by Robin Gideon
She uttered a soft gasp of shock at the bluntness of his statement. Heath smiled. With his right hand, he grabbed the shaft of his cock and rubbed the plump crown up and down over the length of her pussy’s moist entrance.
“Oh, God,” she gasped.
He straightened his legs slightly, just enough to push the head of his cock into her, forcing her labia to expand to accept him. He saw her quick grimace and paused, well aware of his own endowment and how with some women, he had to make accommodations. He made a brief, tactical retreat, paused a moment, then entered again, this time sliding slightly deeper.
“Kiss me. Taste your pussy on my lips,” he said, cupping her ass with both hands, his cock securely embedded within her silken vaginal embrace.
He was only a little surprised when she didn’t turn her face away from him again. He kissed her lips lightly at first but then slanted his mouth down over her hers, leaning into her to press her against the wall. As he retreated a third time, he lifted her right knee high to put her hips at the proper angle, and when he next thrust, he drove the entire length of his cock into her warm, wet depths.
* * * *
It had hurt at first to take Heath’s erection into her body. The only experience in such matters she had was with her husband, and what Ralph shoved inside her—back when he used to do such things—was nothing compared to Heath’s dimensions. But by the third or fourth revolution of Heath’s hips, she had taken everything he had, and rapturous bliss replaced discomfort.
A thousand conflicting emotions went through her the moment Heath reached full insertion. When the tip of his tongue touched her lips, her mouth opened without protest. An instant later, her tongue was dancing with his, and the low, throaty purr she heard shocked her because she’d made the sound herself.
My God, this man knows how to kiss!
The instant the thought went through her mind, she turned her face to the side, forcibly ending the deeply intimate kiss.
He churned his lean hips, moving slowly at first. His size required some time for her to adjust. Once she ended the kiss, he stood straight, and the long length of his cock thrust deeply into her, taking her breath away. The first sensation was like being impaled, but when his cock began its gliding retreat, all she felt was pleasure. Each thrust, though, was slightly more energetic than the previous one, and he knocked her backward against the wall with increasing force.
She was conscious of a dozen different sensations, each one exciting her in its own way, driving her toward another climax, despite her having reached the peak of pleasure only moments earlier. Heath’s thick, unyielding shaft created a slick friction against her labia, while the upper surface of his cock seemed to add a caress to her stiffened clitoris, exciting her more and more with each advance and retreat. The rope around her wrists was a constant erotic reminder of being captive to a renegade who simply took what he wanted from life—and from her. His naked chest was against her breasts, her nipples hard peaks because of it. His left hand squeezed her ass tightly, pulling her hips toward him to meet his jarring thrusts. She felt the wall behind her, and in the dim corner of her mind wondered if she would end up with love bruises on her hips by the time he had reached his own climax. But most of all, she felt the totality of his cock, long and thick, driving up into her pussy, filling her more completely than she’d ever dreamed possible.
“Oh…God…you’re…big…” she said, spacing her words out between thrusts.
Again and again, Heath pressed forward and upward, forcing her to crash against the stable wall. Each time his pelvis slapped against hers, the sound of flesh striking flesh rang through the stable.
“Come,” Heath said through gritted teeth as his cock plunged into her depths. “Come for me!”
It was as though words alone could make her body do whatever he wanted. He’d hardly given the command when her overheating senses exploded. A high-pitched keening sound came from her throat as her body shuddered, harsh spasms contracting around the invading erection. In the throes of ecstasy, she tossed her head back on her shoulders and was only dimly aware when her head bounced off the hard wall.
She was just descending from the heights of her climax when Heath withdrew completely then thrust his hips at her again, his slick cock trapped between his stomach and hers. He emitted a harsh, leonine growl as cum raced through the length of his shaft. Balancing on one foot, she felt the heat and wetness of his semen against her stomach.
