Fifty Days of Sin (14 page)

“Only one stroke and you’re
completely wet,” he says, with a note of wonder in his voice. “You
really want me to fuck you, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

Then without any further warning
the second blow comes stinging down onto my right bottom cheek. I
bite my lip against a cry and count the number out loud. He follows
with two more on the right and three on the left. The warmth of the
blows spreads over my behind and I’m panting. My arms are starting
to get tired, but I daren’t move. “Seven,” I count.

Then he moves his aim, using the
crop on the back of my right thigh above my stocking top. I am so
surprised at feeling the blow land there that I don’t manage to
stifle my cry. “Eight,” I pant.

More blows to my right leg
follow, then he moves to my left and I count twelve, thirteen,
fourteen, fifteen as he lashes my thigh over and over again. The
blows are hard, biting, stinging; reflexively, I jerk my hips
forward with each blow, but my paradoxical body still thrills with
as much excitement as pain and as I push against the door each
time, I feel my tingling clitoris make contact with the door and
rub against it, affording me a tiny stab of pleasure each time. I
grip onto the top of the door frame, eyes screwed shut and body
braced against the beating, and he starts again on my behind. I
whimper again as the blows come thick and fast. “Twenty-five.”

Then, “Aagh!” I scream and he
changes his focus, angling his blows so that he hits me upwards,
diagonally across each buttock, the tip of the crop so far between
my legs that I’m afraid he’ll hit my most intimate parts.
“Twenty-six.” Again and again he hits me, closer and closer to my
sex, but every time missing by a fraction of an inch. At last it’s
over. “Thirty. Thank you, sir,” I pant, and my arms are so sore now
that I have to let go of the doorframe and move them down to my
sides. But I daren’t do any more: I stay stood against the door,
face to the wood, legs apart, awaiting Adam’s command. Now that
it’s finished, my body is suffused with a warm glow of desire. My
body tingles, longing for Adam’s touch, for him to enter me.

I don’t have
long to wait. “Good girl,” he says, and he takes hold of my
shoulders, moving me away from the door and turning me around. He
firmly propels me towards the bed. Then he pushes me down onto it,
my legs off the bed and my body flat on it, face down. He pulls my
legs apart and pauses, looking, while I wait, yearning for him to
fuck me –
please, please, Adam, I need
you
.

The bed is too high for my knees
to reach the floor so my parted legs are bent, but I don’t have
long to wait as I hear him take off his clothes and pull open the
bedside drawer. He puts on a condom and then he eases himself
inside me, moving tantalisingly slowly this time, withholding the
hard thrusts that he knows I crave. As he moves languidly in and
out of me, I feel him caress my upper thighs, feeling the fabric of
the suspenders and the lace of my stockings, then he moves his hand
up to my right breast and roughly pulls the cup down to expose it
to his touch.

His fingers on my erect nipple
cause more shafts of pleasure to shoot down to my clitoris, and I
moan as at last he starts to move faster, harder. He runs his hand
down and round to the front of my body, slamming into me hard now
and letting his skilled fingers make contact with the little bud
between my legs, wet with my own juices, and I feel myself climbing
towards the apex of my pleasure.

He slows his thrusts, and
deliberately reduces the speed of his fingers, teasing my clitoris
and making me moan with the sensation. Then he changes the rhythm
again, and the path towards my orgasm rises again, and then I feel
his movements in and out of me grow more and more urgent. “Oh,
baby,” I hear him say. “Oh, Justine...” He rams inside me hard,
rubbing me urgently with his fingers, and I cry out as I edge
towards ecstasy. And then I’m soaring, crying out and moaning,
filled with the impossibly sweet sensation of pure pleasure as he
makes me come and then reaches his own orgasm, emptying himself
into me as I shudder from the force of my climax.

He pulls out from inside me, and
I slump to the floor on my knees, spent and utterly exhausted. His
arms are around me and he lifts me up bodily, pulls back the duvet
and helps me climb into bed.

He lies next to me, holding me
and stroking my hair. “Are you okay?” he asks again. I nod mutely,
my face pressed against his chest, and we just hold each other,
sated and damp with sweat, as our breathing returns to normal. He
runs his hand down to my bottom and feels me wince as he touches
the tender skin.

