Ecstasy in the White Room (4 page)

Authors: Portia Da Costa

Tags: #Erotica, #Short Stories (Single Author), #Fiction

BOOK: Ecstasy in the White Room

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My own breathing is ragged. He clasps me hard and I groan,
jerking my hips and parting my thighs, trying to get off on him. If I could just
rock my clit against his hipbone...

“No,” he says in a soft, calm voice. “No orgasms until I say
so. Not until I grant you one.”

But still I can’t pull away. I stand against him, contiguous
but still. Fighting for breath as he pinches my tender bottom cheeks, again and
again.

Back in our white room, he permits me a moment to myself, but
his eyes warn me about any funny business as I head for the bathroom. It’s
difficult, but I obey him. Even so, as I return to the bedroom, my cheeks are
pink with the effort of
resisting
the call of
masturbation.

Simon is lounging in a chair, watching the television. The
lights are down low and he’s viewing what we’ve discovered is the channel
privé,
again accessed by the white card, which one
sticks in a key slot on the console. The screen is filled with a high-definition
feed from the private party downstairs. A young woman in heels and an
eye-wateringly tight black vinyl corset is shackled to a chain that appears to
have been let down from the ceiling. Two men in shirtsleeves are taking turns to
slash at her bum with thin yellow canes. Simon has the sound turned off, but
it’s clear she’s gasping and whimpering even though her eyes look bright more
with excitement than with tears.

“We should have stayed, and I could have tried that.” My desire
hasn’t had a chance to ebb, but it surges again at the thought of being strung
up like that, in front of an audience. Showing my nipples, my crotch and my
crimson behind to the audience again.

“Maybe another time.” Simon rises from the chair, all languid
grace. “And who told you to speak?” He narrows his blue gaze at me, his eyes
dancing. I don’t smile back, but I grin inside. I knew he’d say that. “Now come
here.”

I glide over to him and we stand face-to-face. His eyes rove
over me, noting and marking each feature of my face, and of my body. It’s as if
he’s cataloguing his possession. “Remove all your clothes...except the ribbon,
leave that.” He reaches out, gives it a little tug, then releases me.

As elegantly as I can, I disrobe, first kicking away my shoes,
then reaching round to undo the long zip down the back of my dress. When I step
out of it, Simon automatically extends a hand to support my elbow. Bra and
G-string next, then stockings, and again, he allows me to lean on him. Not sure
what to do with my finery, I let it fall to the carpet, and taking me by the
arm, he leads me away from it toward the bed, where I see he’s draped a towel
from the cupboard over the counterpane and laid out a few items from our box of
goodies. My gaze skitters over toys, vials of lubricant and our leather slapper.
His favorite device.

Illuminated by the concealed lighting around the bed head, I
also notice that the restraints have been pulled out of their discreet hiding
places and are laid out, in readiness.

“Lie down, my love, make yourself comfortable.”

I can’t contain a snort of amusement. Comfortable? Yeah,
right.

He doesn’t admonish me, but his old-fashioned look speaks
volumes. Now I’m in for it.

I climb onto the bed and lie down, roughly in the middle,
pulling a pillow beneath my head. Kicking off his shoes, but still fully
clothed, Simon climbs on after me, and before I can move any more, he fastens
first one of my arms, then the other, to the elegant white painted rail at the
head of the bed. My nipples look very prominent as the stretch of my arms makes
my breasts lift. Simon gives one a hard, quick pinch, but I manage not to utter
a sound.

Next, he pulls my hips into position, making me gasp. The
toweling is soft, but it still chafes his handiwork, the sore red patches on my
buttocks. Handling me firmly, he places me just so, but he doesn’t secure my
ankles yet. He just pushes my thighs wide, then puts another towel, folded,
beneath my bum, lifting me. More terry cloth to rub against my spanked flesh. My
crotch is lifted, displayed. Like a clockwork doll whose mechanism springs to
life of its own accord, I start to rock my hips, even though it costs my
punished buttocks some discomfort.

“Wicked...wicked, wicked, wicked,” he admonishes, punctuating
each repetition with a slap across my thigh.

I wiggle harder, anything to offset the new, sharp burn.

