Discipline of the Blue Book

I can’t stop looking at it. This book I found tucked at the back of the bookshelf in our holiday cottage. I’m reading the Blue Book, or more accurately, looking at its pictures again and again. It must be based on some real need. Some real kink. Somebody must have wanted it.

I think I do…

Simon and Suzanne are in a committed relationship—even if the sex is a little predictable. But while on vacation at a secluded cabin they discover the Blue Book, an erotic tome filled with vintage photos of men disciplining their submissive. Both Simon and Suzanne are turned on by the sensual images of domination—leading to experiments of their own that reveal all their secret, wicked desires....

Book one of Portia Da Costa’s 3 Colors Sexy series. Read more of Simon and Suzanne’s erotic adventures in Ritual of the Red Chair and Ecstasy in the White Room.

Discipline of the Blue Book

3 Colors Sexy

Portia Da Costa

www.spice-books.co.uk

Contents

Discipline of the Blue Book

Copyright

I can’t stop looking at it. This book I found tucked at the back of the bookshelf in our holiday cottage.

I can’t stop looking at it and wondering whether Simon’s out there imagining me in here looking at it. And if he is, what does he think? How does he feel?

The sun’s beating down outside, drowning the patio in light, so I’ve got a good excuse for lurking indoors, in the shade. I’m reading the Blue Book, or more accurately, perving over its pictures again and again. He’s out there, catching a few more rays before he comes inside and probably does some work on his laptop or watches football on the television. By unspoken agreement, this was supposed to be a “togetherness” holiday, but so far we’ve pretty much done our own things, as per usual. My current thing seems to be looking at vintage photographs of wide-eyed Victorian “pretty maidens” baring their rather anemic-looking bottoms and getting spanked.

Just look at this one, eh?

A black-haired beauty in layers of voluminous undergarments is stretched across the lap of a stern-looking gentleman with a very serious mustache. The penitent’s old-fashioned drawers are all pulled open to reveal her plump, pallid buttocks, and her husband, lover, disciplinarian or whatever he is, has his hand raised, just about to wallop her one.

Is it for real? Surely not. It’s got to be posed; a naughty, porny, underground piece of titillation to be sold to respectable gentlemen under the counter, for a tidy price.

But it must be based on some real need, I guess. Some real kink. Somebody must have wanted it, and somebody must have wanted what it represented too.

I think I do, even if it hurts. Maybe even because it hurts. Who knows? I don’t, not categorically, not for sure. But I do know how I feel when I look at the Blue Book. I feel horny, and I want to be touched, and maybe more.

Wriggling a bit, I glance out of the French window toward Simon on his lounger.

What about you? Does the Blue Book make you horny too, my love?

It must do. It has to. Mainly because it’s full of bare female bottoms, something he must have noticed when I left it out on the sideboard last night. What man’s eyes wouldn’t be drawn to a sight like that? I know for certain that he must have looked at the Blue Book because the dust wrapper was tucked in at a different page just now, and there’s only been the two of us in the house since then.

So why haven’t you said anything, you contrary devil? Are you waiting for me to be the one to make the first move?

I look at him, toasting his well-basted body in the sun out there. I love him to pieces, but he’s not straightforward guy, not a pussycat. He’s a reserved and reticent man. Not a liar or deceiver but somehow always giving the impression of not exactly revealing his whole self to me, of maybe hiding a secret, private Simon.

Is this it? Your hidden desire?

I look down at the man in the photo. He’s vintage, of course; older, darker and far more whiskery than my blond, golden Simon, but still, there’s something about the two men that echoes across the centuries. Even allowing for the posed quality of the picture and its fuzzy reproduction, there’s a look in the eye, a gleam that’s vaguely challenging and quietly confident.

There’s an air about that mustachioed Victorian gentleman that would make a woman do anything he wanted. Even drape herself across his lap with her bottom bare, ready to take a spanking.

I blink, looking down again, and it’s like a screen-wipe. A perception shift. I see myself and Simon in the faded sepia photograph, and at the same time I feel as if I’m in the scene too, across his knee.

His thighs feel strong and rock solid beneath me, comforting me. Cooler air wafts across the naked skin of my bottom, emphasizing its exposure. Every millimeter of epidermis is hypersensitized, every last skin cell, every last pore, waiting, waiting....

I want Simon to spank me, but I’m not sure why. It can’t be because I crave pain, because I don’t. I hate pain. I avoid it at all costs, and I cringe and whine like a baby when I have to pluck or wax various bits of myself, or when I stub my toe or cut my finger on a sheet of paper.