by Blake,Zoe
His Dark Obsession
By
Zoe Blake
©2016 by Blushing Books® and Zoe Blake
All rights reserved.
No part of the book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Published by Blushing Books®,
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is registered in the US Patent and Trademark Office.
Zoe Blake
His Dark Obsession
EBook ISBN: 978-1-68259-860-3
Cover Art by ABCD Graphics & Design
This book is intended for adults only. Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults. Nothing in this book should be interpreted as Blushing Books' or the author's advocating any non-consensual spanking activity or the spanking of minors.
Table of Contents:
Author’s Note
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Bonus
About the Author
EBook Offer
Blushing Books Newsletter
Blushing Books
Author’s Note
Photography was quite advanced in the Victorian era. Unlike the visions of large clunky cameras with long exposure times we have from the movies, the cameras were streamlined and the exposure time mere seconds. It was also towards the end of the Victorian era that small handheld cameras with paper rolls of film called Brownies were created by George Eastman, founder of Kodak. I was inspired by this knowledge to think on all the naughty images those scandalous Victorians would have recorded with their new “toy”, the camera. Enjoy!
Chapter One
Diving for the wooden slab of black puddings before they hit the dirty ground, the blue-aproned butcher raised a clenched fist shouting a cockney slur at the retreating back of the running girl.
Sarah turned her head to call out a hurried apology…promptly colliding with a lavender girl.
“Oy! Watch where you’re goin!” groused the girl. Her basket filled with lavender bunches tipping precariously as they became a tangle of skirts and limbs.
“I’m so very sorry,” breathed Sarah as she hastily bent to pick up the wilted small bits of lavender which toppled out. Handing them to the girl along with a few shillings, she once again set off at a very unladylike pace down Shaftesbury Avenue. Her soft leather kid boots slid along the wet flagstone as she bustled past the various storefronts, churchyards and homes. The sickly fog still stubbornly clinging to earth despite the warmth of the afternoon sun.
Three months since she sailed from America and Sarah still was not used to the crowded London streets. Barely missing a nursemaid wheeling a perambulator in her rush, she disregarded the disapproving looks she received. Shimmying through the motley mix of aristocracy, merchants, street urchins and burgeoning middle class strolling through Piccadilly Circus, Sarah determinedly made her way.
Gripping her bonnet by the ribbons in one hand, her skirts in the other, her ink black hair a tangled mess down her back, Sarah presented quite the scandalous picture. Her stocking-clad ankles flashing as she ran pell-mell towards her destination.
Dang it all! She was going to be late, thought Sarah.
No…wait. That wasn’t correct.
Dash it all! She was going to be late.
There! That was more British sounding, thought Sarah with an inward smile. Never mind the fact running with your skirts above your knees through the fashionable West End was a very un-British thing to do.
She never should have stopped to watch the hurdy-gurdy player. It wasn’t her fault really. They didn’t have such a thing in America. It made such a lovely, jaunty sound. Sarah also couldn’t resist the adorable dancing monkey who was part of the act. He was dressed in a little red uniform with gold tassels and the cutest little hat. After each song, the monkey would take the hat off and dance around the crowd pleading for a coin. It was hard not to lose track of time watching such an entertaining spectacle.
Finally, she arrived across the street from 126 Shaftesbury Avenue. Taking a moment to place her bonnet on her head, Sarah tried in vain to tuck her errant locks up within its confines. Giving her matching gray tweed jacket one last tug in place over her skirt waist, Sarah prepared to cross the street. A fast moving water cart stopped her, but not before spraying the bottom half of her skirts. Soaking them.
“Dang it all!” she cursed out loud, angrily brushing at the wet tweed, dropping her bonnet in the process. “I mean…darn it…ah…dash it…ah bloody hell,” she ended pathetically. Her small rant was interrupted by a deep chuckle. Sarah looked up into the startlingly bright blue eyes of a gentleman.
Blushing with embarrassment, Sarah stammered, “I do beg your pardon.”
While it may be true, they said things differently over here in England compared to in America. It was not so different Sarah didn’t know it was unacceptable for a young miss to be caught cursing in the street like a fishwife by a gentleman.
The gentleman took a step closer.
It was the middle of the morning on a busy street in the West End. They were surrounded by people. This was London for heaven’s sake, not some Virginia backwater. And yet, a shiver of awareness crept over her.
Placing a finger under her chin, he tilted Sarah’s head back. Those captivating eyes closely examined her. The pad of his thumb swept across her lower lip. “Such ugly words coming from such a pretty mouth,” he mused.
Sarah could only stare in response. The gentleman was impressively tall. One would almost say, intimidatingly so. Elegantly attired in a tailored black frock coat over a pair of serge dove gray trousers with a plum silk waistcoat, he was obviously of the aristocratic class.
Resisting the urge to pull her bottom lip between her teeth, Sarah jerked her head back, trying to break his grip. His eyes flashed a warning. She instantly stilled. Some primal instinct warning her his elegant attire and demeanor were a mere facade of civility.
