Chameleon

by Ashe Barker

  “Late? I was here on time, Sir.” She could not keep the note of indignation from her voice.

  “All the more reason for being in place, kneeling on the rug, at the time I specified. Instead, I come in here to find you still tinkering with my little playthings. You’ve earned yourself a good, hard spanking, girl.”

  Fleur shuddered in glorious anticipation. He was right, and she offered up thanks for it to whatever god might be listening to her. “Yes, Sir, of course. Thank you.”

  “The paddle then, on your bare arse. Ten strokes, with some real bite, I think, to make the lesson memorable. Then, I cuff you to the bed and the fun really begins.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Stand up, please. Remove that rather fetching cloak and hand it to me.”

  Fleur got to her feet, proud to be able to do so with a reasonable degree of grace. She slid the cloak from her shoulders and swung it around to drape it over her arms. She offered it to Ethan. He took it from her and folded it, his movements slow and deliberate. He laid the cloak on the chest with the rest of the paraphernalia he had brought, then he turned to Fleur.

  “Stand straight, shoulders back. Look me in the eye, girl, and be proud. Your body is beautiful, so show it off to me.”

  Fleur realized she had been slouching, her hands clasped in front of her stomach. She had been nervous, and he saw it immediately, dealt with it. There were tears in her eyes as she met his gaze.

  Ethan came to stand in front of her, his smile gentle. “Turn around for me, girl.”

  She did so, turning slowly. “God, I Iove your arse. I never forgot how soft it felt under my hand, especially when it had been heated up a little.” He caressed her right buttock, causing her pussy to dampen further.

  “Sir, I…”

  “Be quiet. Unless you want to safe word, or I ask you a direct question, don’t speak from now on. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Good. Go to the bed and lie across it, face down, your bum at the edge. Put your arms out to your sides, at shoulder height.”

  Fleur did as she was told, kneeling beside the bed before positioning herself on it just as instructed. She turned her head to see Ethan pick up the spanking paddle from the chest. He came to stand behind her.

  “Ten strokes, hard. I won’t draw this out. I want it over with fast. You can scream, make as much noise as you like, but I don’t expect you to move until I’ve finished and I tell you to get up. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, Sir.” She could detect the slight tremor in her voice and was sure he would too.

  “Is your safe word still cashmere? And fountain for slow down?”

  “Yes, Sir, still the same.”

  “Use them if you have to.” He paused then continued, his tone softening, “I know you’re frightened, but this will soon be over. You can do this, Fleur. Trust me.”

  “I do trust you, Sir.”

  “Good. Try not to tense. It makes it more painful for you if you do and it robs me of the pleasure of watching your bum ripple. Are you ready?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  The first slap landed hard and sharp across her left buttock, closely followed by a matching blow on the right. Fleur screamed, and despite Ethan’s advice, she tensed, hard. Ethan ignored her cries and continued to land the strokes in rapid succession. He had not asked her to count, but she found herself doing so anyway. Her shrieks of pain subsided as her body acclimatized to the sensation, converting it to something resembling pleasure.

  “I do believe I’ve discovered a pain slut. Maybe I’ll need to find other ways to punish you in the future. You’re enjoying this too much.”

  “I am not sure I—”

  “Open your legs, girl.” The Dom tone was clipped and cool, the command irresistible.

  Not that Fleur had any real objection to his instruction. She parted her thighs.

  Ethan dropped the paddle onto the bed beside her and slid one long finger deep inside her pussy, swirling it around to test her moisture. “Christ, girl, you’re fucking drenched. And so tight. Such a slut. So sweet.”

  “Thank you, Sir. Please, will you fuck me?”

  “Oh, yes. Eventually. You’re still owed three more strokes, though, before we can proceed to that. I think you can take those right here, on your hot pussy. Just here, I think, where the lips are all swollen and sensitive. Yes?” He drew his palm along her pussy to indicate exactly where he intended to spank her.

  Fleur groaned, her response a mix of pure lust laced with just a hint of terror. “If you think that is best, Sir.”

