In Too Deep (20 page)

Still looking up at me, he gestures for me to move in closer, the action tiny but imperious. As I take a step, he opens his legs wider to allow me to stand between them. I’m not sure whether I’m even supposed to look, but I can’t help staring down at his immaculately suited crotch, where he’s hard, his erection prominent.

‘Take your frock off, Gwendolynne,’ says the voice of Nemesis. And, as I reach for my zip, he casually cups himself and adjusts his penis in his trousers. Arrogant sod. But I love it.

I shimmy out of my chic new dress, then step out of it and kick it aside. At one time, I would have felt mortified at exposing my ample body like this, especially if I wasn’t wearing any pants. But looking into Daniel’s hot eyes, and then seeing the way his wicked-thick eyelashes flutter and his fingers roll over his hidden cock, I feel the power in my own flesh, and I revel in it. He’s playing the ascendant role
here
, but somehow he’s also in thrall, at the same time, to my curves, to my breasts, to my hips and my bottom. He wants my abundant flesh just as I want his sleek muscularity and his fantastic, jutting hardness.

I stand before him in my red bra, my red garter belt and my smoky lace-topped stockings, with the sheen of my arousal clear and shining on my inner thighs. Without warning, he leans forwards and throws his arms around my waist, pulling me to him. At the same time, he presses his face between my breasts, rubbing his cheeks against their soft, lace-clad slopes, like a child or a puppy nuzzling for comfort. Not stopping to think, I cradle his head, slipping my fingers into the black silk of his thick curly hair.

It’s a strangely asexual moment. A deeper communion. Daniel makes a sound like a gasp, almost a groan, and nuzzles deeper. He
is
seeking comfort. I feel strange. My body is still completely turned on and primed for him. I can smell my arousal, and so must he be able to. But the urge to nurture floats atop the lust, sharp and poignant. Does he have one of his headaches? His action suggests a yearning for some kind of solace. I hold his head lightly, in case it’s tender in some way, and without a word he reaches up, one hand still holding me round my middle, but the other settling over my hand where it’s resting on his hair. Our fingers lace and he emits a faint sigh.

I daren’t speak, but I so want to ask if he’s OK. These headaches come often, I can tell, and that suggests something serious. I want to know what troubles him, even though now is a strange time to ask, when I’m half-naked in his hold, my exposed crotch pressed lightly against his shirt.

‘Is anything wrong?’

Did I speak? I must have …

Daniel doesn’t move or respond for a moment, then he slides his hands off me and puts me away from him a little.

Shit! Shit! Shit! Now I’ve spoilt it all. Men don’t like to seem weak. Especially when they’re playing the sexual master.

He frowns, and a look of irritation flits across his face. At me? Or at himself? I sense the latter.

‘No, nothing at all,’ he says crisply, ‘especially not with you.’ His lips curve; they look reddened and hungry. ‘There’s nothing whatsoever wrong with you, beautiful Gwendolynne. You are truly a sight for sore eyes.’ That angry look returns momentarily, then he reaches for me again, pulling me forwards with his left hand while his right slides arrogantly between my thighs, then my sex lips, searching for my clit. When he unerringly finds it, it’s my turn to gasp, but he shushes me softly.

‘You must be a quiet, good girl, my Queen of the Library. No moaning and groaning while I play with you.’

There it is again, that title. The one that unequivocally proves he’s Nemesis. But I don’t care who he is or where he came from. I can only think, if that’s what you’d call it, about what he’s doing in the wet furrow of my sex. He presses hard on my clit, flicking at it and playing with it, and I experience a harrowing urge to wiggle my hips and bounce on the fulcrum of that maddening fingertip. But I don’t, because I know he wants me to be still.

Biting my lips, I suppress a groan. Intense yet frustrating sensations are gathering. I close my eyes, unable to look at his dear, tantalising countenance. But he tuts softly, and I have to open them again. His face is sublime, strong yet exquisite. Utterly masculine and pleased with himself, yet as beautiful as a devil-angel from an Old Master.

His touch is outrageous, like sin incarnate. He coaxes me closer and closer to orgasm with every stroke, then time and again backs off just when I’m about to come.

