'Well, perhaps . . .' I was clutching at straws now. 'You would expect things of me! Things I can't give you!'
'What can't you give me, Sophie?' He kissed the underside of my wrist. 'I don't ask for much. Just you.'
'I'm not girlfriend material,' I blurted.
'I know. It's why I like you. Listen.' His eyes were glittering with grave intent now, and he had gathered up my other wrist, imprisoning me with the twin forces of his physical strength and his will.
'I understand you, Sophie. We like the same games. Why don't we play them together? As a team. Not as a boyfriend/ girlfriend couple. A team. We play together until it stops being fun. That is all I'm asking for.'
'So . . . other men?'
'Not out of the question. Not at all. In fact, I'd encourage it. I'm not jealous or possessive. I want you, and I want you to be you. If you ever decide that you want to be exclusive, then I'd be happy with that too. It's in your court, Sophie. But if you lob it out, I'll get a hundred more balls and keep on firing them at you until you return one.' He grinned sharkily.
'Persistent bastard, aren't you?'
'Yes, I am.'
'You seriously wouldn't stop me seeing other men?'
'As long as I can watch. Or join in.' He shrugged.
'You're very strange.'
'I know. That's why you like me.'
'Must be.' And then we kissed until our blue lips and fingers finally convinced us that it was too cold to continue.
Luxury Bedding
I never thought I'd make it to the Honeymoon Suite.
It has always been a loosely held principle of mine not to bother with men who are obviously married, and they don't come much more obviously married than a bridegroom. So the petal-strewn four-poster bedroom with its champagne bucket and Himalayan fruit basket was off-limits to me.
Until today.
No, reader, I did not marry him. No sparklers have been exchanged, let alone vows of lifelong fidelity. But a certain proposal has been made, and I have accepted it. So today, we seal our compact in the Honeymoon Suite.
It is so beautifully pristine that I am almost loath to blemish it with our coarse intentions, but it seems that my partner does not share my qualms, for the moment we are over the threshold he picks me up and flings me on to the plump pillows, diving down next to me while I breathe in the rose-scented spritz that permeates the cotton.
'Wow,' I purr, stretching out on the crisp linen, picking up some of the petals and scattering them like confetti into his hair. 'This is worth the money. Almost worth getting married for. Perhaps I'll change my ways and become one of those serial brides. I think I need to line up a few sugar daddies.'
'Oh, really,' he says, walking warning fingers up between the valley of my breasts and turning on to his side to look down on me. 'You would, as well. I can just see you, in a St Trinian's uniform, sitting on some elder statesman's lap, twirling your hair and pouting.'
'Oh, yes, so can I. I hope he'd be wearing some sort of starched blazer and an old school tie. Not too old though. Silver hair rather than white.'
'Hmm, yes, maybe a member of the House of Lords.' His fingertips graze my collarbone, hovering around the neckline of my silk dress. 'He'd spend all day arguing political points and drinking sherry in his club, then he'd come home to you and give you a good spanking and send you to bed.'
'You don't need to be a Lord to do that,' I point out.
'Not the last part, no.' His lips are on my neck, now there is hot breath in my ear. 'And besides, you can have your sugar daddies as long as you come back to me. And I'll do the spanking and sending to bed.'
'You already do.'
'I'm not planning to stop.' The hem of my skirt is travelling slowly, ticklishly, up my thigh. He halts at my suspender snap and lays a heavy hand on my lace stocking top. 'Do you think any of the brides that spend their wedding night here are virgins?'
'No more than the grooms, I should think.'
'Mmm, I think you're my blushing virgin bride,' he says, glinting filthily. 'And I'm the wicked man who has snared you into my clutches. It's your fortune I'm after, my dear, though your ripe little body is a substantial bonus. And you have absolutely no idea what you have let yourself in for.'
I squirm against the coverlet, enjoying the fantasy. 'Oh my,' I gasp in a hokey cartoon-heroine accent. 'Is this really what a bride has to do?'
'This is just the start, my dear,' he croons, nipping at my earlobe. 'You don't think I'm going to let you wear that hideous nightgown your mother packed, do you?'
'That's antique lace! It's a family heirloom!' His finger slips beneath the lace stocking top and strokes my thigh, a nail sometimes snagging against the mesh. 'You can't mean I have to be . . . naked!'
'That's exactly what I mean, my dear. I've bought these goods and now I intend to examine them.'
'Goods! Bought! Oh my, what a thing to say!'
'Stop your lamenting and strip, my dear, or I shall do it for you.'
I try to push him off, but he puts a hand on my ribcage and begins to unfasten the buttons that run from the neck to the hem of my shirt dress. I picture it as a wedding gown, with an ivory bodice and a blossoming of tulle and net, unlaced, ripped from me, revealing my pure white foundation garments.
