Tempting Gemma 3 Page 2

  Charles, snoring softly beside her, might be a great blockhead about some things but he was within his rights to want his wife to be as fit as possible. She should be grateful that he took an interest. And to show him that she was, no more whining or grumbling. She would approach her exercise regimen with the same spirit as she should any matter touching on his pleasure and satisfaction.

  So sincere was her resolve that upon arising in the morning to discover that her husband was sequestered in his study, occupied with a call from some government minister or other, she skipped breakfast and went straight to the gym.

  Morning sunlight was pouring over the windbreak of tall, column-like poplars across the expanse of the lawn and through the high windows. It warmed the room pleasantly.

  Mindful of her husband’s directions, Gemma hesitated only a moment before removing the little dress she had tossed on. As she stretched out on the mat before the mirrored wall, she kept her eyes modestly averted. Until, that is, curiosity overwhelmed her.

  The fact was that she could have described her elbow far better than she could her nether parts. She had only the vaguest notion of what her husband had no hesitation about treating as his personal playground.

  So rigorous had discipline been at dear old MM that she had scarcely dared to glance at any of the other girls when they were in a state of undress. Those who were bolder invariably suffered unpleasant consequences.

  But now, alone in the gym with her new-found awareness of the extraordinary sensations produced by those mysterious parts of herself, Gemma succumbed to temptation. She scooted a little closer to the mirror, stretched her legs out wider and angled her hips just so until she could clearly see--

  Good heavens…that was…rather like an origami flower she had seen pictured in one of her forbidden basement books. A lily perhaps or a lotus, hidden within plump folds that, when she dared to explore further, parted to reveal silky pink fronds beneath a berry-like bud and what, for want of a better word, she thought of as the place a baby would come out of someday…some way, however unlikely that seemed.

  It was extraordinary enough that she could accommodate her husband’s cock, much less that he also expected her to do so in the tiny rosebud she could just glimpse by arching her hips a little higher and lying back a bit on her shoulders.

  What she really needed was a hand mirror. Lacking that, surely she could be pardoned for relying on touch.

  How sensitive that little berry was! At the first brush of her fingertip, a warm rush of pleasure spread through her. The sensation was not unfamiliar; she recognized it at once as the same that occurred when her husband touched her there with his finger, his tongue, the swollen, glistening crest of his cock…

  Gleaming moisture appeared as though magically. She gathered a little of it and touched the bud again. Oh, yes, that was definitely it…

  Belatedly, the thought occurred to her that what she was doing must be the same as the forbidden self-pleasuring that had been so harshly punished at Mary Magdalene. A ripple of dismay went through her as she tried not to remember how girls who transgressed like that were corrected, with all the rest compelled to bear witness for the benefit of their own weak natures. Gemma’s sins had been of the mind, not the body.

  But that was then and this was…

  Aaahhh, oh, yes, so good…just a little more and-- The pleasure built beneath her busy little finger. She forgot all about the mirror and focused solely on what she felt. So distracted was she that she failed to hear when the gym door opened. Indeed, nothing pierced her blissful state until--

  “What are you up to, naughty girl?”

  With a gasp, Gemma yanked away her offending hand and stared guiltily at her husband in the mirror. For such a big man, he certainly could move stealthily.

  “Nothing! That is I thought I would get an early start on exercising…being fit…you know.”

  His smile broadened. “Oh, I do know. Pray continue.”

  Surely he meant with the stretching that she hadn’t actually been doing? But when she tried to even begin that, he said, “No, no, what you were doing before.” Squatting down beside her, he said huskily, “Touch yourself.”

  She couldn’t! Not for all the rubies in Zanzibar. Wishing the floor would open and absorb her, Gemma murmured, “I can’t.”

  Her husband was unmoved. “Of course you can. You were doing quite well. Go on now, no excuses. Get on with it. I want to watch you come.”

  With her face flaming, Gemma resigned herself to obedience. Tentatively, she touched the little bud again.

  “Keep your eyes on the mirror,” Charles said. “See how wet and swollen you are, just begging to be fucked.”

  Then why didn’t he do it, for heaven’s sake, instead of making her…

  Her thoughts dissolving under the rush to orgasm, she barely heard when her husband said, “Stop.”

  He didn’t mean it, he couldn’t. She was so close--

  “Stop,” he repeated.

  Mindful of her previous experience with the bastinado, Gemma complied but only just. Frustration pierced her. She was panting and flushed, thwarted release congealing swiftly into resentment.

  “It would be so easy to finish you off right now,” Charles murmured. “A finger in your cunt, better yet two, another in your ass and you would--”

  He broke off abruptly and shook his head as though recalling himself. “But you don’t get to come without my permission. Otherwise, you’d be likely to overdo and any medical man will tell you that leads to nothing good for females.”

