That was the question. Could he restrain himself long enough? He felt it would be best to move things along quickly if he was going to have a chance of holding out much longer. He plunged his finger deeper inside of her, moving it in a slow in-and-out motion that had her matching the rhythm. When he stretched her to add a second finger, she let out a long, low groan. It was closer to what she needed, though still not there. He began to scissor his fingers, spreading them apart inside her in a way that drove her wild. Her hips began to snap, thrusting back to impale herself deeper on them, and he encouraged that.
He reached under her with his free hand, seeking her kernel of pleasure, and began to stroke it with light flicking motions that tore loud cries from her throat. The pad of his finger moved swiftly between the soaked folds of her sex, and the sensation took her to the edge of orgasm almost immediately. She rocked up onto the balls of her feet, hands fisting in the bedcovers and dragging them towards her as she fought to achieve her peak. She was focused only on her pleasure, and the location of the camera, trained on her face and filming every expression as she desperately worked against his hands, was completely forgotten in the midst of it.
Mouth opened wide, a litany of nonsense trickled out between the sounds of panting and the inarticulate noises of pleasure. There was a mix of graphic descriptions of what he was doing to her, his name, some pleas for him not to stop, and things that no one would be able to decipher the next day when they reviewed the tapes, but she wasn't thinking of that at the moment. She was only thinking about how good it felt, and nothing else mattered.
She collapsed forward, burying a shout of pleasure into the heavy quilted comforter as she slid over the edge. A wave of pleasure uncoiled in her belly and rushed through her body, lighting every nerve on fire. Fluid trickled over his hand as she clenched around it, every muscle in her body tightening with the orgasm. His forefinger stopped circling her clit and instead pressed against it firmly without moving. He could feel a slow and steady pulse against his fingertip.
His other hand turned until it was palm up, twisting his fingers inside of her until they curled upwards, and then he searched for that place inside of her. The roughened spongy pad on her inner wall where the seat of her pleasure lay. He began to pump his fingers in and out, stroking over that spot each time. Her body, which had begun to go limp in the aftermath of the orgasm, suddenly shifted course. Her head shot up, and she inhaled sharply. She'd never—no one had ever done anything like that to her. Before him, she hadn't even realized she could orgasm more than once, but this—the intensity took her breath away.
The first woman he'd ever made love to, a chambermaid in his parents' household who was a good ten years older than he, had explained in great detail and then lovingly taught him what brought her the most pleasure. He'd discovered after that that it worked with most women and that they appreciated his skills in the bedroom. He knew how to raise her pleasure, and while her inner walls still pulsed from the first orgasm, he sent her crashing through a second. Nothing coming out of her mouth was coherent anymore. She clawed at the covers and made mewling sounds as her body pulsed and throbbed around his fingers.
And he didn't stop. The pressure of his finger against her clit was adding something to the sensations without making her so sensitive that she tried to pull away, but the shifting of her body did cause the nub to slip and move just slightly under his touch, and each time there was a dizzying feeling of butterflies in her stomach. He widened and stretched her with his other hand, fingers pumping in and out as he continued to stroke that spot. His hand was drenched with her juices; they dripped to the floor, and when she collapsed after the third orgasm, with a scream of pleasure, he carefully withdrew his fingers. Her body jumped and twitched in response, and a long Ahhhhh emerged from her mouth like a sigh.
She lay there, limp except for the occasional aftershock. All the pleasure had drained the energy out of her, and she was exhausted, but her skin was like one huge sensory net, and she could feel every soft breath of air, every movement of the bed, through her daze. She felt incredible, and the thought drifted through her head that if she'd known punishment could be like that, she'd be getting in trouble more often. Unfortunately, things were about to change.
He'd wrung every drop of pleasure from her body and left her overly sensitized and vulnerable for what was coming next. Without the buffer of arousal to cushion the pain, he began to spank again. It started suddenly; only a second after his hand settled on her back to pin her in place, the first slap came, hard and unyielding.
The crack! as his palm came down echoed in the cavernous room, and for a second. there was no reaction, and then her nerves caught up, and she let out a squeal of pain.
She struggled, twisting around to look at him, hazel eyes so wide that he could discern tiny golden flecks speckling the iris. "John, what are you doing?" she asked in a slightly panicked voice.
"Punishing you, April. I promised you, remember? Did you really think I was going to let that little tantrum in the kitchen go?" he asked. He swept his hand down in a wide arc. The palm was flat and stiff, and it landed with another hard crack! that made her gasp and try to scrabble forward in a panic.
"You did already! You did!" she screeched, her words filled with misery, and tears already prickling behind her eyes.
Her legs kicked out, causing her to make a running motion against the side of the bed as she tried to propel herself away from his hard hand, but he gripped her firmly in place as he spanked without mercy. The difference between earlier and the slaps he was delivering now was unbearable.
