The Saga of a Naughty Lady

by Lizbeth Dusseau

  Hearing his command, Jolie raced toward the house full speed, working her way through the maze of corridors that led to the tower stairs. When she reached the bottom of the staircase she stopped to catch her breath and wipe a few more tears with the sleeve of her dress. She calmed and her heart quit racing.

  Looking toward the top of the stairs, she thought of the dark, dank places inside the tower—both with longing and dread. She could go there now just for solace, but she couldn’t imagine spending more nights on the straw mat, especially since she’d just won a piece of freedom. Assuming, however, that she’d been followed by one of Patrick’s guards, she gathered her wits and started her ascent. She stopped, gazing to her right, seeing a faint light coming from a corridor where it was normally as black as midnight. She smelled fresh air—clear and clean with a hint of salt. And an ocean breeze. Curious, she moved that way, feeling the strangest sense of exhilaration as the light became more distinct and the fresh air more obvious. Following the corridor along a path she’d only traversed once, she finally moved to the open door at the tower’s base and stared out to an empty courtyard. The gate at the center was wide open, while an ox cart was disappearing from view. The vegetable merchant had left the fortress.

  There was not a soul anywhere nearby. Not a guard, nor one of Patrick’s female servants. This made no sense… though freedom did.

  Fifty yards to the gate… she could taste the liberty on her tongue and in her bones. Her feet took wings. With the jungle all about the fortress giving her ample coverage, Jolie furtively made her way from Patrick Dunleavy’s stronghold. She realized with a sudden sense of urgency that this would likely be her only chance for escape.

  At the base of the hills, she pulled in with some travelers who were walking to the far side of the island, away from the harbor and village where she’d first arrived and had been marched to her new home, body exposed as though she were a circus exhibition.

  Relief swelled within her. Turning back once, she took a last look at the fortress on the cliffs before it disappeared from sight. She said goodbye with a smile on her happy face.

  Chapter Eleven

  The meager village on the far side of Patrick Dunleavy’s island was a small replica of the port town on the other side. It was a depot for goods marketed through the tiny country, mostly food and grain. Its port was not as accessible as the other, which was clearly obvious to Jolie when she noted its small size and saw the huge cliffs that surrounded the harbor with potentially dangerous rocks. The surf beat hard against this place, and the wind stunned her eyes she had to squint.

  On arriving at the village, it was unclear to Jolie how she could work her recent luck to her advantage. She believed that Patrick might own the entire island and its commerce, that he was the landlord who knew all the goings-on in this habitat. All this made it imperative that she keep to herself, steal food if necessary, and get back to the main port where she could stowaway on the next ship making sail. This was her plan—perhaps not well conceived, but it was the best she could think of. To stay on this island would certainly precipitate a disaster she didn’t want to face—that of Patrick Dunleavy taking her back to his tower.

  Jolie bumped about the marketplace for nearly an hour, figuring her plans while trying to fend off stares she knew could be condemning. There were few white women in the crowd and she was the only redhead. She walked on casually as if she belonged there, and stole a piece of bread and a banana for her lunch.

  “Ah! Miss, it’s not a good idea to pilfer bread,” the voice was at her ear. She jerked around.

  A scruffy but comely white-skinned fellow pushed her toward a dirt alley between two buildings—a tavern and a grocery.

  “What are you doing to me!” she slapped at his hands.

  He grabbed her more rudely, and pulled her with him into a narrow but private alcove.

  “I know who you are,” he said.

  “What do you mean, you know who I am?”

  “You’re the women the big black man hauled through the streets a few months back. The pirate, or don’t you remember?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh, I think you do. And very well. I’ll bet you’ve escaped him.”

  “And what if I have?”

  “You won’t get anywhere on this island without him knowing. And you won’t get off this island unless he wants you to go.”

