The Red Collection by Portia Da Costa Page B

not the fucking
Golden Hind
.
    At least I
think
it’s the Toyota. He doesn’t usually use the Merc for jaunts like this. But I can’t be sure because he’s got me in a blindfold.
    Yeah, I’m wrapped around in a world of pitch-blackness, strung-out nerves and one man’s perverse peccadillos. It’s so exciting that I think I might faint.
    ‘Oof!’
    I stumble on the gravel, and obscene messages streak along those tight-strung nerves. For one churning second, I have a horrific feeling that something totally disgusting is going to happen. But luckily it subsides just as quickly and I’m back to being weak and girlie and clutching at his solid muscular arm as he helps me with all courtesy into the car.
    ‘Are you all right, Miss Lewis?’
    His voice is soft and genial as he settles me into my seat and fastens the belt across my chest. He has to do this because he’s got me in handcuffs, too, as well as the blindfold. I’m totally vulnerable, but I can’t deny that I like it.
    ‘Yes, thank you, Mr Stone,’ I answer, keeping it bright and pert and slightly insolent because that’s the game we’re playing tonight.
    He murmurs, ‘Hmm …’ as if he suspects my motives, then softly slams the door and makes his way round to the driver’s seat.
    I know the blindfold is part of the game, but suddenly I wish with all my heart that I could see him as he settles in beside me and starts the engine. I want to see that dear profile of his. The solid, stubbly jaw. Those unexpectedly lush and overtly sexy lips. Long, long eyelashes that make me jealous as hell that it takes three coats of Maybelline to get the same effect. Taken overall, he’s not exactly an oil painting but to me he’s just sex on two long legs.
    He revs the car and the vibrations of the engine play havoc with my insides because of the thing he inserted into me earlier. I hardly dare put a name to it, because it’s not exactly the most refined and sophisticated of sex toys. But Mr Stone likes it – so that makes it fine by me.
    OK, it’s a butt plug, right?
    And it provokes the rudest, most insidious of sensations. It feels like … It feels like … God, I just can’t bring myself to say what it feels like. But at the same time, oh boy, it gets me going!
    And Mr Stone knows that. Which is why he put it in me before we set out.
    My mind flicks back to the bathroom and I start to sweat as if it were happening all over again. I’m naked, bending over , one foot on the edge of the bath. I’m totally exposed in the lewdest of ways and he’s just looking, looking …
    And then there’s that sensation. Intrusion. Pushing. Pressure, pressure, pressure, then the give as it goes in. Oh, God! Then I’m exhibiting myself to my lover, slick and dripping, with that stark black rubber base protruding from my fundament.
    It just boggles the mind what a girl will do for love.
    As I zone back into the world of here and now, I wonder if he’s deliberately searching out bumps and potholes. The old car trundles along, bouncing me around in a way that makes me gasp and gulp. The suspension leaves a lot to be desired, and so does my self-control tonight. But Mr Stone loves pushing my buttons and testing my limits.
    One particularly juddering lurch has me biting my lip, and, though I can’t see him, I know Mr Stone has noticed.
    ‘Are we there yet?’ I ask by way of a distraction. And he laughs.
    ‘Impatient, Miss Lewis?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Liar.’
    ‘I just want to know when we’re going to get there.’
    ‘You might not be so keen if I told you.’
    My heart kicks, and so does my sex.
    Are we going dogging? We’ve done it before. And done it enough times for me to know that I’m just as much of an exhibitionist as he is.
    I remember the first time, travelling there in this car, and it makes me sort of breathless.
    I could see, that time, and Mr Stone gave me plenty to look at. And more. He asked me to take his dick out of his jeans and touch him.
    Oh, my God,