by Juniper Bell
The Marquis had never been called sentimental in his life, but he could have sworn a tear was forming in his left eye. He blamed the fever.
“But how did you find them again?”
“My new guardian found them.” She winked. “He’s already doing a much better job than my old one.”
“New guardian?” The Marquis frowned, not liking the sound of that. He ought to be the one watching out for Miranda, no one else. “Do I know him?”
“Intimately.” She burst into a full-fledged grin.
“The Duke of Warrington?”
“It turns out he’s a distant relation on my mother’s side. I applied to make him my new guardian, and seeing as how he’s the Duke of Warrington, the Court agreed right away. His first act as my guardian was to trace the path of the earrings, then purchase them from the Duchess of Blaine, who’d lost interest in them last summer when pearls went out of style. He had them delivered to the Vicious…to Smythe along with a strongly worded warning. I don’t believe any of us has to worry about that worm ever again.”
The Marquis fell back on the pillows. It was all good news, and yet…and yet… “This isn’t quite satisfactory, I find. I’m delighted for you, my love, but disappointed that I didn’t do more.”
Her eyes widened. “More? In what sense, more?”
“I should have been the one to save the day. And yet I did nothing besides get plugged at point-blank range.”
“And ask for my hand in marriage.”
“Well, yes, of course, but—”
“Speaking of which, I have a note for you from my guardian.” She reached into her bodice. His gaze tracked the motion of her hands as they searched the lovely mounds beneath her clothing. Unbelievably, he felt his cock stirring under the coverlet.
She drew out a folded piece of paper with the Warrington crest and dangled it before him. “There are two parts to the note. I’m to decide which one to show you first based on how much your fever seems to be affecting you.”
He frowned, befuddled. “And?”
“Well, let’s see. We’ll give the first note a try.” She opened the trifold piece of paper and showed him a one-word scrawl in the Duke’s handwriting.
Yes.
“What the devil?”
She let out a sigh and shook her head. “I should have known you weren’t quite ready. If only you’d had the willow bark tea, you’d be much more yourself by now and—”
“Miranda, I’m warning you.”
She unfolded the final third of the note and read aloud.
“You will repeat your request for the hand of my ward, the Honorable Miranda Hampton, in my presence or I will see you for pistols at dawn on a date of your choosing. Best, Warrington.”
He caught her to him and she came laughing into his arms. “Was that really necessary?” he muttered into her warm neck. “I’m a man of honor. Once I make a proposal, I stick to it. Besides…”
Firmly, he put her aside, determined to do it right this time. “The first time I saw you, something about you tugged at my wicked old heart. I didn’t know what it was until it had taken root and bloomed into something I never thought to see in my lifetime. I want to keep discovering the secrets of your soul. Together, there’s no limit to the joy we can conjure. I love you, Miranda. Will you marry me?”
A rosy blush spread across her face. Tears sprang to her eyes. She held up the first note with its bold “Yes”.
“Letting the Duke do your talking for you, I see.” He smothered her face in kisses. “I might have to devise some kind of punishment for such demure behavior.”
“Yes, my master.”
Epilogue
Marriage to the Marquis has its up and downs. Which is to say, we take advantage of both the attic and the cellars, and all the places in between, including the staircase. One night a week, all the servants are given the night off, and at such times, I might find myself spread across the dining room table, adorned with sweetmeats the Marquis samples with his devilishly clever tongue.
Or I might surprise a caped, masked stranger in the foyer. He carries me up to the attic and makes me take off each piece of clothing, one by one, while he watches, slapping his leather gloves against his booted leg. Once I’m naked, he ties my hands to a special hook installed in the ceiling and puts his gloves back on. He runs his leather-clad hands over every part of my body, paying special attention to my throbbing clitoris and my buttocks. He spanks me until tingles shoot to my toes, until pain shimmers into pleasure, until my body aches for him.
There is a word, an escape word, but I’ve never had to use it. The Marquis and I are totally attuned to each other. He knows I crave a certain amount of intense sensation. Perhaps I’ve always craved it, always been looking for it.
