by P. F. Kozak
Peter had never struck a woman in his life. But he found himself gripping the edge of the table to keep from backhanding her. “Nellie, I will rip this place apart with my bare hands if you don’t bring her to me this instant!”
“Peter Rennard, you will do no such thing!”
Pamela’s voice cut through him like a razor. There she stood in the doorway to Nellie’s boudoir, wearing one of Nellie’s red floral dressing gowns. “Pamela, put on your clothes. We are leaving.”
“No, Peter, we are not leaving.”
“Either you put on your clothes now, or I will carry you through the tavern dressed as you are.” The blood pounded in his temples as he walked over to her. “How will you have it, Pamela?”
“I am not leaving, Peter.” He took hold of Pamela’s arm and pulled her toward the door. She struggled, but could not free herself.
Nellie approached them, attempting to place herself between Pamela and Peter. Peter pushed her away, causing her to stumble backward. Nellie grabbed the back of a chair to keep from falling. Gathering herself, she addressed Peter directly, the sharp edge in her voice slicing through the air. “Peter! Let her go!”
Peter stopped just inside the door. Glaring at Nellie, he said with icy resolve, “I’m taking her home. She does not belong in this place.”
Pamela wrenched her arm free of Peter’s grip. Before he could grab her again, she went back inside the room and stood beside Nellie. Peter came after her. Again, Nellie shouted, “Peter! Do not force her to leave!”
Pamela calmly put her hand on Nellie’s arm. “It’s all right, Nellie. I will handle this.”
With poise and sinuous beauty, Pamela turned her back on Peter’s fury and quietly walked over to the settee. Sitting down, she patted the spot beside her. “Come, Peter, sit. We must talk.”
Peter stared at her in disbelief. To see her sitting there in Nellie’s dressing gown, so calm and confident, he would never guess they were on the verge of an ugly public display. “Pamela, what in the name of God almighty are you doing? Get dressed and we will leave.”
Pamela did not move, save for once again patting the settee cushion. “We are not leaving until you sit here and we talk.” Turning to Nellie, she added, “Nellie, I do believe Monsieur Rennard could use a brandy.”
“Certainly, ma chérie.” Nellie went to the cupboard and poured a healthy dollop of brandy into a glass. Handing it to Peter, she simply said, “Monsieur…”
Peter took the glass without thinking and sipped. Nellie smiled and nodded to Pamela. Once again, Pamela asked him to sit. This time, he did.
“Pamela, your recklessness in doing this is beyond anything you have ever done. I swear to God, you have lost whatever good sense you had. Please, let me take you home.”
Pamela put her hand on his leg. “Peter, if you will calm yourself and listen, perhaps you will understand why I am giving you this gift on your birthday.”
“You call this a gift? You truly have lost your wits!” He sipped his brandy as Pamela lightly stroked his leg. In spite of himself, he felt his organ start to thicken.
“Peter, you have been coming here for so many years. I want to know of your experience here, so I may bring it into our bed at Piccadilly, once we are married.”
“What I have done here, Pamela, is unsuitable for you.”
“Why do you say that, my darling Peter? We have done many things in the last year that most would think improper. I fancy what we do together.”
Peter glanced at Nellie, who stood off to the side. “This is a bawdyhouse, Pams. What goes on here can be crude and offensive, more distasteful than anything we have ever done. I do not want you exposed to those things.”
“Have you found pleasure in any of the things you do not want me to know?”
Again, Peter glanced at Nellie. “I do not know how to answer that, Pamela. The experiences men have in a bawdyhouse are not fit for the ears of genteel women.”
“Well, bugger me! Here I’m thinkin’ all the times you’ve fancied puttin’ your fingers in me cunt, you wouldn’t be callin’ me a lady no more!” Pamela took his glass of brandy and sipped it.
Trying not to smile at her insolence, Peter said sternly, “I did not offer you that glass.”
Throwing her leg over his, she added, “Then, guvner, won’t you be buyin’ a poor girl some gin?”