Just when I’m on the point of screaming at him to finish me, he withdraws his fingers entirely. Then, slowly and lasciviously, he first takes another tiny sip of champagne from his glass, then dips his forefinger and middle finger into it and reapplies them, wet with the precious wine, to my clit. I shout hoarsely as the effervescence tips me over and I come hard, almost painfully, my empty sex pulsing and grabbing at nothing.

My arms grab him, encircling him, holding on to him, clamping around him like a vice as I throb and flutter and climax. Lost in sensation, I curl over him, pressing my face against his black curls and breathing deeply of his intoxicating blue-herbal shampoo. I kiss his scalp and, deep in the heart of my pleasure, a maternal yearning wishes I could cure the pain that sometimes ails him.

Eventually he pulls me on to his lap. Although I automatically start to protest that I’m no little slip of a girl and too heavy, he ignores me. Reaching for his champagne glass again, he feeds me the last of the golden fluid and I quaff it down as if it were lemonade, thirsty from coming.

I’m still pretty shocked and shaken up, but it doesn’t take long for me to start thinking again. And noticing things that are rather hard not to notice. Like the enormous erection beneath me, poking at my still-glowing sex through the fine worsted of Daniel’s suit trousers.

‘You’re very hard,’ I remark inanely, and he laughs.

‘Yes, I like being hard.’

‘Don’t you want to do something about it?’

‘Presently.’ He strokes me under the chin as if I were a kitten, his eyes merry and playful behind his glasses. ‘But not just yet.’ He licks his lower lip as if savouring something delicious. ‘I like to prolong the anticipation sometimes. Wait until I really, really want it, before I get off. And I know that when I get
inside
you it’s going to be really spectacular, and well worth the wait.’

For a fleeting second he touches my clit again, and I whine without being able to help myself, almost ready to come again.

‘Let’s watch the telly for a while,’ he says as I try to wriggle back on to his fingertips, in vain. Putting me from him with a phenomenal ease and strength, he sets me on my feet again, then rises beside me and leads me across to the bed. He plumps a pillow, then says, ‘Sit down’ in quite a stern tone.

My heart thudding, I slide on to the chintz quilt, not sure what to do. Daniel cocks his head on one side, then carefully, and almost completely by touch, removes the grips that are holding my hair up, sets them aside, then fans out the heavy locks over my shoulders, touching and adjusting.

‘Lie,’ he instructs me, nodding towards the pillows, and I comply, trying to arrange my limbs in an alluring configuration. The fact that my crotch is bare, framed by the narrow lacy bands of my garter belt, just seems to shout at me. I can’t look anywhere else than at my uncovered sex. It’s sort of obscene, but seductive and exotic. The heat in Daniel’s eyes seems to say he thinks the same.

He pours more champagne and places our glasses at either side of the bed, on the bijou little bedside cabinets.

‘Relax.’ Grinning down at me and looking inordinately pleased with himself, he arranges me, taking my wrists and settling my arms above my head on the fat pillows, hands loosely clasped, then nudging my sticky thighs slightly apart, opening my pussy.

‘Relax,’ he murmurs again, his voice more gentle, as if he’s trying to coax me out of the sudden ‘rabbit in the headlights’ mode I’ve lapsed into. I have free will here, but I feel just as immobilised as that little bunny faced with a juggernaut.

His fingers move reverently over the side of my face, then smooth my hair against the pillows. That does relax me. As does the sight of him shrugging off his jacket, unfastening his tie and flinging them both away, before heeling off his shoes and almost dancing around to the far side of the bed.

The springs bounce lightly when he flings himself down beside me, just as if we were calmly going to watch the football together. When he snatches up the TV remote and presses the on button, I half expect the set to spring to life with
Match of the Day
. But no, it’s just a menu with the Waverley logo. Daniel eyes his champagne glass briefly, then seems to decide not to drink and begins to scrolls through the televisual options, using the handset.

I can’t believe this! Even in this most exotic and hothouse of circumstances, he’s just like any other man. He can’t resist channel hopping! And then it’s my turn to laugh out loud when we reach UK History and his own familiar face smiles out at us. He’s sitting on a dry-stone wall somewhere, talking about the Norman Conquest.

‘Yuck! I hate that guy! What a ponce.’ With a chuckle he stabs at a button and we’re back at the menu.

