Red Skye at Night (12 page)

“Could I interest you in another fuck then, for old times’ sake?”

Whatever I might think—and at this precise juncture I’m not convinced I can put a name to my reaction—my pussy has no such qualms. My cunt is moistening and clenching in delighted anticipation. I abandon my misgivings, laughing out loud as I launch myself at him. I lace my fingers together at the back of his neck as I lock my lips over his. Harry allows me my brief moment as the sexual aggressor before I find myself on my back, my legs spread wide. He’s between my thighs and reaching for a condom. Moments later, sheathed, he buries his cock in me.

He’s quick, ruthlessly efficient this time, driving deep. His hand is caught between our bodies, his fingers on my clit. He rubs, the motion perfectly in sync with his pumping hips as he fucks me hard. My bottom is sore, my skin still raw and burning as he presses me into the bed, each stroke a harsh reminder of this thing we just did. I wince, unable to help it. He must know how uncomfortable I am, he misses nothing. This apparent disregard is entirely deliberate, and, I realize now, calculated to enhance my desire. The pain is exquisite, a sensual reminder that I am his, marked by him, used by him.

“Come for me, Hope. Now.” The command is guttural, his terse instruction growled into my ear. He increases the pressure on my clit, firm and demanding.

Obedience is instantaneous. I’m becoming accustomed to being told what to do, and finding it rather more agreeable than I might have anticipated. Up to now I’ve always considered myself something of a loner, a rebel. Independent certainly, and not accustomed to taking orders. No longer, at least not around Harry McLeod.

My orgasm is a hot and sticky, tumultuous affair. My pussy quivers and contracts around Harry’s solid cock, gripping him, milking his response as surely as he is commanding mine. I dig my fingers into his shoulders as he reaches for my right leg and lifts it high to open me more fully. His final thrust fills me, stretches me to my absolute limit as he holds still, buried deep, the head of his cock nudging my cervix. His growled “Fuck, fuck,
fuck!
” precedes the final lurching jolt as his semen spurts in a hot flood. I squeeze, using my inner muscles as well as my arms and my leg to hold him in me, to me, taking possession of him as he seems intent on claiming me.

Chapter Seven

I’m stiff. And sore. I hurt everywhere, even in places I wasn’t sure that I had. My pussy is tender.

I feel seriously well used. Well fucked, to be more accurate.

More than that, my bum is throbbing like a bitch. I lie still, allow a wave of hot irritation to pass, relishing both that and the guilty sensation of wicked pleasure that follows. I’m lying on my side, breathing deep and slow, acutely conscious of every twinge and stab, every prickle offering residual evidence of last night’s incredible events.

He tied me up, touched me, played with me as he liked until I came, until I couldn’t hold it back, then he punished me for being unable to suppress my response. He spanked me, breaking off in the middle of that to give me yet another awesome climax, before thrashing me into final submission.

Then, he simply fucked me. Hard, no frills fucking, and quite, quite beautiful. Incomparable. Just the memory causes my pussy to dampen and my clit to swell.

I roll onto my back, knowing I’ll encounter evidence of another first for me. He’s here, still here, with me. Harry McLeod shared my bed, all night. Or perhaps I shared his. Whatever, I don’t do all-nighters. Or I didn’t. I suspect I’ll be discovering a lot of new habits around Harry. First, though, my bladder is demanding some attention.

“Don’t you dare.”

His harsh voice stops me as I wriggle cautiously toward the edge of the bed, favoring my smarting buttocks. I halt, turning to peer at him over my shoulder.

“I need the loo.” I can’t suppress the hint of indignation. It’s one thing to bark out orders in the heat of lust. I find I have no objection to that. But now, nature calls and she is a far sterner taskmaster than Harry. Or so I think.

“Leave this bed before I say you can, and I’ll paddle your ass so hard you won’t want to even think about sitting for a week.”

“What? I beg your pardon?”

“You heard. Ask permission, Hope.”

Something in the timbre of his voice tells me he’s not joking. Unless I want to find myself across his lap again in the near future, enduring Christ knows what, I have no choice but to plead with him for permission to use the loo. It rankles, but I take the softer option, for now.

“May I please use the toilet? Sir?” I add on the last intending it to be sarcastic.

