Meeting Her Match Read online

  MEETING HER MATCH

  JUSTINE ELYOT

  Published by Xcite Books Ltd – 2011

  ISBN 9781908086150 / 9781908086167

  Copyright © Justine Elyot 2011

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publishers: Xcite Books, Suite 11769, 2nd Floor, 145-157 St John Street, London EC1V 4PY

  Printed and bound in the UK

  This is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author's imaginations and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Also by Justine Elyot

  The Business of Pleasure

  Paperback 9781907016424

  eBook 9781907726286

  Chapter One

  IT IS A truth universally acknowledged that a single dom in possession of a whip must be in want of a sub.

  Or is it? Leaving aside my problem with the depersonalising labels of dom and sub, it seems far from truth and very far from universal acknowledgement. Even to identify oneself as a person with an interest in the kinky side of things is a risk many prefer not to take. We lurk behind the vanilla lines, looking wistfully over at the dungeon parties on the other side, getting our thrills by internet proxy.

  This was how I came to find myself at a hopelessly vanilla, horribly Sex in the-City-esque speed dating event at a bar in Gunwharf Quays.

  ‘I’m really not sure about this.’

  But Louisa was already at the bar, ordering white wine spritzers.

  ‘So what are you going to do? Sit in your flat for ever more? It’s been six months, Chez. I bet Gareth’s met someone else over the summer holidays.’

  ‘I couldn’t give a toss. In fact, I hope he has. Some cheerleader type who’s happy to stand on sidelines in all weathers. No, I mean I’m not sure about speed dating. It’s not very … organic.’

  ‘Neither is this wine, but that doesn’t seem to bother you.’

  ‘I mean, it’s a bit forced. Desperate, even.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I am desperate,’ said Lou, necking back a big swig of wine. ‘If I don’t get a shag soon, I’m going to start hanging around the dockyard gates in a basque and suspenders.’

  ‘Ah, all the nice girls love a sailor. But do sailors love nice girls?’

  I looked out through the window at the warship radar towers looming in the distance.

  ‘I’m not a nice girl,’ pointed out Lou. ‘Not like you.’

  Oh, if you only knew.

  But I couldn’t tell her, and I couldn’t tell Gareth, even though a large proportion of my reasons for fancying him centred on his size and breadth and large hands and capacity to fling me around like a rag doll. Not that he ever used it. He crushed me to a pulp in the missionary position thrice weekly, panting for five minutes then roaring, ‘You’re fucked, girl,’ before indulging in some target practice with the condom and the wastepaper basket.

  When I found myself planning a lesson on composition theory during sex, I realised it was time to send Gareth and his vast collection of rugby shirts back into the world of singledom.

  ‘So, what’s the talent like?’ wondered Lou, casting her eyes around the room. ‘Anything take your fancy?’

  I shrugged. It looked like the usual selection of chancers in cheap suits to me. I wanted to choke from the miasma of conflicting fragrance in the room.

  ‘I’m guessing Hugo Boss is here somewhere,’ I said, sniffing. ‘I bet he’s worth a few bob. Plus, I like his name.’

  ‘Hugo?’

  ‘No. Boss.’

  ‘You like a man who wears the trousers?’

  Ooh, close to the bone. I have to deflect this line of reasoning.

  ‘Yeah,’ I said lightly. ‘Though I wouldn’t rule out Eddie Izzard either. Or even Grayson Perry.’

  She laughed and a bell rang. It was time to speed date.

  Time to start a dozen abortive, pointless conversations with strange men.

  Eleven of the conversations went like this:

  Him: Hi, I’m Jim/Joe/Harry/Kamil.

  Me: I’m Cherry, pleased to meet you. What do you do?

  Him: I’m an insurance salesman/physiotherapist/ paralegal/electrician. How about you?

  Me: I’m a teacher.

  Him: (leering) Oh yeah? I bet you could teach me a thing or two.

  Me: headdesk.

  The twelfth took a different course.

  Him: That’s a lovely choker.

  Me: Oh, thank you. It’s one of my favourites too.

