Chance of a Lifetime Read Online Free PDF Page A

hear my own breathy voice over the bashing and thudding of my heart.
    “Good girl.”
    And then he spanks me.
    Oh, dear God! It hurts! It hurts so much!
    What a shock! I’d expected a tingle, a little burn…something that’s as much pleasure as pain.
    Bloody hell, how wrong can you be?
    It’s like he’s slapped me with a solid hunk of wood rather than his strong, but only human, hand. For a moment, both mind and bottom are numbed by it, but then sensation whirls in like a hurricane, I shout out loud—something indistinguishable—and my left buttock feels like it’s on fire.
    And that’s just one blow.
    As more and more land, I realize in astonishment that in that first shot, he was actually holding back….
    Slap! Slap! Slap!
    Spank! Spank! Spank!
    The whole of my rear is very quickly an inferno, and the heat sinks like lava into the channel of my sex, reigniting the desire, the grinding longing I felt before my orgasms, and rendering it slight and inconsequential.
    I know I should be quiet and still and obedient. I know I should just accept my punishment like a good little girl. Instinct tells me that a master appreciates that in a supplicant. Perfect poise. The perfect ability to absorb the punishment with grace and decorum.
    But me, I’m rocking and wriggling about, struggling against my bonds, plaguing my own clit with my wild pony bucking and jerking that makes my pulled-tight thong press and rub against it.
    I feel as if I’m going out of my mind, and yet I know, in some still-sane part of it, that I’ve never been happier in my life. Despite the pain and the strangeness and the sheer, unadulterated kink of what’s happening to me, I know that this is where I should be and who I should be with.
    The marquis lands a particularly sharp blow, and I let out a gulping, anguished cry. But it’s not from the impact, or the raging fire in my bottom cheeks.
    No, what pains me the most is that in two weeks I’ll be thousands of miles away from the hand that’s spanking me.
    Still squirming about, my backside still in torment, still almost about to orgasm, I begin to cry piteously, completely out of control and racked by raw, illogical heartache.
    As if he were plugged right into my psyche on the deepest level, the marquis stops spanking me immediately.
    Strong and sure, he turns me over as if I were as light as a feather across his lap. I gasp as my sore bottom rubs against his denim jeans, but he takes the exhalation into his own mouth as he swoops down to kiss my very breath.
    With his tongue still in my mouth, he unfastens my hands and elbows, then, with a swift, sharp jerk that snaps the lace like a cobweb, he wrenches the thong from between my legs and replaces it with his fingertips. His gentle fingertips that love me to a swift, sweet, pain-stealing orgasm.
    I moan into his kiss, pleasure sluicing through my loins, rising through my body and my soul and soothing my aching heart. He touches me so tenderly, coaxing me to the peak again and again. As I twist beneath his touch, I realize, distantly, that I’m clinging on to him for the dearest life, yanking at his dark shirt and digging my nails into his back, perhaps inflicting a tiny percentage of the pain I’ve just experienced.
    Finally, we both lapse into silence and stillness. He holds me. I hold him. We’re two breathless survivors of a whirlwind.
    How long we sit like this, I have no real idea. My entire world is his strength, his scent, his sure, steady breathing and the beat of his heart in his chest where I huddle against it. After a while, though, another physical factor begins to impress itself on me.
    I’m on the marquis’s lap, and in the cradle of that lap there’s the hard knot of an erection.
    I start to feel hot again. My cheeks flush with shame at my own selfishness. This spanking was something he wanted to do, but it was really as much my idea as his…and I’ve had the pleasure of it—several times—and he’s had nothing in the