The Red Velvet Horse (Siren Publishing Allure)

by Iona Blair

  By the time the bus had ploughed its way through an unusually dark and rainy night with more passengers than usual, she was beginning to have second thoughts. Curtis being engaged in a lengthy conversation with a fat man, who leaned over the narrow aisle-way to talk to him, certainly did not make it any easier.

  April peered out the watery windows, unable to see the street signs or bus stops. It may have just been her imagination, but she could have sworn that they were traveling faster than usual.

  Another passenger rang the bell and as the bus lurched to a stop, she forced her shaky legs down to the front and asked Curtis if this was Regal Avenue.

  “It’s Regent,” the fat man answered for him, and this somehow irritated her.

  Oh to hell with it, she thought, her frantic mind speeding like the Indy 500. It’s now or never. With that she thrust the transfer into his hand.

  He looked bewildered, not noticing the telephone number until she pointed it out to him. “Call me sometime,” she told him hastily, her heart hammering like a soundly beaten kettledrum, as she fled from the bus.

  “I will,” he responded immediately, with a friendly if surprised smile.

  How could I do that? She asked herself breathlessly on the short walk home. In front of that nosy fat man too, who would be sure to tell everyone he knew.

  Two days later, Curtis telephoned her, and it was so wonderful to be able to speak with him in private at last, and for an extended period of time, that she soon forgot all her earlier misgivings.

  “I’ll see you tonight on the bus…the last bus…” she told him huskily. Knowing that she would likely be the only passenger as it veered along the dark deserted streets at the deepest midnight.

  She wore a plain black dress and overcoat with knee-high patent boots. Bundled up warmly against the icy wind, yet wearing no panties…

  The bus was empty, and as she sat opposite him drinking in the sheer intoxicating maleness of him, she opened her legs and treated him to the sight of her naked swollen sex.

  “I’m wet for you,” she murmured, and flicked her tongue over hungry lips. “And throbbing…throbbing…”

  “Oh God,” Curtis murmured, his fair skin flushed with desire, as he accelerated swiftly bringing them to the layover point in a paroxysm of screeching tires and swirling dust.

  He cut the engine with a shaky hand and switched off the lights leaving them in total darkness. Save that is, for the glittering brightness of the city that lay far below them on the other side of the harbor.

  “We’ve got ten minutes only,” he whispered and took hold of her immediately. She gasped as his tongue probed her mouth and his hands traveled over her breasts and behind with uncanny familiarity.

  “Oh lord…it’s good…so good…” April moaned and ran her hand down the front of his pants where his cock curved in steely anticipation.

  “Let me suck you,” she offered lustfully, and unzipped his fly with fluttering fingers. She knelt in front of him on the metal floor and took the entire length of his cock in her mouth in ravenous appreciation.

  He stroked her hair and murmured endearments as the wind buffeted the bus and sent swirls of dust around it.

  April was in a delirium of excitement, having dreamed of this moment for so long. When she began to fondle his balls, sensing that he was very close to climax, he pushed her away.

  “The back seat, I want to fuck you,” he whispered passionately. Then, half carried, half dragged her to the back of the bus.

  She spread her legs, drawing them well back to accommodate him. Relishing the feel of his flint hard cock as it pounded into her pulsating wetness with all the power of a dynamo.

  “Oh God…” she gasped, winding her legs around his waist and building…building to an explosive climax that seemed to rock the bus with all the ferocity of the gusting winds.

  When she returned home after her rapturous bus ride, Spice blinked at her disheveled appearance with studied disapproval.

  “Okay, spare me the sermon,” she told him. “It’s easy for you to be condescending, you’re neutered.”

  * * * *

  I ate my meals in a small dining room that bordered a conservatory. It was here, amid the aspidistras and potted ferns that I drew the attentions of one Joseph Murchison, a tall hawk-nosed widower with a commanding presence.

