by EM BROWN
It mattered not. He had stopped his caresses to her consternation. He removed first the clamps on her labia, and then the ones attached to her nipples. But there was no relief, for his arousal had left her agitated. She watched as he replaced the clamps into a velvet pouch. Then he unclasped the ball from her mouth.
But he left her still suspended in her ropes.
“I will return to finish your punishment,” he told her. His mouth curled in a wry grin. “Don’t go anywhere.”
Chapter Twelve
HE COULD HAVE DIED. When Harrietta had said that she wanted to fondle his cock and place it in her mouth, his body had roared in silent frustration. And as he had bound her and attached those clamps to her body, he could not rid himself of the image of her rosy little mouth clamped over his cock. His cock had been mere inches from her lips as she hung suspended in the ropes. By the grace of God, Vale wondered who was truly the one being punished.
Did it please his vanity that she wanted his cock? Aye. But it was not her husband’s cock that she had wanted. It was that of ‘his lordship.’ And his pride was checked as easily and as quickly as it had inflated. What a ridiculous mess.
He wondered what Harrietta would have done if he had acquiesced and pulled out his cock. Would she indeed have wrapped her lips about him? Of course. He had never known Harrietta to back down from anything. Had she ever taken a cock into her mouth and down her throat? He felt a sense of jealousy that he might not be her first, that her delectable mouth was not a virginal gateway. He wondered how she would have taken his cock. Imagined his cock thrusting down her throat, her hair falling in unruly curls about her face. Imagined her eyes looking up at him with the sort of worship he had glimpsed when she looked at Harold.
Damn it all to hell, Vale cursed as he ascended the steps to Penelope’s balcony.
The proprietress was reclined on her settee, lounging like Dionysus, wearing a shift fashioned in the style of ancient Greece. A young maid knelt at one end of the settee, massaging her feet. A cad stood behind the maid, kneading her breasts.
“Troubles with your wi—your submissive?” Penelope asked as she eyed him through her quizzing glass.
“I’ve no wish to discuss it,” Vale answered, sitting down and helping himself to a glass of brandy, which he threw back with much needed speed.
“Then why have you come here?” She groaned as the maid covered a toe with her mouth.
“To quench my thirst.”
He poured himself another glass. Penelope raised an eyebrow.
“She is being punished at the moment,” he elucidated.
“Ah. You have not frightened her away yet.”
“That is my goal by the end of the evening.”
But he was finding his resolve waning. Half of him wanted her to fail, knew she would fail his first test. But part of him wanted her to succeed. Wanted the clamps and the bondage to arouse her. Wanted her to enjoy all that he was doing to her.
The young man was fucking the maid, who continued to suck on Penelope’s toes as a cock was buried in her from behind. Vale watched them, his cock beginning to stiffen once more. He rubbed himself through his breeches but then rose to his feet. Harrietta’s neck would be sore. The ropes digging into her flesh now. Straightening the mask on his face, he went back downstairs.
The sight of her trussed up in ropes, struggling against her bonds, her legs spread to reveal her womanhood, made his stomach clench. Taking in a deep breath, he closed his eyes and collected himself. Resolve. Strength. Patience. He had never wanted for these qualities in the Cavern before.
Picking up his crop, he slapped her across the arse. “Be still.”
Methodically, he undid her bonds, then bent her body over the back of the chair. He secured her wrists to a pair of chains on the ground. Then did the same for her ankles. Walking over to the table of accoutrements, he opened another box and pulled out a string of beads. The beads ranged from small to large. He grabbed a small decanter containing an oily element and dipped his fingers into it. Standing behind her, he slid his finger along her nether hole.
Harrietta gasped. “What—what is it you are doing, my lord?”
“Lubricating your arse, ma petite.”
He could see the tenseness in her body, but he continued to rub the oil around her puckered hole.
“For what purpose, my lord?” she asked nervously.
“You will soon see.”
“I do not think that I like...I would rather you stop, my lord.”
He dipped the tip of his forefinger into her arsehole. She inhaled sharply. He waited a moment before pushing his finger further inside.
“No! Stop!” she protested.
“Do you wish to end this?”
Silence. His heard pounded in his chest as he waited for the answer. What was the answer that he hoped for?
She did not respond, so he smacked her left butt cheek twice for her defiance, then pushed the rest of his finger inside. The sound from her mouth was a mix of grunting and shrieking, if that were possible. He rotated his finger inside of her. God, but she was tight. Amazingly tight. It was undoubtedly a virgin arse he had has finger buried inside. He could feel the walls of her rectum pushing against his finger, trying to oust the invader.
“You may put an end to this at any time,” he reminded her, and decided at that moment that he hoped she would for his cock was straining painfully against his breeches.
“I hate you, my lord,” she mumbled.
“How you feel about me has no bearing,” he replied, removing his finger. He went to reach for the beads, coated them in the lubricant, and inserted the smallest of the beads into her rectum.
“We used to apply butter before we found this lubricant,” he explained and pushed the second bead into her. “The butter was far too untidy.”
