by James Grey
I’m a grown, independent woman. I have the right to have chosen to be here. I have the right to say what I am saying. And I am saying yes. I am saying fuck yes.
Not one of the twelve days I spent at training prepared me to feel excitement like this. I am so aroused that it hurts. My sharp passion is burrowing away at my guts with a scythe. He is a sexy man, and he has treated me handsomely this evening. Lucy was almost right to say that I might forget this was an assignment. But not quite. It’s in the back of my mind that he’s paying thousands of Pounds for me. Literally thousands.
It’s in my mind that this is my first time being taken. Paid for. Owned.
It’s in my mind that he knows it’s my first time. This man who sponsored my training. I have a blazing desire to pay him back with every sinew of sexuality I have.
There’s a magic buzz around my head that I don’t think I’ve felt since my very first date, long before I was even a woman. The anticipation is unbelievably powerful. It’s like an invisible wire attached to my scalp, crawling with static and hitched to the ceiling.
I don’t know where to look. I’m fixating on his beautifully-tailored brown trousers, and the thighs within them. He is still fully dressed. A light blue shirt, open at the neck, and a smart pair of brogues, complete the picture. He’s told me to kick my shoes off, but apart from that I am still dressed in the black outfit he instructed me to wear tonight.
I can feel the wetness melting into my expensive panties as he stakes a step nearer, so I can actually smell that scent of his – the after-shave that screams wealth – and he takes my chin in his hand. He lifts my head so my eyes meet his. I feel them roll in their sockets. I’m a little drunk. Some of that is alcohol. But most of it is need.
“I love you like that, Emma Carling,” he murmurs. “Kneeling there just like that. Here in my bedroom. All for me. It makes me feel so very lucky to be alive. You are beautiful and I am blessed.”
I swoon. Why does this man feel the need to pay for sex again?
“I am going to enjoy every moment of you tonight, Emma. I want to welcome you to a world you will never want to leave.”
He murmurs these words as if he has all the time on earth. And he does, I suppose. I don’t know if I should say anything.
“Are you a nervous girl?” he says, tipping his head disarmingly to one side.
I nod. And I feel I should speak. A new voice – one that sounds a lot like Miss Jackson – whispers that I’m supposed to be showing the excitement I’m feeling. But I don’t think I’m getting that right.
“It’s okay, my sweet,” he whispers. “It’s okay. It’s your first time. I’ve initiated women before and this is normal. I can see that you are aroused. It’s enough for me. You don’t need to say anything if you don’t want to. I understand. I want you to enjoy.”
I swallow hard, closing my eyes again as his index finger tickles the soft skin of my throat now. Somehow I remember to nod again. I’m sure he’s right when he says he can see I’m aroused. His words are driving me crazy. So is kneeling here in front of him. So far below him. His little plaything.
When will we really begin? My mouth is dry. We haven’t even kissed yet.
Charles is speaking again.
“I want to undress you. Do you realise that there is no amount of money in the world that can buy a second first time with you? The magic of finally undressing you and seeing your perfection unveiled…is literally priceless. The only bank I can store it in is my memory bank. And yet I can think of no greater treasure.”
I hadn’t realised.
I feel overwhelmed by these things Charles is saying. They’re unbelievable, but his sincerity is billowing through the room with the same intensity he’s got in his eyes as he speaks to me. I’m staggered. How can my naked body be worth so much to this man? It’s all a bit much.
And I whimper: “How do you know I will be…perfection?”
I can hardly splutter out that word, and my voice lowers to almost nothing as it escapes my lips. I was brought up to be modest. Yes, boyfriends have thrown the ‘perfect’ word around before, but did they mean it like this guy does? Five thousand Pounds says he means it. I flush hot at the thought, and it’s not the money itself. It’s knowing that I’m worth that much to him. It’s scary.
I hear his voice somewhere in the distance, dreamy yet rock-certain. “I know you will be. I knew it the first time I saw you, my sweet. I am an art lover, Emma, and I had that rare feeling of staring a masterpiece in the face when I first laid my eyes on you. And you are worth a dozen Mona Lisas to me.”
