The Billionaire and the Wedding Planner

by Emily Tilton

  She wondered, suddenly, if the whole color crisis that afternoon had come about because she had just put on the panties over her bare, bare pussy, and she had thought about playing with the wicked toy the night before, until she ached down there, front and back. Had she acted out because she wanted to be absolutely sure about the terrible punishment she would now receive?

  Emily cried out, as Quint brought her very close to coming, standing in her bridal lingerie so close to their marriage bed and yet so far away. “Oh, sir,” she whimpered, not sure whether to warn him that she was about to have the orgasm he had denied her the previous night. “I’m…”

  His hands stopped their delicious motion. “Did you do as I told you, last night, sweetheart? Did you use your naughty toy?”

  “Yes,” Emily sobbed.

  Two of the strong fingers on his left hand made a gentle circle around her clit. “Did you put the back part in your bottom?” He had his right hand there, now, one fingertip pressing against her smallest hole.

  “Y-yes,” she panted. The finger pushed in a very little bit, and Emily gave a whimpering cry. Having her hands on her head, where her intricate hairstyle would, she knew, soon simply fall apart, seemed to change the way she breathed, so that she felt lightheaded, now, as if she had started to float out of herself. It made the intense sensation from her bare pussy seem even more overwhelming.

  The pleading words burst from her, then. “Oh, please, may I come? Before my whipping?” She felt her face go red, because she seemed to herself to have revealed how terribly conflicted she felt about the whipping; how somehow she both yearned for it and feared it more than anything in the world.

  “No, Emily,” Quint said softly but very sternly. “Naughty girls don’t come until after they’re punished. Before I whip you, though, I want you to know that I’ve decided that we’ll have anal sex tonight for the first time, so that I can deflower you there on our wedding night.”

  Emily felt the butterflies in her tummy start to go crazy, and her heart beat a mile a minute. He had decided. How could he? What did it mean? And what did it mean that of the two sides of her mind on this issue—two sides that had also fought with one another the previous night as she obediently filled herself with the tormenting, lovely vibrator—the side that wanted her husband to make this decision for her predominated?

  “But…” she began.

  “Shh,” Quint said, rubbing a little in front and behind—only so as to make her give a little sighing whimper and not so as to get her further along toward orgasm. “It’s time to lay yourself over the bench for the belt.”

  His hands deserted her entirely. His footsteps moved away.

  He’s getting the belt. He’s getting the belt so that he can whip his young wife on her wedding day, to teach her who wears the pants in their new family.

  To her astonishment, that thought made Emily giggle, as she looked down at the bench.

  “Emily,” Quint said. For a moment she thought she had gotten herself into more trouble with the giggle, that he would whip her now until her whole backside was black and blue and she couldn’t wear her sexy bathing suits on Bermuda but would have to stay indoors, tied to the bed, for fucking by her bridegroom whenever he chose. That terrible fantasy, arising in the blink of an eye, made her swallow hard and turn to him fearfully, her hands starting to descend from her head. What was happening to her?

  “Look at me, sweetheart.” His voice wasn’t angry after all. Shouldn’t it be angry, because Emily had giggled? Because Emily was a naughty girl who wasn’t sure she wanted her bottom deflowered on her wedding night, even though her husband should be the one to decide about that?

  Her hands in front of her, now, resting gently on the cups of the bustier so that her nipples tingled like they had an electric current running through them, she turned her frightened face to see him standing there, his dinner jacket off and his tie loose, his collar unbuttoned. Holding the belt.

  Love in his eyes: such love.

  “Emily, I’m going to give you a safeword, now.”

  “What?” She felt her brow crease in puzzlement.

  “A safeword. Something for you to say when you don’t want to submit to me.”

  “But…” What did it mean? Were they playing then?

  Well, of course they were playing. Weren’t they?

  Quint looked at her steadily.

  “Okay?” Emily said, not even completely sure what she meant by it.

