by Nina Lane
THE EROTIC DARK
Nina Lane
Copyright © 2012 by Nina Lane
All rights reserved.
http://www.ninalane.com
[email protected]
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
Disclaimer: This book contains graphic sexual scenarios which some readers might find objectionable, including dubious consent, BDSM, spanking, whipping, caning, and enforced female submission.
This book is for sale to adults only, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made this purchase. The author and publisher are not responsible for any loss, harm, injury, or death resulting from the information and practices described within this work. Please engage in safe, consensual sexual practices only.
PROLOGUE
Three men stood on the wrought-iron balcony, their gazes directed with unerring precision toward a woman walking on the street below. Ropes of wisteria, their petals and leaves moist with morning dew, twisted around the curvilinear bars of the balcony. Wisps of fog clung to the air as the sun began a slow scorching of the city streets.
The woman wore white, slim-fitting cotton pants and a striped shirt that reached mid-thigh. Her feet were encased in strapped sandals, and she carried a large, leather bag over her shoulder. She moved well, with an easy, purposeful gait, as if knowing her destination and how she would arrive there.
The men were not able to fully view her face, for her eyes were shielded by a pair of dark glasses, but her high cheekbones sloped downward to a strong chin and a mouth that carried the promise of sensuality. Her straight, brown hair fell to her shoulders, capturing and holding the watery glow of the sun.
Two of the men had been informed that the woman was not beautiful, but none was seeking beauty in its conventional form.
“What is her name?” one of the men asked.
Preston Severine looked away from the woman, reaching for a paper-thin china cup filled with coffee. He inhaled deeply, appreciating the dark, chicory scent. “We will call her Lydia.”
“She knows?”
Preston settled into a chair and nodded.
“She is…aware, shall we say.” A corner of his mouth lifted in a slight smile. “I wouldn’t say that anyone truly knows.”
He sipped the rich coffee and returned his gaze to the woman. His next words were soft and certain.
“I believe she will do very nicely.”
CHAPTER ONE
Swamps edged the perimeter of the plantation grounds. The wet heat rising from the waters had caused the wooden casing of the house to warp, giving it an air of forgotten elegance. Antique white in color and accented with green shutters and trim, the house stood in the middle of the grounds like a lord presiding over his underlings.
Willow trees dipped and swayed in the hot breeze wafting from the south, and wild vines climbed rampantly over trestles. Disorder ruled the garden, plants and flowers taking freedom in the humid warmth of the Louisiana climate as they stretched over fountains and flagstone paths, invading the territory as if claiming it for their own.
She sat on a wooden garden bench, the rich scent of gardenias rising around her. Her body was taut with defiance, a sharp contrast to the yielding vegetation and atmosphere of succulence. A heavy silence hung in the air, broken only by the call of birds and the rhythmic buzz of insects.
A noise came from behind her, and she turned to look for the source. The tall, broad-shouldered man stepped onto the wraparound veranda. She suspected he had Creole blood; the evidence lay in the fathomless depths of his black eyes and the light coffee-colored skin stretched over the sharp planes of his face.
His name was Kruin. It sounded exotic and strange, like a name from the ancient deserts of Egypt or that of a cruel, medieval king.
“Your legs.” His expression was impassive.
Her breath hissed outward in annoyance. She and Kruin looked at each other for a long moment in a silent battle of wills. They both knew who would win.
“Lydia.”
Lydia. She would have to become accustomed to that name. She tore her gaze from Kruin and stoically separated her legs from their crossed position, both a symbolic and physical expression of her availability.
The posture had been the very first thing she learned in this place that was both her haven and her prison.
When she had first arrived—had it really only been two days ago?—Kruin had been the one to take the small valise she carried, murmuring in his deep voice that she would not be needing it. She had followed him down the dusty road leading to La Nouvelle Vie and into the foyer, her gaze moving over the flowing curves of the staircase, the chandelier overhead, the polished, hardwood floors.
Lydia’s stomach had tightened with nerves and apprehension of the unknown. She looked down at her hands, the neat, manicured nails that required little or no polish, the small scar on her forefinger from a minor accident when she was a child. No rings, not even the sterling silver band that had once belonged to her grandmother. She was to wear no jewelry, Preston had said, no cosmetics unless they told her to.
Preston appeared then through a set of carved, mahogany doors. Blond-haired and handsome with strong, aristocratic features, he looked the epitome of a regal man in command. He wore black trousers and a crisp white, linen shirt that bore no wrinkles despite the heat.
He smiled at Lydia and kissed her cheek. “Your trip was fine?”
“Yes.” Lydia’s voice was icy, her posture rigid despite Preston’s welcoming demeanor. He had once been a childhood friend, but she had not seen him for over ten years until just last month.
“Good.” Preston smiled again, appearing not to notice her tension. “Come and have some tea, then.”
