Cavern of Pleasures Trio

by Brown, Em

  “You are a woman after mine own heart,” he noted of her ability to compliment and critique in the same stroke.

  She fluttered her fan before her with a little more vigor. He offered her his arm and escorted her from the dining hall. Across the room, Alexander was engrossed in a conversation with another gentleman, leaving his wife alone to walk behind him.

  Mrs. Pemberly must have noticed the same for she said, “Did you not wish to make the acquaintance of the Countess of Lowry?”

  Phineas bowed to his dinner companion and made his way towards the Countess.

  “Lady Lowry,” he addressed.

  She had begun to walk away from the crowd, perhaps attempting to steal away to some haven of solitude, and was obviously startled that someone had called to her. When she turned to face him, he saw that she was not as plain as when seen from afar. Her cheeks had a natural blush, and though her eyes were not the large sparkles of color that graced the physiognomy of her sister-in-law, they possessed more depth. Unlike the shallow waters of Sarah Farrington, the verdant eyes of the Countess intrigued him.

  They stared at him in displeasure.

  Undaunted, he introduced himself with a bow. “I am Phineas Barclay, a relation of the Farringtons.”

  “I am aware that you are a distant relation,” she replied coolly.

  He had the feeling that even though she had to crane her neck to meet his gaze, she was attempting to look down at him. Perhaps she shared the sentiments of her husband towards the Barclays.

  “A much belated congratulations on your nuptials.”

  Her frown deepened. He would have not have been surprised to hear her tell him that congratulations were unnecessary from him as he had not been invited to the wedding.

  “Yes,” she said, mustering more hauteur into her expression, “I was told you had been banished to France.”

  Her dislike of him, which was becoming increasingly palpable, amused him, as did most of the disdain people would have towards him. The son of parents who shocked gentle society with their wanton spirit and numerous illicit affairs, he had become immune at a tender age to what others thought.

  “You put it harshly, madam. I like to think of my time there as a holiday,” he replied. “I had occasion to travel to the Côte-d'Or and would highly recommend the region. The wines there are par excellence.”

  He could tell his impudence riled her.

  “Ah, then you will be taking yourself back there?”

  He nearly chuckled at her juvenile attempt to rid herself of his company. “I shall be staying in England for some time. I have come across a pursuit of great interest to me.”

  “Yes, I know,” she said wryly.

  “You do?”

  She faltered, “I mean...naturally you will have missed much of what England has to offer, perhaps not the same quality of wine that you would find in France, but perhaps a rousing game of cricket or warm Yorkshire pudding on a cool winter morning, and certainly friends and family, from whom I will keep you no longer.”

  She turned to leave. He refrained from specifying that she was now family.

  “Before you leave, Lady Lowry,” he said, stopping her in her tracks. “I believe this to be yours.”

  He held out the earring. Her eyes widened upon seeing it. She hesitated, as if she contemplated denying ownership, but it was obvious that her one ear was missing its adornment. When she reached for the earring, he deftly reached for her with his free hand, pulling her closer. Though the nearest guest was not within earshot, he meant his words for her ears alone.

  “Next time, feel free to join us, Countess,” he murmured as he pressed the earring into her hand.

  She burned brightly to the tips of her ears. Grasping the earring, she turned on her heel and hurried away from him.

  Chapter Three

  “YOU APPEAR PERTURBED, my dear. Are you well?” asked Penelope Botreaux.

  Gertie realized she had been staring into the distance, clenching and unclenching her crop, as she stood at the top of the stairs that descended into the Cavern.

  “No—I mean to say yes, I am well, thank you,” Gertie hastened to reply.

  “That is a remarkable corset. I have never seen the likes of it before.”

  Penelope held up her quizzing glass to admire the scarlet satin. Gertie had fashioned the corset over a year ago but had never had the bravado to don it till tonight. She wore it over a black chemise, also an unorthodox article of her own making; her customary black boots; and a black satin mask decorated with three slender plumes emerging from its centre.