  “Maybe you’ll never use it,” Quint said, “but I think it will make this work better.”

  This. Their marriage: their kinky, freaky, old-fashioned marriage. Getting the belt on her wedding night. Anal defloration because your husband decides he’s going to fuck you in the ass, and you don’t have a say because you’re the wife, and he wears the pants in the family.

  But with a safeword—maybe one that Emily would never use, but always remember—she could see that it could work. Really, really well.

  She wondered suddenly if her mom had had a safeword, with Jason. So strange to know that this way of being with a man was something Emily and Georgia had apparently inherited from their mother.

  And would Maria learn her own safeword tonight? There didn’t seem to be any doubt about where she would be having breakfast.

  “Okay,” she said, more confidently now.

  “Your safeword is safeword,” Quint said with a smile. “Makes it easy.”

  Emily smiled back. “Okay,” she said one final time.

  Quint’s face changed, then and Emily felt her eyes widening to see the dominance there. “Now get your naughty backside over that bench, sweetheart. It’s time for your whipping.”

  Should she say it? Right now—to see if it worked? Quint clearly meant to test his system right away, and a thrill of mingled fear and arousal went through Emily as she realized exactly what it meant: she was about to see just how aggressive and dominant her bridegroom truly wanted to be with her.

  She almost did say safeword, out of fear for how she knew with utter certainty her backside would soon feel, outside and in. Emily swallowed hard. She could always say it later, couldn’t she? If the pain got too bad?

  She turned back to the fake-leather-covered bench: her very first whipping block. She would lie over it so that when she raised her face from the floor she would see the bed where her bridegroom would fuck her, once he had done disciplining her. Emily remembered the way the bottom had dropped out of her stomach when, snooping in his luggage before he arrived in the honeymoon suite, to see if she could figure out what he meant to do in the disciplinary department, she had seen that Quint had indeed packed a thick leather belt.

  Her whole body trembled, now, and her pussy seemed suddenly aflame to know that he stood behind her, belt wrapped around his fist, ready to teach his bride her lesson. She knelt down on shaking knees, in front of the bench and then, slowly, she drew herself up and over it, so that her arms hung down on the other side, her hands touching the carpet and her head nearly against the bed, away from which Quint had pulled the bench about two feet. The upholstery felt cool against her belly where the bustier ended in the suspenders that stretched down to her sexy nylons with their lace-ornamented tops. She remembered how much of a seductress she had felt when she picked the naughty things out at the bridal store. Somehow that had ended with her lace-covered bottom upended for discipline.

  She heard him approach, felt his left hand tugging down the tiny panties to the tops of her stockings, then moving the suspenders aside. Emily’s face got very hot at the thought that he wanted her bottom as exposed as possible for the belt.

  Given the belt on her wedding night. Given the belt on her wedding night. The phrase went through Emily’s mind over and over, as if she weren’t experiencing it herself but rather reading a naughty story about a naughty girl.

  Quint tapped the leather against her bottom. “Get this higher, Emily,” he said. “Push up on your toes and lower your head, sweetheart. I want your rear end well
presented.”

  Giving a little sob at the humiliation of it, Emily obeyed. How could she love this and fear it so much, at the very same time? How could she love him so much more, because he wanted to take care of her in this sexist, old-fashioned way, guiding her with his firm hand liberally applied to her bare bottom?

  “Good girl,” he said, and Emily’s body responded to the simple sound of the ancient phrase, her bare pussy clenching between her tightly closed thighs, so that she couldn’t suppress a little cry.

  “Shh,” Quint said. “We’ll get this over with, and then you’ll have your reward.”

  Some reward, Emily thought. Your cock in my ass. And as she felt the belt come down hard on her bottom for the first time, making her cry out at the sting and the sound, she decided she didn’t need to know why it made perfect sense to her that her loving husband’s hard penis up her bottom should be a reward.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Maria came to Jason’s bed in her red lace panties, and only her red lace panties. Jason had issued her this command as soon as they entered the dark bedroom in the dark house on Arlington Street, though a deep kiss with Maria pressed against the wall had preceded it, until that fainting, swoony feeling had come upon her once again, remembered so well from the previous night.

