by Sarah Steel
Her boldness grew brazen. Descended from a distinguished line of adventurers, Lady Maycott stiffened her resolve. Her people fought under the Lionheart, battled alongside Wellington and covered themselves with glory in the Sudan. A mere farrier was not even a skirmish; he was merely a brute conquest on a cold November afternoon.
She swished the crop out across his leather apron, punishing the bulge of his cock, and her nipples thickened when his erection pressed against the hide as though rising to salute her. The silence in the forge was becoming as overwhelming as the heat. She spoke again, spelling out her crude desires. She spoke not of love but of lust, a stern note entering her voice. He remained impassive, goading her into speaking even more plainly and crudely. She used terms she had heard the farmhands utter when coupling the beasts in the fields. The farrier did not even blink, and losing her patience entirely, she raked the tip of the crop up across his belly and chest to his chin.
To her speechless amazement and confusion, he snatched the crop from her and lashed her breasts with it twice. She screamed softly and clutched her whipped bosom, cupping and cradling its punished flesh.
Tossing the crop down he embraced her roughly, his mouth forcing itself down over hers, and she quivered beneath the dominance of his fierce tongue. His hands gripped her savagely, one clutching her left buttock while the other mauled her whipped right breast. His lips smothered her scream. She pounded her clenched fists onto his slick chest, struggling to escape. It was not supposed to be like this, brutal and sudden. She had come to tease and tantalise, to tame and control, to pleasure herself by punishing him, to use her crop on him and caress his whipped buttocks with her pussy. She had come for conquest, but the brute was mastering her, forcing her facedown into the filthy straw.
She shrieked, kicking and biting. The reek of his sweat and his leather apron flooded her brain. The knout of his fierce shaft nuzzled her cunny as it dug into the taut stretch of her whipcord. Then she was lying in the dirty straw, her riding jacket and blouse ripped away to expose her pale flesh.
He straddled her, trapping her between his powerful, pinioning thighs. She squirmed as she felt his hot breath at the nape of her neck. He buried his face in her tousled golden locks, snuffing up her delicate lavender perfume before kissing, licking, and then biting her soft shoulders. And all the time his rough hands were peeling down her jodhpurs, a heartbeat at a time, to bare the inviting mounds of her bottom cheeks.
In a final bid for freedom Lady Maycott shrieked, writhing and wriggling in a desperate effort to twist out of his clutches. But his broad palm cracked down across her buttocks, turning her pale and delicate skin a hot crimson. She screamed shrilly, bucking and jerking beneath him. He spanked her again, and again, as she wailed in outrage. Then, her cheeks blazing beneath his relentless hand, she began whimpering and begging him to stop, but all he did was spank her again even more fiercely. She cried out imperiously, commanding him to cease at once, and he ran a lingering forefinger down between her flaming cheeks, dragging it down the sticky velvet of her cleft. She squeezed her buttocks defensively, and he slapped her bottom again even harder with his free hand as he slowly probed the wet heat of her sphincter with his stout finger. Lady Maycott moaned and writhed between his imprisoning thighs, and her gyrating rump seemed to enflame him. Lowering his face down into the soft swell of her soft cheeks he lapped her cleft with his thick tongue, and then lovingly bit into one of her plump mounds.
The prickling straw agitated her breasts and tummy as his firm hand parted her legs, painfully stretching them. The ache at her juicing cunny became a dull pain, and then suddenly he was no longer pinning her down. But before she could push herself up she heard the hammer coming down, and straining to peer over her shoulder, she saw him fixing horseshoes over each of her ankles. They sank through the soft straw into the earthen floor beneath his sure blows, and cursing profanely, she twisted and struggled in vain, her legs arrowed out behind her utterly immobile now. She slumped down, sobbing into the foul straw. She was utterly helpless, her legs pinned down by hoops of iron.
Two more hammered horse shoes pinned her wrists down into the straw-littered earth. Utterly at the farrier’s mercy she renewed her shrill cries of protest, and he used the crop on her as she had planned to use it on him. He subjected her to eleven brutal strokes, each blistering swipe forging a red path across her flesh hotter than the dancing flames in the forge.
