“No, I want an answer. Are you masturbating?”
“Yes,” she hissed quickly. “Go on. Please.”
“You really do need me there, don’t you?”
“Noooo. Go on.”
“Okay. I’ll make you lie down on the sunbed on your stomach so everyone can see that you’ve had a good spanking. You can take off your bikini top too, for an all-over tan. And so that everyone can see how hard your nipples are. Everyone will know that getting that spanking turned you on. It made you so horny you’re pressing your thighs together and trying to rub those bunched-up panties all over your pussy. They can see your hips move and your ass raised up, as if you want more spanking on that gritty little behind. But I tell you you’re not to make yourself come. Oh no. It isn’t allowed. You will have to wait until I get you back to the hotel. And I don’t mean to go back to the hotel for hours yet.”
Lydia poured a sequence of panting breaths into the phone.
“You came?”
“Uh-huh,” she gasped.
“I thought I just told you that isn’t allowed. Oh dear, Lydia. I need to come all the way from the US to Spain to deliver a special spanking, don’t I?”
“No, no, you don’t, and I shouldn’t have turned this phone on…”
“And I shouldn’t have turned you on?”
“No, you shouldn’t!”
He chuckled and she ended the call and threw the phone back in her bag, hot-cheeked with shame and disappointment with herself.
Her solemn promise that she would have nothing to do with either of her pursuers until orchestra rehearsals resumed in September was well and truly broken.
She pulled her hand from her shorts and sniffed ruefully at her fingers.
Von Ritter would be feeling so triumphant now. He knew exactly how little it took to reel her back in. What a pushover.
She had to pull herself together. One lapse didn’t mean it was all over. Like a smoker on day one of cigarette withdrawal, she knew she faced tough times ahead. But if she was to clear her mind and work out what and whom she really wanted, she had to have this space.
The best thing to do was to go back to the villa, get a good night’s sleep—and maybe another little episode of self-pleasure, if Vanessa and Ben were safe in their bed—and face the new day.
She traipsed round the outcrop—annoyed at the stickiness in her shorts and the smell on her fingers—and back on to the main beach. Loud disco thumping came from several bars on the strip above. It was getting late.
She took the winding path up to the villa, seeing a lively scene at the tables outside the little neighbouring restaurant. People had gathered in a small crowd, listening to some music.
Oh, it was lovely music. Lydia recognised it and began humming along, quickening her footsteps in her eagerness to hear more.
It was Sarasate’s Introduction and Tarantella, performed much better than she would expect to hear it played in a little seaside crab shack.
People clapped and cheered along to the tarantella and Lydia tried to fit her head between two of the audience members, peering inside the dim little room.
“God, no!” she exclaimed out loud, her voice carrying across the night air to the ears of the musician himself.
He cut the music short and took a small bow before heading straight towards Lydia.
“What the hell are you doing here, Milan? Go home.”
Chapter Two
The last gasp of the London summer was almost over, leaves beginning to drop and curl on the pavements while the air took on a smoky sharpness, heralding autumn.
It was fair to say that Lydia was not looking forward to the first rehearsal of the Westminster Symphony Orchestra after her summer break.
After the ill-advised phone sex with von Ritter, she had kept herself strictly incommunicado, only sending him one brief text to tell him she had landed safely in Heathrow a few days earlier.