“All’s well that ends well,” she whispered to herself.
Milan’s parent-and-child reunion had had some rocky moments—recrimination on Milan’s side, remorse on his father’s then vice versa when Milan had confessed to not telling his father about his mother’s death. But now it seemed to be on track, with the past forgiven and the future eagerly anticipated.
“Was ist los?” Karl-Heinz was still half-asleep, muttering and stretching before opening one eye. “Morgen, Liebling.”
He noticed Lydia looking at him and pulled her against him, spooning her, his lips on the back of her neck.
“Fröhliche Weihnachten,” she said, reaching back into her memories of GCSE German.
“Oh, very good,” he chuckled. “Yes, Merry Christmas to you too. Do you want your gift?” He ground his hips behind her, pushing his hard-on between her thighs.
“You cheapskate,” said Lydia with a giggle.
“What is a cheapskate? I don’t understand.”
“You are, if your Christmas present to me is feeling me up.”
“This sounds a little disrespectful, Lydia,” he said, in a tone of playful warning.
“I don’t care,” she said, twisting her neck to poke out her tongue at him.
In a flash, she was over his lap having her bottom loudly smacked.
This woke up Milan, who watched, amused, until Lydia began to beg him to help her, at which request he leant down and kissed her through the rest of the spanking so that she could only make indignant, inarticulate noises into his throat.
“You always gang up on me,” she complained once Karl-Heinz had had enough of reddening her bum.
“Because you love it,” said Milan with a winning smile. “And I know what else you love.”
He clambered behind her and bent to press his mouth between her thighs. She was still over Karl-Heinz’s lap, feeling his erection press into her stomach, and the lapping of Milan’s tongue against her clit made her wriggle, pushing on it.
Karl-Heinz eased his legs out from under her stomach and knelt in front of her, his cock upright, his intention unmistakable.
Obediently, she pushed herself up on her palms and took him into her mouth.
As she sucked, Milan kept up his expert pressure on her clitoris, pushing fingers, two then three, up inside her.
She began to rock and moan over Karl-Heinz’s shaft, eager for orgasm.
Milan gave her pussy one final kiss then took a firm hold of her hips and sheathed himself inside her to the hilt.
Now his thrusts rocked her into Karl-Heinz, inching his cock farther down her throat while she held on tight around his thighs, her fingers gripping his buttocks.
“That’s good,” sighed Karl-Heinz, clutching at her hair. “Keep sucking. Milan is fucking you good and hard, mmm, ja.”
This was true. Milan kept up a vigorous rhythm while he continued playing with her clit. Karl-Heinz reached down to fondle her breasts, making her lick and suck for all she was worth. He exploded into her throat at the very moment that Milan took her over the edge. She loved coming with Karl-Heinz’s tool in her mouth, it seemed the absolute height of luxurious decadence.
She swallowed him down and cleaned him off with her tongue while Milan continued to slam his cock into her, eventually reaching his climax while she and Karl-Heinz were sharing a long and semen-tasting kiss.
“This isn’t where I saw myself being in a year from last Christmas,” sighed Lydia, snuggling down between her drowsy, caressing lovers. They kissed above her head while she shut her eyes and revelled in the feeling of safety and protection.
“No?” said Milan, drawing apart from Karl-Heinz. “You didn’t think you might wake up on Christmas Eve and suck off one man while another fucks you from behind? Well, fancy.”
“Shut up, you swine,” she said, elbowing him in the ribs. “You know what I mean. I’m a very lucky girl. Two wonderful men in my life. It just feels like a dream sometimes, you know.”
“I know,” said Karl-Heinz gently, kissing the top of her head. “We’ve all come through some very difficult times. Now we can be happy. Do you promise me, both of you, that you’ll be happy?”
“We promise,” said Lydia and Milan together.
They eased into a three-way embrace, all smiles and whispers and gentle caresses, while outside their haven the clouds released snow onto the packed London streets.
Also available from Total-E-Bound Publishing:
Come to Him
Justine Elyot
Excerpt
Chapter One
She should have expected a lot of paperwork, but somehow the number of times she was required to sign on dotted lines still came as a shock to Erin.
“And the non-disclosure agreement,” said the lawyer smoothly, passing another sheaf of printed material across the desk.
She read it through, trying to take her time and be level-headed, but her vision skittered across the page, picking up legalese phrases here and there. The gist was that she was never to discuss what passed between her and the lawyer’s client with any third party—most specifically she was never to publish any account of her experiences with him, nor ever mention his name in connection with hers.
Picking up the pen and signing, yet again, she let her eye fall on the printed-out copy of her original advertisement on MasterMe.com. That nervous moment of pressing the button and making her plea live to hundreds of thousands of fellow fetishists seemed a million years from today. She could barely read it without cringing now.
“You’ve all heard of the girl who auctioned off her virginity. Well, I’m no virgin, but I do need funding for my MA in Women’s Studies, and I can offer something that might well appeal to those dominant men among you.
I’m offering my submission.
Subject to agreement of limits etc. for a period of one calendar month—will probably have to be August owing to academic commitments—I can obey your every command and satisfy your every whim.