The dressing gown Pamela wore separated. Peter saw she had on a pair of cotton stockings held in place with black lacy garters. Most girls at Nellie’s wore these. He also saw the top of what looked to be a black corset with gold embroidery. He knew Pamela never wore a corset; she didn’t like them. He remembered Nellie had one of this design in her special collection. Putting his hand at the top of the stocking, he asked her, “What are you wearing underneath that gown?”
“Captain!” Pamela feigned indignation and wrapped the dressing gown tightly around herself. “That’s no question to be asking a lay-dee!”
As she had done so many times before, she did it again. Pamela made Peter laugh. He took his glass back and drank his brandy. “Nellie, could you give this ‘lay-dee’ some gin? She seems to be thirsty.”
Nellie poured some gin in a glass and brought it to Pamela. “Mon cher, do you like my new girl? She is special for you tonight.”
As Pamela tasted her gin, Peter slid his hand further up her leg. “It is difficult to know what I think of her. She won’t let me see.”
Nellie stepped into her role as madam easily, saying the words Peter had heard her say so many times before. “Ma chérie, monsieur wishes to see. Show him how lovely you are.”
Obediently, Pamela stood in front of Peter. “Yes, madame. As you wish.” Handing Peter her glass, Pamela slowly untied the dressing gown and opened it. What she revealed to Peter took his breath and made his already hard cock throb.
Pamela did indeed have Nellie’s corset on, and nothing else save for the stockings. The bottom of the corset curved into a peak just above her womanhood, the chestnut curls appearing to be an extension of the garment. Her breasts spilled over the top, the lace barely covering her nipples. The delicate gold embroidery traced the line of her bosom, drawing the eye to her voluptuousness.
Nellie took Pamela’s dressing gown off and tossed it over a chair. “Turn around, Pamela. Allow monsieur to see your backside, so full and soft.” As it did in the front, the corset curved to a peak just above Pamela’s bum cheeks. The laces, no doubt pulled tight by Nellie, strained across Pamela’s back.
Nellie caressed Pamela’s bottom. “She is quite beautiful, no?” Nellie startled Peter by giving Pamela’s arse a hard slap as she said, “Go now. Wait in the boudoir for Monsieur Rennard.” Pamela quickly disappeared into Nellie’s bedroom.
Nellie stood directly in front of Peter. Lifting the side of her skirt, she tucked the hem into the belt of her dress, as whores do when they are working. “Do you still want her to leave, Peter? She is doing this for you, so you will come to her for your needs and not to someone like me.”
Peter bolted back the rest of Pamela’s gin. “Nellie, never have I been as satisfied here as I am with her. This whole escapade is unnecessary and unconscionable. You were wrong to agree to it.”
“That, mon cher, is incorrect. You are wrong to refuse her gift. She is giving you a treasure and you are spitting on it.”
Pointing to the bedroom door, he asked, “If I go in there and fuck her in your bed, will that satisfy both of you?”
Nellie laughed, a sound that brought to mind the tinkling of a crystal chandelier. “Oh, monsieur, there is much more than a simple fuck waiting for you in there. Come, receive your birthday gift from your amour.”
The emotions swirling in Peter’s belly reminded him of how he felt after eating tainted fish. Nonetheless, he followed Nellie into her boudoir. At first, he did not see Pamela. Then, he heard her voice from inside the curtains of Nellie’s French canopy bed. “Monsieur, won’t you join me?”
He walked over and looked inside. It too
k him a moment to drink in the sight. There lay Pamela, surrounded by the implements of a maîtresse—a paddle, a cane, and an exotic French martinet he knew Nellie only brought out for special clients. There were also several sizes of ivory phalluses, a blindfold, and pieces of rope.
As he took it all in, he murmured, “My God.”
“Monsieur, I would ask that you take off your clothes now.” Turning to Nellie, he endured another shock. She had taken off her dress, and stood behind him. Like Pamela, she wore only a corset and stockings. She held a brown leather strap which he recognised. Over the years, he had paid her well to take that very strap to his backside.
“Peter, it’s time.” Pamela stood, and took off his coat. Offering no resistance, he allowed her to unbutton his waistcoat and shirt. Nellie finished the job of removing them. Looking to Nellie, Pamela asked, “Madame, should I remove his trousers or should you?”
