Chapter 20 #3
‘As you are,’ Graf says, fiddling with his camera.
I take him at his word and start to shampoo Darcy’s hair.
As I lather her up from behind and massage her skull, the noises of appreciation she makes are positively orgasmic.
Dex steps up in front of her, rubbing lavender-scented shower gel lovingly over her belly.
‘Any action?’ I ask him.
‘Not yet,’ he says.
It’s only been a few days since he and I have been able to feel anything, though Darcy’s felt flutters inside her for a few weeks longer. Checking for them, though, is our new favourite pastime.
‘Time to rinse,’ I tell her gently. She tips her head back, and I’m sufficiently taller than her to enjoy the view of her water-sluiced face and starry lashes, her radiant smile and the shampoo streaming over her swollen tits and stomach in foamy rivulets.
As I drag my gaze away from her, my eyes meet Dex’s. He’s transfixed, too.
In a few months, we’ll be knee-deep in shitty nappies and drunk on adoration and sleep deprivation. We’ll be the most grateful, worshipful, incredulous servants to our queen and our little prince, and it will be the messiest, most exhilarating adventure of our lives.
But for now, we’re here together with our love and our hopes and our visions for the future—visions that, like tremulous buds, are startlingly close to bursting into the full glory of their reality.
As I rinse Darcy’s hair clean of shampoo and Dex smooths the suds over her belly, I hear the click of a camera shutter and a moment preserved in time.
* * *
ZACH
‘This is the very best kind of déjà vu,’ I say, sauntering towards my wife with one hand in my pocket and a black silk blindfold fluttering from the other.
She looks staggering, standing there in front of the very cross I trussed her up on that first time.
Resplendent. We jointly agreed that our Slave Night reenactment would involve marginally less skin on show than that first time.
There’s no fucking way random guys get to perv at my wife’s spectacular tits for the paltry sum of a hundred pounds—the price the calendar will sell for. That would be laughable.
So this afternoon, while the girls are at school and Jonny naps at home with Ruth, Maddy has decked herself out in a one-piece that’s all black lace and tiny straps.
She’s had her hair professionally blow-dried so it cascades over her shoulders in dark, glossy waves, and she’s resurrected those sexy-as-fuck bondage-style gladiator sandals, their leather ties crisscrossing up her legs in a way that’s so hot I wonder why we don’t get them out more often.
In a word: she is spectacular.
‘At least you’re getting me for free today,’ she says cheerily, and I laugh, recalling the blind panic I felt that night at the knowledge that I had to somehow win the bidding for my dangerous little colleague without blowing the girls’ entire school fees fund.
The preemptive horror in my mind that I might well not win, that some other fuckwit would outbid me and take her off to do all manner of filthy things to her, and that she would without a doubt let him to teach me a lesson.
I shake my head at the mere thought of it.
‘I mean, technically,’ I say. ‘This may be the least expensive day of our marriage, in fact.’
‘Haha. That’s so uncool. I’m very low maintenance.’
Nothing about my wife is low maintenance. Especially when she goes shopping with Belle, Darcy and Nat or gets invited along by Gen to one of the trunk shows she loves to throw.
I wouldn’t have it any other way.
‘The Maddy Master Expenditure spreadsheet says otherwise.’
We grin at each other. There is no spreadsheet, obviously, but I like to taunt her at regular intervals with the possibility that there is.
‘Better get your money’s worth then,’ she says, our eyes still locked. It’s a similar sentiment to the one she shared on Slave Night, and the thought makes my dick throb. I lick my lips.
‘I’ll be sure to. Let’s get you ready, shall we?’
She nods, instantly more pliant. I love this about my wife. She’s so feisty, but as soon as I go remotely Dom on her she rolls over like a kitten. I will never, ever stop finding it sexy as hell.
I step up so I’m right in front of her and hold out the blindfold.
‘I love you all in black,’ she murmurs, staring at my mouth. I too have resuscitated my ensemble from that indelibly memorable night.
‘I love you in every single way,’ I whisper back.
‘I hope Graf gets this over quickly,’ she says. ‘It’s not like we often get The Playroom to ourselves.’
