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Authors: Portia Da Costa
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to touch her own sex, wriggling her hand beneath her belly as she squirms and cries, but the marquis pauses mid-spank and gently remonstrates with her.
“Come, come, Sylvia, you know you mustn’t do that. No pleasure until you’ve been a good girl and taken your punishment.”
His voice is soft, even, but shot through with sweet steel and authority. It pushes me closer to coming just as powerfully as the spanking show does. I suddenly wish I could get to know him better, and make this all real.
“Oh, my lord…” I whisper this time, closing my eyes and turning on an inner video. This time it’s me across those strong thighs. Me who’s writhing and moaning, with my bottom flaming.
Oh, the picture is so clear. And it’s the marquis of today who’s doing the business, not the one in the video.
He’s wearing his usual outfit of black jeans and black shirt, and his beautiful hair his loose on his shoulders like sheets of silk. There’s a sly, slight smile on his pale, chiseled face, and his long, cultured hand comes down with metronomic regularity.
I’m rubbing myself hard now, beating at my clit, but not stroking the very apex of it. I daren’t; I’m so excited and I don’t want to come yet. In my fantasy, he allows me to touch myself while he’s smacking me.
I writhe and wriggle, both fighting the pleasure and savoring its gathering at the same time. I throw my thighs wide, rubbing my bottom against the seat of the creaky old armchair. The sensation of the smooth surface against my skin is even more pervy. I press down harder, squashing my anus against the leather. I imagine him spanking me there, and even though I’ve no idea what it would really feel like, I groan, wanting it more and more and more.
“Oh my lord…do it…do it…” I burble, eyes tightly closed and half out of my mind with desire and longing.
“Actually, my dear, I think you’re ‘doing it’ quite well enough on your own. Do continue.”
What?
It’s like I’m falling, dropping through reality into a parallel universe. I know what’s happened but somehow I can’t stop rubbing myself.
My eyes fly open though, and here he is.
The marquis.
Somehow he’s walked into the room without me realizing it, moving softly on the rubber soles of his black running shoes.
In a few split seconds, I take in his glorious appearance.
So tall, so male, so mysterious. Long dark hair, pale smiling face, long fit body. Dressed in his customary black shirt and jeans, his elegant hands flexing as if preparing to copy the actions of his image on the screen.
I snatch my hand from my crotch and make as if to struggle back into my jeans. My face is scarlet, puce, flaming…. I’m almost peeing myself.
“No, please…continue.”
His voice is low and quiet, almost humming with amusement and intense interest. It’s impossible to disobey him. Despite the fact that I think the aristocracy is an outdated nonsense, he’s nobility to his fingertips and I’m just a pleb, bound to obey.
Unable to tear my eyes away from him, I watch as he settles his long frame down into the other chair, across from mine. He gives me a little nod, making his black hair sway, and then turns his attention to the images on the screen.
So do I, but with reluctance.
But I do as he wishes and begin to stroke my clit again.
Oh God, the woman on the screen is really protesting now. Oh God, in my mind, that woman is me, and I’m laid across the marquis’s magnificent thighs with my bottom all pink and sizzling and my crotch wetting his jeans with seeping arousal.
I imagine the blows I’ve never experienced, and just the dream of them makes my clit flutter wildly and my vagina clench and pulse. I seem to see the carpet as I writhe and wiggle and moan, and at the same time his beautiful face, rather grave, but secretly smiling.
As his eyes twinkle, in my imagination, I come.
It’s a hard, wrenching orgasm. Shocking and intense. I’ve never come like that before in
“Come, come, Sylvia, you know you mustn’t do that. No pleasure until you’ve been a good girl and taken your punishment.”
His voice is soft, even, but shot through with sweet steel and authority. It pushes me closer to coming just as powerfully as the spanking show does. I suddenly wish I could get to know him better, and make this all real.
“Oh, my lord…” I whisper this time, closing my eyes and turning on an inner video. This time it’s me across those strong thighs. Me who’s writhing and moaning, with my bottom flaming.
Oh, the picture is so clear. And it’s the marquis of today who’s doing the business, not the one in the video.
He’s wearing his usual outfit of black jeans and black shirt, and his beautiful hair his loose on his shoulders like sheets of silk. There’s a sly, slight smile on his pale, chiseled face, and his long, cultured hand comes down with metronomic regularity.
I’m rubbing myself hard now, beating at my clit, but not stroking the very apex of it. I daren’t; I’m so excited and I don’t want to come yet. In my fantasy, he allows me to touch myself while he’s smacking me.
I writhe and wriggle, both fighting the pleasure and savoring its gathering at the same time. I throw my thighs wide, rubbing my bottom against the seat of the creaky old armchair. The sensation of the smooth surface against my skin is even more pervy. I press down harder, squashing my anus against the leather. I imagine him spanking me there, and even though I’ve no idea what it would really feel like, I groan, wanting it more and more and more.
“Oh my lord…do it…do it…” I burble, eyes tightly closed and half out of my mind with desire and longing.
“Actually, my dear, I think you’re ‘doing it’ quite well enough on your own. Do continue.”
What?
It’s like I’m falling, dropping through reality into a parallel universe. I know what’s happened but somehow I can’t stop rubbing myself.
My eyes fly open though, and here he is.
The marquis.
Somehow he’s walked into the room without me realizing it, moving softly on the rubber soles of his black running shoes.
In a few split seconds, I take in his glorious appearance.
So tall, so male, so mysterious. Long dark hair, pale smiling face, long fit body. Dressed in his customary black shirt and jeans, his elegant hands flexing as if preparing to copy the actions of his image on the screen.
I snatch my hand from my crotch and make as if to struggle back into my jeans. My face is scarlet, puce, flaming…. I’m almost peeing myself.
“No, please…continue.”
His voice is low and quiet, almost humming with amusement and intense interest. It’s impossible to disobey him. Despite the fact that I think the aristocracy is an outdated nonsense, he’s nobility to his fingertips and I’m just a pleb, bound to obey.
Unable to tear my eyes away from him, I watch as he settles his long frame down into the other chair, across from mine. He gives me a little nod, making his black hair sway, and then turns his attention to the images on the screen.
So do I, but with reluctance.
But I do as he wishes and begin to stroke my clit again.
Oh God, the woman on the screen is really protesting now. Oh God, in my mind, that woman is me, and I’m laid across the marquis’s magnificent thighs with my bottom all pink and sizzling and my crotch wetting his jeans with seeping arousal.
I imagine the blows I’ve never experienced, and just the dream of them makes my clit flutter wildly and my vagina clench and pulse. I seem to see the carpet as I writhe and wiggle and moan, and at the same time his beautiful face, rather grave, but secretly smiling.
As his eyes twinkle, in my imagination, I come.
It’s a hard, wrenching orgasm. Shocking and intense. I’ve never come like that before in
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