  “Your gentleman awaits you,” Penelope informed with an eccentric smile and a tone of...impatience.

  Gertie nodded. Though she had hoped he would not return, tonight she felt differently. Tonight she was ready for him. Tonight she was Lady Athena. Strong and powerful. Not the pitiful Lady Lowry who had cried over an undeserving husband and flushed before a presumptuous rake. The mortification she had felt at the Bennington ball after her encounter with Lord Barclay had turned into anger. She had never met such an insolent and despicable person. That he should not be rotting in Fleet for having murdered young Jonathan Weston in that duel was a travesty of justice.

  Yes, murdered. In the court of her opinion, she had tried and found him guilty. No matter that the seconds, his and that of Weston, all refused to elaborate on what had occurred, as if they had taken a vow of silence. Rumors had it that Weston, having been made a cuckold by Barclay, had challenged latter. That Barclay had been tumbling Mrs. Weston was apparently common knowledge.

  Gertie shuddered. And now he had chosen Sarah Farrington for a lover. His choice of Sarah convicted him as much as anything. Gertie could think of no one more vile than Phineas Barclay, and when she recalled how roused she had been in the Bennington library, she despised him more. She had already heard his parents to have been quite the wantons. His older sister, now a widowed Duchess, had a string of lovers that might have rivaled her brother’s in number. His second sister was currently engaged in a scandalous crim con. The youngest sister had not had her come-out, but Gertie suspected she would prove no different from her older sisters. Oddly enough, the Baron Barclay remained a decent man, honest and faithful to his wife. Though Alexander had no attachment to any of the Barclays, Gertie had found the younger Barclay to be modest and agreeable.

  Not at all like his brother.

  Squaring her shoulders, she made her way down the stairs and into her alcove. As Penelope had said, Hephaestus waited for her. He wore only his breeches and his mask. The candlelight flickered across the planes of his pectorals, and Gertie could not help but admire the ridges of his muscled chest. He stood in attentive silence. She circled her prey. An exciting eagerness budded within her, but the Lady Athena must always be calm and contained.

  “You have returned,” she remarked with nonchalance.

  “But of course,” he replied. “Mistress Athena.”

  “You may come to regret your decision.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Mistress Athena,” she reminded him. “That will merit you two lashes.”

  “Is it your intent to make me regret, Mistress Athena?”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. A good submissive would not ask such an improper question. “In forewarning you, I am exhibiting a measure of benevolence. Do not tax my generosity.”

  “Your charity is unnecessary, Mistress Athena.”

  She inhaled sharply. They had been together all of five minutes and already he was beginning to ruffle her. “I speak because you do not appear to be a practiced submissive. Perhaps you overestimate your abilities. You may, at any moment, request a departure, but know that once we have halted, our bondage is at an end.”

  “I am at your disposal, Mistress Athena, to do as you wish. My body is yours.”

  His words made her shiver.

  “Then let us begin. You may kneel before me.”

  He did as told. She went to the wall and removed the cat-o-nine tails
. She ran the leather straps between her fingers as she surveyed him. How delicious he looked kneeling there. His back, with its many ridges of muscles, was as provocative as his front. She felt a surge of warmth. Unfurling the tails, she lashed it across his upper back. He did not flinch or grunt, but she had only used half her strength. The second blow she delivered more forcefully.

  He was determined to prove her wrong, she fathomed. She sensed a strong will in him. Why he seemed intent on having her for a Mistress was a mystery to her. Perhaps he wished to boast of having been her submissive. He was new to Madame Botraeux’s and did not know that no one ever boasted after their encounters with Mistress Athena.

  The image of Phineas Barclay flashed in her mind. If only Lady Lowry could be Lady Athena always. Barclay would not have dared to speak with such audacity to Lady Athena. Or if he were to be such a fool, instead of scurrying away in defeat, she would have made him cower, made him repent his impertinence. Strange, but Lord Barclay seemed to inspire more anger in her than did the intelligence of her husband’s mistress. Perhaps it was easier to direct her fury towards him than at her husband. Her private conversation with Lord Barclay had been more embarrassing to her than any public disdain she had received from Alexander.

