The Awakening of Ivy Leavold

by Sierra Simone

  I reached out a hand, following the noise, using my memory as best I could to navigate around the furniture. My fingertips grazed something—a sleeve—the sleeve of a dinner jacket—and I seized the arm within it and pulled its owner close. I reached up to touch their face, to make an identification, and then I felt lips pressed against mine. Not Mr. Markham’s lips—these were fuller, gentler. I felt myself tense under the unexpected touch—Mr. Markham was watching and I felt some sort of loyalty to him, however misguided that loyalty was.

  “It’s okay,” the person whispered. “It’s part of the game.”

  The Gallic accent gave him away. “Hugh?” I guessed.

  “One for Miss Leavold,” I heard Helene say.

  I kept walking, bolstered by this little victory. Arms out, fingers flexed, I ran right into a woman who smelled of something spicy and exotic. I wondered if she would kiss me too, but instead, she wrapped her fingers around mine and placed them against her chest, sliding them down from her breasts to the nip of her waist and then the swell of her hips. The embroidery on her dress scratched against my palms. Who had been wearing an embroidered dress?

  “Adella?”

  “I am Charlotte,” she said with a throaty giggle.

  “What’s the verdict, Markham?” someone asked.

  “Relieve her of it,” he answered.

  And then a couple pairs of hands spun me around and started tugging at my dress.

  “Wait—” I protested feebly.

  “Our rules, sweetie,” Molly said from nearby. “Every wrong guess costs you one article of clothing. And the dress counts as one.”

  Hooks were unfastened, bustles unhooked, and suddenly the dress was pulled up above my head and cast aside. I now wore only my corset and petticoats with a very low-cut and thin chemise underneath them. I shivered—partly from the feeling of air brushing against my shoulders but also from a feeling of excitement. The knot in my belly tied itself anew, tightening itself at the unexpected thrill of being exposed before so many, and at Mr. Markham’s behest.

  I caught another woman next, and this one did kiss me, parting my lips with her soft ones. She pressed her body against mine, and even through my corset and her clothes, I could feel her curves.

  “Ettie,” I said confidently.

  “Hmph,” she said, pulling away. Another point for me. And so it went for two more turns, until I came upon a man. Not Mr. Markham—I would know him blindfolded, deafened, and deprived of touch. This man was slightly taller. And rather than kiss me, he took my hand and brought it to the front of his breeches.

  “How am I supposed to tell from this?” I said, a little bit indignantly and to the great mirth of the onlookers. “Owen?” I guessed.

  “Silas,” he replied and then my hand was inside his breeches and he curled my fingers around his quickly stiffening cock. “Maybe before I leave, I can make the memory of this so indelible that you’ll never lose a game again.”

  I withdrew my hand, feeling Mr. Markham’s gaze even while blindfolded, and Silas clucked in disappointment. “What shall she have off then?”

  “The petticoats!” the others cried.

  “Just one,” I said, “just one!”

  But all three came off. “They really work together as one unit,” Silas explained. He was the one who reached his arms around my waist to untie them and pull them down over my hips. I was now only in my stockings, corset and chemise, which came down to the middle of my thighs.

  “I do feel less impeded now,” I said to the general amusement of the room, and I found myself much less self-conscious than I would have imagined, being so exposed. It must have been the wine.

  The next person I caught was Molly—I knew it by her slender figure and the familiar way she nipped at my neck. But after that, I mistook Adella for Helene, and lost my corset. Adella herself unlaced it, quickly and deftly, and I felt my breasts released as she pulled it off me. They felt swollen, ripe, and the sensation of the now-loose chemise brushing against my nipples was enough to make me shudder.

  “Oh!” Adella exclaimed, pulling up the chemise to expose my backside. “Regardez-vous,” she ordered the others. “Très délicieux.”

  She ran a finger up my thigh and I jumped, moving away from her. “Now, now,” Silas reproved. “You’ll frighten our little deer.”

