by P. J. Fox
She felt the tip of the plug, pressing against her entrance. Forcing her to expand and expand, to accept the invader. This time she did moan. It hurt. She wiggled, and he gentled her with a touch. He was going slowly, so excruciatingly slowly. In consideration of her body’s limitations, she knew, but also to drive home the fact that he was in control.
There was a moment of sharp, clear agony and then the plug was in. She sighed. He helped her to her feet, steadying her. “Does that feel alright?” he asked.
She nodded. It felt strange. There was a foreign sense of…invasion. Of pressure. A tingling.
He slid his hand down over her flank and then turned, walking toward the door.
He stopped, his hand on the lintel. “I expect you downstairs in ten minutes,” he said.
She nodded, although he couldn’t see her. He was gone, and she was alone. She stood in the center of the room for a long time, staring at nothing. She’d worn a plug before but…not like this. Having it inside her was a constant reminder, even now, of his control over her. Of the fact that she could take it out but she wouldn’t. Didn’t dare. Didn’t really want to, even if she had dared. Because this pleased him. And knowing that she was pleasing him by submitting to him like this gave her a strange sense of power. Over him. Over herself. And….
She liked the sensation. She didn’t know how she’d survive dinner, though; she couldn’t concentrate on anything except the feeling of the plug inside her. Like a hard cock planted firmly between her legs, demanding her attention. Thinking about it made her think of Ash and…what was going to happen later.
She swallowed.
It was a good deal longer than ten minutes later when she finally left their room, having slipped the dress he’d given her on over her head and asked for Luna’s help in zipping it up. Regarding herself in the mirror, she’d been astonished. The sheer confection was the same midnight blue as the sapphires around her wrist: form-fitting mesh draped down from a low boat neckline, clinging to her every curve. Appliqued flowers covered—barely covered—her breasts and crotch. There was a gap between her breasts that opened up to a sheer midriff, with only the daintiest covering of flowers where her panties should be. Had she been wearing panties they would have been fully visible. In front and in back.
Which meant that the plug was also visible, if only barely. But she tried not to think about that. There was nothing she could do, except draw attention to her problem by her own humiliation at it. And she was humiliated. She felt like she was on display.
Which, of course, she was.
She took the stairs with difficulty, conscious of the plug within her. She felt like she was probably walking funny. She hoped she wasn’t. She also hoped that no one was behind her to see, perhaps, the faint shadow of the plug beneath the mesh and the sprinkling of appliqued flowers. A fresh wave of humiliation washed over her; what was she doing? She’d worn revealing dresses before, but never anything like this. Not out and about, where people could see her. She felt so exposed.
Ash was waiting in the hall.
Hearing her, he turned. His eyes flashed. But before he could speak, there came the crunch of gravel and, on its heels, two quick blasts from a car horn.
Their guest had arrived.
EIGHTY-ONE
The door blew back and the wind blew in, spattering them with rain.
Outside, a late model sedan of a make Belle didn’t recognize glittered under the artificial glow of the outdoor lights. She shivered, and Ash put his arm around her. They waited there together, in the door, as a figure emerged from the driver’s side. He was all but invisible under the most British-looking outerwear that Belle had ever seen.
Slamming the door shut, he turned toward them. She still couldn’t see his face, shaded as it was under the wool watch cap he wore. He’d wrapped the lower half of his face in a scarf. She recognized the distinctive plaid.
She felt a thrill of fear. Who was this man? And what was about to happen?
And then he was inside, the door shutting behind him as he greeted them both enthusiastically.
He hugged Ash, who seemed surprised, but then turned to Belle and said, “I won’t hug you, as I’d ruin your lovely dress. Not to mention, give you a chill that would undoubtedly turn into pneumonia. You can’t possibly weigh more than six stone. Ash,” he said, turning, “she’s lovely but you didn’t tell me you were starving her to death.”
He removed his cap, revealing a shock of blond hair, and unwound his scarf. He was, indeed, now standing in a slowly spreading puddle of his own making. There would be flash floods, if there hadn’t been already; some of the roads might be washed out by morning.
Where Ash was a cold, reserved presence, Piers was laughter and light. A huge, and entirely genuine smile split his strong-jawed face. He did indeed look, to quote John Lennon, like every Saxon mother’s son. His appraisal of Belle had been without rancor; indeed, he seemed genuinely alarmed that Ash might not be caring for her.
“I assure you,” Ash said, “that consumptive is her natural state.”
“Well I say, then.” Piers handed Ash his trench coat as though Ash were the butler. “We’d better get to feed immediately. Which, speaking of, you did plan something in that department? Didn’t you? Because I’m famished and, regardless of what you may claim, you great woman-abusing oaf, the local cuisine is terrible.”
