The Three Rs (9 page)

I wonder if he’ll take his clothes off when he spanks me. That would be nice—maybe I could ask him to… Surely he’ll be naked for the fuck-fest. Yes, definitely something to look forward to, among all the other somethings.

As we each cradle our mugs of coffee, his black as usual, mine very sweet and rich from the cream he offered me, he lifts one eyebrow. I’m coming to recognize this as a signal he’s about to speak. I wait, expectantly. There’s only one place this conversation is headed.

“I promised you my bed, Miss Fischer, but I’m thinking we might start in here. The table would do nicely.”

I take a deep breath, then reply in the same matter-of-fact manner, “You mean for spanking me? You want me to lean over this table for you?” I somehow don’t think my version is quite so convincing, but I’ll lose no points for effort.

He nods, his grin gleaming. Wolfish. “If you would be so kind, Miss Fischer. For me, yes, but for you too. You
do
still want this?”

I nod, but my fragile nonchalance is wrecked by the deep blush I can feel scorching my cheeks. I know he can see it too, maybe he’s realizing, a little belatedly, what a naïve fool he’s saddled himself with as a house guest-come-fuck-fest partner

Apparently not, as he leans across the table again, this time to cup my heated cheek in his palm.

“Feeling a little shy, Miss Fischer? The first time is exciting, but never easy. Let me help you?”

Help me?
I glance up at him, surprised. Under all his brash, tough demeanor, I never expected that. ‘Drop your pants, bend over, let’s get on with this’, now that wouldn’t have surprised me. But the tender, sweet way he’s caressing my cheek, holding my chin up when I would have dropped my eyes? His own expression is more caring than lustful just now, though his eyes have certainly darkened in the last few minutes. I open my mouth, intending to speak, but I have absolutely no idea what I want to say. What I want to ask him to do is to help me.

He knows though. He releases my face, leans back on his chair. “Come here, Miss Fischer.” He beckons me with the tips of his fingers. I get to my feet immediately and walk around the table to stand beside him. He takes my hand and pulls me forward, turning me to sit in his lap.

“Kiss me, Miss Fischer.”

To the best of my recollection, I’ve never initiated a kiss before. And definitely never with such a beautiful man. Are men beautiful? This one certainly is. And enticing. I place my hands on his face, my palms covering his cheeks. The ever-present designer stubble slightly abrades my skin, and it feels sensual, intimate. I flex my fingers, and he smiles at me again, that eyebrow lifting slightly as he waits. I drop my face forward, slowly, and place my mouth ever so carefully across his.

His hands are at my waist, and he makes no attempt to pull me in or deepen the kiss. For now, this is my show, and he lets me set the pace. I’m grateful, it gives me the space to think, to adjust, to melt into the mood. I open my lips slightly, feathering them across his mouth. He holds still, letting me explore, letting me take my time. I have no idea what constitutes ‘good’ kissing, but instinctively I open my mouth a little wider and use the tip of my tongue to stroke the seam of his lips. He responds to that signal, and I find I can slip my tongue between his lips. He tastes quite, quite wonderful, of coffee and wine, and sweet lust.

I can’t claim, genuinely, to have tasted lust previously, but I’m pretty certain this is it. I dip my tongue farther into his mouth, exploring his teeth, tangling with his tongue, loving the way his lips have opened and are now sweeping sensuously across mine as he joins in the kiss. I’m combing my fingers through the soft waves of his hair, and suddenly I’m turning toward him, standing briefly, then straddling him as I’m gripped by a desire to get closer. My loose fitting calf-length skirt is bunched around my knees now, and as I shift forward I can plainly feel his erection under me. He’s as aroused as I am, it seems. He drops his hands from my waist, but only to grasp the soft woolen fabric of my skirt and tug it backwards from under me, gathering it at the back of my waist. Now, only my underwear and his jeans separate us, and my pussy is rubbing against his solid length. I’m rocking against him, loving the friction and desperate for more. I want him to…what?

Touch me? Yes. Undress me? Yes, that too. Fuck me? Oh, please…

“Ready now, love?”

