Chance of a Lifetime

I slap myself again, trying to recreate the feeling. It bloody hurts, but I do it again, moaning, “My lord…”

I slap and slap and moan and moan, and suddenly I just have to play with my clitoris. I’m so turned on imagining him spanking me that my wet sex aches.

Within a few seconds I come, softly crying his name, seeing his face.

* * *

The next day, I worry. What’s going to happen? Is anything going to happen? Or has the marquis quite sensibly decided to dismiss our stolen interlude as an aberration. Something of no consequence. It must be bred in his blue English blood to dally with underlings for his pleasure without a second thought.

I certainly don’t see him for the next couple of days, and the cleaning, dusting and polishing goes on without incident. I work cheerfully with the rest of the team, as if nothing has happened.

But then, after a long day, when the others are all off to the pub, I slip back to my room to change, and find a little note upon my mat.

I’m sorry we were so rudely interrupted, it says in a fine, almost copperplate handwriting. Would you careto join me in the small sitting room, at seven o’clock