Next level honeymoon custom sexy resort wear

Oh boy my honeymoon won’t play!

The desk clerk broke into a wide grin when he heard their name.
“Mr. and Mrs. Vedeneyev, we’ve been expecting you. The Bridal Suite is ready and waiting.” Then in a conspiratorial whisper, “You’ll find a complimentary welcome basket in your room.” And a wink. He actually winked.
Dimitri winked back. “Of course. Is very thoughtful of you.” He turned to Angela. “Did you hear that, darling? They are thoughtful, yes?”
Angela wrapped her arms even more tightly around Dimitri and shyly glanced at the clerk. “Let’s hurry.”
Dimitri kissed her forehead, then shrugged to the clerk. “Is so impatient.”
“I understand completely,” said the clerk, knowing smile and all. Registration was efficiently dispatched.
In the elevator Angela muttered, “Shit, I need a drink.”
“I told you; in suitcase. Plenty of vodka.” Then he gave her a wry smile and followed up with, “…Dear…”
Angela just stared at him.

They spent a minute or two exploring the suite.
“See, many rooms. Is fine,” said Dimitri.
“I’m sleeping in here,” she said of a smaller room with a door. And a lock.
“Okay. Whatever. I think we don’t need this, yes?” He pointed to the basket of goodies on the table: ten porn DVDs, scented lubricant, a large silicone vibrator from Babeland, wrist cuffs, condoms, crotchless panties, edible panties and nipple clamps.
“Hell yeah. We’ll need to leave evidence.” She pulled out the vibrator. “I’ll keep this.”
“Why it is bent?”
“For the G-spot.”
He looked blank.
“G-spot…?”
Nothing.
“Well… maybe someday someone will show you.”
Then she found her robe in her suitcase and went into the bathroom to take a shower.

As the hot stream soothed her, Angela regretted her bitchiness. Dimitri was sweet; besides, she’d made the deal. It seemed simpler when they’d told her how foolproof it was. “Ten grand now, fifteen more when the divorce goes through.” Except here she was, a new bride on a demented honeymoon with a virtual stranger, and not a clue how to act. She stepped from the shower and donned her robe.
Dimitri had filled the ice bucket. A vodka bottle chilled in it. “Better all day in freezer, but…” he shrugged, “we make do.”
“Damn straight.” She poured a glass. It went down smooth.
“My turn?” Dimitri pointed toward the bathroom. Angela nodded. He pulled off his shirt, removed his wide belt and draped it over the chair as he looked about for a towel.
Angela realized she’d gone blank staring at his muscles. And the belt. “You said you were a doorman, right?”
He nodded. “Close enough.”
“You got a body like that opening doors?”
He grinned. “Big doors. Heavy doors. Two-inch steel. Bullet proof.” He walked toward the bathroom, but then turned and looked back at her for a moment. He said, “You very pretty.”
As Angela listened to the shower, her thoughts ran out of control. She stared at the belt, imagined it in his powerful hands, dangling at his side. She walked over to it, ran her finger over the surface, saw his muscles rippling.
She poured herself another drink, then poured one for Dimitri as well. He came out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel and she handed him the glass and offered hers in a toast.
“What is this?” he asked.
“I’ve been a bitch.”
He shrugged. “Yes…” then shrugged again. “You are woman.”
“I’m not always a bitch.”
“If you say. Is all right. Don’t worry.”
She had no idea what to say next. What came out surprised her. “I love your belt.”
“Yes?” His eyebrows arched and he laughed. Then he looked at her more closely. “You are thinking… what?”
“I don’t know.” She did, but it wasn’t ready for words.
He glanced at the belt, then back at Angela. He reached for it and let it hang over his arm.
“You like belts?”
Angela could scarcely breathe.
“When they’re used right.”
Her hands were trembling, so much so that as she took another sip of vodka, she splashed some over her robe.
Dimitri paid close attention to her now.
“Maybe you tell me what’s on your mind.”
She took another sip, eyes fixed all the while on the vicious leather strap.
“Maybe… I… need to be punished for being such a bitch.”
She looked up at him, saw confusion and caution.
“I think you are tired, that is what I think.”
“Maybe,” she said. Then she let her robe fall open. She pulled it to the side and turned around, leaned over the table and arched her back to thrust her naked ass toward him. “But maybe not.”
Why now? Why here? For so long she’d denied her fantasies. Now nothing made sense.
He ran his hands over her cheeks. “I don’t require this,” he said.
“I do. Do it.”
She turned around, looked at him.
“Please.”
He slowly wrapped the belt around his hand, once, twice, three times. God, he was going to do it.
“Turn back.”
She did, and waited. Would he? What was taking so long?
Then the belt struck. God it hurt. She gasped and cried out.
“Again.”
He complied. She cried out harder. Inside, an empty space began to fill.
“More?”
“Yes.” Again he seared her. The pain snaked through her body now like a living organism, surging through her nerves, crawling over the surface of her skin, infusing itself, it seemed, directly into her veins and arteries.
He swung again, this time without asking. He was gaining confidence. It was the hardest stroke yet. The sheer intensity of the sensation washed all thoughts from her brain leaving only a seamless clear void.
And more. Hard strokes. Brutal. Crying openly now, crazed. Never in her life had she managed to stop thinking, to shut down the chatter, still the endless narrative running through her head. But now, as the belt flayed her, she flowed effortlessly into the silence of an unbroken present moment. Neither time nor space defined her. Only the unrelenting crack of leather on flesh.
At some point she’d reached between her legs, plunged fingers into her wet cunt. Now she pulled, pushed and stretched. Never had her clit ached so badly for attention. Serious attention.
He paused a moment and she turned around, leaned back, rested her hands on the table, spread her legs, her invitation clear.
He wrapped the belt a couple more times around his hand leaving only a short length of six inches or so. He patted the table. “Up,” he said.
Angela jumped onto the surface, lay back and let her legs fall to either side. She returned her fingers to her clit, seeking only to rake her fingernails over the engorged bud of nerves.
Now Dimitri pulled her hands away. He stood between her raised knees and studied his target. His angle was perfect, his access total.
When the belt hit her pussy, nothing registered for a moment. The thin tether to sanity snapped completely. Did she scream? Perhaps. Whether she made real sounds or simply lost herself in the chaos of what had been her thoughts she had no idea. Nor did she really register the next five strokes, each one landing directly on her spread lips and stiff clit. She’d never come so hard in her life.
He stopped. The pause brought her back just enough for her to open her eyes and seek him out. Dimitri had dropped his towel and now slowly stroked his cock. She quailed at the size, then reached out for him. He pulled her to the edge of the table, set himself at her open slit, then stopped, still looking a bit uncertain. God, how much invitation did he need?
“It’s my honeymoon damn it. Can you just fuck me?”
Well, he certainly could. And he did.