His finger pauses again and I tilt my head back, entranced by the moment and his words. Charles is positively oozing charm and praise. He doesn’t need to! He is paying a king’s ransom for this. He can call me demeaning, disrespectful names. He never needs to see me again. And yet…listen to the man. Could there ever be any truer words spoken?
The foggy depths of my memory remind me that he’s chosen, openly, not to marry anybody. He hand-picks beautiful women for his pleasure, no more. Oh, but the way he speaks…he could make any girl his own! My God, and yet he’s paying for me. Of all the girls in London. And so much. My head spins.
“Stand up now, my beautiful,” he says, breathing in deeply and removing his hand from beneath my chin. I rise to my bare feet, as elegantly as I can. The floor and the carpet still feel hard beneath them. My knees are a little red from the kneeling, I think. But he’s only looking at my eyes. And I’m mesmerized by his.
“I need you naked. Would you rather undress yourself for me, or have your clothes taken off you? You don’t need to say it. Show me.”
I’m puzzled, wondering what he means. But my body responds before my brain can process anything. I feel my arms rising above my head, like I’m getting set for a high-dive.
I guess that’s his answer. What I want is to be stripped. What I want is to cede everything.
His breathing quickens as he takes in my response. He allows himself a moment’s pause, then gets down on one knee. Is he going to propose?
Christ, I think it would be a yes.
But no, he’s lightly gripping my ankles with his long, handsome fingers. He’s cupping them with his hands and now they’re rising up my legs. Like their master, they are in no hurry. They linger, but they don’t wander. They travel straight up, the thumbs deftly reeling in the hem of the dress as they climb above my knee.
My arms are still raised in the air as he journeys tantalisingly along the outside of my thigh, and then over the tiny speed bump of the panty string on my hip. I can almost feel his appreciation of my skin flowing back into me. I feel so desired that I might faint.
The dress is coming with him now as I feel his warm palms make their way up my hyper-sensitive sides, his thumbs sailing noiselessly over my ribs. The dress tickles my stomach as it dangles its way up, and then it nuzzles my nose as my bra is revealed and he completes the removal of the black garment. When he slips the last of it over my raised wrists, I am sure I have never been undressed so willingly.
Charles stands back and looks at me, standing there in the turquoise and cream bra and panties, as I drop my arms down to my sides. He flicks the dress away to my left, down the little hallway of his hotel-style bedroom. Not once do his eyes leave me. They are beginning to flash now. In a good way.
I toss my head, letting today’s new hairdo wake up. It taps me on the shoulders and my fingers seem to be clawing desperately at the flesh beneath my hips, where they happen to be hanging. My body is aching with a need for touch. Another new feeling.
He whistles softly as finally his eyes leave mine and they rove the length of my body. Up, down and up again. He walks slowly around behind me, pausing close enough for me to feel his breath. But there’s no touch.
The weird thing is that Charles is making me feel as special as I’ve ever felt on a regular date. I wasn’t ready to be bowled over like this. It’s almost like…romance.
I can’t take it anymore.
I just can’t. He is close behind me and he needs to know my need. I bend over. Right over. Hands on my ankles over.
I didn’t plan this. One minute I was standing there obediently, the next I’m offering him access to my sex, just a yank of my sodden panties away. Fuck! Did I really just do that?
“Do things like that, Emma,” says Charles, whose shoes I can see between my ankles, “and speaking will be absolutely surplus to requirements. You are communicating your arousal very well.”
Stupidly, I redden.
“I am thrilled that you are a hungry girl,” he goes on evenly, walking around back in front of me now. “I knew you would be. But you need to wait a little longer. Undressing you is absolutely sacrosanct. Keep up the enthusiasm, though, and I may have to delay your spanking and proceed to other important business.”
I stand up straight again, all reluctance. I think my mouth is gaping. Do I want a spanking, or do I want fucking? Oh God, too much choice. He’s smiling at me. And now he steps forward, brushes a couple of strands of loose hair back behind my ear, and kisses me deeply.