It had been bad enough before, but she had no idea how much being turned on had helped her to accept the stinging slaps. That had been ripped away, and she felt every sizzling spank as it seared her flesh. She threw her head back and let out a full-throated wail, tears streaming down her face. His hand flew through the air, barely a second between slaps. Her backside turned from pink to red in under a minute of the punishing treatment. His hand blazed its way across every inch of her bronzed skin, and the rosy red glow gradually spread out like paint, covering her entire ass and most of her thighs.
She bucked frantically, hair flying out in an arc behind her as she tossed her head. Her mouth was open wide and filling the air with cries of pain. During one of her hysterical attempts to make a break for freedom, her eyes caught on the red glow of the camera, and she froze. Her face, already mottled and red from her exertions and tears, couldn't have flushed any further, but heat suddenly flamed under the skin as she realized with dawning horror that everything, all of it, would be reviewed the next day by three people she barely knew. She dragged the covers over her head and collapsed with complete humiliation.
That didn't deter John from continuing to blaze a path down the back of each leg. Handprints showed visibly against the tawny skin for a second before merging into a seamless crimson glow that darkened with repetition. Her reactions had no effect on him. He stopped when he was ready, and when he finally did, it was abrupt. It was so fast that it took her a moment or two to realize that she wasn't hearing the sounds of his hand slapping down on her bare flanks. The pain didn't noticeably decrease just because he'd stopped; her backside continued to throb and prickle with a burning sensation.
He let her sprawl there, head hidden under the quilted covers, legs half-bent at an awkward angle, holding her up. When he lifted his hand, she slid backwards off the bed and landed on her knees on the floor with a pronounced sniffle. Both hands reached back to cup and massage her sore ass as she stared up at him, bottom lip quivering.
"Why did you spank me a second time?" she whispered in a small, hurt sounding voice.
He crouched down in front of her, smoothing the disheveled hair, tugging strands loose from where they'd stuck to her damp face and pushing them back behind her ears. He regarded her calmly and with something that resembled sympathy.
"Because you were enjoying it too much, April. It hurt, but your body reacted to it with pl
easure. It wasn't teaching you the lesson I wanted you to learn, so I stopped. I sated your body so that I could continue with the discipline you needed," he explained carefully.
She couldn't have flushed any more than she already had, but being told that added to her embarrassment, anyway, and she dropped her eyes instead of responding. Wincing, she probed the damage, rubbing lightly over the skin, feeling for sore spots that would probably bruise later. The occasional miserable tear trembled on her lashes and then splashed to her knees or the floor as she slowly calmed down. She shifted, kneeling up and twisting to look over her shoulder at her enflamed backside, but it was impossible to see much from that angle.
He tucked a hand under her elbow and stood, lifting her to her feet. She immediately tugged the t-shirt as far down on her thighs as it would go and scurried across the carpet to the bathroom, closing the door firmly behind her. She didn't dare slam it, after being punished for the tantrum downstairs, and, honestly, the fire to fight him had been extinguished for the moment. She would willingly have spent the entire night in the bathroom if she'd been given a choice. She locked the door behind her, knowing full well it couldn't keep the ghost out, but for the moment, at least, he seemed willing to let her have her privacy.
Every time she considered returning to the bedroom, she remembered the camera and her humiliation that would be captured in living color for the world to see. She realized how smart they'd been to make sure that the feeds were live and archived behind the locked and bolted door of the room downstairs. Even that security might not have been enough to stop her from trying to destroy the images, except she also knew copies were stored off site; Jerome had made a point of mentioning that.
She wasn't sure which was worse, that they'd see him spanking her, twice! Or that they'd see what he did in between. She remembered the haze of pleasure that had suffused her body and taken away all her self-control. She'd been so vocal, crying out his name, babbling nonsense while he'd fucked her with his fingers and she'd—
She had to stop thinking about it. There was nothing she could do about it; it was recorded, and they'd see it. Hell, Elizabeth would be thrilled about it; wasn't it what she'd wanted? She'd been told to get more action on video, and look how well she complied. She shot a glare at herself in the mirror, narrowing her eyes. Why had she been so—loud? It was embarrassing, and she knew they'd all laugh, especially the pink-haired Carson.
She considered taking a bath, but as it was, she thought she could heat the water to boiling just by sitting in it, and she wasn't sure how her tender rump would feel soaking in the hot water. Her skin felt like it had been scraped raw. She hesitated over the shower, as well, but finally stripped off her shirt and bra and started the water. There were easily a dozen settings, everything from a heavy spray, which would feel like sharp needles against her aching ass, or a soft warm rain. She dialed up the latter and eased under the spray carefully, letting it flow over her to relax her muscles. She leaned in, resting her forehead against the cool tiles, letting the shower work its magic.
Chapter 7
After a while, there was a soft rap on the door, and he waited a second and then stepped through it, she assumed. The heavy steam had fogged the glass door until she couldn't see anything but his dark outline on the other side.
"May I join you?" he asked softly.
He didn't sound apologetic for what he'd done, but there was a tone of reconciliation. He'd given her the punishment he'd promised, if more than she'd expected, and now he wanted to move past it together. The childish part of her wanted to snap at him, tell him to go away, but she'd agreed to this. Even if she hadn't totally understood what she'd agreed to, she'd known that this was part of the deal.