Then he plunges one gloved finger into my rear passage and one into my quim. I sob and beg for release. But he keeps me on the edge, stroking slowly, tantalizingly, then ramming his fingers home until the sweet spasms rock me to my core.
Then he releases me and spreads my thighs apart so my knees touch my shoulders. He takes the gloves off and fingers the shivering folds that he just plundered.
“Grab your knees,” he says in a voice so thick with lust I become inflamed all over again. “Keep yourself wide open for me.”
I comply, of course. Doing so—no matter what his command—creates a melting feeling inside me. I’m like an opium addict when it comes to my Marquis. Even though my sex is split apart, spread wide, he ignores it and kneels over my head. He opens his breeches so his heavy sex dangles over my mouth. I greedily lick his cock until it’s rigid as an iron stake. I trace the veins that curve around him, taste the gentle salt of his hot skin. When his breath comes fast and harsh, I take it fully into my mouth and inhale the sharp, leathery scent of his arousal, along with the hint of soap and cloves and fine cheroots. The scent of my Marquis.
I know it won’t take him long, so I savor every moment his thick cock spends in my mouth, even though my poor quim is throbbing against the empty air. As he groans and settles himself more deeply into my throat, he reaches behind himself and presses my clitoris with his thumb.
Oh sweet Lord, the touch goes right to my senses. To be so exposed, so open, and to feel the precise center of my need receive the weight of his strong digit, is intoxicating.
“Don’t come,” he orders harshly. “Not yet.”
And so I squirm and moan, fighting to hold off the inevitable detonation. I’m dancing at the edge of a cliff, longing to soar and tumble into the ecstasy that beckons. But because I love the Marquis so outrageously, I stop myself until he pulls from my mouth and hammers his cock into my quim. Then I have no control. I shriek with shocked pleasure and arch my back to take him in more deeply. He shoves my thighs closer to my face, holding them so tightly I know I’ll have bruises the next day. He drives into me, again and again, as I hold my knees apart for him and offer him the very core of my being.
We come together in a raucous howl of primal satisfaction.
And finally the night for which I’ve been begging arrives. My turn to thank the Duke, the Countess and the Earl for saving me. My Marquis has prepared them for the occasion. They’ve all discussed it among themselves and made sure they’re willing to include me in their circle. The Marquis has told me that no one had any objection except the Earl, who was still smarting from his own poor judgment regarding the Viscount and worried I’d hold it against him.
Knowing this, I make my dear, thickheaded Earl the first recipient of my gratitude. Dressed in a flowing, red velvet cloak that parts in the front as I move, revealing naked skin with each step, I glide into the stately bedchamber the Marquis and I share. The Marquis is at my back, keeping a firm hold on the nape of my neck. The message is clear; he is the master of the scene, the master of me.
Through the mask covering the upper part of my face, I feel their eyes upon me. I’m not trying to hide my scar, but merely add a note of intrigue to the scenario.
“The Emp
eror has sent us a gift,” announces the Marquis. “A willing slave girl from his harem. She’s quite lovely and exceedingly well-trained.” He draws back one edge of my cloak to reveal the right side of my body. My nipples are already hard and throbbing. The other two lords, both in their night robes, stand near the bed, which seems wide as an ocean. Lady Alicia lounges on her side, in nothing but garter and silk stockings. She’s fingering her own nipple in an absentminded sort of way.
The sight brings a rapid pulse to my nether regions.
The Marquis cups my left breast and squeezes the nipple between thumb and forefinger until it swells to the size of a thimble. A gossamer thread of arousal tugs at my quim. I feel cool air on the back of my thighs as the Marquis lifts the cloak from behind and firmly grips one globe of my bottom. The fingers digging into my flesh make moisture spring between my legs.
“Spread them apart, girl,” orders the Marquis. “Let them see what beauty hides between your thighs.”