  “Go to the bathroom and take off everything but your panties,” Jason had commanded, when he broke the kiss at last. “Then come back here.”

  As she complied with his order, shaking a little with lust and crimson with shame to know herself so ready to obey, Maria watched herself in the bathroom mirror turn from a professional who had just brought off a stunning society event into a lascivious young woman who would get exactly what she had asked for in a dominant, older man’s bed. After hanging her dress on the vacant hanger Jason had provided on the back of the bathroom door (a coincidence, or had he planned all of this? did he often command women to take their clothes off in his enormous marble-filled master bath?) she saw a seductress in red lingerie. A girl like that knew what she was getting into, didn’t she, when she came to a man’s bed.

  Taking off the garter belt and the stockings—which she had worn on the two previous occasions of her disciplinary and erotic and some-strange-combination-of-the-two encounters with Jason Garrons—affected her strangely: it was almost as if she were removing some seductress layer of herself. Still more did she feel herself vulnerable, and even innocent, when she took off her bra and for a red-faced moment inspected her little breasts in the mirror, seeming to see what Jason would see—what Jason would touch and claim. In the red panties alone, Maria seemed more… well, virginal. As if she had put the naughty underwear on just to see what it felt like, and then an older man had caught her wearing it and told her she must be punished, and then learn what that kind of underwear made a man think about. She shivered, dropped the lingerie on the marble counter, and turned to face the door that would take her back to Jason’s bedroom.

  She hesitated one last moment. She felt no doubt at all about finally coming to the bed of the father of the bride on his daughter’s wedding night. That notion had a certain naughtiness to it, to be sure, but the taboo quality only served to give Maria a little frisson, and to make her warm down there where she had shaved this morning, thinking about precisely this moment. She wanted, though, to take in the strange triumph of her position: she had begun the planning of this wedding hoping only that it wouldn’t ruin her and, instead, she now had the chance at least at a torrid affair with the wealthy man who had seen fit to spank her. And who knew what would come next? Maria smiled and opened the door.

  Jason lay on his king-sized bed, covered to his tastefully hairy and extremely taut belly with a red-and-white-striped sheet that seemed to tell in itself of a world of yacht clubs and clay tennis courts. He had turned on the bedside lamps so that she could see him very clearly, propped up on his left elbow, and she knew with a rush of heat to her cheeks that he would be able to see her very clearly too, once she had crossed the distance to him. He smiled at her, very gently it seemed to Maria, and pulled back the sheet, so that she could see he was naked, which despite Maria not truly being a blushing virgin at all and despite her knowing exactly why she had come to Jason Garrons’ bedroom, and would soon come at last to his bed, made her give a little gasp.

  Perhaps he looked like a male pin-up in some naughty magazine for wicked girls, or perhaps the gesture of uncovering his cock that way, so casually and confidently, filled Maria with the lust she now felt. Either way, seeing his penis there, in its nest of dark curls, seemed to make the scene real to her, and at the same time to reinforce the idea she’d had in the bathroom, of herself as the innocent girl caught in illicit panties and brought to a man’s bed to learn how to please his cock properly.

  “Come here, Maria,” he said. “Come lie with me.”

  Come lie with me. Another ancient phrase, as if a wedding brought out the most primal ideas in men and women: the need to lie together. Maria had never before succumbed to the quality of weddings—whatever it was—that made so many guests so very inclined to have sex that mirrored what the bride and groom were doing in the honeymoon suite. As a planner of weddings, she usually needed sleep more than anything else, once the couple had made their way from the reception to the scene of consummation. She had generally felt it, though: the tug of need for a man’s arms to enclose her, a man’s strength to envelop her, to enjoy her and to give her the same enjoyment.