  “I do.” He slid his finger from her cunt and picked up the paddle again. Fleur closed her eyes, amazed at how relaxed she suddenly felt as she lay still, her tender pussy lips exposed for him to slap.

  “Oh! Ooh…” Fleur’s moans were muffled by the thick duvet under her as she buried her face in the downy softness. The sensation created by the first slap direct across her pussy was incredible. Pain, yes, but with an oozing soft center of wicked pleasure. It put her briefly in mind of a decadent hand-made and very expensive chocolate, the sort her father occasionally bought for Yvette as a special treat. Bitter and dark on the outside but revealing a soft, rich filling of sweet cream, delicately flavored and utterly delicious. The second stroke landed in the same place and she screamed, though she really did not know whether with pain or pleasure. She lifted her hips, silently begging, her throbbing, wet pussy aching for the final slap.

  Ethan thrust three fingers deep inside her, finger-fucking her mercilessly. The first stirrings of a powerful orgasm tingled deep inside her cunt, quickly gathering pace as he plunged his fingers in and out of her tight pussy. She was there, almost, when he pulled his fingers from her. Frustrated, Fleur sank her face into the mattress, wondering what her additional punishment might be if she were to plead with him when he had expressly forbidden her to speak unless asked a direct question.

  The third stroke was delivered direct to her clit, hard and sharp, the intensity of the slap sending shock waves through her already shuddering form. It was enough, more than enough. Her orgasm seized her, the waves of pleasure undulating unchecked as she shivered and writhed on the bed. Ethan placed his fingers inside her again, working her G-spot to prolong the climax. Fleur clutched at the cotton bedding beneath her hands, curling her fingers into the expensive Egyptian fabric as she rode out her release.

  As her orgasm died, Ethan withdrew his fingers. Fleur lay still, expecting to be instructed to stand up, or perhaps to roll over onto her back. Instead, she flinched as Ethan gently parted her pussy lips with his fingers, then whimpered in surprise as something cool and hard entered her. The dildo. He had said she must earn it. It seemed that he now considered her deserving. She groaned her approval as the vibrator whirred into life inside her, the pulsating waves massaging her inner walls.

  “Is that good?”

  “Oh, yes. Yes, Sir, it is.” Fleur gyrated her hips as she squeezed hard, gripping the dildo tight within her pussy and savoring its smooth, alien presence.

  “That’s the lowest setting. Would you like me to turn it up?”

  She could only nod, gasping her thanks as he increased the intensity of the vibrations.

  “Enough, I think. Maybe that’ll keep you quiet through this next bit.”

  Next bit? Fleur’s curiosity was soon satisfied as he spread her smarting buttocks to expose her anus, and the cool locating gel hit her rear hole. Ethan spread it around, working a little of it inside. Fleur considered protesting but had no real appetite for making a fuss. Not when the delightful sensations inside her pussy were distracting her so effectively. And really, he was not hurting her. It was a little embarrassing, no more than that. Not even embarrassing really, more—intimate. She liked intimate, could become accustomed to intimacy with Ethan Savage. Given the chance.

  “Will you stay?” The words were out before she had time to think, to consider if now was really the right time.

  “I beg your pardo
n.”

  “Not forever, I realize that. You have work, and so do I. But for a while. And will you come back?” Once she’d started, Fleur found she really needed to know. She had to have his answer.

  “Do we need to discuss this now?” As if to punctuate his point Ethan slid his finger inside her arse, the sphincter relaxing under his determined probing. He did not pretend not to understand what it was she wanted to hear from him.

  “Oh, Sir, that feels…” Fleur stopped, allowed herself a few moments to savor the gorgeous feelings he evoked in her. Then, “Please, I would like to know.”

  “I thought I told you not to talk.”

  “Sir, please answer me. Please.”

  Ethan sank his finger farther into her arse as he reached around with his other hand to stroke her clit. Fleur teetered on the point of orgasm once more, hovering on the very edge of oblivion but determined to have her answer.