Tempted? Please apply to [email protected].
I look forward to hearing your orders.”
A blizzard of interest had buffeted her inbox, most of it spurious, but in the end she had narrowed down the field of bidders to three.
The winning bid had taken her breath away.
One million pounds.
Enough to fund a lifetime’s research, let alone the tract she intended to write on the contrast between Victorian and medieval attitudes to female sexuality. She had almost vomited when she had seen the email with the offer.
Of course, it had to be a hoax. Nobody would offer that. Nobody in their right mind, surely.
But communication over the telephone with ‘Mr Nobody’s’ legal team had convinced her that it was serious, and now she was meeting his solicitor in his London office to finalise the arrangement.
It didn’t help that a couple of journalists had seen her advertisement and posed as bidders themselves, hoping to get a story about what kind of woman might do such a thing. Erin had sniffed out their misogynistic agenda straight away and blocked them, but she was wary all the same.
And now she was really nervous. Her name stared up at her, in black and white, agreeing to do who knew what with who knew whom.
“Okay, so is that everything?” she asked, working hard to maintain a veneer of self-possession in the face of this dispassionate bespectacled suit.
“I believe so,” he said with a chilly smile.
Her skin goose-pimpled. What on earth must he think of me?
But she had a stern word with her inner voice. It didn’t matter what the lawyer thought. It didn’t matter what anyone thought. She was using her resources to achieve a desired outcome. There was no more to it than that.
“And do I get to know his name at any point? I’m guessing Mr Nobody is a pseudonym.”
“Good guess.” A more genuine smile this time. “My client is not a famous name and I doubt you would recognise his face unless you spend a lot of time poring over th
e Financial Times, but he is necessarily cautious—as you have been. He will decide if and when he wants to reveal his true identity to you. At your initial meeting, he requests that you know him only as ‘Sir’.”
“Wow.”
The lawyer nodded, as if aware of what a bizarre request this was, but powerless to alter it.
“I will have these agreements sent on to him. He will contact you with details of your first meeting.”
“What if he doesn’t like me?” She hadn’t meant to voice this anxiety, but the words spilled out regardless.
The lawyer raised his eyebrows.
“You might well ask that question the other way round. What if you don’t like him?”
“That doesn’t matter. He’s paid for me. We have an agreement.”
“Good, I’m glad you’ve fully understood the situation. If he doesn’t like you, he must still pay you. However, if you renege on the deal, the agreement is void, and you don’t receive a penny. You have backed up your position with plenty of limits and no-gos. My client will respect them all.”
Erin nodded, looking down at her fingers, which she twisted in her lap.
More gently, the lawyer continued, “He has seen the video you sent him. He knows he finds you attractive, and he enjoys your personality too. There is a very good chance that you will make an acceptable match. If you don’t, you can walk away at any time. But you will have to find another, perhaps less colourful way to fund your education.”
“Good,” said Erin. “That’s good. So…I wait?”
“Yes. You wait.”
* * * *
She didn’t have to wait long.
Four days later, Erin sat in the back of a chauffeured Bentley, watching the London streets glide by behind the smoked glass.
Sir had told her to bring nothing but the clothes she stood up in and her handbag, containing mobile phone, house keys and one ‘comfort object’ of her choice. She had decided on a framed photograph of her sister. It was her sister who had encouraged her to aim for her dreams, and Amy would be her inspiration if and when things got tough. It was also her sister to whom she had first whispered a confession of her sexual persona when she had discovered a battered copy of an S&M novel stuffed under the socks in her underwear drawer. She had been so understanding—she had even found the MasterMe website for her.
She had held the frame in her hand the night before and whispered, “I won’t let you down, Amy.”
But now Amy was a long way from her mind, especially when the car moved out on the fringes of the city without joining any of the major motorways. Where could they be going?
When they drove through the barrier entrance of a private airfield, Erin’s stomach gave a lurch. Overseas. Private jet. Jesus. This is real.
If she changed her mind now, what would happen?
Nothing, probably. Just years of grubbing in McJobs until she could stump up enough cash to fund her dream. Fuck that.
The chauffeur parked up past the rows of two-seater planes and small jet craft, at a helipad.
“Oh,” said Erin, longing for the chauffeur to confide in her. “Are we not going abroad then?”
“I’m not going anywhere,” said the chauffeur, and Erin noticed that he coloured a little, as if embarrassed to be lured into speech. “I’m driving back to London. You are taking the trip.”
They walked over to the helicopter, battling through the stiff breeze its already chopping rotor-blades sent gusting towards them.
“Miss Parkinson,” said the chauffeur, handing her up into the aircraft.
The pilot merely nodded and helped Erin strap herself into the passenger seat.
“Flown in one of these before?” he asked politely.
“God, no,” said Erin, and he laughed.
That was the extent of their communication—seconds later, they were taking off, climbing into the sky above the north-western tip of London and heading…which way? South. South-east? Or just south? Erin couldn’t quite work it out, and neither could she really concentrate on much, with her stomach tight and her throat tighter. She’d never thought of herself as afraid of flying, but this was so different to being cooped up in economy on a bucket trip to the sun that it was laughable. It felt dangerous and yet exhilarating, freeing.