“Behave yourself,” he continues, turning away to study his
hoard of goodies. His blue gaze flicks from toy to toy and he selects a smooth,
white egg-shaped confection with a long, attached cord. He holds it up between
finger and thumb, then shows it to me, grinning a devilish little smirk as he
does so. “Big enough for you?”

“Plenty...bring it on.”

I know I shouldn’t really be so feisty, but I can’t help
myself. I’m not a good, well-schooled submissive like the women downstairs. I am
wicked, and I’m willful and I’m just, well, I’m just
me
. But I doubt Simon would want things any other way.

“Gladly.” He laughs softly, then placing the egg on my belly,
he fishes around for vial of lubricant. I’m not sure he’ll need it...although it
depends on his precise plans for the egg. But after a moment’s thought, he
kneels beside me, draws my thigh across his, and opens me wider...then trickles
the slick silky goo over my pussy, thumbing apart my sex lips so he can slather
the stuff into my cleft. When he’s satisfied I’m wet enough—not that I wasn’t
before—he presses the egg at the entrance to my vagina.

Oh! Oh! It feels a lot bigger than it looks, and it seems
heavier than I expected. I have to gasp hard as he exerts pressure and breaches
me with it. My eyes feel as if they’re about to start from my head when he
propels the naughty thing inside me so it lodges high, up against my womb.

I daren’t move, yet I’m aching to, dying to. I feel as if I’m
stuffed to the brim, as if the egg is ten times its actual size. I whine like a
cat in heat when Simon flicks a finger over my clit and it trembles, right on
the very point of paroxysm.

“Oh no you don’t. Not yet.” Giving me one brisk, cruel little
pinch there, he then abandons my pussy and sets about securing my legs,
fastening me tight to the bed. I grit my teeth and test my bonds, assailed on
all sides. Simon gives me a thoughtful look, the picks up a ball gag from the
bedspread. Kissing me once on the lips, he then seals my mouth with the horrible
thing. This too feels far bigger than it looks.

Settling back on his heels, he gazes down at me, and his ghost
of a grin tells me he’s pleased with his handiwork. He touches a nipple, my
navel, the crease between my thigh and belly. Each contact is so light it feels
like the kiss of a feather, and yet they trigger a chemical reaction of lust in
my blood. Not caring about submission or decorum, I jerk about, taxing my bonds
and trying to throw my body in the general direction of his fingers. The rock
and jiggle of the egg inside me makes me struggle even more, protesting behind
the gag, silently demanding something, anything...everything.

“Be still and I’ll pleasure you. Misbehave and I’ll make your
thighs roast.”

Me being me, I struggle and flaunt my pelvis at him, and the
gag stifles my blue curse and my moans and grunts when the egg knocks a hidden,
sensitive spot.

“Well, if that’s what you want...” He takes up the red leather
slapper and lets fly, finding the exact place on my inner thigh where he’s
already spanked me.

Making a stifled sound the likes of which I’ve never heard
before and really don’t want to hear again, I stand up on my heels to the limits
of my bondage, hips slamming, tormenting egg notwithstanding. My thigh is on
fire, and my clit feels as if it’s screaming, as if it has the voice I’m denied
and it’s demanding to be touched. I try to part my thighs even more, even though
the movement is limited, as if the sight of my glistening sex will lure Simon so
powerfully that he just has to touch it.

He smiles like Lucifer, golden yet demonic, and simply lays on
the leather, more and more, again and again.

My thighs do roast. Within the space of a few minutes they’re
ragged red, fierier by far than my bottom. In fact, my bottom is like a zone of
pacific tranquility and comfort compared to my thighs. And my thighs feel far
worse because I can see them, the gathering crimson so vivid I’d swear it’s
glowing in the low light from the lamps.

“Are you going to be still?” His voice is that of the sly
devil, too, so soft and seductive and honeyed. “Are you going to be a good girl
for me? Or shall I be forced to do something even more wicked to you?” He dips
low, whispering in my ear, describing obscene and magnificent things that almost
make me come, just from the disgusting words.

