Naughty Bits 2 Read Free

me in the Caribbean. I won’t be here all that long.
    Although I would love to see what the manor looks like when it’s finished.
    I suppose all this pondering is to avoid thinking about the fact that the marquess has seen me masturbate, and almost, but not quite, spanked me.
    Do I really want to be spanked, though?
    In the video, he was doing it for real, and that woman—whoever she was, surely not his wife—was squealing andcrying out. So obviously it hurt like hell. Lying in bed later, I tug down my pajama bottom and give myself a 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 marquess 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.
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    The next day, I worry. What’s going to happen? Is anything going to happen? Or has the marquess 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 marquess is just 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.
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    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 to pretend that what happened beyond that slab of oak never happened. But doing that would be to miss…well…the chance of a lifetime. I might never meet a man again who’s into the things that the marquess 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 marquess, too, not that he needs it. He looks stunning.
    He’s all in black again, as ever. Tight black jeans