I shift my legs so my glistening flesh can tell the tale of my arousal. From behind the mask, I see the Duke’s green eyes arrow in on me, and the Earl’s hand go to his cock. I make an infinitesimal motion that the Marquis instantly understands.
“Slave girl, your young master’s cock needs to be drained dry. Do you understand?”
I nod, excitement closing my throat. The Earl’s sparkling blue eyes follow me as I approach. He opens his robe. I admire his firm young body, the muscled chest dusted with red-gold hair, the jutting, purple-headed rod. I sink to my knees, the cloak flowing behind me, my breasts bobbing as I settle onto the floor. With both hands, I guide his swollen flesh into my mouth.
The Earl groans in a most satisfactory way. I commence a slow, continuous suckle, traveling the length of his cock with my tongue.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Lady Alicia’s hand steal toward her sex. I smile to myself, glad I’m not the only one who indulges in self-pleasure now and then. The Duke has seen what I saw and climbs onto the bed so he can nestle behind her. As he passes, I see his rampant cock rearing into the air. My breath catches with the need to be filled, to be rent. I watch, sidelong, as one of his hands covers hers, while the other takes hold of one breast. She sighs and works her bottom against his hips.
Both keep their gazes fixed on me. This inspection inspires me. I go after the Earl’s cock as if it were my last meal on earth. I touch his tender sac, pulling at his balls the way the Marquis trained me. My tongue goes as wild as a Bedlamite, lapping and sucking at his flesh.
“Hands and knees,” orders the Marquis. I obey instantly, but without losing a beat in my attentions to the Earl. He’s now holding on to the bedpost behind him with both hands, panting and puffing like a teakettle.
The Marquis flips my cloak onto my back and parts the globes of my bottom. I arch my back to give the Marquis a better angle, and even that motion ignites a flurry of excitement inside me. I drag deeper on the Earl’s rod, opening my throat so he can thrust deep. And then, luscious of luscious, I’m being breached from behind. The wet, clinging flesh of my passage gives way before the determined approach of the Marquis’ shaft. Masterfully, he claims me, drilling deep into my body, as if he could meet the Earl’s cock somewhere in my middle.
And that’s the way it feels, as if I’m a girl on a spit, speared from both ends by hot manhood. It takes no more than one twist of the Marquis’ hips to set off a small detonation. A tiny orgasm to take the edge off my need.
He spanks me, his long fingers lingering against my clitoris. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Sorry, Master,” I gasp around the Earl’s demanding flesh.
The Marquis pinches the center of my pleasure, where craving is already leaping to life, and spanks again. Oh God, it’s going to happen again. I have no defense against the way his strong, clever fingers handle me. I squirm to evade his touch, but he follows my every motion. My breasts swing back and forth, the nipples sensitized by the exposure, and suddenly the Earl is coming into my mouth. I take it all down my throat, grateful for the distraction from the torment between my legs.
The Earl collapses onto an armchair in the corner.
“Talented, but no discipline,” says the Marquis, with a final tweak of my sex. “I’m going to tie her to the masthead, so to speak. You must all have your way with her.”
On the bed, the Duke and the Countess are moving together in a sinuous, familiar way, but they still at the Marquis’ words. “You are the master, after all,” says Lady Alicia cheekily. “We’re here to serve.”
“No. She’s here to serve.”
He hauls me to my feet and strips the cloak off me. Naked and aroused to madness, I stand before them, flushed and quivering. The Marquis marches me to the fore corner bedpost and lashes me there, hands over head, feet together. I wish my feet were apart, so I wouldn’t feel this constant friction. But I have no say in the matter.
Cool, small hands slip around my torso, agile fingers surrounding my nipples. I want to cry. So good, so good. The Duke comes around to my front so he can trace my form with a slow, caressing hand.
“You’re right, she’s ravishing,” he tells the Marquis. “Even more so when she comes, I’d imagine.”
I know, without being told, that the Duke will go no further than a few caresses. He’s completely devoted to Lady Alicia. I feel honored by the impersonal stroke of his hand across my hips.
