Enamored: The Submissive Mistress (Special Double-Length Episode) (The Erotic Adventures of Jane in the Jungle)

by Colette Gale

  He turned from his pensive contemplation from the railing. A short, round, balding man stood there, the wisps of his gray and white hair fluttering in the breeze. The sunlight glinted off his round eyeglasses. Everett was his name—although it had taken Zaren some time to realize he was called “Everett” and not “Darling”—and he was Jane’s father.

  If it hadn’t been for him, Zaren would still be in the jungle, still dressed in animal skins, devastated by Jane’s unexpected and abrupt departure, and helpless to do anything to find her. Now, he wore clothing more like that donned by Everett and the men on the ship—sailors, they were called.

  And because of Everett, Zaren was traveling to the far-off place called London where they—along with the warm, motherly (but very loud) woman named Effie—would find Jane.

  They must find her.

  “When will we see London?” Zaren asked, aware of how much more easily the words of his native language tripped off the tongue now.

  Although he had spoken to Jane when they were together, they hadn’t spent as much time in those sorts of activities as he had done for these last weeks while at sea. Everett called it his “studies,” and insisted they spend several hours a day reading, writing, and conversing about life in England.

  No…the short time he was with Jane—before she’d been taken by Cold Eyes and his people, and held captive—he wanted to touch and taste her. There was time for talk, but they often communicated with few words. He spent time showing her the world he knew, gliding through the jungle from vine to vine, and taking her to his favorite places. The beauty of his environment didn’t need conversation. And the rapture in her eyes, and the way she touched him, told Zaren all he needed to know about her wonder.

  But since he met Everett and Effie, Zaren had put more effort into relearning the language he had once known, at least at some level. And although he was by no means perfect, and many times still searched for the correct word, he now communicated well enough that the sailors had no idea he’d been raised by animals in the jungle.

  “Two more days. Perhaps three.” Everett tried unsuccessfully to plaster down his flyaway hair, but it wouldn’t cooperate.

  “And when we arrive in London, what do—shall—we do?”

  “Well, there is the matter of Everett and the murder charge,” said a strident voice behind them.

  “Hush, Efremina,” said Jane’s father, glancing warily about as if to ensure none of the sailors heard her.

  “It’s in the newspaper, darling,” she replied, patting his cheek fondly. “It’s hardly a secret.” She was a large, soft woman who stood more than a head taller than Everett, but that hadn’t stopped the man from taking her onto his lap.

  Zaren tried to block from his mind the first time he’d caught a glimpse of Effie and Everett—she’d been riding him on his chair, and they were mating, loudly and energetically—but he wasn’t successful in pushing the memory away. And for some reason, the mental image made his cheeks feel warm even now, and his loins shift and stir.

  Jane.

  Why had she left? As he was splashing into the water toward her ship, trying to reach her, Jane had shouted, “They have my papa! I am going to save him!”

  But that wasn’t true. Everett—or Professor Clemons, as he was also called, because he knew a lot about butterflies (so did Zaren; he wondered if he was a professor too)—was Jane’s father and he was still in the jungle. She had even left him behind. It was this realization that turned Zaren terribly cold and terrified about her fate. Someone had tricked her and then took her away, and he knew who it was.

  The dark man standing next to her on the ship.

  He’d seen the man before, and like a jungle cat trained to honor his instincts, Zaren immediately knew the man was bad and violent. He would hurt Jane.

  Even Cold Eyes, who’d taken her for the use of his villagers, hadn’t exuded the intensity of danger and desperation as the man on the ship.

  “My name being blacklisted might be in the newspaper, but there’s no need to draw attention to it, Effie,” Everett grumbled. “If you don’t take care, the captain’ll slap me in chains and put me in the brig as a murderer.”

  “That’s bloody ridiculous and you know it!” Effie said. “Captain Morrow knows you’re no more a murderer than that gadfly there buzzing ’round the fish barrel. Once we get to London, you’ll clear this up quick as a trice. How can a man stand trial if he ain’t there to defend himself?” She glanced at Zaren, her brown eyes softening with concern as she patted his arm. “There, there, young man. We’ll find our beloved girl. I always knew you would help us, even way back when the first time you brought Jane back to us.”