Her resistance at last broken beneath the cruel lashing, she shivered in her impromptu bondage, sobbing gently into the straw. Then she gasped when he entered her, easily and assuredly, as masterfully as any aristocrat taking a peasant. His rigid length pierced and possessed her brutally and ruthlessly, surging between her whipped cheeks and deep into the tightly muscled warmth of her anus. In total contemptuous silence he rode her as adroitly as she did her gelding. Within minutes he came violently, and then eased out of her sphincter, dragging with him the hot scald of his yeoman’s seed.
Four strokes of the crop later he penetrated her buttocks again, rampant and hard and totally dominant. They came together this time, his seed pumping and flooding her stretched heat. His absolute silence added an erotic charge to her orgasm that made her cry out just as she did when the hunt was in full flight.
Meanwhile, in the haystack behind the smithy, a thin and feral tomcat toyed with the mouse between its paws. The trapped mouse, trembling between the menacing paws, squeaked pitifully, but the tomcat remained deaf to its pleading. The tiny mouse darted left and right frantically, zigzagging in an effort to escape. Sheathing its sharp claws, the cat cuffed the mouse back into submissive surrender with its soft paw.
He wiped her roughly clean with his leather apron before abruptly wrapping it around her head. He swathed her face with it, binding her tightly, forcing her protesting mouth into the warm smear that had moments before trickled out of her anus.
Stunned into silence by the enormity of his crude arrogance, subjugated by the confident brutality of his mastery over her, Lady Maycott grew hot and breathless within her leather hood. She squirmed, sensing his brooding presence so close. She felt him removing the horseshoes pinning her wrists and ankles, but before she had time to react he rolled her over onto her back. She felt his proximity as he mounted her, straddling her dominantly. Moments later his hot semen rained down over her in thick spurting jets, splattering audibly upon her leather-sheathed face and her exposed throat and chest. He toyed savagely with her breasts after he came, kneading his seed into them.
The silence became unbearable. Finally finding her voice again, she spoke in a husky whisper. Then she gave a halting command, her own voice uncertain and strange to her ears at first, gradually growing sharper, stronger. But he made no response – none at all. She screamed in angry frustration, her shrill cry hauntingly muffled by the humid confines of the leather hood.
Peeling the sticky hide from her face, he loomed over her, inching his broad buttocks up from his ankles and bringing the length of his pulsing erection between her breasts. Sensing his utter contempt for her she clenched her fists in anger, but did not try to push him away as he lifted and squeezed her breasts around his thick cock. Then he swiftly positioned himself on his knees beside her, and clutching a handful of her tumbling blonde mane, turned her head and forced her mouth onto his fleshy spear, silencing her protests with his iron-hard rod.
That evening there was a hard frost, excellent hunting weather. Dinner was excruciatingly dull.
‘Deuced rum thing, old girl, what?’ Teddy mouthed through his Stilton. ‘Just fancy.’
Lady Maycott, unusually pale and still trembling slightly, shuddered with suppressed anger. Easing herself gingerly from one whipped buttock to the other, she shuffled her punished flesh surreptitiously. Simmering with rage, her fingers tore viciously at a bread roll. What the hell was the world coming to? Did the Maycott rank and name count for nought? Was her voice no longer to be heard – heard and
obeyed?
‘Deafened by the guns at the Ypres barrage, they say,’ Teddy remarked to his water biscuit.
His wife looked up, and gazed at him uncomprehendingly.
‘The new village blacksmith,’ he explained.
The bread roll fell from her numb fingers.
‘Mustard gas burned out the poor blighter’s larynx,’ Teddy continued blithely. ‘Deaf and mute, I’ll grant you, but a farrier, eh? A farrier back in the forge, now there’ll be some sport.’
Dicing With Debt
The doormen were not known to the police, they were the police, a special branch assigned to keep a careful and caring eye on the young bloods who walked into the Mayfair Club every night.
A taxi pulled up and a doorman stepped smartly forward to assist the beautiful young brunette as she alighted. The Right Honourable Frederica – Freddie to her Sloane set – skipped up the marble steps and strode confidently through the gold and onyx doors. Before they closed behind her the undercover doorman radioed in her arrival.