“Imagine no more. Hand me that hairbrush.”
The silver-backed brushes I received as a bridal gift gleam on the dresser top. The Duke strides to them, tosses one to the Marquis, then climbs back onto the bed.
“Since you can’t see behind you, I can inform you that the Duke is doing the same thing to Lady Alicia as she’s doing to you, with the addition of a cock in her quim,” says the Marquis as he lowers the brush to my sex.
I quiver, my body tense with fear. What will those bristles, soft though they are, feel like against my tender clitoris? Slowly, deliberately, the Marquis drags the brush against my quim, bringing sobs of joy to my lips. It feels as if someone has torn a layer of protection from my body and exposed a deeper layer of sensation. I gasp when the brush leaves me, longing desperately for more.
“Alicia, my dear, oil her bottom hole, would you? The oil’s over there by the Earl.”
The Earl rouses himself from his stupor to reach for a small pot of ointment that sits next to the brushes. He tosses it to the Duke, who hands it to Alicia. Her breath is coming in quick pants, her fingers still working my nipples into a state of excruciating sensitivity.
My nipples are abandoned in favor of the oil. They pulse in desperate isolation, until the Marquis brings the soft bristles to their rescue. I gasp as they pass across each nipple, a scant touch enough to send me into a frenzy. I barely notice Alicia’s quick fingers worming past the bedpost into my rear. A slight coolness, a delicate wetness, a singing pressure on the rim, then… “She’s ready.”
The hairbrush leaves my nipples then. Twisting to watch, I see the wooden handle disappear behind me, then feel its hardness invade my tight passage. I groan under the strange feeling—no heat, no giving flesh. After it passes the outer rim, my muscles accept it well enough, and the now-familiar burn takes the place of resistance.
Alicia’s hands return to my nipples. I let out a long, keening cry. Filled from the rear, I need more. I need the Marquis’ cock in me. It’s not an exaggeration to say that I live for the Marquis’ spanks and his hard cock and his devilish imagination.
I beg him for it. “Please, Master. Fuck me now. I’ll do anything.”
“Yes, you will. For all of us.”
“Yes.”
He shrugs off his robe, takes his great, surging cock in his hand and shoves it inside me. It’s everything I need, everything I want in life. Harsh male growls, the acrid scent of sweat, the moans of Lady Alicia getting rammed by the Duke, my beautiful Marquis pressed against me, it all swirls together into a rush of mad pleasure.
“
Three masters and a mistress for our slave girl,” growls the Marquis.
“Yes,” I moan. “Three masters.”
“Why do you serve us?”
“Because…because…it feels so good…” As he corkscrews into me hard and bright light explodes behind my eyelids.
“And?”
“I’m so very grateful.”
“And?”
“And I love you,” I whisper as I launch into the velvety space where only joy and freedom live. Through a dim haze I hear him cry out as he pours his seed into my bound body. Behind me, Lady Alicia cries out as well, pinching my nipples in her moment of crisis. The Duke gives a roar. The very room shakes with our ecstasy.
It seems to last for an eternity, this mad bliss. As my senses return, I feel complete and perfect. My heart is as full as my various orifices. The past is no more than fertile soil for the present. The present holds my Marquis and my happiness. The future blooms before me, a flower more exotic than anything my innocent imagination could ever have conjured.
As the Marquis tenderly unties my arms and massages them back to life, I know my true master has arrived. My master is not a lord, not a vicious Viscount or a magical Marquis or even a mistress. The true master of us all is love.
About Juniper Bell
Juniper Bell is a multi-published author and avid fan of romance novels, the steamier the better. She lives with her sweetie in a cabin in Alaska with no running water and a spectacular view of glaciers. She wound up in the frozen north after leaving her career as a stressed-out Los Angeles TV writer. Luckily, her love for writing survived the move. When she’s not writing, she’s spending time with her family, traveling, shoveling snow and dreaming about the day she moves to Hawaii.