A beautiful hardcover journal with an intricate, gold-leaf design etched into the cover. A raw amethyst necklace, bound up in silver wire and hanging from a long, shining chain. A single red rose.
Sir laid them out onto the table before me at the end of dinner, in that brief time when all of the dumplings are gone but the panna cotta has yet to come. He gave no explanation, no warning– he simply said, “Choose one.”
My first instinct was for the journal. I seem to have a fetish that borders on sexual for books with empty pages. But then again, the necklace was too lovely. I so rarely wear jewelry– I pretend it’s for political reasons, but in reality, I tend to lose nice pieces the very night I first wear them. Fine jewelry just doesn’t seem to suit me. I grew up too poor to have many aspirations for diamonds and pearls. But Sir knew all of that– which was why he had chosen the amethyst, dark crystalline purple and just as rough as I was.
In the end, though, I picked up the rose, and he smiled.
“Smart girl,” he congratulated. “Now… tell me why.”
I looked down at the soft red lines of the petals, full in bloom.
“They’re all beautiful– really— but this one… should be enjoyed while it lasts.” I smiled coyly. “You don’t buy me flowers often enough to let this one wilt.”
“I could burn the journal. Toss the necklace into the river.”
“But you wouldn’t.”
“No? Wouldn’t I?”
“No,” I said, grinning. “Because you’re playing a game with me, for one, and for another, you don’t want me to break your nose if you fucked either of the others up.”
“They’re too pretty to be fucked up,” Sir agreed, matching my smile. “Unfortunately for you, kitten, you’re so pretty I can’t resist.”
A hotel. Soft lighting. A city view.
Sir’s hand on my ass and the rose against my cheek.
He slipped my dress off of me from behind. No bra, no panties to shield me from him beneath. A garter belt, crimson hold-up stockings, and my black Mary Jane heels. He pushed me to the window and positioned me before it, legs spread, wrists crossed behind my back.
“The whole city could see you from here, babydoll. Four million people all taking in every inch of you, if they would only just look up.”
“Some might be,” I pointed out.
Sir’s palm met the left curve of my ass hard and without warning.
“They might be,” he agreed. “And I want you to remember that for what comes next.”
I squirmed in my place and Sir spanked my right cheek to match the left. It was a dangerous mix of nervousness and excitement, the concept of being watched. My veins were full of adrenaline, either way.
From behind, Sir took the rose and traced the petals down my body. Long, elegant neck. Sharp collar-bones. Full, heavy breasts. Bold ribcage. The soft, flat expanse of my stomach, down to the dark curls that cloaked my pussy. The smell of its bloom was thick in the air, or maybe it was only the rose-oil perfume at my neck and my wrists. He brought the rose up again, but the time there was nothing soft. A thorn against one nipple, just hard enough to make me cry out, not so hard to draw blood. More thorns against my lips as he pushed the stem between my teeth and I held it in my mouth.
“Don’t let that fall from your lips, pretty girl,” he growled against my ear.
I could hear him unclasp his belt from behind me. Sir only takes me to hotels in our city when he’s about to leave for business and he doesn’t want the neighbors to hear me scream.
“Breathe in through your nose,” he instructed me. “Take in its scent. By the time I’m done with you, you’re never going to be able smell a rose without thinking of me ever again.”
In the morning, he was gone, but the marks he left were not. The bruises he had left on my ass from his belt; the smudges of our palms against the window, from where he had bent me over and fucked me, owned me, made me scream through my teeth. An explosion of petals beneath the window from after, from the way he had taken the bloom and smashed it against my skin, streaking breasts and thighs and stomach a fragrant red.
On the bed beside me was the journal, the necklace, and a whole bouquet of roses– two dozen of them.
This post is part of Kayla Lord’s Masturbation Monday. You can read more of my sexy antics in my Masturbation Monday tag! Hungry for more Monday lovin’? Head over to the Masturbation Monday masterpost (we’re on week 27)! I update my blog every Monday with sexy scenes from my own crazy life. For submission rules and former weeks, check out Kayla Lord’s blog: A Sexual Being.