CamillasConsequences

by Helena Harker

  “For how long do you want forty-nine percent?” Beads of perspiration trickle down his brow. “One year? Two?”

  “My dear Aldridge,” I say with a smile, “blackmail is forever.”

  “That is all? Forever?” he says sardonically. “This is your punishment? Robbing me of my hard-earned financial rewards? A blackmailer is the lowest kind of thief.”

  “Name calling will not make me change my mind. But if you do it again, I will require that you give me True Pride.” His champion thoroughbred won the British National Steeplechase two years running. The stud fee alone would earn me a handsome sum. “Apologize for calling me a thief.”

  Aldridge’s hand curls into a fist. I imagine he is picturing himself squeezing my neck.

  “I’m waiting.” My fingers drum impatiently on the arm of the chair.

  “Miss Covington, I apologize…” He clears his throat. “For calling you a thief.”

  “Will you ever insult me again?”

  It takes a long time for him to answer. “No, I will not.”

  “No, Miss Covington, I will not.”

  “No, Miss Covington, I will not.” The words are barely recognizable.

  “Do you know that women are the source of morality in our society? Women do not have the right to judge their husbands’ failings, but they are not allowed to fail themselves. If she does, her husband can judge her failings any time he chooses. Do you consider this fair?”

  “Of course it is fair. Common sense is the sole privilege of—” He stops.

  I arch my brows and stare poignantly at him.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Covington.” He sounds as if someone is strangling him. “No, it isn’t fair.”

  “You are learning.” His submission is most gratifying. “Very good, Aldridge.”

  The housekeeper knocks. She pushes a serving cart into the room and pours tea into two dainty cups. Royal Augustine bone china? The best of its kind. I have a set of my own.

  “Return to your scones,” I say gently. Aldridge has damaged this girl, perhaps irrevocably. Later, I will see how I can help her. “Stay downstairs until I call for you.”

  Again, she glances at Aldridge for confirmation that she has permission to leave.

  “I am in charge,” I say from the comfort of my chair. “You may go.”

  “Yes ma’am.” Head lowered, she exits the library.

  I rise and continue where she left off, taking a pair of tongs and dropping two cubes of sugar into each cup. Deftly, I remove a capsule from a small pocket sewn into my skirt and add it to Aldridge’s tea. After giving the beverage a good stir to ensure the capsule dissolves, I place the cup on Aldridge’s desk.

  He waits for me to take a sip of my own tea before trying his. Although I do not always drug my victims, I feel it is best for me to do so in this instance. Aldridge is tall, powerful and given the opportunity he will lash out like a cornered beast. It is best to stay one step ahead of a dangerous man.

  “The tea is full of flavor,” I say in genuine appreciation. “Is it from our plantation in India?”

  He grimaces before taking several sips. “Yes.”

  “Does your wife know of your transgressions?”

  “Of course not. She sits at home doing needlework and planning balls. She hasn’t a clue.”

  “How naïve. I have spoken to her, and she has greater knowledge of your philandering than you imagine.”

  Aldridge starts, and then his expression becomes inscrutable. Does he still have feelings for her? Or perhaps I should ask if he ever had feelings for her. Since marriages are often business arrangements, perhaps he never cared at all.

  “Let me give you some advice, Aldridge. Never underestimate a woman.”

  Despite the fact that the tea is scalding, Aldridge takes a huge gulp. He licks his lips and stares into the cup, his eyes slightly unfocused.

  “What have you done?” His voice rises an octave and his fist slams against the desk. The fingers do not close tightly, and he shakes his hand as if it is going numb. “If you poison me you will get nothing!”

  My laughter echoes off the walls. “Do not worry. You have been drugged, not poisoned.”

  He attempts to stand, but his legs buckle and he slides to the floor. For a short while, he remains on his hands and knees, managing to crawl forward a few steps before collapsing. He gazes at me with burning hatred.

  “It is a muscle relaxant, a derivative of curare. Your body grows weak, but your mind remains alert. Remarkable, isn’t it? Do not worry, Aldridge. I have used the drug before, and it is very effective. You will suffer no side effects. Well, perhaps a few,” I amend, “but not from the drug.”

