It occurred to her that Gregory did this for everyone new, and had probably done it for Ariadne. That made her jealous. Calm down, she told herself, use your self-control. Obviously this was routine, an act designed to put people at ease and promote mutual trust. And what could be better than sharing a bath? Didn’t the Japanese do it anyway?
Suds circulated around her neck and dropped in white globules from her breasts. She murmured with surprised delight as the squidgy softness of the sponge was pressed in between her buttocks, the soap trickling down the deep crevice and through the channel that divided her legs.
Warmth, suds and softness invaded the wet folds of flesh. Her thighs opened slightly. Her head felt dizzy, her eyes closing as she revelled in the sweet decadence of doing nothing, of depending on someone else to cleanse and pamper her willing body.
She felt the long fingers, as delicate in their touch as any artist, spread her cheeks apart, expose her anus and press the sponge and its soapy issue into her puckered hole.
There was no stopping the moan of ecstasy that issued from her throat. She closed her eyes, threw discretion to the wind, and pressed her buttocks more firmly against it.
‘I think you need more soap,’ she heard Gregory say, his voice as melodious and beguiling as his looks.
‘Whatever . . . ’ she replied through her moans of pleasure.
His hands ran down over her back. His fingers parted her buttocks. Something soft but basically hard was forced into her anus. She gasped, and realised the invader could only be the soap which was long and shaped more like shaving soap than bath soap. Its effect was incredible. Her muscles gripped as it slid gently in and out. Still moaning and savouring all that was being done to her, she arched her back and pressed herself on to it. This was the best bath she’d ever had.
‘More,’ she moaned, and wished that the soap was twice the size it was; that there was something bigger to push into her pulsating vulva which cried out for attention. Her clit also tingled with demand, entering the scenario like a star act stepping on to centre stage.
The folds of flesh that hugged the core of her sex began to open like the petals of a lotus in bloom, droplets of dewy essence mixing with the lather as her plump labia opened in anticipation.
‘All finished,’ she heard him say as the soap was withdrawn. Now her moans changed to groans.
‘Don’t stop!’ she cried out, turning to glare at him. She would have begged longer, but something in his face told her that such pleas would not be welcome.
‘Patience,’ he replied. ‘Acually I haven’t quite finished yet. I have my orders.’
She wanted to ask him what orders. But her need to enjoy more of his ministrations was greater than her curiosity.
Disappointment filled her. She had a need for release, and if it wasn’t for the fact that Gregory was with her and likely to do more, she would have slid her hand between her legs and tickled her tight little bud until she did come.
Quizzically she looked over the foam that sat on her shoulder and saw him take something down from off the wall.
Then she gasped as cold water sprayed from a hand-held shower hose washed the suds from her body. Goosebumps dimpled her tight flesh as the soft hands directed the water over her back. Streams of cold delicacy seeped between her buttocks and dangled in icy dribbles from her stiff nipples. She gasped, her skin tingling as the process was repeated until the shower was turned off.
‘Cold water aids muscle tone.’ Gregory’s explanation sounded reasonable enough, but Penny did not entirely believe him, or rather she didn’t want to believe him. She wanted to believe that he was enjoying this, too; that the sight of her naked form and opening sex tempted him. If it wasn’t for the obvious bulge in his trousers, she would have questioned his gender. But she knew instinctively he was a man. His physique was beautiful, but decidedly masculine. And his smell was masculine. He was a man all right.
She considered his comment on muscle tone. The divide between health and sex had always been blurred. In the bath, it was sex that was on her mind, not sport.
‘The soap’s all gone,’ he said, then switched off the cold water.
Catching her breath, she got out of the soap-filled tub and let Gregory envelop her in the softness of a thick white bath towel wrapped tightly around her by his sinewy arms.
‘Delicious,’ she murmured, closing her eyes and hugging the sheet to her. She was cocooned in it, glad of its warmth, of its softness, and even more glad to be so close to his body.
