The Billionaire and the Wedding Planner by Emily Tilton – Extended Preview

Emily heard the stairs creak. She had sat motionless on her bed with the pink comforter, in her room with the posters from the Museum of Fine Arts and the symphony that she had put up her senior year in high school when she had decided to become sophisticated. Her teddy bear Reginald, in the classic, brown-furred style that she had always thought must have been what the original Winnie the Pooh had looked like, had been looking down from his usual place since she had been ten, on the shelf over her desk, but now, at the creak of the stairs, she darted from her bed and got him. She sat back down on the bed, clutching the bear, not sure whether she needed the comfort of his soft body, so unlike Quint’s sea-hardened one, or whether she wanted to look pathetic for her fiancé, or even whether she wanted some defense, however flimsy, between them when he entered.

The knock came.

“Come in,” Emily said, hearing her voice quaver even on the two syllables.

The door started to open.

He wouldn’t. He just wouldn’t. Jason might believe in this silly idea about old-fashioned family discipline, but Quint was only three years older than Emily. How could there be the slightest chance he would go along with her stepfather’s ideas where it came to keeping her ‘under control’?

The strange feeling she had had while listening to Georgia’s spanking came back, a kind of fascination Emily didn’t understand, that made her face hot and her tummy flutter. The idea that the man entering her bedroom was her future husband—who had in fact only been in her childhood bedroom once before—seemed to make that feeling even stronger.

The moment he and Jason had walked into the shower that afternoon flashed back into her mind and made her cheeks blaze still hotter. He couldn’t have heard what Heather had said, could he? She tried to persuade herself that if he had, he would have felt certain the thing about the finger in Emily’s anus was a stupid joke. But had he seen the… the toy?

It sat now in the corner of the room, in the bag in which Georgia had concealed it at the shower. Emily hadn’t been able to keep herself from thinking about it, even though she had managed to stop herself from taking it out to look at its menacing purple length. Above all, to her distress, she found herself picturing the three shameful, unequal prongs that left little doubt as to how a girl should use it, when she couldn’t hold herself back from temptation any longer.

Would she have to show Quint the toy? He would laugh, of course. He wasn’t prudish at all, even though they didn’t really do anything kinky in bed. Emily had laid down the law about that the previous year: she would be on top, sometimes, if he wanted it, but her helpless response to the guy who had put his finger up her ass without permission had made her wary. It had felt good, but it had also felt like a part of her was coming out that would be better kept hidden, if she were to maintain her ideal of sophistication.

The door was still opening, but Emily’s thoughts flashed through her head faster and faster now, uncontrollably. What if Quint didn’t laugh at the toy? What if he said it was naughty, and she must be punished for even keeping it in her room, for even thinking about how a girl could use it?

What if he said that that kind of toy was for husbands to keep, and to use on their wives when they decided the time had come to teach a very special lesson about their bodies?

Where had that thought come from?! Emily didn’t even have time to consider before Albright Allerton V stood inside her room, quietly closing the door behind his 6′2″ frame. He seemed much too big for the room, though she didn’t remember thinking so the only other time he had been admitted to this inner sanctum, the previous Christmas, for some hurried, fumbling holiday sex.

She bit her lip as she watched him slowly turn to face her, so incredibly handsome in his wrinkled blue Oxford and simple, well-worn khakis. Some guys like Albright wore their sailing so literally on their sleeves that their belts had anchors on them; Emily’s future husband’s belt, she noticed with a little gulp she couldn’t suppress, was of thick brown leather, fastened with a big brass buckle.

She looked up into his blue eyes, which gazed down at her with more quiet seriousness than Emily thought she had ever seen there. He looks like Jason, she suddenly thought, though of course in physical appearance the two men could not have been more different—except in the height department, she supposed.

“Emily,” he said. “I’d like you to call me Quint from now on.”

She felt her eyes go wide. Why had he started in this way? What did it have to do with anything?