  Chapter Four

  Now that he is incapacitated, I take off my black skirt, revealing riding breeches and pliable calfskin boots. I neatly fold my skirt over the back of the chair. I remove my stole and lace bodice, revealing a black cotton camisole. After donning black gloves, I am ready. Without all the accoutrements society imposes on a woman, I can become my true self, dark and dangerous.

  Making sure Aldridge is watching me, I open my handbag and remove a long coil of rope. His eyes widen, and he makes another attempt to crawl away, his fingers scratching at the floor. I toss the rope over the chandelier, testing it with my full weight. It holds. Ceiling fixtures are sturdy, and they should support Aldridge as well.

  “Your punishment awaits.” I reach into my bag and pull out an eighteen-inch paddle made of bridle leather. Narrow, three inches across, it is balanced perfectly for a woman’s hand.

  From the floor, Aldridge’s eyes plead for release, and he is so pale he appears ill.

  “Frightened?” My fingers tighten around the handle, and I slap the paddle against my palm. “It leaves the most delicious marks on a man’s buttocks.”

  His face contorts in fear.

  “You seem to find the sight of the paddle distressing. All right then.” I place it on the floor and rummage through the handbag. “There is something else you might prefer.”

  The look of panic intensifies.

  “Here it is. The electric prod pole. It was invented by a man in America, and he uses it on cattle, of all things. In my opinion, it is a terrible waste to employ this contraption on animals when it can be put to use on men.” The two-foot-long cylinder is light, easy to carry and just as easy to use. “It functions with an internal dynamo and creates its own electricity whenever I depress the tip against a target. Ingenious, isn’t it? Allow me to demonstrate.”

  Squatting next to Aldridge, I turn a knob to activate the internal mechanism and jab the prod against the floor by his face. Zaaap…clack-clack-clack-clack…zap.

  Aldridge trembles as though in the middle of a seizure. “No! Please! No!”

  “I am a reasonable woman. Which do you prefer? The paddle or the prod? Choose.” I say it matter-of-factly, for pain is pain, and I can use any instrument to administer it.

  “The paddle, the paddle!”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Yes.”

  “Without trying either of them? Isn’t that rather like buying a racehorse without seeing it run?” As swift as a striking snake, I raise the prod in the air and slam it down on his shoulder blade.

  Zap…clack-clack-clack.

  “Arghhhh!” He attempts to roll away.

  It is amazing how fear intensifies pain. The prod is not at its highest setting, and still he writhes as though the current were strong enough to stop his heart.

  “The paddle! Please, Miss Covington! Please!” Sweat trickles down his temples.

  Nothing warms the cockles of my heart like the sound of a man begging for mercy. And this is only the beginning. “Very well. The paddle.” I return the prod to its place in my bag.

  In addition to the paddle, I require leather wrist and ankle cuffs. They are solid, with double locking buckles, and a thick chain joins the wrist restraints. They bring a smile to my lips.

  “These cuffs are stained by the sweat of many men,�
�� I tell Aldridge as I approach. My steps are the slow, stealthy steps of a lioness preparing to toy with her prey.

  He is aware of what I am doing but completely unable to flee. Moans escape his throat. How does it feel to be powerless?

  “No! Get away!” His left leg bends, and he pushes himself onto one elbow.

  I grab hold of his muscular arm, pull hard, grunt loudly and turn him onto his back. It is no easy task. To keep him down, I straddle him, and my nubbin awakens. Guiltily, I rub myself against his pelvis, knowing I should not be doing this, but reveling in the sensation nonetheless. Aldridge gapes. What does he believe I will do to him next?

  Oh the things I could make him do for me. I have witnessed couples engage in all manner of sexual acts, in seemingly impossible positions, in the most daring of locations. All these individuals shared one trait—an obsession with sexual gratification.

  Something I have yet to experience.

  And perhaps never will.

  For a moment, Aldridge’s face fades away, and I picture Hephaestus beneath me. I am light as a hummingbird on his colossal frame, and his tremendous shaft is buried within my nether regions. His eyes are closed, his back arched, and I ride him the way I ride a horse at a trot, up and down, up and down, taking pleasure in the rubbing of his member inside my cunny. My folds drip with honey in response to the thrusts of his sex. His hips move in concert with my own.