“I can’t quite believe how wet
you got from being beaten with a riding crop,” he says. I can hear
the smile in his voice.

I move my head to look up at
him, smiling ruefully. “I can’t quite believe how much you seem to
like it.” Although what we’ve just done has given me a huge amount
of pleasure, it’s still strange to reconcile the new, dominating
Adam with the personality that I know from outside the bedroom.

“Only if you do,” he says. “If I
ever do anything you don’t want me to, you just have to tell me.
Remember your safeword.”

“Yes, I remember my safeword.”
And as I hear myself sound it out in my head, I remember why I
chose it. It was the one I used before with Michael. I try to push
away my mental image of him, rain-soaked and pleading, waiting for
me to come home from work. But now that I’ve remembered, I can’t
get his face out of my head.

Saturday, 19 May

I COULD REALLY GET USED TO this
car. Adam’s Mercedes is simply the most comfortable vehicle I’ve
ever sat in throughout my whole life. We’re driving to my parents’
place in Cherry Hinton, near Cambridge, and the early May weather
is beautiful. As we draw nearer to the Fens the land gets flatter.
The blue sky, uninterrupted by hills, stretches wide and glorious
overhead.

I glance at Adam and feel a
flutter of desire. He’s still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever
seen in my life. I’m finding it hard to keep him out of my mind all
the time now. When I should be working I find myself drifting off
into daydreams of the incredibly hot things he’s been doing to me,
or what I imagine he might do next. I keep lying awake at night,
enjoying my fantasies so much that I don’t want to go to sleep.

And my appetite is nothing like
it used to be. Often now I pick at my food – which at least has the
welcome side effect of causing my tummy to become lovely and flat.
Not a healthy attitude, I know, but hey, I’m a woman – I can’t help
it.

I hear a message tone on my
phone so I delve in my bag and take it out. It’s Melanie, wishing
me luck taking Adam round to see the family. Mum’s cooking a big
roast dinner with all the trimmings and we’re staying overnight, so
he’ll be treated to one of Dad’s huge cooked breakfasts in the
morning.

I see there’s
another message I haven’t read, and open it. But my heart sinks
when I see it’s Michael, pleading for us to meet up and talk things
over.
What things?
I think. There’s nothing to talk about and he should know that
by now. I hit delete. I don’t even want to reply; perhaps if I
ignore him for long enough he’ll get the hint.

I connect to the internet
through my phone. “Oh, my God,” I exclaim to Adam. “You remember
Matt’s girlfriend, Kelly?”

“The pretty blonde one? Yes, I
remember her.”

“Yes, the pretty blonde one,” I
confirm with a rueful smile. “How could you forget Kelly? Anyway –
you won’t believe what she’s posted on Facebook.”

“Don’t people normally just tell
you what they’ve had for breakfast or something when they use
Facebook?”

“Well, I admit some people’s
posts can be a bit trivial, but this one isn’t. She’s having
buttock implants, would you believe, and she’s gone and told the
world by posting it on here! Number one, why would anyone want
implants in their bottom, and number two, why on earth would you
tell everyone about it over the internet?”

“It just goes to prove that
Facebook is a total waste of time,” he replies with amusement in
his voice. “There’s never anything you actually want to know on it.
I have no idea why an intelligent woman like you even bothers.”

“You don’t have to be lacking in
intelligence to want to connect with your friends,” I point
out.

“Well, whatever. As long as it
makes you happy.”

“So, are you looking forward to
seeing my parents?” I change the subject.

“Yeah, I like your folks. They
seemed really nice when I met them in hospital. And it was obvious
how much they cared about you.”

“I think you made a good
impression on them, too.” I smile as I remember the beautiful
flowers Adam brought me and how Mum sang his praises.

We’re entering Cherry Hinton now
so I give Adam the last directions to my mum and dad’s place, and
he pulls up in the drive. Mum has thoughtfully parked her car on
the road to make space for Adam’s Mercedes next to Dad’s Citroen
Picasso. Adam’s beautiful car looks strangely incongruous parked
outside my parents’ house.