  “Well, I know nothing of a woman hauled through the streets by a black man. I am here with a traveler who has just made port…”

  The scruffy man toyed with her red curls. “You lie, milady. I’d know these locks anywhere. There have been no new ships in port this week. The likes of you would have been talked about. No, ma’am, your best bet for freedom—which is what you want—is to hole up with me.”

  “Surely you jest!”

  “I ain’t sounding as if I am,” he replied.

  And he wasn’t.

  “You look around this market more than an hour, your master on the hill will know where you are… I heard tell, though I ain’t seen it, that the abuse for such a crime is public, right in the center of the village, you’ll be flogged!”

  This would not be new to her, but she could not live though the humiliation again. Her mind and fear took note of the man’s cautions. His argument was reasonable, probably more reasonable than her hastily thought out plans for escape.

  “So, kind sir, what do you propose I do?”

  “I propose that you take up with me. I can protect you from your enemies, keep you in a safe place until there is a real possibility of getting off this island.”

  “And what do you want in return?”

  He bowed obsequiously. “Just the pleasure of your company.”

  “I think you lie, sir.”

  “How about cooking me a few meals?”

  “And after that?”

  “You won’t be captive, miss. You can leave any time. I merely offer you safety.”

  “What is your name?”

  “Dufay. Erin Dufay.”

  She thought a bit. “Where do you live?”

  “Here.” He pointed to the tavern.

  “A room in the tavern?”

  “I own it, miss.”

  “Don’t you think this would only call attention to where I am?”

  “Not if you stay hidden.”

  “And why should I believe you will protect me? You could as easily be a friend of my master’s who will only set him on me the first chance you get.”

  “The pirate Dunleavy and I go back some years, lady. And he’s not my friend. He swindled me out of my share of this island. Nothing would make me happier than to set you free of him.”

  Oddly, she believed the fellow—or just wanted to believe him. Certainly his offer of sanctuary was the best she’d get.

  “You will be kind to me, sir,” she told him. “And you will not abuse me.”

  “Of course not. You can cook and clean while you stay and that will be enough for me.”

  ***

  Cooking and cleaning were not quite enough for Erin Dufay—though she did plenty of both. The work kept her busy—the man’s private quarters were a mess, and his tavern as well; though she had to wait until he’d kicked his patrons out of the bar at night before she could leave Dufay’s back room.

  It was in the late night hours that the man got what he was really after. And Jolie, having compromised herself so many times could hardly refuse him. He cleaned himself before he came to bed and he wanted nothing fancy from her, just her wet quim to plow his dick inside. He came fast and didn’t expect to sleep with her. Once he was finished spewing himself, he rolled out of bed and disappeared into his own room for the night. There was little satisfaction for her in this. But in comparison to the rough masters who delved the depth of sexual prowess with torture, implements and great passion, this fellow, Dufay, was a paltry jester. He did have a fine prick that started her orgasmic rides—which she finished on her own once he
left the room.

  At night, she lay in bed exhausted from her day—and night’s—manual labor. She stared at the stars through her window and wondered what was going on up the hill. Did Patrick know she was lost to him, or was he waiting to find her, knowing he eventually would? And did he really care that she’d escaped? More than once, she wondered how she’d been able to flee so easily when there were such rigorous measures to ensure that she remain captive inside the fortress property.

  She asked Dufay daily about ships coming into the harbor and trusted him to tell her the truth. Daily, he denied that there was any reasonable means of escape. She trusted him at first, but then had her doubts as one week disappeared and another one began and there was no indication that she’d find the safe passage she needed to secure her freedom.

  The more she asked, the more she noted Dufay’s uneasiness. He started to snap at her when he was weary, then launch into great stories filled with the dangers of the island. One afternoon, he even mentioned that there were guards from the fortress searching the village for her. Because she didn’t dare leave Dufay’s house, she wouldn’t know if this were true or fantasy. She needed to take his words on faith—faith which was not completely justified.