  “What nonsense are you talking about, Efremina?” Everett blinked behind his spectacles. “Brought who back when?”

  “I warned her about snakes, I did,” continued the woman, nodding sagely. “There are snakes, and then there are man-snakes. And that Mr. Jonathan was a man-snake. And so was that Mr. Darkdale!”

  Zaren didn’t fully understand what the woman was saying—and from the look on Everett’s face, he didn’t either—but he knew the name Jonathan, and by now he knew who Darkdale was.

  There had been a time when Zaren believed Jane wanted Jonathan to be her mate, and so he’d left her alone. But that separation was short-lived, for he’d been lurking outside Effie and Everett’s nest—no, “treehouse” was the word—and heard them talking one day after Jane disappeared.

  Someone must find ’er, and bring Miss Jane back. Get th’ girl away from the snakes and bad ’uns in the jungle. Someone must bring the poor chit back to us, Everett. Someone must bring her home.

  Zaren remembered the way Effie had spoken, looking out into the jungle, directly at the tree in which he was perched.

  As if she knew he was there. As if she knew he would save Jane.

  And that was why, after he’d sloshed back to shore many hours after Jane’s ship had disappeared, when he came upon Everett and Effie in the jungle, he told them what happened—at least, the little he’d understood.

  Effie believed him immediately, and it took little prodding for her to convince Jane’s bewildered father of the same. “I allays knew he was a bad ’un,” she said, her round face tight and serious. “I never trusted ’im.”

  It wasn’t until they boarded the ship of Everett’s old friend Captain Morrow—who’d come to drop off supplies and check whether the professor had finished his study of the elusive triple-spiked indigo butterfly—that Zaren learned the whole story.

  Effie had been down by the beach when she saw a ship that didn’t belong to Captain Morrow. She hid in the bushes when Darkdale appeared, and listened as he spoke with the men who came ashore in a small boat. She heard them talking about a murder, and how they were coming to take Everett back to London, and she ran off to warn him.

  (“Murder” was a word unfamiliar to Zaren, but Effie described it to him with great vigor and enthusiasm. Then she followed up the definition by acting out the fate that awaited Everett with the hangman’s noose—an activity the professor didn’t seem to appreciate.)

  Everett and Effie hid deep in the jungle for two days. Jane had gone missing, and they weren’t about to leave her abandoned in the jungle. The professor took the opportunity to search for the mating ground of the triple-spiked indigo and make copious notes, while Efremina stole back occasionally to see if the ship had left or if Jane had returned. Neither of them had any inkling that Jane was on board with Darkdale until Zaren found them and explained.

  “Do you believe it will be simple to uncover your name?” asked Zaren, choosing his words carefully.

  “Uncov—oh, you mean clear my name?” Everett replied. “Of course it will, my boy. I am innocent of the crime of which I’m accused, and I would easily have been able to produce an alibi and witnesses to support it if I had been present for the trial. They might think of me as a cloud-headed lepidopterist, but when I put my mind to a problem, I’m sharp as a tack.”
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  “Of course you are.” Effie patted him once again. “And it’s Jane we must worry on. The poor mite’s probably beside herself with worry over you, Everett.”

  The professor’s round face tightened, and Zaren could see the reflection of his own worry in the man’s eyes. “I’m afraid, Effie, that clearing me of a murder charge might be the easier task ahead of us.”

  For the first time, Effie’s demeanor changed into one not very different from a female tiger whose cub was threatened. “That Darkdale man won’ stand no chance once I get my hands on him.”

  Zaren gritted his teeth and looked out over the infinite ocean. Miss Efremina was going to be very disappointed if she thought she’d be the one to deal with Darkdale.

  — VII—

  Jane was jolted awake by a sudden pain in her hip.

  Her eyes flew open and she looked up to see Trevor looming over her. When she didn’t move immediately, he kicked her again—this time, narrowly missing her breast in favor of planting the toe of his boot into her ribs.

