The Red Collection (18 page)

But I manage to get the skirt off and toss it on top of my blouse. I’m still dithering. I’m still embarrassed. I’m in my shoes, pants and bra in front of a man I barely know and, the worst of it, I know those pants are damp. They’re cotton too, finer weave than my bra, and there’s a visible dark stain at the gusset, spreading and revealing, where I’ve seeped for him. There’s even moisture gleaming on my thighs.

I start to kick off my court shoes, and he says ‘No!’ quite sharply, so I leave them as they were. Lounging back in his chair, he uncrosses his legs and exposes a startling erection
pushing
at the leather fly of his jeans. It’s phenomenal and I feel a sudden huge rush of confidence. All that? For me? I find myself standing straighter, standing prouder, almost flaunting myself. I have everything that younger woman he was with in the picture has. My body is ripe, his for the picking, and mine to enjoy and to exhibit.

Daringly, I touch my breast through my bra, and catch my breath as a dart of pleasure spears my pussy.

‘Yes!’ hisses Edward, through his teeth.

I stare back at him, both challenging and questioning. What do you want, my beautiful leather-trousered boy? Do your worst … command anything. I can take it.

I fucking well relish it!

‘Turn round. Show me your arse.’

I relish the crude word too. It makes me melt inside, more juice trickling down inside my panties. I never knew I was like this, but I’m glad I’ve finally found out.

I turn, managing a passable dancerlike spin. Not quite sure what to do, I extemporise, teasing the elastic of my knickers down, a very little way.

‘Good. Very good, Jane … but leave them like that. Just rolled down a little bit. Just to the crease.’ I comply and he praises, ‘That’s beautiful!’

I can’t see him now, apart from a vague, slanted reflection in the computer screen. But the creak of leather tells me he’s not quite as still and calm as before.

Are you adjusting yourself inside those skin-tight jeans? Nudging that monster a bit to one side, to get some ease?

I hope so.

‘Bend over. Rest your arms on the seat of the chair. Part your legs a bit. I want to see the crotch of your panties.’

Feeling the heavy stickiness between my thighs squelch,
almost
hearing it, in fact, I obey his wishes. I’ve never felt so rude and exposed and vulnerable, and I’ve still got my pants mostly on. He can see how saturated I am, though. He can see how much I want him. Or even just want
something
from him, perhaps barely a touch.

Or a spank. Yes, that. Definitely that. I want to prove I can take anything
she
can.

He gets up and moves behind me, and I feel his fingertips on my lower back, drifting down to the elastic of my knickers. They hook beneath it, edging it down until it’s stretched tighter across the roundest, plumpest portion of my bottom and the cleft is exposed, almost to my anus.

My breath stills in my throat when a hot fingertip slides down there, finds the little vent, and begins to stroke it. Up and down, up and down. Shame, heartbreakingly delicious, bubbles in my chest like effervescent wine and I make a weird animal noise I’ve never made before, all the time pushing my bottom against his finger, increasing the contact.

The torment goes on for what seems like an age, and I continue to perform for him, waving my arse around because I can’t
not
wave it.

‘You’re a dirty, sexy woman, Jane. You must be or you wouldn’t like me fingering you there so much. Admit it!’

I nod, beside myself.

‘No, admit it in words.’

‘I like you touching me there.’

‘Where?’

‘My bottom … the … the hole.’

I feel as if I’m going to faint right here, right now, but I can’t stop wriggling like some kind of horny cat on heat. Lubrication is streaming out of me.

‘Good girl, good girl,’ he murmurs, doing it more. ‘But
also
…’ He pauses, finger stilling, resting, right there. ‘… naughty, so naughty, liking something so dirty.’

I’m beside myself, dying of shame and at the same time soaring on a wave of dark exultation. I feel as if I’ve found something I’ve being looking for all my life. And it’s taken this wicked, beautiful man to light the path.

‘I shall have to punish you, of course.’

The words are perfect and right. I almost sigh aloud to hear them at last, and it’s so strange. Half an hour ago, I knew nothing, but now, I have wisdom and power, despite my temporarily subservient position.

His fingertip withdraws. ‘Now then, Jane, undress for me. Bra and panties off, but leave on the shoes.’