  When I touch his skin, it is hot, almost feverish, and I imagine myself stretching across his chest, letting his heat overwhelm me. His arms wrap around my still form, such large, powerful arms, hard with muscle, and I hear the beat of his massive heart. Steady and comforting, it pulses in a strong, even rhythm. Is his heart capable of the pure, honorable love I seek? Can Hephaestus grant me what I need?

  Can any man?

  I pretend I am kissing his neck, and his skin burns as hot as his forge. The sensation both shocks and pleases. He utters a little moan of pleasure as I stroke the dark hair from his forehead. His black eyes flutter open, meeting mine. They are as hot as lava stones. What of his lips? I long to taste his lips.

  A hand lands on my thigh, distracting me from my fantasy. Aldridge. The sensation in my nubbin vanishes, and I am faintly nauseated by the idea that he was able to provoke this reaction in me. These urges seem beyond my control, and it is maddening. Nothing should be beyond my control.

  Like the damned letter and its unknown author. The devil will come for your soul.

  Let him try.

  Grabbing Aldridge’s wrist, I wrap the cuff around him and buckle it closed. His other hand claws at my arm, but he is not strong enough to prevent me from immobilizing him. I take his free wrist, lean forward and use all my weight to pin his arm over his head. Quickly, I wrap the cuff over his second wrist and fasten the buckles. There, both hands are tied together.

  “Stop!” His eyes are wild with fear. “I’ll give you anything.”

  “I’m sorry, Aldridge, but my vengeful soul is not sated by money. It hungers for something else.” Pain. Anguish. Suffering.

  The light dies in his eyes. He knows there is no stopping me, and turns his head to the side, transfixed by the paddle that lies by my handbag. Now for his legs. I sit on his thighs, leaning over to strip off his shoes and socks. Although he struggles, it is fairly easy to secure the restraints around his ankles. Unlike the wrist cuffs, they are not joined by a chain, and in a few minutes when I drag him to his feet, I will hook the immobilization bar between them.

  “No!” he cries, twisting his body in an attempt to unseat me.

  He is still weak, but I must work faster, for he did not drink the entire cup of tea. As I leap off him and retrieve the rope, he flips over onto his belly. He brings the shackles to his mouth and gnaws on the buckles. I seize the end of the rope and rush to tie it to a loop on the chain that stretches between the restraints. Once secure, I grab the other length of rope, which hangs from the chandelier. Using it as a lever, I haul the howling Lord across the floor. He reminds me of a trout flopping at the end of a fishing line. When he is beneath the chandelier, I pull him to his knees.

  “Stop this,” he shrieks, arms over his head. “I’ll give you anything you want! Anything!”

  I fasten the end of the rope to the leg of the heavy divan. “But this is all I want.”

  I stand before him, the paddle in my hands. His mouth is next to my mound. What if I make him pleasure me? No one has ever done so. I could lower my breeches, grab his hair the way he did with Tewkesbury and grind my mound into his face.

  How would it feel to have a man’s tongue lap at my nubbin? Warm. Wet. Probing. Why are these thoughts always in my head? Sometimes I wonder if I am in need of punishment as well.

  Cunnilingus must provide a glorious sensation when the act is performed by a desirable man. My mind turns back to Hephaestus, and I picture him on his knees before me, submitting to my every desire. His mouth would be warm, so warm, sending pleasure through my entire body. He would look at me in adoration and perform any act I desired. Oh Hephaestus.

  As Aldridge struggles against his bonds, I return to reality. “Do you love your wife?” I ask Aldridge.

  His head lolls forward. I grip his hair and make him look up at me.

  “I care for her.”

  Doubtful. “Do you still bed her?”

  He glowers and struggles against the leather manacles. “That is none of your affair!”

  I remove my glove, swing back my hand and slap him across the face. A red mark blossoms on his cheek. He is open-mouthed, in shock. Although I like the paddle, there is something to be said for skin-to-skin contact. This way, I feel the sting as well, and for some reason, it thrills me.

