shouted his name in guttural appreciation as the climax came swiftly and furiously. My arousal and his own excitement at the animal ferocity ensured he was right there with me.
And thus started our journey in this strange sensual world of combined pleasure and pain, and although we didn’t know the name for it yet, our own version of domestic discipline.
Chapter Six
Somehow or other we got from that position to lying under the duvet on my bed. I had lost all sense of reality or time. I know I must have dozed off, because I noticed the sound of the girls talking and I hadn’t heard them come in. Michael was lying on his side, looking at me, neither smiling nor frowning—more pensive.
“Hey, sleepyhead,” he greeted with a kiss. “You ok?”
“Hmmm, yes, sleepy, you?”
“Siobhan, crikey, that’s such a mouthful every time, what do your friends or family call you?”
“Shiv or sometimes Vonnie.”
“Shiv it is,” he said decisively. “Look, about spanking you, I don’t know what the hell came over me, I shouldn’t have done it…”
Oh, no, the post mortem… God, how I hated post-coital post-mortems…the “how was it for you” talk. If a man was worth his salt, he’d have noticed exactly how it was for me and not had to ask. He’d be able to read the road signs and save me this torture. Right on cue…
“…But you obviously liked it. Is this how you normally like it?” He was choosing his words carefully and speaking haltingly. The tone he was trying for was blasé, but the one he was achieving was somewhat more like gobsmacked.
“Christ, I dunno, I’ve never done it before either, but it was the best sex I’ve ever had.” I managed to splutter out. This was really embarrassing, much worse than the usual after-sex autopsy. And I hadn’t a clue where I stood with him, especially after the row. I certainly didn’t want to be having this discussion with someone I might never go out with again.
My Naughty Little Secret Page 5