  “Ya leave me alone about it, bitch!” he snarled at her one day, when he was fetching whiskey from the storeroom.

  “I need to leave here, and you promised me!” she implored him, seeking more information.

  “Indeed, I did. And Erin Dufay lives up to his promises, trust me.” His face leaned in to hers. She felt his anger in her bosom; it made her scared.

  That night when he came to her, he used a length of leather to rope her wrists. He tied her to the bed and fucked her hard, much harder than ever before. And when she begged he remove the leather when he was done, he tossed her to her belly, pulled a stray stick off the windowsill and spanked her hard. She buried her face in the pillow, crying. After he was done, he left her bound and heaving great sobs of woe. This was turning into a nightmare.

  Each day, Jolie tiptoed about Dufay, scared to say too much, to dicker with him and especially mention her leaving the island. He seemed to have forgotten what he promised her, even though he would rail on her if she mentioned their agreement.

  At night, she dreamed of other places, of freedom, finding liberty, though even more often she dreamed of Patrick Dunleavy. The more Dufay abused her, the more she longed for the sane and measured extremes from the master on the hill. His fire was passionate, not simply meanness of spirit. And underneath his savagery there was a gentle man and a kind soul. He was unwavering in his demands, but his demands met, he could become the heaven her heart sought. Did she dare believe this? Could it be that he was all she needed in her life? Could she willingly give up her freedom and accept paradise with this master?

  And what did freedom mean—but what would bring contentment to her heart? Was it possible this contentment could be found behind the walls of the pirate’s fortress? Her mind prayed for an answer, while such thoughts as these bizarre ones consumed her.

  He body would begin to seethe inside her fantasies… her thighs would warm, the sensuousness spreading upward to her tingling crotch were the rasping center grew more heated as she began to stroke her inner petals. Pangs of desire burned inside her hot and turning wilder, as the pictures in her mind grew more extreme and lovely… of being bound again, really bound. Fettered by her master ropes, spread-eagle on his bed, her master’s lips descending on hers, her master’s groin with its passionate stalk diving for the summit inside her wet lovenest. She would be shrieking, tossing back and forth, reveling in the constriction of her hands and feet, finding freedom in her cage of ropes—liberation by capture and containment. As his large, black, beautiful body used hers, her fantasy took flight and her body shook with rapturous glee. In his house she belonged to this phantom prince and his world of sexual paradise.

  It was nearly four weeks, and still Dufay gave her no information on ships passing through the island port.

  “Please, sir, can you give me some report?” she implored him one evening. They had been reasonably civil to each other during the day, and the man seemed to be in a reasonable mood now. She took the chance of asking again.

  He was on his feet when she made the off hand query, moving into the tavern to pour himself another tankard of ale. His regular bar wench had been serving customers, while he ate his evening meal with Jolie. On hearing her question, he turned around with a look in his eyes as close to evil as anything she’d seen in the wild saga of her last two years. She shrunk back fearful of where his sudden storm of rage would take her.

  “You honestly think I’d let you leave here?”

  Jolie shook with mortal fear. Not fear of embarrassment which she knew so well. Not fear from shame that made her tremble. This was a fatal fear… like seeing the remnants of her life dangling before her eyes as tattered empty clothes.

  He came to her like a great behemoth stalking prey. The man was mad! Pulling her from the chair by the throat, his hot breath spewed a sour fire in her face. She gulped, her body relenting to his wickedness. She was too paralyzed to struggle.

  “Sir, I have forgotten myself,” she squeaked in a tiny voice.

  “Don’t ask again,” he snarled. “When I want to be done with you, I will be.”

  He had her neck clenched inside his large fingers. She felt so incredibly small.

  “And you’ve been so good to give me shelter,” she added in the kindest, softest voice she could manage, hoping to quell the beast inside the man.

