For my Sunday Story this week, I thought I’d do something a little bit different. I know some of you have read The Coming of Eve, but a whole host of my newer blogging friends won’t have done, and have probably never even encountered a snippet of it. So, today, I am going to post twice, with a chapter taken from the book. I have a huge literary interest in the story of Adam and Eve; if you would like to know a little bit more about that, feel free to read the opening pages of the book on Amazon.
To give the chapter some very brief context, Eve has accepted an invitation to live with Adam at his home, Eden House, having had a short relationship with him that primarily has consisted of him spanking her. Having discovered that he has a real distaste for apples, she has gone out of her way so far to try to get him to punish her, and to give her exactly the punishment she hopes for – his cock, and much, much more. But her antics have backfired somwhat!
Here we find her, on her first proper day with Adam. It’s a long chapter, which is why I’m splitting it into two posts, so be prepared to be going at it for quite a while…especially if you definitely want to finish…
Happy reading! x
It was my first full day in Eden, and I awoke lying on my front, my breasts nestled in the bottom of the pillow which had, at some point during the night, turned itself on a diagonal in the bed. Gradually I became aware of the sensation of heat, not all over my body, but localised. My arse was hot. As consciousness overtook sleep and I realised that the dream I’d been having was, in fact, real—the green curtains, the wooden floor, and the giant duvet cover of various shaped leaves that wrapped around me—I began also to recognise that the sensation I was experiencing was stemming from Adam’s palm. I laid very still. Just how strict was he going to be about his punishment? He was in bed with me. He’d never before awoken with me by his side. Maybe he’d decide to fuck me awake and forget what he’d said the day before.
Slowly, gently, he squeezed and moulded my backside as it slid up against the duvet, following the motion of his hands with little kisses, fluttering them around the base of my spine. I resisted the urge to flip myself over and present my pussy, level with his lips, but it made me wet to think of the way he always pressed his nose into my little bush and nuzzled there, and how the heat from his breath lingered against me as he flicked my clit with the end of his tongue. I loved the way unconscious, murmuring moans escaped him as he kissed and licked at my folds and took his tongue on a journey to take my cunt. I loved the heat of his mouth on me, in me, as he ate away at my pussy. And I thought that, if I turned over, I might watch as he licked his lips, drawing my cum into his mouth and wiping the last of it around my own as he kissed me, ensuring I could taste the juices he had enjoyed.
I held on, hoping that he might satiate my craving for him. If I antagonised him I was sure I’d never be able to beat him at his own game. I knew how much he liked being on top. Of women? Of me. He’d given me the impression once that there had been trouble with his first wife over that. But he hadn’t spoken of her since, as if she didn’t really exist. I think I’d taken him by surprise, and he’d become uncomfortable when I’d shown an interest and questioned him about her. All he’d said was, “She didn’t want what I needed. We weren’t compatible.” And then he’d spanked me for being bad and wanting to talk about anyone but us. He’d said no-one else mattered. That there was no-one else. Just us. I laid over his knee and he’d stroked away the sore throbbing in my arse. And, as he’d run his finger down along my crack to find the tiny, tight hole there, circling it with his fingertip to relax me until all I did was moan softly, I’d believed him. It was only afterwards, as he’d commanded me to get dressed after wiping his cum off my belly with a rag from the woodshed, that I’d wondered whether that was all there had been to his marital separation.
I didn’t want to think about this unknown woman now, not while the warmth of Adam’s hand worked its way beyond my arse cheek, slipping onto the top of my leg as I feigned sleep. I felt his gentle strokes there on the soft flesh of my inner thigh, skimming the surface and creating circular shapes with his finger, close to my pussy. Without thinking, I opened my legs a little, pushing my arse up into the duvet and presenting my pussy to his palm. And as quickly, I felt the sudden cold as he whipped off the leafy bed cover, and one hard, stinging slap against my pussy lips, then over the round of my arse, catching my pussy with his fingers, over and over.
“That’s—for—pretending—to—be—asleep.” Each word carried a spank, each one harder than the previous one until my bare bottom and my pussy lips stung. His hands came down over my backside as if he was warming them over a fire. But it’s what he always lit in me; why I never begged him to stop; never insisted on using a safeword. I hadn’t even known what one was when I met him. And he’d never seemed to expect me to want to have one.
