well-upholstered armchair in the room. He might thrash her over the back of that, and bugger her, as he’d intimated. Oh hell, what would that be like? So rude and dark and dangerous . . . Her back passage stuffed with his rampant erection. Her clit throbbed as she tried to imagine it, the tiny reaction entirely spontaneous.
He might bind her again, and gag her, then slather her bottom with lube and take her like a boy, making her grunt and sob with forbidden pleasure.
She wanted it. So much . . .
She wanted everything.
Silky arousal pooled beneath her where she sat. Helplessly, she oozed, a creature enslaved by her own senses. Wanton. Willing. Available.
Faintly, the shower teemed on, in the bathroom. What would happen if someone came to the door? Some hotel employee, perhaps with room service, and on getting no answer they might use their pass key to enter and find her here, bound, exposed, blind and available.
A waiter might come in and be unable to resist the delicious female dish presented to him. He might grab her crotch, just as she longed for John to return and do. Unknown fingers might push and poke at her, rubbing her clit to see if it were possible to rouse her against her will; perhaps wiggling into her vagina, mock-fucking her.
Groaning, she wriggled and rocked on the chair, imagining some stranger playing with her, crudely defiling her while John relaxed on the bed, watching the show. Perhaps he might issue instructions, pinch her clitty , make her come .
‘Oh please,’ she murmured to nobody in particular, longing to be used and fingered.
A door opened and every muscle in her body went taut. Was it the bathroom? Or was it the door to the corridor outside, as she’d feared . . . or yearned for?
Footsteps approached. They sounded as if they were heading from the bathroom, and muffled, as if made by bare feet.
John?
The hand she’d anticipated clasped her pussy, finger diving in, making her whimper and struggle. The pressure was firm, but not quite enough, devilishly measured to tease and taunt, but not grant climax.
In a cloud of familiar fragrance, a face nestled against hers, a cheek brushing her hair as the probing fingertip skirted her inner sex lips, her perineum, the margins of her entrance. She felt him scoop a little of her juice, rub it between finger and thumb, assaying her.
‘Randy little trollop,’ he whispered. ‘You’ve made a mess on the seat with your wetness. You haven’t got a bit of selfcontrol, have you? You’ve just been sitting here getting hornier and hornier . . . What have you been thinking about? Cock, is it?’
Unable to speak, she nodded, wishing her hands were free so she could reach out and grab his crotch as he’d grabbed hers. As if he’d heard her, he stood up and edged to her side, abandoning her sex as he leant his pelvis against her arm. Through the cloth of her jacket, and whatever he was wearing, she felt him like an iron bar, jabbing at her, the mass of him intimidating.
‘Have you been thinking about it?’ He rocked, pressing harder, and holding her by the shoulder, keeping her steady. Damn him, was he getting himself off that way?
‘Yes, I’ve been thinking about your cock, master. I couldn’t help myself.’
She couldn’t see his smile, but she could swear it was there. As best she could within the restriction of her bonds, she pressed herself against him, circling her shoulder to caress him.
‘Be careful . . . be very careful.’ He reached down and touched her lips, running his fingertip across the lower one. When she darted out her tongue to caress it, she tasted her own foxy flavour, and when he turned his hand over, she pressed a fierce kiss of fealty against his knuckle.
‘What do you want, Bettie?’ He spoke quietly, almost kindly.
She didn’t have to think. ‘To see you, master. If it pleases you.’
‘It’ll cost you, sweetheart. That and your naughty thoughts . . . it’ll cost you in pain across your beautiful
He might bind her again, and gag her, then slather her bottom with lube and take her like a boy, making her grunt and sob with forbidden pleasure.
She wanted it. So much . . .
She wanted everything.
Silky arousal pooled beneath her where she sat. Helplessly, she oozed, a creature enslaved by her own senses. Wanton. Willing. Available.
Faintly, the shower teemed on, in the bathroom. What would happen if someone came to the door? Some hotel employee, perhaps with room service, and on getting no answer they might use their pass key to enter and find her here, bound, exposed, blind and available.
A waiter might come in and be unable to resist the delicious female dish presented to him. He might grab her crotch, just as she longed for John to return and do. Unknown fingers might push and poke at her, rubbing her clit to see if it were possible to rouse her against her will; perhaps wiggling into her vagina, mock-fucking her.
Groaning, she wriggled and rocked on the chair, imagining some stranger playing with her, crudely defiling her while John relaxed on the bed, watching the show. Perhaps he might issue instructions, pinch her clitty , make her come .
‘Oh please,’ she murmured to nobody in particular, longing to be used and fingered.
A door opened and every muscle in her body went taut. Was it the bathroom? Or was it the door to the corridor outside, as she’d feared . . . or yearned for?
Footsteps approached. They sounded as if they were heading from the bathroom, and muffled, as if made by bare feet.
John?
The hand she’d anticipated clasped her pussy, finger diving in, making her whimper and struggle. The pressure was firm, but not quite enough, devilishly measured to tease and taunt, but not grant climax.
In a cloud of familiar fragrance, a face nestled against hers, a cheek brushing her hair as the probing fingertip skirted her inner sex lips, her perineum, the margins of her entrance. She felt him scoop a little of her juice, rub it between finger and thumb, assaying her.
‘Randy little trollop,’ he whispered. ‘You’ve made a mess on the seat with your wetness. You haven’t got a bit of selfcontrol, have you? You’ve just been sitting here getting hornier and hornier . . . What have you been thinking about? Cock, is it?’
Unable to speak, she nodded, wishing her hands were free so she could reach out and grab his crotch as he’d grabbed hers. As if he’d heard her, he stood up and edged to her side, abandoning her sex as he leant his pelvis against her arm. Through the cloth of her jacket, and whatever he was wearing, she felt him like an iron bar, jabbing at her, the mass of him intimidating.
‘Have you been thinking about it?’ He rocked, pressing harder, and holding her by the shoulder, keeping her steady. Damn him, was he getting himself off that way?
‘Yes, I’ve been thinking about your cock, master. I couldn’t help myself.’
She couldn’t see his smile, but she could swear it was there. As best she could within the restriction of her bonds, she pressed herself against him, circling her shoulder to caress him.
‘Be careful . . . be very careful.’ He reached down and touched her lips, running his fingertip across the lower one. When she darted out her tongue to caress it, she tasted her own foxy flavour, and when he turned his hand over, she pressed a fierce kiss of fealty against his knuckle.
‘What do you want, Bettie?’ He spoke quietly, almost kindly.
She didn’t have to think. ‘To see you, master. If it pleases you.’
‘It’ll cost you, sweetheart. That and your naughty thoughts . . . it’ll cost you in pain across your beautiful
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