“Lift your dress off your ass,” he ordered.
This time, her obedience was instantaneous, and her ass was bared to take his lash.
She cringed but she didn’t object.
“I would have thought you were a more complying servant after all the training you’ve had, all the time you’ve had to get used to being humbled. But then, I suppose it’s me. That I present too kind a picture for you. Perhaps it was a mistake to woo you at the docks. All that’s passed now, my sweet. We’ll see how you feel about me when I’m finished.”
Pulling a leather lash from the wall, Patrick Dunleavy circled his prey with a swaggering step. His boots creaked, with the soles grinding dirt on the wooden floor. He let the three inch leather float about her ass and back as though he were teasing her with fear. Grazing her shoulders and bare bottom, the hefty implement tickled the skin like a feather and made her flinch. She’d lived through worse, but nothing quite like this. Any moment she expected the first strike.
As his tenuous journey with the lash proceeded her fear increased—perhaps she was wrong about the man. Perhaps the guise of flirtatious kindness was no more than a ruse to trick her. But why would he bother being kind in the first place when he obviously had the power to lift her from one life into another?
His heavy boots clicked against the floor, and the touch of leather turned from teasing to slapping smacks that warmed her skin. Each strike hit more firmly than the last laid on—and with each, a river of warm desire moved from the heated skin to her pussy below. She could feel her body moving to that wonderful peak of physical joy where bliss was found. Could this be punishment, she wondered? Was this his game? And if so, was this to be her reward? The tease lingered on as her body swelled with a craving need for more.
She was panting, while at the same time trying to squelch the lusty moans of pleasure that escaped her lips unbidden. Perhaps, if she were careful, she could climax without the man knowing. Perhaps the spasming shudders of orgasm could go undetected. She was getting close, sensation firing with every slap of leather. Her back was hot, her ass was scorched. Yet, his skill with the erratic implement was so profound that she felt nothing but a beautiful wave of ecstasy moving swiftly toward its final crescendo…
“Just as I figured,” she heard the voice of her new lover, as he replaced the strap on the wall. “You’re going to soil my floor, harlot.” He put his boot to her crotch and ordered her to, “Cum now.”
NO! She wanted to scream. This was not fair! But turning back now? Never!
“Ah, sir!” She started to shake with the final revelation of her lust pouring out on the man’s black boot. She backed up, grinding her pussy into the toe as it pushed its way into her spasming doorway. She came and came hard—in one long exhilarating burst of power, then the spasm died.
“You are a slut, Jolie!” The gentle mockery in his voice was clear. Not like that of her other masters, but something deeper and unsettling. There was nothing mean-spirited behind it, and she almost wished there were.
Patrick Dunleavy removed his boot from her crotch once she was finished cumming.
“Get up, wench,” he ordered in a mild voice. His whole mien had lightened as he resumed his more amiable character.
She rose—feeling a little wobbly and needing something to hang on to. She grabbed the chair beside her, then finally righted herself so that she was standing in front of the virile dark-skinned pirate trying to hold back the emotions swelling in her chest.
“The circumstances of your servitude have changed,” he said, “but not the fact that you are a fettered woman. Remember that. I do hope this demonstration has proved something about your character.”
“What would that be, sir?” she asked, her voice faltering. She was quite scared of him now, but highly intrigued and still aroused, especially by the strange affection he seemed to have for her.
“It’s quite obvious to me that you belong in the service of men,” he answered her question. “It is your calling. We will do well together. I can give you what you need, but what you’ve never had.”
“And what is that, sir?”
“I’ll leave that for you to discover,” he said. His eyes were merry with amusement, and Jolie was more perplexed than ever.
“This was not a punishment, was it?” she wondered out loud.
Now he laughed quite gleefully. “No, Jolie, it was not. Should I have reason to punish you, you will know it. And it will feel nothing like the moment you just had with my lash and boot.”
She looked at him bashfully, smiling.