Intrusions. Compressions. Suspension. Contortion. Extreme acts,
and all performed before the discerning eyes of assembled perverts down in the
white salon below. It’s all dark, dangerous, dirty...yet thrilling. Way beyond
the reality of our games, but chokingly rousing to hear. I still squirm, knowing
we’ll never do these things, never really want to, but excited all the same by
his vivid threats.

When he’s finished his litany, Simon kisses my lips at the edge
of the gag, running his tongue along the boundary of my stretched mouth, while
at the same time he draws the very tips of his fingernails over my blazing inner
thighs. Tears ooze from the corners of my eyes and he laps those up too.

He rests his face against mine, so gentle. The scent of his
cologne fills my head, and the faint rasp of his just emerging stubble is a
fugitive caress in itself. “Oh, I’m so cruel to you, my darling love, aren’t
I?”

I nod. He is cruel. Just as I want him to be during our
experiments. But suddenly I want him to be kind, too, and attuned to me, he
knows that. The reason our little tableaux work so well is that he’s possessed
of an empathy so uncanny.

He touches me now, running his fingers over my face,
interpolating the stroke of his fingertips with kisses. With a quick, almost
reverent deftness, he unbuckles the gag, frees my mouth, and kisses that too,
pressing in with his tongue, but silkily, seductively, kindly. Not rough.

“I’m going to make you come now, sweetheart...and I want to
hear your cries of pleasure. No more pain.”

Of course my thighs
are
still
burning, and so is my bottom a little, but somehow it doesn’t feel like actual
pain anymore. It’s more than heat, a new sensation that doesn’t seem to fit into
any category or description it’s so intense.

With one last kiss, Simon reaches behind him, fingering various
items, then blindly selects a vibrator. A spin of the bezel produces a low,
smooth hum, and he smiles, pleased with his choice, although not as pleased as
I’ll soon be, any moment now.

When he touches it to my clit, I fly up to the ceiling, though
still in bondage. Blinded by ecstasy, I howl his name, soaring...loving.

* * *

Later, much later, we lie in bed together, all passion
spent, and all games played out, for the moment. I feel comfortable, relaxed,
blissfully happy. Yes, my thighs and buttocks do still glow, but somehow it’s a
good feeling, a sweet nostalgic echo that reminds me of the blissful pleasure
that perfectly matches all pain. From time to time, Simon rests a hand against
the scene of his crime, the contact of his skin like a solemn communion, drawing
out the very last of the hurt, healing and blessing.

These are weird thoughts that drift through my mind, vaguely
sacrilegious, but I love him so, and our relationship
is
sanctified. Even though it feels like months since we stood
before that altar together, it’s actually less than a day.

Our beautiful white room is no ordinary white room; it’s the
honeymoon suite.

“Happy, Mrs. Whittingtry?”

“Ecstatic, Mr. Whittingtry.”

He strokes my hair, and as his body shifts against mine, I
discover that all passion isn’t quite spent after all. And exploring the
evidence, I realize that mine isn’t spent either, far, far from it.

“I don’t suppose you could possibly consider obliging me again,
could you? Wifely duties and all that?” He presses his cock against one of my
warm patches as if testing my heat.

“It’ll cost you.” My voice is arch. I’m in the ascendant now.
The tide has turned. I whisper some naughtiness in his ear, and I can tell by
the way he gasps, he likes the idea.

In fact, he loves it.

“As you command, my queen.”

And with that, he rolls onto his back, grasps the rails of the
bed head, and allows
me
to bind him.

* * * * *

If you liked
Ecstasy in the White Room,
look for the preceding stories in Portia Da Costa’s 3 Colors Sexy
series:
Discipline of the Blue Book
Ritual of
the Red Chair
Available now from Spice
Briefs!

Craving more erotic romance? Don’t miss these other titles by
Portia Da Costa available now wherever ebooks are sold:

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Chance of a Lifetime
Twice the
Pleasure
Second Time Around
No Longer Forbidden
A
Gentlewoman’s Predicament
A Gentlewoman’s Ravishment
Another
Chance
A Gentlewoman’s Pleasure
A Gentlewoman’s Dalliance
A
Very Personal Assistant

HQN Books:

In the Flesh

Carina Press:

Intimate Exposure

Hungry for more? Spice Briefs to suit
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