  Every medical quack on the planet could go to damnation, so far as Gemma was concerned. She wanted, needed…she demanded to come. Or at least her body did. Her mind still retained a sufficient grasp of self-preservation to keep her silent.

  “Good,” Charles said when he was satisfied that she was demonstrating sufficient wifely obedience. “You may resume.”

  A groan escaped her. Resume the tantalizing torture that he was forcing her to inflict on herself? She couldn’t…she wouldn’t…

  She did. Surely, he had made his point. There would be no reason to stop her this time. Her fingers moved faster, slick with the copious moisture dripping from her, round and round the little bud until she was about to--

  “Stop.”

  She’d have his balls in a crusher, she would! He’d be howling, begging her, pleading--

  Charles stood, unbuttoned his shorts and said, “Lie face down on the mat.”

  Silently, Gemma damned him to an infinity of hells, Dantesque in their cruelty only worse because they were designed not by a lovesick Italian poet but by frustrated women everywhere.

  Determined to absent herself in sweet thoughts of vengeance to come, she was nonetheless distracted when her husband, having hoisted her hips up and spread her legs, thrust slowly and deeply into her. And out…and in again…the thick, hard length of his cock so deliciously tormenting, so stimulating, so gaspingly, pulse-pounding, explosively--

  “Aaaahhhh!”

  One extraordinarily intense orgasm later, she was frankly astonished to have survived it. Not that any such consideration eased her resentment--at least not by much.

  She would have liked nothing better than to wipe the smug look off her husband’s handsome face. All the more so when he allowed her just a quick shower before insisting that they both actually use the gym for its intended purpose.

  All her noble resolve--especially the part about no more whining or grumbling--almost went out the window right then. She barely managed to hold her tongue but was glad that she had. It took all her energy to avoid being tossed off the treadmill or hurtled from the cross-trainer.

  A very long hour later, Charles finally relented. Only for Gemma to discover that her husband’s idea of a proper cool-down consisted of fucking her up against the windows looking out over the lawn where peacocks strutted. She was coming again--and again--when the startled birds spread their tails, pointed their fool heads to the sky and shrieked loudly enoug
h to set the hunting dogs to howling.

  The Furies were still complaining about all the noise at dinner that night. Gemma squirmed in her chair and signaled the footman for another glass of wine.

  Chapter Four

  Gemma arrived in the gym the next morning in a bit of a snit. Between one thing and another, Charles had kept her up far too late the previous night. For all his prattling about orgasm control, he was clearly intent on leading her astray.

  The things he had done to her in the shadowed darkness of the night didn’t bear thinking about yet she had no hope of forgetting.

  Those clamps on her nipples… The devilish little whirling gizmo against her clit… The steel bar holding her legs wide apart while he…

  She had thought all such apparatuses and sundry were safely locked away in the cabinet in his study but not so. Apparently, they could pop up anywhere, rather like his cock itself.

  That damned thing even had a name: ‘Brad’ in honor of, as Charles explained in a rare interlude between fucks, the renowned boxer, Bradford “Boom Boom” Leinster who had made his mark in the ring simply by refusing to stay down.

  “Indefatigable, he was. Just when you thought he was finished, he’d bounce right back up. His opponent would think he had it won in the third only to find out they were going another nine rounds.”

  All that followed by a manly chuckle that set Gemma’s nerves even more on edge.

  It had to be glandular, she thought. Those balls of his, with which she was all too familiar, were far too large. Heaven only knew what they were pumping into his bloodstream to cause him to behave in such a way.

  Distracted by pleasant thoughts of retribution--let him see how he liked clamps on his nipples!--she almost failed to notice the objects propped against the mirrored wall. When she did, a little start of pleased surprise ran through her.

  As a child, she had been allowed the usual assortment of toys for a girl of her social class--dolls, a doll house, a play tea set, appropriately uplifting books and the like. But she had longed for so much more--a skateboard, a boomerang, a chemistry set, preferably one from which explosives could be made, and above all a hula hoop.

  When she had confided her desire for the latter to her mother that lady had collapsed in a fit of vapors and sent her away, not summoning her again for a full month. Only much later did Gemma realize that the hula hoop was believed to induce lascivious movements of the hips that in turn caused impure thoughts in young women.

  At last, she had a chance to discover if that was true.

  By the time Charles appeared in the gym a few minutes later, Gemma had surmounted her first clumsy efforts and was getting the hang of hula hooping. Never mind that she was stark naked, her generous bosom bobbing along enthusiastically, this was fun!

  Her husband--and Brad--thought so, too. Grinning, Charles stood for a moment watching before tossing her a second hoop and setting the sound system to blast out Beyoncé’s “Naughty Girl”.

