Second Chances Ch. 02

Take 2: on the Beach

It hadn't been the best of flights and that was hard to do when the mode of travel was a private Lear, the weather conditions perfect, and the service excellent. After all, two attendants for two passengers rather guaranteed that no one had to wait. That flight was still on her mind as Clare paced around the guest suite, oblivious to the tropical breezes wafting through the open balcony doors and filling the room with scents of the sea and lush vegetation. Stomping was probably closer to the truth than pacing and she'd really like to be throwing things; big, sharp, pointed things but that wasn't going to happen so she kept stomping. Stomping, pacing, what difference did it make; nothing was helping to calm her down. If anything, she was getting more riled by the minute and beginning to think that when she returned to LA (and that could not be soon enough), she was going to throttle Martin for the sick kind of practical joke that he'd played on her.

From beginning to end, it had been a set-up; the cocktail party, the sudden appearance of Brad (damn, damn, and triple damn), and Martin, the grateful client, lending his private plane to whisk her off to a secluded island so she could spend a few days just resting. (It's nothing, Clare, a small thank you for saving my life... well a big chunk of my net worth at least. Considering that I really can't afford another divorce until this studio power plays works itself out, I'm just going to keep the bitch wife for a couple more years). Who knew that Martin Gray and Brad were old friends? When she got back to LA, she was going to expunge Martin from her client list. The next time he got caught playing around on his wife (and there would be a next time because Martin was great with the big picture but lousy with the details), he'd be some other lawyer's headache. She'd miss the 80 grand a year retainer but all she'd have to do was remember last night and the dirty, rotten, sneaky...she was running out of adjectives and about to segue into expletives which she hated using. It was one of the remaining vestiges of her Catholic education. She could still hear Sr. Angela equate profanity with small minds, stupidity and lack of control and, damn it (damn didn't count she'd decided years ago), Clare Marshall was always in control. That was Platinum Rule #1.

Right, Clare, and weren't you the girl in charge last night? You stumble into a freshman fling from your college past and decide to teach the guy a lesson. Does he slink off properly cowed by your success, your charm, your beauty? Not a hard question and it has a simple answer: no. No, no, no. Anyway you want to look at it, Brad did not slink, was not cowed. Quite the opposite, in fact.

Clare stopped mid-stomp and cringed at the memory of herself stripped naked, twenty stories above Wilshire Blvd., tied with her own sash to a chaise lounge while Brad fingered her pussy and fucked her brains out, stopping intermittently to sip her scotch. Did you at least have the presence of mind to scream, to scratch, to pretend you didn't enjoy it? No, to all the previous, your Honor; I came three times. I can only plead...she wasn't sure what the answer was to that. Honestly, it had been the most erotic experience of her life and in some small, private, I will not tell a soul, corner of her innermost feminine being, she wanted it to happen again and with Brad. Clare commenced the stomping. Knives maybe, large rocks... definitely throwing something sharp and painful at Brad and Martin, the bastard; that would help. Thinking about Brad stripping and tying her and putting those knowing fingers into her cunt and following that up with his cock: that was only going to lead to more swearing and, damn it, there had to be something that she could control.

Clare stepped onto the balcony and looked out over an ocean that gleamed turquoise blue in the morning sun and lapped at sugar white sand. It was as private a home as you could ask for; quiet, secluded, staffed by servants who were efficient and unobtrusive. The only sounds were a few gulls and the rhythmical washing of the waves. Too quiet; Clare could hear that little voice in her head, the ruthlessly honest one who always waited for the ranting to subside before delicately pointing out the cold, sobering truth.

"You didn't have to get on that plane, you know. It wasn't as if you were pushed, or bound and gagged then," the little voice whispered.

"Right. After I cancelled a week's worth of appointments and scheduled painters to come into the condo. I'm supposed to stay home all because Brad Rivers shows up. He should have had the courtesy to bow out."

"Courtesy," the little voice said. "The man tied you up, had his way with you (prissy little voice at the moment) and you expect him to cancel his reservation to the Bahamas and, what, go back to Omaha? Do you know how cold it is in Omaha right now? Face it, Clare, you got on that plane because you wanted a rematch. Or, you just wanted him again? Hmmmm, is that it, Clare?"

