by P. F. Kozak
Peter smiled warmly. “Thank you, Jack. You are a good man, to be sure. When we return, we will discuss your position in the house.”
“Yes, sir!” The bright-eyed Jack grabbed the bags and disappeared around the carriage.
“May I get out now?”
“Quite so! Come, my bride. Our wedding night awaits us.”
Pamela took Peter’s hand as she carefully stepped from the carriage. When she turned to look behind her, her laughter rang through the street. “You bleeding devil, you can’t be serious!”
“Oh yes, Pamela, I am quite serious. Welcome to your wedding night.” Pamela stared at the sign over the door, the sign Sir George had made nearly ten years before. It still clearly read NELLIE’S.
When she turned back to Peter, she saw him studying her reaction. “I asked Nellie to hire a room, but she has generously offered us her quarters for our wedding night. It is her gift to us.”
“Will we be alone?”
“Quite assuredly! It is our wedding night!”
“Well, then, shall we go in the front door or the back door?”
With obvious relief that Pamela had accepted his unusual wedding gift, Peter smiled and took her arm. “We will use the back door. Jack should have already alerted Nellie we have arrived.”
They met Jack at the back door. “Miss Nellie says to go on up to the room. You know the way. She also says to help yourselves to the food and liquor. It is there for you. Oh, yeah, and don’t worry. You won’t be disturbed.”
“Thank you, Jack. We will meet you back here at seven o’clock tomorrow morning, to go to the steamer.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll know the proper streets to take tomorrow, since I’m taking your boxes to the dock straightaway.”
“Good man.”
“Thank you, sir.” Smiling broadly, he tipped his hat and winked. “Have a good one, now.” Pamela heard him whistling the tune Peter often whistled as he left them for the carriage.
“Shall we?”
Pamela went in first, with Peter right behind her. Once her eyes adjusted to the dim light of the back hall, she saw the familiar staircase ahead. Peter came up behind her and whispered into her ear. “Do you smell it?”
Pamela sniffed. “Smell what? I don’t smell anything.”
Peter salaciously rubbed her breast. “Oh, yes, Pamela, there is a scent to this place. It is the delicious musk of a heated woman. No matter how often I’ve been here, it always affects me.” Peter pressed his groin into Pamela’s bum. His hardened prick poked her.
“My scent will soon add to the bouquet, don’t you think?”
Peter sniffed her neck. “I think it already has.”
When they entered Nellie’s sitting room, Pamela found herself surrounded by even more roses. “I don’t suppose you had anything to do with this, Peter Rennard?”
“I arranged this with Nellie. I told her what I wanted and she did the rest.”
Pamela turned and embraced Peter. “What else did you arrange with Nellie? Is that what she whispered to you before she left Piccadilly today?”
Peter kissed the tip of Pamela’s nose. “She told me our wedding bed had been prepared.”
Pamela glanced at the closed bedroom door. “I must change into my nightdress. Shall I change here?”
“By all means.”
“Since Lucy isn’t here, you will have to help me with my dress.”
As Peter undid the buttons on the back of Pamela’s dress, he chided her. “You know, of course, that it is proper for a young bride to bring a female companion along on the honeymoon. Perhaps I should have also booked passage for Lucy!”
“Oh, no, Master Rennard. I expect you to see to all my needs during our holiday.”
“Is that a fact, Mistress Rennard!” He lowered her dress and kissed her shoulder. “And what are the needs you expect to have?”
Pamela stepped away. Turning to face him, she slowly lowered her dress to her waist. Pushing it below her hips, she took it off. “The first thing you can do is unlace this corset.”
Just as Pamela’s laughter had bubbled into the street, Peter’s filled the room. “Well, well! It seems Nellie Flambeau has had her hand in my wife’s trousseau!”
Wearing nothing more than the corset, her knickers and stockings, Pamela sashayed up to Peter and put her arms around his neck. Pressing her pelvis into his, she felt his thickened prick. “You like, Monsieur Rennard?”
“Oh, yes, Madame Rennard, beaucoup!”
