Money Shot (96 page)

I couldn’t have felt more different from the girl who’d stepped off the plane in Paris earlier that afternoon. With my hair falling around my shoulders in Veronica Lake waves, wearing nothing but the silky black coat, hold-up stockings and black suede stilettos, I was sitting in the back of a limousine with Thomas, on my way to God knows where. He was wearing a dark evening suit with a charcoal shirt and a narrow black tie. He looked impossibly handsome and, in the confined space in the back of the car, he smelled intoxicating. I longed to curl into the crook of his arm, but he’d sat on a small fold-down seat opposite me. I couldn’t touch him. It informed me in no uncertain terms that he was in control.

He hadn’t told me where we were going and I didn’t dare to ask. I was nervous now, rather than scared, although I knew I was en route to some form of punishment.

“I promise you, Roisin,” he said, as we sped through the dark streets, “I’ll take things very gently this first time.”

I swallowed hard. “Thank you, Sir.”

“You’ll need to choose a safeword that you can use if you want me to stop. Something you wouldn’t usually say, so I can be clear of your intention.”

I thought for a moment.

“Butterfly, Sir.”

He nodded. “Yes, that’s good.”

I stared out of the window at Paris gliding by. I was determined that I wouldn’t use it.

“The guide book says that to truly know a city you must plumb its depths and scale its heights,” said Thomas. “I think that holds true of people, too. Plumb their depths to scale their heights…”

He was probably right but already I knew better than to venture my opinion.

The limousine drew up outside a small, white building, typically neoclassical in style with colonnades and a small portico. The chauffeur opened the door on my side and held out a hand to help me out. Thomas had walked ahead already, and I followed him through a stone arch. He exchanged words in French with an elderly custodian and then gestured me to accompany him through an ancient wooden door. When it swung shut behind us, the air felt immediately cooler and my nostrils were hit by the fusty smell of damp cellars. We set off down a barely lit stone staircase that spiraled away into the darkness below.

I felt scared and sick. Where was he taking me? Certainly into the depths of the city—but why? As the stairs leveled out into a long stone corridor, I could hear running water in the distance. Thomas looked round at me and took my hand.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said.

His voice and his touch banished the fear. Almost.

“These are the Catacombs,” he said.

We walked down the corridor for what seemed like miles, in semi darkness and silence, and I stumbled often on the rough stone floor. So much for all my practice in high heels. Thomas’s grip on my elbow kept me upright but he said nothing more in explanation of where we were going or what would happen when we got there.

Finally, the corridor opened out into a chamber, completely empty but for a crude sculpture of a building.

“Take off your coat,” said Thomas.

“Here?” I said, looking round.

“We’re alone, Roisin,” he snapped. It was the first time he’d raised his voice at me and I felt tears pricking at the back of my eyes. “But even if there were other people here, I would still expect you to do as I say.”

I swallowed and looked down at my feet.

“Yes, Sir.”

As I reluctantly removed my coat, I wondered if I could do this, if I was strong enough to be someone’s submissive. Had Thomas got it wrong in choosing me? I stood naked in front of him, shivering in the cold air. He pointed to an archway at the far end of the chamber.

“Go ahead.”

I walked through into the first hall of Paris’s celebrated underground cemetery and because I didn’t know what to expect, I was horrified. Every surface of every wall was lined with skulls and bones—ancient human remains—the crumbling dust of which filled the air and caught in my lungs. I screamed and ran back with the echo in my ears. Thomas caught me in his arms and roughly propelled me forward. He practically had to drag me through a never ending succession of halls and passages, cold and dank, the resting places of God knows how many hundreds or thousands of people.

Perhaps if I’d used my safeword, he would have bundled me back to my coat and we could have returned to the surface. But I think if that had happened we would have been saying our goodbyes very soon after. As it was, I didn’t even remember the existence of a safeword. I simply clung to his arm as he hurried me through the city of the dead.

Finally he stopped and had me stand still in front of him. I dared not look up but just concentrated on catching my breath and trying not to make a noise.

“Come here,” he said.

He was sitting on a low stone wall. I went to him and he bent me over his lap. His thighs felt warm underneath me and one of his hands pressed against the small of my back to hold me steady.

“What are you going to do, Sir?” I felt I had a right to ask after what he’d already put me through. I was cold and I’d had a fright.

“What do you think I’m going to do?”

“I don’t know,” I said petulantly. This wasn’t how I’d imagined my weekend in Paris.

“You can always stop me. You have a safeword, remember.”

I bit my lip. Damn him for confusing me so. Part of me wanted to use it, and the other part wanted to stay on his lap and take what I knew was coming.

The first slap came out of nowhere. A sudden sharp pain across both buttocks that made me gasp.

“Count,” he said.

“You count,” I spat back without thinking.

The next slap was harder, first stinging, then burning, bringing water to my eyes.

“You’ve just doubled your punishment,” he said through gritted teeth.

“One.”

I don’t know how I managed it but I counted all the way up to thirty, each slap more painful than the one before as the cumulative effect of his blows shuddered through me like a juggernaut. Perhaps, for a short time at the beginning, I felt turned on—a surge of heat between my legs. But the pain won out and carried me far beyond sexual desire or any form of pleasure. When he finally stopped, I wanted to curl up on the floor in a fetal position and forget where I was and who I was with. I wanted to retch. I wanted to tell him I hated him and never wanted to see him again.