  “Ironic that you should use the word affair.” Another slap, this time harder, and the sound echoes off the walls. My hand tingles. “How often do you bed her?” It delights me to pry into the most private areas of a man’s life.

  “A few times every month.” Aldridge tries to rest on his haunches but cannot. He shifts his weight from one knee to the other.

  Over an extended period of time, a marble floor can be brutal on a man’s knees. “Why do you still bed her?”

  “Because I have a prodigious appetite.”

  I put on my glove, circle him, grab his hair and yank his head back. Aldridge shakes his oiled hair from my grip, seizes the rope between his fingers and tries to pull himself to his feet. No, he cannot do this so soon! No one has ever escaped my clutches. My heart thrums in alarm. The drug is wearing off and I must attach the immobilization bar to his ankle cuffs.

  I hurry to my bag, rummaging for the bar. When I look up, Aldridge is standing, working clumsily at the buckles. Blast! He sways and stumbles but does not fall. Rage rises in my breast. You will not escape.

  “Kneel!” I command him.

  Ignoring me, Aldridge continues to work at his bonds. Tucking the bar under my arm, I grab the prod, adjust the settings to the highest electrical output and race toward him. With a fierce cry, I jab the prod into his belly. Zap-click-click-click. He wails and doubles over. I stab him again, this time in the side. Zap…zap…click-click…zap. Aldridge slumps to his knees, uttering a series of moans.

  “Hold still!” I drop the prod, unfold the metal bar to its full length and lock it open. It is long enough to place between a man’s legs to keep them wide apart. While he recovers, I hook the immobilization bar to the shackles around his ankles.

  After I finish, I untie the rope from the leg of the divan and hoist Aldridge to his feet. The drug hasn’t worn off completely, and he lacks coordination, but I want him standing regardless. His legs are apart and he cannot pull them together, cannot kick, cannot flee. Fighting to keep his balance, panting and cursing, he pulls at the restraints. The chandelier holds, and at last his struggles cease.

  “You are utterly helpless, utterly in my power.” I walk over to him. He glares at me, venom in his gaze. “How long have you been tipping the velvet with your pretty housekeeper?”
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br />   He squirms and turns his head away. So be it. In a few minutes, he will answer in spite of himself.

  Tucked into my waistband, I keep a small, sharp knife. A lady can never be too careful when she wanders about London spying on powerful men who have scandalous secrets. I remove the three-inch blade from its sheath and place the tip at Aldridge’s throat, directly against the pulsing artery.

  “Please, Miss Covington. Release me.”

  “You are so polite now, Aldridge. One must always be polite to a lady. Isn’t that correct?” I press the flat of the blade against his skin so he can feel the cold steel.

  “Yes, Miss Covington.”

  “Do you like it when a woman disrobes you?”

  He swallows.

  “Answer truthfully.” The artery pulses against the steel. He is so vulnerable.

  “Yes. It arouses me.”

  “You will not like it much today.” I will make sure of it. “Do not move.”

  With a savage motion, I slice off the top button of his shirt. He flinches, and then grows very still. A wise decision on his part, for my blade is razor sharp. The other buttons follow suit as the blade cuts the thread that holds them in place. I open his shirt, admiring a smooth white chest with a fine line of soft hairs down the front. The male form is beautiful indeed, and Aldridge is no exception.

  I walk behind him, make a quick incision in his collar and tear the fabric off with a satisfying riiiip, riiip, riiip. His shoulders are as muscular as I remember, but it is much sweeter to see them at close range as opposed to through the lens of the ’Scope.

  “Now for your trousers.”

  “No!” He flails but cannot free himself.

  “But you enjoyed it when Tewkesbury pulled down your trousers.”

  “Not you!”

  “What do you like about having a man on his knees at your feet? Why does it arouse you?”

  “I cannot speak of it.”

  “You must.” The knife brushes the button on his trousers, and he squirms.

  Aldridge is mine. I decide his fate, his torment, his punishment. To dominate another human being is the reward that waits at the end of the hunt, and it gives me an incomparable heady sensation.