Drenched Page 9

  There was a plunge, a displacement of water, and then he was beside me, sitting on the little ledge seat and pulling me towards him.

  His hand around my upper arm felt good, as did the tiny but inescapable amount of pressure he exerted in bringing me to his side.

  “Now,” he said, his arm around my shoulder, his lips close to mine. “I had forgotten how it felt to sit in here. It’s quite stimulating, don’t you think?”

  “Those jets are powerful,” I agreed, drawn into his orbit, feeling every iota of his desire for me as if it soaked into my skin with the water.

  “It’s just the right place to spend time with my captive naiad,” he said. “But I don’t mean to ignore your wishes. What would you like to do?”

  “I’m … good … here,” I said, overcome by a sense of intoxication that sent my mind reeling. His lips were so almost, so virtually, on mine. I could feel his breath and I could feel his skin and I wanted to press deeper into the embrace of his arm around me.

  “Oh yes? You like it here? So perhaps,” he said, putting a finger between our mouths and running along my lower lip, “I could build a cage over the top of this jacuzzi and keep you here always?”

  I had nothing to say to that. But my lips gave him an answer nonetheless, in the quiver of my breath, followed by their grateful surrender to the longed-for kiss. He exerted the perfect level of pressure, not too hard, not too soft. He took my will from me in that kiss and sucked it into him. Now it was his.

  He broke it just as my stomach was roiling in a decent imitation of the jacuzzi jets and I thought he would say something sweet or gentlemanly, as befitted my experience of him.

  So it was a shock when he rasped, “Get your ass on my lap, now.”

  He pulled me up to sit with my bare bottom on his thighs and held me tight before plunging into another kiss. This one was deeper, profound and searching, and it introduced his tongue to mine. They twisted together like seaweed fronds, but with more purpose.

  I was still reacting to his outburst, wondering whether or not it was uncharacteristic. I was not averse to a man giving orders in the bedroom—although I’d never encountered anything like it before. It was strange and slightly alarming to hear it like that, though, without a softening ‘please’. How did he know I wouldn’t tell him to get lost? But of course, it was obvious. It was what I was there for and he knew it.

  I was pierced by a little spike of shame, but rather than giving me pause it spurred me on, making me want to be dirtier and more wanton than ever. This man knew and understood me. He wasn’t wrong about me. I did want to be taken and used and owned and kept captive by him. For now, anyway.

  I squirmed in his lap, enjoying the way the bubbles forced themselves up between the junctions of our bodies. I enjoyed even more his hands’ eager efforts to chart every inch of my skin. They glided everywhere, up my arms, down my spine, around my hips. Soon they held my breasts, squeezing them, circling my nipples as if measuring their diameter. Then he reached down, cupping my buttocks, pinching them with firm, sure fingers. He maintained the kiss with ferocious intent all along, until I lay limp and half-insensate from the constant bombardment of stimulation.

  “Flosshilde,” he said at last, and I was confused until I remembered that was the name I’d given him. “Do you think humans and naiads can fuck?”

  “I’m pretty sure,” I said, gasping for breath. “I think so.”

  He moved to stand, bucking my expectations yet again—he seemed to like doing this.

  “Oh,” I said.

  He climbed out of the jacuzzi and offered a hand to help me follow him.

  “Humans and naiads might not be sexually incompatible,” he said, smiling at my bewilderment. “But who knows what might happen if they reproduce? And I don’t keep any prophylactics down here.”

  “Oh, right.” I felt stupid, my cheeks burning. My lust for him seemed to have killed off a few of my brain cells. Why did it have to do that?

  He kissed me.

  “Go and lie down on the lawn,” he said.

  Another bucking of my expectations, and a strange one at that.

  “Lie down … on the lawn?” I echoed. “You mean … outside?”

  “I do mean outside,” he said with a devastating smile. “Where else do I have a lawn?”

  “Just … lie down on it?”