He took her arm and led her into the drawing room.
Velvet drapes were pulled back from the high windows that dominated the room, allowing the eerie twilight of dusk to permeate the air. Elegant antique furniture gave the room an atmosphere of the past. Lydia silently approved. The archaic house and grounds of La Nouvelle Vie cried out for heirlooms and history.
There Preston had introduced her to the youngest of the three men, Gabriel, tall with thick, black hair, sea-green eyes, and an aura of gentleness that the other two men lacked. He gave her a smile that was both welcoming and reassuring, as if he understood her anxiety. A pale glimmer of solace went through Lydia as she murmured a greeting.
“Please sit down.” Preston walked to a nearby tea setting and lifted a silver carafe.
“I’d prefer to stand.”
Preston’s eyes flashed in warning. “Sit down, Lydia.”
Lydia sat stiffly on the edge of a chair. She shot both Gabriel and Kruin quick glances, but their expressions revealed nothing. Preston handed her a cup of tea, then put both hands on her knees and pushed her crossed legs gently apart.
“Never cross your legs in front of us,” he said.
A flush heated Lydia’s face.
“So, Lydia.” Preston settled into a chesterfield across from her. “Is there anything you want to tell Gabriel or Kruin?”
Lydia wondered what kind of answer he expected. She shook her head.
“No.”
“Perhaps something about why you’re here?” Preston
urged.
“You know why I’m here.”
A lengthy silence filled the room, during which the hostile tone of Lydia’s words echoed against the paneled walls. Apprehension tightened in her gut.
Preston placed his cup on a side-table and leaned forward, his eyes on Lydia.
“Let me ask you again,” he suggested, his voice soft. “Why don’t you tell Gabriel and Kruin why you’re here?”
Lydia looked at Gabriel since Kruin’s dark eyes disturbed her. “I want to be here.”
“Because?” Preston prompted.
“Because…” Her voice faltered.
“You’re here of your own free will, aren’t you, Lydia?”
Lydia nodded. Her throat felt tight. Her options had been limited, but Preston’s seductive enticement had broken through her desperation.
To disappear, that’s what you want, isn’t it, darling? If you disappear, you’ll never have to face what you’ve done, never have to confront those who trusted you.
He had explained it in what Lydia thought of as vague detail. She understood what was expected from her and, in return, she would be protected and dissolved. In the eyes of the world, she would no longer exist.
She trusted Preston enough that she knew he was capable of fulfilling his promise. The profits of her vast embezzlement from the corporation she had worked at for years would be placed in a secret bank account, untraceable by the law enforcement agencies who were scurrying about like mice trying to compile evidence against her.
For ten years, she had skimmed the top until the money seemed to accumulate itself despite the luxuries in which she had indulged. Her anger at herself for having been discovered had been mitigated by her knowledge that she needed to escape. Preston had been the first thought in her mind, for over the years she had kept well informed of his insidious ways and connections.
Whatever he was involved with, she had known it was somehow sexual, that Preston’s sharply elegant manner concealed a streak of deviance. Still, that had not stopped her and perhaps even intrigued her. She had sought him out.
But she had not expected this. She recoiled when he first mentioned it, detesting the very idea of surrendering to anyone when she had been so aggressively independent. She refused, of course, even as she knew that it was the least horrific of her choices.
You need to disappear, love. You know I can do that for you.
She hated Preston for placing the choice in front of her, hated him for not helping her without expecting something in return. To be certain, a hidden part of her was curiously mesmerized by the whole idea. The dark corners of her inner self, however, were not areas Lydia had ever considered exploring.
Why won’t you just help me? Why does it have to be this?
It doesn’t. I would never ask you to do anything you didn’t want to do.
I don’t want to do this!
Then don’t.
You won’t help me unless I do, will you?
This is utterly your choice. You contacted me, remember? And I promise you nothing, except the unequivocal guarantee that no one will ever find you. You will cease to exist.
Who will I become?
Preston had smiled then. Ours.
She understood, even as disgust with Preston and his tactics sickened her. And she also understood her lack of options. The thought of court, penalties, public trials and, ultimately, prison, terrified her more than this.
The damage to her family would be even worse—her father’s campaign for a Senate seat would be destroyed, her mother’s reputation as philanthropist skewered beyond repair. Not to mention her brothers and sisters and God knew how many other members of their extended family.
She had written letters telling them not to worry about her, but she knew they would wonder what had become of her. Preston assured her he would even take care of her family’s concerns, assuage their fears with promises of her safety and well-being. Occasional contact from her would further serve to pacify them.
Lydia recognized that she was entering a different kind of prison, one she had created for herself, but at least she had the comfort of knowing she had made the choice. It had been her decision to the end, until the moment she had stepped out of the car onto the grounds of the plantation.
“You understand what is expected of you?”