  “Get up,” he said, and when Jane saw his foot rear back a third time, she rolled away and stumbled to her feet.

  Her body ached, and she bumped against the wall of the corner where she’d been sent to sleep, which sent another rattle of discomfort through her limbs. Her tangled hair fell over her shoulders, obscuring some of her torso but leaving most of her body bare. She glanced over to see if Trevor seemed to notice.

  However, his expression was one of irritation rather than lasciviousness. “The master is waiting for his breakfast. Move!” Before she could ask where to go or what to do, he smacked her sharply on the arse.

  Jane squeaked and looked around for some idea of what she should do, but she was saved from having to ask when Trevor pointed down a corridor. “This way. Let’s go!”

  Breasts swaying and hair fluttering, she hurried in the direction he’d indicated. At the end of the hall, she entered a large, well-lit kitchen. Although it was empty of a cook or any other servants, Jane was relieved to find a tray prepared with a generous breakfast—presumably what she was to deliver to Darkdale. But she looked at Trevor to be certain.

  “Take that to him! He’s been waiting. You slept through your bell,” said the manservant through gritted teeth.

  Jane blinked. Bell? Maybe she had remembered hearing a soft tinkling noise, but she’d been sleeping so heavily she dismissed it as the remnant of a dream. Unsure whether her ban on speaking extended to Trevor, she opted to remain silent and instead picked up the tray.

  She nearly got lost navigating back to the main octagonal room (where she’d slept) and then on to Darkdale’s bedchamber. And just as she approached the door—which was cracked open—Jane suddenly remembered and dropped to her knees.

  Heart pounding from her near-oversight, she entered the room by scooting on her knees with the tray held upright. The smells of cooked eggs and fried ham made her stomach growl, and the pot of tea sloshed a big drop of hot liquid on one of her hands, but she managed to make her way to the bed without any mishap.

  Darkdale was sitting up, propped against a collection of pillows. His muscular chest and sleek arms were bare, and Jane couldn’t help but notice that a trail of dark hair led down his belly and beneath the blankets…where a pole seemed to rise from between his legs. Her mouth went dry at the memory of just what that “pole” portended, and, despite its exhaustion, her body twinged in anticipation.

  She offered the tray wordlessly, sliding it carefully onto the bed next to him, and sat back on her haunches to wait for further instruction. And possibly a piece of ham.

  “Good morning, my delectable Jane.” He picked up a piece of toasted bread and spooned a generous amount of strawberry jam onto it. “I trust you slept well?”

  She looked down to hide the flash of fury that surely blazed in her eyes. Bastard. The only reason she’d slept well was she’d been exhausted. The pallet in the corner to which she’d been banned was thin, and the single blanket she’d been provided hardly covered her.

  “You may answer me, Jane,” he chided. “When I ask you a direct question, you may answer me.”

  “I slept well enough.”

  “I slept well enough, Master. Surely you haven’t forgotten yesterday’s lessons already?”

  “No, Master. Not at all, Master.” Jane had to struggle to make her voice sound plausibly sincere.

  “Very good, darling Jane. Now, if you would like a bit to eat, come closer and I will feed you.”

  As much as she despised the thought of being fed like a dog, Jane wasn’t foolish enough to dismiss an opportunity for sustenance. She must keep up her strength for whatever he might have in mind for her today…and tonight. For she hadn’t forgotten his threat to have his guests assist with her punishment.

  She subdued a shiver and ate everything he offered her, finishing up when he allowed her to actually use her hands and drink from a cup of tea.

  When the tray was cleared of food, Darkdale set it aside and looked at her. “As much as I would like to partake of your deliciousness this morning, my darling, you are in need of a bit of washing up before our guests arrive, while I…well, I have some business to attend to.”

  Jane’s attention perked up and she opened her mouth to speak, then caught herself and snapped it closed. Her intent clearly showed on her face, for Darkdale smiled and petted her affectionately. It was all she could do to keep from ducking away from his condescending touch. “You are wanting to ask me a question, aren’t you, my dear? Perhaps whether my business is related to that of your father’s conviction?”

