Naughty Bits 2 Read Online Free PDF Page A

handsome face.
    I know what he’s indicating. That I should assume the position.
    It’s difficult to settle elegantly across his lap with my hands tied, but I do the best I can, not wanting to disgrace myself. Even so, he has to more or less grapple me into place, setting me at precisely the right angle and elevation and disposing my limbs and torso in the optimum position to present my bottom to his hand.
    I wait for the first spank. The first real one…the tap the other day was nothing, I suspect.
    But it doesn’t come yet.
    â€œMmmm…”
    It’s a low, contemplative sound, and as he utters it, the marquess gently cups my bottom cheek, testing its resilience. The feeling is entirely different this time; his fingers on my bare skin feel like traveling points of electricity, sparking me and goading me as they rove. He grips me harder and I have this sense of some kind of computer in his brain calculating, calculating. How hard to hit. How high to lift his hand for the downstroke. How many slaps is optimum.
    â€œReady?” he asks, to my surprise. I’d expected him to just take what he wanted. He’s in charge, after all.
    And yet, is he? I bet if I said “no,” even now, he’d immediately desist and help me restore my clothing to decency and propriety. But no way would I do that. I want what I want, and it’s what he wants, too.
    â€œYes,” I whisper, barely able to hear my own breathy voice over the bashing and thudding of my heart.
    â€œGood 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 marquess 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 marquess 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