“I have something for you.” His whisper reverberated through my head, my body alive and sensitive to every contact he made. He flipped me over so that I was underneath him and he could look down on me. My eyes sought his, and I succumbed to the burning intensity of his stare. It made something in my chest throb; cause my pussy to writhe in a strange, wonderful kind of pain. He held onto my anticipation, fucking with it until every organ within me hurt, releasing it only when he was ready. He grinned at me, eventually. “Shut your eyes.”
I stared back at the brilliant blue that overloaded his eyes. Like the sky between rainclouds, they reduced the grey to specks at that instant. I’d not seen them this blue since I’d first met him. Every part of me ached for him. Because of him.
“No. I won’t.”
A look of complete disbelief rippled across his face.
“You’ll do as you’re told, Evie. Or you’ll be punished. Again. I’ll take away your privileges.” He frowned at me. “Actually, though, I’ve done that already, haven’t I? I’ll not fuck you. But now it won’t be just for a few days. Now it will be for as long as I decide.” His eyes were already darkening over, and his voice was louder, harsher. “Does that make you change your mind?”
“The answer’s still no.” My teeth bit down against the sides of my tongue as he sat up across my thighs, preventing me from moving out from under him.
“But I’m telling you to. And while you live here, you’re to do as I say. Anything I ask of you. You know that’s how it works.”
I would do anything for him. I was sure I would. But he needed to understand that this—this silly little thing he wanted of me—this was different.
“I know what’s supposed to happen. I came into this with my eyes wide open. And I’m not shutting them for you.”
“Why not?” His face reminded me of a dog that damages its paw and can’t quite understand why it hurts. “I want to give you something.”
I looked away, down into the pillow; anywhere but into those demanding, expectant eyes. Guilt welled up in my core; a secret shame seeped out into my veins and spread through me.
“That’s what concerns me.”
The idea of being unable to see—to tell that he was going to do something but not being able to know what it was until too late—unnerved me. No, it did much more than that. I couldn’t explain. I wanted to put my faith in him, but I’m not the kind who can trust easily, even now. I don’t remember anything about my life before becoming an adult. I’d had to work hard to find a ‘self’ in me, and I’d done that, slowly. At least I thought I had. And then, that day in the garden, there was Adam. And I didn’t know where he was taking me, but I needed to see the direction we were heading.
So I couldn’t shut my eyes. I watched as his hands worked their way over my tummy to my ribs; his fingers slid up to my breasts. He rolled his thumbs over my nipples, round and round, and they responded, becoming hard and dark at his touch. I felt the sharp pain of his pinch on each one, and the way my shoulder blades pushed together as an “Ow!” forced its way up my diaphragm, through the tunnel of my throat, and found voice at the end.
“I should punish you, you know. Give me an answer. Explain why you won’t do as I’m telling you, or I’ll store up your punishment for later.”
“I—I don’t like it. I don’t like not knowing—”
He turned my face towards him, refusing to accept the resistance I was putting up, until he had my face pinned between his palms.
“Don’t you trust me, Eve?” And again there was that look, and I wasn’t sure if he was disappointed or angry.
“I—I don’t want any nasty surprises.”
How did anyone know what lay beneath the skin? What drove the hard cock to want to fuck? What made the man want the woman in his home? Did he, really? Or did someone just tell him sometime that he should have a woman, and he was going along with it?
Adam’s sigh was long, escaping through his nose and, I was sure, a prelude to some form of punishment. In my head I braced myself; my body, at least, would just accept it. But he surprised me.
“This is what I wanted to do. I wanted to give you this.” He leaned over me, and my stomach flipped at the brushing of his cock against the front of my pussy, its wonderful, sustained morning hardness pressing into my thigh as he rummaged in the bedside drawer. He sat back up on me, holding a key. “You’re living here; the place is yours to use as much as it is mine. This unlocks the doors, and also the garden gate, although I wouldn’t expect you to need it for that. But I do expect you to do as you’re told, Evie.” The back of his fingers brushed my hair and came down to rest on my cheek. “After all, without me you wouldn’t be here at all, would you?”
He was right, of course. Without him, I’d never have agreed to this. He’d seen me shed my work clothes and marking and teacher talk at five every Friday evening for months. He’d watched me become putty in his hands as he took his teacher for her spanking, and her fingering, and her licking. And, if she’d been good, the little spankee got her reward. Oh, and his cock tasted good! He had stipulated that he needed someone who was willing—who wasn’t afraid—to try, who would submit to him and his sexual demands. That was what he had said when we made this arrangement. But we both knew that, over time, our time together had become more than that. At least, for me it had. And I knew I was being an idiot. What had I done, refusing him just now, frightened of the simplest thing?
