A novel by best-selling erotic auhor Chloe Thurlow, themes includes BDSM, spanking, female submission, pony play and some water sports.
When a mysterious stranger gives failed actress Greta May his phone number, she dreams of adventure and plucks up the courage to call him, but the moment she enters his flat he rips off her knickers and spanks her bottom. At first shocked and humiliated, Greta grows bewildered as the pain turns to pleasure, and after being tied to the bed for a thrashing, she agrees with rising excitement to play a game where she will win a prize if she does everything Richard demands.
It is the beginning of an erotic journey of self-discovery, where Greta meets Dirty Bill, the water sports specialist; Vanlooch, who uses oils from unusual places to highlight his portraits, and the moody Count Ruspoli who, after bedding 10,000 women, has taken a vow of chastity. Can Greta save him?
Under Richard's firm hand Greta finds her true nature through discipline and, after meeting film director and bogwash artiste Tyler Copic, she seizes the elusive prize: the chance to play the role that will change her life and put her back in the spotlight.
The blue door buzzed open.
His voice on the entry phone was deep and seemed to come from far away. Her heels clacked over the black and white tiles in the long hallway, echoing in the confined space. Or was that her heart?
Richard stood in the entrance to his flat wearing jogging pants, a polo shirt. Bare feet. As she stepped inside he pushed the door just hard enough for it to catch, the click loud like a cell door closing! They were motionless in the half-light. He leaned forward, placing his palms flat on the wall, her head trapped in the space between them. He wasn’t smiling. He just stared. She stared back. His blue eyes were dark like the sea at night. Greta wondered if he would ever be cast as a leading man, but the thought was knocked from her mind as suddenly, shockingly, his hand came down in a swift slap across her cheek.
It stung, really stung. The slap was hard, not so hard as to bruise, but hard enough for her teeth to cut the inside of her mouth, the sound brittle as breaking glass. She tasted blood, and felt the blood race through her veins. Her breath caught in her throat. She would have screamed, but his lips were on her mouth, sucking at her and she responded to his kiss.
They parted, panting for breath, his hands caressing her sides, the curve of her waist, her hips. He lifted her dress and before she realised what he was doing, he ripped the sides of her knickers. Just tore them apart. She heard them tear and couldn’t conceive of anyone doing such a thing. It was like being in a play. She played her role, pulling away, but he was strong, calm, in control, and held her still, pinned to the wall. He pulled softly at the elastic at the front of her knickers where they were tight against her belly and she couldn’t understand why she eased her bottom forward just far enough to let them slide down her legs to the floor. He brushed the hair from her eyes. Her heart was pounding.
Greta recalled reading in Cosmo that women got wet when they were excited. It had never happened to her. Never. But it did now. She could feel a dampness inside her stomach. She felt that dampness grow liquid and leak from her, wetting her thighs. He pulled at the tie holding her dress, peeled the straps from her shoulders and the material slithered like a black waterfall to her feet. He was staring into her eyes and it seemed as if he was looking at someone far away, someone approaching across a clear, uncluttered landscape. Greta was naked but for her suede heels and satin bra. His palms ran down her flanks, up and down, then he turned her around in one quick movement, his weight forcing her down onto the floor.
He entered her in one swift lunge; it was terrifying and marvellous and took her breath away. The cheek where he’d hit her was pressed against the coarse floor covering. She opened her mouth, sucking air in short frenzied gasps. She could feel his breath, hot against her ear. He rammed deep inside her, harder and harder, and she raised her hips from the floor and pushed back, wanting more, wanting to play the part as well as she knew she could.
Greta let the fluids ripple and flow through her arms and legs, from her toes to the tips of her fingers. She spread her thighs wider to take more of him, all of him. She could feel his strong hands gripping the carved handles of her hips, pulling her gently, forcefully, riding her, and she heard little bleating satisfied noises and realised they were coming from her. She used all her strength to push back on to her knees and started waggling her bottom. Air was trapped in her throat. She was panting for breath, a pony after a long ride, and galloped on, hair tossing from side to side, her muscles straining.
Keep going. Keep going. Don’t stop. Don’t ever stop ...
This is what she had always imagined, always wanted, not a quick shag in the back of a car with some boy who couldn’t control himself, not making love like in a story, but the real thing, a good and thorough fucking. She tasted the words: a good fucking. He’s fucking me. I’m being fucked. Gloriously fucked. She pushed back, the sound of slapping flesh and oily gurgles reverberating over the walls, the creamy juices gushing from her sopping crack, warming her quivering thighs.
Richard was slowing, stretching the seconds, holding on to something that can’t be held. A door was about to unlock inside him and she wanted to keep that door securely bolted. She slid forward on her hands and knees, towing him with her. He gripped her hips more tightly, but she wriggled from his grasp and rolled on to her back, drawing him wet and slippery over her body and taking his steamy cock into her mouth. He sighed as it glided like silk into the soft pink tissue of her throat, her wide curling tongue wrapping it in an embrace. Greta closed her eyes, sucked long and hard on Richard’s cock and was overcome by a feeling of complete contentment.
His come exploding across the roof of her mouth was warm and frothy like cappuccino and as he withdrew the sticky warm goo stretched in a trail over her chin and down between her breasts. She savoured the taste, and she pushed her bottom up, supporting herself with her hands, opening herself fully, and his cock was still hard as it slid back into her throbbing sex.
Greta rolled her hips. He tugged at her thighs, thrusting in deeper, and her body became a river as she began to climax, a gushing, tumbling stream of sheer ecstasy, pure sensation, flooding her dripping pussy, completing her, rewarding her, and she knew she’d played her finest role. She gasped and shouted. Richard grew harder, drilling into her, up and down, up and down, and finally came again with a violent jerk that left him spent and exhausted.
Now that he’d finished she imagined he was going to open the door and toss her back out again. But that didn’t happen. He did something she had not been expecting. He kissed her cheek. He then lifted her awkwardly into his arms and carried her through to the bathroom.