“You shall, ma chérie. Remember, do not touch. Monsieur Rennard knows the rules. There will be no touching until I allow it.”
“Yes, madame.” Pamela knelt at Peter’s feet and took off his shoes and stockings. When she undid his trousers, he groaned. Pamela stopped.
“Ma petite, continue, s’il vous plait. It is only the beginning of his bittersweet pleasure.”
Pamela removed Peter’s trousers and pants, leaving him stark naked. His erect cock protruded painfully from his body. He knew Nellie would not allow him relief from his torment until she knew he could endure no more. He braced himself for exquisite torture, which he suspected would surpass anything he had ever known.
“Pamela, tie monsieur’s hands behind his back.”
“Yes, madame.” Pamela picked up a short length of rope from the bed. She wrapped the rope around his wrists and knotted it.
“Tightly, ma petite.” Nellie walked around in front of Peter and looked him in the eye. “But not so tight that his hands turn blue.”
When Pamela finished, she crawled back on the bed. “I am ready, madame.”
“Très bien. It is wise to tie his hands so he cannot touch. When he sees you in your pleasure, he will ache for his release.”
Nellie unexpectedly swung the strap. It cracked against Peter’s arse. He flinched and muttered, “You cunting bitch.”
“Pardon, monsieur. I did not hear you. Say it louder.” The leather again connected with his backside. He groaned. Glaring at her he hissed through clenched teeth, “You cunting bitch!”
“Merci beaucoup. Now, turn and face Pamela.” He could hardly fathom doing so. To be humiliated by a whore in full view of Pamela nearly drove him mad. Yet, something inside him yearned for more. With his arse still stinging, he turned to see Pamela on the bed, her legs spread wide.
As he watched, she picked up an ivory phallus of medium size, slightly smaller than his erect prick. Pamela asked permission to touch. “Madame, Monsieur Rennard likes to watch. May I please frig myself for his pleasure?”
“Of course you may, ma chérie, but only if you watch his cock while you do so. If you close your eyes, you will be punished.”
Pamela focused on Peter’s cock. After sliding the phallus over her clitoris to coat it with her moisture, she inserted it into her cunt. Peter watched, mesmerised by the sight of Pamela frigging herself. She sustained her focus well through the first few minutes, staring at his prick, which bobbed from his groin. He watched her face and noticed her eyelids start to flutter. “Pams, keep your eyes open!”
As soon as he said the words, Nellie strapped him. “You are not to help her! She will learn discipline here. These lessons will serve you both well in your marriage bed.”
With the phallus fully imbedded in her cunt, Pamela rasped out the question, “Madame, should I continue?”
“Oui!” Nellie barked the command and Pamela continued, keeping her eyes wide open. Her arousal increasing with every stroke, Peter could see Pamela struggling to sustain the momentum with her eyes open. Always, with her climax, she closed her eyes. He wanted to give her relief, but knew any attempts would only sustain the agony they must both endure.
Suddenly, Nellie barked, “Enough!” Pamela pulled the phallus out of her cunt with an audible pop. Her scent filled his nostrils as she laid the sticky tool on the bed. “You have done well, ma petite. Now, Monsieur Rennard, kneel beside your amour on the bed.”
Trying to keep his balance so as not to fall flat on the bed, Peter knelt beside Pamela. “Monsieur has seen all he shall see this night. Put on the blindfold, Pamela.” Pamela did as Nellie instructed. “Mademoiselle Kingston, you are now in charge. I give you Monsieur Rennard with my blessing and my heart.”
“Thank you, madame.” A few moments later, Peter heard the bedroom door close.
Peter felt Pamela move across the bed. He sensed a change in her demeanor, but could not see anything. He assumed Nellie had left them alone, and that he could now behave normally. “Pamela, what are you doing?”
“Hush, Peter. You do not have permission to speak.”
“Pamela…”
Before he could finish his question, the sharp stroke of a cane creased his flesh. “Peter, I said hush!” His cock threatened to explode with the realisation Pamela had delivered the stroke. “Lie on your belly.”
Peter hesitated. The only way he could lie on his belly was to fall face forward on the bed. The cane once again slashed his arse. In a voice he had never before heard Pamela use, she growled, “I said lie down! Do it!”
