by Eden Myles
Soon enough, Dorian and Damian appeared to collect me. I knew it was time. I felt the first flutter of nervousness. I gulped the bubbly water we were drinking at the wet bar and said, “Oh god. What if I’m awful, Felix?”
She smiled. “You can’t be awful if you’re yourself.”
Dorian came to me and attached a leash to my choker. He walked me into the great room where a vast canopied bed was set up for my debut as the Michaels’ courtesan. We ascended the dais until we were standing beside the bed. Damian disrobed me and looked me over, the desire obvious in his simmering blue eyes. I looked at him, and at Dorian, not at the gentleman and courtesans and courtiers gathering around the dais to watch us. I knew if I looked at our audience, I’d probably lose my nerve.
“Tonight we play a game,” Dorian announced in a deep and very masculine voice, and I nodded obediently. He’d informed me we would be playing a game, as he called it, though the exact nature of it remained a mystery to me.
Dorian explained the rules to both me and our audience. His game was simple: my gentlemen would leash me naked in a kneeling position in the center of the bed, my hands cuffed behind my back. Both brothers intended to touch me, to do things to me, and I was expected to guess which one of them was doing it.
“Let’s see how well you know us, Belle. If you guess correctly, you’ll get a reward,” Dorian said, sitting on the edge of the bed beside me once I was cuffed and collared and in position. He narrowed his eyes in a sexy way. “But if you guess wrong, we punish you.”
I gave him a saucy smile. “How do you intend to punish me, sir?”
He produced what I knew from talk among some of my wilder friends at college to be butterfly clamps. They looked like devices of pure metal torture and I sucked in a breath at the sight. “What color are you, Belle?” Dorian asked.
My courage failed me and I said, “Y-yellow, sir.”
“Bro, you’re frightening her,” Damian complained.
“She’s not afraid,” Dorian said. Of the two brothers, it was Dorian who perhaps knew me best. “Are you, Belle?”
I shook my head. “Not anymore. I want to play with both of you. Just slow, please.”
Dorian snagged my left nipple between his thumb and forefinger. He watched my eyes as he rolled it, then stretched it out. I hissed breath between my teeth. He held it a long moment before attached the clamp. The pinch of the metal was both painful and thrilling. I arched my back at the sensation and a warmth flooded my loins.
“Belle…”
“Green,” I said between gritted teeth.
Dorian attached the second clamp, then gave the chain between the two nipple clamps a quick, harsh yank, which tended my breasts and immediately brought me. A tiny orgasm rippled through my lower belly and the warmth of my come spread down my thighs for all to see. Dorian touched me there, his fingers squicking in all the wetness, then unhooded my clit and teased my little bud to full attention. It didn’t take much; my body was already wired for pleasure.
He produced a third butterfly clamp, just one on a longer chain. I knew what was coming, and the anticipation seemed to heighten the experience. He attached the third clamp to my clit and my entire body spasmed with a shocking commingling of pleasure and pain. I would have fallen back onto the bed had Damian not chosen that moment to support me against the wall of his body.
“Belle?” he said with concern when I whimpered, but Dorian hushed him.
“She’s stronger than you think,” he said as he attached the long clit chain to the existing chain between the nipple clamps. He gave the whole contraption a light tug, tenting my nipples and jerking my clit, and the shock of painful pleasure drew me toward him. He held the chain tight while his other hand clamped over the side of my face. He kissed my lips hungrily and said, “Christ, you’re sexy like this. What color are you, Belle?”
“Green.”
“Do you want to continue?”
“Yes.”
He produced a black silk blindfold and tied it tight around my eyes. The brothers began circling the bed, and then the play began in earnest.
One of the brothers leaned down to lick along my ribs all the way up to my tormented tit. He encircled the clamped bud and sucked and I hissed breath between my teeth.
I said, “Dorian.”
That earned me a tug on the chains.
“Damian,” I corrected myself, frustrated by such an elemental mistake. Damian had a tongue piercing he’d put in before we left. Why had I not noticed the little stud of metal clanking against the metal clip?