  Again, she asked. “Please, Sir, I need to know you won’t leave me. Not this time.”

  Ethan sighed, and relented. Or perhaps he always intended to provide the assurance she was seeking. “I won’t leave you—or at least, not for long. We won’t be together all the time. We can’t be. I’ll go home to London, and maybe you’ll come with me sometimes. But I’ll come back here often, if I’m welcome. Perhaps we’ll both go to Marrakesh, to visit your family. I’d like that.”

  “I would like to see your home in England too, and you will be very welcome here. And in Marrakesh.”

  “So, this sounds like a plan. I mean to do all I can to make this work between us and I expect you to do the same.”

  “I will, Sir.”

  “Excellent. Now, will you please concentrate on what’s happening here or do I need to find a more challenging way to focus your attention?”

  “That won’t be necessary, Sir. What you are doing is just perfect.”

  Epilogue

  From: Ethan Savage

  To: Fleur Mansouri-Savage

  Date: 23 April 2014

  Subject: Your recent dispatch

  My darling,

  I fully appreciate your fondness for leather. Indeed, I share it. That corset, however, took leatherwork to an entirely new level and left little enough to the imagination.

  Certainly your surprise package did not tax Mrs. Beauchamp’s powers of imagination one iota, nor those of anyone else in the mail room this morning. I am confident that you brightened up their days considerably, but have to concur with Mrs. Beauchamp’s view that in future such packages would be better marked private and personal. As you know, Mrs. B has worked for me for over twelve years. She is an excellent PA and I am accustomed to heeding her advice. You might consider it also.

  But back to that corset. It really is very nice, and I look forward to admiring it to full advantage at the earliest opportunity. I will bring it to Paris with me later this week and hope not to find myself explaining its finer points to some dour-faced douanier at customs.

  I do truly commend your choice. What the corset may have lacked in substance, it definitely made up for in inventiveness. I particularly appreciate the cunning design of the lacing that allows the garment to expand as required.

  And this brings me to my next point. I understand from James that you were in your office again this morning dealing with some crisis or other. I know you take your promotion to Chief Medical Officer at TFS Paris seriously and no one is more proud of you than I am. Well, Tilleli perhaps, though that goes without saying. You have proven your worth many times over, so you have no need to continue to demonstrate your powers of organization. James assures me that he has your maternity cover in hand and all aspects of your work are being perfectly covered by your locum. You can safely leave everything to the estimable Doctor Sahid, and I am going to insist you do so from now on.

  For the next two months, I want you to remain in our apartment with your feet up. You are to lift nothing heavier than a teacup. I hope I make myself entirely clear, girl, but if you are in any way uncertain as to my requirements, please do not hesitate to say so and I will clarify. I’m sure I do not need to remind you of the consequences if you do not obey me in this matter. I may have decided to refrain from the spankings you so richly deserve for the duration of your pregnancy, but you have already found orgasm denial not to your taste and I daresay you have no wish to deepen your understanding of it. So heed me in this. Please.

  I should be back in Paris the day after tomorrow, but if I can get away earlier, I will. In the meantime, take care of yourself and our baby. You are both very precious to me.

  I love you.

  Ethan

  P.S. If you happen to talk to your grandmother in the next day or so, please congratulate her on the safe delivery of her latest foal. And whilst I am flattered that she thinks sufficiently highly of me to want to name the little chap in my honor, please try to convince her otherwise. Savage is not a suitable name for a donkey. Perhaps you could convince her that my middle name is Neddy…

  Also available from Totally Bound Publishing:

  Red Skye at Night

  Ashe Barker

  Excerpt

  Chapter One

  Leeds, April 2012

  Uh-oh, pushchairs and juice. Not a good combination.