"Yes," she said softly.
She didn't move, but shivered under the cool breeze as the door opened and let some of the warm fog out. It closed quickly, and then his body was pressing against her, arms wrapping around her waist and pulling her back into his embrace. She stiffened; there was some residual anger left from her conversation with Elizabeth. It surprised her to realize she wasn't angry about the way he'd treated her. It was hard to justify, she supposed, when she'd hit him first. Not as much as he'd given in return, but still. She sighed and forced herself to relax, melting back against him. She could feel his erection pressing against her ass, and she shifted so he was aligned against the divide of her cheeks, where nothing was sore.
"I believe that when someone is punished, the slate should be wiped clean. No grudges, no shame once it's all over," he said softly; his mouth was inches from her ear.
"What if I'm angry at you for being a Neanderthal?" she asked. There was no heat to the words, just a simple question, which he didn't understand.
"Neanderthal?" he asked.
"It means old fashioned. Barbaric, like a caveman," she explained. Her lip twitched with amusement.
"Ah, then I'd say, you were aware of these things already, so there should be no surprise."
There was a long moment of nervous tension while he waited for her response. Surprised or not, this was a big step in their relationship. Even the quick and brutal spanking in the kitchen the first night they'd met had been nothing like this. He couldn't be entirely sure how she'd react. He hoped, of course, that she would accept what had happened with grace, but there was no way to be certain.
She let out a soft hmph sound, which he took to mean he was right and she couldn't argue it, but she really wished she could, and he relaxed with a soft chuckle.
"Was it really that bad?" he asked.
"Yes! It was awful," she assured him, twisting around to stare up into his eyes.
"All of it?" he asked. His lip curled up at one corner, in a smirk and she felt her cheeks heating again.
"Maybe not all of it," she admitted. "But I wish it hadn't been on camera." She sighed, a soft frown gracing her lips and wrinkling her forehead. "I thought men were short in the eighteen hundreds?" she asked suddenly. She wasn't sure where the question came from, except that it seemed a harmless bit of trivia after the very emotional evening, and she'd realized as she looked up that he had to be nearly six feet tall.
The completely random question startled him, and one eyebrow went up in surprise. "I can assure you men were no shorter or taller then than they are now," he said firmly.
She didn't look convinced. "Really? I read that the average height was shorter. And if you go to the old houses in New England, all the ceilings are so low," she said.
"Ah, well, averages are like that. If you don't get enough food as a child, your growth tends to be very slow. Poor children, street urchins and the like, tended to grow up shorter because they never had enough to eat. When you average the poor in with the people who were well off, they generally outnumber them by a bit, so it shifts the averages," he said. While he gave her a short history lesson, his hands were sliding down the smooth skin of her back, to gently cup her rear cheeks.
"Oh, I guess that makes sense. I—I didn't expect— Your education is out of date, so I didn't think you'd—" She trailed off, feeling like she'd just stuck her foot in her mouth. She hadn't meant to imply he was uneducated.
"I was a business man," he reminded her gently. "I'd be a poor banker, indeed, if I couldn't do simple averaging." He gave her a mournful look, as if his feelings were hurt, and just when she started to feel awful, he began to laugh, pulling her up tight so her breasts were flattened against his chest. "People in this time have a very odd view of my era," he said, thoroughly amused. "The ceilings were low in colonial housing because it cut the cost of heating them down. They had nothing but wood fireplaces for heat, remember. Often the ceilings were just a couple of inches over the man of the house. A man had to remember to duck his head when he left a room."
"Oh." She wondered how many other inaccuracies and myths she'd learned in her life that he'd be able to dispel. It suddenly felt not quite real, sharing a modern shower with a man who had died over a hundred years before she'd been conceived.
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br /> "Any other questions?" he asked, dropping his head down to press his forehead against hers. He stood like that with the warm water cascading over their hair until it melded together and it couldn't be told which strands belonged to him.
"About three thousand," she assured him. Her eyes drifted closed, and she let herself bask in the warmth of his body pressed against her. "Your skin is warm," she commented.
He laughed, the vibrations of it rolling through her skull where they touched. "Everything in here is warm, April."
"No, I mean— Why is your skin sometimes warm and sometimes it's cool like you—" She trailed off.
"Like I'm a ghost?" he finished for her. She nodded her head a fraction of an inch. "My skin when I'm making myself solid is usually cool. When the house is empty of life, I rarely bother to make myself solid unless I'm moving something or turning on the television, but when I do, it can drop the temperatures around me. The ghost hunters get very excited about it. It's amusing to watch them run around shouting," he said. His tone was playful, and she suspected he often riled up the paranormal experts on purpose to see what they'd do.
"But you've never been cold with me. A few degrees cooler than normal, but that's all," she said.
With a sigh, he straightened and reached behind her to shut off the water. He grabbed a towel off the rack at the back of the large shower and wrapped her up tight, tucking the ends in before he opened the door. He had no need of a towel. One moment he was dripping wet, the next he was completely dry, and she blinked, eyes widening.
A Haunting Experience Page 15