The club was buzzing. Under a single spotlight a kohl-eyed Armenian, her naked body glistening with baby oil, was kneeling before a stunning blonde, her parted lips inching up to capture the slice of wet melon lodged in the blonde’s sex above her.
Ignoring the lubricious cabaret, Freddie paused to count the chips she’d just purchased. It had meant selling her Treasury Bonds, which meant another blazing row with daddy. Rising up on tiptoe she peered over at the gaming tables. The baccarat table seemed busy tonight. Good, baccarat, getting cards to make that magically elusive nine to beat the banker. She clamped her thighs together to try and suppress the warm surge of excitement in her pussy. She thumbed her gaming chips. Nine fat one thousand pound golden discs, a good omen for baccarat. Her labia juiced, parted and smiled, kissing her silk panties in anticipation of the excitement waiting for her at the green baize.
Braying cheers rang out from the throng of young men and women, especially the young women, crowding around the stage, and two of Freddie’s chips fell to the Chinese silk carpet as she jumped in surprise. Bending, she scooped them up, and peering in the direction of the loud applause, she glimpsed the Armenian girl busily chewing on the melon while the labial lips of the blonde trapping her between her thighs ground rhythmically into her upturned face. In the harsh blue light bathing the stage, the kneeling girl was hungrily devouring the shuddering blonde’s pussy. Freddie tightened her fist over her chips and weaved her way through the crowd. The atmosphere was heavy with the scent of expensive perfumes, and everywhere gold glinted in the shadows.
The silk-backed playing cards flew across the baize, falling facedown. Her pulse quickened, her blood singing loudly in her ears. Before her glass of champagne arrived, she dropped six of her nine silver chips while the suave banker at the chemmy table eyed her appreciatively. She was playing wildly tonight, and before her champagne glass was even drained, she lost her entire stake.
Freddie swooped down on a distant cousin who had just finished sharing a slice of the succulent melon with the naked Armenian. The fragrance of the blonde’s pussy was still on his lips, causing his cock to bulge. She hit him up for another silver disc and returned in triumph to the green baize, where she deftly strummed the milled edge of her new thousand pound chip against her pubic mound for luck. She lost it instantly in a wild gamble that landed her two cards totalling eight against the nine she needed to beat the bank. Ten thousand down and it wasn’t even midnight.
She eyed the smoke-filled room like a lioness scanning the plain for her next kill. There was nothing on the horizon, just the usual gang of gold card carrying glitz-groupies who graced the social pages of the glossies. What she wanted was hard cash. Her dark eyes narrowed. Wasn’t that Rollo attempting to fondle the performing blonde’s bare breasts? Rollo, Lady Gresham’s youngest son, was thick as clotted cream and twice as rich.
He was thumbing the blonde’s cleft and worrying her tight pink sphincter, bringing her up onto her toes.
Freddie walked up to him. ‘Wanna wank?’ she asked, smiling wickedly, and he grinned back.
Taking him sternly by the elbow, she navigated him across the silk Chinese carpet, through the velvet curtains and into the loo. Bundling him into a cubicle she banged the door shut with her bottom, unzipped his slacks and fished out his thickening cock. Rollo was easy meat, always had been. She first tossed him off five years ago behind a Land Rover on a rough shoot in Norfolk for a fiver and a slice of his game pie.
Grunting, he closed his eyes and surrendered to her expert grip, buckling at the knees and slumping down in the confined space as she squeezed slowly and pumped deliberately.
Slowly, deliberately and with a maddening, teasing rhythm that both delighted and denied. Sweat blinded him as she delayed his ejaculation, and then, with a blurring flurry of fingers around his fisted cock, she brought him ruthlessly to his climax. Groaning, he came violently as she milked him savagely, his loud squirt echoing in the cubicle as she guided his stream of quicksilver down into the toilet bowl. He sank to his knees, moaning softly as she ran her fingers through his hair and forced him to gaze down into the semen-clouded water.