  Barclay’s eyes, twinkling with merriment, haunted her even now. They pulled at her with an inexplicable gravity, and she found herself falling into their sapphire depths. They were beautiful eyes, fringed with dark golden lashes. The gods had been too kind to him. Lady Athena would not have stood for such injustice. Lady Athena would have...

  Gertie stopped, suddenly aware that she had been wielding the cat with much more force than she had intended. Her lashes burned bright red upon his skin. He should have made a sound or some movement to snap her from her trance. Stilling the shaking of her hand, she went to stand in front of him.

  He looked up at her. “Thank you, Mistress Athena.”

  She breathed a sigh of relief. As severe as she could be, a good Mistress never overwhelmed her submissive. She might challenge his abilities, skillfully pushing him beyond his limits in controlled measure to build his endurance, but she would not bludgeon him.

  “Well done, Hephaestus.”

  After returning the cat-o-nine tails, she grabbed a small bottle of salve and knelt behind him. She poured the ointment into her hands and began to rub his back.

  “This will cool the burn and heal the skin,” she explained.

  As her fingers planed the welts upon his back, she felt an uncomfortable throb in her nether region. This would not be the first man to arouse the animal urges within her, but his was a body that could have been sculpted by Michelangelo. She slid her hands up over his shoulders and down the bulge of his upper arms. He had such shapely arms. She would have liked nothing more than to glide her hands along each and every muscle and spread the slick balm across his chest.

  “What have you favored from your Mistresses?” she asked to distract herself from his body. She rose to her feet and went to fetch the rope. She wondered if he would like to be slapped across the arse while tied to the cross or suspended in ropes and made to suck the cock of another man. Her body warmed at the thought of doing both to him.

  “I favor the cry of pleasure when I have wrought ecstasy upon my Mistress.”

  Her breath caught in her throat. Ignoring the effect, she knelt behind him and wound the rope about his wrists, pinioning his arms behind him.

  “That is a privilege that must be earned.”

  “Has no one earned such a privilege with you, Mistress Athena?”

  “No.”

  “And why do you make yourself suffer such failures, Mistress Athena?”

  She pulled the rope especially tight. “I suffer nothing.”

  “Are you unfamiliar with the sublime elation of orgasmos, of your body wracked with uncontrollable delight...Mistress Athena?”

  “Do you mean to imply that I have never spent?” she evaded.

  “Many women have not,” he stated plainly. “Or they may know some lesser form but have not had pleasure wrung from their bodies until they can bear no more.”

  Her cunnie pulsed at his words. She knew the lesser form, and only from pleasuring herself. But she had heard the ecstatic cries of other women in the Cavern with undeniable envy. She had wondered what it would be like to experience their bliss.

  “Why deny yourself, Mistress Athena?” he asked. “Should you not expect—nay, demand—that your submissive service you and bring you the pleasure you deserve?”

  Her lower lip trembled. She could feel her body yearning towards him. Would it be so terrible if she had him...

  No! She could feel the power of Lady Athena slipping. She hastily finished knotting the rope, then rose to her feet and yanked his head back by his hair, forcing him to look up at her.

  “Be it cries of delight that you seek?” she asked him. She strode from her alcove and pointed to a young redhead who knelt in a row of other naked women.

  “Sir Lancelot,” Gertie said to the master of these women. “I will be making use of one of your wenches.”

  He bowed and allowed the redhead to follow Gertie. Back inside her alcove, Gertie directed the slender woman to lie upon the bench and spread her legs.

  “You will service her—with your hands bound,” Gertie informed him.

  He smiled. “Hardly a challenge, Mistress Athena.”

  Gertie shook her head as he shuffled on his knees to the other woman. She had never come across such audacity in a submissive before.

