Theirs to Train: A Victorian Menage Romance

by Samantha Madisen

  It was a pity that it could not be this captivating creature—

  He stopped himself from following that train of thought, one which inevitably led his chest to tighten and his heart to beat wildly.

  “And so, Miss Blanchet,” he said, an almost cruel tone in his voice, in order to cover the wobbliness of his thoughts and his feelings, which he did not want to reveal to her—or to Doyle—”Did you have an enjoyable rest?”

  “Quite, Mr. Blackstone,” she chirped, with a flicker of that same smile. “Master, sir,” she added quickly. “Thank you.”

  Doyle gave him a look, his own lip repressing a smile. He would be amused by this situation. It was so like Doyle to be contrary.

  What could her smile mean? Perhaps she believed she had outwitted them? Perhaps she had been very naughty, and made herself spend, and would require more punishment. He enjoyed disciplining Miss Blanchet, but in some ways he dreaded it, for she seemed quite capable of making him lose control of himself. In truth, he was considering turning over her training entirely to Dr. Doyle, for he could not dislodge thoughts of her from his mind after spending time with her. Even as he thought about her, the scent of her neck appeared, the ghost of a smell, in his nostrils, as though he had placed his face close to her skin.

  He unfolded his napkin stiffly and grumbled. “I trust you behaved yourself, as Dr. Doyle and I instructed?”

  Miss Blanchet smoothed the napkin on her lap and looked up to meet his eyes, which she could see over the glaring candlelight placed deliberately to block her view of his countenance. She did so with an unflinching calm. “I did not spend,” she said crisply, though she stumbled slightly over the word that was so unfamiliar to her, a mere hesitation that affirmed her naivety, not necessarily discomfort.

  “You require no discipline after dinner, then, Miss Blanchet?”

  There was a pause, and the air between them seemed to turn to liquid as it does in the heat of the desert, before she blinked slowly and steadily. “I should think not, masters, at least for having disobeyed your instructions not to spend. However, if you believe I require discipline of another kind or for another matter, I shall submit to it as you desire.”

  Doyle, who had lifted a fork to adjust its setting next to his plate, let it drop from his fingers in surprise, and exhaled in a steady stream while staring stiffly ahead. Blackstone’s heart felt as though it might fall through his body to the floor, and his cock grew stiff within a moment.

  The butler and two servants entered with the first course as the trio simmered in the peculiar silence, but the spell was broken as they lifted the lids of a delicious seafood soup.

  * * *

  Lina smiled once the door to her room was closed, and bit her lower lip. She felt certain that she had managed to rattle the unflappable Mr. Blackstone, and it had given her a very peculiar thrill. The two men had seemed to not know what to do with her, and she felt that she had obtained the upper hand.

  Their meal had proceeded with all feigning a most ordinary and proper dinner, replete with polite conversation. Mr. Blackstone was most interesting to talk to. He had clearly traveled a great deal and seemed to enjoy her curiosity. Had it not been for the intense relationship that hung among them, making the air thick with tension, the dinner would have been most pleasurable.

  She relaxed in her enormous and comfortable bed, thinking of the two strange men, and the mysteries that surrounded them. Why did Mr. Blackstone choose to hide his face in the shadows? She could see the contours of his face shifting in the shadows as he moved, and she had felt his skin upon hers; while she could not be certain of the fidelity of her senses, Mr. Blackstone’s skin was not rough, or grotesque. It felt as she had imagined it might and sent shivers along her spine. He did not seem truly disfigured, and certainly not “monstrous.”

  As for what he had done with her... well, that was truly depraved.

  Wasn’t it?

  Her stomach flopped and flipped again, and her heart had begun to beat wildly.

  Perhaps it was depraved, but how could she know if it was or was not?

  And even more disturbingly, what if it was depraved?

  For as she touched her stomach absently, and the queer feelings again snaked through her lower parts, she could not deny the truth: she craved more of it.