I melt. Was it supposed to be this good?
I’m hungry for his mouth and his tongue, and it feels so warm, so wet, so good, the way he’s feeding my need. I try to kiss him back but he dominates our movements, controls where my tongue will go. Truly, it’s fine. He’s making me shiver with what he’s doing, especially when he pushes his tongue in so deep. So hard, and yet so soft.
I think I’d kill to be this guy’s wife. It makes me feel light-headed to think that he wants me this much. The whole thing is intoxicating. My apprehensions have vanished and all I know now is that I have never felt so much like a woman.
He takes it slow, and my eyes close as we kiss. I’ve been expecting this to feel like some kind of awful, dirty prostitute kiss. One that counts for nothing but shame. But instead it feels pure, normal and natural. In fact, it’s better than any I’ve ever had. Because I can feel his power almost flowing into me. Because I have no questions about where this is going, or what it’s for. I think I am coming around to his way of thinking about the opposite sex.
At last he stands back, removing his hands from my shoulder blades. He takes a very deep breath and closes his eyes, almost as though he is about to enter a trance. Is he preparing for a religious experience?
“You are ready for the final part of your undressing,” he murmurs after a long pause, his voice softer than ever as he opens his eyes. “I want to undress you many times in my life, Emma Carling, and each time I do so I will be grateful to be on this earth. But I can never repeat this first time.”
I gulp. He really has a thing about this. And then I nod. Mmm. First time. Oh yes, it’s special for me too.
“Turn around please, Emma. And remove your bra.”
His tone is less controlled now. The breathing is getting heavier. I reach around behind me and unclasp the bra as instructed. Following his every instruction feels the most natural thing in the world. This is a side of my character that’s only recently introduced itself to me.
But the part of myself that I know better wants to take initiative, too, and I hook my thumbs into the panties, ready to remove them. In truth, I can’t wait to be naked before Charles.
“Tsk,” I hear him. “Wait a moment. I want to run my eyes over your back. It’s so beautiful in this light. I want to admire the way your sides rise and fall when you breathe; the swooping curve of your shoulder blades; the sheer artistry of your soft, toned muscles. The contrast of your dark hair and your milky skin.”
The man is a poet, and I am helpless at the brute, dazzling sincerity of his words. I drop my hands again, aching with desire at the thought that he’s admiring me in such detail.
“Now,” he says after a minute or so. “Stay facing away from me, and remove your panties. I would like you completely naked.”
I do as he asks. And I feel a powerful ripple of thrill run through me as I stand up straight again, my twitchy hands at my bare sides and my underwear on the floor.
There’s a long silence. I wonder if he is meditating for real this time. I become aware of the clock ticking in the corner. And then some soft music fills the room. Tranquil panpipes. He must have a remote control or something. The sound comes from nowhere and everywhere. This is definitely no cheap sound system.
At last, Charles speaks again: “Alright, Emma, I am ready to see you revealed in just one moment.” He pauses, as if gathering himself. “You may turn around.”
And I do it. He’s sitting on the bed, looking earnest and utterly absorbed in the woman in front of him. That five thousand Pound girl who is…me.
I don’t know what to do with my hands, so I leave them at my sides. I don’t want to look a show-off. Again, he says nothing. He just closes his eyes for a long time, as if unable to comprehend or take in what he’s seen. When he opens them, he seems surprised to find I’m still there. Very slowly, he shakes his head.
“Better than perfect,” he whispers, just loud enough that I can hear him from three paces away. “Come closer to me.”
I step towards him, stopping just in front of his knees. His hands remain on the mattress, leaving his eyes to do all the work. They travel from my own eyes to my chin to my collar bone to my breasts, where I see them dart from one nipple to another, and then back again, and then all the way down my body. He repeats the exercise several times.
“Pure,” he says. “Pure like Eden.”
I could get used to this kind of worship.
He stands up suddenly, giving me a little fright.
“I’m not going to spank you,” he announces, still not laying a finger on me. “I cannot stomach foreplay when you’ve aroused me for this long. I want to lay you out on my bed and fuck you. Now.”