  “I’m sorry to hear of your plight, Ma’am,” he told me in a whisper, once we were out of earshot of the others. I admired a particularly luscious hibiscus, while he fingered an umbrella plant in the corner by the French doors.

  I had let it be known that I was recently widowed, and had come to this part of the world seeking a distant kinswoman, my only living relative. Upon arriving, I had learned she was also deceased.

  “Thank you, Mr. Murchison,” I replied with a slight sniff, dabbing at my face with a lacy handkerchief. “You’re most kind.”

  “You could do a lot worse than him.” Mrs. Knowles, the proprietor, poked at the puny fire in the front parlor. “ Even a blind man could see that he’s taken a real shine to you.”

  She then went on to regale me at some length about the advantages of the married state as compared to the single one.

  When I discovered Joseph Murchison was a Yankee I decided for him at once, an escape to America being most advantageous to someone in my sorry plight.

  Although one might think it odd that a woman with two husbands already was willing to take on a third, my state of mind at the time was such that I could think of no other way out. As I considered the possible legal consequences of such an action, I merely shrugged and decided that, I’d as soon hang for a sheep as a lamb.

  It was strange though, I mused to myself later that evening as I rocked on one of the beech winged rocking chairs. Why hadn’t I considered going to the United States before? It seemed like the perfect answer to my present predicament. The border was only about a hundred miles away.

  Joseph Murchison did not do me the honor of proposing. Having no doubt closely appraised the desperation of my plight, he propositioned me instead. At least that’s how I perceived his offer of a housekeeping position. Decidedly huffed and disappointed by this great insult to my person, for heaven knows I was still a strikingly beautiful woman with the knack of turning heads wherever I went, I nevertheless realized that beggars could not be choosers.

  My financial resources all but exhausted, I had no recourse but to swallow my pride and accept.

  For although Mr. Murchison had not considered me good enough to marry, I had no doubt that he would be expecting all the comforts of the marriage bed.

  I had, of course, been rogered by hundreds of men while employed at brothels. So submitting to the sexual demands of another was neither here nor there, as far as I was concerned.

  “I never had any children of my own,” he confided to me one evening, as we sat on the porch swing at Mrs. Knowles. “It just didn’t happen, and yet, I’ve never given up hope.” Then seeing my surprised expression added. “Even at my age one never knows.”

  Good lord, I thought to myself with considerable anxiety. Does this man who has demonstrated that he does not consider me good enough to marry, seek to use me as a brood mare to boot? Well, I had a surprise in store for him. I had not worked in brothels and learned nothing about the fine art of birth control.

  Joseph Murchison was the owner of Sunshine Orchards, which stretched for over twenty acres in a lush valley that swelled with birdsong from dawn to dusk. It was larger than I had expected, and considerably more affluent.

  “It’ll be picking time soon.” He prodded at a tree that was bulging with plump red fruit. “Then the place will be fairly buzzing with gangs of itinerant workers.”

  The house, however, was quite cheerless and bespoke Murchison’s stinginess in its drab furnishings and sparse comforts. I undertook my housekeeping tasks immediately, sweeping and dusting until I had the place in some kind of order, while also doing laundry and preparing the meals.

  One of the major
drawbacks was the lack of indoor plumbing. A plain white chamber pot–– “po” as it was popularly called–– was installed under each bed in the house.

  It was as I was squatting over my own po shortly before retiring, that Joseph Murchison made his intentions known to me. I had been living there for about a fortnight, and had been expecting his knock on my door at any time, so that when it finally came, it was almost like an anti-climax.

  “Why Joseph,” I exclaimed, feigning surprise at his presence here at such an hour, for it was well past midnight. Then wrapping my robe around me protectively for decency’s sake asked him what was wrong.

  “There’s nothing amiss, Hannah,” he assured me, with the gleam of lechery in his eyes so obvious as to be laughable. “Might I come in for a moment?”

  “Why of course,” I replied indulgently, and stood aside to allow him to pass.