  “Come closer towards me, m’dear,” he instructed the other submissive.

  The woman inched herself down the wooden bench until her derriere was perched on its edge. Positioning himself between her thighs, he leaned in towards her mons. Placing herself at the opposite end of the bench, Gertie folded her arms across her chest and watched as he lightly tongued the pink flesh before him. His tongue circled the folds, gently urging the nub of flesh between them to protrude. The woman closed her eyes, a peaceful murmur escaping her lips. Her body relaxed against the rigid bench. He took his time with slow thorough licks, his tongue a brush against her canvas. His languid strokes against her clitoris drew long low moans from the woman. Gertie had never seen such a look of contentment—the kind worn after an itch had been scratched or after tasting the sweetness of a ripe summer berry.

  The warmth in Gertie’s loins had spread to every limb, but she remained motionless as she watched. He was staring at her over the body of the woman. His eyes seemed to say, “I could be doing this to you.” A shiver went up her spine.

  Gradually he quickened the pace of his fondling. At times his tongue would slip below and dart into her cunnie, eliciting a delighted gasp. Gertie marveled at the stamina of his tongue. He wielded it as if it were a cock. He plunged his tongue further into the woman, and from the hysterical sounds coming from the woman, Gertie imagined his tongue to be doing all manner of feats within her. Gertie felt her own body straining in unison with the woman on the bench. Her own clitoris throbbed for attention. The woman began to spasm on the bench, but he did not stop his tongue until the majority of the woman’s wailing had waned. With tender caresses, he eased her down from her orgasm.

  Gertie closed her eyes and cursed the other woman, then herself. Her hand had itched to fondle her own clitoris, to seek relief and some semblance of the pleasure experienced by the redhead. Instead, her body remained as tense as a violin chord over-strung. And though it had been her idea to bring in the other woman, she could not help but feel that she had played into his hands. She glanced at him, but his expression was not one of triumphant smugness. He gazed at her without emotion, waiting for her next command.

  “You may leave us,” Gertie told the other woman.

  “Thank you, Mistress, thank you,” the redhead said with a grateful bow. “If you require my presence again...”

  I will not, Gertie thought silently.

  When the woman had left, she turned back to Hephaestus. The
lower half of his face glistened with the other woman’s cunt juices. Gertie felt a flare of jealousy. Her desire to punish and humiliate him had faded, and she now found herself wondering what to do with him next.

  PHINEAS SET DOWN HIS morning coffee and attempted to read the Times his butler had handed him, but his mind kept drifting back to last night. Back to the Cavern of Pleasures. Back to Lady Athena. She had looked quite magnificent in her flaming red corset. Penelope had told him that much of Lady Athena’s attire were of her own designs. He liked her creativity and her boldness. He even liked the fire that she cast at him through her glares. However, he was beginning to suspect that, despite all appearances, she was not a genuine Mistress.

  Granted, she wielded a flogger as well as any of them, he thought to himself as he made sure his sore back did not touch the back of his chair.

  It made little sense why Lady Athena would punish herself by denying her body pleasure. She was not immune to arousal. He had seen that as he serviced the other submissive. Lady Athena had made no gesture, nor spoken a word, but he had detected the flush in her cheeks. And though his nose had been buried in the other woman’s cunt, he could sense Lady Athena’s arousal. He wondered if she had gone to seek relief in some other form, by herself or perhaps with another submissive, someone she trusted. She certainly had left him abruptly last night, mumbling a half-hearted approval as she untied his hands before leaving him to wonder if their time together had come to an end.

  “Master Robert is here,” his butler announced.

  “His Lordship, the Baron Barclay,” Phineas corrected. “You are not so addlepated that you would forget his title, eh, Gibbons?”

  “But you are—”

  “I am not yet, and if I had it my way, my brother would remain Baron.”

  Gibbons inclined his head. “I have been some five and twenty years with the family. Old habits die hard, my lord.”

  “Especially when grounded in purposeful stubbornness. You may show my brother in.”