I obey, for once not bothered too much about the minor imperfections of my body. A little roll of extra padding here, a hint of a droop there. I sense that he’s more than satisfied with me.

When my sticky knickers and my bra, also damp with nervous sweat, are dropped to one side, he takes hold of my forearms and positions me. I’m to pose across the table, arms among a muddle of files and keyboard and mouse and writing implements. He pushes down on the middle of my back, making me dish, making my bare bottom pop up, perfectly proffered for his hand. With a booted foot he nudges apart my feet, making my wet thighs separate and provide a lewder view.

My heart leaps in my chest when the door handle rattles. I tense and hold my breath, waiting for a voice to call out from beyond the door, but Edward massages my back, and then my bottom in slow, sure circles with the flat of his warm hand and I calm again.

After one experimental twist, the handle remains still. There’s no more rattling. God alone knows what they’re
thinking
out there, knowing we are in here together with the door locked. But I don’t care. I don’t care. I’ve never cared about anything less in my life.

In these strange, stolen, out-of-time moments, nothing matters on this earth but him and me.

He continues to massage for about a minute. Then he gives me a hard pat on each cheek.

Then a harder one, and a harder one, gentling me into it.

My bottom starts to sting a little, and the next few pats aren’t pats but light, lazy slaps, stirring that sting.

Then he smacks me, good and proper, instigating fire.

Oh, God, it really hurts! Oh, God, it’s dreadful!

But also not dreadful at all. I don’t quite know what I was expecting, but this isn’t it. An almost indescribable amalgam of pain to be cringed and shrunk away from, and pleasure, evanescent pleasure, sinking like hot warm honey, into my sex.

My clit throbs like a tiny star, pulsing with each slap. It’s almost as if he’s hitting me there, knocking the sensitive nerve bundle, even though he’s nowhere near it. The impact of his hand, and of his presence, goes right through my muscle and sinew and bone.

I bite my lip, quashing my cries of pain, my moans of delight. I wiggle and weave, and he pauses in his sequence of strikes, and stills me again.

‘Behave!’ he purrs, then, to my astonishment, he dips down and kisses the reddened crown of each buttock.

Surely the stern master or whatever he is shouldn’t do that?

But it seems he’s a rule-breaker in this as everything, as badly behaved – when it comes to conformity – as I’ve become.

I shiver at the utterly delicious outrageousness of him
when
he laves his cool tongue over the heat that he’s created.

How can anything so wrong feel so right?

And then he’s spanking again and it seems to hurt more because of the little gentling that went before. I rock and hitch about, my pussy dripping, and aching as much as the cheeks of my bottom do, but he never misses the target, or a beat in the relentless punishment.

When my behind feels as if it’s been turned into Steak Tartare, he finally halts, his hand stilling on the heat.

‘Had enough, Jane?’ he whispers, inclining over me, his flanks alongside mine, leather against skin. I hiss through my teeth as the smooth hide rubs my flaming haunch.

‘No!’

The catch in his breath shows I’ve surprised him, even though it’s not more spanking I want, but something else entirely. I swivel sideways and cram my burning buttocks against him, rubbing them, hoping he’ll get the message.

He does, pressing his big, beautiful, randy young man’s bulge into the cleft between my buttocks. He’s hard, and rude, and it bloody hurts where he presses against the spanked zones, but all the same I want to sing at feeling him there.

‘So, you expect me to fuck you?’ he demands archly, pressing harder.

For a moment my world falls away and I feel intense sadness. Doesn’t he want me after all? Is he just playing some cruel and capricious game?

But no, even though he might be playing the arrogant bastard just a bit, his body is totally honest. It doesn’t lie.

‘Yes, I do actually. Is that OK with you?’ I nearly add a snarl when he drags his nails across the crown of my bum.

‘Completely, my lovely wicked Jane. Completely.’

All business now, he positions me yet again, kicking my
legs
really wide now and getting in between them, right behind me.

I hear the chink of his belt, the purr of his zip, then tiny sounds of rummaging.

A second later he presses his cock against what feels like the reddest spot on my sizzling bottom.