  Him: I’ve often wondered how those feel, around your neck. Do they constrict your breathing at all?

  Me: Not really. You are sort of aware of it all the time, though.

  Him: (smiling dangerously) I like the sound of that.

  Me: (speechless, suddenly quivery, giving him a long, hard second look)

  Him: It’s a good present from a lover, isn’t it? Like having his hand wrapped around your neck all night. His mark on you.

  Me: (gabbling) Are you a possessive type, then?

  Him: Oh yes. Not particularly jealous, though, and certainly not in an abusive way. But if a girl likes to feel possessed, then I’m happy to oblige.

  Me: How do you … make her feel like that, then?

  Him: I’d love to show you.

  Me: (quailing beneath keen grey stare, predatory curl of lip, broad shouldered swoop forward) Oh. Really?

  Him: Yes, really. Come with me.

  A direct order. I can never defy one of those, and I didn’t want to anyway. His suit was well cut and, while he must have been in his forties at least, he had that still, calm air of authority that floored me and filled my dreams.

  He stood, gesturing me up, and I followed him to the bar, where he bought me – without asking what I would like – a mineral water, plus a whisky for himself.

  ‘I don’t want to be accused of taking advantage of tipsiness,’ he told me, nudging the water glass down the polished bar top. ‘Now, let’s sort a few things out. You strike me as curious about certain aspects of human sexuality, am I right?’

  I coughed into my glass, feeling as transparent as the crystal waters within.

  ‘Is it obvious?’

  ‘To me it is. Probably not to the world in general. How curious are you?’

  ‘Moderately.’

  ‘There’s nothing moderate about what I do … What’s your name?’

  ‘Cherry.’

  ‘Stuart.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you.’

  ‘Well, Cherry, I like to be master in my own bedroom, if you catch my drift. Does that interest you?’

  I gulped. What should I say? I rather thought the fiery spreading blush on my face was saying it for me.

  ‘It might,’ I muttered.

  ‘Does it or doesn’t it? I don’t have time to waste.’

  His stern tone caught me right between the thighs.

  ‘Yeah. I suppose it does,’ I admitted, a mite sulkily.

  ‘Good. Though I think we’ll need to discuss your tone, young lady.’

  Oh my God, he was killing me. “Young lady”. I was positively pre-orgasmic, especially when he raised an eyebrow in a way that couldn’t say “you’re getting spanked” any louder or clearer.

  ‘Drink up,’ he ordered. ‘Are you here alone?’

  ‘No, with a friend.’

  ‘Good. You can tell her you’re going home with me, and that you’ll call her by eleven so that she knows you’re safe.’

  ‘I’ll … tell her that.’ I looked around the bar for her, finally locating her in a darkened alcove, snogg
ing some guy with a beard like a King of Leon. Sex on fire indeed.

  I passed on the message, slipping it between her and the hairy one like a credit card of information. Her reply was a swallowed grunt.

  ‘I’ll be at home then,’ I reminded her brightly, feeling a broad hand descend on my shoulder. SM Stuart was not about to let me get away. I had been hooked like an unsuspecting fish, and now I was in the net I wouldn’t get out until I was being sizzled over the flames of his fire.

  ‘Where do you live?’ he asked, yanking me backwards, away from the bar.

  ‘Near South Parade Pier.’

  ‘Good. Not too far.’

  It wasn’t until we were in the taxi that the insane foolishness of the idea hit home. Taking a strange man home for kinky sex – how on earth would that stack up on the risk assessment form? Not well at all, I realised with a sickening lurch of the stomach.

  But then he pulled me towards him and into a long, hard kiss, and the lurching became something else, something much sweeter and less easily dismissed, something that squeezed all of my good sense into a tiny ball and batted it down between my legs, which were trembling.

  It was mad and it was stupid, but I wanted sex – real, good sex – so much that I was prepared to follow my cunt wherever it led me that night.

  Stuart’s mouth was firm and hungry, and his hand landed with a wondrous heaviness on my thigh, edging up the hem of my skirt, kneading its way to heaven, regardless of the taxi driver.

