Free Sticks and Stone by Jennifer Dunne Page B

interminably long hallway to the
master bedroom. The Safari Suite, as he’d nicknamed it.
    The heavy wooden furniture was embellished with
leopard-, cheetah-, and lion-skin prints. Mosquito netting draped the bed,
matching the black and tan gauze panels curtaining the window.
    “It’s all faux,” he hastened to reassure her. “I
wouldn’t let the designer use real animal skins.”
    “Harm no one.” Eileen bestowed a brilliant smile upon
him, and slapped the branch against the bedspread with a sharp snap.
    Dermot jumped. The blood rushed to his cock, leaving him
lightheaded, and the plaintive whine broke from his throat again.
    She stroked the branch across the shoulder of his suit
coat, caressed his neck, then slid the branch inside
his open jacked and down his chest. The tip flicked one of his nipples through
the fine cotton of his shirt, wrenching a groan from him. Then the branch
stroked lower still, and his stomach muscles clenched in trembling
anticipation. She hesitated at his waistline, then dipped the branch and
lightly tapped his cock.
    He surged forward, heat flaring in his groin, and
groaned. “Oh, yes, please. Yes.”
      “Strip,” she
ordered.
    Dermot yanked off his suit jacket and flung it against
the wall. His trembling fingers seemed unable to grasp the tiny buttons on his
shirt, so he simply pulled it over his head. There was a moment of resistance, then the offending buttons gave way. He yanked his hands
free of the imprisoning cuffs and tossed the shirt after the jacket.
    His belt was next, followed by his pants. The brush of
fabric against his cock as he wrestled with the button and zip was maddening,
but he persevered, and soon freed his cock from the tangle of his briefs as
well. His pants fell to his ankles. He stepped out of them, getting rid of his
shoes at the same time, then balanced on first one
foot then the other to remove his socks.
    Completely naked, he waited for Eileen to tell him what
to do next.
    She’d been busy while he’d been disrobing, and had
pulled all the covers off of the bed, leaving just the black and tan fitted
sheet.
    She tossed a leopard-printed pillow into the center of
the bed.
    “ Lay down, and cradle your cock
in that.”
    When he looked at her in confusion, she smiled. “I don’t
want you coming too early. I want to find out just how much we can hurt you
without doing any harm.”
    He shivered, his balls trying to pull up, even as his
cock hardened still further and molten desire filled his veins.
    “Yes,” he whispered.
    He crawled up on the bed and lay face down, his cock
nestling into the soft embrace of the feather pillow.
    Eileen stroked his ass, her soft hand warm against his
quivering flesh.
    “Your scratches have healed nicely. Good.”
    He thought again of the blood coursing down his legs
from the dryad’s beating, and cold fear clutched his heart and balls. Then
Eileen slapped his ass, and he felt only hot desire.
    The bed shifted as she climbed onto it and straddled his
legs. The soft denim of her jeans caressed his thighs.
    Her fingers stroked the cleft in his ass. “The having is
as easy as the wanting if you say the word.”
    “Yes!” he cried.
    Her palm slapped his ass, driving him into the pillow.
It was a poor substitute for the wet embrace of her mouth or vagina. Using both
hands, she covered his ass with stinging slaps.
    His hips rose and fell beneath her, matching her rhythm.
His cock thrust in and out of the feather pillow with each swat.
    Dermot grunted at each blow, aching for more. He wasn’t
sure what he wanted. Higher, harder, faster, stronger. Something. Something that would turn
this sweet stinging pain into the full-throated bellowing agony of ecstasy.
    She paused then, and ran her hands over his tender skin.
“Your ass is a lovely shade of pink. All warmed up.”
    A shudder rippled through him. She’d only been warming
him up. Now the real hitting would start.
    The wych elm branch cracked
against his ass. He bucked