The words had come from Gabriel. His voice was deep and somehow soothing, a welcome contrast to Preston’s elegant amusement and Kruin’s stoic silence.
“I think so.”
“And you understand that you cannot leave.”
Lydia almost laughed. Oh, yes. She understood that part very well.
“Yes,” she replied. “I do.”
“You don’t want to leave, do you, Lydia?” Preston asked.
“No. No, I don’t.” She didn’t either, not if it meant returning to the person she had been.
It was there, that first night in the drawing room, when they had subjected her to the start of her initiation into their cryptic world. Under a short command from Kruin, she had unbuttoned her blouse and removed it to allow them to critique her breasts, which were proclaimed to be firm and nicely shaped.
To Lydia’s embarrassment, Gabriel plucked at the rosy tips of her nipples to make them stiffen, and the three men began a discussion on the merits of the size of the round crests in contrast to her breasts.
When that course of conversation had been exhausted, Preston had told her to bend over an inlaid, cherrywood table that stood near the windows. And she had done so, her face burning with humiliation as she was instructed to bend over the table and lift her skirt to her waist, thus participating in her own exposure to the intrigued gazes of the three men.
She pressed her forehead against the cool wood of the table and tried not to start shaking as a rush of humid air swept over the backs of her naked thighs and disgust rose to choke her throat.
Gabriel had slipped his hands between her thighs, startling her as he pushed them apart and reminded her in rather polite tones that she was always to keep her legs apart when she was in their presence. His hands moved over her legs, stroking the arched curves of her calves as he told the other two men that although her legs were not long, they were well-formed and firm.
Preston murmured his approval over the shape of her waist and the flare of her hips that, in her exposed position, caused the cotton of her briefs to stretch over her buttocks and even into the furrow of her sex, creating an alluring little pouch. Gabriel had then removed the underwear that provided her with her last vestige of modesty, leaving it to dangle around her legs like a crushed tissue.
The three men examined her large, firm buttocks that jutted upward, her sex glistening with moisture from the heat, the plump knot of her clitoris peeking out from beneath a nest of luxurious curls.
Kruin ran his hands experimentally over the globes of Lydia’s bottom, his tanned fingers a striking contrast to the pale mounds before him. His fingers dug into the fleshy cushions as if testing their resiliency and strength.
To her shock, tears crowded Lydia’s throat, but she resolutely forced them aside, telling herself that nothing could be worse than what she would have had to face in public.
Kruin squeezed her buttocks, then pulled them apart to expose the shadowy cleft and the puckered ring of her anus. Lydia pressed her body against the table almost desperately, as if she could sink into the wooden depths and hide herself from what was happening to her.
Kruin had proclaimed her “firm enough” to react well to punishment and then, to Lydia’s further horror, he trailed one large finger down the valley of her bottom. His touch was clinical and completely impersonal, as if she were a piece of merchandise he was thinking of purchasing. His forefinger paused at the dark aperture and probed.
Lydia gasped. Her entire body strained against the invasion, earning a mutter of disgust from the muscular man.
“She is far too resisting,” Kruin said.
“She will learn quickly.” Preston didn’
t sound particularly concerned.
Even through her haze of embarrassment and anger, Lydia had comprehended the permanence of his words. Yes, she hated Preston for forcing her to make the choice, but it was too late now.
Now, in this rambling, antiquated house with three men, she was enslaved. Now she was only Lydia.
She closed her eyes against the memory of her first night and breathed in deeply the assorted fragrances of the garden. A breeze drifted up between her parted legs and tickled her bared sex.
She wore nothing underneath her loose, cotton dress, not even the soft down of her body’s natural covering, for that had been deemed by Kruin to be far too abundant. Also he had claimed that her innate defiance required curtailing as soon as possible. The shaving had taken place on her first morning, after they had finished their assessment of her body and allowed her to retire to her room.
Gabriel came in early the next morning, just as dawn was beginning to spill through the curtains covering the French doors. Lydia had found no clothing in the closet and had resigned herself to sleeping in her skirt and blouse from the previous night, which disappointed Gabriel when he arrived to waken her.
“Always sleep naked unless one of us tells you otherwise,” he murmured, his words softly reproachful.
To her confused surprise, Lydia had experienced a pang of regret that she had displeased him, but she attributed her emotions to Gabriel’s soft-spoken manner rather than a hidden desire to obey.
Gabriel waited in the bedroom while Lydia showered, wrapping herself in a thin, cotton robe that was hanging on the back of the door. She gave Gabriel a questioning look as she rejoined him, although all he did was take her hand and lead her downstairs to the dining room.
An immense, walnut dining table dominated the room, along with at least a dozen embroidered chairs. Lydia, who had been expecting breakfast, was confronted with the sight of Kruin and Preston sitting at the table. She hadn’t comprehended the situation until she saw the lathering stick, bowl of water, and razor lying on the table at Kruin’s elbow.