“You wet, baby?” I lean in, get a good look. “Christ, look at that. You like it, don’t you? Like gettin’ punished?”
With her suit twisted up, cutting into all that flesh like a thick, yellow cord, she’s equal parts lovely and obscene, a sacrificial virgin from an old B-movie. Until you catch sight of that little wet patch, and then she’s pure filth. I think of pulling the offending fabric aside and running my knuckles through all that plump slickness and then, fuck, my body’s not obeying anymore, because I shouldn’t do this—not here, not in front of the crowd without explicit consent.
But she said no limits. And she’s got her safe word and…
I drag the scrap of cloth to one side, let my knuckles skim her lips, lean in. “Want me to stop?” I ask, shielding her from the others with my body.
She shakes her head.
“Say it, so it’s clear.”
“N-n-no. Don’t stop.”
I lower my voice. “In front of all these people?”
“Yes. Yes, please.” God, I love that word on her mouth.Please.Her teeth dig into that pouty lower lip. Her eyes turn to look at me. “I don’t want you to stop,” she says, louder, projecting like a good little stage actress.
Fuck, just that image ramps me up for a second. The idea of taking her on a stage, not just in front of this group, but a fucking horde of people. A Broadway production.
“Good girl.” I lean back, step away, and angle my body so every one of these fuckers can see what’s mine. Then I brace myself and look down at what I’ve felt and tasted, but never seen.
My vision goes dark at the sight of plump, glistening, freshly-shaved flesh, pink and brown. I reach out—her cunt’s pure heat, her wetness cold on my fingers. “You shave today? Is this for me?”
When she doesn’t reply, I lean in, tap her ass and pull the cheek wide, focus on the little brown hole above.
My balls go tight and high, my belly knots up. Fuck, fuck, I’m gonna come. The urge is uncontrollable, almost painful. I want to do it inside her. I want to make her take it, show her she’s mine. Show all these people. Lay claim and—
She whimpers, arches up, opening herself to me.
My hand’s about to pull out my cock when someone in the audience whistles, low. The sound unblocks something in my brain and, suddenly, I hear the hum of people around us again—a lot of them.
“Nice,” says Morgana. “You just about done?”
I turn and see not just the original tent full of workshop participants, but dozens more. There’s gotta be a hundred people out there, watching and whispering, while I come close to disobeying every one of my own rules and raw dogging my wife in public.
After just a spanking. Notevena spanking. A half a damn spanking.
What’d I get in? Like three slaps? Four? Her ass is barely pink. I want it a dark, angry red. The kind of red she’ll feel for days when she sits. A pain she’ll embrace because it’ll be something I gave her. Shared pain. I want to make her hurt so bad her body digs deep and finds pleasure.
“Just a sec,” I mutter, honing in on the arch of Twyla’s back, the elegant line of her shoulder, the spill of hair covering her neck and half her back. I picture a glint of silver under that hair, a hint of leather at her neck, a thick ring at her throat.
With a possessiveness I’ve never once felt in my entire goddamn life, my eyes trail down, down, along the deep central divot of her spine, to that ass and that perfect little cunt, just begging for me to—
“Okay,” Morgana cuts in. I don’t know whether to be pissed or relieved. “That’s all the time we’ve got. Thank you, Master Zed. And your, ah, partner.”
“My wife.” Once the words are out, I know I shouldn’t have said them, but I can’t drum up an ounce of regret.
Morgana’s face morphs to surprise. “Right. Okay. Your wife.”
On the bench, Twyla shimmies around to glare at me. For some reason, that look makes me brighter inside. Happier. It makes no fucking sense how good I feel. None at all, considering all the shit that I’ve done.
Behind me, people are moving, laughing and talking in excited, hushed voices. I ignore it all, reach out to straighten Twyla’s bathing suit, itching for whatever contact I can get, but she’s already scooting off the bench, away from me.
She accepts her robe from Morgana and nods at whatever the other woman tells her, then turns back to me.
“Thanks.” Her voice is high and light, casual. Is she acting right now or is this real? “That was fun,” she says, then waves her fingers and takes off.
Fun? I watch her, stunned. That’s it?