In fact, I have worn white underwear today – a choice made by my subconscious when it found out it was visiting the Honeymoon Suite, perhaps. A sheer white bra and matching briefs, with tiny pink hearts embroidered into the material; rather less whorish than my usual boudoir costume, though the inevitable suspender belt sexes it up. His lupine grin when he parts the two sides of the silk to reveal it indicates his approval. He brushes a hand down the centre of my torso, places it firmly on my bare stomach and bends down to ravage my lips and mouth in a seal of possession that masquerades as a kiss.
My Sophie self sinks greedily into the embrace, even as my reluctant bride self pants and gasps and pushes at him in vain. He makes it clear that every spot, however remote, between my lips and my tonsils will be visited by his rampaging tongue, and I welcome it, my mock struggles weak and unconvincing, my cunt beginning to throb at the sense of being thoroughly taken and overpowered.
Sometimes our fucking is like this, and sometimes it isn't. Sometimes I seduce him over dinner, running my foot up his trouser leg beneath the table; sometimes I join him unexpectedly in the shower and demand soapy satisfaction; sometimes I bundle him into an alleyway, fish out his cock and give him impromptu head, ruining the knees of my stockings in the process. Sometimes our moods coincide and sometimes they don't, but one or other of us can always be persuaded to compromise.
But today, we are kicking and restraining and smacking and biting our way into the role of evil groom and virgin bride. Not too far into the role though – or I would be kneeing him sharply in the groin and putting paid to any chance of the good firm shag I am fantasising about.
He has one wrist pinned down at my side and is lowering the cups of my bra with his teeth. I pull his hair; he growls and wolfs down a breast, sucking and gnawing at it, flicking his tongue over and over the nipple until my sheer white panties are soaked and my squirming owes more to pleasure than pretence.
'Oh, oh, mama never told me about this!' I squeal, for now there is scrabbling at my knicker elastic and a fist bunched inside, knuckles bearing down between my slippery lips. He jams a knee between the softness of my inner thighs, crouched over me like a predator on the verge of tearing my flesh.
'Mama never met Sir Jasper Baddun,' he snarls, making me giggle for a second before he distracts me by whipping the knickers down to my knees. One finger explores the seat of my non-virginity while he pins my upper body to the bed with his chest. 'Oh yes, nice and tight. Nice little maidenhead for Sir Jasper.'
'You are a scoundrel, Sir!'
He chuckles, lifting his pelvis slightly so he can release his cock from the jeans he irreverently chose to wear for our rendezvous.
'I know,' he says simply, then I scream fo
r real at a sudden penetration that knocks the wind out of my fighting sails. I thank my stars that there is no actual defloration going on – Sir Jasper's technique is not the gentlest, but the game demands a forceful, pitiless sheathing, and that is what he is giving me. He keeps my wrist down and thrusts so hard that even these well-oiled bedsprings creak, shoving it up so far and so hard that I have to stop struggling or my hips and pubis will be bruised.
'I-will-take-what's-mine,' he grunts through gritted teeth. 'And-I'll-see-that-you-remember-it.' The depth of his reach, the profundity of the friction and the fingertips jamming my clit all combine to send me soaring out of my body so that only sensation remains.
'I'm yours, make me yours,' I wheeze, my head banging against the soft padded headboard, my legs slicing the air, and then I come hard, very hard, so that the phrase 'like a steam train' rushes to mind, all steaming and whistling and roaring into the tunnel.
He throws back his head and shouts, 'Oh, yes, that's it,' and pulls out, but I don't think he has come yet, and one glimpse of his resolutely erect prick proves me right.
'We need virgin blood,' he says, somewhat alarmingly, but instead of ripping my flesh, he reaches over to the fruit bowl, picks out a handful of strawberries and proceeds to mash them into my well-used pussy. Their coldness makes me try to shimmy up the bed, but I am at the top already, and he steadies me with a hand on my stomach, continuing to pulp the juicy fruit against my clitoris and up into the stretched hole behind.
'Oh, that feels . . . kind of . . . nice,' I say, fearing all the same for the bright white sheets. We'll have to bung something to the laundry people.
'Your virginal bleeding feels nice? That's novel. That's not what most of the wenches say,' he tells me, still in character. 'Look how you're staining the sheets. Did that hurt, little bride? Was I too rough? Did I stretch you too far?'
He is smearing the strawberry mess all over, inside and out, using his fingers as fruit paintbrushes.
'You have ruined me,' I reply, jittering when he puts his mouth to my succulent core and begins to lick.
'I like you like this,' he murmurs. 'Fruity.'