‘Oh yeah,’ he sighs, as if the heat in my flesh is exquisite pleasure to him. Maybe it is? He rubs his cock around the war zone, going ‘mm … mm …’ and leaving a trail of silky pre-come on my skin. I look over my shoulder, craning hard to see the size and shape of him and the sticky marker he’s leaving on me. Leaning a little to one side, he catches my eye and gives me a wink.

‘Ready, babe?’

Babe?
That makes me laugh, and he laughs too, chuckling to himself while he whips a suspiciously convenient condom out of his pocket and enrobes himself in it. Twisted to one side, I observe the process, loving the expression on his face as he rolls and rolls.

If I was expecting measured finesse I was sadly mistaken. With no further ado, he positions himself with his fingers and then pushes on in. I go ‘Oof!’ as he shoves me hard against the table and stirs the fire in my abused and reddened bottom.

But the joining is everything I’d hoped for. He powers into me, hard and hot, and slightly ruthless. Thump, thump, thump he knocks me against the hard surface beneath my belly, every impact juddering my clit and stretching me inside.

Within moments, I’m coming hard, seeing stars as I bite my own knuckle to stop me screaming. He’s not far behind me, and he hisses a curse as he pumps into me.

*

Afterwards, there’s not much to say.

Well, no, that’s wrong. I have a thousand things to say to him but they’ll all be stupid when they come out. This was just a game, a one-off, a bit of naughty behaviour to tell in my dotage as one of those mad office stories that nobody really believes. And even if there is a stupid, misguided, lonely middle-aged bit of me that wants it to be more, I know such thoughts are pointless. Edward’s a stud, with notches aplenty, I’ll be bound, on that leather belt of his.

Probably much better and less pathetic for all concerned if I laugh off what’s just happened and chalk it down to wild experience.

When I do risk a peek at Edward his face is unreadable, but at least I’m warmed a little bit by the lack of any gloating, macho smugness. If anything, he looks thoughtful. Slightly puzzled.

As I put my fingers on the door handle, ready to brave the no doubt intensely speculating denizens of the office beyond, he opens his mouth to speak. But I forestall him.

‘Look, don’t say anything, will you? It was just one of those things … Like the song says, you know? I won’t say that I’m going to forget it, but it was a one-off. A distraction. That’s all.’

It all comes out in a bit of a gabble and with far too much vehemence, and Edward looks at me, his mouth compressed and rather hard.

‘OK, Jane. Whatever you want. I’m not a guy to kiss and tell, so you’ve no need to worry.’ He slides into a chair in front of the computer. ‘I’ll just work on this a bit. It’ll look better. Less …’ His smooth brow puckers a moment, but it’s not in irritation or displeasure. I don’t quite know what it is. ‘… suspicious.’

Then I can’t look at him any more, and I grab the handle and dive outside.

But later, back at home, I can’t stop thinking about the odd look on his face.

Did I miss an unmissable chance there? I’ll never know. It’s too late. I’ve burnt my boats. All the upgrades will be done in a few weeks, and I think I can manage to do the cordial, civil, it-never-happened dance until he’s gone. Our extended sojourn in the little office might never have happened as far as everyone else is concerned. Not a single colleague seemed to have noticed. Or at least, if they did, they weren’t letting on or smirking.

And now I’m here, in my robe, looking over my shoulder at my bottom. Which sadly also shows little evidence of this afternoon.

No redness. No soreness even. Just a pair of pristine rounds of slightly too plumply rounded flesh. I press with my fingers, imagining his. I give it a little slap, imagining the impact of his hand. I touch myself between my legs, imagining him touching me, then gracing me with his cock.

At least our little escapade has given me plenty of masturbation material for the months to come. Although maybe not right now. I think I need a glass of wine.

But as I’m reaching into the fridge, the doorbell rings.

And I don’t know why, but my heart goes pit-a-pat.

I open the door and my jaw drops and my heart sings, both at the same time.

‘Look,’ he says without preamble, almost pushing me back into the hall by stepping straight over the threshold, ‘I don’t kiss and tell … but I don’t do one-offs either! And
if
you think that’s the kind of man I am, you deserve to be punished again.’

Before I can protest, he kisses me hard, his tongue in my mouth while his hand slides over my bottom, through my robe.

But who am I to argue? I don’t do one-offs either, and as for the future, I’m far too distracted to give a damn!