  I had no sense of distance without my vision, but I moved fairly quickly away from Adella and ran right into someone tall and lean, someone who steadied me with calloused fingers on my arms. This time, I initiated a kiss, knowing it was Mr. Markham, and wanting nothing more than to press my body against his and feel his skin against mine.

  “I know you,” I breathed against him.

  “Well, by all means, hide it from the others and guess incorrectly.” His hands slid down my hips. “It’s time for this to come off.” He rucked up the chemise.

  “Not a chance,” I said. “I intend to win. I’ve caught you.”

  “I think you’ll find, wildcat, that I’ve caught you.” And then he tugged the chemise up and over, sliding it off me with an ease that suggested practice with a lady’s underthings. I was now naked, save for the stockings, blindfolded and completely helpless. I should have felt embarrassed or frightened, I should have wanted to dart away. But I didn’t.

  I did reach up for the blindfold, thinking that the game must be finished now, but Mr. Markham caught my hands and stopped me. “Not yet,” he murmured.

  He kissed my bare neck, letting his mouth graze over my collarbone and over to my shoulder. I shivered. And then I felt warm hands on my back—more than two.

  Then there were lips on my back, along my calves and on the outside of my thighs. Mr. Markham guided me back until I was on the plush rug by the fire. The blindfold made every sensation seem magnified, sharper, and I could feel the heat of the flames on one side of me, and the cool rug beneath me, feel the fingertips that began to trail along my arms and legs. There were too many to tell which belonged to whom, and I could feel the rougher skin of the men alongside the soft hands of the women.

  And then Mr. Markham was kissing me again, his mouth claiming mine. He was braced on his arms above me, his jacket hanging down and brushing against the sensitive skin of my nipples. I arched my back, and he moved down, his lips searing a path from my breasts to my navel. My legs parted instinctively as he kissed down to the swell of my pubic bone, and an unfamiliar hand brushed over my breast, squeezing it, rolling my nipple between slender, deft fingers, making me whimper.

  Mr. Markham opened his mouth, his tongue hot and lashing, and then there were more hands and lips—kissing my neck, stroking my hair. I gasped as someone took my nipple into their mouth, sucking hard, and Julian continued to pass his tongue over the same spot, and then he slid his finger inside of me, and I wished it was more, I wished it was so much more, but at the same time, it was all too much, the hands and the mouths and crashing tide inside of me.

  “Look,” I heard Molly say, “she’s about to come.”

  A finger followed the heat as it spread up my body, up to my stomach and into my chest, and then two hands clamped down on my hips to keep them from bucking.

  “Oh,” I breathed. “Oh.”

  “She’s such a pretty pet when she’s writhing,” Molly said. “Aren’t you ready to have her underneath you, Julian?”

  “Don’t tempt me,” he said roughly, the breath from his words blowing against my wet center, and then he slid another finger inside of me. I tried to buck harder, and then his mouth was on me again, and then I crashed, tremors roiling through me, my back arching so far off the floor that I could feel the air flowing underneath it. The waves slowed and settled, leaving me limp and warm-feeling.

  “A fine prologue,” Silas said. “But it is time for the main act.”

  I reached for the blindfold again, but I was stopped once more. Mr. Markham slid an arm underneath my knees and back and lifted me, carrying me somewhere. We only went a handful of steps, and I could still hear all the g
uests, so I knew that we were still in the parlor. Mr. Markham sat, bringing me down to his lap. I sat facing out, still naked, and Mr. Markham spread my legs, his fingers once again finding my pussy, now swollen and slick.

  “The others are playing now,” he whispered in my ear. “Would you like to know what they are doing?”

  I nodded. His fingers had already found the tenderest part of me; he was rubbing in slow, light circles.

  “They are watching as Silas undresses Molly,” he said very quietly. “He’s pulled off her dress and now he’s working on her corset—there goes her chemise. She’s almost completely naked now. Silas is kissing her—her lips and now her breasts and now he’s kissing her cunt. She likes that—she likes that very much.”

  I could hear Molly’s gasps as Silas continued his ministrations. I made a gasp of my own when Mr. Markham slid a finger inside of me.