“Where are we going?” she shouted, but the pilot either couldn’t hear her over the deafening roar of the engines or chose to ignore her.
She looked down for her answer, over the forests and green fields of southern England, trying to pick out any landmarks. Chalk downlands and a cathedral—could that be Winchester? And then they were approaching the coast and she saw dockyards, high-rise buildings, the iconic new Spinnaker Tower, even the masts of Nelson’s flagship, HMS Victory.
“Portsmouth,” she said in surprise. Surely this wasn’t traditional millionaire territory. Perhaps he was some kind of sailor. An admiral or something.
The helicopter was hovering lower in the sky, preparing to land, yet they were over the narrow strip of sea between Portsmouth and the Isle of Wight. Now she could see people on the beaches, a hovercraft zipping across the Solent, funfair rides on the pier.
“Where are we…oh God! We’re landing in the sea?”
But the pilot simply shook his head and wrestled all the harder with his controls.
Erin saw now that they were aiming to land on one of the strange circular fortresses that stood in the sea off Portsmouth, presumably built as defences in time of war.
“He lives here? In the middle of the sea?”
Erin didn’t expect an answer and she didn’t get one. But despite the beautiful sparkle of the sea on all sides and the cheerful surroundings, she felt cold and fearful. This was true isolation. If she wanted to leave, how could she?
This fear was momentarily overwhelmed by a dread of missing the helipad inside the tower roof and drowning, but the pilot knew his mark and he landed with perfect accuracy in the centre.
“Bloody hell,” said Erin, feeling the need to unburden.
The pilot simply powered down his vehicle, unbuckled his seatbelt and motioned for Erin to do the same.
He was gruff enough, in his leather one-piece and pilot’s helmet, but he had a reassuring air of competence and eyes much bluer than the greyish Portsmouth waves. Erin, without knowing why, felt safe with him.
He beckoned her to a hatch in the roof of the tower and she followed him down into a strange curved world.
The chamber below the helipad was vast and circular with heavily reinforced windows that kept out the tang of salt and seaweed so much in evidence above.
When the pilot left her there, she presumed he had gone to fetch the mysterious ‘Sir’, and she wandered over to the nearest of the arched windows to investigate. Far below, waves crashed against the grey walls and gulls flew by, on the lookout for their next meal. But it was the interior of the room Erin was most interested in. Was it every inch the millionaire playboy pad?
It was certainly luxurious and there wasn’t much evidence of a feminine touch. But, despite the obvious quality of the furnishings, the room didn’t look styled. It would never impress a connoisseur of interior décor. It was eclectic, Erin supposed. That was what they called things that didn’t match or look right together. Eclectic. A roll-topped antique walnut writing desk and a black leather couch. A jumble of Egyptian-looking artefacts on a smoked glass coffee table. It was weird. Erin liked the concert-sized piano in the centre of the room, though, and she walked over to it and lifted the lid, first looking up to make sure she wasn’t observed.
I’m not nervous, she said to herself. I’m excited.
The bookshelves were what she needed to see. The bookshelves would give away what kind of man this was.
She was only halfway over to them, though, when a voice halted her.
“You won’t find much to help you with women’s studies there.”
She leapt around, obscurely guilty, and stared at the windswept, handsome man who stood in the doorway, half
smiling at her.
The blue eyes were unmistakable.
“Oh, it was you all along,” she said, favourably impressed after all the nights she had spent trying to imagine her purchaser. Old, she had decided, and jaded, looking for some new plaything to enliven his shortening span. Or so hideous that companionship could only be bought. She had steeled herself for the worst and now she wanted to laugh hysterically at how different the reality had proved.
“Please excuse me for not introducing myself. I needed to see you outside the context of an established relationship, however briefly.”
He sounded almost ludicrously polite and well educated.
Erin had wondered if he’d swagger in and order her to ‘kiss his feet, bitch’, or words to that effect. Nope. Not yet.
She nodded, appreciating his words.
“Puts you at an immediate advantage as well,” she pointed out.
“I think that’s part of the deal, isn’t it?” His smile glittered, suddenly altering the room’s character from comfortable to dangerous.
“I suppose.” Erin’s skin chilled at this reminder of her situation. He had paid. Paid for her. She was the goods.
“Anyway.” He stepped farther into the room, watching her intently with each pace forward. “We were talking about books. Women’s studies is your subject, isn’t it? Or is it psychology?”
Erin shook her head, glad to be moving on to a topic she could happily discuss until the cows came home. Or the gulls.
“History,” she said. “Social and cultural history, specifically—”
He held up his hand, silencing her.
“I don’t need chapter and verse just yet,” he said. “I was making conversation. I’m not good at it, I’ll admit, so it probably didn’t come over the way I intended. I’m not what you’d call a social animal.”
“I could have worked that one out from this place.” Erin chuckled self-consciously and waved her hand towards a window. “I’ve heard of social phobia, but living in the middle of the sea…”
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