“Oh, but…”

Then she understood, because she saw the way his face reacted to her protestation, the way his jaw set, and the way his chest heaved up slightly with a breath that she felt sure must hide frustration and even anger. He said nothing, and waited for her to continue.

“Alright,” she whispered, looking down at her hands. “Quint.”

“Tonight, though,” he said in a deeper, though softer tone, “you’re going to learn to call me something else, too.”

She looked up, and she gave a little gasp, though she felt sure she had no idea what he could possibly mean—she told herself so, anyway. The heat that had faded from her face at his entrance and his strange way of beginning the conversation returned full force.

“What?” Emily could barely hear her own voice.

“You’re going to call me sir tonight, Emily.”

She wanted to say something: something about how he could just walk right on back down Commonwealth Avenue to his own house and forget about ever seeing her again. Her lips parted, but no sound came out.

The thing that kept her from protesting was the look in Quint’s eyes. She could tell he meant it, but not in the terrible, medieval way it might have sounded to another girl. She could tell that, between holding her teddy bear and finally giving up her foolish quest to make him drop his nickname and to let her call him by his ridiculous actual first name, he could sense something in her that she couldn’t yet admit to herself.

But that realization in turn, and quite abruptly, gave her the ability to do something else, and to act another way, because of an instinct that told her how important it would be to have things made clear.

She snorted very theatrically. “You can forget about that, mister. I don’t know what you think you heard from Jason, but—”

“Emily, stand up.” His voice cut through her words though he had not raised it. Stunned at the steel that seemed to gleam through his ordinarily relaxed features, she obeyed, putting Reginald the bear down on the comforter. To her surprise, Quint moved past her to sit on the bed nearly in the same spot in which she had been. Even more to her surprise, he then simply reached out and took her around the waist. He had started to pull her down across his lap before she even realized his intention.

“What are you doing?” Emily hissed. “Stop it!”

But Quint had her over his lap fully now despite her beginning to struggle, and his left arm held her securely around her waist no matter how she writhed and kicked. Quint spread his legs and maneuvered her between them to stop the kicking with his right thigh, then, and Emily, with her torso and face prostrate on her pink comforter and her bottom raised over her bridegroom’s knee, felt completely controlled.

She still struggled, though, not as much against the prospect of the spanking but because the strange feeling seemed to grow unbearably as the man she loved held her in that humiliating position. He didn’t do anything else for the moment, but he let her feel that he would be in charge, and that she would call him sir or she would feel the consequences. That feeling, which Emily could no longer deny made her feel warm and even wet down between her thighs, and made her think of the finger up her bottom, seemed like something she had to struggle against, even though struggling seemed to make it worse, and better.

“Let me up! Quint, what the fuck?”

“You know what I’m doing, Em,” he said quietly. “You’re going to get spanked until you call me sir, and then you’re going to get spanked for what happened at the shower today.”

“What?”

Then her fiancé started to spank her, over her jeans, raising his arm so high that it took a long moment for each dull smack to fall across the denim, and when it did the pain built and built until the next spank fell.

“Please…” Emily wailed. “Quint, it hurts!”

It seemed the most obvious thing to say—almost a thing required by the ancient ritual of family punishment—but Emily said it anyway.

And Quint responded in the proper way, too. “Of course it hurts, Emily.”

He spanked over and over, so hard that even through her yelps Emily wondered if his hand had started to hurt.

“Oh, please… sir, please,” she gasped, hardly realizing that she had said sir—that she had obeyed him. When she heard her mouth say the word, though, her arousal, despite the pain of the spanking or perhaps, she suddenly wondered, because of it, seemed to explode in the whole region he had immobilized for discipline over his knee.

The spanking stopped. “Thank you, sweetheart,” Quint said.

Emily’s bottom burned in her jeans. Emotion and sensation seemed so mingled now that she couldn’t have said what she wanted, or feared. “Do you really have to spank me even more?” she said to the comforter, not even knowing what she wanted the answer to be.