Pamela turned around. “Unlace, s’il vous plait.”
Peter untied the bow just above Pamela’s bum, the one Lucy had so carefully tied that morning. He pulled the crosses loose and the tight garment slackened. Pamela caught it as it slid, and held it to her chest. Turning again to face Peter, she smiled seductively. “Now, my husband, you must allow me a few moments alone to put on my wedding night gown.” She pointed to their bags sitting on the floor beside the settee.
Saying nothing, Peter went to Nellie’s liquor cupboard and poured himself a brandy. Pamela stood in the middle of the room, holding the corset so it wouldn’t fall off. She allowed it to slide a bit more, exposing most of her breasts. Only her nipples remained covered. Peter turned around, his own glass in hand. “Would you care for something, Pamela?”
He sipped his brandy, his eyes moving over her body like an extension of his hands. “I would fancy some of Nellie’s gin.” As she spoke, Pamela deliberately glanced at the bulge in Peter’s trousers and licked her lips.
Peter chuckled as he poured her gin. “Pamela, today I married my inamorata. You are the only consort I will ever want or need.” He handed her the glass. “A toast before I bid you adieu.” He raised his glass and recited from The Pearl. “‘The first four letters of the alphabet—A Big Cunt Daily.’”
Without a moment’s hesitation, Pamela replied, “‘In with it, and out with it, and God work His will with it!’” They both drank. Peter took his bag and set about putting on his own dressing gown in Nellie’s boudoir.
Pamela quickly removed every stitch of clothing. She took her salacious gown from her bag and slipped it on. The material clung to her as did the coat of a sleek black cat she had seen outside the house at Piccadilly.
She took her hair down. It fell around her shoulders onto her bare skin, reminding her that the gown had no back. Glancing in the mirror hanging on the wall, she made sure she had properly framed the deep line between her breasts before joining Peter in their wedding boudoir.
When she came into the room, Peter turned around. He froze, as though rooted to the floor. Pamela watched his eyes as they explored her body. His lips barely moved as he breathed the words, “My God!”
Her heart thumped in her chest as Peter circled around and stood behind her. She knew he would be looking at her bare back framed in the gown. Giving him time to take in the sight of her, she did not move.
When she felt his finger tracing a line down the middle of her back to where the gown curved at her bum, she shivered. Lowering a strap down her arm, he kissed her shoulder. Leaning in close to her ear, he whispered, “Pamela, how did you come by this? I have never in my life seen anything like it.”
“It is from Paris. For our wedding night, I wanted something wicked.”
“Oh, my dear, it is surely that! You must know what it is doing to me.”
“Monsieur Rennard, that is exactly the point!”
“I also ordered something from France. It is a special wedding gift for you.” He went to his bag, took out a small box and gave it to Pamela. “We will keep it by our bed, as I am sure we will be using it often.”
Inside the box, Pamela found an exquisite martinet. The polished wooden handle had been carved in the shape of a phallus. The heavily oiled black leather lashes hung ominously from the other end. Pamela caressed it, her excitement building in anticipation. “Who will be first, Peter? What is your choice?”
Peter took the martinet from her hand. “My dear wife, I told you on this night, you wi
ll surely follow my instruction. My choice is to show you what happens to wicked wives who tempt their husbands with wanton actions.”
Pamela’s entire body throbbed. The heat in her belly threatened to melt her from the inside out. “My lord, what would you have me do?”
“Take off my dressing gown, s’il vous plait.”
Pamela untied the sash on his robe and opened it. She had seen Peter’s cock innumerable times since they had become lovers, but never had she seen him so thick. She reached down to touch him.
Peter growled, “You will not touch! This time, Pamela, I am the master. You will do as I say, nothing more, nothing less. Do you understand?”
Pamela knew the rules. “Yes, monsieur, I understand.”
“Lower the top of your gown.”
Pamela slipped her arms out of the straps and lowered the gown to her waist. Peter lightly brushed the leather lashes across her chest. “Pamela, do you think you deserve to be punished for wearing such a sinful gown on our wedding night?”