  Chewing on the inside of her cheek, she took a step forward, and then another, knowing that he could see her more and more clearly as she approached. Had he planned it that way, so that Maria would have a sort of final choice, of whether she would in fact emerge from the darkness between the bathroom and the bed, to show her compliance with his wishes, to show her desire to lie with a naked man?

  Her feet rushed forward, and she had come to the bed and climbed in, into his arms, in the red lace panties alone, and he was kissing her, their bare skin feeling warm together, their bodies moving together in search only of that contact for the moment. She felt his cock rise against her thigh, and it made her smile as he kissed and kissed her, putting just a little of his weight upon her now, but not urgently; enough to promise that his strength would possess her very soon, but that they could take their time, as difficult as it would be not to have him inside her now, and every moment seeming to make it harder—just as it seemed to be making him harder, too.

  “You earned a spanking, didn’t you, naughty girl?” He had drawn his head back so he could look at her while he ran his strong hands over her flanks, her breasts, down very lightly between her thighs and over the lace that covered so scantily the place where she burned for him.

  “You gave me the reminder, though,” Maria said, her face growing hot at the memory of his finger in her bottom while she bent over the toilet. “Do I still have a spanking coming?”

  “Absolutely,” Jason assured her, smiling. “In the morning.”

  Maria giggled at that. “Do you think Quint spanked Emily tonight?” she asked, her heart feeling very light all of a sudden.

  “I’m sure of it,” Jason said. “She certainly deserved it, didn’t she?”

  Maria giggled again, unable to keep the effervescent feeling at bay: something about knowing that she and Emily and Georgia all belonged to this strange fellowship of spanked young women made her feel like she had consumed much more than her usual single glass of champagne.

  Jason said, after kissing her nipples, one after the other, and then awakening them with his knowing tongue, “Do you wish more brides got spanked, darling?”

  Too aroused to laugh, now, Maria gave a little whimper and sighed, “It didn’t really help, though, did it?”

  “I think it helped in the long run, don’t you?”

  He put his hand inside the tiny panties now, and Maria found she couldn’t answer at all as he awakened her there, prepared her for him. Sore bottom. The phrase went together with her memory of the reminder in th
e men’s room, of what Jason had said it was supposed to remind her. Maria was going to have a sore bottom tonight, even if she didn’t receive her spanking until the morning.

  “I’m going to turn you over now, darling,” Jason said softly, as if he had read her mind. His eyes had become serious, and very hungry.

  The butterflies in Maria’s tummy went along very well, it seemed to her, with the blazing heat between her legs. She knew only one response really fit the moment. “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m going to fuck your pussy for a few minutes, and then I’m going to get you ready for anal.” His calm assurance in speaking these dirty words made the butterflies seem to go crazy, but then, as she looked into his face, to calm them down.

  “Yes, sir,” she breathed.

  Then he did exactly as he said he would. Without force and without hurry, he turned Maria over, tucking a pillow beneath her hips. The slight feeling of alarm at being positioned this way seemed to make her even wetter when Jason began to caress her again, this time much more dominantly, as if her pussy and her bottom and her tiny dimpled anus were a plaything—a favorite plaything, but one he owned and would enjoy just as he pleased.

  “I’m going to leave these panties on, Maria,” he said, “while I fuck you.”

  She felt a little noise of protest rise in her throat at that—not for any real reason but almost because she felt that a good girl would object to something so wicked, and because she knew her objection would be overruled by the dominant will of the man who had taught her the joy of submission.

  “Shh,” he said, pulling the panties aside so that she felt the lace arch across her right bottom-cheek and she knew he could see her bare pussy and her cringing bottom-hole. She whimpered again into the bedclothes, loving the feeling of powerlessness, of having to yield to his lewd desires for her body. “Shh. You look so pretty, Maria. So pretty.”