“You do want to stay, don’t you, Evie?” His eyes bored into mine, and there was only one answer I should have given. It reverberated around my nerve endings: Get out now, before it’s too late. But it was not the answer I gave.
“I want to stay more than anything.”
He climbed off the bed. He dressed and I lay there, watching him stretch out a pair of black trousers and a pristine, starched white shirt that he would leave open at the neck. No tie; full of confidence in himself. He told me he needed to do some research and meet up with someone to discuss the project he’d been contracted to do, and I wondered for a moment just who exactly he was meeting, there with no tie, and his chest part bared to them. My cheeks felt hot. He blinked at me, his mouth turning up at the corners only too briefly. He said his activities were likely to take up most of the day.
“I want you to spend the day in only your bra and panties. Go downstairs in them now and make me a bowl of cereal, the one with the dried papaya and pineapple in it, and a coffee. I expect it ready when I’ve finished shaving.” He chose for me: the pale blue matching set that sat on top of my open bag, with tiny pink half-open roses on them, and deep pink lace that ran in a frill along the tops of the bra’s half cups and around the edges of the panties. “These will do—for now.”
He stood and watched, leaning against the doorframe, as I slid up my panties and fastened the bra, pushing my breasts into the cups so that my cleavage was invitingly deep and the upper part of my tits rested in tight mounds above the frill. He beckoned me to him and traced his fingertip over the lace, kissing the enticement above that moulded to his manipulation; he pushed with his nose, and inhaled deeply between my breasts.
“Mmm, you smell of my bed. Of me.” He took my chin in his hand and held my face up to him. “You were made for me. You’re mine, Evie.”
And I wondered—is it possible for one person to belong to another?
I watched him for a while through the half-open bathroom door. He didn’t seem to notice; he was concentrating. Silent and still, I watched as he soaped up his face and his neck, and began the careful task of scraping away the soap and stubble. The scent of Sandalwood wafted wonderfully into the air. I watched, squirming, one thigh rubbing over the top of the other, as the blade slid slowly over his face, over his cheek to his chin, up the length of his neck, over his Adam’s apple—ha!—and my insides lurched. I touched my panties; they already felt damp and I let my hand remain there a while, rocking my fingers gently over my pussy. There was an unknown quantity to the razor—whether he would take one risk too many; whether he would get hurt. And I dug my fingers into the material and pressed on the ball of my hard nub. Was I sick? Why would I want him to take a risk like that? And a little voice pecked at the edge of my brain: because risk is what makes you alive. It turns you on, if you let it, if you invite the unknown inside. A strange sensation I couldn’t quite grasp and identify rippled down my body, from the back of my neck to my toes, and I tried to shake it off but it seemed to lurk in the shadows of my consciousness, refusing to leave.
I poured Adam’s cereal and his coffee and made myself a drink, too. That little word—risk—stuck in my head. I went into the hallway and located my coat on the stand, drawing from its pocket an apple that I’d not thought of eating on my journey to Adam’s place. I chopped it up into slices and put them in a little glass bowl. When he came downstairs, he found me taking a bite, sucking at the juice, and smiling at him with a wonderful effort at feigned innocence. He twitched back his shoulders, shaking his head and pursing his lips at me.
“You really need punishing when I get home.” He huffed at his watch. “I wish I had the time now. Your arse would be as red as that thing you’re eating. Wicked girl. Just don’t expect me to pick up a piece out of that bowl.”
I grinned as I watched him devour his breakfast and wince at the heat in his coffee as it hit his lips.
“I contemplated sticking it in the cereal.”
He pushed back his seat and walked around the table to me, pushing away my bowl and lifting me until we were close enough for his shirt to brush against my body. I breathed in the lingering smell of his shaving foam, mixed now with the overtone of his aftershave—the original Boss—as he pressed himself up against my bare tummy and cupped one of my lace-covered tits in his hand. His arm circled my waist as he pulled me close.