Resting both hands on the balcony railing, Clare closed her eyes and swallowed hard. She liked having the answers, liked knowing the score, liked playing the game and she was good at it—as long as the game was law. She truly sucked at love and sex, well, she hadn't exactly been a virgin for the past fifteen years but she was definitely more show than go. She never really got the knack of casual sex; she'd learned how to fake an orgasm pretty well. She hadn't faked last night and, if she were really going to honest, she rather liked being tied, being told. So, yes, maybe all the stomping and swearing really wasn't aimed at Brad or Martin.

"Yes," the little voice echoed. "So now what? Here you are for the next six days. That's a long time to stomp. Maybe you want to consider the alternatives."

Okay, Clare thought, alternatives it is. Turning back into the suite, she walked into the dressing room where the helpful staff had already unpacked for her, even added a few things by the looks of it. A handful of skimpy bikinis were folded into a large wicker basket, long flowing beach dresses dangled from padded hangers next to short flirty ones. She opened the dresser drawers to see piles of delicate bras and panties, thongs and silky nighties. By comparison, her own stuff looked...stuffy. Martin did have good taste she noted running her hands over the piles.

Fifteen minutes later Clare was walking down the shaded open terrace that bordered green lawns that extended to the sea, past a pool, umbrella tables and unto the sand where a couple of chaises were already laid out under a large morrocan style tent whose sides were held open with ties. A narrow table held a pitcher of icy water, plates of fresh fruit, glasses and flowers. Huge fluffy towels and robes were piled on upholstered chaises. No sign of Brad and that was just fine with Clare. He was probably just a mite wary. Sure, he really struck her as the wary sort. She didn't care. It had been one night, she was here and she was not going to be scared off by someone from Omaha. She spread a towel over a chaise, kicked off her sandals and lay back, feeling the breeze waft by. She'd barely closed her eyes on the plane and now it was so peaceful here, maybe she'd just take a quick nap. It was only moments and she had drifted off, lulled to sleep by the waves.

Brad came into the tent silently and looked at her. He wasn't sorry for last night. He knew something like that was going to happen the minute she had appeared at the party. He and Martin went back years, all the way to high school and they'd kept in touch. Once Brad began managing Martin's portfolio, it had only been a matter of months before he put two and two together. V.C. Marshall, as she liked to be called professionally, was Veronica Clare, the precious little freshman virgin from UCLA. God, what a night that was; he'd lived with the teasing for weeks after she'd run out of his fraternity room. Pride, pure pride had kept him from calling her, trying to apologize, asking for another chance. He'd been pretty sure of himself at twenty; girls had never been a problem. Clare, she was a problem, then and now.

He looked at her lying there, at the gentle heave of her breasts in the bikini, at the rise of her mound and felt an erection growing, pushing against his trunks. Reaching out he undid the side tent ties, a silent instruction to the help to stay back. He smiled to himself, glad that he'd put ties, a gag, and a vibrator in one of the wicker baskets. She might have been pissed off on the flight down but he knew that she wasn't going to stay huddled up in her suite all week. Once she got on that flight, she had made her choice even if he was going to have to nudge her into admitting it.

One long stride and he was lifting satin ties out of the basket. Wow, there were quite a few other additions that had been added to the mix; a red ball gag, butt plug, some scented oils and lubes, a couple of different vibrators with various attachments. Nothing like good help; no wonder Martin bragged about the place. He might toy with the vibrator but he was pretty sure that what God had given him would be enough for what he had in mind this morning.

She lay there with one knee bent and, as far as Brad could tell, Clare was simply asking to be hogtied. Deftly he wrapped a tie around a slender ankle and working quickly secured it to her wrist, finishing only seconds before she roused from that morning nap and opened blue eyes to meet his brown ones. He waited for, and got the expected jerk as she tried to get up, only to find herself being firmly pressed down into the chaise. Unable to figure out why she couldn't get the leverage to sit up, Clare pulled on the tied side and fixed him with a withering stare.

"Just. What. Do. You. Think. You. Are. Doing?" The words came out low and clipped and he got a sense of Clare in the courtroom or across a negotiation table. Calm, controlled, lethal. Very nice; definitely the woman needed loosening up.