  “Look I’ve been without a woman in my bed for too long,” he lamented, towering over me in an almost threatening manner. “Now, I know this is being blunt, but that’s my way. I just don’t know any other.”

  “ You are asking me to become your mistress?” It was more a statement of fact than a query, and I made sure that my expression was suitably shocked.

  “Indeed I am, ma’am,” he replied readily enough, but I detected a certain wariness lurking in his eyes. “I mean to say, it’s not as if you’re a virgin, now is it?”

  “That is hardly the point, sir. I’ll have you know that I’m a respectable widow, who accepted employment as your housekeeper in good faith.” I was finding it difficult to control my anger at his presumptuousness. “ I work very hard at it too.” I added defensively.

  “ Am I right in assuming that you’re refusing to become my mistress?” he asked me impatiently. I noticed that the broken veins on his nose and cheekbones had become more pronounced than usual.

  I have always found it strange how the mind reacts in times of crisis. For as I stood there confronting this angry male, who was abusing his position of power as my employer to try and use me as a sperm pail, my ear became unaccountably interested in the loud rasping hiss of a barn owl coming from the vicinity of the stables.

  I can recall becoming intensely curious as to why this particular species of owl does not hoot.

  “What you are looking for is a wife, sir, and not a housekeeper,” I answered evasively. Knowing full well that I had no choice but to comply with his demands. Or, end up being thrown out a hundred miles from the nearest city of any note.

  “You are wrong, madam, a wife is the very last thing I want. I haven’t worked like a Trojan all my life, to simply hand it all over to some comely little piece with a ripe noggin between her legs, I can tell you that.”

  “And if I don’t comply with your wishes?” I asked with a bluntness that even surprised myself. “Will I then be tossed out to beg my bread?”

  Joseph Murchison looked taken aback at the question. He rallied quickly though, wiping his mouth angrily with the back of his hand. “I resent your low opinion of me, ma’am. You’ve obviously been used to a very rough sort of man.”

  Then before I could answer, added that if we could not come to an equitable arrangement sexually, then he would give me a couple of months to find other employment.

  That was that, I decided resignedly. If I wanted to keep a roof over my head and food in my stomach, I’d have to give in to his advances.

  Of course, I was not shocked by this turn of events. In fact, I’d rather expected it. I was still more than slightly miffed, however, that he had chosen to deny me the dignity of a marriage certificate.

  The following night he came to my bed as pre-arranged earlier, wearing a well-darned robe over the top of a nightshirt, that had also seen better days. For this was a miser if ever there was one, I decided with a walloping great helping of ire.

  Joseph was remarkably well preserved for a man of his age, with hard rippling muscles and a well-toned physique.

  But resentment prevented me from enjoying his probings and kneadings, and I resolved to accommodate him only as much as was necessary.

  “Show a little lively there, girl,” he demanded with an angry glint in his eye. “Move your ass, show me a good time.”

  I did as I was bid. Working my reluctant hips into a rhythmic rutting to match his own. What a randy old goat he turned out to be, with a big knobby-headed dick that just wouldn’t quit.

  Fuck…fuck…fuck…fuck…fuck…fuck…the old bed creaked and groaned under the relentless rogering. Fuck…fuck…fuck…fuck…fuck…fuck…the headboard rattling and banging against the wall. Fuck…fuck…fuck…fuck…fuck…fuck…my fickle cunny at first so disinterested now beginning to get wet with the unexpected vigor of the onslaught.

  Fuck…fuck…fuck…fuck…fuck…fuck…I tried to think of something else so my excitement would halt, for I did not want to take pleasure from this mean spirited man who did not think me good enough to marry.

  Fuck…fuck…fuck…fuck…fuck…fuck…But I was not winning this quest for coldness, and when he slipped his hands under my bottom and increased the tempo I gasped aloud and bucked furiously. I could not hold back any longer. It had been several months since I’d had a man, and my blood was hot and could no longer be denied.

  “That’s a girl, getting really randy now aren’t you?” he whispered gloatingly. “Your quim is wet as a fish.”