“I’d know. I’d be able to taste it, just as I’d know the taste of this anywhere.” His thumb lingered against the edge of my nipple, and I felt his thumbnail over its sensitive tip through the fabric as it reached full arousal at his touch. His hand slid from there, down to my panties. I wriggled a little as his cool fingers worked their way into the lacy waistband and downwards, pushing against the material between my legs, probing. His eyebrows raised at the damp fabric, and a smile broke across his lips as he began to slide against the wetness encased in my folds. His fingers circled my entrance. He slipped two of them into my cunt, thrusting them back and forth as my muscles clenched around them. I uttered a long, whimpering moan of delight as the beginnings of an orgasm began to swell, imbibing every nerve ending with its pleasure-pain as it made its way through my body to converge in my pussy. My head fell back, revealing my neck to his lips as I moved to meet each thrust, willing his fingers to enter further.
But as my breath became heavier, more erratic, he removed his fingers, knowing full well that it would stem my release and leave me moaning in quite a different way. I watched him draw each finger individually into his mouth, sucking from the base to the fingernail, and smile.
“I’ve got to go. And I’m not kissing you goodbye, seeing as you’ll taste all—” He waggled a dismissive hand at the little bowl, and stuck out his tongue. “So there. Behave. I’ll be back for tea, when I expect my meal to be ready, and you to be serving it, dressed in the little packet you’ll find on your pillow.”
And so I found myself free to roam, within the confines of Eden of course, completely alone for the first time. But my immediate attention was taken with running upstairs and unwrapping the present I found on the bed. He had wrapped it in green paper which had little red apples on it, and I pouted at the wrapping and his wry attempt at humour. I held up the present: a chiffon bra and panties set of deep burgundy, maroon lace running across the top of the cups and matching around the edges of the waist and legs. Holding the panties up to the light, I noticed how twinkles peeped through the pattern on the lace, creating a striking contrast with the translucent sultriness of the illuminated chiffon. A frisson of excitement squirmed up my back; they smelled new, untouched by a female’s sex. I put them on immediately, running my hand over the delicate fabric of the panties, touching, seeing how my pussy felt through it, and playing with my tits a little inside the tiny bra cups, fingering the flesh that was left exposed at the top. I felt raunchy, a naughty girl, a risk-taker, as I stared out of the bedroom window at the bramble bushes that ran close by the gate leading into the garden.
And that’s when something began to bubble and form in my head, aided by that little horny devil once more. The idea became clearer, filling me up, until a sharp thrill ran from the core muscles in my tummy and travelled down until it hovered, tantalisingly, between my legs. It throbbed there a while as a spontaneous image of Adam, all foam and shaving brush, swirled in my head with that ever-present scent of Sandalwood and the overtone of Boss penetrating my senses. I put on a little polka dot dress and a cardigan, and nipped outside with a bowl towards the remnants of the season’s fruit, hanging from the bushes that poked through the fence.
Not ten minutes had passed and I had found enough berries for what I needed. Unsurprisingly, a few were overripe, and they leaked onto my fingers. My eyes traced the juicy path over their tips and down into the crack between them. I watched the liquid, red and wet, slipping over the back of my hand, and I brought my tongue to meet it, licking away the juices, tasting their sweet bitterness. Drawing the liquid into the back of my mouth, I felt the wetness pooling into the tiny cotton crotch of the chiffon panties, and I wondered if mine looked the same deep burgundy on the fabric as the juices looked against my skin when I lapped at them.
I returned to the kitchen, washed the berries, and began a lengthy forage through the magnificent weaving of the wicker fruit bowl. It was an impressive sight: all the contents appeared fresh and, piled high as they were, resembled a display ready for a banquet—with one notable exception to the arrangement. Some of the fruit, certainly, was clearly identifiable as the product of Eden’s garden and courtyard and I began to envisage secret tropical parts tucked away that grew bananas and papaya, mango and satsumas. Indeed, I could easily imagine a segregated part of the garden, harbouring secret delights. But I was searching for something to go with the berries, and among the many fruits were a couple of pears, the variety of which was growing on the tree outside the kitchen window, and were evidently another home-grown food—perfect.
The meal I made for Adam was really rather tempting in my opinion. The contents of his fridge and larder were plentiful, especially for someone with only two chairs around a gargantuan dining table. So maybe, I considered, if I gave him a bit of everything to taste, then he might show his gratitude. Reciprocate. Give me what I needed from him. I spent all morning chopping vegetables; preparing a chicken that I found hunched on a large dish in the fridge, filling it with my own stuffing; peeling potatoes—everything. I laid the table with candles and wine glasses in preparation for Adam’s return. And I spent the afternoon making fancy patterns with lettuce leaves and king prawns in wide stemmed glasses, and in cooking the fruit on the hob while the roast worked its magic inside the oven.