“You may. And, Hope, I like it when you call me Sir. You can use that in future, please, though without the attitude. Attitude will earn you another spanking. Or worse. Do I make myself clear?”

I consider a retort that would without doubt qualify as ‘attitude’, but refrain from sharing it. Harry seems to be in no mood to be informed that he’s an arrogant shit and advised to go to hell. Instead I mutter something along the lines of “Thank you, Sir” and scramble from the bed.

I reach for my discarded top from last night but abandon that at his sharp, “Stay naked.”

I turn to glare at him. He’s wide awake, lounging against the pillow, his right arm behind his head. His other hand is lying on top of the quilt, his fingers drumming ominously. He watches me, his expression dispassionate.

“Attitude, remember? Do what you need to do. Take your time, then come back here to bed. I want to talk to you.”

My stomach lurches. He is sexy as sin, without doubt the most gorgeous man I have ever seen, let alone fucked, and he’s in my bed waiting for me. Even so, my body is delicate, still aching from everything he did to me already. I don’t want to be spanked again, not so soon.

“Please, Harry, Sir. I mean, can’t we just…?”

“Scared, Hope?”

“No. Yes, perhaps. I feel a bit fragile right now, if you must know.”

“Glad to hear it. And you can relax, I’m not about to inflict more bruises on you. When I say I want to talk, that’s exactly what I mean.”

“Oh. Okay. I see.” Relieved, I turn to make for the en suite, wondering if I might have time for a shower before he demands my presence back in his bed. I’m halfway there when his words penetrate.
Bruises?

I twist my body in an attempt to see the damage he might have wrought to my bottom, but can’t see anything. Harry chuckles from the bed. “Use the mirror.” He gestures toward the wardrobe, which has a full-length glass on one of the doors.

I detour over there, pirouetting awkwardly to examine my abused bum.

Deep red handprints still adorn my skin, in places already starting to yellow in glorious promise of bruises to come.
Christ!

“You have a heavy hand, Sir.”

“Indeed. But it was exactly what you wanted.”

In the cool light of morning I might be tempted to say otherwise, but I’ve never been much given to self-deception. My reply is truthful. “Yes, Sir. Thank you.”

His smile is dizzying. “You’re welcome. Now go, do your ablutions, then get that sweet tush of yours back here.”

Again, I find myself obeying.

* * * *

“You must realize by now how things are going to be between us.”

“In bed, you mean?”

We’re snuggled in the huge four-poster, Harry propped against the pillows and me resting against his chest. His arm is looped around my shoulders in a posture of relaxed possession, his palm caressing that sensitive spot between my shoulder blades. I am utterly content.

“In bed, and out of it. I’m a Dom, and now that you’ve had a taste of submission, Hope, it seems to me that we’re very well suited.”

I ponder that, deliberately flexing the muscles in my buttocks to test the extent of our ‘compatibility’. I’m sore, this is true, but it’s more than that. Much more complex. I feel—complete. Fulfilled. I’ve tested my endurance and not found it to be wanting. Harry may scare me, but at the same time he excites and challenges me. Deep down I know I scare myself. He hasn’t done anything to me that I wasn’t prepared to allow, and I trust him. I know he never will. That leaves it down to me then—it’s my responsibility to set our limits, my limits—whatever those may be. And to live with the consequences.

Harry kisses the top of my head before using his free hand to tip my chin up. Holding my gaze he repeats his statement, though now it’s framed as a question, “So, Hope, we are well suited, aren’t we? You want this too?”

I nod, swallowing hard. My association with Harry McLeod may not be destined to be a long one, just a few more days at most, but it promises to be memorable. And I suspect at least some of the marks he will leave on me will prove to be indelible.

“Good. So we need to agree some ground rules. You, Hope, need a safe word.”

I’ve heard of this, and belatedly it occurs to me that perhaps I needed a safe word last night. “Isn’t it a bit late for all that?”

“No. Last night was a one-off, and I stopped as soon as you asked me to. As I said I would. From now on, though, you need a safe word if we’re to play these games. I need to know you’re okay, and you need to know you can stop whatever’s happening at any time.”

“Well, I’ll just tell you then. When I’ve had enough.”