Her body twitched in protest. Her head was bent down, and he could not see her face. Were her eyes shut? Would they hold tears? Or would she stare daggers at him if she could?
She would be staring daggers at him, he concluded. He was glad he could not see her eyes.
“Uuugh,” she groaned when the fourth bead was pressed into her.
“Relax and it shall go more easily,” he advised.
He inserted the final bead, wiped his hands, and shoved two fingers into her moist quim. He attempted to feel for the beads from there, which only made her more aware of her fully stuffed arse. Turning his hand palm down, he thumbed her clitoris. At first the discomfort of the beads was clearing paramount, but gradually, the sensations brought about his hand was gaining the upperhand. He stared at her nicely rounded rump, wishing it was his own cock and not the beads that was buried in her.
She began moaning. Pleasure moans. He continued his caresses until her quickening cries indicated she was nearing her climax. He stopped abruptly and stepped away.
“No!” she panted.
“What is it, ma petite?”
“Please, my lord, please touch me.”
“Why?”
“That I may spend.”
“Your spending is what prompted this punishment.”
Ignoring her whimper, he went to retrieve the flogger.
HER BREASTS WERE HANGING over the chair, and he swung the cat-o-nine tails up at them. She cried out, more in shock than pain. He struck at her breasts again. This time she wailed, the blow clearly smarting. He went to stand at her back and began playing with her clitoris once more. She quickly forgot about her punished breasts and turned her mind to the delicious strumming of her clit. The beads in her rectum had lost some of their edge. She had tried hard, flexing and straining, to push the object out of her. It was most unnatural, and she had meant it when she had said she hated him. Surely he could tell that she was not enjoying it, but he would make her submit to it or else have her banished from the Cavern.
But now, despite the fullness in her arse, she felt her climax rising in her. It was a testament to his skilled fingers. She had never received such delight before, n
ot even at her own hand. He was the carnal equivalent of Mozart, she decided and briefly wondered if he played the harpsichord at all. With his digits stroking her clit and fondling her quim, he coaxed a heavy pressure to build between her legs. The pressure wanted release.
She groaned in frustration when he stopped his ministrations and instead whipped the ends of the flogger at her breasts again. The lashes were wide strips and felt like a dozen small hands slapping at her. Her nipples and breasts smarted, but the pain did not cut as deep as the crop for he had not applied his full strength. She did not think she could survive if he did.
“I consider this a light punishment,” he told her as he dropped the flogger and drove three fingers into her quim while using his other hand to tug and rub her clit.
“Consider yourself fortunate,” he continued. “I could have used a dildo in place of the beads. Or my cock. Or that of another. How would your little arse take it if I had a dozen men each take their turn with you? You wished for cock earlier. Perhaps I should grant your wish in triplicate. Your mouth wrapped about one, another in your quim, and the last in your arse.”
Harrietta moaned at the thought. The thought of such a scene truly coming to pass frightened her, and yet it titillated her. Would his lordship command her to service other men? Or other women? Could she bring herself to pleasure another woman as she had seen the other night?
He ground his hands into her flesh more fiercely, more rapidly.
“Oh, yes!” she huffed. “Make me spend, my lord, make me spend!”
“You would like that, would you?”
“Yes, yes!”
She could feel her orgasm looming largely on the horizon for her. She braced herself for the most intense, the most exhilarating orgasm to come.
“No,” he pronounced flatly as he stepped away.
It was as if the air had been sucked from her lungs. Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried to will her climax to come. But it would not happen.
He picked up the flogger and alternated between her breasts and her buttocks. It hurt, but not nearly as much as being left on the precipice of what would surely have been a magnificent orgasm. He could not have been more cruel had he offered a glass of water to someone wandering the desert and stripped it from them just as the first drop was to fall on parched lips. Harrietta pulled at her chains in frustration. She would do it herself if she could. Pleasure herself until she came. She needed the release. Craved it.
Time and time again he brought her to the edge, but always left her wanting. Her body felt fatigued by the aggravation, the futile exercise, the constant building and waning of tension. She wanted to scream and curse at him, but she did not want him to have the satisfaction of knowing that his torment was having its desired effect. After what seemed an eternity, he ceased his attentions, removed the beads in her anus, and released her wrists.
“I expect better if we should meet again,” he told her, devoid of emotion, before dismissing her.
She could not look him in the eye, but she walked away without lowering her chin. Her body trembled inside, and outside it smarted. And for the first time, she wondered if his lordship might not have been right in his assessment of her. Perhaps she was not meant for Madame Botreaux’s. She had no desire to repeat what happened tonight. And she hated ‘his lordship.’
“My lady.”
Turning, she saw the man in the red mask at her elbow.
“You seem to have dropped this,” he said and held out her earring.
SOMETHING ABOUT THE way the man in the red mask had smiled sent shivers down Harrietta’s spine. The way a devil might smile upon seeing the true nature of a person’s soul.
“It was terrible. I loathed every minute of it,” Harrietta later told Charlotte of her ordeal with his lordship, not wishing to dwell on the man with the red mask who had found her earring.
