Despite the discomfort, she found herself growing aroused again. Perhaps there was a part of her that responded to being used by a man for his pleasure. She certainly couldn’t stop watching him sucking her nipple. He was latched on tight and he didn’t seem ready to stop any time soon. Blood rushed to her breast. Inside his hot mouth he swirled his tongue around the peak. Her nipple felt hard as a diamond to her. He let it go but only to pinch it between thumb and forefinger, pinch it and pull it and tug it. He released one of her wrists to slap her breast. He struck it with his open hand, not terribly hard, but hard enough to sting, then slapped again a little harder. Another slap followed by a squeeze, more tugging and pulling of her nipple, a pinch, a pull, a tug, and another long, long suckling. She panted, moaned, her head swimming from the riot of sensation. Her breast felt swollen and heavy and so terribly tender.
Without warning he turned his attention to her left breast. He slapped it too, grabbed it and groped it roughly. She cried out when he pinched the nipple painfully hard but right afterward, he put his mouth on it and the sudden shift in sensation had her crying out in pleasure. He sucked the nipple deep into his mouth, sucked and kept sucking until she groaned loudly in the back of her throat. He released it, sat up and back onto her hips and slapped both her breasts with his hands, slapped and grabbed them, slapped and massaged them. Quick pain followed quickly by slow pleasure. She didn’t know what to feel. She accustomed herself to one and then had to immediately get used to another. Was this what her previous lovers had wanted to do to her breasts? Handle them roughly, squeeze and slap them, suck and pull them? Were they all too polite, too well-trained? Is this the way men behaved behind the curtain of civility? Is this what all her lovers would have done had they bought her body with money instead of with charm and the empty promises of love someday, perhaps, maybe?
She rather thought she preferred it on this side of the curtain.
Her nipples were almost purple from how hard he’d suckled them. And her breasts were bright red and burning from the slaps of his hands. He held both breasts in his large hands, held them hard, hard enough to see all those veins she so enjoyed looking at. Pinned beneath him by his weight, she could barely move her hips, but she tried. She wanted him to feel her body begging for his cock.
"Not yet, darling,” he said. "Not quite yet. I’m having far too much fun to stop now.”
He rolled her breasts, molded them against his palms, lifted them and held them. There was nothing of the savage about him, but nothing of the gentleman either. He was simply a man behaving like a man.
She liked this man.
Abruptly he stopped and slid off her stomach.
"Come,” he ordered, taking her by the arm and pulling her to her feet off the bed.
She felt like a mannequin as he moved her this way and that, turning her back to his chest, bending her over the bed, placing her hands just so on the covers, and then sticking his prick into her from behind without a word of warning. He held her hips while he pumped it into her, controlling the depth and the speed entirely. He gave. She took. This would be her role for the next year when they met. She was to take it, whatever it was. Sometimes she would enjoy what he gave her. Sometimes she would not. He had told her that already…but now she believed him. His penis was long and large and every few thrusts the tip would hit her cervix, something she found uncomfortable to say the least. But Malcolm was enjoying himself, fucking her like this. His every breath and grunt and groan told her he was. So she stayed loose-limbed in his grasp, her tender breasts swaying with his every rough deep thrust, and waited it out.
At last he came, shooting her full of his hot thick fluid. It slicked her thighs and the male scent of it permeated the room. The scent of sex. The scent of a man with his whore.
The scent of money.
Malcolm pulled out of her and patted her on the ass.
"Good lass,” he said. "Well done.”
"Thank you.” She slowly stood up straight and took a deep breath.
"Take a moment,” he said as he laid on the bed again. "You’ve earned a little rest.”
She was desperately thirsty from panting so hard.
"Water?” she asked.
"Please.”
She pulled the little basket she’d packed out from under the bed. From it she took out two green glass bottles of sparkling water.
"Dangerous,” he said.
"What is?”
"Glass bottles.”
"Why so?”
He smiled.
"You wouldn’t,” she said.
He cocked his head to the side, raised his eyebrow.
"All right,” she said as she unscrewed the cap of the bottle. "You would.”
"It isn’t that I would. It is that I will. You do realize this is merely foreplay, don’t you? We haven’t even started yet. I like to play games. I like to play roles. I might even bring an audience one night or two. I might even bring friends…”
If this was nothing but foreplay, nothing but the opening act, what would the main attraction be like?
"You didn’t bring the riding crop,” she said.
"Not tonight. Would you like me to bring it for our next assignation?”
"I have a choice?” She handed him a bottle of water.
"You have a choice of when, not if. There is no if. I will beat you with a riding crop at some point in the next twelve months.”
"Might as well,” she said. She wasn’t looking forward to being beaten with a crop, but it seemed it would be best to get it over with. Maybe she would like it. Only one way to find out.
"We’ll see,” he said. "Drink your water.”
She drank her water deep and he sipped at his. His stamina was remarkable. He had the sexual energy of a teenage boy and the lasting power of a man. A potent combination.
"Is this something you do often?” she asked. She sat on the bed, cross-legged like a child in school.
"Fuck?”
"No. Find women in need and turn them into whores?”
"You aren’t my first. You will be my last, however.” He gave her his half-drunk water bottle and she set it on the floor beside the bed. Then he laid back on the pillows, stretched out. His penis lay limp and draped on his thigh, a sleeping giant.
"Why is that?”
"I made a promise I fully intend to keep. With your assistance, of course.”
"That’s a very cryptic thing to say.”
"I’m afraid I can’t explain any better than that. I think you’ll understand eventually.”
"If I’m your last, I hope I’m also your best.” She took a final drink of her water, finishing the bottle.
"I have no doubt you’ll give me my money’s worth,” he said with a grin. Then he raised his hand and crooked his finger at her, beckoning her to him. She started to put her empty bottle on the floor and he shook his head. "Bring it here.”
She froze, but only for a moment. He must have his money’s worth.
"Lay on your back,” he said. "Open up.”
She did as he told her, opening her legs for him.
"Pleasure yourself with your fingers,” he said. "Use both hands.”
Her vulva still dripped with his semen and her labia were swollen and sensitive to the touch. With two fingers on each hand she caressed her folds as he watched, parting them, spreading them wide.
"Touch your clit,” he said. "Pull back the hood.”
She took a ragged breath. His eyes gleamed rapaciously as he watched her pull back the flesh to reveal the tiny knot of tissue underneath.
"Hold there,” he said softly. "Don’t move a single muscle.”
He bent and with the tip of his tongue touched her exposed clitoris. A light touch, but it felt like a bolt of lightning shot through her from that point of contact to the base of her neck and the heels of her feet.