  Luckily, the ride was not long enough for him to reach my stocking tops. The skirt was mid-thigh when he paid the fare, helped me out of the cab, and escorted me, hand on elbow, up the path to my apartment block.

  Once inside the door, he held me out at arm’s length and said, ‘You’re wearing stockings and suspenders, aren’t you?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Sounds to me like you were out looking for somebody to take you home and fuck you. You don’t wear stockings if you don’t think they’ll be seen.’

  ‘They make me feel sexy,’ I defended myself.

  ‘You want to feel sexy because you want a good seeing-to, Cherry. Am I right?’

  I chewed my lip, avoiding his eye.

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘I’m right. And what kind of girl wants a good seeing-to, hmm?’

  He pulled me closer, sliding one hand down my hip and around to pat a bum cheek. Oh, I could see where this was heading. And I liked it very, very much.

  ‘A bad girl,’ I said softly.

  His lips quirked, and his hand fell a little harder on my quivering bottom.

  ‘That’s right, Cherry. A bad girl. And what do bad girls get?’

  Good sex.

  ‘They get punished?’

  ‘Try adding a “sir” to that.’

  ‘They get punished, sir.’

  ‘Nice. And true. They do get punished. But first, since you’re dying to show off your naughty underwear, I want you to stand over by that chair and lift your skirt for me.’

  He dropped my arm and nudged me back a couple of feet, so that I was in a good position for him to rake his eyes from my bob-cut hair to my strappy sandals. Standing with his arms folded and his brows gathered, he waited for me to follow the instruction.

  I felt like laughing and shivering at the same time, but I did as I was told, turned up the hem of my skirt and lifted it coyly to my waist.

  ‘Oh yes, I see,’ he said. ‘Very nice. And do you call those knickers?’

  I stared down at my shaking hands on the fabric. They weren’t exactly substantial, it was true. I was glad I hadn’t opted for the Spanx tonight after all – though, on second thoughts, they would at least have been appropriate.

  The knickers I was wearing were tiny breaths of lacy air, patterned with glittery starbursts. I only knew they were there at all because they were soaking wet at the crotch. I wondered if the damp patch was visible. If not, it was certainly sniffable. I could smell myself all right.

  ‘Turn around,’ he said, and I was grateful to remove myself from the intense scrutiny and present my back view instead. The knickers weren’t thong-backed, but they stretched tightly across my rear, almost transparent, so that he would be able to follow each curve to its conclusion.

  ‘That’s a lovely bottom you have there,’ he commented, moving up behind me. ‘No, don’t let go of the skirt.’ He put a hand on my lacy cheeks and rubbed them slowly up and down. I let out a tiny moan, bending my spine infinitesimally forward to give him optimum access, hoping for a quick dip between my legs. ‘And one that needs a lot of attention, I think.’

  He removed his hands and sat down in my armchair.

  ‘Now put your lovely bottom over my knee, Cherry, where it belongs.’

  Christ, I was more turned on than I’d ever expected to be outside my horniest fantasies. For a dizzying moment, I thought this was worth any risk, even though my rational mind knew that only a brain-dead, sex-crazed zombie would entertain that thought.

  I drooped over his lap, trying to work out how to get over it in the most dignified manner, though God knows what any remnants of dignity were doing in my fevered brain at that point. Unable to compute logistics, I kind of threw myself across the middle section of his thighs, kicking my legs in the air until he smacked them down so my toes brushed the carpet.

  ‘Now, think about where you are,’ he said softly, his hand renewing its hypnotic circular pattern across my exposed bum cheeks. ‘Take a moment for the full humiliating reality of your position to sink in. Where are you, Cherry?’

  I clenched my thighs, his low, authoritative voice tickling the space between them like a sonic vibrator. I wished I’d had more to drink. It would have made the verbal aspect of this scenario so much easier.

  ‘I’m over your knee.’

  ‘That’s right. But you missed a bit, Cherry. An important little word.’ His palm hovered dangerously over my rear curves.

