First Taste

Lyra Marlowe

Repressed and bossy Ellen Meyers gets a shocking peek -- literally -- into her old friends' love life. While she watches through the kitchen window, David and Ariel indulge in some serious submission play on the kitchen table. Tho...
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Repressed and bossy Ellen Meyers gets a shocking peek -- literally -- into her old friends' love life. While she watches through the kitchen window, David and Ariel indulge in some serious submission play on the kitchen table. Though she knows she should be repelled, Ellen can't stop watching. She can't keep from touching herself, either.

But when another Dom discovers her voyeurism, he insists on pleasuring Ellen while she watches the games inside. She's only had a few lovers and she's never had an orgasm with any them. She's certainly never engaged in anything as scandalous as Thomas suggests. She is much too prim and proper for any of that. Or is she?

  • Note:This book contains explicit sexual content, graphic language, and situations that some readers may find objectionable: BDSM theme and content, including/not limited to spanking; also contains exhibitionism; voyeurism.
Ellen Meyer stepped out of the shower and wrapped herself in a towel. She paused, as she always did, to admire the way the towel felt. It was heavy Egyptian cotton, deep emerald green, and big enough to cover her from her neck to her knees. It was a very fine towel, and she had paid for it herself, with her own money, the same as every other fine thing in her home. She ran the soft corner against her cheek and smiled. All hers, and no one could take it away.

It had been a long, tedious day. Everybody at her law firm’s office had been moon-eyed and stupid over the holiday. There were boxes of cheap chocolate everywhere, overpriced because the boxes were covered in red foil. One of the secretaries had a vase of red roses on her desk, even though she’d had to take a paycheck advance the week before to make her mortgage payment. The senior partner wore a red polyester sports coat instead of his usual conservative suit. Three other attorneys had red ties, and one had a red vest to go with it. All the women wore pink or red or rose, too. They’d looked sideways at Ellen, in her refined gray skirt and white blouse, as if she’d broken some massive cultural law. She hated the color red. She would rather die than wear it, especially on Valentine’s Day.

In the windows hung big cardboard cutouts of Cupid, with his fat belly and his naked butt and wings that could never have carried a chunky little kid like him. In Ellen’s opinion, it was very unprofessional.

And now, when all she wanted to do was curl up in her flannel pajamas and ignore the whole stupid thing, she had to go out to a party.

She didn’t want to go. She had tried to turn down the invitation, but David had been too damn persuasive. The very last thing Ellen wanted, today of all days, was to be in the same room with Ariel Sanborn. The little slut would brush out her long golden hair and throw on some skanky dress with no underwear, and the boys would be all over her. Ellen could work with professionals for a week and never look as good as Ariel did in five minutes.

No, flannel pajamas on the couch was definitely more appealing. She didn’t want to go out again, didn’t want to be with people dressed in red or eat their chocolates or smell their roses or look at their fat little Cupid pictures.

Ellen hated Valentine’s Day.

Just another day, she told herself firmly, and it’s almost over. She rubbed the towel vigorously against her skin.

The near-violent friction of the cloth over her breasts brought her nipples to sharp attention. Ellen paused, then caressed herself more gently. Her blood stirred into a gentle glow between her legs; her breasts had always been terribly sensitive. She glanced at the clock. She had time. Just one quick climax and then she’d get dressed. Her eyed closed as she continued to circle her nipples slowly. The rich cotton softness, and all of it hers.

Abruptly, she opened her eyes and snatched the towel away. The cool air felt brutal, and also stimulating, on her bare skin. Her breasts ached upward; her pussy was gently moist. But she was not some animal in heat. Even here in her own home, on this day, she was not going to give in to anything as basic as lust.

Exerting harsh self-control felt sexual, too. Her body simmered, but she denied its final pleasure. It was an oddly delicious torture to force herself to stop. She felt the blood grow even hotter at the center of her sex.

She ground her teeth. “I have a damn party to go to,” she told her reflection in the mirror.

She brushed the towel across her nipples one last time, a promise to herself. Maybe later, as a reward, if she survived the party. After midnight, when it wasn’t damnable Valentine’s Day anymore.

* * * * *
Ellen opened her top drawer and by habit reached for her ordinary underwear -- white nylon panties and a plain but substantial white bra. Then she paused. She wasn’t going to work. For an evening out, even all by herself, she deserved a little frill. She dug under her neatly folded slips and drew out her special undies -- sheer panties that were more lace than fabric and a matching satiny, low-cut bra. She’d bought them at the mall, on sale of course. She almost never wore them. But tonight she needed the extra boost.

She chuckled to herself and hooked the scandalous bra in the front. It certainly did give her a boost; it thrust her breasts upward and outward like some strumpet from the Wild West. Like Miss Kitty in her corset, all set to meet up with Marshal Dillon.

She had to admire the way she looked with her figure displayed rather than firmly strapped down. It wouldn’t do for every day. Nobody wanted Miss Kitty for their attorney -- but maybe she could wear her special things a little more often.

As she reached for her blouse, the doorbell rang. Ellen glanced at the clock. It read 5:15. She grabbed her robe off the end of the bed and tied it quickly around her waist as she hurried across the living room. Through the peephole, she saw a dark brown shirt and opened the door for the deliveryman.

“Evening, miss,” he said. He was in his forties, clean-cut, handsome, and fit. Ellen had seen him in shorts in the summer, and though she’d never say so, he had an ass she could watch all day.

She cleared her throat, chasing the thought away. “You’re out late tonight.”

“Valentine’s Day,” he said with a shrug. “I been delivering PajamaGrams all day. But this looks a little more personal.” He held out a large, flat box. Ellen took it awkwardly, then struggled to sign his automatic clipboard. When she handed it back, he was grinning broadly. “Have a nice evening, miss.”

As he walked down the hall -- with his fine ass hidden underneath his jacket -- Ellen glanced down and realized that her robe had fallen open to the waist, displaying all her upward-and-outward cleavage. Her face grew hot, and she quickly covered herself. He must have thought she was a total slut.

He hadn’t seemed especially unhappy about the view.

She saw that same driver several times a week at the office.

Oh shit. What if he told the guys in the office? Or back at the delivery hub? This could be all over town by morning.

Trembling with embarrassment, Ellen went back inside and closed her door tightly. She touched her burning cheeks with her hands, which were always cool. It helped -- a little.

When she finally managed to release her robe, Ellen looked at the package. The address was handwritten in a familiar blue scrawl. “Mom.” She shook her head ruefully. “Thanks, Mom. I just flashed a delivery guy because of you.”

Copyright © Lyra Marlowe


Customer Reviews

predictable Review by OANA
I have one word to say about this book: predictable (Posted on 11/17/2017)

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