Again he reaches for the basket, plucks some black grapes, bites into them and places the halves on my nipples. Pretty soon my abdomen is purple with blueberry stains, my thighs sticky with peach juice. Strawberry and raspberry mash is on both sets of lips and a banana sticks rudely out of my cunt. He eats the banana, as far as he can get, lapping up juices on the way, then his tongue and teeth work at getting inside to consume the remaining half. Once he has retrieved it, he gives it to me to eat – it has a unique flavour – and kneels up between my legs, looking me over.
'That's what I call a fruit salad,' he says with relish. 'Just needs a bit of cream.'
Although my mouth is crammed with banana à la jus de Sophie, he manages to stuff his cock in there as well, mixing and coating it with the munched-up pulp, pumping with his fist at the root. When I swallow the banana, he pulls out with a moan, points at my grapey, berry-smeared tits and shoots, topping them with his own brand of creamy drizzle, which he then rubs in with the palms of his hands, mingling fruit and semen until my breasts and stomach and most of my mound are covered with the mess.
'God, we need your camera,' he pants. 'You are the most obscene thing I've ever seen. I want to fuck you all over again.'
'Mmm, maybe later.' I yawn. 'How about a bath? A hot tub. I know how much you like those.'
'OK. Shall we take the champagne in with us?'
'I think it's practically compulsory to.'
He frowns down at his shirt, once white, now blue, purple, red and pink in an interesting tie-dye effect.
'I'll just go and get it running.'
The bath is enormous, a luxurious corner spa with shelving and bubbles. He has emptied all the creams and unguents and emollients in at the same time, so it brims with scented foam, not so much cleansing us as sheening our skin with the veneer of luxury.
I rest back against his chest, sipping at champagne, occasionally clinking his glass. 'I could get used to this.' I stretch like a cat, feeling the bubbles burst off my outstretched legs.
'You could,' he says. 'But I don't think this suite is often empty. It's booked up most of the year.'
'I'm not surprised. It's heavenly.'
Framed sketches on the walls, the towels and flannels folded into origami shapes, tiles that glitter with tiny jewel pinpoints. Mirrors so shiny that you can imagine stepping into their reverse-world with a shiver-shimmer. And everywhere the smell of money, that expensive aromatic fusion that convinces you you are cocooned from the dirt and danger of life.
He takes the champagne flute from me, places them both on the shelf behind us. 'I don't want you drinking it all now,' he says. 'There are all sorts of interesting things you can do with champagne.'
'Well, I know that. I've used more complimentary hotel champagne in non-traditional ways than you could even imagine.'
'You are underestimating my imagination. You need to stop doing that.'
We are still chuckling at each other when our lips bump together and our mouths open greedily. We slide down the seat, scrabbling and slithering all over each other until we slip off into the whirling vortex, drowning in our mutual absorption.
Our heads, conjoined, break the surface of the water from time to time while our limbs thrash and splash like half an octopus.
'Look, you're going to wear me out and I'm not even started yet,' he protests, shaking out his sleek wet hair so that droplets shower me. 'I'm going to get you clean before you start getting dirty again.'
He scoots over to the edge of the tub with me under one arm and retrieves a small bottle of luxe brand shampoo, which soon enough is lathered into my hair by his strong fingers. My scalp and my neck and shoulders are given a workout that leaves them free and floaty, ready to lie down and let the bubbles take me to sleep.
'No, no,' he reproves when I lay my soapy head back against his chest and shut my eyes. 'Get that backscrubber off the side.'
I heft it in my palm; it is solid varnished wood with decent bristles, not the unforgiving plasticky variety. 'Go on then, you scratch my back and I'll scratch yours,' I offer, handing it over to him.
He makes me bend with my palms flat on the shelf-seat while he runs the tickly bristles along my spine and then in circles from my shoulders downwards, sending vibrations through my pores. The pattern of soapy waves and circles gradually covers my back until it drifts over my coccyx and meets the crack of my bottom. The bristles cover the shiny wet globes, gently at first then more firmly, brushing with serious intent. I am grateful for the moisturising property of the soap, without which the sensation might become unpleasantly raw. As it is, I am on a tantalising precipice: pleasure if I step back, pain if I jump.
He scrapes along the underside of my buttocks, an exquisitely tender spot, and I moan and bend at the knees, but my attempt to elude the brush results only in a sudden and almost overwhelming crack of the wooden side against the rounds of my bottom. Not only is the bathbrush heavy and wooden, but my wetness accentuates the sharp pain of its contact.
'Ouch! What was that for?'
'Don't move.'
My thighs, back and inner, are scrubbed pink before his job is done, then he turns me round and puts two blobs of foamy bubble on each side of my collarbone, watching as they ski down the slopes of my breasts, blowing at them to increase their velocity. Once they settle on my nipples, he massages them in, then lathers my stomach, then the suds drift lower until I have a mock-pubic triangle of frothy whiteness which is used to clean and refresh the unclean parts of me.
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