“Especially those...those dreadful beads,” Harrietta added.
“What beads?” asked Charlotte as she added the finishing touches of paint to her canvas.
“The ones he—he placed in my derriere.”
“Oh.”
The response had such nonchalance that Harrietta wondered if her friend had heard her clearly? Harrietta studied Charlotte’s painting of a naked man leaning against a fountain, holding his partially erect cock in his hand as he glanced to where the shadow of a woman stood. Charlotte added a dab of red hue to the flower petals at his feet.
“I am rather partial to those beads,” Charlotte admitted as she set down her brush and went to pull a curtain over half the window to eliminate the glare on her work. The drawing room boasted high windows that admitted a good deal of the mid morning light.
“That surprises you,” Charlotte noticed.
“I—it is hard for me to imagine that one can derive joy from such discomfort.”
Charlotte shrugged her slender shoulders. “I think they may not suit every taste, but I do find anal stimulation extremely delightful. I adore having a cock in my derriere.”
Stunned, Harrietta stared into the cup of tea that she had just picked up. How could Charlotte adore such a thing? True that the woman was more experienced, but...Harrietta considered the taboo aspect of that other opening. The forbidden nature—the sinfulness—of it might hold allure, yes. But the actual sensation? How was that delightful?
The clamps affixed to her nipples and her quim had not been comfortable, though they had disturbed her less. Perhaps the beads were meant to be no different. Certainly they had not prevented her from being aroused. Could they, if appreciated properly, enhance one’s arousal?
“My greatest orgasm came from a man who penetrated me from behind,” Charlotte answered, her eyes closed. She was practically purring.
Harrietta had been quite sure that she would not be returning to Madame Botreaux’s, but now her curiosity had been culled again. If we should meet again had been his words. He had not expected she would return. Had he done what he did to discourage her from returning? To prove his initial assessment of her correct?
“They were a source of discomfort for me,” Harrietta said, “but what made it worse was him. I do not like him.”
“Is he not able to bring pleasure to your body?”
“It is not that.”
Indeed not, Harrietta thought to herself. Her body seemed to dislodge its relationship with her mind when it came to that.
“There is a hauteur to him,” Harrietta elucidated. “As if he knows better than I what is appropriate for me. He rather reminds me of Vale.”
How odd but the indignation she felt toward his lordship rather resembled what she felt toward her husband.
“A troubling thought,” Charlotte said in sympathy. “I think I shall pay a visit to Madame Botreaux’s tonight with you.”
Harrietta shook her head. “I had not thought to return and had accepted an invitation to attend a soiree hosted by Lady Falconet. I know you do not approve of them, but I find Alexandra and Lord Elroy exceptionally kind. And I owe Lord Elroy a small debt and mean to win back what I have lost to vingt-et-un. Have you played before?”
Charlotte narrowed her eyes. “A debt to Lord Elroy?”
“Oh, he would not have me repay it, but I insisted.”
“You know that tongues will wag if you continue to spend such time with them. The animosity between the Elroys and Dunnesford is no secret.”
“I know it as well. And Vale did attempt to forbid me to see them, though he has not mentioned it as of late. I think he recognizes that I know the reason for the acrimony and, thus, he could not in good conscience press the matter.”
“Still, I would that you would take care in the presence of that pair, Hettie.”
“Worry not, my dear. I am quite capable of handling myself, and though my marriage may be in name only, I have no wish to cast shame upon my husband.”
SITTING IN THE DARK, Vale waited for her in the carriage. She had a veil over her face—quite unnecessary for it was a moonless night—and hurried
from the entrance of Madame Botreaux’s into her carriage. She stepped into the carriage and sat down next to him. Only then did she realize that she was not alone. She attempted to scream, but Vale clapped his hands about her, covering her mouth.
“Hush, it is I, Charlotte.”
She was struggling too frantically to recognize his voice. Pulling her to him, Vale pressed his mouth to her ear.
“Charlotte, it is Dunnesford.”
Stopping, she sat up straight. He loosened his hold of her.
“Dunnesford?” she echoed and threw back her veil to look at him. “What are you—how did you? What are you doing here and hiding about in the dark like some common thief?”
Vale leaned back in the carriage. “I requested that you not take Harrietta to Madame Botreaux’s.”
Charlotte lifted her chin. “And I have not.”
“But you facilitated her visits. It was your carriage that took her here.”
Though there was no light, Vale was sure that Charlotte was flushing from her brow to her bosom.
“What an unkind cousin you are!”
But he was not moved. “Then you do not deny it.”
“I...”
“It matters not. I know it to be your carriage and your driver.”
Charlotte bristled. “Indeed?”
“I have had my footman following Harrietta for some time.”
“You have been spying on your own wife? What a wretched thing to do.”
She was attempting to shift the attention.
“It was for her safety,” Vale explained. “Harrietta does not appreciate that the streets of London differ greatly from the town she grew up in. She is wont to be carefree and risks harm to her person.”