A long, strong hand brushed my hair back away from my ear and a brother took my earring in his teeth. He bit gently at my lobe and sucked, and I said, “Damian.”
Another sharp tug.
“Dorian!”
Argh, I hated that I was making such stupid mistakes! Concentrate, Belle, I told myself. Concentrate.
An elegant, learned hand squeezed one of my nipples before graduating downward and gliding over my wet, exposed sex. Two fingers parted the swollen folds of my labia and hooked inward, sliding along my slick canal.
“Dorian,” I breathed out, and he leaned down and kissed my lips.
“Good girl.” He produced a heavy necklace of what felt like a thousand diamonds and affixed the necklace around my neck. I knew I would love the necklace when I finally saw it, but the truth was, I wanted to come more.
“Make me come, sir.”
“Not yet.” His voice drifted away and there was several seconds of silence.
Then one of the brothers leaned down and bit the back of my neck, hard. I cried out and nearly came with the sensation, but somehow I kept my wits about me. I’d felt the piercing this time. “Damian!”
He breathed hotly in my ear. “And just for that, we’ll be visiting Venice for a two-week romantic getaway. Would you like that, Belle?”
“Oh yes,” I told him.
A hand glided down my back and pushed me forward onto hands and knees. A pair of hands parted my buttocks and applied a cool lubricant to my asshole. “Damian.”
A hard yank made me cry out. “Dorian!”
He pressed first one, then two fingers inside me, deep. I arched my back at the invasion. I expected it to be painful—I had never been penetrated there before—but instead it was just plain maddening. I shifted backward, seeing his touch, an orgasm, but the fingers withdrew. I thought I would go mad with need.
“Take her,” Dorian said to his brother, his voice hard as steel.
Damian pulled me atop him, his cock hard against my belly. I groaned at the wet, hard feel of it rubbing against my opening. He undulated his hips, making me cry out with frustration, then lifted me slightly and let me plunge down upon him. He fit perfectly inside me and I immediately started moving upon him, but Dorian had other plans. He grabbed my hips and I felt the hardness of his cock exploring my slick hole. He brushed against it over and over until I thought I would scream before heaving upward and filling me there as well.
I cried out as I was impaled twice over. Then both brothers began to move, but not in the same direction, and the unique feel of rocking back and forth upon their cocks teased me ever higher into a state of delirious bliss.
Damian ripped my blindfold away and I looked down into his dear face. He’d torn away his evening shirt and now I spread my hands over his beautifully tattooed chest. Both my lovers worked my body, thrusting and grunting, Damian upward, into me, and Dorian in and out, the hard muscles of his bare lower belly pressed to my spine, his quick, labored breath in my hair. I leaned back to see him, and he slid his hands possessively over my breasts, caught my lips in a biting kiss. I jerked like a puppet on strings for them…for them both…all for them.
Damian reached up and grabbed the chains, pulling gently upon them, while Dorian reached around me and unhooded my clit, encircling it with his thumb as he continued to thrust ever deeper inside me. The two brothers played with me until I threw back my head and screamed my release, and my climax brou
ght them both, almost at the same moment, in tandem, so I was flooded with their seed and they filled every part of me…my body and my heart.
“We love you…” Damian began.
“…our brave little beauty,” Dorian finished.
***
About the Author
Eden Myles lives in the rural northeast with her family and two demanding cats. She is a vixen with a laptop and the head whip-cracker at Courtesan Press. To see all of her titles, visit http://courtesanpress.wordpress.com.
***
Read an excerpt from Felix (The Dollhouse Society) by Eden Myles:
FELIX
by Eden Myles
I stood on the fringes of the crowd and watched the gentleman secure his courtesan to the post of the bed. She was naked excerpt for a feathered owl mask and he was securing her wrists to the bedpost with a number of long, colorful silk scarves, stopping periodically to run the pads of his fingers up and down her thighs and whisper intimately in her ear. She moaned and rolled her head back, and he nested one hand into her long, bright red hair and yanked her head back until the pain made her gasp and her eyes fluttered with pure, unadulterated lust.
