I watch as he crosses the room to the dressing table, where a selection of objects is scattered. An ebony grooming set. Christopher selects one of the objects and hefts it in his hand, as though testing the weight. I tremble as I realise what it is. A hairbrush.
When he returns to the bed with it, I can hardly breathe. I just stare at it, wide-eyed and fearful, absolutely unable to speak. My silent compliance seems to please him. Although his expression is severe, at least there is the hint of a smile in his eyes.
He lays the hairbrush on the nightstand and sets about unfastening the silken ropes from the curtains around the bed. He takes his time, gently untangling each knot before slipping it free of the material. My heart bangs in my chest, pounding in time to the throbbing between my legs.
I want him to hurry, to get it over with. I want him to take all day.
At last he comes back to me. He takes me by the arm, pulls me up and removes the pillows from beneath my head. He piles them in the centre of the bed and nods towards them. It’s painfully obvious what he wants me to do, but I can only stare at him pleadingly. My body simply won’t move.
He moves it for me, hauling me across the pile of softness, positioning me diagonally on the bed, with my bottom raised high in the air. I close my eyes, feeling lightheaded. When he ties my wrists together, I sink even deeper into a kind of submissive bliss. The kind I’ve written about before but never actually experienced. It’s overwhelming.
He ties the trailing end of the rope to one of the bedposts and repeats the procedure with my ankles. I squirm and tug at them, testing their strength. I am held fast.
Christopher doesn’t prolong the torment by keeping me in suspense. I gasp as I feel the smooth, polished wood against my bare bottom. He presses it against my pristine skin, which he taps gently before he begins in earnest.
I hold my breath as I sense the hairbrush lift away. It comes down with a sharp crack and for a moment I feel nothing. Then the stinging pain reaches my brain and lets me know I’ve been smacked. I cry out, wriggling over the pillows and straining against the ropes. Before the pain can fade, he smacks me again, evening out the glow across both cheeks. My head swims with lust at the sensation. Pleasure and pain. Teasing and tantalising.
Again and again he brings the ebony hairbrush down on my tender bottom, wrenching gasps and cries from me. I clench my cheeks, squeezing my legs together at each stroke, stimulating myself almost past enduring. The heat penetrates my entire body, consuming me.
When I can’t stand it any longer, I beg him to take me.
‘Please,’ I gasp, ‘please fuck me.’
He plays the hairbrush over my burning cheeks, drawing it teasingly up and down the backs of my thighs, making me shudder. ‘Have you learned your lesson?’
‘Oh, God, yes!’
He chuckles softly. ‘Yes what?’
My face floods with warmth and I whimper, delirious with the pain and embarrassment, ‘Yes, sir. I’ve learned my lesson, sir.’
He calls me a good girl again and I squirm in response, drowning in desire. I feel his hand then, caressing my punished flesh and stroking me like a pet. He unties my ankles and tells me to spread my legs. I obey. Gently he parts my cheeks and I know he can see how wet I am, how lasciviously I’ve responded to his treatment.
But he doesn’t untie my wrists. He mounts me as I am, bound and presented. I feel the warm hardness press against my sex and I scream into the bedclothes as he buries himself inside. I clench my inner muscles around him as he begins to thrust, filling me and withdrawing, fucking and teasing.
The weight of him feels wonderful against my back, and especially against my sore bottom. He intensifies the stinging pain of the spanking with each powerful thrust and I cry out with complete abandon. His hands reach around and underneath me to cup my breasts, and the added stimulation increases my arousal a thousandfold. I can feel mys
elf racing towards a powerful climax. He seems to sense my nearness and increases his pace, fucking me harder and faster, pounding me.
When the pleasure peaks, I howl wordlessly, surrendering to the racking waves that batter me, the spasms that consume me. The French call it ‘the little death’ and it’s no wonder. I feel like I’m dying and being reborn. His cock pulses into me, hot and wet, and I contract myself around him to prolong the moment for both of us. Afterwards I am barely aware of being untied and released. All I know is I don’t want him to go.
He is playing with the hairbrush, slapping it teasingly against his palm, smiling at me.
I lie splayed and spent on the bed, naked and sweaty, my bottom burning underneath me. Blissed out. All I want is to stay here with him, to be fucked and punished, punished and fucked. I’ve completely forgotten the whole reason I’m here.
Finally Christopher speaks, the triumph evident in his voice. ‘I suppose this means you’ll lose your bet.’
It takes a moment for the words to penetrate. Then it all comes clear. I bury my face in my hands, blushing as I realise how expertly I’ve been distracted, how masterfully I’ve been played. I never imagined losing could be so much fun.
‘Peter hired you,’ I moan, ashamed and impressed in equal measure. ‘And you’re the forfeit.’
Christopher peels my hands away. He nods his head slowly, smiling like the wicked charmer he is. ‘Although I’d like to think I’m also the prize,’ he says. He strokes my face, draws his fingers down to my breasts, teases the nipples into stiffness.
‘Is your name even Blackwood?’ I ask, trying and failing to resist responding to his seductive touch.
He lowers his mouth to mine and kisses me deeply. My sex pulses hungrily in response and I can feel his cock hardening against my thigh.
When he pulls away he peers into my eyes. ‘You’re the writer,’ he says. ‘You tell me.’