  “This is fantastic!” she yelled over it. One hoop was gyrating wildly around her hips while she kept the other rotating about her thighs. To accomplish as much, all she had to do was spread her legs a little more and arch her back. She was a natural at this!

  “It certainly is,” he agreed, leaning back against the wall, arms folded over his broad chest. Brad was trying to peek out of his shorts.

  Eying them in the mirror, Gemma said, “I know what you’re thinking.”

  With his gaze locked on her pelvis, her husband murmured, “Oh, yes? What’s that?”

  “You’re trying to figure out how you can…you know…me while I’m doing this.”

  His startled look made her laugh. He appeared at once guilty as sin and taken aback that she could read him so easily.

  “I’m sorry to say that I don’t think it can be done,” he said. Still, he wasn’t giving the idea up entirely. “Maybe in space where there’s zero gravity. Perhaps I should propose it to the Science Ministry as an experiment, what do you think?”

  Beyoncé was telling everyone that she was feeling sexy when Gemma let the hoops drop. She was laughing too much to keep them up any longer and besides, she’d caught sight of something else poking its way out of a closet on the far side of the gym.

  “What is that?” she asked, pointing.

  Charles glanced in the same direction and perked up at once, the puzzle of hula hoop fucking forgotten, at least for the moment.

  “Something else I thought you’d enjoy,” he said and went to let it out.

  Gemma tilted her head slightly to one side. Something about the large, bright red bouncy ball that bobbled into the gym was off somehow. Didn’t quite fit, as it were.

  The ball, large enough for her to sit on although probably not Charles who would have squashed it flat, was made out of shiny pink rubber. It had two handles to either side of what presumably was its top.

  From between those handles protruded a third…a horn of sorts jutting straight up, long and thick and--

  “You can’t be serious,” she said as bewilderment gave way to disbelief.

  What deranged mind could conceive of such a thing? And how exactly had her husband acquired it? Was there a shop somewhere, down a back street in London perhaps, where one went to purchase such items?

  Or perhaps it was all done on-line, in which case someone would have had to inflate it once it arrived. Had they used a bicycle pump or more efficiently, the air compressor she had seen in the garage where Charles kept his sporty silver MG convertible along with all the other cars he collected?

  Gemma walked a few paces closer to the ball and kicked it. After a brief wobble, it settled back into place, still upright, taunting her.

  “It’s supposed to be fun,” Charles insisted. He looked a little wounded. “Of course, it comes with this.”

  From a pocket of his shorts, he whipped out a plastic squeeze bottle.

  “What is that?”

  “Lube….lubricant for…you know. Wouldn’t want to cause any discomfort. As I said, it’s supposed to be fun.”

  She stared at the ball again. “I’m not at all sure that I could manage it.”

  As though he knew exactly the reaction he would get, her husband said, “I dare you to try.”

  Something stirred deep inside Gemma. The memory of sitting on the sidelines, watching the boys rolling in the dirt, swinging from trees, daring each other to jump higher, run faster, spit farther. How she had envied them!

  Fun, he said? They’d see about that.

  Silently, she held out her hand. Grinning, he put the bottle in it.

  A few minutes later--the protuberance well lubed--Gemma settled herself cautiously onto it. Her thighs were spread wide across the curve of the ball but her feet still touched the floor. She straightened her back, sucked in her breath, and gave a tentative little bounce.

  The sensation was odd, to say the least, but not outrightly unpleasant. Firmly grasping the handles to either side, she tried again.

  Bounce.

  The movement of the protuberance inside her wasn’t nearly as impressive as ‘Brad’ but she still definitely felt it.

  Bounce.

  Yes, something there, no question about it. Still, to be sure--

  Bounce.

  Not unpleasant at all. In fact, one might even say that it was rather stimulating.

  “Try bouncing across the room,” Charles suggested helpfully.

  Why not? Holding on firmly, she set off.

  Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. Bounce.

  Titties bobbing right along with all the rest of her, she picked up speed. The protuberance thrust inside her while the surface of the ball slapped repeatedly against her bottom.

  Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. Bouncity bounce.

  Slick with the lube and her own mounting arousal, the rubber appendage found that special place deep inside her where she was so acutely sensitive. Very soon, her breath was coming in gasps.

  Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. Bouncity bounce.

 
By the time she reached the far end of the gym, she was so very close. But Charles had gotten there ahead of her. To be strictly accurate, Brad had preceded him.

  In one fell swoop, he lifted her off the ball. The protuberance came loose with an audible plop. Going down on his haunches beside her, he draped her leg over his back, keeping her spread wide and buried his golden head between her thighs.

  The first hard, swift swipe of his tongue all along her slick, hot cunt made her cry out. With an arm wrapped around her hips, he held her firmly in place as he continued his relentless--and highly effective--torment, licking and sucking until she thought she would be driven mad from it.