  She enjoyed it. She wanted to feel Mr. Blackstone’s firm hand on her bottom again, his fingers on her intimate parts again, and... though she did not know if this was something that could be done, or that he would do... she wanted to feel the heat of his body, that organ he’d called his “cock” inside of her.

  Her mind turned over to wild fantasy, and she imagined scenarios with Mr. Blackstone and Dr. Doyle that—if this was truly “depravity”—made her decidedly depraved.

  She tried not to think the thoughts, for she knew that they were, at the very least, most immodest.

  Not only that, the craving between her legs began to rage again, and she was soon in nearly the same state as when she had been sent from Dr. Doyle’s surgery.

  She wanted, desperately, to relieve herself, and she believed that she knew how to do it... and however would they know if she had?

  But she also wanted to be obedient.

  And defiant.

  And, she thought with a shudder, she didn’t detest Mr. Blackstone’s discipline, not entirely.

  For several fitful hours she tried to sleep, tossing and turning, the wetness pouring between her legs and her body pulsing around the object in her bottom while her “cunny” throbbed and ached, each moment more forcefully than the one before. The images in her mind grew more vivid, and she pictured them together with her, touching her, inside of her, making her please them in all sorts of ways, without knowing if such depravity was even possible.

  She would confess tomorrow, she thought, in desperation, and be punished as Mr. Blackstone chose and saw fit.

  Her fingers found their way to the sensitive nub, and she had but to stroke herself in the slick flesh lightly and only a few times, before her body shuddered and seized up, and the great cascade of sensations washed over her. The object in her bottom began to emerge, and she pushed it inside, biting the pillow next to her so that she would not scream.

  After she spent, she was damp with sweat, and the realization that she had disappointed Mr. Blackstone began to creep over her. She felt guilty, and ashamed, even though her skin tingled and she could, she felt now, give in to the exhaustion that also seemed to be claiming her...

  She would tell him tomorrow...

  Chapter Sixteen

  She was escorted to the room with the secret passageway as her stomach twisted in knots. Upon entering, she was unable to suppress a sharp intake of breath as a cool shiver traveled over her bare arms and she trembled slightly.

  Already, her cunny was wet and quivering with anticipation, and her cheeks burned as she thought of her confession to Mr. Blackstone. When she thought of how she would disappoint him, her heart seemed to fall through her body, and her bottom burned as she contemplated the strict punishment she might receive.

  But coursing through her veins, always, was the need within her body: she wanted to be disciplined, she wanted to feel Mr. Blackstone’s hands upon her, she wanted, very much, to submit to him.

  He was standing in the shadows as always, his silhouette pleasing as she remembered the contours of his body, the strength of his arms and his chest against her bare back.

  “Miss Blanchet. You slept well, I trust?”

  Lina inhaled, intending to respond affirmatively, and found that her mouth moved to form the words but no sound left her lips, at least nothing which could be considered words. Tears welled up in her eyes.

  “Miss Blanchet?”

  “I...I...” she blubbered. “I...I must... confess something t...to you, Mr. Blackstone...” she said, nearly sobbing. “Master,” she added. She was looking at the floor, and she lifted her gaze with great difficulty.

  Mr. Blackstone was standing, hands claspe
d in front of him, and he seemed instantly darker, as though the light had shifted. Her chest felt cold again, that same strange mixture of fear and arousal brewing inside of her.

  He cocked his head slightly. “Confess?” he asked. He shifted. She thought she could make out a smile upon his lips, but she could not be sure. “What is it, Miss Blanchet, that you must confess?”

  Her eyes returned to the floor.

  Mr. Blackstone waited, and the only sound in the room was the ticking of a great clock she had not, until then, noticed.

  “Miss Blanchet?”

  She was unable to speak. She chewed her lip, unconsciously, as all words she had ever known in English seemed to evaporate from her mind.

  “Miss Blanchet, confess now, or I shall exact the confession from you with the use of a riding crop.”