  “Fuck you,” I cried out, more in anger at my own body’s betrayal of me than anything else and was, therefore, totally unprepared for his response.

  “Why you foul-mouthed little doxy,” he spat out angrily, and before I knew what was happening had dragged me out of bed and upended me across his bony knees.

  “I’m going to spank some manners into you,” he told me furiously, hardly even waiting until I was properly balanced before spanking my bare bottom with considerable relish.

  Spank…spank…spank…spank…spank…spank…the swats were hard and uncompromising and fell relentlessly on my tender flesh.

  Spank...spank...spank…spank…spank…spank…I bit down on my lower lip and tried not to call out.

  Spank…spank...spank...spank...spank…spank…But the pain was becoming too much for me as my bottom burned and smarted as if it were on fire.

  Spank…spank…spank…spank…spank…spank… “Please, sir, I beg you to stop...” I cried out at last, trying in vain to twist myself away from his iron grasp.

  But my furious employer was not about to be swayed by my feeble plea for mercy.

  “Not quite yet, my lady,” he told me with much sarcastic venom dripping from his words. “Your cheeky little bottom has not been chastised enough for my liking.”

  Spank...spank…spank…spank…spank…spank, the hard over-the-knee spanking continued until I was howling like a wolf at the full moon. Spank… spank… spank…spank…spank…spank…and finally when I didn’t think I could stand the pain for another moment he stopped.

  “Now are you ever going to be disrespectful to me again?” There was steel in his voice, as his hand rested threateningly across my blistered behind.

  I could hear the cries of the barn owl again, and the screech of a hawk in the nearby woods.

  “No, sir,” I assured him most obediently. And when he ordered me back into bed so we could finish our “business,” I found, much to my utter disgust with myself, that I was even randier than before, for the spanking had excited me as much as it had pained me.

  Fuck…fuck…fuck…fuck…fuck…fuck…my scarlet bottom swished desperately, grinding against the crisp linen until Joseph reached beneath me and cupped it with his hands.

  “The spanking made you horny you dirty little vixen,” he whispered lustfully. I knew better than to answer this with a sassy reply as before. My poor bottom had been chastised enough for one night.

  Fuck…fuck…fuck…fuck…fuck…fuck…and there was just the pain in my bum and the excitement in my cunny and the wild primordial rush to consummation.

  Fuck…fuck�
��fuck…fuck…fuck…fuck…and I was screaming louder than when I’d been spanked, but this time with the high howling shriek of ecstasy that bespoke of a wild thing loose in the forest, and reverberated eerily around the room long after the powerful pumping contractions had at last subsided.

  “And you were the one who didn’t want to become my mistress,” Joseph mused smugly, and tipped me over his knee once again. This time to caress my sore behind with a cooling ointment and tease my twitching cunny and back passage with the tips of his fingers.

  “You’re a hot woman and I don’t mean just your bottom,” he told me salaciously, giving me a couple of light love spanks to illustrate his point.

  My dislike for Joseph grew exponentially, he was everything I despised in a man, stingy with money, and with no sense of humor or imagination worth a sou. The fact that he had aroused me so thoroughly during our first sexual encounter, despite my considerable resistance to the contrary, played no small part in the hatred.

  Chapter Eight

  “When can I see you again?” Curtis asked, as April boarded the bus on a windswept evening. “In private, I mean.”

  It was the end of the fiscal year at Village Antiques, and one of the busiest times because they were stocktaking.

  “Not much chance of that for about another week,” she replied regretfully. “But I’m here now, why don’t we make the best of it?”

  There were only a couple of other passengers on the bus, and much to her relief, they both got off before the layover point at the top of the hill.

  “I want you in a bed,” Curtis complained, his blue eyes serious beneath finely arched brows. “The back seat of a bus cannot compare.”

  “What it lacks in comfort, it more than makes up for in excitement,” she protested. “Why, I find it quite incredibly erotic.”