With the sensation of falling off a cliff, Peter fell forward and hit the bed with his chest, nearly knocking the wind out of himself. His cock bent painfully to the side. He shifted his weight to ease the pressure on his prick. Before he could gather his wits, he heard Pamela say, “I will give you a choice. What would you like, the paddle or the martinet?”
He knew what he wanted. Nellie only used the martinet on him for his birthday, saying the thrill of it should be savoured only once a year. He knew with certainty that was why she gave it to Pamela, allowing him the choice of receiving it at her hand. Turning his face in the direction of her voice, he answered Pamela as he would have Nellie. “Merci, mademoiselle, for allowing me to choose. The martinet, s’il vous plait.”
With the first stroke, he knew Nellie had taught Pamela well. The leather lashes bit into his rump just as they had in Nellie’s hand. Pamela brought the tails down again with equal force, not the least bit squeamish about flogging him. Her zeal for his punishment increased with each stroke. He heard her grunt softly with effort every time she lashed him. On the tenth stroke, she stopped.
Peter’s sensual delirium had fogged his mind. He thought he felt Pamela untying him. He knew it wasn’t his imagination when she said, “Monsieur Rennard, I am untying you, but you must not touch. Madame is very strict. If you touch, the game we are playing ends.”
Then, he felt Pamela pushing at his shoulder, trying to roll him over. He shifted his weight as she pushed and rolled onto his back. He clenched the bedcovers in his fists to keep from touching. He knew Nellie had instructed Pamela to obey the rules. If he touched himself or he touched her, she would leave.
When he felt Pamela straddle him, he begged her, “Sweet Jesus, allow me to spend.”
He gritted his teeth as she covered his organ with a sheath. Her hands on him made him ache beyond endurance. The exquisite sensation of feeling her wet cunt swallow his cock brought him close to tears. He could not contain the joy at finally receiving his reward. “Merciful God in heaven, yes. Merci, mademoiselle.”
Pamela pulled his blindfold off. She lowered the corset, fully exposing her breasts. Her nipples hung ripe and hard close to his face as she bounced on his prick. Her face contorted as her climax grew in her belly. With utter abandon, she rode his cock, crying out, “Je t’aime,” as she pressed down hard on his organ. Her body shook, the power of it moving into his groin.
As the scalding heat of his climax moved into her, he echoed her cry. “Je t’aime, mon amour. Je t’adore.”
Chapte
r Eighteen
Pamela studied the volumes of paper on Peter’s desk as she worked to close the ledgers for the year. She had been poring over the books for a month now, since the day after Epiphany. Peter usually did it, working on her accounts along with his own during the evenings. This year, he agreed to let her give it a go.
Not only did she want to learn how to manage her holdings, but she also wanted time with Peter at night. She volunteered to review the ledgers and balance them during the day. Much to her surprise, he turned the project over to her. He would answer her questions, but did not interfere with her labours.
His attitude toward her had changed since his birthday. The bond between them had deepened. Not only had their intimacies intensified, but their conversations and their closeness had as well. Over dinner, he would discuss points of law. If something were troubling him from his day, he would ask her advice. Having discovered her reading his legal journals one day, he inquired about her interest. When he realised she harboured a secret desire to study law, he tutored her.
The February wind rattled the library window. Feeling a draught, she wrapped a shawl around her shoulders. The fire had burned low and the library had chilled. It would be the dinner hour soon, but she still got up to throw another log on the fire. Jack had left some time ago to fetch Peter. They should be home soon.
Pamela turned up the gas in the lamp, her eyes not wanting to focus on the small figures in the ledger. As she studied the transactions for November, she heard Peter calling to her.
“Pamela, where the devil are you? Pamela!”
Knowing Peter never shouted in the house, she ran out of the library to find him standing at the bottom of the staircase. “What on earth are you on about? Is something wrong?”
“There you are! Bloody hell, I thought you were dressing for dinner.” Jack stood just inside the door, not able to contain his smile.
“You’re both grinning like Cheshire cats.”
May and Lucy appeared in the dining room door. “What is all the commotion? Did someone die?”