“I’ve got you, Cait,” he whispered.
“I know. I like it when you have me,” she admitted, nibbling at his ear.
“But will you like what I do to you?”
“I always do. Well, most of the time,” she qualified, thinking of a particularly strict punishment he’d given her last week, when he’d tied her to the bed and pleasured her for over an hour, never allowing her to come. He had lectured her instead, and put her to bed with unsatisfied raving lust. It had been a difficult night.
But today, he was not out to discipline her. No, he had a decidedly different look in his eye.
He swam her over to a rock jutting out of the water and nudged her towards it.
“You know what to do.”
Cait bent over the rock, arranging her hips just at the rounded edge where they fit most comfortably. She looked over her shoulder at Duncan, who was already nudging against her with his jutting cock.
He spread her open as she arched back against him. He dipped into her pussy first, slick with arousal, then withdrew. It took only a little effort to press inside her narrower passage, and she moaned as he drove all the way inside. Although she had long since learned that this method of lovemaking did not result in babies, she still enjoyed being taken this way every bit as much as Duncan enjoyed the taking.
“Give me your hands,” he growled as she scrabbled for purchase on the smooth surface of the rock. She quickly offered them back to him and he took them firmly, holding them at the small of her back. “Good girl.” He felt her relax, give herself up to his intimate invasion.
“Ohhh,” she sighed. “That feels so...”
“So what?”
“So...naughty.”
He growled softly as she ground back against him. “You would know.” He rode her, stroked her, teased and caressed her until she was drawn up tight and tense. “Now come for me, Cait. I want to feel you come.”
And she did as he asked, obeyed as she always did. They came together with great moans and sighs that Cait hoped couldn’t be heard back at the keep.
Afterward they dove back under the water and let it wash over them until they grew tired and made their way back to dry in the sun.
On the way, Cait paused to write again in the sandy shore Will you love me always?
And Duncan wrote back I’ll love you forever, just as he always did.
THE END
To learn more about the work of Annabel Joseph, please visit her author site at http://annabeljoseph.wordpress.com/.
An excerpt from Mercy, a contemporary BDSM romance by Annabel Joseph, now available in Amazon’s Kindle Store.
Chapter One: Lucy and Mr. Norris
The floor was hard and cold against my shoulders, under my ass. He couldn’t get a carpet? At least an area rug?
I guess this is what he paid me for, this discomfort and chill. My muscles started to ache from lying still and holding the demanding pose. If I didn’t love him so much I would never submit to this, but I completely adored him, so here I was. And yes, he paid me quite well for my services and regularly asked me back, which I found both flattering and reassuring.
I looked up at him from under my eyelashes but I doubt he even noticed my gaze. His eyes were fixed, as always, on my supple dancer’s body offered before him. I watched his powerful strokes, vigorous and intense. He was actually quite robust for a man of seventy-five. His name was Pietro and he was an artist. And me? My name was Lucy, and unfortunately I wasn’t quite sure from day to day who or what I really was. I guess if I had to choose I would say I was a dancer first, who just happened to fall into nude modeling on the side. It was high art stuff, not porn, although I knew plenty of dancers who took the porn route to make ends meet. Like most dancers, I wasn’t precious about my body. I knew it was nice and I used it when it suited me. But porn wasn’t really my thing. It seemed so squalid, so I was glad for this gig, being painted by a real artist.
The broad strokes Pietro made scratched loudly in the silence, that abrasive sound of pencil on textured canvas that I knew so well by now. Sometimes it irritated me, but sometimes it relaxed me and I floated off into daydreams listening to it go on. Sometimes, instead, I pictured the lines of my own body as he put them to canvas with his hands. Pietro made large works, sprawling and spare, all shading and lines, although my body and face were definitely there. No abstract, amorphous, unrecognizable figure. It was definitely me and part of me got off on that fact. He thought I was beautiful. He’d told me so when he hired me. “I need your beauty,” he’d rasped to me outside the theater like a desperate man. The very next day, I’d knocked on the door of his studio. He’d guided me inside, coaxed me out of my clothes and said, “Beautiful girl.” Then he turned me so my back was to him and started to sketch my curvy little ass.
But it wasn’t about sex, not even for a second. Believe me, no sex was ever involved. Even though Pietro undressed me like the most solicitous of lovers every time I came over, we were not lovers. We were nothing more than friends. Not even friends really. He was more like a mentor. Or maybe a grandfather, a nice grandfather who gave me advice. I loved Pietro with my whole heart, loved him like the father I’d never had, and Pietro was always kind to me the many hours we spent together at work.
He scratched at a line with his finger, adjusting the shading with a frown. When I thought that my back would break from the strain of the pose, he smiled at me and sighed.
“It is time for a break, I think.”
“How did you know?”
“The little lines in your forehead, they draw together like this.” He made a funny face, an exaggerated imitation of my discomfort. I laughed, shrugging on the robe he handed me.
I looked at the canvas while we chatted and rested. It was almost done, I guessed. The last two works of me had been standing poses, which was much more relaxing. I could stand for an eternity not moving a muscle, piece of cake. But this pose had me on my back with my arms up over my head, and my legs curled loosely at my side. It was a lovely pose, I could see that on the canvas, but it hurt to hold it for such a long time.
Luckily, Pietro was conscientious about giving me breaks. He only refused to let me up when he was in the throes of “the muse.” When I did take a break I felt guilty, because it always took time for him to get back into that same space he’d been. It always took five minutes or more just to return my arms and legs to that perfect angle he craved. I would let him manipulate me into position, loose and compliant. It was sort of like sex, only Pietro wasn’t my lover.
No, my lover had left me last week. Did I say he was my lover? He was my fiancé, actually. The operative word being was. He was my fiancé, until he left me at the altar. He was my fiancé until he realized he was in love with someone else. He had never loved me even though he’d said he did, and I hadn’t loved him, and that was the worst thing of all.
But I preferred not to talk about Joe. I’d finally reached a point where I could conjure his face without bursting into tears. And around the time I reached that point, I decided not to conjure his face anymore at all. I was a practical person in matters of the heart. I had never been in love. I realized that now, after the wretchedness of last week, that I had never been in love and probably never would be, because there was something wrong with me. I couldn’t feel things right, or maybe I just didn’t want to.
Not feeling things came in handy in many ways. As a modern dancer, you’re grappled and grasped pretty regularly. You spend hours punishing your body at the barre, at rehearsals, at choreography, at nightly performances. As an art model, you’re manipulated and posed. When you make your life by your body, it’s actually better not to feel too much. To feel only what matters. Stretch. Breathe. Turn. Soar. I felt my body move in space and that was enough.
This would be the third work I’d done for Pietro. The first two had sold as a set to an anonymous buyer for an obscene amount. After they sold, Pietro had given me five thousand dollars and said he felt it wasn’t enough.