  She nodded, her eyes wide and pleading.

  “Unfortunately, today’s business does not take me to the courts or to the offices of the barristers or judges. However, I am confident if you continue to please me as you have done—and be proper and obedient—I will soon have cause to make a call on them.”

  Jane wasn’t able to keep her disappointment and frustration from her expression, but to her relief, Darkdale made no comment. Instead, he flung the sheets and bed coverings aside to reveal his bare legs, uncovered torso, and magnificent erection.

  Her mouth began to water at the sight of his purple-red cock, its head smooth and proud and ripe. She felt her heart pounding so hard her breasts thudded too, and that telltale moisture began to gather between her legs.

  Darkdale didn’t say a word. He merely perched on the edge of the bed, spread his legs, and leaned back on his elbows.

  Jane took that as the invitation it clearly was, and scooted into position between his knees. She scooped him up in her hands, gathering his heavy, tight bollocks into her palms and gently fondling them as she scraped her fingernails over the hair growing there. He sighed and shivered, and once again Jane was reminded that she did indeed have at least a modicum of power and influence on the man.

  She just had to learn how to wield it to her advantage.

  One way to begin was to take his cock in her mouth and slide down, all the way down, until he bumped the back of her throat. His velvety length was heavy and hot, and its girth stretched her mouth and jaw as she worked up and down, slowly and deliberately.

  Her saliva coated him, allowing her to move faster and with the same slickness he enjoyed from her quim, which was becoming hot and wet all on its own. The wetness from her mouth dripped and pooled at the base of his rod, where she fondled his stones. Jane curled her fingers tightly around the bottom of his cock, stacking her fists on top of each other beneath her lips, and used all three to stroke, faster and faster. She sucked and pumped, her hands tight and slick, her mouth sliding along in rhythm with them until he gave a sharp groan. Darkdale arched up abruptly as he shot a hot wad into her mouth.

  When she was certain he’d finished, she licked him clean and sat back on her haunches. Her lips were puffy and throbbing, and her nipples were tight and thrusting with readiness. Her own juices dampened her inner thighs, and her sex pulsed softly…waiting.

  Darkdale rose from the b
ed, patted her head, and reached to ring a bell. Despite her best intentions, Jane couldn’t keep her attention from following him. She wanted him to touch her, to penetrate her, to taste and lick and suck her into the same frenzy she’d just done to him.

  But she was bound to be disappointed.

  The bedchamber door opened and Trevor entered. Behind him was an elegant blond woman. She appeared to be in her late forties, and her hairstyle matched her stylish and expensive clothing. She looked like a wealthy woman of the gentry making a social call—a woman who’d just dismounted from her mare, if one were to judge by the riding crop in her hand.

  “Good morning, Kellan.”

  “And good morning to you. You’re prompt as always, Marcine.”

  “Naturally. And you must be Jane,” said the woman, reaching to take her by the chin. Her grip was hard and cruel, and even though she wore gloves, her nails dug into Jane’s skin. “You are a lovely one, I’ll grant that. She appears an excellent choice, Kellan,” she added, sounding dubious as she released Jane’s chin.

  “There is work to be done, to be sure.” Darkdale stood passively as Trevor buttoned up the shirt he’d just donned. “I trust you’ll do your part.”

  “It will be my pleasure.” She transferred her attention back to Jane. “Come with me.”

  She made move to rise, but Marcine reacted immediately, and the riding crop snaked out. Its slender tail whipped sharply into the side of Jane’s hip, and she reared back in shock and pain.

  “Have you not taught her even the barest of humility, Kellan?” she exclaimed, then struck out again with the crop. This time it striped down her arm, and Jane couldn’t mask a whimper of pain. “Who gave you leave to rise?”

  Jane bowed her head, fighting tears and the sharp stinging on her skin.

  “She is a clever one, and more than a bit stubborn,” Darkdale commented as Trevor tied his neckcloth. “My darling Jane has already been punished several times since our arrival—which, I might remind you, Marcine, was only yesterday.”