"I hogtied you on one side, sweets. Far as I can tell, you're not blindfolded so unless you've developed some new ocular ailment, it's pretty clear what I've done. Just haven't finished." He kept his voice just as low, just as controlled as hers, bent his head to hide an amused grin and firmly caught the remaining wrist and ankle with the ties. Knotting them (he wasn't taking any chances), he stood up and surveyed the female before him. Those blue eyes were sparking and she'd caught a soft, full lower pink lip between her teeth. She was trying to look stern. She should have looked angry but she didn't. Wary, guarded, the tiniest bit anxious and definitely aroused. Her nipples pouted through the thin fabric of the bikini top, he could see the rapid rise and fall of breasts, and there was a definite smudge of moisture at the clef between her legs.

Sitting down next to her, he pressed a hand on either side of her body and leaned into her, their faces only a breath apart. Clare blinked rapidly, swallowed, but she didn't move, couldn't move. Her breath came tight and fast, she could feel her nipples continue to swell and there was a decided tingle in her cunt, the sure sign that her arousal was growing. She should have been afraid, or angry. Instead, she was strangely caught up in the anticipation of what he would do next.

Brad leaned on his left arm, bringing his body closer to her bound one and trailed a finger down the side of her face and over the swell of her breast. Coming to rest on her nipple, he flicked a finger back and forth and was rewarded with the beginnings of soft whimpering. Without breaking his gaze, he slid a finger underneath the fabric and popped her breast out, squeezed and rolled the nipple to even greater fullness before taking the rosy bud into his mouth and sucking it, lavishing attention on it with his tongue as she arched involuntarily toward him. Small moans of pleasure and unformed words, those intimate sounds of sexual desire bubbled out of her and she turned her head from side to side with the pleasure of his touch.

"Do you like it, Clare, being tied? Being restrained? You didn't make a sound after that first question. Talk to me, Clare. Tell me what you're feeling. Now."

Somewhere in her mind Clare knew that this was an impossible situation. Did he really expect a logical, rational response? It took everything she had just to grapple with the situation. Did she like being tied up, hogtied, that's what he called it? Yes, damn it, she did. She was tired of being in control, making the decisions. She wanted him to master her, to take command. Somehow she just knew that she would never have to fake anything with him. He'd probably tell her when to come, and she would.

"I'm waiting for an answer, Clare," he prompted and to emphasize the point he moved his attentions to her other breast, roughly pulling down the bra, exposing the snowy mound and sucking deeply on that nipple while rubbing the other, still moist from his mouth.

"Tell me now or I'll stop."

"Yes, I like it. Don't stop, please don't stop. I can't believe I said that. Oh, oh, oh my," she whimpered and felt his hand shift from her breast to her belly, stopping at the ties of her bikini. Toying with the strings, he ran a finger under the bikini and into the mass of damp curls. Further he explored, into the silky wetness of her slit allowing the pressure of his hand and the suit bottom to press against her clit.

"Tell me, Clare," Brad murmured into her hair, continuing to strum the bud of her clitoris in circular motions, rubbing the juices from her cunt onto and around the clit, thrusting two fingers into her cunt. He felt her strain at the ties, arching her body into his fingers, trying to increase the pressure and contact. Her eyes were closed, her head lolling from side to side.

"Can I do whatever I want with you, Clare? Can I rape your mouth? Your cunt? Can I strip you naked in this tent and fuck you? Are you mine?

"Yes, oh my god. Brad, Brad..." Whatever words she was trying to form were lost in the writhing of pleasure that was shooting through her body. The ties increased the pleasure; she couldn't get away from him, from his hands, his mouth. The more she strained and arched, the greater the sensation until she felt her body break apart into a wrenching orgasm that he controlled through his fingers alone, and his voice, telling her to come, to arch, to push into him.

In the utter privacy of the tent and the beach, Brad grunted in satisfaction as Clare screamed and whimpered into the orgasm. He watched her bound body shift and strain at the ties and felt an elemental male power that he could control and manipulate her pleasure. As her cries subsided into soft whimpers and moans, he gently withdrew his hand from her cunt and, in one swift movement, stripped the trunks from his body. His erection jutted out, throbbing, almost painful and glistening with moisture at the tip. He moved over the chaise and spread her legs apart, tugging the bikini ties loose and pulling the suit bottom from beneath her. At this new movement, Clare's eyes flew open and she instinctively drew her knees together.