  “That’s right. In the shade would be best. I don’t want you to burn.” He reached around and gave my bottom a sharp tap. The sound of it echoed around the underground chamber. “Go on then. And don’t think of running away. You’re mine now, remember.”

  I wasn’t likely to forget. I followed him up the stairs, looking after him when he waved me through the double doors out to the garden. He had gone to rummage in a locked drawer.

  And now here I was, walking dripping and naked across a neat sloping lawn towards a lime tree. If anyone was out on the lake, they would be able to see me, but there were no boats. Even mine was no longer visible, having probably drifted out past the weeping willows at the edge of Eberhardt’s land. I was going to find a spot to lie down and be ravished upon.

  The knowledge of this was intense and focused my mind even more than my bare, wet skin and the soft summer breeze upon it.

  I walked willingly to the scene of my shame. I knew he would fuck me, and he knew I knew, and he knew I wanted it. The awareness of it was both liberating and shocking. And he had chosen for it to happen in the open air, potentially in view of lake-borne vessels. He had no intention of sparing me a single blush.

  I arrived in the shade of the lime tree and sat down, shivering a little. It wasn’t cold, but the shade gave me a tiny sensation of chill, goose-pimpling my skin. Or perhaps that was nerves. I wrapped my arms around my knees and hugged them against my breasts, squashing my stiff nipples. They were beginning to ache from being so swollen for so long. He had touched them, pressed them, they were his now.

  What would it be like to be his, in reality? To live here in his lakeside house, subject to his will? I drifted into a fantasy life, imagining us sitting in a boat at sunset while he fed me strawberries, talking about what he would do to me when he got me home to bed. I’d like to hear him talk like that, hear him say those words.

  He’d keep me in a shallow pool, chained to the side because naiads were notoriously slippery creatures who could not be trusted. He’d unchain me when he wanted to take me out of my element and use me. He’d use me a lot …

  I was shaken out of my increasingly lurid imaginings by his voice, making me jump.

  “I thought I told you to lie down.”

  It was light, pleasantly-spoken, but I knew at once that I should do as he said. Only somebody completely deaf to nuance could have failed the recognize the steel beneath the smile.

  He was carrying things. Not just condoms. A cool box of the kind you’d use for a picnic, and a watering can. How strange.

  But I didn’t question it. I straightened my spine down among the daisies and felt the cool tickle of the grass between my thighs. Above me, the sun glinted and hid through a tangle of branch and leaf. I could fall asleep like this, if only it weren’t for the face, looking down at me from a height, sweeping my prostrate form with hungry but pitiless eyes.

  “How do you feel, Naiad?” he asked.

  He had put down his burden and tightened the belt of his silk robe around him. He hadn’t offered one of those to me. I could do with one. The breeze was becoming more evident, especially around my nipples.

  “I feel vulnerable,” I said, pressing my thighs together and curling my toes.

  “Vulnerable, yes, good. But are you comfortable?”

  “I think so.”

  “Not too dry? Poor little naiad is used to the water, isn’t she?”

  “I suppose so.” The residual drops from the jacuzzi had all slid off my skin now.

 
He knelt down by my side and passed his hands over my upper torso, rubbing and stroking over my breasts and collarbone and down over my stomach.

  “Yes, I think so,” he said, bending to kiss my navel. “Very dry. This must not be comfortable for you?”

  “It’s …”

  But before I could continue, I let out a sharp cry.

  He had reached into his picnic box and brought something out, which he placed square on my belly. It was a goddamn ice cube!

  “Oh my god, that’s freezing!”

  I tried to turn so it would slide off, but he tutted and held it in place with the tip of a finger.

  “No, no, no,” he said. “This is good for you.”

  I wriggled and shivered and whimpered while he sent the cube on a little journey, leaving cold wet tracks across my skin. He let it glide between my breasts, then climb their slopes, circling—but never quite coming into contact with—my nipples, until the damn thing melted.