It feels downright peculiar, and vaguely perverted, to be lying here, draped across the bed, while Daniel surfs the channels, but I’m a telly addict too and I can’t help but watch the screen, even though I’m half-naked and on show, like an odalisque.

He flicks through a few things. Movies. A concert. Boxing, ugh. And then, inevitably, he finds the porn. First we drop in on a pair of busty but sylphlike blondes, kissing each other messily and writhing against each other like snakes. But this doesn’t appeal to Daniel and he jumps back to the menu and scrolls down a little.

Next we find a guy I know to be the famous Ron Jeremy, putting it to another blonde in a vigorous doggy fashion.

‘Seen this one,’ says Daniel, surprising me. Whoever knew that everyone’s favourite academic was into skin movies?

Back to the menu again, and flick, flick, flick, he highlights ‘Live Feed’. What the hell is that? Unfortunately all the screen shows us is the legend ‘Channel scrambled’.

‘Oops!’

Before I can ask what exactly ‘Live Feed’ entails, Daniel bounces off the bed, fishes in his jacket pocket and pulls out a key-card, much like the one that admitted us to this room. He jams it in a slot on the front of the television, then stabs the button again as he sprints back to the bed and flings himself alongside me, his eyes on the screen rather than my partially clothed body. Great.

The image snaps to a strangely familiar one. Chintz. Soft light. Two lovers. One dressed, one partially naked. It’s a webcam feed. Not of us, thank God, but clearly streaming from somewhere inside the hotel.

‘Oh no, it’s him!’

Daniel’s attention flicks back to me and he looks at me curiously.

‘Do you know him?’ He nods at the screen, on which a masked yet recognisable man is looming over a woman I’ve also seen before, and recently. In a room much like ours, the suave yet obviously insanely reckless Robert Stone, Borough Director of Finance, is about to spank his blonde beloved, the pretty girl I saw him with just a short while ago. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, wearing a leather domino-style mask, which makes something go thump inside me, reminding me of my fantasies. It’s the sort of thing that would probably disguise his identity … unless you already knew it. His partner is draped across his knee, wearing a basque, a similar
but
more dainty mask, with a fine lace trim, and not much else.

The colour definition of the scene is surprisingly good, given the lighting conditions, and it’s easy to see he’s already been spanking her for a bit, because her enviably slim and toned bottom is pink and seriously hot-looking. She’s shaking too, as if she’s snivelling in pain. But, when she turns her face, allowing us to see her expression but not her disciplinarian, her eyes are sparkling with excitement within the frame of her exotic mask, and she’s smiling a happy little smile to herself. She loves it!

‘Jeepers! Spanking! That’s hot,’ murmurs Daniel beside me, echoing my thoughts entirely, and adjusts the way he’s sitting slightly, as if the kinky scene is already getting to his nether regions. As it’s getting to mine.

Stone gives his lady-love’s rump a lazy slap and she jerks across his lap, swirling her hips. Her mouth moves as if she’s moaning, but there’s no soundtrack, presumably allowing the couple to retain some degree of privacy in a blatantly exhibitionistic scenario. I have to bite my lips to stop myself moaning, and, when I tear my eyes away from the screen for a second, I discover that Daniel’s actually watching me, not them.

‘Does that sort of thing excite you?’ His eyes flash behind his glasses, telling me that the idea of that excites
him
. He inclines over me, his glance darting from the screen to me and back again, to and fro. As Robert Stone lays on a couple more whacks, in quick succession, Daniel reaches over and slides his hand between my thighs. Testing me.

He finds what I expect he was expecting, and this time I can’t prevent myself moaning. I’m wet and slippery, hot and ready for his touch. When I wriggle and try to press my hand over his own, he says, ‘Uh oh!’ and gives me a stern little look. It’s complex, full of humour, yet slightly forbidding, and
I
wonder if I’m in the presence of just as skilled a disciplinarian as the one who’s going about his business in the webcam feed.

It’s an effort, but I return my hands to their former position, lightly clasped and brushing my fanned-out hair. It’s like being bound and yet not bound, and even though I’ve never done bondage and all I know of it is from pictures and stories, I instinctively know that it’s probably far harder
not
to be fastened up in this sort of situation. There might actually be a relaxation in being in shackles. At least that way you don’t have to fight your own urge to move, to struggle. Especially when a beautiful man you adore is stroking your clitoris with the tip of his finger.