“Yes, Emily. You made a serious mistake with that champagne, and with your behavior. I want you to pull your jeans and panties down to your knees.”

“Oh, please. No. Qu—I mean, sir—please.”

“You know I’m not going to see anything I haven’t seen, Em. And it’s important to me for you to understand that when you need discipline I’ll be the one who’s in charge of that part of your body.”

Emily swallowed hard. That didn’t seem like the most straightforward or traditional thing he could have said, and it made her think again of the purple toy lurking in its bag in the corner. She thought also of Jason, and of what Georgia had said about their mother getting spanked—the smile on her face.

She bit her lip, her brow furrowing. Part of her wanted to obey Quint, but another part forbid it somehow, as if she needed something more.

She got it. Her future husband’s voice, low and sounding just as firm as his hand had felt. “Do it, Emily. Jeans and panties down.”

Face hot, she reached down and under to find the button, as Quint lifted his right leg a little to let her move. Her muscles ached from the struggle, and her bottom ached from the spanking, and she realized she had suddenly gotten wetter in her panties than she had ever been before, finger up her anus or no finger up her anus. She felt grateful for the pink comforter in which to hide her face; would Quint notice how hot he had gotten her? The wetness she had experienced that afternoon when she had whispered in his ear, seemed like nothing compared to what the spanking had brought on down there.

Quint helped her pull her pants down, with her panties inside them. Emily tried to keep her knees tightly closed, but the bulky fabric separated them a little. She didn’t know why she should feel embarrassed, but something about being held down over her fiancé’s knee seemed to make the thought of him seeing her pussy shameful in a way it wasn’t, even the few times he had gone down on her—something she didn’t really like very much.

He repositioned her, and the feeling of being moved that way, into the posture he desired, reawakened her arousal. When he started to spank her bare bottom, to her surprise, he didn’t spank as hard as he had over her jeans. She whimpered half in discomfort and half in arousal, wondering what he meant her to think, or feel.

He started to speak, while he was still spanking, and surprised her still more. “Is that vibrator here, Emily? The one Heather gave you?”

Quint could hardly believe he had Emily with her pants down over his lap, but he didn’t intend to back down from any of his intentions, either disciplinary or erotic. From the moment he had overheard Heather Davidson say the thing about Emily being a freak, then about the still unknown thing his apparently straitlaced fiancée had said about the guy who put his finger up her butt, Quint had felt a shift in the ground underneath him—the ground to which he had resigned himself.

He had had no idea what Jason wanted to talk about; he had figured it must have something to do with communicating effectively. Jason Garrons, after all, was known as one of the most honest, direct, and down-to-earth public figures in Boston. If he thought a project should be funded, he funded it, no matter from whom the idea came, or whom they knew or didn’t know. Quint aspired to that kind of reputation; he had no desire to follow either in his father’s leisurely footsteps or his mother’s aristocratic ones.

Now Quint supposed the conversation had in fact had to do with effective communication. He had just never put two and two together with regard to this particular sort of message delivery—the bottom up, panties down kind.

To be fair to himself, the urge to spank Emily had rarely been very far from his mind during the entire time they had dated. He loved her, but she could too easily get wrapped up in her own desires and bury her essential, caring side under a mountain of little demands and preferences that she sometimes seemed powerless to place under reasonable control. At that meeting with the wedding planner, in fact, the thought of turning his lovely bride over his knee to teach her a lesson in respecting other people’s needs and feelings had taken such a hold over Quint that every time she called him ‘Albright’ he had to suppress the urge to tell her it would be the last time.