He’s pulled his lips fractionally back from mine, just enough to be able to murmur the words. I can only groan and nod, before laying my forehead against his. In a few moments I’ve gone from a blushing, more-or-less innocent girl to a voracious sex kitten. And he’s hardly laid a hand on me yet, nor anything else.

“Does the skirt stay?” He asks the question softly.

I lift my head, and he raises his hands to now frame my face. I shrug, not sure what the protocol here might be.

He smiles again, a smile of reassurance and approval, and I feel a serious urge to kiss him all over again. “I’ll want you to lose the underwear, but if you prefer, you can just lean over the table and lift your skirt for me. For now. It all comes off later, but by then you’ll be feeling a lot less inhibited. I promise.”

“I-I think I’ll keep the skirt, if that’s all right. For now.”

“Perfect. And so sexy when you lift it up to bare your gorgeous bottom for me. Am I drooling?”

I smile back, his mix of sensuality and humor just what I need. “No, not drooling. But I can tell you’re pleased to see me.”

I wriggle on his lap, and he closes his eyes in mock pain. “Have a care, sweetheart. You really don’t want me to lose my train of thought here.”

He stands, effortlessly lifting me to my feet too. His hand is outstretched, waiting for something. I’m puzzled, but he soon sets me straight.

“Your knickers, please.”

“Ah, right. Of course.” I quickly reach under my skirt and tug them down, before stepping out of them. I place them in his hand, pleased that I had the foresight to wear a pretty, lacy pair today. And my bra matches—how’s that for planning? Or dumb luck?

He nods his approval—whether at my choice of underwear or my ready compliance I’m not entirely sure—and crumples my panties before shoving them into his jeans pocket. “Ask me for them later. If you remember. Or maybe you’ll let me keep them, as a souvenir?”

In this moment I think I’d have agreed to let him keep my entire wardrobe, such as it is. He gestures with his head toward the table behind him, moving to one side to allow me to step forward.

“Bend over, lean on the table. If it’s more comfortable, you can fold your arms and lay your head on them. Or you can reach across and grip the opposite side. Just whatever feels best for you. And when you’re happy, I’d like you to reach down and lift your skirt up around your waist, please.”

I feel my courage start to desert me as the moment of truth looms. It’s now then. Or never. He sees my hesitation.

“Take your time, love. Or if you don’t want to do this, that’s fine too. But you’ve got as far as letting me have your panties, seems a shame to stop now…”

I shove any remaining doubts aside—not that I have any of real significance—along with my modesty, and I lean over the table. Christ, I’ve been waiting for this as long as I can remember and there’s no way I’m backing out. Even so, it’s harder than I imagined it might be to reach down and take the hem of my skirt, raising it up to tuck all of the fabric under my stomach. I feel the cool swish as my pale buttocks are exposed and I have to concentrate on remaining still.

His eyes are on me, caressing me. I know it. I’m conscious that he’s behind me, not two feet away, and my bottom is bared for him to slap.
Oh. My. God.

He speaks at last. “Very pretty. And very pale. I think we can make your bottom go a very sweet shade of pink, Miss Fischer. First though…”

He steps forward, and now he’s directly behind me. I flinch as he caresses my bottom briefly, but still I don’t move from my position. He leans over me, his hands on the table, on either side of my shoulders. My head is turned to one side, and I can feel his breath, warm on my upturned cheek. He leans in to nuzzle my ear, clearly in no hurry to get started. Unlike me.

“If you develop a real fondness for this sort of activity, Miss Fischer, then we’ll need to have a proper discussion about safe words. On this occasion though, when you’ve had enough, you need only say so. Just say ‘enough’ or ‘stop’, and that’ll be it. I’m going to keep it light, at least at first, but if it’s too much you just tell me.”

“And what if I want you to hit me harder?”

He chuckles. “Well then, Miss Fischer, you tell me that too. Are you ready?”

I nod and close my eyes. He stands, and my bottom clenches in anticipation. Something tells me this is going to be good.