But was I tempted for one minute to use my safeword? No.

He slid me off his lap to the floor.

“On your knees,” he said, standing up in front of me.

“Yes, Sir.”

As he undid his flies, desire flooded back. I was still shaking and Thomas supported me under my armpits. With a weak hand, I took hold of his cock and brought the tip of it to my mouth. He let out a groan as my tongue slid down its length. Then he was thrusting forward with his hands at the back of my head, fucking my mouth, pushing himself right to the back of my throat as I clung to him round his hips. His cock was beautiful and I felt so turned on each time he thrust it into my mouth. The cold and the fusty smell disappeared, and I forgot that we were in an underground tomb. My world centered on him, on his pleasure, on showing him how much I wanted him. He came with a low moan and, as I swallowed his hot cum, I was almost on the brink myself. I reached down with a hand to take myself all the way but with a lighting fast reaction, he grabbed my wrist.

“No way, little sub. Not unless I say.”

After that all I can remember is him carrying me back to where we’d left my coat and then, sometime later, being tucked into the huge double bed in the hotel. On my own. I slept most of the next morning and when I woke up I was alone, with raw, red buttocks that prevented me from sitting down.

As the memories of the previous evening flooded my mind, I didn’t know whether to be thrilled or appalled by what had happened. And if that was my gentle introduction to submission, what did the future hold? Had I lived up to Sir’s expectations? I needed him there to give me reassurance, but I was alone in the suite and I didn’t know how to reach him.

Hundreds of feet above the city on the second level of the Eiffel Tower is one of Paris’s smartest restaurants, Le Jules Verne. At night, the interior is hardly lit—its décor is the panoramic view of the capital, a carpet of tiny, brilliant lights stretching in every direction. When we arrived, the maître d’ greeted Thomas like a long lost friend, but this time it didn’t surprise me. Thomas ordered champagne and fed me oysters, while I squirmed in my seat, trying to get comfortable on my sore, swollen ass.

When he’d returned to the hotel room earlier that afternoon, he’d told me to lie on my front on the bed while he inspected the damage. With a gentle touch, he’d applied a cool salve, driving me mad with each sweeping caress. I pushed myself up against his palm, breathing heavily and bunching my fists in the sheet. Surely he could see what I needed. He hadn’t let me come the night before and now I was feeling desperate. But he just laughed and finished off by giving me a playful slap that made me flinch in agony.

I wasn’t in the best of moods as we set out to the restaurant.

“The most important rule for you to remember,” he murmured, popping an oyster into my mouth, “is that I now control when and where you come. You are expressly forbidden from coming without my permission. Even when we’re away from each other.”

His wicked smile caused a tightening of muscles I didn’t even know I had and, as I shifted position, I could feel a slick of hot juices sticking me to my coat. We were sitting side by side, facing the extraordinary view, but the pressure of one of his fingers running up the outside of my thigh was doing more to play havoc with my breathing than the fabulous location.

“You have to earn every orgasm through good behavior.”

“But I…”

Underneath the table, his hand pushed the soft black fabric up my leg. I leaned back with my head against the banquette. I couldn’t fight the sensations he was stirring in me. Fingers grazing the soft skin on the inside of my thigh. My mouth drooped open, slack with longing. My eyes were closed. Who needed a view across Paris when the fireworks were all internal?

“Don’t. You. Dare.” There was menace in his voice that carried the threat of punishment.

I wanted to push his hand away because that might be the only way to prevent myself from coming right there in a busy restaurant. But I couldn’t. I was like a startled deer in the glare of the poacher’s headlamps. Thomas had me presumably where he wanted me—wanting him, wanting this to never end. Hardly caring that we were in public, that a waiter might approach us at any moment to pour some more wine or clear our plates.

I gasped at a sudden freezing sensation pushing up into the cleft between my legs, high up into my pussy.

“An ice cube?” The shock brought me suddenly to attention.

Thomas laughed as I rifled under my serviette to retrieve it.

“You needed cooling down a little.”

I opened my mouth to speak but he put a finger up to seal my lips.

“You’ve got to earn your pleasures. Don’t be a naughty girl.”

Licking chocolate
dacquoise
off his fingers didn’t help either. I felt so charged, so needy. Before Paris, before Thomas, I had no idea someone could set me alight like this, and I was astonished at his power over me.

“Come on,” he said, when the waiter had cleared our coffee cups away. “Let’s go outside and get acquainted with that view.”

On the restaurant’s terrace, the cool air felt like a salve and, as we savored the city from the second level of the tower, I wondered with some trepidation what the rest of the evening held in store. I wasn’t at all sure I wanted to be his submissive after the previous night’s experience in the Catacombs. But, this evening in the restaurant, I’d never felt so sexy or so turned on. I couldn’t bear the thought of not finding out how high Thomas could take me. Through the fine fabric of the trench I felt his hand skimming my buttocks. My stomach flipped and I turned to face him so he could read the need in my face.