“Oh…oh…Heath,” she sighed, gulping in air. He still leaned against her, his cock trapped between his body and hers. She felt semen trickling down from her stomach to her pelvis, and the sensation of it was wickedly satisfying. “I thought I would die.”
“Not with me, Lady Celeste. I’m here to save you, not hurt you.”
He eased her foot to the floor and then took several steps backward, allowing her dress to fall back into place. His cock was shiny with the juices of her excitement, and she wondered how such an object could give her so much pleasure. She wondered, too, if it was unjust that it had taken her thirty-six years to learn a man’s hard cock could allow a woman to experience sublime ecstasy.
“Thank you…for being thoughtful enough…to not climax…inside me,” she said between gasps of air. A weary, sexually satisfied smile touched her lips a few moments later. “Would you mind untying me now?” She paused a moment, breathing deeply. Her smile changed, becoming impish. “Or do you have other plans for me?”
* * * *
Alone in her bedroom later, Celeste inspected the inside of her gown. Clearly, she would have to brush the garment clean herself rather than assigning the duty to one of her chambermaids. Matted in the fabric from the waistline down to about the knee area was the dried and flaky evidence of Heath’s orgasm.
Picking up her stockings from where she’d dropped them on her bed, she saw one of them had the evidence of her guilty behavior on it, too.
She smiled to herself and turned toward her mirror, her body still warm and tingling in the afterglow of powerful orgasms. The single lamp cast her voluptuous curves in light and shadow. She touched her stomach and grimaced a little when she felt dried semen on her skin. There was also cum in the sparse triangular patch of curls at the apex of her thighs. It seemed the volume of Heath’s climax had been three or four times what Ralph’s were.
I’m a very wicked woman. It pleases me to think I could inspire such a climax from a man like Heath.
With her legs slightly parted, she watched as her hand—as though it belonged to another woman, not herself—went from the auburn curls down to the pink lips of her vagina. Within seconds she was easing the middle finger of her right hand into her pussy as, with the fingertips of her other hand, she caressed her clitoris with a firm circular motion.
Heath’s made me greedy. I want another climax…and I’m not going to stop until I get it.
She closed her eyes, and in her mind’s eye conjured the image of Heath standing in the stable, the fly of his trousers unbuttoned and gaping open, his towering erection pointing ominously at her. She could almost feel the rope around her wrists and the first pleasure/pain of taking his hard cock into her slick, receptive body…
* * * *
Gregg Fallon leaned back in his chair and looked at his son, Nicholas, and said, “When King George had gone mad, he was replaced, which was the right thing to do. He could no longer be in control of his own fate, or that of the country’s. I think what we need the courts to understand is that your brother has gone mad, and in consequence, I should be made the executor of his estate. It’s a different era, to be sure, but the concept is the same. The precedent has been set.”
Nicholas’s smile was malevolent. “It would give you complete control of his fortune.”
“His fortune, my ass,” Gregg snapped. “Ralph pissed away what little money he had long ago. He’s been spending Celeste’s money as fast as he can for years.”
Nicholas nodded. “So what you’re saying is that unless we—I
mean, unless you—take control of the money soon, there might not be any left to take.”
“Precisely.” Gregg shook his head sadly. “Why do you suppose that brother of yours has become such a disgrace to the family?”
“About a year ago he and I were talking, and you should have heard the things he said about his wife. It bothers the hell out of him to use her money to pay for his whoring and gambling.”
Gregg made a face. “What difference could that possibly make? I arranged his goddamned marriage so he’d have her money.” He considered the various ways he could assume control of Celeste’s finances. “We’ll need the best barristers in London if we’re to get the court to believe Celeste has driven Ralph mad. That’ll be the key to it. We’ve got to make the court understand how Celeste is responsible for Ralph’s condition. If we can do that, we’ll have her money.”
“We’ll have trouble with her uncle,” Nicholas warned. “Sir Garrick Ashe is not going to sit idly by while we steal his sister’s fortune. I believe he’s a member of The Harriman Society. They have a very unsavory reputation for sticking together and protecting their own.”