Jolie didn’t know what to make of the man—to love or hate the beautiful brute. It was clear that she lusted for him in a way far more deeply, and with a longing much more intense than what she experienced for the other men who used and bedded her. She could handle blackguards: submit; seek the pleasure; and otherwise forget who she used to be, while waiting for her sexual release. But a gentleman bandit like this Patrick Dunleavy? His complex character baffled her. Her captivity in his domain might be quite pleasant… if he hadn’t just taken the prospects of her freedom and dashed them from the realm of hope.
“We will do well, Jolie,” he repeated, “as long as you remember your place.”
She loved the way he said her name… coming from the lips of this dark-skinned foreigner, the sound seemed sweet—as if he actually cared for her. It had been some months since she’d experienced that kind of pleasant reaction and it nearly put her in tears.
“May I ask, sir, how did you come to choose me as your victim? The lengths to which you must have ventured to capture me seem astounding.”
He smiled as he was quite pleased to explain. “The game excites me. I’ve had my eye on you since your trial for adultery. I was there at the execution of your sentence as you were caged, taunted by a town full of bunglers and morons, and then publicly whipped as if that would make you a different woman. It seems absurd that to cure you of adultery, they turn you into a whore. I find it fascinating, but also regrettable to see a woman of your breeding and stature reduced to such an impoverished harlot, when you could become the beautiful courtesan to a man of my aspirations. I live in a paradise, that is where you’ll serve me. You can trust that the life you live with me will be bountiful—far beyond your dreams.”
She looked at him suspiciously.
“You don’t have to believe me. I know what’s true and you’ll soon see for yourself. Until then, you will prove yourself to me, serve me as I demand. In turn, I will use you any way I choose. As long as you obey, you will not be punished. I am not a sadist who relishes inflicting pain for the sake of pain. Pain should instruct. It should mold, teach a lesson, and provoke a new response.”
“Yet, sir, there was pain when you lashed me today…”
“Pain?” He jumped on the word. “Is that true? Or, did it just look like pain—leather smacks the skin and you assume that pain will follow. Was that what happened for you? Or, was the pain not pain at all, but a means to your arousal? So that when I placed my boot at your crotch it would find a wet spot to wiggle against. It was sensation, arousal, Jolie, not pain.”
She blushed with this remembrance.
“You’re ashamed of yourself?” he asked.
“No, sir,” she answered without thinking but then the more thoughtful response followed, “Well, not exactly. I’ve never…” she didn’t know how to finish the thought.
“Never fucked a boot?”
“No, sir.”
“Now, captive slave, you’ll fuck much more than that before I’m finished with you,” he advised.
Her blush broadened.
“You’ll find the cook in the galley across from my cabin. He’ll give you water to clean yourself. You’ll be sleeping with me the night. I prefer my whores sweet-smelling. Get on with you now!” He ordered her out with a gentle flick of his hand and a randy smile.
She left feeling more confused, horrified and aroused than she’d been since her trial began. She would
remain bewildered for some time.
***
Jolie viewed herself in a small looking glass as she waited for Patrick Dunleavy to appear. Her clothes had been exchanged for a nightgown—as Patrick ordered her dress washed in a scalding solution before it was returned to her. Clean herself, her oversized sleep shirt almost dragged the floor and the arms were much too big. She giggled nervously, thinking she looked too silly to be sexy.
She pretended Patrick was more than another master, that he was a lover who she could put her arms around and kiss with passion. His foreign beauty intrigued her mind while it amplified the pounding desire in her crotch. She would run her hands over his magnificent body and feel her own quicken with eagerness.
She touched his things, and even they produced a delightful swell in her physical arousal—as if it were Patrick touching her with love.
Love? How long had it been since she believed in that? Possibly Tasio. His image came to mind, but she shooed it off. Her husband? Perhaps, at one time, for a month or two when she was a new bride. The infatuations of her youth—that string of naïve bucks who tried to take her virginity? She’d flirt and pine and swoon for them. But were they love?
