Ecstasy in the White Room Read Free Page A

But I want to. God,
I need to. My pussy is aching and engorged. I have to come.
    Sprawled on the throne, I slip my fingertips between my thighs
and start to rub, wriggling and swirling my hips as I do. I’m in another white
room now, small as it is, and I seem to see Simon leaning elegantly against the
cubicle door in front of me, watching my every move, his eyes full of delicious
threat as I fiddle and diddle myself.
    Slicking my clit like the colossal trollop he accused me of
being, I put on a show for him, hitching myself about, moaning a bit. I know
there’s nobody outside in the powder room, but I probably couldn’t stop myself
if there was.
    I work hard. I’m rough with myself. I come fast, grabbing a
quick, uncouth orgasm, not really satisfying myself, just taking the edge off. I
still feel tingly as I wipe myself and I know I’ll be ready for more soon.
    Back at the table, Simon gives me a comprehensive going-over,
his eyes acute. He knows. Of course he does. He knew before I even left the
table, and it doesn’t need my bright eyes and my radiant face to tell him
now.
    “What did you do in there?”
    “What do you think I did, Simon? Please don’t be gross.”
    He sighs. “You know what I mean. What did you do?”
    “Nothing.”
    “Liar.” He reaches out and holds my hand across the table, his
forefinger just stroking the pulse point at my wrist. It’s as erotic as if he
really had flung me facedown on the table and rogered me from behind. “Tell me
what you did.”
    “I...um...played with myself,” I say in the tiniest voice, but
I imagine it louder and heads turning in interest.
    “Did you come?” Still the finger strokes, just as mine did.
    “Yes.”
    “Wicked slut...I didn’t give you permission. Now I’m going to
have to see to you, and I don’t think we should wait until we return to our
room, do you?” I shake my head. I can hardly breathe. “Dirty, lustful behavior
like this needs to be dealt with as quickly as possible.”
    Releasing my hand, he gets smartly to his feet and comes around
to my side of the table, to draw out my chair for me. I feel a tiny bit anxious
as I rise and he escorts me from the restaurant. Has the “entertainment” started
already? Or has he something in mind.
    Quickly, I discover it’s “something.” Holding me firmly by the
hand, Simon whisks me into a small room just off the foyer. It’s a little
writing room, a holdover from a more elegant age when people sent postcards from
their holidays. Now perhaps, they nip in here to send an email or tweet from
their iPhones, but there’s still a couple of elegant desks with blotters and
writing materials along with data terminals for laptops.
    Simon closes the door, then whirls me against it. At first I
think he’s going to kiss me, but instead, he bends me right over, right up
against the door, and throws my dress over my back.
    Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow!
    He gives me four very hard spanks, two on each buttock. No
building up to it; no finesse. Just solid fiery pain. Then he straightens me up,
and as my gown slides down over his cruel handiwork, he blots my tears with his
snow-white handkerchief.
    “Now you look really pretty for your audience,” he whispers,
low and thrilling.
    Then, as swiftly as we took refuge in the writing room, we’re
out again, and heading for a set of double doors at the end of the foyer. A
hotel footman is standing there, apparently on guard. He’s very cute, and he
gives me look of shy appreciation as Simon flashes the white card to him, but I
can’t think of anything except the sizzle and ache in my bum cheeks, and the
fact I’m almost blind with lust and the desire to have my dear love’s cock
inside me.
    The room beyond is another sumptuous example of Art Deco style,
much like our bedroom and just as white, but with accents of silver, pistachio
and black. There are stepped frame accents everywhere, mirrors, long-legged,
attenuated dancing nymphs in gleaming brushed steel. At any