by Multiple
An hour passes and the atmosphere is heating up. Laura silently enters the room holding a phone to her ear. She raises her hand and bids for a client. On the way out, she winks at me. She’s positively glowing. I wonder if I’ll ever look so happy and content and then I watch Bruce and remember what he promised me last night.
He said he would take care of me and make me happy... the only thing that I need to do is follow his lead.
There are only a dozen lots left when Steven Goldsmith takes over. While the first twelve-panel screen is being set up, Bruce makes his way to the back of the room. He stops on the way for some very hushed conversation with some of the dealers, but, while he speaks to them, his eyes remain riveted on me as if he fears that I will disappear if he looks away.
When he finally gets to me, he takes my hand and pulls me out of the room. The door closes behind me as I hear Steven start what I hope will be a long litany of incredibly high numbers.
There’s a little passageway between the auction room and the reception area that is used to store the folding chairs during the exhibitions.
Bruce drags me in there and closes the door behind us. We’re in absolute darkness and my heart stops.
I thought I was scared before but it’s nothing compared to the way I am feeling now. But while earlier I feared the consequences of my saying yes, I am now petrified that he’s going to yank that possibility away and cast me out.
I raise my free hand and press it flat on his chest under his vest. I can feel the strong beat of his heart through the palm of my hand. His heart is racing. Is it the high of the sale or am I doing this to him? My fingers curl on his shirt in a feeble attempt to show that I want to hold on to him.
“I’m sorry, it’s just that--” I begin to explain.
“Don’t!” he orders brushing my hand away. “Don’t even try to give me an explanation. You’re not allowed to say another word unless I ask you a direct question.”
He lets go of the hand he was still holding and I hear him fumble in the dark and then open one of the remaining folding chairs. His hands come to rest on my waist and I’m guessing he’s now sitting in front of me.
“Spanking can be very erotic,” he tells me, caressing my ass through the thin material of my skirt. “I thought I was going to ease you into the practice but you’ve changed my mind. I’m not going to make it hurt like hell. I should but I won’t. I will just make it strong enough to be sure you remember what it feels like when you disappoint me.”
He pauses and even though I can’t see his face, I know that he’s daring me to speak up and argue with him. I won’t. I can’t. I want to be his. I want it enough to ... submit to his whim without any protest.
I bite my tongue and refrain from pointing out how unfair he is. After all, I had until the end of the sale to run. He shouldn’t be upset just because I was absent at the beginning of the sale, he should rejoice I decided to stay.
Yet, the fact that he wants me so badly, that my absence unsettled him thrills me to no end. I have stolen a bit of his thunder and he needs to take it back.
So I await his next order.
A wave of lust washes over me as it comes.
“Remove whatever you’re wearing under that skirt and give it to me.”
With trembling hands I remove my thong and present it to him. My eyes are getting used to the darkness. Thin rays of light are seeping through the frame of the door allowing me to see his silhouette but not the expressions on his face. The accelerated rhythm of his breathing is enough to undo me. I don’t care if it hurts, I don’t care that he’s using my thong to tie my hands together. As long as he’s taking care of me, I will take all that he’s willing to give me.
He pulls me over on his knees and lifts my skirt over my head, “I will start with a set of ten.”
One hand caresses the cheeks of my ass and Bruce says, “You will take my discipline silently. You will not utter a sound. The fact that there’s a crowd in the adjacent room should help...”
That’s when I realize that I can still hear Steven’s voice as he’s auctioning away the final lots of the sale. I try to ascertain how many persons are on the other side of the thin wall but then I stop thinking as Bruce’s hand leaves my bottom. I tense in anticipation of the first blow.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I tense and I try not to ask myself why I’m so excited. I wait and when the first blow comes I can’t hold back a squeal. I bite my lower lip to make sure that I don’t do it again.
There’s pain but then the caress he administers on the spot he just hit somehow diminishes the bite while enhancing the sensation.
A second slap on the other cheek and, there again, there is this flash of pain followed by a wave of heat. A third and then a fourth, his hand works more quickly, never hitting the same spot twice and the fire becomes a glow.
By the time he’s reached ten, I’m floating in a delicious haze. I’m feeling incredibly relaxed and almost sorry he’s done.
The sound of the sale has faded out. It’s like the buzz of annoying insects--easy to ignore. The only thing I hear is Bruce’s respiration and then his voice, breathless, asking “How are you feeling, Hannah?”
I can’t describe the state I’m in. I just moan softly. The words wouldn’t do justice to the feeling.
“Hannah, love, please, I need to know,” he whispers and I hear so much tenderness in his voice that something breaks and I start crying.
Happy tears flow away from my eyes and I don’t even try to stop them. I’ve read about this state, it’s sub-space and I never thought it would be so sweet. It’s so wonderful here, I want to stay forever.
“Fine,” I tell him. “Better than fine.”