Wetting her lips with her languid tongue, she reached out and touched his glistening shoulder. He started and stepped back. The look in his eyes was impossible to read. There was defiance there, and also something resembling pain or fear.
‘I’m sorry . . . ’ she said, in a broken voice. Puzzled and disappointed, she clenched her fingers into her palm, withdrew and let the towel that so warmly enfolded her slip from her grasp.
‘It’s not allowed,’ he said, stepping away from her like he had earlier. ‘At least, not yet.’
She stared, but bit her tongue. She was new here. She had to remember that.
Her body was dry now, aglow with the warm hue of the recent bath. Her breasts pouted proudly forward as though inviting his fingers. Very slightly, she opened her legs and was immediately aware of the sweet mix of musk and highly perfumed soap.
‘Don’t you want me?’ she asked him plaintively, running her hands down over her breasts, the flatness of her belly, the forest of soft dark hair that flowered between her thighs.
She couldn’t help but frown. His expression did not change; at least not in his eyes. His jaw dropped momentarily before he answered.
‘Yes,’ he suddenly said in a bright way that softened the hardness of his jawline. ‘I want you to lie down on the bed.’ He threw the last words over his shoulder in a more casual and offhand manner.
She didn’t care about that. If he wanted her on the bed, he could have her on the bed. In fact, he could have her in any way he chose. She picked up the crumpled towel and made her way into the bedroom.
The thick green and red of the tapestry bedspread was rough against her back, and did nothing to subdue the heat of sexual desire that ran all over her body.
She lay her head on the crisp white linen of the pillow. Gently, she writhed her hips, rubbing one leg against the other in excited expectation.
She closed her eyes as the smell of lavender from the pillow assaulted her senses. Sensuality itself played havoc with her nerve ends.
Purrs of ecstasy escaped from her mouth as she raised one knee, then the other, so that the top of one thigh was always in contact with her aching clitoris.
Through narrowed eyes, she watched him re-enter the room and gasped with sheer lust when she saw he now wore only the briefest of coverings: nothing more than a posing pouch that hid his cock from view but nothing else.
‘Why don’t you take that off, too?’ she asked through rushed breath.
Abruptly and without answering, he turned his back on her and became absorbed with something on the dressing-table.
She watched; licking her lips, rubbing her breasts, mesmerised by the view of his well-formed buttocks divided by the thin strip of material. She assessed the power of strong thighs and the incredibly detailed muscles in his well-honed calves.
He was totally hairless. His skin shone like soft gold in the subtle glow of the ornate lighting.
When he turned back to her, he was rubbing his hands together. Aware of the aroma of sandalwood, musk and wild flowers, she held out her arms to him, telling herself that this was the moment, this was their time.
Suspended for just a moment, she let her arms fall beside her. Although he was walking towards her, he did not look at her. His eyes seemed to stare straight over her head and her bed. What was it with this man? Was she that ugly?
‘Face down,’ he said suddenly, and her spirits rose.
‘OK,’ she smiled. ‘If that’s the way you want it.’
As she lay full-stretch on the bed, her eyes went to the big carved mirror that almost covered the other wall. There was a certain clarity lacking in it. The ones in the bathroom had been similar, she remembered. Then she smiled secretively. They were two-way mirrors; they had to be. Suddenly, she remembered that Alistair liked to watch. She felt like the star turn at the London Palladium. All right, if she was expected to perform, then perform she would.
With rising excitement she awaited the soothing strokes of his probing fingers. This, she told herself, was turning out even better than she’d hoped for. Of course, there was still that tingling around her love temple that needed assuaging. But now, instinctively, she knew that this blond seraphim would bring her to full satisfaction.
The towel was folded and pushed under her hips. It was a surprisingly comfortable position. Her breasts were not crushed. Briefly, she looked over her shoulder at her bottom. It was thrust slightly upwards, round, pink and gleamingly fresh from its thorough sponging. Like softly rounded hills, she thought, before closing her eyes.
Being healthy, she decided, the blood would all be running to her head and her shoulders, the first points to be massaged.
