shadows, but they’re all agog. Some of them might be masturbating.’
‘Agog, eh? I’m not surprised. It sounds like my birthday in there.’ He laughed softly, the sound of that just as sexy as his faux dictatorial voice. The way he switched from one persona to the other was breath-taking, and seamless. ‘And me, what about me in all this? What am I wearing?’
‘Er . . . it’s dark . . . it’s hard to see . . .’
‘Do you know, I think I might be wearing leather too. Skin-tight leather jeans and high boots, and a big belt. Nothing else, except maybe a studded collar?’
Lizzie exploded into laughter again, unable to help herself. John Smith was the most surprising man she’d ever met, both awe-inspiring and yet frequently hilarious.
‘And again . . . she laughs. You’re just asking for trouble, aren’t you, Bettie? Don’t you fancy the idea of me in leather trousers?’ She could hear that grin again, that sunny, beautiful grin of his. ‘Do you think I’d look like a dickhead?’
‘Well, it’s a bit of cliché, but you should be able to get away with leather, at a pinch. In fact . . . you look great!’
And he did. In her mind. The beautiful suit faded and she saw him clearly in the fetish gear, the black of it stunning against his golden beauty, the leather sleek over his thighs and arse, the collar round his throat a sigil of power. He didn’t look like a fool or a cliché. He looked wonderful.
‘Good answer . . . I think.’ He paused, and she thought she detected a rustle. Him getting comfortable, ready to bring himself off? ‘So, you’re strung up from the ceiling and I’m strutting around in my leather strides . . . What next?’
‘You whip me with a riding crop and it really, really hurts.’
‘Oh, my sweet Bettie, you do tell the best stories. I can just imagine it . . . You twisting on the chain, struggling and writhing, your gorgeous body jiggling about as you try to avoid the blows. Tears on your face. Fire across your bottom. Crimson nipples peeking out of the leather. You’re aroused and wet, and it starts to ooze down your thighs even while you’re moaning for mercy. Your arse is on fire but suddenly you’re begging and pleading for me to fuck you.’
He sounded breathy. He had to be pumping himself. He just had to be.
And his strictures forgotten, Lizzie was rubbing herself too, pounding her clit as she clutched her phone so tightly she thought she might snap it in half. Her bottom lifted from the bed, blindly pushing her crotch at her hand as much as that hand was pressing back down. Heels gouging at the bed sheets, she jerked her hips.
‘And I want to fuck you . . . but I want to hear you groan and cry a bit more first. So I crop you some more, criss-crossing the strokes, finding tender new spots. I whip your thighs, the outer curves of your bottom . . . the inner ones too. I catch you right across your delicious little arsehole and you scream.’
Biting down hard on her lip, so as not to actually scream, in the real world, Lizzie pressed down hard on her clitoris and the world went white with intense pleasure, an orgasm so ferocious it was almost brutal, laying waste to her as her sex pulsed like a heart.
She knew that John knew. She knew that he knew she knew. But he went on, pushing on, making the dream world all his own. ‘And while you’re still screaming, I let you down and then I fuck you on the floor, still in your chains, from behind. It’s hard-packed earth beneath us, and you’re on your knees. I have your pussy first, hard and fast. Your face is in the dirt as I thrust into you . . . but you’re loving it, despite the pain in your bum. In fact when I dig my nails into the soreness, you come like a train, milking me and grunting like an animal.’
If only.
Rising to pleasure again, Lizzie wanted to fling the phone away and howl and curse, her vagina clenching on the empty air where John should be. Keeping silent was a more perverse agony than
‘Agog, eh? I’m not surprised. It sounds like my birthday in there.’ He laughed softly, the sound of that just as sexy as his faux dictatorial voice. The way he switched from one persona to the other was breath-taking, and seamless. ‘And me, what about me in all this? What am I wearing?’
‘Er . . . it’s dark . . . it’s hard to see . . .’
‘Do you know, I think I might be wearing leather too. Skin-tight leather jeans and high boots, and a big belt. Nothing else, except maybe a studded collar?’
Lizzie exploded into laughter again, unable to help herself. John Smith was the most surprising man she’d ever met, both awe-inspiring and yet frequently hilarious.
‘And again . . . she laughs. You’re just asking for trouble, aren’t you, Bettie? Don’t you fancy the idea of me in leather trousers?’ She could hear that grin again, that sunny, beautiful grin of his. ‘Do you think I’d look like a dickhead?’
‘Well, it’s a bit of cliché, but you should be able to get away with leather, at a pinch. In fact . . . you look great!’
And he did. In her mind. The beautiful suit faded and she saw him clearly in the fetish gear, the black of it stunning against his golden beauty, the leather sleek over his thighs and arse, the collar round his throat a sigil of power. He didn’t look like a fool or a cliché. He looked wonderful.
‘Good answer . . . I think.’ He paused, and she thought she detected a rustle. Him getting comfortable, ready to bring himself off? ‘So, you’re strung up from the ceiling and I’m strutting around in my leather strides . . . What next?’
‘You whip me with a riding crop and it really, really hurts.’
‘Oh, my sweet Bettie, you do tell the best stories. I can just imagine it . . . You twisting on the chain, struggling and writhing, your gorgeous body jiggling about as you try to avoid the blows. Tears on your face. Fire across your bottom. Crimson nipples peeking out of the leather. You’re aroused and wet, and it starts to ooze down your thighs even while you’re moaning for mercy. Your arse is on fire but suddenly you’re begging and pleading for me to fuck you.’
He sounded breathy. He had to be pumping himself. He just had to be.
And his strictures forgotten, Lizzie was rubbing herself too, pounding her clit as she clutched her phone so tightly she thought she might snap it in half. Her bottom lifted from the bed, blindly pushing her crotch at her hand as much as that hand was pressing back down. Heels gouging at the bed sheets, she jerked her hips.
‘And I want to fuck you . . . but I want to hear you groan and cry a bit more first. So I crop you some more, criss-crossing the strokes, finding tender new spots. I whip your thighs, the outer curves of your bottom . . . the inner ones too. I catch you right across your delicious little arsehole and you scream.’
Biting down hard on her lip, so as not to actually scream, in the real world, Lizzie pressed down hard on her clitoris and the world went white with intense pleasure, an orgasm so ferocious it was almost brutal, laying waste to her as her sex pulsed like a heart.
She knew that John knew. She knew that he knew she knew. But he went on, pushing on, making the dream world all his own. ‘And while you’re still screaming, I let you down and then I fuck you on the floor, still in your chains, from behind. It’s hard-packed earth beneath us, and you’re on your knees. I have your pussy first, hard and fast. Your face is in the dirt as I thrust into you . . . but you’re loving it, despite the pain in your bum. In fact when I dig my nails into the soreness, you come like a train, milking me and grunting like an animal.’
If only.
Rising to pleasure again, Lizzie wanted to fling the phone away and howl and curse, her vagina clenching on the empty air where John should be. Keeping silent was a more perverse agony than
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