Without releasing her from his intense regard, the gentleman used his walking stick to retrieve her bonnet from the dusty walkway. His left hand dropped away from her chin. Sarah seized upon the opportunity to lower her face, breaking his unsettling gaze.
“Allow me.” His low, commanding tone belying the polite request. Setting aside his walking stick, he took another step closer. The polished tips of his boots disappearing under the hem of her dress. Sarah could feel her cheeks warm in response. For an unknown stranger to stand this close to a woman in the middle of the street was beyond the pale, would be so even for a married couple, she was sure. Yet Sarah knew if she tried to take a step back, he would only follow. Desperately trying to calm her pounding heart, she tried to focus on her bonnet instead of the imposing man before her.
It was a mistake. The frivolously feminine gray silk convection covered in pink ribbon and small blush roses only served to heighten the masculine hand that held it. She stared at the large powerful hand. Despite his obvious gentry status, it looked tan and strong. The knuckles slightly scuffed and scarred, from fisticuffs no doubt. Sara
h felt a frisson of fear and something more elusive.
His other hand reached up to slide along the side of her neck. A shocked gasp escaped her lips. His hand felt warm and slightly rough against her smooth skin chilled from the mid-morning fog.
“Sir, I…” she stammered, keenly aware of his profound affect on her nerves.
His broad hand swept under her heavy locks. Gathering the mass in one strong grip, he gave her hair a twist, sharply tugging downward.
Crying out, Sarah lost her balance as she was thrust forward. Crashing into the resisting strength of his chest, she quickly raised her ungloved hands. Sliding them along the soft, wool of his frock coat, Sarah tried to push away.
“Be still,” he ordered.
She could feel the vibrations of the softly growled command through her fingertips scandalously spanning his chest. Risking a quick look upwards through her lashes, she could see the hard set of his jaw and the uncompromising glint in his azure eyes.
He gave another sharp tug on her silky locks. The biting sting bringing tears to her eyes. He felt himself harden at the mixture of pain and desire that flashed through her beautiful tear-glistened eyes. With another deft twist, he managed to tame her wild strands into a loose chignon. Raising his left arm, he placed the bonnet on her head.
Sarah closed her eyes, feeling lightheaded. Towering over her, her head barely reaching his shoulder. The gentleman’s long arms caging her in as he performed the intimate task. The warmth of his body soothing her cold hands. The rich smell of bay rum and tobacco surrounding her as much as his embrace. It was too much. It was not enough.
His knuckles brushed the delicate skin of Sarah’s neck as he pulled the ribbons down around her chin. As he expertly tied a bow which hugged the left side of her jaw, she could not help but wonder at his proficiency at the feminine task. How many women had been subject to his intimate ministrations?
Allowing his hand to rest at the base of her neck, just along her collarbone, his thumb lightly brushed her soft skin, feeling the feathery pulse from her trembling breath.
“What is your name, my little American beauty?”
Sarah was awkwardly brought back to the present.
Furiously looking about her, wondering at the lack of interest in their outrageous display by the passer-bys, Sarah backed away. Feeling his hand clench slightly against her shoulder, there was a moment of panic. He wasn’t going to release her.
“Please,” she fervently whispered, her cheeks glowing with embarrassment. “You must let me go.”
“Your name,” he insisted, refusing to release his grip.
She couldn’t possibly tell him. He was already too observant. She had barely spoken in his presence and he knew she was American. What else had he discerned while scrutinizing her with those sharp blue eyes? All the more aware of the growing warmth in her middle and the chafing scrape of her aroused nipples rubbing the harsh confines of her worsted corset. Her agitation grew. Shaking her head no, she scrambled backward, almost out of his reach.
That strong hand which had enthralled her moments earlier, now wrapped securely around her slim wrist.
“Do not thwart me in this, little one.” The dark determination in his voice unmistakable. “Tell. Me. Your. Name.”
They both turned sharply at the sound of a loud crash in the street. A milk cart had collided with an oyster monger, sending heavy metal jugs of milk spilling onto the cobblestones. In the ensuing chaos, Sarah broke free. Her petite frame easily dodged between the two carts and around the shouting street vendors to the relative safety of the other side of the street. She spared a furtive glance over her shoulder. The gentleman remained rooted to the spot. The tense set of his shoulders and the hard look upon his face illustrating his annoyance at her flight.
Sarah ran the remaining few steps to a battered, green wooden door. Pushing it open, she slid inside, quickly closing the door and pressing her back against it. Allowing the cool, dark interior to calm her nerves, she took several deep breaths. Uncertain whether she felt elated or despondent at her narrow escape, Sarah gave herself a stern upbraiding. She would wait till the privacy of her own bed tonight to dwell on her conflicted emotions.
~*~
Lord Pierce Warrington watched his quarry scamper across the street. The only thing saving the minx from his determined pursuit was the door she hurried through. A slow, knowing smile spread across his handsome features. Retrieving his walking stick, he warned out loud, “Till later, my little minx.”
Chapter Two
Taking the steep, narrow steps two at a time, careful not to trip, Sarah came to a well-appointed entranceway with a long weathered wooden bench with room for a brass umbrella stand and hat hooks, to the right was a closed frosted glass door. Mrs. Mildred Needham’s Studio of Virtuous Young Beautiful Women Artist Models was written in crisp black letters.
