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Sally, an independent girl obsessed with numbers, is determined to run her romantic life free from ties or commitment. Then she finds a man who introduces her to a world of finer things: fine art, fine wine, fine food, but with it comes discipline and pain. Sally discovers punishment and submission can bring her to levels of carnal delight she didn't know were possible.
But her journey to find the finer things proves to be complicated and dangerous. Sally becomes entangled in criminal conspiracies and international money laundering. She is carried off to strange lands, where she has to use all her allure, her capacity to endure pain, and her skill with numbers to survive. Through all the turmoil, will she be able to find a way to resolve her growing need for an exclusive relationship with the man who brings her so many fine things?
Publisher’s Note: This story contains vividly described scenes between dominant men and a submissive woman. If this offends you, please do not purchase this title.
*** Currently available exclusively at Amazon ***
Sally came out of the shower to discover her clothes had disappeared. There was just a pair of white cotton panties on the bed which were not hers, so she didn't put them on. She checked in the wardrobe, but no clothes, just bits of some wooden contraption.
Ah well, if that's how he wants to play it. Now, I wonder if there's anything to drink?
She walked through the sitting room to the small kitchen. In the fridge she found two bottles, champagne, and vodka. She glanced at the labels: Charles Heidsieck, Snow Queen.
Never heard of either of them. Hope they're okay.
Because she was looking for a glass, she didn't hear him arrive. “Drinks later.” His voice made her jump .
Sod him, creeping up on me, trying to catch me out.
“Come through here.” Sally followed him back to the bedroom. “I am going to cane you. It will not be a severe punishment, though that will come in due course. For now, I merely wish to mark you. Please put on the panties.”
She looked at him knowing she would do what he asked. It was why she had come. A warm fluttering began, something alive, working its way through her body. She wanted the moment to last so she let her mind drift back to the sequence she had begun in the shower: the powers of three. By the time she had turned the water off, she'd reached three to the power of nine: nineteen thousand six hundred and eighty-three. She multiplied that by three again: fifty-nine thousand and forty-nine. A satisfying number, but it failed to calm her the way she had hoped it would.
I'm just delaying things. Aren't I? Why?
She looked at the man whose eyes had been on her the whole time. She smiled to herself.
Don't imagine I'm going to come over all bashful. You're by no means the first guy to see me starkers. It usually has an impact.
She walked past him, picked up the knickers and slid them on. The white cotton hid her sex and hugged her buttocks.
The man's expression remained calm and unreadable. “In the bottom drawer,” he said nodding to the wardrobe, “you'll find a number of canes. They are all similar. Please choose one.”
Sally realized she could simply squat down to open the drawer, but she chose to bend, bum high—a taste of what's to come. The drawer was well stocked.
Shit! there's all sorts here, not just canes. Weird or what?
There wasn't time to take it all in, so she just grabbed the first available cane, but she did catch a glimpse of some leather straps, a couple of many-tailed whips, and perhaps a riding crop.
“Bring the cane with you.” They went through to the sitting room. “Right, pass it to me.” He held one end studying the stick for a moment, then indicated a leather footstool placed about a meter away from the matching leather couch. “Kneel here, and put your hands on the seat. Stick your bottom right up.”
Sally did as asked.
I hope I'm doing this right. No experience to go on. Still seems pretty straight forward. Oh my God!
She felt his hand press on the small of her back which sent a shiver of delight racing through her as her spine curved down and the cotton of the panties tightened across her bottom
“On this occasion, you are going to get six strokes” His voice was calm but there was no doubting his authority. “Please stay in position. If you are unable to do so, I will wait till you've settled again before continuing.”
Sally closed her eyes, tried to take control of her breathing, but still noted the smooth texture of the good quality leather under her hands.
A pause. A swish. A crack. Quite loud.
The hurt streaked across her skin, hot, growing, biting into her. She gasped, screwed her eyes tighter. The sensation was far more intense than she had imagined—intense, but she was relieved to find, bearable.
Once again, pause. Sally found she was holding her breath, waiting. Swish. Whack. The new streak of pain took her just as the first one reached its peak. The air was forced from her lungs as a gasp. She felt her thighs beginning to tremble. The pain didn't diminish; it built, tight and fiery.
The next pause was slightly longer, then she heard the stick move through the air. The stroke came from the opposite direction, biting deep into her left buttock. The burn spread through her, penetrating, yet somehow, it was not entirely terrible. Her mind emptied, not even numbers, nothing except the pain and the anticipation.
She steadied herself, pushed her bottom up ready to receive the next howling stroke: the moment of contact, the crescendo of fire, almost agony, each time a little worse. She heard herself gasp as number five landed from the same direction. The trembling in her thighs was spreading into her belly.
Another slightly longer pause. The man's voice seemed a long way off. “One to go!”
She knew that.
I can count! It's what I'm good at.
When it came, the blow was from the same direction as the first two. Eyes still tightly shut, she flung her head up and back and her breath escaped as a slow moan. She took her time, allowing the pulsing throb to bore into her. Another sensation accompanied the pain: release, something released. She felt clear and calm, and deep inside her, vivid heat, her own wetness flowing.
She waited to see what would happen next. After about half a minute she felt herself lifted upright. She knelt on the stool and turned towards him. “Kiss me!” she whispered, realizing it was the first time she had spoken, “please,” she added.