  Lina’s lips moved again, and her voice was a mere whisper. “I...I have been... disobedient,” she said hoarsely. She could not go on.

  Mr. Blackstone said nothing. She lifted her gaze after a long silence passed in which he did not move, or speak.

  When she met his eyes, he stepped toward the open passageway, one arm swinging out as a butler might to show her the way.

  “If you have been disobedient, Miss Blanchet, then you must be disciplined. Come.”

  And then, he disappeared into the passageway, without waiting for her to move.

  Lina looked behind her, at the great wooden door, as though an answer might be found there.

  And then, for she did not know what else to do, feeling very much like running away and also very much like descending to his room to confess her behavior and be punished, she stepped, gingerly at first, and then with hurried steps, toward the passageway, to follow him.

  * * *

  As he had the day before, he ordered her to disrobe and face the wall of unusual objects, while he stood in the shadows and watched her. A silence preceded him approaching her, and before he even touched her, the fine hairs on her neck had risen to attention, and she knew that her flesh had turned into a sea of tiny bumps along the backs of her arms and her shoulders, merely anticipating his hands upon her body.

  She felt less ashamed than she had the day before, though it still seemed strange to her to be standing, naked, in the presence of a man. She wondered what he could see as he looked at her: the rounded knob of the strange object in her bottom between her buttocks, the still-red imprints of yesterday’s discipline, the sheen between her legs, and the shiver that traveled over her back.

  When he placed his hands on her shoulders, gently, but with the great, coiled strength in his hands evident in his touch, she jumped ever-so-slightly. But she did not feel fear so much as a crescendo of anticipation, desire clawing inside of her as though it were a wild animal sewn into her chest.

  “And what is it, Miss Blanchet, that you have done so naughtily?”

  She thought that she could hear, in his voice and his tone, something akin to her own desires. There was a playfulness beneath his words, and though she knew very little about the ways of men, it seemed to her that a tenderness was present as well.

  She turned her head slightly, without even realizing that she was doing it. She could see his shoulder and his arm. They were bare, and at the sight of his muscled biceps and solid shoulders, another flutter of emotions stirred in her chest and her hairs rose on end so that she could feel them. Her mouth fell open slightly, her breath escaped her.

  His fingers traveled along her neck with a feather-light caress, to her jaw, where they pressed her, very gently, to turn her face back to the wall of straps and other instruments.

  “What did you do, my—Miss Blanchet?”

  She closed her eyes, for she had heard distinctly some term of endearment nearly escape his lips, one that began with “my.” The possessive pronoun and all it implied poured over her like warm water.

  “I... I disobeyed you. Master. After dinner. I could not... wait... for... you,” she said, and only at the end of her sentence did her eyes fall to the floor, for speaking such naughty things still cost her dearly. A blush made her cheeks warm, but she had to force her lips to hold their serious expression, for something in her wanted, even if just a little, to smile.

  His fingers snaked down her neck, along her spine again, and to the protruding knob nestled between her buttocks, which he moved delicately in a circle, pushing the object so that it stretched her deep inside, probing the soreness of her most intimate places. Her lips trembled and she made a sound, for she could not stop it escaping her throat.

  “So you have come to be disciplined,” he said quietly, his breath on her neck. Close to her ear, close enough that she could feel the movement of his lips as they brushed against her delicate lobes, he whispered, “Then I insist that you choose the instrument of your discipline, Miss Blanchet.”

  She began to turn her head, in confusion and surprise, but he nudged her cheek with his jaw, and the fingers of his left hand closed around her neck, his pointer finger over the hollow of her throat, where she could feel her own heart fluttering about beneath his fingertips like a bird. He did not squeeze, but his message was clear.

  She looked at the instruments upon the wall, her eyes growing wide as she contemplated them with a new interest: what would they do? How would they be used to punish her?

  Even without knowing the use of some of them, she was becoming aroused. The wetness between her legs was trickling down her inner thigh, and the ache she had broken his rules to quench had returned already, as fierce as before.