It had seemed a fantasy though, and he had maintained in his mind the resolution with which he had entered into this engagement with the woman he loved: he would tolerate the demanding, bratty side of her nature in a way that his father hadn’t with his mother. Quint could see that his mother had made things difficult—really, had driven Skip to leave. He could also see, though, that if Skip had managed to be more tolerant—not indulgent, of course, but relaxed, at least—things might have worked out differently. Quint didn’t think so much of himself and his own powers of rationality that he believed he could foresee everything that would happen in his marriage, but he had thought that by for instance letting Emily call him ‘Albright’ he would lay his course for a harmonious union.

Nor did he think he had been entirely wrong in that idea, even now that he had Emily with her jeans and panties down over his knee, and he could tell from the mineral fragrance of her pussy that this method of communication had begun to have the desired effect. He would need to tolerate her demands, just as she would need to tolerate his sailing every weekend and spending several weeks at sea each year.

But Jason had given him a vital extra part of the equation, in suggesting that he spank his future bride. An end to tolerance had to come eventually, and the boundary needed communicating. That much would have been possible, Quint thought, through a more ordinary kind of messaging, but a second crucial element of Jason’s guidance came into play at that point, because Quint had wanted to dominate Emily since the moment he had first taken her in his arms in a darkened quadrangle.

When they had sex, at first, the urge to be less than a gentleman in bed at times seemed nearly unbearable. His last girlfriend—the only other girl with whom Quint had slept, in fact—had made it clear that she liked domination and rough sex. Giving that up had seemed a little hard to him, with Emily, at first. But he had so much in return: the bride of his dreams, who pleased his mother (most of the time) so much. The girl who had lost her own mother, a woman Quint regarded as an aunt and simply adored, so recently.

Now he looked down at her bare bottom, already very red from the hard spanking he had given her through her jeans, and he thought about all the possibilities. She had already said she would call him ‘Quint.’ Yes, it was a little thing, but the way she had looked at him told him that Jason had spoken no more than the truth, about how beneficial the clear communication of boundaries would be.

She had moaned when she realized that he wasn’t spanking her bare backside as hard as he had spanked her covered one. He had considered: the hairbrush? Not hard, but just to let her know he would discipline her that way as well?

No, he had thought. She’s my future wife, and my sexual partner already. A very different kind of discipline is in order. A reward for taking her spanking reasonably well, for acceding to my wish about my name, for acknowledging her need for punishment. A reward that will make it clear that I can command her body the same way the guy who put his finger up her ass did.

Her initial response to his question about the location of the vibrator of which he had caught only a brief glimpse at the shower sounded like a cross between a sob and a moan.

“I know Heather wasn’t lying, sweetheart. I know it from the way you’re taking your spanking.” He spoke softly, and as he uttered the final words he put two fingers lightly at the place where her adorable pussy-lips peeped out between her upper thighs. She gave a little cry, and as he began to rub there, very gently, the cry changed to a whimper that sounded half happy and half desperate.

“Shh, naughty girl. Shh,” he said. “In a moment, I’m going to let you up, and you’re going to go get the vibrator.”

“Oh, no,” Emily whispered. “Please… please, sir.” Her voice sounded so wonderfully dreamy, so meltingly submissive that Quint felt his already considerable erection swell in his khakis.

He rubbed further down, then even further. Emily gave a whimpering cry as he touched her tiny clit, made a circle there.

“Please don’t make me get the… that.”

Quint pulled his hand away and gave her perfect bottom three sharp smacks. Emily cried out, somehow managing to sound both piteous and wanton.

“I can spank you a good deal harder, sweetheart,” he murmured, and gave her three more smacks, calculated to set her already burning bottom aflame. Her yelps betrayed more discomfort now. “Will you obey me, sweetheart?”

She shook her head, her lovely face moving against her pink comforter. The idea of doing this in her childhood bedroom, of carrying out such naughty discipline here, with her teddy bear right there, intoxicated him and enlarged his erection still further. He spanked her three more times.

“Would you rather I told you to get your hairbrush, Emily?” he asked sternly. “I’m sure I’ll have to spank you with it someday soon, but I think you’d rather obey me now, and learn a different kind of lesson.”

