‘Sorry. Sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.’ It was Jasper now, the sadistic Dunraven slipping away inside him. ‘Damn. I’ve broken the flow of the scene now. Are you OK?’
‘I’ll live,’ I said, turning to face him with an accusatory frown. ‘You could have warned me.’
‘I need to make this with another actress,’ he said, putting his palm to his brow, looking every inch the neurotic high-maintenance film director. ‘One with a less magnetic arse.’
I laughed, on screen and off it.
Jasper turned off the tape.
‘Fuck it,’ he said. ‘I could have got you off by now if I hadn’t gone and overstepped the mark there.’
‘It’s OK,’ I murmured, my mind back on his intent fingering of me. ‘It was hot … really hot … especially since I can feel it now.’
‘Still? It was lovely to watch you trying to sit down afterwards. Gorgeous. Your poor suffering behind.’
‘I wish I had that fig now,’ I said, a tad delirious now, bucking on him. ‘It made me madly horny. Madly.’
‘You didn’t say.’
‘Madly,’ I repeated, my brain stuck in a loop of memory. The ginger juices had burned my back passage, yes, but they had also had a startling effect on my level of arousal. It wasn’t captured on film, but after he’d taken the ginger out of my bottom, I’d had to practically force him to have me, right there, over the arm of the chair.
I wanted to know how it would feel elsewhere, perhaps a little of the juice on his fingers while he felt me up. There were lubes that did this, I knew, but something about ginger was pleasingly organic and historically authentic, and I preferred things so.
Was I turning out kinkier than Jasper himself?
‘Yes,’ I whispered, my orgasm on the way at the remembrance of how that ginger had made me so sweaty, so needy, so soaked in sex. Jasper thrust his fingers deep, his thumb firm on my slippery clit, and pushed his lips against mine at the moment of release, opening my mouth with his tongue. It felt so primal, so dirty, so exactly right. I was his and he could take me any way he liked.
He did just that, turning me on to my stomach and ordering me sharply to stay there while he fled from the room, returning a few minutes later with some bondage ties and a bottle of lubricant.
‘In due course, I need to review that scene,’ he said, wrapping cord around my wrists and securing them together behind my back. ‘But I’m a little distracted just now … so …’
He tied my ankles too, giving me a clue that he was not intending the more usual means of penetration.
Once I was lying helpless on the sofa, my breasts crushed into the cold leather upholstery, my face pressed into the arm, breathing in its scent, he took off his jeans and straddled my hips.
I couldn’t see him but I could feel the rough hair of his thighs chafe mine, then his hands were on my bottom, squeezing and pinching it, making me gasp at the residual pain of the cane marks.
‘This turns me on,’ he said, pinching the low one, the one that had not been in the script. ‘Oh, look at you trying to squirm. Look at you, all tethered and tied and waiting to get your arse filled. You know it’s going to happen. You know there’s nothing you can do about it.’
Apart from safeword.
But why on earth would I want to do that?
He seemed to read my mind, because he said, ‘Even if you didn’t want it just as badly as I do. You know how much you love it. I know it, you know it … perhaps one day everyone will know it.’
I stiffened slightly, knowing that he was referring to his film and the possible fallout. I didn’t want to think about that now. All the same, it helped my libido to imagine a huge banner headline: SARAH WELLS TAKES IT UP THE ARSE.
He prised open my cheeks and dripped lube slowly and coldly between them. When he rubbed it in, moving ever closer to my tight pucker, I mewled in mock protest, but I was heating up between my legs again and he surely knew it.
His finger circled the spot with agonising sweetness while various inner spasms set each other off like butterfly skittles. I couldn’t escape him. This private part of me, along with every other, was his.
One finger tested my resistance then slid inside despite it. I worked on holding myself open, on breathing through the initial stirrings of violation. He violated me with my full consent. I invited every outrage he perpetrated upon me.
The first finger was joined by another and I felt myself gently stretched, taken towards my boundaries. He dipped them slowly in and out, twisting them, scissoring them a little wider to see if I would give. I concentrated on receiving his attentions with absolute submission, increasingly aware of the flaring desire a little further forward. I wanted to touch myself but all I could do was curl my helpless fingers tight.
‘You can stretch,’ he said in a low, mesmeric voice. ‘You can take more than this. You can take something good and thick up here. Can’t you?’
‘Yes, sir,’ I said in an ecstasy of humiliation.