“Ready for what?” I yelp.
“Just be ready.” He winks, swoops down to kiss me goodbye and sweeps away.
*
I am not ready when he returns; indeed, I am asleep. It is only the smell of toasting bread that awakes me nearly two hours later, along with the rattling of cutlery and the thuddy sound of something being chopped. Oooh, yes, breakfast; that’ll do nicely. Not quite as nicely as the sight that greets my eyes shortly afterwards; of a shower-fresh Sinclair in a paisley print satin dressing gown be
aring a tray of exotic delicacies. OK, some fruit salad, toast and coffee. I’m not seeing any immediate s&m potential in these items, so I relax slightly, move myself to the most comfortable sitting position I can given the tender state of my arse and drink in the view.
“Wow, breakfast. Thanks,” I enthuse, reaching out for the tray. He holds it out of my range and puts it on his nightstand.
“Breakfast must be earned, Snoring Beauty,” he says severely.
“I don’t snore.”
“Oh, but you do. Sit up, arms above your head, now.”
I blink at the peremptory tone and put my arms up in mock-surrender. Sinclair whips the black satin cord from his robe and uses it to bind my wrists. OMG. Bondage for breakfast; what the hell next? He fastens the strip of fabric to the top strut of the metal-frame headboard so I am tethered to the bed, arms forced up and back, thrusting out my breasts as if they are exhibits. He smiles down at the anxiety in my eyes. “Don’t worry; nothing too advanced for you this morning. Just a little gentle introduction to the joys of restraint.”
It is true that I am not in any kind of discomfort. The satin is slippery and soft against my skin rather than tight, and the position does not put any particular strain on my arms. Nonetheless, I would have a hard time escaping from my bonds; Sinclair is quite the boy scout when it comes to expertise in the field of knotting.
He opens a drawer in his nightstand and brings out…yikes…a blindfold; one of those frilly burlesque ones you can get in the better lingerie outlets. Not a serious number, I am relieved to note.
“You’re going to blindfold me,” I say tremulously. Duh, Beth! Perhaps a dunce’s cap would be more in order. He visibly swallows whatever sarcastic retort sprung to his sarcastic-retort-expert mind and slips the thing over my head, settling it gently so it confers the perfect level of darkness.
Funny how such a simple thing as the withholding of sight can be so profoundly affecting. Instantly my body switches to high-alert mode and my remaining senses raise themselves stealthily to optimum performance. I can hear Sinclair’s barefoot tread to my nor-nor-east and feel how the faint trace of chill in the air goosepimples my exposed skin. My own breathing is shallow and rather heavy, through my nose (do I really snore?) and the dulled throb of my bottom is suddenly acute again. Oh, and I’m really, really turned on. And hungry. The scent of that toast…mmm.
I feel my body slope down to the right as Sinclair takes a seat at the edge of the bed, then there is something cold and fruity-smelling brushed against my lips.
“Taste it,” he says, and his voice, darkness in the dark, is so thrilling I let out a tiny vocal sigh, which makes him ‘Mmmm’, which makes me sigh again….this could go on for hours. Best taste the fruit. It is pulpy-soft and delicately flavoured; I don’t think I’ve ever had this before. Sinclair will think I’m such a prole; I’m an apples and oranges girl myself. I probe the sweet flesh with my tongue and the juice drips lavishly down my throat. Sinclair wipes the excess from my lips with an elegant thumb and just before I swallow I feel his mouth on mine, his tongue opening me, tasting what I am tasting, an oral investigation…ooooh…he withdraws with the lightest of nips to my lower lip.
“Well? Can you identify what you have just eaten?”
“Not sure,” I pant, my loins afire. Come back! Kiss me again! “Was it…guava?” Total guess.
“Well done,” he congratulates me. Bullseye; how funny. “You have won a piece of toast. Honey or jam?”
“Any marmite?”
“Marmite? Ugh. I am certainly never kissing you again if I catch you eating marmite on these premises.”
“Philistine.”
“That’ll be ‘Philistine, sir.’ You’re having honey and you’re going to have to like it. And you’re going to have to do something about your disrespectful manner if you don’t want to be paying another visit to my office later.”
Cripes, no! Well, not today, at least.
“Sorry, Sir,” I say, subdued, then I bite into the honey toast he is feeding me. “You aren’t a Philistine. You’re a great connoisseur of the arts.”
“I hope that isn’t mockery I’m detecting in your tone.” He moves a hand beneath the duvet and presses a finger against one of the cane welts. Ouch. Time to shut up, I think.
The process is repeated with melon, mango and even lychee, which makes me squeal with the second’s fear that it might be an eyeball.
“For heavens sake, Beth,” says an exasperated Sinclair. “Why would I feed you an eyeball?”
“Um, because you’re a sadist?” I hazard. There is a moment’s silence then he laughs.
“You have so much to learn,” he says. “And I’m going to enjoy teaching you.” He waits for me to take my last bite of toast, then I feel the warmth radiating from his body as he moves closer, a nudge of cold satin from his robe perking one nipple into perfect stiffness. “You’ve had your breakfast,” he murmurs into my ear, which prickles and then melts. “Now I’m going to have mine.” On my chin his beard, then on my lips, his lips, then in my mouth, his tongue, oh, long, succulent, ravishing tongue in my mouth which is wet, which is sweet, which is fruity. Then his hand is at the back of my neck, the fingers planted in my hair, the thumb massaging my nape and the other hand brushes itself down the side of my ribcage until it rests on my hip and I squirm with the realisation that I have nowhere to run from his thorough attentions because I am tied up at his mercy.