  “Molly is impatient, just like you. She’s undressing Silas now, he’s letting her, and now she’s on top of him, sliding herself against his cock.”

  I could feel Mr. Markham’s own hardness beneath me, could feel him respond whenever I ground against him.

  “And now he’s grabbed her hips and pushed himself inside of her.”

  Molly’s moans filled the parlor. I could hear the noises of others—heavy breathing, groans, and the sound of skin on skin.

  “Everyone has joined in now,” Mr. Markham said softly. I turned towards him.

  “Shall we?” I asked.

  “No, Miss Leavold.” But his voice was ragged. Losing control.

  “Please,” I said. “Please…just a little bit.”

  “No.” This time his voice was more forceful. He picked me up once more and carried me out of the room.

  “Where are you taking me?” I demanded. He had stirred me once again, right after that first climax, and my body clamored for more. I wasn’t finished yet. I squirmed and kicked to get down, and then I was pinned up against the wall, the wooden paneling cold on my bare back.

  “What are you doing?” I breathed, feeling every line of his body through his clothes, feeling his hips pressed against mine.

  He didn’t answer, but his lips were on my neck, hot and scorching, and then he reached down and unbuttoned his trousers. He hooked an arm around my leg, raising it up, and then I could feel the hot length of his cock pressing against me, hard and urgent.

  I slid my hands through his hair and then pulled his head back so that I could kiss him. The blindfold kept everything in complete darkness—reducing everything to sounds and touch—but that was all I needed, because at that moment, the head of his cock pressed up against my folds, and I thought I would never need any other sensation again. I could live forever with only this feeling—the blindfold silky against my eyes, his dinner jacket soft on my breasts, his wide crown slowly, oh so slowly, pushing in, caressing me, separating me.

  “Oh, wildcat,” he moaned, his head buried once again in my shoulder. “Oh, God. You feel so good. Make me stop. Make me stop.” He pushed further in and I gasped.

  “Don’t stop,” I begged.

  We stayed there for a long moment, me pinned against the wall, his breath against my neck, his cock barely inside of me. I could feel every heartbeat, every pulse, and all I wanted was for him to finish it, to thrust all the way inside, and fuck me against this wall, right where anyone in the house could see.

  With a throaty exhalation, he pulled away, his lips leaving my neck, his hips parting from mine.

  “No,” he said again, and he finally sounded in control of his voice. “I can’t.”

  I had a litany of protestations, of reasons why it was okay and right even, but then I felt the blindfold removed from my face. I looked at him for the first time in an hour, seeing the flush to his cheeks and the brightness to his eyes. He’d buttoned his pants once more, but a rigid outline was still visible. I reached for it but he grabbed my wrist.

  “Go to bed,” he said.

  “I’m not ready.”

  He was breathing hard still, but his voice was steady as his eyes burned into mine. “Shall I wrestle you to bed, then?”

  I didn’t answer, because I knew the answer was apparent in my face and eyes and in the way I arched my back to press against him. He let go of me and took a step back.

  “Goodnight,” he said, and then he left me, naked and wanting, in the hallway.

  I woke early that next day, before the sun, before any of the guests—some of whom were still in the parlor, sleeping in a tangled mess of limbs and silk. My heart pulled remembering last night; it had been both delicious and painful.

  I only knew one thing—I had to see Mr. Markham. I had to talk to him, had to touch him. He’d invaded my dreams and my waking mind—a thought would arise, only to be chased away by the memory of his lips on my skin, of his hardness slowly pressing inside of me. It was like a disease, falling in love with him, and it made me apathetic and anxious all at the same time.

  I went down to the kitchen to find an early breakfast. Wispel was grumbling around a table, gathering eggs and onions into bowls. “No doubt going to sleep late again, not so much as a hint as to when they’ll want breakfast, and I’m not a magician, I can’t pull a full breakfast out of thin air at a whim.”

  Whether she was complaining to me or I had simply arrived in the middle of an ongoing soliloquy, I didn’t know.

