Chance of a Lifetime Read Free

slap on the thigh. It’s a pretty halfhearted effort but it makes me squawk and rub the place to take the sting away.
    Immediately though, I’m drifting into fantasy.
    In my mind I’m back in the little sitting room, and this time the phone stays silent. And the marquis bares my bottom and starts to caress, caress, caress it, then lands a blow.
    I slap myself again, trying to recreate the feeling. It bloody hurts, but I do it again, moaning, “My lord…”
    I slap and slap and moan and moan, and suddenly I just have to play with my clitoris. I’m so turned on imagining him spanking me that my wet sex aches.
    Within a few seconds I come, softly crying his name, seeing his face.
     
    The next day, I worry. What’s going to happen? Is anything going to happen? Or has the marquis quite sensibly decided to dismiss our stolen interlude as an aberration. Something of no consequence. It must be bred in his blue English blood to dally with underlings for his pleasure without a second thought.
    I certainly don’t see him for the next couple of days, and the cleaning, dusting and polishing goes on without incident. I work cheerfully with the rest of the team, as if nothing has happened.
    But then, after a long day, when the others are all off to the pub, I slip back to my room to change, and find a little note upon my mat.
    I’m sorry we were so rudely interrupted, it says in a fine, almost copperplate handwriting. Would you care to join me in the small sitting room, at seven o’clock this evening? I feel that there’s much we could explore there in the furtherance of your education and the pursuit of mutual pleasure.
    It’s finished off with a single word.
    Christian .
    Christian? Who’s “Christian”?
    Then it dawns on me. Duh! The marquis is just like a normal person in that at least.
    He has a first name.
    I wonder if he’ll want me to call him “Christian”? Somehow it doesn’t seem right, or respectful. Especially in view of what we’re almost certain to be doing. It’ll definitely be “My lord” or “Your lordship,” or just sobs and moans of pain and pleasure in equal amounts.
     
    At seven o’clock, I’m staring at the door to the little sitting room. It was half in my mind not to turn up, to try and pretend that what happened beyond that slab of oak never happened. But doing that would be to miss…well…miss the chance of a lifetime. I might never meet a man again who’s into the things that the marquis is, and I might go through life having perfectly ordinary, perfectly satisfactory sex, but still wondering what it would have been like to try the extraordinary kind with spanking and strange mind games.
    I knock as firmly as I can on the door, and immediately that deep, clear voice calls out, “Enter!” from within. Crikey, he already sounds like a stern schoolmaster summoning his tardy pupil.
    I tremble.
    But there’s nothing fearsome or intimidating when I step into the room and close the door behind me. It’s cozy and welcoming, with a nice little fire burning in the grate to ward off the unseasonal damp chill. The thick curtains are drawn, and soft lamps emit a friendly golden glow that flatters the fine old furniture and makes it gleam.
    It flatters the marquis too, not that he needs it. He looks stunning.
    He’s all in black again, as ever. Tight black jeans embrace his long legs, and the splendid lean musculature of his thighs and his backside. As he rises to his feet from the depths of one of the armchairs, I imagine, for a fleeting second, spanking him!
    Blood fills my cheeks in a raging blush, and I falter and hang back. A huge waft of guilt rushes through me at even thinking that. I open my mouth, but I can’t speak, and he smiles at me.
    “Come on in, Rose. Would you like a drink?” I notice that he has a glass with something clear and icy set on a little table beside his chair. Vodka? Water? Gin? Who knows….
    “Um…er…yes.” I flick my glance to the sideboard and a few