  I was gasping with the cold, but he showed mercy by kissing all the places the cube had chilled, warming them back up with his fulsome lips and tongue.

  I wondered if he could tell that I was ready for him now … more than ready. My clit felt ready to burst with need for his attention and I didn’t need any ice cube to get me wet down there. Could he scent it? Something told me that he could.

  But it didn’t mean he was going to go easy on me.

  Another bullet of ice materialized on my nipple, making me arch my spine and howl. He was amused by this, holding my poor throbbing bud between finger and thumb and keeping the ice cube where he wanted it. He kept it there, not moving, just until my nipple went beyond pain and into numbness, then he transferred it to the other. The expression of satisfaction on his face told me how he enjoyed watching me writhe. I didn’t find it frightening. I found it intensely arousing. He was using me the way he wanted and I was willing to comply, even if it did mean purple nipples.

  “I know it’s cold,” he whispered. “But you’ll warm it up, won’t you? Because you aren’t cold. You’re on fire.”

  He put his free hand between my thighs and rubbed the juicy swollen clit he found there. Yes, there was his proof. I couldn’t deny what I was, what I craved.

  The ice shrunk and disappeared, its existence only evidenced by the rivulets trickling down my breasts into the furrow between them.

  Eberhardt put his face there and lapped up the crystal droplets, then flicked the tip of his tongue over my recovering nipples. The warmth buzzed them back into painful life. I wriggled my bottom into the buttercups as he opened his lips and sucked.

  He alternated between nipples, dipping lazy fingers between my pussy lips and into my cunt at the same time. I was so close to coming from the double stimulation of being fingered and sucked simultaneously that I began to squirm. Instantly, he stopped what he was doing and smiled down at me. The sun had gone in. The leaves rustled against a stronger breath of wind.

  “Oh,” was all I could whisper.

  “Not yet,” he teased. “Naiads are very sensual little creatures, aren’t they? I had no idea. I think more ice …”

  “Oh no,” I moaned, but he was quick and deft and before I could clamp my legs together he was holding a cube to my clit. I kicked my legs against the acuteness of the sensation, but he rubbed slowly, up and down, then in slow circles, using his free hand to stroke and brush and pinch my nipples. I cried out and he popped a finger in my mouth, silencing me, making me suck on it. Now all I could do was hump my bottom up and down in a useless quest to free myself from my freezing invader.

  “This is good,” he crooned. “You are doing well.” He pushed the cube inside me, where it melted almost straight away. I felt the cold fluid mingle with my own warm juices and trickle between my butt cheeks. I had never felt ruder, more ashamed or more turned on.

  “Lovely,” he said, shifting position and taking his finger from my mouth.

  “Oh, please, not another,” I pleaded, panting.

  He climbed in between my knees and bent his head to my vulva, his eyes devilish as they peered up from my pubic mound.

  “You don’t like it?” he asked, his breath blasting my clit as he spoke.

  “It’s … torture,” I said.

  He clicked his tongue. “Awww.” The expression of exaggerated sympathy ended with a little kiss on my clit. “Cold,” he commented.

  “Uh, yeah,” I said, but sarcasm probably wasn’t in order just now, when there was every chance of getting a dozen ice cubes tipped over my defenseless body.

  He raised his head again, along with a finger which he wagged at me.

  “You said please and asked me very nicely before, and that’s the only reason I’m not reaching for another ice cube right now. But I can change my mind at any moment.”

  So I was to behave myself. I wanted to behave myself. This strict teacher vibe he was projecting really worked for me.

  I nodded and tried to look doe-eyed.

  He seemed satisfied with that, but he had more to say.

  “What you have to understand, Flosshilde, is that you belong to me now. I don’t think any of your little water sprite friends are going to swim up to the bank to rescue you, do you?”

  “I guess not.”

  “You’re lucky that you’ve been captured by a reasonable man. A lot of those men on the other side of the lake are a lot less reasonable than I am. They are cruel to their naiads. They beat them and tie them up and humiliate them. I’m not going to do that to you … unless you ask for it.” He smirked briefly and his eyelid hovered on the verge of a wink before correcting itself.

