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.

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.”

Old

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

a feral passion I would not

by the train. Enwrapped in layers of silk, satin and lace, blinded in my strange white world,

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

comments. “Makes a change from green. But the evidence tells me that we don’t need

my husband, ‘fucking me ‘til I bleat.’ I can feel

first one side and then the other. Firm, warm hands run over my now naked derriere, squeezing and

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,

blood flowing, shall we? Get you coloured up. A nice

of what is to come. As soon as I lean back into his hand, to take him inside me, he withdraws, fingertips

“Do I shackle you there, or will you behave

position. Stretching my legs wide, I open myself as far as I am able, jittery with anticipation, longing

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

heat of his open mouth against my sex, warm breath wafting over my tender, trembling nub, my palpitating

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;

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