He kissed the back of her neck, moved to the chair where a long, rattan cane waited. He snatched it up and returned to her side, rubbing the hard wood against her back and ass until she moaned again. She closed her eyes and hugged the bedpost. She knew what was coming.
The first crack of the cane against her bare ass made me jump almost out of my skin, it was so loud and unexpected. Jesus, Joseph and Mary…
I was surrounded by more than a hundred well-dressed strangers, all of them focused on the gentleman and his courtesan’s play, and almost everyone in the room wore masks, myself included. Even so, I was finding it very difficult to “hide in plain sight,” as it were. I knew the other gentlemen and courtesans and courtiers gathered around me thought I was with someone—I kept shuffling up beside various men in a kind of incognito dance of invisibility, and I was sure no one had caught on—but I kept thinking someone was looking at me, maybe noting that my “gentleman” seemed to keep changing over the course of the evening. Maybe they noticed, or maybe I was just feeling paranoid.
I had never been undercover before.
Normally, I was good at disappearing in a crowded room—mask or no mask. The baby fat stubbornly clinging to my curves made me look younger than twenty-two, and with my plain brown bob of hair, grey eyes, and freckled, girl-next-door looks, I could usually pull off looking like everyone and no one. It was inevitable I should go into journalism and do this undercover gig. It was either that or the FBI, I figured.
Thwack!
I jumped again and watched the beautiful, elegant courtesan writhe and gasp against the bedpost. She was gorgeous, glamorous in a way I could never pull off, and she seemed to be enjoying herself. But I had no idea why men and women would want to subject themselves to this type of public humiliation.
I felt someone large moved up behind me and I grounded myself and fiddled with my black feathered ostrich mask as the gentleman performing for the crowd landed yet another expertly-delivered blow against his courtesan’s pert ass, a little bit below the first blow. I swore I could feel the vibration of the caning in my own flesh, and there was a slickness of the folds between my legs that made me uncomfortable. The whole great room at the center of the Dollhouse smelled like sex and roses. The hundreds of portraits and erotic photographs covering the walls seem to look down upon the play with enormous approval.
The man standing behind me made a sound halfway between a snort and a harrumph. I suddenly thought of that old Sesame Street song: One of these things is not like the others. Could he sense I was one of those things? That I didn’t belong here?
It’s just your imagination, Felix, I told myself. Relax. The more relaxed, worldly and faintly bored you act, the better you’ll fit into this group!
But it was hard to relax in this atmosphere. You would have thought I was behind enemy lines, like Walter Cronkite covering the Vietnam War. As a journalist—well, okay, a journalist-in-training—I wasn’t anyone’s courtesan and I sure as hell didn’t belong here tonight, watching this gentleman and his courtesan play.
The assignment in my journalist class said we were to write an impartial article on a controversial subject we had no previous knowledge about. We were to research it extensively from the ground up and that it would decide our grade. The other students had chosen subjects like cloning animals, abortion, stem cell research, and gay marriage. I, being the overachiever I was, wanted something more esoteric.
I’d heard rumors about the Society all over the college where I was studying journalism. At first, I’d thought it was one of those urban legends, like losing a kidney after getting a roofie, but since I was studying to be the type of crack reporter who eventually won the Pulitzer, I knew I had to learn more. I started digging.
At first, everything I found came up dry bones. Rumors, vague whispers, some ancient documents in the school vaults written during the Colonial Period. None of it concrete. But eventually it led me to some journals kept by the city elders around the early part of the Seventeenth Century, when New York City was little more than a collection of ambitious Dutch, Irish and English immigrants. Eventually I found a solid lead in the form of a man named Tiberius Sloan, a British importer and ex-soldier who’d taken to writing extensively about his and his wife’s travels around the world. He had included very detailed information on “the Society,” as he called it, an exclusive collection of powerful New York businessmen who kept “courtesans,” or paid companions.