I laugh. ‘That’s a lie, and you know it.’ We’ve definitely crept in here on many an occasion. The benefits of working with your wife in an actual sex club are infinite.
‘Okay,’ she says with a pout, ‘but we’re not usually dressed like this.’
‘Excellent point well made, Mrs French.’ I smile at her as I hold the blindfold up to her eyes and tie it gently at the back of her head.
‘Fluff my hair out, will you? I don’t want blindfold head.’
‘I don’t think that’s a thing, sweetheart,’ I say as I oblige, fanning out her dark curls so they tease the golden skin of her shoulders and chest and arms.
I help her gain her foothold on the cross and then stoop so I can buckle the leather cuffs around each ankle.
Her legs are smooth and glossy. I kiss the inside of her knee, just above where the leather straps of her sandals stop, and then, rising slowly to my feet, I kiss my way up one thigh before pressing my mouth to that lace-covered spot just north of her pubic bone.
She sighs happily and strokes along my shoulders until she finds my neck. My hair.
‘Let’s get your hands fastened,’ I say, snagging her wrist so I can kiss her pulse point.
‘Okay.’ She holds her arms up, and I work on fastening them. And then, when my wife is nicely trussed up, I take a step back to admire my handiwork.
‘Absolutely ravishing,’ I pronounce, and she smiles.
‘Ravish me, then.’
I glance back towards the door. ‘Graf’ll be here any second. He was just taking a leak.’ I wouldn’t have restrained her arms above her head if he wasn’t yet imminent.
‘Come on,’ she whispers. ‘Give me something to think about so I really do look turned on in the photos.’
I skim my hands up her thighs, following the curves of her hips, dipping in at her waist and then dragging them upwards so I can palm her beautiful little tits. ‘I can’t think what you mean.’
‘Mmm. Rub them hard, darling.’
‘Like this?’ I find her nipples through the fabric and rub them until they become hard little points. ‘Does the lace make it feel better?’
She inhales sharply through her teeth. ‘Oh God, yes. Just like that.’
‘My little slave girl likes knowing she’s in my hands, I think,’ I muse. I remove one hand and slide it between her legs where the lace is hot and damp. ‘She likes knowing her master can do whatever the fuck he wants to her and she has to take it.’
Jesus fucking Christ, I should get her up on this thing far more often. It’s so insanely hot, having my wife trussed up like this.
‘Oh my God,’ she moans, trying to thrust against my hand, but she doesn’t have much leverage in this position.
I tug the lace to one side and drive a couple of fingers roughly inside her, kissing her jawline instead of her mouth so I don’t ruin her lipstick.
‘She likes knowing I’ve bought her. She’s mine to do every single unspeakable thing I want to her.’
Unspeakable things.
The phrase that Maddy used to proposition me when she figured out how badly I wanted to use her beautiful body to release all my pain and grief and stress on.
The phrase we still whisper to each other whenever we’re feeling horny.
The phrase that feels even more illicit and filthy with my wife playing a crucified slave girl for me.
‘Sir.’ Her breath comes in big, ragged gasps as I drive my fingers wetly in and out and work her clit with rough swipes of my thumb. She’s panting, shaking, and I marvel, as I often do, at how wonderfully responsive my wife is, how quickly I can get her from nought to sixty.
‘My slave girl needs to come really fucking quickly for her master,’ I say now, my cock an agonisingly rigid pole against my zipper, ‘or she won’t get to come at all.’
‘Jesus. Harder. Harder.’
‘Please, sir.’
‘Please, sir. Oh my God, please. Fuck—’
She starts to buck, her inner walls contracting around my fingers, and—
‘Oh, you’re all set up for me. Excellent!’
From behind me comes Tobias’ voice and the unmistakeable scrambling of overexcited dogs as, in front of me, my wife falls noisily, gloriously, apart.
* * *
TOBIAS
Never in my life have I encountered such a bunch of rampant sex addicts, and I did a shoot inside the Playboy Mansion for Vanity Fair that one time in the Noughties.
I need a very large whisky now.