  Oh yes? I thought, perking up. Kinky as hell, aren’t you, mein Herr, and this is your way of putting the onus on me to show my hand.

  Well, it was clever. It made me crush on him even more.

  He waited for me to speak, but I didn’t, so he continued.

  “But if you behave yourself,” he said, “I will be good to you. I will treat you well. I will give you whatever you ask … except your freedom.”

  It was like an exquisite game. I was too exhilarated and too caught up in my pleasurable game-fear of him to say anything. I just wanted to know what he was going to do next.

  “Do you understand?” he said softly, making it clear that an answer was required of me.

  “Yes,” I whispered, and I added, irresistibly, without even thinking, “sir.”

  “I think I need to test your understanding,” he said, although I could see from the way his eyes had lit that he really liked the ‘sir’. “Sit up.”

  I struggled up on my elbows and sat facing him, still with my thighs wide apart and him kneeling between them. We were very close. My nipples brushed the silk of his robe.

  “Put your hands on your head,” he commanded, and I obeyed straight away, trying not to laugh at how strange it felt, and how nervous I suddenly was.

  “Good. Now I am going to go inside for a little while, and I want you to stay exactly as you are, without moving a muscle.”

  I let out a little huff of disappointment at his going away again; my ice-cube-tormented body was on high alert, desperate for his touch.

  He reached over to the picnic bag again and I tensed, wondering if another ordeal by ice was part of the test. But instead, he brought out a delicious looking fruit tart topped with an extravagant swirl of whipped cream and laid it on paper plate between my legs.

  I looked up at him with curiosity.

  “That is your test,” he said, standing up. “If the cake has moved, I know that you have moved.” He patted my thighs together and put the plate on top of them where it sat, a mite lopsidedly, just below my pubic triangle. “If it remains there, completely intact, I know that you have done as you were told. What happens to you next depends on that cake.”

  “Does it?” I asked with a thrill of fear.

/>   “If I find it as I left it, you can have it to eat. If I don’t, then I am afraid I will have to punish you.”

  “What sort of punishment?”

  “Ah, you are thinking of disobeying me, or you wouldn’t ask. Oh dear.” He bent and tapped my cheek, smiling devilishly right into my face. “What a pity that would be. But don’t worry. It wouldn’t be too painful. Just enough to make you think.”

  Oh god. I could hardly breathe. I watched him turn and walk away towards the house and all I could think of was how much I suddenly and definitely wanted to explore my hidden kinks. I had them all right. I’d read enough books about men with whips and the defenseless women who grew, after some initial discomfort, to adore them. But I’d never, ever dreamed that I’d get the chance to experience it in real life. I mean, how did one ever bring the subject up without risking making a giant fool of oneself? It just hadn’t been worth the potential humiliation.

  Humiliation.

  I looked down at the cake, lying on my thighs, mocking me.

  Eberhardt went inside the house without looking back. I had no idea how long he would be in there, nor what he would do to me when he came out. I sat there, hands on head, my nipples and pussy warming up after their encounter with the ice cubes, looking out to the balmy lake.

  Again, he was giving me a chance to go, to swim away, to put this behind me.

  I could do that.

  Or I could eat the cake.

  I ate the cake.

  I almost didn’t. I unclasped my fingers and clasped them again half a dozen times while the paper plate juddered perilously on my lap.

  Then, with a move so swift half the cream fell in a gloopy mess on my thigh, I picked the damn thing up and took a good bite.

  Sweet crumbly pastry, thick confectioner’s custard and half a glazed strawberry melted together in my mouth. God, the Germans knew about cake. You had to hand it to them. The Great Mittel-European Bake-Off would be something to watch. The Austrians and Hungarians would give them a good run for their money though.

  Whatever fate Eberhardt had in store for me, this mouthgasm was worth it.