  “I have been good to you, bitch. So, don’t ride me with your whining appeals. You serve me and forget the nonsense about getting off the island. It won’t happen. Your fancy man atop the hill will see to that; and there is nothing I can do about it.” As he spoke his fingers seemed to dig deeper than the skin. She started to choke, and effected a tiny struggle to dislodge the madman from her.

  “Hey, Dufay!” his barmaid called to him.

  The woman’s voice shook the man awake, his eyes turned normal as he realized what he was doing. Looking almost baffled, the fingers around Jolie’s throat loosened and he pushed her off without much force behind the move.

  The remainder of the evening, Jolie fed the man his ale laced with the strongest spirits she could find. His tongue grew loose, his words slurred and he staggered when he tried to walk. Finally, when he rose to close the tavern, he pulled himself from his chair, reeled for several seconds and then dropped to the floor, passed out.

  Jolie made quick work of closing the empty tavern and sending the barmaid home for the night. Making certain that Dufay was out cold, she pulled his cloak over her shoulders and slipped through the back door into the darkness of night. Heading north and east, she began the three mile journey up the mountain to Patrick Dunleavy’s castle.

  Chapter Twelve

  Jolie hid in the bushes outside the walls until dawn. She was tired and drenched from a sudden morning thundershower. Her only thought was sleep, a peaceful, mirthful and relieved sleep, and yet her belly was anxious and burning as the significance of her journey remained clear in her thoughts. Did she have any hope of establishing herself with Patrick Dunleavy again? Her mind played back the past, from when she met him on the dock to those first tenuous explorations of his mood and character on the ship. If only she’d accepted fate then—as have it nip her firmly now… she might have avoided so much unpleasant business between them. He wanted her then and she refused to budge on so many things. Why had she been so stupid? Could he possibly believe the newfound sincerity in her hungry heart?

  She waited, eyes open and ready for the possible move. Crouched by the fortress gate, she looked and listened for the familiar sounds of morning coming from inside the walls. There was hardly a stir. The sun was climbing higher in the sky. She was restless, her body aching, her loins still quite afire with purpose and lust. With just a glimpse of her master, she was sure her body would erupt in climax.

  By
the position of the sun she guessed that it was nearly midmorning. An oxcart was ambling up the mountain filled with goods for the fortress stores.

  Stepping into the road behind the passing cart she hopped inside, hiding under the muslin tarp that covered the supplies. She bounced and jostled the last few feet of the rugged trek inside the gates, and when the cart finally came to rest she peeked about seeing no one about, and made a quick getaway, hopefully unseen, into the bushes along the perimeter of the wall. She’d wait there until the merchant left.

  Two of Patrick’s guards hauled sacks of food inside the house, so there was another lengthy wait until the courtyard was empty again and she could tiptoe inside. When the courtyard finally cleared, Jolie used the tower door, making her way through the maze of corridors to Patrick’s quarters. Her cautious stroll through the house was uneventful, as if she’d planned her entrance at the very hour when servants were napping or otherwise occupied in the kitchen. If only she’d find Patrick in his room at this time of day. Having no clue to his routine, she could only hope he’d be there and willing to speak with her. To Jolie’s relief, Patrick was exactly where her mind imagined he would be—with his back to her sitting at his desk pouring over what she guessed were maps. Was he planning another trip? What a horror it would have been if he’d been at sea when she returned!

  “Sir,” she made her first appeal quietly, tiptoeing into the room as stealthily as a mouse. “Sir,” she repeated herself when it seemed he didn’t hear. This time a little louder.

  She saw him twitch as if he recognized her voice, but he didn’t turn around.

  “Sir, it is Jolie,” she moved hurriedly forward, throwing herself to the floor beside his chair and bowing her head tight to her knees.

  She heard her master chuckle softly, and felt his hand reach down to fool with her tangled mass of red curls. Waiting for his grip to tighten, she felt her pulse quicken and her clenched channel spasm in expectation. His massage was gentle, exuding such affection that she was nearly swaying to the rhythmic beat radiating from his hand.