No, she concluded. She’d only imagined love, but she’d never experienced the truth of it.
Oh! She caught herself. Why would she be thinking of love now? Why with this uncommon man? His beautiful body had her smitten, that was certain. But did she miss kindness so much that she could hitch herself to a man so dangerous, and believe he offered her love?
“Who gave you that silly nightshirt,” Patrick Dunleavy spoke directly as he entered his cabin so stealthy that, with her back to the door, Jolie did not hear him.
“Why, the cook, sir,” she said turning his way. Patrick’s face shone like the picture in some fantasy, some dream where this stunning man of darkness emerged from deep in a forest of jungle trees. She once heard a storyteller spin a yarn about a land far away, where there were broad-leaved trees so thick that it took a hatchet to penetrate the savage tangle; and from these untamed jungles, men of darkness with chocolate skins and white teeth and oddly braided hair appeared as great warriors with spears and painted faces. How had this man, Patrick Dunleavy, come to have his unlikely name and the manners, clothes and presence of a gentleman from a land so far from his ancestral home. From the depth of his eyes there still shone the feral light of his primitive land—and this captured her as surely as the physical restraints he’d used when she was kidnapped.
As he swept the room, Patrick extinguished two candles, leaving just one still burning, casting a sensuous glow of light and shadows throughout the small space. “Take off the shirt,” he said.
She had not taken her eyes from him; her fascination was too intent. To obey his order, she reached for the hem of the nightshirt and pulled it up and over her head, letting the muslin drop to the floorboards. Patrick examined her with a studied gaze—covering the landscape of her beauty with the eye of a lover.
The excitement of fresh desire swept her body and she sighed, communicating arousal as the hillocks of her breasts heaved with every breath she drew. Her nipples tightened into knots, and there was a lovely swaying at her hips, as though they were preparing themselves for what would follow.
“Jolie,” he said her name, pronouncing the soft “g” sound, as if speaking French.
“Sir?”
He admired the fair brightness of her white skin as much as she was intoxicated by the rich hue of his natural color. Stripping himself of his shirt, he tossed it at his feet and moved closer to his prize, muscles wet and gleaming with perspiration. They were defined so clearly one would think they were sculpt in clay and fired. With her eyes riveted on his flesh, the desire to touch him made her fingers itchy and her palms begin to sweat.
For one long moment of anticipation, she watched as his hands moved inside his pants, and pushed them down to his knees and then his feet. She could hardly look at the lusty equipment at his crotch. Yet, a first glance, and her eyes remained fixed and unable to veer from the impressive sight. He stepped forward, with his dark penis bulging from its sheath, and the thick head poking through like a spear.
Her body warmed in waves of heat that made every nerve tingle with need. Moistening her lips with her tongue, she imagined its salty, sweaty taste. Her hunger for him swelled. Had she not been numb with fearful expectation, she would have dropped to her knees and kissed his feet. She remained, nervously waiting the first touch of his skin to hers, just inches from him, feeling his breath, he sensing hers.
He knew she was a seasoned woman, with months of good sex to her credit—nights with loins locked to men’s groins, her cunt drawing seed from hot erections. Yet, in the moment of first revelations, she seemed as innocent as a child. Her face was flushed with expectation and a little awe; while her eyes gleamed with a trace of wildness. A kinder man would soothe her; but this man’s schemes were aimed toward baser deeds.
He clutched her hair in his hand and pulled her to him, so their bodies pressed together and their lips met to kiss. His tongue reached out to draw her in, and so she fell into his chest, smelling the redolence of a man’s world within that first full breath of him. She went limp inside his arms. Reshaped by his power, she was lifted to the bed and set down like a precious treasure.
