Chance of a Lifetime. Portia Da Costa
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Chance of a Lifetime
by
Portia Da Costa
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Rain. Perpetual rain. I’m certainly not going to miss the British weather. I’ll miss a lot of other things, but not this, not this.
I stare out of the window, down the gravel drive and out across the park of Blaystock Manor. I’m here filling in with some temp work, while I wait to take up my dream job, my chance of a lifetime working in the Caribbean at a luxury resort as a junior manager. This gig is just cleaning and helping with renovations, donkey work really, but it’s all extra money to pay for my new tropical wardrobe.
Actually, it’s a free day today. The marquis is pretty good about that. We get plenty of time off, plenty of breaks and other perks, and despite the fact he’s strapped for cash and putting everything into this project, we’re pretty well paid for our labors. Everyone else has gone off in a minibus to visit a local monastery where they brew apple brandy and make luxury biscuits and stuff, but me, I’ve got my own diversions here.
I’m alone in the house. Even the marquis drove off a short while ago in his decrepit gray Jag. And I’m free to indulge my wicked secret vice.
I discovered this little sitting room a couple days ago, when I was a bit lost and searching for the Blue Salon, where I was supposed to be polishing the floor. I stumbled in here and found a room that was homely and pretty lived in, and sort of cozy. And, being irredeemably nosy, when I saw an old VCR and a bunch of tapes, I had to investigate.
Boy oh boy oh boy! What a shock I got.
And now, while the house is empty, I slip another tape into the machine and settle down in a battered old leather armchair to watch it.
It’s a home movie. Filmed, I think, in this very room. And it stars my latest crush, the marquis himself, and a woman who must have been his girlfriend at the time. Obviously it was taped many years ago, because His Lordship had short hair then, and now it’s long, down to his shoulders.
Here he is, possibly sitting in this very chair. His knees are set wide apart and his girlfriend is facedown across them.
He’s spanking her.
He’s really laying it on with his long, powerful hand, and she’s squirming and patently loving it!
And I’m loving it too, and I don’t really know why. Okay, I knew people played spanking games for sexual kicks, and I’d sort of hinted to various boyfriends that I’d like to try it. But it’s never happened and I’ve never really worried about that.
But now. Now I’ve seen it. I bloody well want it!
I’m so turned on now I can barely see straight. And I certainly can’t stay still in my chair. I’m sweating and my skin feels like it’s already been spanked, all over. And between my legs, I’m drenched, my panties sopping with intense, almost inexplicable arousal. My sex is aching, tight and hungry, as if I want to be fucked right now, but at the same time have my bottom thrashed, just like the woman in the video.
The marquis really seems to be enjoying her pleasure, even though his cool, handsome face is exquisitely impassive. It’s an old, well-worn tape, but I can still see the mask of stern, beautiful composure that he affects…and the wicked dark twinkle in his eyes.
It’s no good, I’ve got to play with myself. I can’t help it and I can’t bear it if I don’t. My sex is so heavy and so tense, I’ve just got to do it.
As the woman on the screen writhes and wriggles and shrieks as His Lordship’s hand comes down, I unzip my jeans and shuffle them down to my knees, dragging my soggy panties with them. There’s something wickedly lewd about sitting here with my clothes at half-mast like this, and the forbidden exposure only excites me more and makes my need to touch my body ever more urgent.
“Oh God…” I murmur vaguely as I slip my fingers between my legs and find my clit. It’s swollen and ready for my touch like a throbbing button. I flick it lightly and my vagina flutters dangerously. On the screen, the spanked girl tries to touch her own sex, wriggling her hand beneath her belly as she squirms and cries, but the marquis pauses mid-spank and gently remonstrates with her.
“Come, come, Sylvia, you know you mustn’t do that. No pleasure until you’ve been a good girl and taken your punishment.”
His voice is soft, even, but shot through with sweet steel and authority. It pushes me closer to coming just as powerfully as the spanking show does. I suddenly wish I could get to know him better, and make this all real.
“Oh, my lord…” I whisper this time, closing my eyes and turning on an inner video. This time it’s me across those strong thighs. Me who’s writhing and moaning, with my bottom flaming.
Oh, the picture is so clear. And it’s the marquis of today who’s doing the business, not the one in the video.
He’s wearing his usual outfit of black jeans and black shirt, and his beautiful hair his loose on his shoulders like sheets of silk. There’s a sly, slight smile on his pale, chiseled face, and his long, cultured hand comes down with metronomic regularity.
I’m rubbing myself hard now, beating at my clit, but not stroking the very apex of it. I daren’t; I’m so excited and I don’t want to come yet. In my fantasy, he allows me to touch myself while he’s smacking me.
I writhe and wriggle, both fighting the pleasure and savoring its gathering at the same time. I throw my thighs wide, rubbing my bottom against the seat of the creaky old armchair. The sensation of the smooth surface against my skin is even more pervy. I press down harder, squashing my anus against the leather. I imagine him spanking me there, and even though I’ve no idea what it would really feel like, I groan, wanting it more and more and more.
“Oh my lord…do it…do it…” I burble, eyes tightly closed and half out of my mind with desire and longing.
“Actually, my dear, I think you’re ‘doing it’ quite well enough on your own. Do continue.”
What?
It’s like I’m falling, dropping through reality into a parallel universe. I know what’s happened but somehow I can’t stop rubbing myself.
My eyes fly open though, and here he is.
The marquis.
Somehow he’s walked into the room without me realizing it, moving softly on the rubber soles of his black running shoes.
In a few split