“He doesn’t frighten me,” Gregg said, but he knew he was lying.
Chapter Four
“I dare say, m’lady,” Margaret said as she stepped out of the closet with her selection for Celeste’s morning clothes, “you get more lovely by the day.”
Standing naked beside her dressing table, Celeste made a face and replied, “If only that were true.”
“But it is true.” Margaret had been Celeste’s maid for the past twenty years, and she was nothing if not loyal to the mistress of the manor. “I speak God’s own truth, m’lady.”
As Margaret laid the selection out onto the bed, Celeste looked at them. While it was true she had the final say on her clothes selection, she invariably accepted her maid’s selections, a fact which gave the trusted servant considerable pleasure.
“Arms over your head now,” Margaret said as she picked up the silk camisole from the bed. “I understand you’re seeing the duchess this morning, so I want you to look your best.”
Celeste smiled. Though Francesca Wilson, Duchess of Shermley, was most certainly not the only woman of such noble rank in London, when one spoke of the duchess, the reference was almost invariably to her. She had one of the most influential salons in all of London, invitations to which were highly sought after. She was also Celeste’s good friend of long standing. The previous evening a letter had arrived for Celeste from Francesca, stating they needed to speak the following morning. The duchess was infamous for loving theatrics, but there seemed to be an undercurrent of urgency and danger in the letter.
The order of attire was the same as always. First the chemise, then the petticoat, then the cotton stockings—cotton in the morning, silk for evening—followed by the garters. And finally, cotton drawers. For this day, Celeste would wear a gray skirt, a white blouse buttoned to the throat, and a waist-length, gray jacket. She did not wear her underbust corset during the day. Kidskin gloves and a small hat were necessary to leave the house in a suitable manner.
As she checked herself one last time in the mirror, she thought about a time nights earlier when she had stood in the same spot and caressed herself into a very satisfying climax while images of Heath and his exquisite body floated in her dreams.
“Are you quite all right, m’lady?” Margaret asked. “You look a bit flushed.”
“Yes, yes,” she said quickly. “I just had a thought, is all.”
A frown wrinkled Margaret’s forehead. “Don’t be thinkin’ about Master Ralph, m’lady. He’s not worth the effort. I know it’s not my place to be speakin’ of the man in such a manner, but it tears at my heart a little bit each time I hear him say somethin’ nasty to you.”
“Don’t let him worry you. I almost never think about him myself, and I like it that way.” The clock chimed nine o’clock. Trying to sound casual, and succeeding reasonably, she asked, “Will Heath be driving me to see the duchess?”
“No, m’lady. Master Ralph is going to be out-and-abouting in the city again today, and he requested Heath hitch up the small carriage. The new boy, Laine, will be taking you in the two-seater. He’ll have it ready for you out front by the time you get there.”
A stab of disappointment pierced her.
As expected, by the time she stepped outside, Laine awaited her with the roan gelding hitched up to the open, two-seat carriage. Standing at the top of the steps, she took a moment to look at the young man. She knew very little about him other than what Heath had told her, which really wasn’t much. He was attired in the new livery purchased upon his employment. He seemed frightfully young, his cheeks so smooth Celeste wondered if he had to shave more than once or twice a week. He wore his light brown hair rather long, and it came down in loose curls held in a queue at the nape of his neck with a blue ribbon.
“Good morning, m’lady,” Laine said with an open smile when he noticed her standing at the top of the marble steps. He opened the door to the carriage. “I understand we’ll be going into Kensington.”
“That’s correct.” She wondered if she’d ever seen such a lovely young man in her life. Celeste suspected that if she were twenty years younger, she would be absolutely smitten with him. “Do you know where the Duchess of Shermley residence is?”
“Yes, m’lady. Heath has a map pinned up in the quarters, and he has me study it every night. He’ll say ‘Vauxhall Gardens,’ and I’ll have to point right to the map where it is, or he gets ever so cross with me.” His face took on a guilty expression. “I’m sorry, m’lady. I know it’s not my place to be saying how Heath goes about his business.”