Softly she murmured, her senses poised for take-off, ready for her alone to take full advantage of this unexpected ‘treatment’.
The fine fingers and oiled palms prodded new vitality into the tight muscles around her neck and down over her shoulder-blades. There was knowledge in them, an experience of touch that eased them to softness and coaxed her into relaxation.
Such was the exquisite rapture of the sensation that she hummed softly through closed lips in time with the sensuous sweep of his hands.
Long firm strokes ran down over the soft undulations of her firm flesh. Hands, sideways on, pressed into the long indentation of her spine. Her buttocks clenched then relaxed as his cool palms rolled each cheek as if kneading bread. The fingers pushed gently at each knot of tightness, spreading her cheeks to either side of their joining cleft before rounding each curve and proceeding down over her thighs.
The scent of flowers and sandalwood pervaded the air with each fresh application of oil. Her hips moved against the firmness of the towel which pressed pleasurably against the soft cushion of her pussy. A little harder, a little more pressure, and the thickness of the towel would be enough to bring about her climax.
But this was good enough, she thought. Most massages she had received before were from Ariadne who was good at it. She had of course returned the service, but according to her blonde and brazen friend, she was basically a no-hoper.
Her whole body trembled with pleasure as she was stroked, pressed and pummelled. The tight muscles of her thighs burned with new vitality as the massage continued on to her calves. She was disappointed when the hands ceased. Without being asked, she turned over and her bright-blue eyes, now infused with the electric blue of excitement, surveyed the rigid form, the face that never altered, the eyes and mouth that never smiled.
Just as she had surmised, oil was being re-anointed into those experienced palms.
Speculatively she let her gaze wander around the room; over the dark greens and dull golds of the tapestries, the dark rich wood of the furniture, until they settled on the mirror which was high and wide and edged with a vibrant carving of plump grapes and plumper naiad thighs. Well-endowed satyrs chased the running naiads just as they did on Alistair’s desk. For the first time she noticed the size of the satyrs’ manhoods, so large it took both hands to handle their priapic erections.
Lucky naiads, she thought to herself, and smiled knowingly at the sheet of glass. Was there someone behind the mirror at this moment in time? She guessed there was and wondered at their racing breath, their pulsing veins and their rising passion.
She stretched beneath Gregory’s hands, opening her legs slightly and smiling secretively at the mirror as she did so. How did her yawning cleft and bouquet of pubic hair look to those hidden eyes? she wondered. And how did it look to Gregory?
Would he take her now? Strangely enough, she knew the answer. There would be pleasure with this man. There would be a shattering orgasm. But there was more to him than a straightforward tumble. She also guessed he had been given strict instructions, and those that had given them were safely ensconced behind the carved mirror.
Her gaze shifted and rested on the thick tuft of pubic hair that rose so defiantly from her plump mound, like fragile trees on a far-off hill. Then it travelled to her eager nipples that blushed like crushed roses at the advent of the busy hands. Penny mewed like a kitten as the fingers pulled, pummelled and pinched. All action was welcome and invoked response. Again, she closed her eyes as tension was replaced with ecstasy.
The thumbs pressed gently against her throat, the palms and fingers circled her neck. She groaned unashamedly as they travelled downwards, pressing across her collar-bone, easing the tightness away with experienced fingers.
Nothing could stop the moistness from gathering between her legs like a hidden well, and nothing could prevent her clitoris from raising its head and pushing through the matt of dark pubic hair.
With delicious pleasure, her tongue licked slowly over her quivering lips. The probing fingers were massaging her breasts, pulling at her nubs of desire that rose so prominently from their crown of pink flesh.
Slippery with oil, the hands rolled each breast between both hands. The fingers pressed around the nipples, drawing gasps of ecstasy from Penny’s throat. She raised her hips as if those sweet nubs of pink were but remote controls for the rest of her body. In response, the hands progressed down over the flatness of her belly, tracing the lines of her taut stomach muscles.
As the tight thumbs pressed against the rising mound of her sex, she wriggled her hips, aware that her seeping juices were running towards the cleft between her buttocks and mingling there with the residue of oil.