“No. It needs to be more. It needs to be unambiguous. A lot of people say no when it all gets a bit intense, when in fact they mean yes. When they want more. You could say stop and mean just the opposite. I need to be sure. If I push you past your level of endurance, that’s not fun, it’s not consensual. It would just be abuse. I’m tough, and as a Dom I can be harsh. I will hurt you. But I’m not abusive and I’m not cruel. I love to whip women, I want to hear you scream as well as purr, but only as long as you’re a willing participant. So, a safe word, Hope. What’s it to be?”

Talk about being put on the spot. I must have a vocabulary of God knows how many hundreds of thousands of words, and I can’t call even one to mind right now.

“What’s your favorite television show? The last thing you watched?”

I consider that. I don’t watch much television. Then I recall the evening after I first met Harry, the evening I spent at home even though I’d intended to work all night. “
Midsomer Murders
,” I announce.

“Right. How about Midsomer then?”

“Okay.” I snuggle in closer, considering the conversation now to be at an end as we’ve settled that important question. “Is it time for breakfast yet?”

“Soon, my hungry little slut. Before we go down to the dining room, though, I want to know if there’s anything you really don’t want me to do to you. If there is, tell me now and we’ll discuss it. Otherwise I’m just going to push and push until you tell me no. Until you safe word.”

Again, my brain empties. My mind is a total blank, though the possibilities seem endless. “I— No, I can’t think of anything.”

“Whips, canes, being bound, blindfolded, gagged? Will you let me fuck you, how and when I like?” I daresay Harry’s trying to be helpful.

“Well, we’ve already done a lot of that.”

“Some. Not a lot, not yet. I have plenty more tricks up my sleeve.”

I bet he has, come to think of it.

“So you up for all of that?”

I nuzzle his chest, marveling at my ability to take part in this bizarre yet intoxicating conversation. This is really happening. I only have to say the word and I’m in. Or, perhaps more specifically, not say it.

“I suppose so. If I want to stop, ever, anything, I just say Midsomer. Is that right?”

“Exactly. Your safe word stops it dead, every time. Don’t use it unless you have to, but be sure it will always work. That’s your safety net.”

“I see.”

“So, are you happy with everything? So far?”

“Yes, Sir. Very happy.” And I do mean it. My stomach is less sanguine, however, choosing that exact moment to issue a deafening rumble. Harry quirks his eyebrow, amused.

“Good. Let’s get you fed then. You get dressed while I have a shower. Then, after we’ve stuffed you with eggs and bacon and porridge or whatever else they serve up here, we’re going shopping.”

“Shopping?” I know he said he only needed an ordinary grocery shop but I daresay he needs to acquire at least some equipment. We’ve already established that possibilities are limited here in the Scottish Highlands. The fetish community must go elsewhere for its supplies. Or there’s always the Internet.

“Yes, shopping. I promised you a posh frock.”

Oh, that.
“You don’t have to. I mean, I’m not really the posh frock type.”

“Who told you that? You look stunning whatever you wear, but if you’re going to refuse to eat in hotel restaurants with me because you don’t think you have suitable clothes, well, we need to put that right. So we go shopping. It’s on expenses.”

I gape at him, overwhelmed by his generosity, and not for the first time. “Oh no, I can pay. I can’t let you buy my clothes on top of everything else. The hotels and the, the, well—everything.”

“You can and you will. That was our deal. Please don’t argue with me, Hope. You really won’t enjoy the consequences. Breakfast, then we hit the shops in— Where are we?”

I search my recent memory of yesterday evening’s journey. “Perth, I think.”

“Right, Perth. Something in silk, I think. Blue perhaps…

* * * *

Perth High Street is actually rather nice. It lacks the frenzied glamour of Leeds—no Harvey Nicks here—but it’s busy and bustling, packed with interesting little shops. I have no idea what delights downtown Winnipeg might have to offer, but Harry seems suitably impressed—and purposeful.

I don’t do much clothes shopping, and when I do it’s very much a functional affair. I dive in and out of Primark or Topshop, buy a few items all at once, and all pretty similar—denim jeans, dark-colored tops. Hoodies, naturally. And always I err on the side of caution as far as size is concerned. I can get into a twelve with some to spare, but I tend to think a fourteen is safer. It doesn’t matter if things are a little on the loose side. Except Harry thinks it does, so for this trip at least I daresay I’ll be squeezing into a ten.