Without warning he turned his attention to her left breast. He slapped it too, grabbed it and groped it roughly. She cried out when he pinched the nipple painfully hard but right afterward, he put his mouth on it and the sudden shift in sensation had her crying out in pleasure. He sucked the nipple deep into his mouth, sucked and kept sucking until she groaned loudly in the back of her throat. He released it, sat up and back onto her hips and slapped both her breasts with his hands, slapped and grabbed them, slapped and massaged them. Quick pain followed quickly by slow pleasure. She didn't know what to feel. She accustomed herself to one and then had to immediately get used to another. Was this what her previous lovers had wanted to do to her breasts? Handle them roughly, squeeze and slap them, suck and pull them? Were they all too polite, too well-trained? Is this the way men behaved behind the curtain of civility? Is this what all her lovers would have done had they bought her body with money instead of with charm and the empty promises of love someday, perhaps, maybe?
She rather thought she preferred it on this side of the curtain.
Her nipples were almost purple from how hard he'd suckled them. And her breasts were bright red and burning from the slaps of his hands. He held both breasts in his large hands, held them hard, hard enough to see all those veins she so enjoyed looking at. Pinned beneath him by his weight, she could barely move her hips, but she tried. She wanted him to feel her body begging for his cock.
"Not yet, darling," he said. "Not quite yet. I'm having far too much fun to stop now."
He rolled her breasts, molded them against his palms, lifted them and held them. There was nothing of the savage about him, but nothing of the gentleman either. He was simply a man behaving like a man.
She liked this man.
Abruptly he stopped and slid off her stomach.
"Come," he ordered, taking her by the arm and pulling her to her feet off the bed.
She felt like a mannequin as he moved her this way and that, turning her back to his chest, bending her over the bed, placing her hands just so on the covers, and then sticking his prick into her from behind without a word of warning. He held her hips while he pumped it into her, controlling the depth and the speed entirely. He gave. She took. This would be her role for the next year when they met. She was to take it, whatever it was. Sometimes she would enjoy what he gave her. Sometimes she would not. He had told her that already … but now she believed him. His penis was long and large and every few thrusts the tip would hit her cervix, something she found uncomfortable to say the least. But Malcolm was enjoying himself, fucking her like this. His every breath and grunt and groan told her he was. So she stayed loose-limbed in his grasp, her tender breasts swaying with his every rough deep thrust, and waited it out.
At last he came, shooting her full of his hot thick fluid. It slicked her thighs and the male scent of it permeated the room. The scent of sex. The scent of a man with his whore.
The scent of money.
Malcolm pulled out of her and patted her on the ass.
"Good lass," he said. "Well done."
"Thank you." She slowly stood up straight and took a deep breath.
"Take a moment," he said as he laid on the bed again. "You've earned a little rest."
She was desperately thirsty from panting so hard.
"Water?" she asked.
"Please."
She pulled the little basket she'd packed out from under the bed. From it she took out two green glass bottles of sparkling water.
"Dangerous," he said.
"What is?"
"Glass bottles."
"Why so?"
He smiled.
"You wouldn't," she said.
He cocked his head to the side, raised his eyebrow.
"All right," she said as she unscrewed the cap of the bottle. "You would."
"It isn't that I would. It is that I will. You do realize this is merely foreplay, don't you? We haven't even started yet. I like to play games. I like to play roles. I might even bring an audience one night or two. I might even bring friends … "
If this was nothing but foreplay, nothing but the opening act, what would the main attraction be like?
"You didn't bring the riding crop," she said.
"Not tonight. Would you like me to bring it for our next assignation?"
"I have a choice?" She handed him a bottle of water.
"You have a choice of when, not if. There is no if. I will beat you with a riding crop at some point in the next twelve months."
"Might as well," she said. She wasn't looking forward to being beaten with a crop, but it seemed it would be best to get it over with. Maybe she would like it. Only one way to find out.