Chance of a Lifetime. Portia Da Costa

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СКАЧАТЬ my dear, I think you’re ‘doing it’ quite well enough on your own. Do continue.”

      What?

      It’s like I’m falling, dropping through reality into a parallel universe. I know what’s happened but somehow I can’t stop rubbing myself.

      My eyes fly open though, and here he is.

      The marquis.

      Somehow he’s walked into the room without me realizing it, moving softly on the rubber soles of his black running shoes.

      In a few split seconds, I take in his glorious appearance.

      So tall, so male, so mysterious. Long dark hair, pale smiling face, long fit body. Dressed in his customary black shirt and jeans, his elegant hands flexing as if preparing to copy the actions of his image on the screen.

      I snatch my hand from my crotch and make as if to struggle back into my jeans. My face is scarlet, puce, flaming…. I’m almost peeing myself.

      “No, please…continue.”

      His voice is low and quiet, almost humming with amusement and intense interest. It’s impossible to disobey him. Despite the fact that I think the aristocracy is an outdated nonsense, he’s nobility to his fingertips and I’m just a pleb, bound to obey.

      Unable to tear my eyes away from him, I watch as he settles his long frame down into the other chair, across from mine. He gives me a little nod, making his black hair sway, and then turns his attention to the images on the screen.

      So do I, but with reluctance.

      But I do as he wishes and begin to stroke my clit again.

      Oh God, the woman on the screen is really protesting now. Oh God, in my mind, that woman is me, and I’m laid across the marquis’s magnificent thighs with my bottom all pink and sizzling and my crotch wetting his jeans with seeping arousal.

      I imagine the blows I’ve never experienced, and just the dream of them makes my clit flutter wildly and my vagina clench and pulse. I seem to see the carpet as I writhe and wiggle and moan, and at the same time his beautiful face, rather grave, but secretly smiling.

      As his eyes twinkle, in my imagination, I come.

      It’s a hard, wrenching orgasm. Shocking and intense. I’ve never come like that before in my life. It goes on and on, so extreme it’s almost pain, and afterward I feel tears fill my eyes.

      Talk about le petit mort and post-coital tristesse. I’ve got tristesse by the bucketful, but without any coitus.

      My face as crimson as the buttocks of the spanked woman in the video, I drag my panties and jeans back into place and lie gasping in the chair. I scrabble for a tissue. I’m going to cry properly now, not just a few teardrops, and I know I should just run from the room, but somehow I just can’t seem to move.

      Something soft and folded is put gently into my hand, and as I steal a glance at it, I discover it’s the marquis’s immaculately laundered handkerchief. Still gulping and sniffing, I rub my face with it, breathing in the faint, mouthwatering fragrance of his cologne.

      Shit, I fancy this man something rotten, and I’ve been fantasizing about him fancying me back, and falling for me, and now this has happened. I’m so embarrassed, I wish I could burrow into the leather upholstery and disappear out of sight.

      A strong arm settles around my shoulders, and the great chair creaks as he sits down on the arm beside me.

      “Hey, there’s no harm done,” the marquis says softly. “Now we both know each other’s dirty little secrets.” He squeezes my shoulders. “I get off spanking girls’ bottoms and having them wriggling on my lap. And you get off watching videos of it and playing with yourself.” He pauses, and I sense him smiling that slow, wicked smile again. “And quite beautifully, I must admit. Quite exquisitely….”

      I beg your pardon?

      Hell, I must have looked awful. Crude. Ungainly. Like a complete slapper.

      I try to wriggle free, but he holds me. He even puts up a hand to gently stroke my hair. I still can’t look at him, even though part of me really wants to.

      “I’m so embarrassed. I’m so sorry. I had no business coming in here and prying into your private things.”

      One long finger strokes down the side of my face, slips under my chin and gently lifts it. Nervously, I open my eyes and look into his. They’re large and dark and brown and merry, and I feel as if I’m drowning, but suddenly that’s a good thing.

      All the embarrassment and mortification disappears, just as if it were the rain puddles outside evaporating in the sun. Indeed, beyond the window, the sky outside is brightening.

      Suddenly I see mischief and sex and a sense of adventure in those fabulous eyes, and I feel turned on again, and somehow scared, but not in a way that has anything to do with an awkward situation with my employer. It’s a new feeling, and it’s erotic, but so much more.

      “Indeed you didn’t. That was rather naughty of you.” His face is perfectly impassive, almost stern, but those eyes, oh those eyes—they’re mad with dangerous fun. “Do you think we should do something about that?”

      I feel as if I’m about to cross a line. Jump off a cliff. Ford some peculiar kind of Rubicon. This is the chance of a lifetime, and I’m a perfect novice in the world portrayed in his video, but I understand him completely without any further hint or education.

      “Um…yes, my lord.”

      Should I stand? Then kneel? Or curtsy or something? He’s still sitting on the arm of the chair, a huge masculine presence because he’s tall and broad-shouldered. Everything a man and a master should be.

      I’m just about to stand, and I feel him just about to reach for me, when suddenly and shockingly his mobile rings, and he lets out a lurid curse.

      “Ack, I must take this. Money stuff,” he growls, and nods to me to mute the television as he flips open his phone.

      I make as if to leave, but he catches me by the arm and makes me stand in front of him. With almost serpentine grace, he slides into the armchair and pulls me across his lap. Then, as he has a terse conversation that I don’t think he’s enjoying much, he explores the shape of my bottom through my jeans.

      He doesn’t slap or smack or hit. He just cruises his fingertips over the denim-clad surface, assessing my contours and the resilience of my flesh.

      Slowly, slowly, as he gets slightly cross with someone on the other end of the line, he examines my cheeks, my thighs and then, without warning, squeezes my crotch. I let out a little yelp, and that’s when he does hit!

      It’s just the softest warning tap…but it’s electrifying. I almost come on the spot and I have to bite down on my lip to stifle my groans.

      I start to wriggle and he cups my sex harder, from behind, pressing with his fingers. Pleasure flares again as my jeans seam rubs my aching clit.

      I’m biting the upholstery, squirming and kicking my legs and grabbing СКАЧАТЬ