Emily’s response to the word hairbrush was immediate and remarkable. She cried out and struggled over Quint’s thigh, as if trying to escape from the very sound of the thing.

“Oh, yes,” he said softly, returning his hand to stroke her wonderful, bright pink bottom-cheeks gently and holding her completely still in this submissive position. “You’ll be back over my knee soon, Miss Easton, to learn another lesson with your panties down and your bottom up for your hairbrush. A naughty bride can hardly help it, can she?”

“Please,” she whispered. “Please.”

“But wouldn’t you rather learn something else about how your married life will be, tonight? Wouldn’t you rather show me what a freak you are?”

She shuddered, and he kept holding on tight. He rubbed closer and closer to her fragrant, glistening pussy. “Oh, God,” Emily whispered.

“Get up and get the vibrator, Emily,” he said, and took his hand away, released her, helped her stand up with her red face turned toward the floor. She shuffled across the room to the corner, looking adorable with her jeans around her knees. The slight suggestion of bondage aroused him so much that when, frustrated, she moved to pull her pants all the way off, he said, “No, sweetheart, leave them on. Give me the toy and the lube Heather so thoughtfully gave you and get back over my knee.”

Heather had thought to put batteries in it, too, he found when a quiet buzzing greeted his touch at the purple button. The sound made Emily whimper into her comforter, but she lay still over his knee for her new kind of lesson.

The naughty toy’s middle prong, which was shaped more or less like a cock, with a bulbous head that Quint imagined was designed to reach Emily’s g-spot, went easily into her pussy. Emily lifted her head and gave a cry so submissive, so erotic that Quint could hardly believe it had come from his sophisticated fiancée. Her hips bucked, as if she couldn’t help her body’s need for the purple invader, as deep as her future husband wanted to thrust it.

Quint’s cock was as hard as iron as he eased the buzzing shaft inside his bride, and watched the much shorter, narrower back prong approach her adorable wrinkly anus. With his left hand he managed to flip open the top of the little bottle of lube, and squeeze a trickle down between her bottom-cheeks, which drew another whimper from deep in Emily’s chest.

“Shh,” he said very softly, and he pushed further, so that the tip of the back prong pressed gently against her bottom-hole. “Get ready, sweetheart.”

She lowered her head again and gave a sob of pleasure, mingled with discomfort, as Quint lodged the anal probe inside her, so that the front prong—the final one—could reach Emily’s clit at last. Fully impaled, she cried out softly, and then Quint, not completely sure of how the vibrator functioned but certain something beneficial would happen, pressed the button again, and the buzzing got much louder, the white handle shaking almost violently in his hand.

Emily writhed over his knee, screaming with the intensity of the sensation, muffling her mouth as best she could in her comforter. Quint had never seen anything so arousing in his life as his pretty bride humping the wicked toy that filled her golden-haired pussy, her cringing anus, showing him how much she needed him to take charge.

“Who does this part of you belong to?” he asked, moving the buzzing vibrator inside her for emphasis.

“You, sir. Oh, God…”

“Come for me, now, sweetheart. Let me make you feel good. That’s it. That’s it, good girl. You got spanked, didn’t you, but now you’re forgiven. Come for me, Emily.”

She came, and came again. Quint wondered, for just a moment, if rewarding her this way were how every dominant husband would handle the situation. Certainly if she acted up again, he wouldn’t hesitate to take her panties down for the hairbrush, just as he had promised. But she had just been spanked for the very first time, and Quint wanted her to associate his firm hand both with punishment and with pleasure.

Nor of course would his raging cock allow him to miss the opportunity of enjoying the sexual side of marital discipline. When at last he pulled the shameful toy from his bride’s soaking pussy and her glistening anus, he said, “Get up and bend over the chair, Emily. Take the vibrator and hold it against your clit. I’m going to fuck you now.”