“You can stop this with a word, whenever you want to. But as an extra failsafe, I want you to count. After each spank, you say the number. When you stop counting, I stop spanking. And if I think you’ve had enough, I’ll stop anyway, whatever you might say or not say. Fair enough?”

Cain’s tone is deep, sensuous, and he’s stroking my bottom as he explains the ‘rules’ to me. I’m trying to concentrate, but he’s very skilled at distracting my attention. I don’t answer him, and it seems that’s not good enough.

“Miss Fischer, are you listening to me?” The hand caressing my bottom stills, and he’s somehow managed to make sure his fingers have slipped into the furrow between my buttocks. I shift, not sure what I actually want him to do now, at this moment. I want the spanking, but my pussy is almost throbbing with anticipation. Maybe if he were to just touch me…

“Miss Fischer. I want you to count. Okay?” He taps my left buttock lightly with his fingertips, but it’s enough to focus my attention, bring me back to the matter in hand, so to speak.

“I, yes. Yes, I’ll count.”

“Excellent.”

He straightens, and I relax, expecting him to resume his massage. Then I scream as the first slap lands, sharp and hard on my right buttock. There’s a resounding
slap
as the blow falls, and instinctively I start to stand up. His hand is on the small of my back, not forcing me down but reminding me I should stay in place.

He murmurs in my ear once more. “You’re doing so well, and now you know what to expect. You
will
love this, I promise, and I’ll make it good for you. Just trust me and let yourself relax into it. Was that too hard, love?”

I gasp, catch my breath, then, “No, no it was fine. Really nice, in fact. It was just—the sound, I suppose…”

“Nice? That’s what we like to hear. So, that’s number one, then? Shall I continue?”

“Yes. Yes, please.” And, trusting him completely, I settle in to enjoy my first experience of erotic spanking.

“Two.”

Slap.
“Three.”

Slap
. “Four.”

Slap
. “Five.”

I’m breathing in deeply between each blow, and out as each slap lands. Cain is painting a pattern across my buttocks, alternating between each side and placing each spank just below the one before it. Knowing where each slap is to land makes it easier, although my buttocks are still clenching sharply with each new stroke. I’m not making any other sound apart from counting out loud. Not yet anyway. This is painful, as I expected it would be, the discomfort radiating sharply with each slap. But the sensation is incredibly good too, and the pain is nowhere near enough to make me want to stop. I imagine I could lie like this for ever, just absorbing the tingling, stinging blows, drowning in sensation. It’s sort of liberating, something forbidden, but I’m doing it anyway. And absolutely loving it as this man—a man I hardly know—leaves his palm prints all over my bottom. And very soon, he’ll fuck me. I hope.

“Nine.”

Slap
. “Ten.”

Slap
. I pause, needing to think, to focus, then, “Eleven.”

My hesitation was only slight, but it’s enough to alert Cain.

“How’s it going, Abbie?” He pauses, slap number twelve suspended for a moment.

I mutter my response into my hair, now tangled across my face. “I’m fine. Really. Please, I want more. Don’t stop.”

“You sure? Open your eyes and look at me, Abbie.”

He sweeps my hair away from my face. I nod sharply, but my eyes remain tight shut.

“Abbie, open your eyes. Now.”

The tone is gentle, but unrelenting. He means me to obey him, and until I do nothing else is happening. Grumbling to myself, I force my eyelids to part. His face is close, his expression one of care, concern. He’s still combing his fingers lightly through my hair, and his touch is absolutely wonderful. I could drown in it.

“How many’s that, Abbie?”

I let my eyelids drift closed again, but with his free hand he shakes my shoulder firmly. “I said look at me. How many slaps is that now?”

I open my eyes again, and I’m struggling to focus. My memory seems hazy. I’m not a particularly big drinker, but this feels almost as though I might be a little bit drunk. How much wine did I have with our meal? I shake my head now, trying to clear it.

He asks me again, “How many?”

“I-I don’t know. Was it eight? Nine?”

He smiles, his lop-sided grin so sexy that my pussy is clenching. I so want him to fuck me, and soon. I’m not entirely sure what I need, but I wouldn’t mind betting he has a good idea. He doesn’t disappoint me.