Bought By The Billionaire

Chapter 37: Bought By The Billionaire - Chapter Thirty-Seven

My Master steps over the threshold, carrying me in his arms. My huge white meringue of a dress catches on the handle, and he struggles through the door with me and it together. I giggle, as he makes complex manoeuvres trying to get himself, me and the dress all through the door together.

“Welcome home, Mrs Haswell,” he says. Belongs to (N)ôvel/Drama.Org.

Smiling, running his hand over the bodice of my wedding-gown, his deep blue eyes are almost glowing. “You look beautiful in this dress, Elizabeth. But on the whole, I think I want to get you out of it.”

Sucking my lips in anticipation, “Yes, um, I think you’re going to have to help me.” The dress is boned, buttoned, laced and cinched in tight.

He looks the dress over from all sides. “Er, yes, I see what you mean. Not so much a dress as a construction. How did you get into it?”

“Francis helped. She did up all the buttons at the back. And the laces.”

He starts at the back, pulling at laces, trying to loosen the bodice. After several unsuccessful minutes, during which I become more and more giggly, he begins to lose patience.

“Think I’m going to need oxy-acetylene kit to get through these.” he mutters, then “Oh to hell with this! Bend over woman. Let your husband at you.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Find out what you ‘something blue’ is.”

“You’re just an Old Romantic aren’t you.?”

“Wife, I Love You. And in a while, I’m going to make love to you. But right now, I need to fuck you.” His creamy voice is thick with lust, and my own desire is rising to match. This is my husband. I love him passionately. And now we are together, forever.

And I want him inside me, right now, with a feral passion I would not have credited before I knew him.

Beginning to pant, I bend forward over the back of the couch, as he winches the skirts and hoops of my dress over my head, followed by the train. Enwrapped in layers of silk, satin and lace, blinded in my strange white world, I can see nothing of what he is doing. I cannot smell the hot scent of his arousal, but I hear him quite clearly, an affectionate whisper through the filmy layers of fabric.

“I realise that, traditionally, we should consummate this in the marriage bed, but right now, I have a raging hard-on and a deep need to fuck my wife ‘til she bleats.” As he rummages through layers and depths of skirts and petticoats, pushing them all up and over me, he finally achieves his destination. I feel the coolth of air, now free to move around my thighs and waist.

“Mmmm… blue panties,” he comments. “Makes a change from green. But the evidence tells me that we don’t need them.”

He’s right. Already, my pussy is warming to the thought of my Master, my husband, ‘fucking me ‘til I bleat.’ I can feel the ‘evidence’, the growing damp patch on the crotch that invites my Master in.

Fingers tug at the side laces of the flimsy garment, unlacing first one side and then the other. Firm, warm hands run over my now naked derriere, squeezing and cupping, pulling the cheeks apart.

I thrust backwards, hoping to find my Master’s cock, to impale myself on him. Leaning into me, still clothed, he grinds himself against me so I can feel the bulge of his swelling erection through formal dress trousers. As I bite my lip against the tease of pressure against my warming core, longing for more, my Master’s fingers wander inwards, parting the lips of my pussy, stroking and teasing. Under

my silken tent, shrouded in a cloud of white, I start to moan. He slaps and smacks at my cheeks, sending a silvery thrill running through me and setting my juices running.

“Let’s get the blood flowing, shall we? Get you coloured up. A nice red ass. That’s what I like.”

Pushing two fingers inside, he finger-fucks me briefly. Again, it is a tease, a promise of what is to come. As soon as I lean back into his hand, to take him inside me, he withdraws, fingertips trailing silver fire over my swelling clit as he leaves.

“Wonder what new brides taste like?” His words flutter through me. “Do I shackle you there, or will you behave and spread yourself as a good girl should?” His laugh is low as he speaks, vibrating through my flesh.

I arch my back, raising my hips as far as I can from my prone position. Stretching my legs wide, I open myself as far as I am able, jittery with anticipation, longing for the touch of my lover’s tongue, and for his penetration of me.

I feel him, behind me, moving downwardly, and know he is doing it deliberately. He has only to step back and kneel. Instead, he slides slowly down my body, pressing against me as he does so. The rough fabric of his trousers, his belt, the buttons of his formal shirt, all rub past my pussy and bud as he descends. The knot of his tie, the slight roughened stubble of his chin…. the warmth of his lips….

He settles, the heat of his open mouth against my sex, warm breath wafting over my tender, trembling nub, my palpitating core.

His lips press against my folds, sucking them in, mouthing the slick skin. He mumbles a sound of pleasure, wholly sensual, a rumble of lust and longing. I echo the sound, sighing my shuddering pleasure at the lapping tongue, which probes and penetrates my trembling pussy; which enfolds my twitching clit.

With long, slow, gradual strokes, starting low with the parting of my lips, within curls, stroking upwards over my swollen nub, through slippery, sensitive skin, into my pussy, then revolving through my inner muscles, swirling through my heated core.

Again, he laps at me. A long, gradual torment of pleasure. I mewl, a small throaty cry of boundless pleasure.

Rinse and repeat.

My Master does not change the rhythm, does not falter. He simply repeats the same pattern, setting an expectation within my flesh of what is to come in the next seconds, until every part of me trembles and shivers, in anticipation of the next moment.

I am afire. Aflame. My burning core, my touch-hungry cunt quivers and quakes, wanting more, demanding fulfilment and I whimper encouragement to my Master.

“You’re not cumming like this, Mrs Haswell.” he says. “For our first nuptials, I’m going to be inside you when you climax.” His tongue withdraws, against my quivering protest, and I feel the rising of his body behind me, before, after a moment of rustling, the sound of clothes being removed, he presses in close.

His sweat-dampened skin rubs against mine, jolting my senses alive within my white shroud. Parting my ankles, widening my stance, he eases gradually into me, stetching me, his shaft nudging my inner self open, before speeding up, his hard body penetrating my softer one, first softly, then harder and more insistently.

Delving into me, his rock-hard erection probes deep within. Sighing as his sheer width stretches me wide, I hear grunts of pleasure, sounds of hunger, deep down, throaty sounds. Despite his obvious need to simply thrust, long and hard, my Master takes the time still to pleasure me, aiming for my sweet

spot, grinding and rotating against my inner walls. Already slick, my passage runs hot and wet for him. His jolts turn into my tingles, his thrusts into my pulsations.

His fingers slip around and in front of me, then down, to my already hard and prominent clit, and swish around in lazy circles. One hand pulling back the hood, the other swipes over the sensitive nub, in a rhythmic flow that leaves me yelping in time to his movements, my Master orchestrating a rhapsody of pleasure through my whole body.

My orgasm is of the kind that consumes from the centre outwards, detonating out through me. As I wail and howl out my climax, my constricting, pulsating cunt becomes the whole world, as violent orgasmic waves wrack my whole body. Shrieking, screaming, I thrash and struggle against the tortured bliss consuming me. Dimly I know that my Master is also climaxing, leaning forward over me, pinning me down by my outstretched wrists as he growls and groans his release. His cock shudders and grinds as it pulses his hot cream into my clenching pussy.

We buck and thrash out our shared release before, blissed out, I sag into dishevelled, panting glory, my Master limp atop me.