‘Good boy,’ she whispered, snatching up a handful of paper from the roll to clean her sticky fingers whilst adroitly using her free hand to pluck the keys to his red Ferrari out of his jacket pocket. Easy meat.
Baccarat. She drew the car keys up to her lips to kiss them for luck, the feral whiff of Rollo’s seed haunting her nostrils. ‘It’s the red Ferrari,’ she declared, reeling off the registration number, and hesitating slightly over the last two digits, a calculated pretence. More convincing.
The banker was willing to be convinced. He obviously liked this wild young thing frequenting his green baize. She imagined he welcomed her as a vampire would welcome a virgin, open-mouthed, his teeth flashing. ‘Are you sure?’ His open palm weighed the keys to Rollo’s red Ferrari above the seamless green baize.
Freddie, getting wet as the tension and thrill tightened the muscles in her belly the way they did before she climaxed, nodded impatiently and ground her pubis against the edge of the table. Through her dress, her labia pouted and kissed the polished fruit wood for luck.
The keys to the red Ferrari clinked gently as they joined the pile of chips.
The cards whispered across the baize. The smooth blade of the ivory paddle reached down and flicked them over. She managed to suppress her groan as she came, but not her moan as the rake scooped in her final bet.
After bumming a bottle of wine from a crowd she had run into earlier in the season, Freddie left the club.
Out on the steps in the chill night air, she hesitated. The doormen seemed to be having some difficulty refereeing a row. A braying young Rollo was hotly disputing ownership of a gleaming red Ferrari with representatives of the club’s management, two Maltese heavies. She giggled tipsily as harsh voices filled the Mayfair mews and took one of the doormen by the arm. ‘Lend us a tenner,’ she said in a slurred voice, and hiccupped adorably.
The man left the fate of the Ferrari in the balance and produced a note. A taxi pulled up at once, and Freddie was guided carefully towards the open door.
‘Double or quits,’ she challenged, clenching the crisp tenner in one hand and her lucky gold sovereign in the other. ‘Heads.’
‘Tails,’ the doorman replied.
She spun the sovereign, catching it deftly in midair. ‘Heads it is! Hard luck,’ she commiserated, flashing the obverse face up to his scrutiny.
He smiled and slammed the taxi door closed. As her cab drew away, he radioed in her departure before rejoining the row in front of the Ferrari.
In the back of the cab, the Right Honourable Frederica plucked the silk of her wet panties from her moist sex lips as she smiled fondly down at her lucky sovereign – her double-headed sovereign.
‘Damn all bloody politicians!’ From his gilde
d Italianate desk, Freddie’s father gazed out between the curtains veiling the large square windows. Across the swathe of manicured lawns flanking the Foreign Office, he watched the silver sunlight dancing on the Thames.
It had been a trying morning with that stupid statement in the House about the Balkans. Idiots! Leave such sensitive matters to those privileged patricians who knew exactly which wheels to oil and which palms to grease. Bloody politicians, estate agents in off-the-peg suits, what could you expect.
Then, interrupting his mid-morning glass of Amontillado, had come the discreet call on his scrambled line. Yet again Freddie had been cutting up rough, and she had the temerity to cash her Treasury Bonds despite his stern warnings not to fritter them away. Blasted baccarat. The girl was out of control. And more monkey business involving young Rollo, the idiot Gresham scion, and a Ferrari. No charges, thank God. Freddie really was the bloody limit, he fumed, watching a barge laden with stinking urban waste being escorted down the Thames by hungry gulls. The brat was running wild. He reached out for the scrambled phone.
‘And you’re sure the dowager can do the trick?’
‘Absolutely. She’ll straighten your Freddie out. No doubt about it, old boy. Worked wonders for the Welham girl. Got over her compulsion to shag chauffeurs completely. What? Yes, I’ve got her number here.’
Freddie’s father scribbled down the number, and twelve minutes later he caught his daughter on her mobile.
‘Hello daddy,’ she said brightly. She lied and pretended to be shopping, scouting for a decent winter coat.
He frowned; he could just hear the background running commentary that put her at the dog track. He barked out directions, instructing her to be at the dowager’s by one o’clock sharp, warning her on pain of penury not to be late.