Sounds good to me. I’m not sure I’ll survive foreplay in this state either. Not without calling on a few of those delaying techniques I learned at Cranleigh House.
I just smile at him, because he makes me feel that I can. He smiles too. I know he knows what I’m thinking.
“I’m going to lift you, sweetie,” he says. “Fall into my arms.”
I let him take me, his forearms beneath my thighs and shoulders. He’s strong and I feel deliciously vulnerable as he makes light work of laying my limpness down on the duvet that covers his bed. It feels so soft and delicate against the skin of my back. The room temperature is impossibly perfect. I’m neither hot nor cold. It’s perfect for sex above the blankets.
I’m not sure what to do, exactly, as he moves around to the foot of the bed and begins to loosen his belt. So I do what I want to do. Which is open my legs for him. I bend my knees a little, feeling my heat rise as I display my craving sex to him. He looks pleased.
“I will inspect that beautiful little pussy of yours at close quarters after our first orgasm, darling, don’t worry about that. Right now, I’m going in.”
Our orgasm? He’s no Rupert, this one. I like him better for it.
I can’t wait, especially now that I can see him freed from his trousers. He looks incredibly appetizing, and his arousal is plain to see. I think I know exactly what that means for me.
Then he crawls onto the bed, lowers himself gently onto me, placing one hand behind my head and easing his cock into my relieved, inflamed vagina. I sigh. He starts to kiss me again. I didn’t think I could yield any more to him, but as his tongue takes hold of mine and his torso presses against me, every inch of skin and muscle boiling with hot need, I find myself letting go on whole new level.
I try to part my legs even wider. I’m frustrated that they can only go so far. The very act of throwing them open, to be taken after what feels like a long drought, almost makes me come. My back arches and I know we’re as close as we can be. Pressing hard together, connected, all the way from his palm on my hair to our relentless kiss and his nose on my cheek, down across our his heaving chest flattening my breasts and then, finally, to where he’s actually inside me.
For all that I sen
sed he had cracked and wanted to get down to business, he’s still taking it slow. I think he is still in a spiritual place, entranced by me. I’m there too now, inside a bubble where it’s just me and him. Where the centre of my world is his manhood in my centre. He isn’t pushing yet. He’s revelling in the being there. I can feel his enjoyment growing by twitching degrees. He’s shooting larger every few seconds, like one of those time-lapse videos of a flower coming to life.
“I want to do everything to you all at once, Emma,” he whispers, a trace of frustration in his voice. “If I had five mouths, I’d use them all right now.”
All I can do is moan my approval. I can barely handle his one mouth right now. I’m torn as he leaves my lips, but then I’m groaning once more as he moves to kiss my neck. It’s soft and sensitive there, and while his lips caress it his other hand brushes my ear, gently pulling and twisting my ear-ring. It turns me on to be touched there.
I can’t keep my hands on his shoulders any more. He’s made me go too limp with lust. My wrists fall down on the sheets, my arms mirroring my splayed legs as the fingers scrabble mindlessly at the fabric of the pillow-case. I’m feeling surges of something I’ve never felt before.
“Charles, I can’t…please…”
It’s getting too much. Something so volcanic is building inside me that I don’t think I can contain it much longer.
His cock twitches and expands again at my whimpering beg. He knows what I want, and his control is ebbing away too. The animal grunt of his response, which is a million miles from well-spoken Charles, tells me that much.
Then, thank God, he gathers pace. And he fucks me like there’s no tomorrow.
Chapter III
I think I made a fool of myself this morning.
He wanted to make me breakfast. I know he would have done a good job of it, if last night’s home-made wild asparagus soup and poached salmon was anything to go by. I was hungry after a night of endless play. And I didn’t really have anywhere I needed to be.
Plus, I like the guy. I mean, what’s not to like? He can cook like a champ, he’s sophisticated and respectful, he’s powerful and wealthy, and he makes a whore feel anything but. The man licks pussy with the gusto of a starved jackal, yet with the soft, repetitive touch of a patient artist’s brush on canvas.