Darius points to a wooden changing screen with pretty yellow roses and green vines painted on the panels. ‘You can get changed behind there. You’ll find water, soap, and a robe for your use. Please wash thoroughly, especially between your legs. I want only the scent of lavender down there, not other men.’
He doesn’t say it unkindly. Rather, he states it with no broach for argument. It’s not an unreasonable request. I have been with several other men this evening, and I can smell stale sweat wafting from my armpits, thanks to the fright of the raid and our lengthy trek to his house.
‘You might want to give me at least twenty minutes then. I’m a dirty girl.’ I say it as a joke, hoping for a chuckle or aribald comment.
But he doesn’t smile, only gives a curt ‘Very well, I’ll be here when you emerge.’
So I dip my head and disappear behind the screen while he sits in an armchair and shakes out a newspaper. Hopefully, he’s not going to be this serious in the sack. It’s always better if the man has a sense of humour and we can have a laugh. Makes things less awkward too. I once had a man so shy that he refused to take his breeches off or look at me while he was performing. Just whipped out his long, thin dick, stuck it in me, and stared resolutely at the ceiling while he pumped away. I think he must’ve been religious or married as he kept muttering prayers under his breath. Thankfully, it was a one and done, and I haven’t seen him since.
I hum a little ditty as I remove my dress and stays, throwing them over the top of the screen. The water in the jug is lukewarm when I dip my fingers in, and it occurs to me that it was boiled not long ago. That suggests Darius was prepared for me (or someone like me) to come back here with him ... He was out on the prowl. Uncertainty niggles at me, thanks to Mother Swift’s warning. Is it wise to be here at his house? But the sooner I give him what he wants, the sooner I can get back home to bed for some shut-eye. And he looks and acts like a toff—he won’t hurt me.
Shoving any doubtful thoughts to the back of my mind, Isoap the washcloth and scrub lavender-scented foam over my body, giving between my legs a good going-over. The rough cloth passing backwards and forwards over my cunny sparks desire. Yes, and I’m also curious to know what Darius has in store for me—too curious to listen to my common sense anyway.
I shrug into the green silk robe that has the same yellow roses embroidered on the lapels and emerge from behind the screen, glowing from my ablutions.
A corner of the newspaper lowers, and Darius slides an amber eye over me from top to toe. ‘Come here,’ he says. ‘Over by the fire.’
In the time that I’ve been behind the screen, a cheerful fire has been built in the grate, flames now licking hungrily at the logs. The warmth is quickly eating into the chill of the room, and I’m happy to obey his request.
‘Take off your robe,’ Darius says in a low voice. ‘I want to see you.’ Again, there’s that note of confidence and command, which reminds me that he’s very in control of what happens. But I suppose he does hold the purse strings.
I undo the tie, and the silk robe slithers to the ground.
‘Very nice,’ he purrs, his gaze running over my full breasts, narrow waist, and flared hips. His eyes slide to my golden-curled cunny, and he licks his lips slowly, which makes my clit start pulsing.
‘Turn around.’
With a smirk, I do so and sense his eyes raking over my behind, but without any heavy breathing, which usually ensues when men look at my pert bottom.
‘Bend over and hold on to the mantel,’ he says gruffly.
Surprised, I do as I’m told, presenting my bare arse to him.
The heat emanating from the fire warms my breasts and stomach to a rosy pink while I wait, not too sure what to expect since I’m usually instructed to ‘lie on the bed and open my legs’, not stand naked by the fireside.
Something ice-cold lightly touches the back of my upper thigh, and I jerk in shock.
‘I apologise, Miss Smith. I have cold hands. So you may find my touch unpleasant to begin with.’ Darius’s voice hovers somewhere in the vicinity of my buttocks.
Is he on his knees?
‘Call me Sadie,’ I say, not sure if I like the thought of cold hands touching me. Warm and clammy is what I’m used to. ‘Will you not warm your hands by the fire first?’
There’s a pause.
‘Thank you, Sadie. It will not help to do so.’
Cold hands it is then.
There’s a press of frigid fingers on my hips, holding me steady, and I brace myself for a cock to enter me from behind—surely, that won’t be cold! But something wholly unexpected occurs. A wet, frosty tongue begins lappingenthusiastically at my cunny entrance.
My fingers tighten on the mantel as it slithers and twirls around down there. Then it shifts to my clit, lapping and teasing. The combination of ice-cold licking below and shimmers of heat from the fire on my thighs is strangely arousing, and I swallow as coils of pleasure begin tightening in my belly. I widen my legs a little further, and a trickle of sweat runs down between my breasts. The tongue is insistent, flicking hard on my clit, and won’t let up.
The tingling pleasure grows and builds to breaking point.
‘Oh sweet Jesus, I’m going to come,’ I groan.
Yet as soon as I say that, the tongue is removed in a flash. I moan petulantly and waggle my arse, wanting it back.