The berries bubbled with the chopped pear. I took the last remaining apple in my bag and chopped it into small cubes, mixing it into the berry juice with a chunky, wooden, round-ended spatula, rather like an elongated spoon. The combination of fruit smelled delicious as I transferred it into a dish; sweet and enticing, it made my mouth moist. I added the crumble topping as I drew back the wet from my lips onto my tongue. I let the oven flush my skin deep pink until I felt hot, burning with anticipation for what was to come. It was a dessert cooked to give Adam pleasure. Or please me? A tub of double cream would be the perfect finishing touch, and the fridge contained just what I wanted.
Adam came home and his smile seemed immovable. He sat down in a place that I had set adjacent to mine, and I presented him with his starter, then with his roast dinner, wearing now only the lingerie he’d bought for me. He traced his fingertip over the bra cups and ran his palms over the front of my panties, breathing an ‘Mmm’, and I poured him some wine then put the crumble in the oven to heat through. We chatted about his day, about how his work had developed as the hours had slipped away until the first white sky of an impending dusk had settled between the trees and the blue of daytime. He asked me if I’d had an enjoyable time alone, and I told him it had been taken up entirely with making the meal, at which his eyes grew wide, and a frown took hold of his face.
“You’re joking?” His routine, he confessed, usually consisted of buying a few ready-meal bits and pieces and shoving them in the microwave, or boiling pasta and hoping there was a sauce for it lurking in the pantry somewhere. It seemed strange, then, that there was so much food in the kitchen. “And you did that for me?”
I nodded, smiling at him as I twisted in my seat, feeling my way underneath the bottom of his trouser leg and running the ball of my foot against his shin.
“Weren’t you a bit bored?” he asked, stroking my finger with his own, and working a sock-covered foot against my inner thigh until his toes made contact with the crotch of my panties. I shrugged, still smiling.
“It was okay. I wouldn’t want to spend every day stuck in the kitchen like that. But hopefully it was worth it.”
He reached under the table, pulled off his socks, and flung them on the floor. His big toe found its way onto my chiffon-covered clit, and I felt my knees give in to the pressure of the circular motion. As my legs opened wider, his foot slid inside the material, stroking along the length of my pussy folds until his toes made contact with the wet that clung, waiting, just in my entrance. He dabbed his big toe at it, and a smile stretched across his face as we heard the juices squelching against his skin.
“And what if I commanded you to do this every day?”
I held his eyes with mine, tiny pants escaping with each release of my breath.
“Would you command it?”
He didn’t answer; just withdrew his foot, and we continued with our meal. I said nothing more about it; indeed, neither of us said anything for ages. What I had done wrong was beyond my comprehension. Had I done something wrong? I sat, stiff, staring down at my plate as we ate our food and drank a glass of wine. I wanted to cry. This wasn’t how the meal was meant to be. At last, though, Adam began to talk again, about this and that, and the thought crept into my mind that everything was all right after all. Maybe I was just being too sensitive to every little thing; I had to remember that it was only my second day here and everything was still so new to me. It would take a while to feel my way with him. He filled the glasses again and, as I stood to serve up the dessert, he joined me at the edge of the table.
“You look beautiful.” He bent me backwards so my hair hung down to the floor, and kissed between my breasts and across the maroon lacy edging of the bra. If he’d decided he wanted to, he could have scooped out my nipples and laid them on the top of the lace with his tongue. His lips moved below my bra, brushing tiny kisses all the way down to my panties. “And there’s dessert, too? You carry on feeding me like this and your punishment may end early—and you’ll get a very particular type of pudding, my little Evie.”
“That’ll be interesting,” I replied, ignoring the sudden pang that struck through my chest at his words. I didn’t want to analyse my feelings over the possibilities that this suggested. Not then. Instead, I wriggled out of his arms and dished up his crumble and cream while he sat down once more. I served him, leaning carefully over the table so the round flesh of my tits was level with his eye-line.
“Come here. Sit on my knee. Take off your bra.”
(Part 2 will be coming very, very soon…)
*UPDATE* Go straight to Part 2 here.