Somehow he manages to flip me around and I’m sitting on his lap, cradled in his arms and, as if on cue, when he starts kissing me, a thunder of applause breaks the silence.
Steven must have auctioned of the last item of the sale with a new record high. Somewhere in the back of my brain, I hear chairs rattling against the marble floor. There’s a louder hum. It’s the sound of the multiple conversations of the people next door as they get ready to leave, congratulate a happy bidder or comment on the event.
I start to tense and come back down to reality. We’re going to be discovered any minute. Very soon the crew will want to put the chairs away and they will walk in on us.
“Hush, baby,” Bruce says. “I’ve locked the door behind us and there’s only two keys to this room. One is in my pocket and the other in Jimmy’s safe in his office.”
He’s much calmer. Is he in his top space feeling high from the power I’ve given him? I’m sure he is. My heart swells with pride as I realize that I can do this. I can give him what he wants, I could be the woman he needs to be happy.
Bruce slides his hand between my legs and this time he doesn’t have to tell me what he wants. My thighs spread out of their own accord. He chuckles as he realizes the state I’m in. The slightest touch could send me flying.
“Now is the time,” he says. “I’ve waited long enough.”
He lifts me up from his knees and pushes me against the wall, my arms stretched out over my head, hands still tied by my thong.
I feel him more than I hear him wrestle with his belt and the top of his pants. On the other side of the door, I hear bits of conversations as people walk by. Some praise about the quality of the auctioneer, some small talk, dinner plans made...
But all those little slices of other people’s lives fade out when Bruce thrusts into me without a single warning.
I moan. Maybe I’m a little too loud. I don’t care. I’ve never been so stretched. I’ve never been so filled. I’ve never been ... I simply didn’t exist before today.
He withdraws and plunges forward again. Quick and hard was what he promised yesterday and it’s just what I need.
A few more hard strokes and I fly away, fisting a hand in my mouth not to scream while I hear him softly roar in my ear.
Bruce turns me a
round and frees my hands. He tucks my thong away in his pocket and then massages my wrists to make sure my circulation flows nicely.
Someone tries to open the door and startles me. The members of the crew wonder why it’s locked and where the hell Bruce has gone with the key. I start to laugh and Bruce silences me with a kiss. I can feel that his lips are curved into a smile as he does.
“I think we have a few more minutes,” he says, “and I just know the way to make them count.”
His hand is under my skirt again and I instinctively spread my legs without his asking. He smiles as I do so and his fingers explore the crease. The gentle touch of his finger is a surprising counterpoint to the violence of his earlier thrust. My body starts humming again and in an instant I catch fire again. My knees buckle. If I wasn’t wedged between the wall and Bruce, I would fall. I close my eyes to savor the moment but when I do he commands me to look at him.
“Your pleasure is mine,” he says. “I want every whimper, every shudder, every tear and I want to watch it bloom in your eyes.”
So I let him and share with him the ecstasy I feel, eyes wide open on his magnificent face.
When I cease to shudder, Bruce smoothes my skirt back down and adjusts his pants and belt.
He unlocks the door and we move out, merging with what is left of the flow.
We cross through the reception area, passing in front of Tab’s desk. She looks up from her computer screen and watches us reach the elevator.
The elevator doors open and James Evans steps out of it holding a key in his hand. He looks at Bruce and then at me and smiles. He knows.
Bruce is his impeccable self and I wonder if I look as disheveled as I feel. Cocking an eyebrow directly at me, James asks, “And now, what are you going to do?”
I look at Bruce because I’m not sure where he’s taking me. But Bruce doesn’t answer for me. He looks at me as if daring me to find the right answer to this question.
I have it. I know I do.
I look at James Evans and I say, “I will do as he bids.”
Now that you’re done
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Books by
Olivia RIGAL
- Jaded (2013)
- Ripped (2014)
- As He Bids (2014)
IRON TORNADOES MC ROMANCE
- Stone Cold (2014)
- Cold Burn (2014)
Eve Trilogy
- Naughty Christmas Eve (2012)
- Sexy New Year’s Eve (2012)
- Spicy Valentine’s Eve (2013)
Learning curves
- Learning Curves 1: French Cooking 101 (2013)
- Learning Curves 2: Advanced French Kissing (2013)
- Learning Curves 3: Detention (2013)
- Learning Curves 4: Graduation (in progress).
About the Author
Born in Manhattan, Olivia Rigal spent her youth going back and forth between the United States and France.
She lived and studied law in both countries.
While studying she kept herself busy with a variety of jobs.
She worked in the Clignancourt Flea Market as well as in a Parisian recording studio.
In Manhattan, she was a dog groomer and then an administrative assistant in a famous English auction house.
Olivia settled in France to raise her family. She travelled throughout South East Asia and has a special fondness for Laos and Thailand.
When her law practice does not keep her busy in Paris, she runs away to write novels in her Florida home next to MacArthur Beach State Park.