  I don’t want to seem uncharitable. It’s not that I don’t like children. I do. They’re cute and cuddly and they do things that make me laugh. But they tend to be messy. There can be no denying that. They are invariably noisy. They scream for no obvious reason, they’re prone to leaking and they’re sticky. The din doesn’t bother me at all, but mess needs cleaning up and that means lost fares while I’m on my hands and knees scrubbing God knows what unmentionable stuff from my upholstery. Small children are less inclined to leave stains behind than drunks are, but in my opinion, both are best avoided during the course of the working day.

  I lean against my bonnet, enjoying the late afternoon spring breeze as I watch the long queue of recently disembarked passengers swelling by the second as they pour from the airport arrivals lounge onto the flagged forecourt where we taxi drivers await their pleasure. According to the app on my phone, two flights have just come in—one from Majorca and the other from Dusseldorf. The returning travelers are mingled together in a happy, chaotic crowd.

  Time for a little game, just to pass the time. When I’m on airport duty, I like to amuse myself when I get the chance by observing potential fares as they wait their turn in the taxi queue. I try to guess where they’ve just flown in from. The harassed couple have to be from the Majorca flight. They’re lugging two folded baby buggies and wrestling with three under-fives, several cartons of juice and small bags of jelly tots, which I know full well are a bugger to get off the seats. The elderly couple wearing his and hers shell suits probably are too. The three lads now starting to sing merrily about the merits of Liverpool Football Club as they sway in the spring breeze…undoubtedly so. There’s no way this trio are getting anywhere near my cab. No amount of disinfectant can quite mask the distinctive aroma of regurgitated Carlsberg.

  I cast my eyes along the queue, grouping the bunches of passengers together, mentally allocating them to the taxis in front of my vehicle in the long line of cars. This is another little game of mine, trying to work out just which fare I’ll get. I usually get it right, more or less, to within a couple of people either way. On this occasion I settle on Mr. and Mrs. Shell Suit. I don’t mind. They look harmless enough. Certainly sober. The only challenge they’re likely to present is the affront to taste that is their matching attire.

  I wonder where they’ll want to go. Hopefully not too far, then I’ll have time to get back to the airport and pick up another fare or two. Several smaller trips pay better than one long one as a rule, especially if the tips are generous.

  I need the cash right now to meet the payments on my car loan and relieve the pressure on my strained credit card. Come to think of it, I’ll probably be working most of the night. I’m not fond of the night shift but I can cha
rge an unsocial-hours top-up and I’ll probably be able to get some sleep in the morning once my neighbors clear off for their lectures. I live in Leeds’ bedsit land, surrounded by students. They’re noisy, but tend not to be there during the day. And the place is cheap.

  I continue to peruse the waiting passengers, and start trying to pick out a few who might have arrived from Dusseldorf. The group nearest to me chatting in German are a dead giveaway and too easy. The couple speaking French—at least I think it’s French—are more difficult to place, though why they would be coming into a provincial airport in the UK from a Mediterranean hotspot is beyond me. Dusseldorf seems more likely.

  The cars roll forward a few yards and it’s time to hop back aboard. I slide into the driver’s seat and start my engine. We’re on the move. I edge forward, watching as groups of passengers lean into the drivers’ cabs before slinging their piles of luggage and duty frees into the boot and scrambling into the rear seats. Occasionally a front seat is required, but in my experience, fares generally prefer to keep themselves to themselves in the back. It’s a good habit, if you ask me. It suits me just fine.

  I notice a man strolling alongside my car as the queue dematerializes and can tell at a glance that he looks way too attractive for my liking and way too formal to be even remotely connected to Majorca. Dusseldorf. Definitely.

  He’s tall, with dark hair, short at the sides, long on top and brushed back. His tailored jacket and smart trousers look expensive. He’s wearing proper shoes too—black leather, very shiny. He looks to be not much older than me—perhaps late twenties, early thirties at the most—and as sexy as they come. No way is he returning from holiday. He looks more suited to a meeting with his bank manager, or maybe he’s kitted out for a court appearance. He has a small black suitcase, on wheels, which he tows easily behind him as he passes my taxi. His phone is in his hand and he’s studying the screen intently.