With her eyes downcast, Pamela glanced at Peter’s cock. It twitched as she replied, “Yes, my lord. I should be punished.”
“And what do you think your punishment should be?” Again he trailed the lashes over her bare breasts.
“My lord, you are the one to decide, not I.”
“Remove that lewd piece of clothing, Pamela.” As Pamela slipped the gown down her hips and off, Peter moved an armchair directly in front of a full-length looking glass beside Nellie’s canopy bed. “Bend over this chair, Pamela.”
Pamela did as he told her. “You are aware of the rules, are you not?”
“Yes, my lord, I am.”
“You will keep your eyes open and watch yourself in the looking glass. If I see you have closed your eyes, our marriage will not be consummated on this night. Do you understand?”
In this place, this brothel, the rules never varied. A single moment of disobedience or of weakness ended the liaison. It did not matter it was their wedding night. The rules would not be broken. If Pamela hoped to feel Peter’s glorious prick in her cunt on their wedding night, she must be strong. “My lord, I understand.”
Pamela fixed her eyes on the looking glass. She saw her reflection, her chest flushed scarlet, her voluptuous breasts swaying with each breath. The image of herself in the throes of passion inflamed her even more. When the first swing of the martinet connected with her flesh, she dug her fingers into the chair. More than anything, she wanted to close her eyes. Peter knew it to be her reflexive reaction. Her eyes teared with the effort to stare at herself.
Peter’s voice jarred her concentration. “Pamela, are you prepared to share my bed every night and open your legs to me as my wife?” Again the lashes bit into her bum.
With her eyes open wide, she shifted her focus and looked at Peter’s reflection in the looking glass. “Yes, my lord. My body is yours for the asking.”
He lashed her again. “That is as it should be.” Pamela saw the lust burning in him as it did in her. She knew it would be soon.
“Are you prepared to consummate our marriage and allow my seed inside your belly?”
This time, the sting hit lower, as the leather creased her thighs. Still watching Peter in the looking glass, she answered, “I want your seed inside my belly. I want to conceive our first child!”
His voice hoarse with need, Peter growled, “Spread your legs wide.”
Pamela leaned further over the chair and opened her legs. No sooner had she done so than the lashes curled between her legs. She moaned loudly, but did not close her eyes. Again, heat seared the tender flesh between her legs as the lashes cut into her. She pushed her hips backward and pleaded, “My lord, I will die without your cock inside. Please!”
Pamela saw herself bent over the chair, her body consumed with lust and need. Peter stood behind her, also looking at her reflection. In the looking glass, she saw him turn the martinet around. Even as she screamed, “My God, Peter! I want you, not that!” he rammed the handle of the martinet into her.
Her body clenched the intruding object tightly, as everything in her wanted to be fucked. As though possessed by a demon, Peter frigged her with the wooden handle, all the while watching her in the looking glass. Pamela saw a frenzy come over him as he pushed her closer to the edge.
With a ferocity she had never before witnessed in him, he pulled the handle out of her and threw the martinet across the room. When his scalding cock filled her cunt, she knew the game had ended, and she had won.
Don’t miss this scorching scene from NIGHT SPELL by Lucinda Betts, available now from Aphrodisia…
Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath.
A deep melodic voice interrupted my meditation. “Good,” he said, the tone slow, rich, seductive. Otherworldly. “You indicate some ability to control yourself. You show promise.”
I tried to scream, but the sound refused to budge from my lungs. I fought the paralysis. And lost. I just…couldn’t scream. Panic pounded through my veins.
“The Sultan will be extremely pleased with your control,” he said.
I tried again. My lungs worked! This time I did scream. So much for control. I screamed for help. I screamed for mercy. I screamed obscenities that weren’t nearly as creative as I might have hoped given the situation. Finally, I screamed to a God I wasn’t sure existed.
The result of my screaming didn’t make me any more religious. No golden chariots appeared at my rescue. No sword-bearing angels came to avenge me. Instead, the implacable voice of the man standing in the doorway responded in an almost gentle fashion.