In December 2012 she started publishing short novels in English as an independent. Early 2014, she began translating them into French.
The story she tells stand alone. However her characters often meet so you can run into them again in several stories.
She loves to chat with readers so please feel free to come and visit her on her Facebook page
http://www.facebook.com/AuthorOliviaRigal
<<<<>>>>
Please, Maestro
By
Penelope L’Amoreaux
Oh say can you see by the dawn’s early light?
A life devoted to music and the last song Avery ever heard was The Star Spangled Banner. The memory of the song made her bitter. She had dreamed of Chopin, Beethoven, Bach… and Francis Scott Key wrote her final tune. Great.
Her hip buzzed. She dug her hand into the tight pocket quickly, startled at the sudden vibration that signaled someone was at the door.
Eight months since her accident and no one had come to see her that wasn’t family. Her parents weren’t due for another week.
The signal, which vibrated when someone pressed her doorbell, shook again, long and insistent in her sweaty palm. If it wasn’t her parents, who was it?
Buzz. Buuuuzzzzzzzzz.
Someone who was persistent, that was for sure. Avery swallowed her fear and pretended her heart wasn’t pounding. Normally these things would have made her smile at the memory of sound, the ding-dong of the doorbell or the whooshing she imagined the blood pumping through her veins made. But she hadn’t been deaf for long, and that meant she hadn’t had time to learn safety or comfort in the silence.
Her instinct was to freeze, to stop moving, stop breathing until the unknown visitor gave up and left her in peace.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
Ok, that’s just annoying, she thought, curious if the stranger at her door was a ten year old. Maybe a girl scout selling cookies? Sighing with resignation, she decided to answer it. Communicating would be embarrassing, painful, but when had she ever been able to say no to boxes of thin mints? Now that she lived on her own, she wouldn’t have to share.
The apartment had been a gift from her father, a bandaid on a wound he caused and feared he could never heal. She’d never have her hearing back, or the future she’d worked so hard for, but she only had one father and had forgiven him immediately. Accidents happen.
Her palms were wet, her fear soaking them, and it made opening the door jilted and robotic. Instead of girl scouts smiling up at her, it was an old familiar face that felt like a punch to the gut. It was him, the man she had crushed on for years. Her former conductor. David.
“Um, hey.” Her voice felt strange. She hadn’t used it in a while. Her parents had picked up signing with her, an act of loving solidarity. For a moment her breath caught as she realized that, without being able to hear what she was saying, her voice could sound completely ludicrous. Like an adolescent boy’s, cracking and high when confronted with a sexually appealing counterpart.
Her smile stretched too much, then, her thoughts already confused. Assuming the worst, she knew it was in danger of looking like a grimace.
Instead of speaking to her, his hands lifted and flew into action. Immediately Avery found her eyes following those long, elegant fingers as they offered her a quick and graceful greeting.
Hello, Avery. I hope it is ok I dropped by, but I wasn’t sure how to reach you.
You sign? The surprise and elation she felt made her hands feel clumsy in comparison to his own.
Yes. May I come in?
She nodded and stepped aside, shutting her gaping mouth at the last second. David brushed past her, his tall body closer to hers than it had ever been, unless you count fantasies. In her fantasies, they had been hot, sweaty, so close that she could imagine not knowing where her body ended and his began.
He moved through her apartment and Avery felt her palms grow slick as she began to see what he was surely seeing: a threadbare couch, a small TV, a mini kitch
en with some of her dishes from breakfast still in the sink. It horrified her, she realized, to know this man was seeing her through her apartment, and there was so little to show. Still, nothing could have prepared her for when he stopped moving, his gaze focused on the one thing from her old life she hadn’t been able to part with yet. Her cello.
The big black case was propped in a corner. Unopened in months, there was a fine layer of dust on it, a few finger trails betraying her. She would occasionally, in moments of pain and weakness, step over to the case, her fingers lovingly touching and making designs in the dust. She yearned for the resin-scent of her bow and the solid feel of aged and lacquered maple resting between her legs.
But deaf people don’t play instruments, and now she was deaf and her cello sat, unused, a reminder of what she could have been.
The waving of David’s hand brought her to the present. She felt the burn creep through her cheeks, her embarrassment flaming.
May I? He indicated toward the case.
Her instinct was to say “no.” Her instrument was like an extension of her. Or, at least, it had been. Personal and perfect for her hands, her body. But this was David and really, who was it going to hurt?
Sure, be my guest.
His quick smile made her heart flutter and Avery discovered some of her anxiety stemmed not from the thought of someone touching her cello, but that it was David doing the touching, handsome and austere. He was in her apartment and about to touch her cello. It felt, well, incredibly intimate.
He laid the case down flat, quickly flipped the latches, and opened the case. The first thing to hit her was the smell. It was true, she had found, that upon losing one sense her others had grown more acute. The smell of resin, of the wood, floated around her. It smelled like memories of performance and hours of practice. It smelled like love.