Celeste allowed Laine to help her up into the carriage. She gave him a gentle smile and asked, “Is Heath a difficult man to work for?”
“No, not at all. He just has his ways, and he’s got expectations of me.” He climbed up into the front seat and picked up the reins. “Are you in a bit of a rush, m’lady?”
“I’m expected there at ten. Let that be your guide.”
* * * *
At thirty-six, the duchess was the same age as Celeste, and they shared many similarities, including getting married within days of each other. Both had grown up with considerable wealth, though Celeste’s childhood years had been primarily in London, and Francesca’s had been spent in Paris. But whereas Celeste’s family had arranged a marriage which had proven to be disastrous emotionally and costly financially, Francesca’s father, after moving the family to England, had arranged a marriage to Walter Wilson, the Duke of Shermley. The duke was a kind, gentle, and generous man, though he was Francesca’s senior by twenty-three years. In recent years, he had wisely turned a judicious blind eye in his wife’s direction, a rational decision which suited them both.
Upon arrival, Celeste was escorted into the sunroom, where the duchess waited. As she stepped into the spacious, airy room with the high windows and the portraits of previous and current dukes and duchesses on the interior wall, she felt as though she could almost taste in the air the secrets shared in this room.
“My darling friend, you look spectacular, as usual,” Francesca exclaimed as she hugged Celeste and kissed her cheeks. Even after so many years, Francesca still had a pronounced accent. Many thought she kept the accent just to give her the exotic air of a foreigner. Among those of the ton, only a handful was anything other than English to the marrow of their bones. “Take a seat, and I’ll have tea brought. There’s much I have to tell you.”
Francesca’s delays frustrated her, which she suspected was just Francesca’s way of heightening anticipation. It took nearly fifteen minutes before Jean-Claude, Francesca’s gorgeously handsome, French butler, carried in, on an ornately engraved silver tray, a tea set, as well as an assortment of cakes and cookies.
“Thank you, Jean-Claude. I wish not to be disturbed.”
“Oui, Your Grace,” the butler said before exiting.
“That young man is
so handsome he could tempt a nun to sin,” Celeste said once the door had closed.
“Oui, my Jean-Claude is lovely to look at.” Francesca’s lips curled upward at the corners. She wound tendrils of platinum-blonde hair around her forefinger at her temple. “But he is no more lovely than my Russian servant, Josef, or my Swedish servant, Sven.”
“You like surrounding yourself with beautiful men.” Celeste shrugged her shoulders and sighed softly. “You’ve arranged your life to have so much pleasure. I envy you, my dear friend. I truly do.” She leaned forward in her chair and, though it was entirely unnecessary to keep her voice low, whispered, “Do you have just the three, or are more hiding in the wine cellar or behind the curtains?”
Francesca smiled indulgently and explained in a rather professorial tone, “No woman needs more than three men, or more than one woman. Anything more is self-indulgent vanity.” She made a face. “And greedy.”
Celeste’s eyes widened. “Women, too, Francesca? You hadn’t told me. I thought you didn’t keep secrets from me, your dear, old friend.”
The duchess spooned honey into her tea. “Let us not use the word ‘old’ too often. And Collette is a new addition to my household staff. I don’t believe you’ve met her yet.” She looked straight into Celeste’s eyes. “There are times when I find myself intrigued with the gentleness of intimate feminine companionship.”
Celeste smiled and shook her head in admiration, only a little shocked to hear of her friend’s amorous expansion.
“But I did not call for you to discuss my servants.” Francesca’s tone had gone from playful to businesslike. “As you know, there is not much that happens of any consequence in London that I do not hear about rather quickly. There is a barrister in town with a reputation for doing whatever is necessary to win. A truly vicious man who likes to go for the jugular. His name is James Watkins, and he has just been retained by your father-in-law.”