As they kissed she reached her tongue far into his mouth, at the same time the fire in her rear-end was working its dangerous effect deep between her legs, all juice and throb. She pulled away and looked at him. “Do we fuck now?”
Sally caught his hand as she slid from the stool, then led him to the bedroom and undid his trousers, releasing the rigid prick that was waiting there. She gave a small yelp when the elastic of her panties eased down across her simmering bottom. Then she pushed him onto the bed while he was trying to unbutton his shirt, but she didn't allow him the time, because she was already kneeling over him, taking him deep inside her. She sensed the way her body closed round him, held him, pumped him. When he reached up to stroke one of her breasts, she dropped down onto him without any change of momentum, reveling in her body against his. She felt strong, full of energy, full of their shared sexual rhythm. How long it went on she wasn't exactly sure, but suddenly he slapped her still raw bottom. A shout of surprise, of hurt, then she climaxed, and almost at the same moment she felt the pulse of him flood into the very core of her.
A week ago Friday, 7:40 pm, and the bar was starting to fill. Sally watched, waiting to see if the man would show. Others were arriving, spilling off the street, limbering up for the weekend: brokers, market makers, fund administrators, book runners, data analysts, compliance consultants, internal audit managers, corporate risk accessors—all the wheeler-dealers she knew so well, knew their type, their pedigree. Along with them came clerks, IT network specialists, progress chasers, and those hangers on who had no connection to the glittery world of money, but who loved the smell of it, and of course, the girls came, too. They loved the smell of it as well.
She sat entirely still, except for one foot which tapped to the music: music that was too loud, too heavy on the bass, too insistent. She scanned the room now and then, to see who she knew, who knew her, but mostly she watched the door, watching for him.
He probably won't come, not tonight.
She sipped her vodka and orange juice then caught her breath because he was suddenly there, splitting the crowd. She glanced at him, then looked away. She counted to three. She looked for him again. Eyes met. It was enough. The signal had been sent and received. He moved in.
She was sitting at a table on the edge of a group which had just begun to become noisy as alcohol hit bloodstreams, to bind happily with the adrenaline already there. She was with them, but not really.
He stood beside her, over her. “It's Sally, isn't it?” No smile. “What are you drinking?”
He bloody well knows my name. How?
A twist of excitement spiraled through her.
Stay calm girl, give nothing away. Make him work for it.
The man was clearly waiting for her to reply, but when none came he said, “Champagne this time in the evening, I think.” He spun one of the heavy chairs to sit facing her. “No vintage here, but the Larmandier-Bernier is pretty acceptable. They'll bring a bottle over.”
Sally tried to place his accent: clearly English, no regional color, but she had a sense of something else, rich yes, but slightly clipped. She said, “You know my name. How?”
“Research. What are you researching me for? You want to shag me I suppose? Men do, but then I'm pretty good at it, shagging that is.” She shrugged. “It's a gift.” She smiled, as if remembering something. “What about you? You any good at it?” She stressed the last word while her eyes stayed focused on his. “Perhaps you're just a late starter working up your portfolio?” She arched her eyebrows her gaze still fixed on him, playing innocent, only half a smile.
Put-downs? Me? Never!
The champagne and two glasses arrived. The man nodded an acknowledgement to the waiter. “Thank you, I'll open it myself.” Three notes went on the tray, and professionally impassive, the waiter moved off.
Sally watched the performance: strip off the foil, twist the wire, support the tip, turn the bottom, firmly first, then more gently easing, massaging, a moment’s pause, then liquid gushed down the neck. He glanced up at her, held her gaze for a moment.
Oh my God. What's he like?
As the man handed her champagne, a voice came from the other end of the table, “Being a bit exclusive tonight, aren't we, Sal?”
She raised her glass. “I excluded you years ago, Justin!”
A crackle of laughter ran around the table, but she had already turned her attention back to the man. “What's your thing then? Your speciality?”
I know what I've been told, but is it true? Could it possibly be?
She flashed a smile at him. “I've been a total nun for the last couple of weeks, and I'm like, so up for just about whatever.”
He sipped his wine, then tipped his glass slightly towards her. “Good fruit, long taste, some might say it's a bit flinty, a bit edgy, verging on the brittle. The more southerly champagnes tend to be softer, rounder, but this suits me. I like a hard edge.”
She drained her glass. “It's all the same to me. If its dry, fizzy, and gets me pissed fast, that's cool.” Her empty glass was proffered and filled. She drank half in one slow swallow. “If you're seriously like, trying to pull me, you're pretty rubbish with the chat-up lines. A girl definitely needs something a bit more sexy to get her going than a few poncey tasting notes.”
“Not tonight,” he said. “My week's not finished and I need to stay fresh. Early start tomorrow. Just making contact.”
“You've been expecting me for some time. Now that time's arrived. Are you able to clear your diary for the week after next?”
“Why should I?”
“Tickets, itinerary and such will arrive by post. You'll need your passport. The flight's a week from tomorrow. There'll be somebody at the other end to meet you.”
“And if I choose not to bother?”
“Then it's what you choose, and whatever might have been will never be. It will be over before it's begun.” He stood, gave her one more long look, no smile. “Have a nice weekend.”