  “I don’t... I do not know what they...” she stammered, unable to finish her sentence. “I would not know how to choose, sir.”

  She could not be certain, but it felt as though his lips brushed over the back of her neck as his hands moved down her arms to enclose her wrists gently. Holding her hands at her sides, he pushed her forward, toward the wall.

  “Point to any object you like, and I will tell you how it will be used, Miss Blanchet.”

  She scanned the objects. Many of them were like the object inside of her now, only larger, so of course she knew what they were for—or at least she could imagine. There was an object like the anal hook Dr. Doyle had used on her, and she did not wish to undergo that sort of torture again, for she did not think she could bear it. She saw a series of beads, connected by a fine chain, almost like a very large piece of jewelry. She reached up to touch it, and Mr. Blackstone’s breath was warm against her neck as he explained. “Those are beads, to be placed inside your bottom. But you are not ready for them, and they are not so much a form of discipline... although, I could invent something. Choose another.”

  She moved her fingers to a large, flat object with a handle, and a strip of leather in the center of it.

  “A paddle, Miss Blanchet. For spanking. It’s quite severe. You should not be able to sit until evening.”

  He explained, in turn, the canes and whips, the belts and paddles, and how each of them would deliver a very specific type of punishment. As he spoke of them, two feelings turned within Lina, swirling at times together and at times opposed: fear, naturally, of the pain, but also, a desire to feel it, to submit to Mr. Blackstone, for she sensed in his explanations a sort of protective tenderness.

  “I know not which one to choose, sir,” she said breathlessly, and again she turned her face slightly, without realizing she was doing so. This time he was slower to stop her, and his lips brushed over her cheekbone before he used his hand to turn her gently back to face the wall.

  Her lips moved, shaking with the desire to ask him why he always hid in the shadows, but she said nothing. Blindly, to stop herself from speaking improperly, she reached for a cane with an exquisite ivory handle. She had never been caned before, but she sensed that it would bite viciously, and she had read of canings in schools, in books in the attic, and they had inspired in her the same feelings that she had now.

  Now, however, she was not only free to embrace those inclinations, she had no choice but to endure
them.

  “A cane, Miss Blanchet,” he said, taking it from her hand. His fingers lingered on the back of her hand, stroking her skin. “That is a most severe choice.”

  Her voice shook as she breathed, “I have been most disobedient.”

  Saying such a thing made the animal clawing inside of her go wild, and her cunny throbbed.

  “Well,” he said, cracking the cane through the air with a snap that made her jump again, and sent a thrill through her. “A caning you shall have, then. Turn and walk to the bed.”

  She obeyed, her skin tingling with anticipation.

  “Assume the position of discipline, Miss Blanchet. As you did yesterday.”

  She did so, trembling, the skin on her bottom reminding her suddenly of the searing pain of the whipping she had endured the day before, almost throbbing with heat as though it had been set on fire anew.

  “Your bottom is quite red from the discipline you received yesterday, Miss Blanchet,” he growled behind her. The cane sliced through the air, making a terrifying sound, but when it touched her, it was laid upon her skin gently, as a caress. The cane traveled over her bottom and down her legs, a feathery touch with the promise of stinging bite. “This is going to make you cry, Miss Blanchet. But I promise that I shall not mar your lovely skin, except to leave a bit of a welt, that you may feel to remind yourself of your disobedience.”

  The cane whipped through the air again, singing, and she shivered.

  “Will you remain as you are, submissive for your punishment, or do you require me to restrain you?” he asked her, one hand gently pushing her lower back down, so that her bottom tilted up into the air. Lina curled her fingers against the leather.

  “I shall remain as I am,” she breathed, and then held her breath, hoping that she could in fact obey, for she wanted to show Mr. Blackstone that she was obedient, even if she could not be sure whether the drive within her to do so was one of defiance, or of true submission.

  “I shall cane you five times, Miss Blanchet, provided that you are well-behaved.”