“But, love, it’s what I wanted. What I want.” I lean forward and kiss him lightly on the mouth, feeling his smile of relief against my lips. “I love that you can do it to me like that. I love the pain, even though I don’t know why. It’s bloody killing me but it’s beautiful somehow.”
Lightly, he enfolds me in his arms, still treating me like spun glass, and scrupulously avoiding contact with my rear end.
“You’re amazing,” he repeats, giving me another light kiss before releasing me.
Oh, the guy’s an angel. I adore him. I grin back at him, nodding toward his groin, where his cock, back to its normal nice, quiescent size, is still poking out of his jeans in its rubber coat.
We both laugh like maniacs, and he says, “God, woman, you’ve got me in such a tizz that I nearly walked off with my old man still hanging out.”
My progress back to the cottage is somewhat ginger, due to my sore bum, but Simon walks slowly, still supporting my elbow like I’m a geriatric duchess or something. When we get back, he’s the soul of solicitude, and helps me undress and bathe, gently mopping me with cool water, spraying on more of the magic blue stuff, bringing me a nice drink as I lie facedown on the bed in a happy daze. Listening idly to the radio, I think what a good life we have and thank our lucky stars for the person who left the Blue Book in our holiday let and allowed us to understand this crazy kink we share that we might never have discovered without it.
Later, Simon lies beside me and slides his hand beneath me. Orgasms are good therapy for pain, he informs me with sage authority as he brings me off, again and again, throughout the night.
* * *
I can’t deny that the rest of the holiday isn’t entirely without occasional bouts of Simon’s workaholism and my woeful lack of patience and sometimes snippy temper. We’re only human, after all.
But these instances of us just being us are balanced by a delicious, voracious diet of more spankings, more wild walks, more whiskey, more blue stuff, and more enthusiastic and gradually less and less inaccurate reproductions of scenes from the Blue Book.
My only regret as we drive away from the cottage and our lovely holiday is that we’ve had to leave our beloved instruction manual there, where we found it.
“It’s a shame we had to leave the Blue Book behind,” I say, looking in the rearview mirror, seeing our idyll retreating.
“Who says we did?”
“Oh, Simon you didn’t steal it, did you?”
He laughs, and slants me a quick glance before applying himself rigorously to his driving.
“What kind of thieving git do you think I am, young lady? I find your lack of faith in my honest, upstanding nature most disappointing,” he says archly, changing gear with some assertion. “I might have to deal with you for that, you know. Maybe pull off somewhere secluded along the way, if you get my drift?”
Oh, oh my God. I do get his drift. The butterflies start churning in my chest, and down below, desire grinds hard and suddenly in my belly. I glance at his strong but slender hands upon the wheel and my head goes light in that now familiar sensation of floating.
“But what did you mean about the book? You didn’t bring it did, did you?”
He laughs, a happy sound that warms my heart.
“No, of course I didn’t.” He smiles as we pull out of the lane and onto the main road. “But by the time we get home, the copy I found on eBay should be well on its way to us.”
As he flashes me a wink I start to wriggle again, anticipating the pain and the pleasure to come. I’ve a feeling that with our own copy of the Blue Book, our life of love will never be the same again.
I start scanning the roadside for that convenient, secluded spot.
* * * * *
If you liked Discipline of the Blue Book, watch for the upcoming stories in
Portia Da Costa’s 3 Colors Sexy series from Spice Briefs:
Ritual of the Red Chair
Ecstasy in the White Room
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ISBN: 9781472001146
Discipline of the Blue Book
© Portia Da Costa 2012
First Published in Great Britain in 2012
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