"Spread your legs, Clare. Spread your legs for me now," he spoke in low, even tones and there was no mistaking the command in his voice. "Do it Clare. Show me that you want my cock in you."

He knelt on the chaise and waited for her response, but he did not touch her. Slowly, Clare began opening her legs, spreading them wider until she could feel the ocean breeze floating over her wet cunt. Brad reached down and inserted two, then three fingers into her slit, massaging the swollen clit with his thumb, tracing gentle circles over the pink bud, then increasing the pressure until she whimpered again.

He listened to the sounds she made, indescribable sounds of pure female pleasure. He watched as she began to rock her pelvis to meet his thrusts, pushing his fingers in harder and faster and then, in one movement he pulled them out, took his cock in his hand and plunged into her cunt, pushing into the warm, wet, creamy depths. Thrusting into her, he balanced on his hands, feeling the walls of her vagina pulsate around his shaft.

"Look at me, Clare. Look at me raping you. You're tied and I'm raping you and you love it. You want it. You need it. Keep looking at me, Clare. I want you to watch my face while I rape you and make you come." Brad watched her struggle against shutting her eyes and thrilled to the control, the pleasure. He'd had his share of women, more than most but there was something different about Clare. There was no pretense with her; she gladly gave up control. Maybe it was the shadow of innocence that peeked out from the sophisticated veneer. He could still see her at eighteen, still remember the sensation of her longing and anxiety over that single evening. He hadn't known then, hadn't had the experience to realize that all she needed was a little forcing to do exactly what she wanted. He thrust harder and knew instinctively that tying her, forcing her was unlocking layers of thwarted sexuality, awakening pools of desire that had been walled off for years. He watched her push back at him, noted that her eyes had closed; she was lost in the pleasure that he gave her, in the pure sensation of feeling. The bonds, the words, the commands; he knew how to unlock the sexual woman that she wanted to be.

Then he was thrusting faster and faster, deeper and harder, pushing into her cunt and hearing the whimpers turn into moans and the moans into louder cries and then she was thrashing and lost in an orgasm so deep that he could feel her cunt squeeze around his cock and there was nothing left to do but push into her one more time and come into her, jerking hot streams of semen and feeling an incredible release.

Brad lay heavily on top of her, spent and sated. He could feel the rapid beating of her heart, the soft heaving of her breasts beneath him. He lifted himself up and off her, passed a towel over his cock, and reached down to untie her. Tossing the satin restraints to the sand, he gathered her into his lap, watching her burrow into his chest.

"Am I the first man to tie you up and take you?" He had to know. He was pretty sure of the answer but he needed to hear it.

"Yes." Her answer came out in a short puff of air. "I haven't...I don't...I can't..." Clare was having just the slightest bit of trouble trying to make a sentence. "I never thought...I mean, I didn't think that women wanted to be, you know...forced, but for some reason, I do. Crazy. Somehow it makes it all better, right, increases the sensation. Oh, you don't think that the next step is going to be leather bras and whips, do you? Maybe there's something wrong with me? How did you know or is this the kind of thing that you always do? Who would have thought? Brad from Omaha: bondage king." She was rambling and she knew it. Clare didn't ramble often and when she did, it was a sure sign that she was nervous.

Brad smiled over the top of her head. If she had been able to see his face he was pretty sure that whatever feminine whimpering and indecision over her newfound sexual preferences would disappear pretty damn quickly. In place of this lovely, soft female who was pliant and cuddling, he would have some version of V.C. Marshall, lethal lawyer to contend with. She was in a fragile state at the moment, coming to grips with the fact that she liked being tied, being raped. Granted, he was feeling some, justifiably, measure of male satisfaction. Beyond the good sex, the orgasm, he had discovered what made Clare tick. Maybe he didn't know fifteen years ago in that frat room, but he knew now and, as they say, knowledge is power.

"No leather whips and chains, Clare. You're a woman who was made, perfectly made, for satin ties and gags and being restrained and being raped and loving it."