‘I most certainly am. Haven’t been there for a while, but I’m still a member.’
‘What’s it like?’
He kissed the side of my neck. ‘You’ll see.’ He kissed it again and locked his hands around my stomach, keeping me close and tight.
Wet stubble was still prickly, I noted drowsily before being pulled into a full and firm snog. Our bodies slapped and sucked together, the bubbles bursting lightly against damp skin. When our tongues darted through willing lips, it only added to the sense of steamy envelopment.
He broke off – he had a talent for this – just as I was becoming desperate for more and ordered me to get out of the bath.
He was out first, and wrapped in a towel, by the time he helped me to step over the lip of the old-fashioned claw-footed tub.
For a sweet moment, I thought he was going to wrap me in a towel and a warm embrace, but instead he twirled me around, bent me over the bath and set to spanking my wet bottom with his wet hand. I was still a little tender from the paddling and it took no time at all for me to start dancing and gasping.
‘If you treat me with disrespect,’ he said, ‘you can expect to be punished.’
‘Ow, ouch, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it.’
He stayed his hand, gripped my hips and eased himself inside me.
The act was unexpected, although in retrospect utterly predictable, and I lost my breath for a little while and felt, as if anew, the glorious snug fit of his cock inside my tight sleeve.
He took it slowly and I revelled in the steam beading my face, the tropical heat of us, the sensation of a well-used body put to further use. Every ache and twinge was precious because I was freeing myself again from what I had thought was possible. My capacity for sexual perversion was broader and deeper than I could ever have imagined; it had taken Joss to unlock me.
‘Down,’ he said, ploughing a slow, deep furrow. ‘Right down. Get your arse up high.’
He made me play with myself while he fucked me and when I came my knees buckled and we fell together on to the fleecy bath mat.
Between the woolly tussocks I saw grime.
‘My final condition,’ I said, in bed later, definitely fit for nothing more than profound sleep.
‘I thought we were done with those,’ he objected.
‘No, one last one. Get a cleaner.’
‘Can’t afford one.’
‘Then do it yourself. What else are you doing all day?’
‘Estate business,’ he objected. ‘I’m not getting a pinny on and dusting the cobwebs.’
‘Who else is going to do it?’
He sighed.
‘Don’t you dare look at me. I already have a full-time job.’
‘Wouldn’t your mum …?’
‘No, she bloody wouldn’t. Take it or leave it. Get this place cleaned up or I don’t spend another night here.’
‘Caravan park, then?’
‘I mean it.’
‘So do I.’
But when I came back from work the next evening, it was clear that some effort had been made. The carpets in the two rooms where we spent most time – the morning room and bedroom – had been vacuumed and the thick coatings of dust on the wooden furnishings were gone.