“Now is the time for screaming—and lack of control,” he said. “Scream all you like—today. No one can hear you except for me. Mariah is deaf, and if she could hear, she would not help you.” His sensual voice had a husky, mocking quality that sent a shiver down my spine.
Unearthly. Elegant. Did Pierce Brosnan have a younger brother with a habit of kidnapping women? My captor seemed vaguely familiar, like I’d met him in a dream. A feathered memory tickled the back of my mind. There was something…
My captor approached me, almost floating in his gracefulness, and he moved to touch my head. Panic swelled, filling me with an overpowering desire to escape this tent. Now. Regardless of the guy’s looks, I hadn’t signed up for this, and nothing about the situation in which I found myself was consensual.
I pulled away from him wanting all of my strength, but as if in a dream, I was as weak as a child. In slow motion, I tugged my wrists, feeling like I struggled through a sea of molasses. I was so slow, so weak. What was wrong with me?
The drugs…it must be the drugs, whatever he’d use steal me from the Morgan Hotel. Telazol? Ketamine? I could barely move, despite my will to run. My bonds held.
I shouted again, but it didn’t sound like my voice. Kathleen Battle’s voice fell from my lips, singing a passionate scene of anger and rage. Birds took wing from the branches above my tent.
“I would recommend that you cease shouting by nightfall. Why let the lions and hyenas know where you are?” His calm tone ridiculed me.
He touched my head again, despite my noisy writhings. His hand unnerved me, burning into my skin even through my hair.
He paused at the tent’s flap and said, looking me in the eyes, “Mariah will be here shortly to see to your needs. When you calm yourself enough to think of escape, be aware that you are several hundred kilometers from the nearest town, and the people of that town do not speak English.”
I’d been screaming and struggling through his brief soliloquy, and I was nearly frozen in panic. My mind absorbed only a few words: “lions,” “several hundred kilometers,” “no English.” I’d also heard the word, “escape.” Until then, I hadn’t accepted that my situation warranted escape.
Terror rose through my throat.
All parts of my brain agreed upon the next course of action—I cried. I cried until I fell asleep.
But even as sobs ripped themselves from my chest and sle
pt crept up on me, I realized that a man as good-looking as my captor would not need to kidnap anyone, not for himself anyway.
With a few kind words, he’d have the attention of most women I knew. Maybe even me. Images of his dark hair coupled with fair skin, aqua-blue eyes and sharp features danced across my imagination. His easy competence was the sort that generated trust in people.
When he wasn’t kidnapping women.
I slid into consciousness again. My mind fought to find the Morgan, but the old woman made it impossible. She silently sponged warm, fragrant water over me. Was the fragrance lavender?
I struggled violently to sit, yanking on my ties. My wrists and ankles burned under the cords, and my feet longed to run.
But the old woman held up a hand. Like magic, I stopped. Panic drained away, leaving dreamy lethargy in its place.
I stared at her a minute, wondering at the power in her hand. She looked like drawings of Baba Yaga from the fairy tales I’d read as a child, wizened and brown. Wrinkled raisin eyes peered from her sunken face.
I still felt fuzzy headed, like if I tried hard enough I could detach myself from my body and view myself from above. I thought I’d woken in a bed, but now I found myself tied to a chair, hard and unyielding.
Heat permeated the air and the mat-covered ground beneath my feet. The intense heat didn’t feel like New York, and the dust didn’t smell like Manhattan. My captor mentioned lions. Hadn’t he?
Lions. I rolled the word around my consciousness. Lions.
Like leaves across a late summer pond, the word floated through my mind.
Where did lions live? My mind’s eye played pictures of big cats roiling over some dusty land.
But a country’s name wasn’t coming with the picture of the landscape. Someplace in Africa. They were gone in India, weren’t they?
I’d watched enough nature shows to know the answer to this question. Rest would bring the answer.
Closing my eyes, I let the old woman do her job. Cool, fragrant water trickled over my brow. Her strong hands massaged warm oil into my calves, into my arms.