They were obviously waiting and
watching for us, because as soon as we out of the car Mum and Dad
are coming out of the front door to greet us. We don’t even have to
ring the doorbell. Mum hugs me gingerly, asking if I’m all okay
now, and I feel a telltale blush rising as I assure her that I’m
fine. What she doesn’t know is that although I’ve healed from the
car accident, Adam left livid bruises on my bottom with the riding
crop and they still haven’t completely healed.

Adam is shaking Dad’s hand.
“Good to see you again, Frank.” Then Dad envelops me in a bear hug
as Adam kisses Mum’s cheek and hands her a bouquet of lilies.

“Oh, they’re beautiful, Adam,”
she beams. “Thank you. Come on into the house and I’ll put them in
some water.”

We go into the house and Mum
tells us all to sit down in the living room. Dad has already
engaged Adam in a lively conversation about his car, establishing
that it’s a Roadster, and is expressing surprise at the miles per
gallon he can get out of the SLK. I grin as I listen to them
immediately form a connection through such a stereotypical male
conversational topic.

When Mum brings in some tea and
coffee, still wearing her kitchen apron, Adam politely changes the
subject and we relax back on the sofa together, everything feeling
very natural and comfortable. I guess with the good impression Adam
made on Mum and Dad when he looked after me at the time of the
accident, they were always going to approve of him. What on earth
would they think if they knew about our sadomasochistic sex
life?

My parents ask Adam about his
own family, and he tells them about his parents, who live in a
remote barn conversion near the border with Wales. They ask about
siblings and he describes his older brothers, George and Clive.

“Clive’s the
one who worries my parents,” he explains. “I don’t know if it’s
middle child syndrome or just co-incidence. But George is fine –
just married a few months ago, and his wife is really lovely. She’s
already expecting their first child. Clive’s a different kettle of
fish entirely.” Adam puts his hand on my thigh in a relaxed but
proprietorial gesture, as if to say,
this
is my woman.
It feels very natural, as if
his hand belongs there, resting gently on my leg. I can feel the
warmth of his touch through my jeans.

“Oh, so what’s Clive like then?”
asks Mum.

“Well, he’s already divorced at
thirty-one,” Adam starts. “He had the shortest marriage in history.
Came back from their honeymoon and announced that they’d split
up.”

“Oh, no, how awful,” comments my
mother. “How on earth did that happen?”

“Well, he said he’d had doubts
before the actual marriage, but he just put it down to wedding
nerves. But then afterwards, apparently, he realised he’d made a
massive mistake. So he decided he had to tell her, not just put up
with it and end up getting divorced after they’d had children. He
thought at least then she’d be young enough to meet someone else
and be happy with another man.”

“I’ve never heard anything like
it,” says Mum, shaking her head.

“What was the girl like, then?”
asks Dad.

“She was lovely, actually,” he
replies. “I don’t know how Clive could have done that to her. You
can imagine how heartbroken she was. And her parents, apparently,
hit the roof. They’d just spent thousands on the wedding and it
only lasted three weeks.”

“Oh, I can imagine,” says Dad
with a grimace. It’s clear he has every sympathy with the father in
this story.

“Still, although she was really
nice,” Adam continues, “I never really felt she was right for
Clive. He’s had a couple of other girlfriends since then, but I
don’t think it’s been anything serious.”

“And what does he do, Adam?” my
father asks.

“Not much,” confides Adam with a
rueful smile. “He supposedly works in IT as a contractor, but he’s
been out of work for a while now. So he’s drawing benefits, and
living in a village three miles away from our parents. In a little
cottage with a broken washing machine. So Mum’s there every other
day picking up and putting away his washing, and putting little
dishes of lasagne and casserole in his fridge to make sure he gets
a good dinner.”

“No!” I exclaim. Adam’s told me
the story of Clive’s lightning divorce before, but I haven’t heard
this bit. “How old did you say he is, thirty-one? And he’s got your
mum doing his cooking and washing for him?”

“I told you he was a bit of a
nightmare,” grins Adam. “Good job you’ve got the responsible
brother, hey?”

“Too right,” agrees my father
emphatically.