Penny felt a charge of sensation wash over her as the hands gently spread her thighs then massaged in firm downward strokes, the fingers pressurising her muscles to let go of that last strain, that last stressed out tension.
Nothing could have prepared her for the surge of ecstasy that swept upwards from her throbbing sex. The hands that had massaged her thighs were now splayed upwards over her pubic hair, the thumbs lightly playing against her surging clit. A new tension gripped her, a tension that could only be released with a huge orgasm. Her breathing quickened, her hands clenched beneath her head. She wanted to open her eyes, she wanted to close them. She wanted to see this man in action, and watch the pliable hands taking her ever upwards to sexual fulfilment. But yet again, she wanted to see nothing and just to feel the exquisite sensations.
As a tumbling cascade of gratification racked her body, she arched her back and cried out. With trembling muscles she sought to drain the last tremor of climax from the knowing hands that had brought her to this apex.
Cries of delight were lost in her hair and in the sweet smells of the cotton pillowcase. Her hips writhed to and fro as throb followed throb until the final wave was spent.
Opening her eyes, and murmuring her thanks, she let her gaze wander to the mirror. She smiled.
I wonder, she thought, whether Alistair could resist that; whether his hands were busy masturbating his own cock as she was brought to stupendous heights. She hoped so. In that, there was success; and in success, there was power.
Thoughtfully she rubbed her hand over herself. Her pussy jerked, still tingling with the residue of her climax. She was satiated, in need of no more for the present time.
Gregory re-entered her thoughts.
‘I’ll rub you down.’
The statement was abrupt. No reply was awaited. The hands that had manipulated her to orgasm now rubbed her down. The towel was taken from beneath her hips and whisked briskly over her skin until it shone with honed perfection and glowed with healthy vitality.
‘Rest,’ he ordered. ‘I’ll unpack.’
Lovingly, as though she were a prize horse herse
lf or an errant child, a coverlet of cool cotton was tucked around her. Surprisingly, she did rest. Her eyes closed, then opened. She took one last look at the mirror before she snuggled further down beneath the fresh-smelling cotton.
Sublime was the best way to describe how she felt. She felt renewed, invigorated and able to take on the best . . . yet she also felt at ease enough to fall into a peaceful sleep.
4
THE WHITENESS OF her dress accentuated her honey-brown complexion, and the hint of gold around her neck added a richness to the simple cut and style. Her legs were bare, firm and bronze, the muscles of her calves well defined beneath the tightness of her skin.
Simplicity extended to her hair which she had left hanging in glossy waves of turbulent perfection. A rich mix of light shone through the art nouveau glass-shaded wall lights giving it extra sheen and colour reminiscent of old port and sleek ebony.
Zest for life and new experiences shone like white-hot diamonds in the blueness of her eyes as she surveyed the finished effect in the mirror. Her breasts were high and firm, the slight curve of her waist exaggerated by the cut of her dress. Over her hips, the dress caressed rather than clung, so that when she moved her body undulated independently of the material. Only the sound of it swishing lightly was evidence that it was there at all. And it was cool against her flesh. She wore no underwear. There was pure intimacy between the material and her skin.
Appraising her own self, her own body, she felt there was nothing she could not achieve; she could tempt anyone or try out anything.
‘Fit to conquer,’ she murmured, and smiled. Her teeth were like pearls against the rich pinkness of her lips and the tawny shine of her face. With pleasure and with satisfaction, she smiled to herself, to the mirror and to whoever might be on the other side. ‘I hope you like how I look as much as I do,’ she purred. Then she hunched her shoulders, swayed from the waist, spread her hands and ran them down over her body. It was lurid exhibitionism, more suited to Ariadne than to her.
She eyed the mirror speculatively. Who, she wondered, was on the other side at this moment. A thought occurred to her and blossomed. Her smile bordered on a laugh. The face reflected from the misty glass was not just attractive, radiant with desire, but beautiful.
The Stallion Page 5