Taking a steadying breath, Sarah turned the knob and entered the sparsely furnished parlor.
“Sophronia! You are late,” barked Mrs. Needham.
“Sorry, Mrs. Needham,” breathed Sarah, answering to the exotic name Mrs. Needham had chosen for her. When Sarah showed up on her doorstep a few months ago, Mrs. Needham had decried her black hair and swarthy complexion. Also detesting what she termed Sarah’s “heathen colonialist” name. Mrs. Needham rechristened her, Sophronia. So Sarah Grey of Dumfries, Virginia became Sophronia Greyson of…of…well…she couldn’t exactly remember where she was supposed to be from now. Mrs. Needham had mentioned it a few times but it was an odd sounding little place and Sarah would be damned…dashed if she could recall it.
“You are positively caked in mud,” snorted Mrs. Needham disdainfully, “and with an important new client expected any moment. He could open quite a few doors for us. Not to mention bring in a tidy sum.” The older woman buried her face in her white lace-edged handkerchief, the only spot of color in her unrelenting black widow’s weeds ensemble. Not that Mrs. Needham was a widow or a Madam for that matter. It was a necessary little bit of subterfuge in order to run her business.
Mrs. Mildred Needham’s Studio of Virtuous Young Beautiful Women Artist Models provided female models for painters, theatrical posters, advertisements and the new amateur photographers. With London being a bustling, cultured city full of all sorts of artists and commerce there was always a great demand for females to sit for paintings and photographs. It didn’t pay much and it wasn’t entirely considered respectable work but it was better than domestic service or being a governess. Sarah found it exciting, except when she found it boring. The artists could be interesting and humorous but the sitting perfectly still for hours on end became terribly tedious.
Mrs. Needham was a good sort, if a bit dramatic. She treated her girls well and attracted a nice clientele. None of those shifty lot who only wanted a girl to pose stark naked for one of those French postcards. Mrs. Needham ran a clean establishment. Absolutely nothing scandalous. Of course, it depended on your definition of scandalous. Society had one definition. The art world had another. For the most part, her girls never posed nude but a classic, Grecian draping was acceptable under the proper circumstances. Proper being Mrs. Needham was paid the right amount of coin for the privilege.
Of course rumor had it Mrs. Needham was quite the loose tart back in the day. There were whispers she was the model for the famous painter Delacroix’s Odalisque…the nude model. The thought always made Sarah inwardly smile whenever Mrs. Needham lectured her about deportment and proper behavior. Sarah doubted if Mildred was even her Christian name. It was probably something far more scandalous like Maude or Millie.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Needham. I’m afraid the water-cart got at my skirts again,” mourned Sarah. Pulling at her sodden attire, as she told the half-truth. Hoping Mrs. Needham would be sufficiently distracted by her ruined skirts to notice her red cheeks and bright eyes. The absolute very last thing Sarah wanted was to arouse the curiosity of Mrs. Needham.
“Really. And how do you explain your tardiness?�
� asked Mrs. Needham crisply.
“Well see, it involves a dancing monkey and hurdy-gurdy player,” started Sarah, warming to her subterfuge...which again was only a half-truth she told herself.
Raising her palm up in warning, Mrs. Needham shouted, “Not another word, Sophronia.” Turning on her heel, she crossed the slightly worn carpet and pulled back the emerald green curtain separating the parlor from the private rooms. “Euphemia,” she called out. “Come here at once.”
After a moment, a delicate girl with reddish blond hair in a blue calico dress appeared. “Yes, Mrs. Needham.”
“Euphemia, do please take care of this,” implored Mrs. Needham with a sweeping hand in Sarah’s direction.
“Of course, Mrs. Needham,” said Euphemia with a curtsy as she grabbed Sarah by the arm and ushered her out of the room.
“The client will be here shortly. So do not dawdle,” called Mrs. Needham after their retreating backs.
Both girls giggled as they scurried along the back corridor, waiting till they were safely behind a closed door before bursting out laughing.
They were in the private salon which had been converted into a large ladies dressing room for all the girls. It had four full-length mirrors and several old wooden wardrobes filled with dresses. It even had some cast off costumes from the neighborhood West End theaters. Occasionally the clients requested a particular theme for their sittings and paid extra coin for Mrs. Needham to provide the props and costumes.
“You really need to tell her you hate the name Euphemia,” laughed Sarah. “It is truly dreadful.”
“You’re one to talk, Sophronia,” smirked Euphemia or more accurately Elma. Like Sarah, she was the recipient of a name change from Mrs. Needham. Elma was a “heathen Scot” from the Highlands. According to Mrs. Needham, Elma was cursed with garish red curls and similar to Sarah…a swarthy complexion. Mrs. Needham felt anyone not born within the borders of jolly old England was by default cursed with a less than ideal complexion usually described as swarthy, whether or not it was true, which in Sarah’s case it was not. Despite Mrs. Needham’s protestations, she was proud of the fact she could offer the gentlemen artists of London such a wide and varied selection of female models.