  “Would it be okay if I had something to take with me for breakfast? I’m thinking of going outdoors to eat.”

  Wispel shook her head. “You and the master, both up hours before the others, both wanting separate meals. There’s only one of me, you know, at least until the village girls get here to help with luncheon and supper.”

  “Mr. Markham is already awake?” My heart jumped. I might be able to see him, alone and apart from any of the others. “Is he still in the house?”

  “He also wanted to be outside. I think he had a letter to post in the village. Couldn’t get his valet to do it, like a normal master, oh no.” And despite her grumbling, Wispel pulled together a bundle of warm bread and hard cheese and two hardboiled eggs.

  I took the bundle gratefully, eager to get outside and find Mr. Markham. Wispel must have noticed, because she kept her hand on the food for a moment. “It does not do to follow men about,” she warned me. “The late mistress was much the same way before she married, and it only sowed unhappiness for her.”

  For whatever reason, I didn’t feel defensive or chagrined—Wispel seemed kind enough in her intentions. I did, however, remember my conversation with Mrs. Harold yesterday—the one where she’d accused Mr. Markham of killing not one, but two wives.

  “Thank you,” I told her, and then left the kitchens, my thoughts floating away from kisses in the dark and floating towards sabotaged saddles and gravestones. And so I turned my feet toward the village, knowing now where I’d go.

  The lingering shadows seemed to hug the village church longer than any other building, and so the churchyard still had an air of night about it, even though the main street was now washed with the rosy oranges of dawn.

  I walked through the sagging wooden lych-gate into the graveyard, picking my way around sunken graves and crooked gravestones, looking for a newer grave. I wanted to find Violet. It was something I should have done as soon as I’d come, but my thoughts and energy had been so occupied with her widower that I hadn’t. That surely made me a terrible cousin, but if she’d been alive, she might not have minded. Violet herself had always put men first.

  The graveyard wrapped around the church, the grass impossibly green and the stones speckled with moss and lichen, and then I found Violet’s grave without even needing to scan the headstones. Mr. Markham was standing beside it, his eyes fixed on the stone, his hands behind his back.

  I was unsure whether to approach or not, but then he said, without looking over at me, “Join me, Miss Leavold.”

  I did, all the while thinking of Mrs. Harold and Wispel and their stories. Even though I craved his pre
sence and his touch, I came around the other side of the grave, keeping my eyes on Mr. Markham.

  “You look at me so warily,” he said, again keeping his eyes fixed on the stone. He gave the impression of someone who could see everything. “Are you worried I’m going to bite?”

  I didn’t answer at first. It was strange having Violet’s grave actually before me, actually between us, it was strange and terrifying but it felt inevitable as well. That if he were to kiss me again, we should be here in this gloomy place, staring at her name carved so cleanly into the white marble. Atop the plinth was a pale angel, her hands covering her face, her head bent, perhaps in sorrow or perhaps in shame.

  Whose sorrow? Whose shame?

  “Did you really laugh when you found her?” I asked Mr. Markham. “When you found Violet dead?”

  He finally looked up, his face serious. “What are you talking about?”

  “After Violet died, and you were the first to find her—I heard that you laughed.”

  “No,” he said softly.

  “No, you didn’t laugh?”

  “No, I wasn’t the first to find her.”

  The breeze blew through the yard and I shivered. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that there were footprints in the frost. Someone found her first and left her body there, without going to find help from anybody else.”

  “And then you laughed?”

  His eyes flashed. “What are you implying? That I was happy when Violet died? That’s a very sinister accusation, Miss Leavold.”

  “I’m not accusing you of anything,” I said.

  “Yet how carefully you keep your distance.”

  Because you frighten me. And he did, in that moment. His anger was palpable, as was some darkness that roiled within him, and at the same time that part of my brain signaled me to step backward, another part of me remembered that I was dependent on him for everything—for shelter and food and almost every portion of my well being. I needed to remain sensible of that—that no matter how I loved him or how I feared him, I still relied on his goodwill and benevolence.