  ‘I’m over your damn knee?’ I hazarded, with an irrepressible snort. Oh dear. It seemed I was discovering a hitherto-unknown minxy side of myself.

  The smack was swift and remorseless. I yelped, quivering beneath his hand.

  ‘I’m surprised at you, young lady,’ he told me. ‘I see I’m going to have to deal with you quite thoroughly. No, the missing word you are looking for is “sir”. Now, repeat the sentence for me, Cherry.’

  I couldn’t say it in my natural voice. It came out in a sort of sing-song comedy Deep Southern drawl.

  ‘I’m over your knee, sirrrr.’

  ‘That’s right, but who is this fugitive from the Grand Ole Opry I seem to have acquired? Where is Cherry?’

  I humphed and tried to kick a leg, but he secured it with a well-placed foot, waiting, hand poised.

  ‘I’m over your knee, sir,’ I ground out, a mite sulkily.

  ‘Much better, Cherry. I think we’re in for a long session at this rate. Now, I need you to tell me why you think you are over my knee?’

  My God, this man must have had forebears in the Spanish Inquisition. Stuart was not a particularly Spanish name, though. Perhaps his surname was. I didn’t know his surname! I was over the knee of a man whose surname I didn’t know.

  ‘I think something’s going to happen,’ I said.

  His hand began to pat my rump compulsively.

  ‘Yes,’ he conceded. ‘Something is going to happen. But what?’

  ‘I think you might have some dastardly kind of plan to … spank me … sir.’

  ‘That’s almost the right answer. Less of the dastardly, though, eh? You’re certainly setting yourself up for a seriously sore bottom, young lady.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ I moaned, squirming deliciously.

  ‘Yes, “oh dear” is a valid response,’ he taunted. ‘Last question. What are you going to be spanked for?’

  I was stymied. I had to come up with a reason for my own erotic punishment? Was “because I want you to” also a valid response?

  ‘For …’ I gave it some thought, which w
as difficult with the ever-present hand gliding across my buttocks, occasionally following the line that separated them, almost to the wet spot at its base. ‘For taking strange men home to my flat, sir,’ I said, inspired.

  ‘Very good,’ he said. ‘That definitely deserves quite a firm spanking, I would say. Now then. Let’s get this bottom nice and high. How long will it take me to turn it red, I wonder? I do like a physiological experiment.’

  His physiological experiment began with a series of sharp slaps, falling quickly on each cheek in turn.

  ‘If it gets too much for you, or you decide this kind of fun is not for you, just say my name. You promise you’ll do that?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ I sighed, gyrating my hips to push my bottom up higher, revelling in the firecracker sparks he rained down on me.

  ‘Good girl. Or rather, bad girl. Flaunting yourself in that bar and taking strange men home for kinky sex. You need a sound lesson, young lady. Believe me, your slutty behaviour will be dealt with.’

  His hand felt harder, the smacks loud as pistol shots. Would the neighbours hear? I began to suffer a little, feeling the heat build.

  When he stopped, after about fifty of these strokes, I flopped, exhaling deeply. But he had not finished, not by a long chalk.

  ‘I think we’ll have these knickers down now,’ he decreed.

  With exquisite care and attention, he edged the barely-there lace down over my stinging hindquarters, making sure the elastic dragged, awakening little darts of extra sensation on the way. Down my thighs they travelled, only to be brought to a halt at the buffers of my suspender snaps. But that was far enough for Stuart’s purposes, and he left them there, moving his palms back up to rest briefly between my legs.

  Oh yes! I wriggled welcomingly, hoping he would part those lips and dive in.

  Instead, he dabbed his fingers in just enough to coat them in my scent, then moved back up to my warm pink bottom.

  ‘Dirty girl,’ he whispered. ‘You like being spanked, don’t you?’

  ‘No, sir, honestly!’ I protested, but I was caught red-handed. Or red-arsed.

  ‘Don’t lie!’ he said sharply, making my bottom feel the weight of his displeasure. ‘Lying will earn you extras with my belt, young lady.’