Thinking he would take her quickly, she opened her thighs to welcome him. But he was not that swift to take his pleasure. Instead, he was a man who loved to linger at the crotch of a randy whore, who loved to dip his tongue into the lovenest and take a draught of sexual juices. Dropping there between her trembling thighs, he pressed his mouth to her center, swirling his tongue about the folds and poking the tip inside the winking doorway. He licked at the pathway from deep at the crack of her ass to the bud at the top, between her labia, around the pregnant little head and then back to the center where the liquid seemed to pour now in an endless stream.
She hummed, cooing as softly as a happy dove. Lifting her hips from the bed, she encouraged his play, taunting him for more as her pubis swayed before his beastly eyes. His dark eyes lit from a place deep within his being where the earth grappled unrestrained.
Lifting her groin with his hands, he clutched one ass cheek in each hand as he ate from her rapturous center. He teased her clitoris aggressively with his teeth, nibbling so she shrieked, and shaking her crotch with his mouth as though he would tear it from her groin.
Her hands clenched, fists pounding the bed. “Good gawd!” she screamed. “Have mercy.”
She begged for mercy that she wouldn’t get and didn’t need. He gave her none. Just as she was about to climax—he could see her start to tense, could anticipate the next spasm, and knew she was just seconds from the end. He drew away, dropped her ass back to the bed and pulled up on his knees. Tossing his little victim to her stomach, he seized her hips to greet his erection. Finding the place to plant his stalk wet and ready for him, he joined with her grasping cunt.
The first thrust struck her womb. Then, he begged off rocking with her as they worked their way to a mutual finish. He was avid with her ass, smacking it as the rhythm began, turning the white to pink, and the pink to red, and the surface into a raw canvas of fire.
“Spank me more!” she cried.
He hit her until his hand hurt and she was ready to climax.
Still, it wasn’t enough for the dark-skinned warrior and his lechery. He stopped the spanking to press his thumb against her anus and breach the ungiving door.
“Oh, help me, please no!” she shrieked.
“Let go, slut!” he ordered.
“NOOOO!” This delirious cry was the most desperate of all… She couldn’t believe that the man’s proud stalk could fit into the tiny channel.
“Yes, Jolie,” his voice stayed soothing but firm, and firmer still were the fingers that breached the barrier. “Relax.” His voice was sweet, but not those insistent fingers. A woman of her experience with sex should not be scared—he was just another man to
fit inside. But he was so much more than the men who’d conquered that passageway before. The length, the heft. He would ruin her for certain.
Patrick worked his new bitch determinedly, until his four fingers were shoved into her anus, widening it for more.
She shrieked as the entrance slowly opened, as the muscles eased and the rings that held the channel tight finally softened and expanded. With the juices flowing freely from her cunt, he collected them on his fingers and lubricated the hollow until it was ready for attack.
She was ready, too. Her mind adjusted to the thought of anal sex; and her body accepted the fact. Once he’d withdrawn from her cunt, and was poised to dive headfirst, it wouldn’t have mattered what he did, how large the member, or swift the strike. She was primed and at the peak of her arousal, almost begging him now.
He thrust and she gasped, “Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh, yessss, fuck me yessss……..”
“Good bitch,” he seethed.
She clawed the sheets with her hands, grasping them in her fists and hanging on as if her life mattered, as if letting go she’d slip away and never find the edge and the very end.
Then, she was there. With the black man’s cock impaling her, his hands digging into her burnished ass, her body burst with flame. She climaxed hard around the stalk inside her, about the emptiness in her deserted vagina, and everywhere her body had nerves to feel sensation peaking, brightening and then receding.
It was a long way down to the earth again—for her mind and more so for her body. On the way, her captor took his final pleasure, which only prolonged hers. His quick, rhythmic thrusts made her climax swell and swell again, and burst, just as he groaned and ground his cock into this far-flung cavern, where he spewed his seed.
Lifeless and panting, Jolie lay inert once she collapsed to the bed. Patrick followed falling to her side with a dark arm circling her waist.
She turned her head, the first sign of life; her opened eye was the second.
“You leave me lost, sir,” she said quietly.
The Saga of a Naughty Lady Page 8