Naturally, I was intrigued. An ancient sex trade taking place in Colonial New York, right under the noses of its citizens? You bet I would be.
A few more trips to various libraries and some visits to underground clubs proved useful. The Society was still around, I discovered, nearly four hundred years after it had been established, and there were still regular monthly meetings at this old, secluded colonial on Long Island. The hard part would be getting inside, getting the exclusive. But if journalism teaches you anything, it’s how to work the angles.
Tonight I’d gotten in dressed as a server before quickly ditching my costume for the borrowed evening gown I’d brought along. Everyone was wearing masks—even the courtesan presently bound to the bedpost—so that made things even easier. I could be anyone’s courtesan. I just needed to act the part and stop fidgeting and being so nervous.
Yeah, right.
“Are you enjoying the show?” A soft, course male voice said low in my ear. The way he said it made it clear the words for my ears alone, and the sound sent a flush of gooseflesh crawling down my back.
I stood stock still and said, “It’s very…interesting.”
“What do you find interesting about it?”
The man was standing very close, almost on my heels. His was big, and his presence made my nerves jangle. His voice had a strange, alternating inflection, the clipped briskness of an English accent with something else underneath, something foreign and exotic. I thought about moving away, but I was already on the group’s fringe. If I moved forward, I would be deeper in the crowd. If I moved back, I would literally be stepping into his arms. I took a deep breath to calm my flitting heart and half-panicked thoughts and stayed where I was. “They’re very pretty together,” I said lamely.
The man behind me put his big hands on my shoulders. The scent of his cologne—light, breezy, foreign, incredibly masculine—enveloped me. I could literally feel the adrenals picking up in my blood. He put his mouth very close to my ear, so close I could almost sense the roughness of his chin, and said, “I should put you over my knee and spank you for what you’ve done, my dear. You don’t belong here.”
My heart seemed to stick in my chest. Speaking was impossible. Moving was a fantasy. I shivered instead, and he responded to that and tightened his grip on my shoulders as if afraid I might bound away like a frightened rabbit.
“Giv
e me one good reason why I should not alert everyone here as to who you are?”
I realized I had one of two choices—I could scream bloody murder and alert everyone that I was an unwanted guest, or I could try and negotiate with the brute standing behind me, ready to unmask me, figuratively speaking, for the pleasure of the Society. After I got my panic swallowed down to a manageable level, I whispered in a shaky voice, “What…what do you want with me?”
“Come with me,” he said. His big hand enveloped my elbow, his grip powerful enough to make me wince and prove he meant business as he turned me around. A part of me wanted to resist, to fight him, but I had this fantasy of being dragged, kicking and screaming, away. I wasn’t sure I could deal with the humiliation of that anymore than I could deal with the idea of being tied up and caned in public for the delight of some of the most powerful men in New York.
The gentleman dragged me toward one of the playrooms. As I looked up to see what breed of man had captured me, I wondered if screaming wouldn’t have perhaps been the smarter thing to do.
***
Read an excerpt from Blood & Lace (Blackstone Hall #1) by Eden Myles:
BLOOD & LACE
by Eden Myles
Chapter I
As we passed a dense forest of fine, old oaks on our way to Blackstone Hall, I leaned out the window of our coach and noticed that many of the trees were tall and proud, with strong limbs, good for climbing.
My father, seated on the cushioned bench beside me, said, “Marie. You mustn’t.”
“Mustn’t what, Father?” I asked innocently, biting back a grin. I didn’t turn to look at him, lest he see my secret smile.
“Climb trees or do anything which might be construed as unladylike.” He took my hand and squeezed. “You’re almost twenty years old, girl. I’m counting on you to be on your best court behavior.”
“Yes, Father.”
The coach jostled along the uneven road, throwing us back against the braces, but my father’s coach was so luxurious that the padded velvet seats made the ride—almost seven hours thus far—more than bearable.