Ash, without comment, passed the assembled outer garments off to Diana.
“Well?” Piers asked. He seemed to be waiting for something.
Ash arched an eyebrow.
“Aren’t you going to introduce me properly to this woman, who’s made an honest man out of you?”
Ash smiled slightly. The expression was fleeting, but genuine. More a softening of his eyes than any actual movement. He glanced at Belle. “This,” he said, a certain note of pride in his tone, “is the inestimable Belle Wainwright, formerly of Scarborough, Maine and now of House Singh. She blesses us all with her presence, and is the smartest and, dare I say, most tolerant woman I know.”
Piers held out his hand. A great, square-shaped thing. His palms were rough; he must still row regularly, then. Out of his coat, Belle noted that he certainly had the build for it. And how.
“Then I’m gratified to make your acquaintance.”
Belle blushed.
“I’ve been here not five minutes and already I can tell you that this is the happiest I’ve seen the old boy since he finally succeeded in pushing that—oh, God, what was his name? Henry—out the window during third form finals.”
This was Ash, happy?
“You’re overstating things a bit, aren’t you?”
Piers considered a moment. “You’re right, of course,” he said, deliberately mistaking his friend’s meaning. “I’ve never seen you this happy.”
Ash looked pained.
Belle smiled brightly. “Who wants drinks?”
She led them into the small parlor. In all the excitement, she’d forgotten to be self-conscious and indeed was reveling in the attention. Piers wasn’t anything like she’d expected. He was open and expansive, cheerful in a way that seemed completely natural. She couldn’t believe that he and Ash were friends. Ash was so reserved and Piers, well, clearly was not. He was charming, after his own fashion. Very charming, some women might argue. And certainly very good looking.
Piers sprawled in one of the chairs. Belle sat beside Ash on the couch. She bit back an expression of discomfort as she did so, reminded once again of the plug’s presence. How could she have possibly forgotten? Ash didn’t appear to notice, but she knew that he had.
“How’s Grace?” Ash asked.
“Wonderful, as usual. Work is going well.” To Belle, “she’s an editor. Fiction. How she stands the stuff I don’t know—all vampires and werewolves. But she’s got some new author whom she thinks is promising.” Then, to Ash, “she’s spending the weekend at the office, more’s the pity, so her parents have made off with the children.”
“You have children
?” For some reason, Belle found this information surprising.
“Yes!” Piers, for his part, seemed entirely enthused. “Three. Liam, Nat, and little Abigail. She’s two. Liam, our oldest, is almost nine. A fact which I, myself, can scarcely believe. Despite having been present for the conception!” He laughed at his own joke. “Did Ash tell you that he stood for me at our wedding?”
Belle glanced at her lover. “No,” she said.
“Did a fantastic job of it, too. Looked a treat in his morning coat.”
Belle laughed. “I bet.”
Ash’s expression was studiedly neutral.
“I can’t picture him in a wedding,” she confessed. “Or even at one.”
She found that, almost in spite of herself, she’d warmed to this man quickly. It was impossible not to. He seemed so…wholesome. Where she’d never had difficulty imagining Ash within a realm of whips and chains, Piers looked like the most scandalous thing he’d ever indulged in was a second brandy after dinner. Even so, her liking for him wasn’t that. It was that he—she didn’t have the terms to describe her feeling, even in her own mind. He made her feel safe, the way a big brother would. He was kind.
“Oh, he’s been to several. Indeed, several for the same people! A number of our school chums have done with their starter marriages and moved on. My own brother has been married three times so far. He claims the first and second were, to quote his term, miscalculations. We’ll see.”
Diana arrived with drinks. Piers accepted his gratefully, thanking her. Ash merely nodded. Diana had brought Belle a drink too and while Belle wasn’t much of a drinker, she thought tonight she should be. She’d need a drink, or five, to survive what was coming.
“Weddings are delightful—for women, at least. All the pretty frocks and hats and things, and glowering vicars and stale cake. Although I suppose,” Piers added, a note of mock-disapproval to his tone, “that Ash will want some ghastly Indian-themed affair. It’s always the men like him, claiming to be such innovators, who turn out to be traditionalists in the end.”
Belle, blushing scarlet, shook her head. “I….” She trailed off. She didn’t know how to respond. Why would Piers bring up such a subject? Talking casually about Ash getting married, as though the idea of him going through such a ceremony—making such a commitment—to another woman should be of no import to her?
Piers turned to Ash. “What?”
Ash said nothing.
“You mean you haven’t asked?”
Belle looked up sharply.
“No, of course not.” Ash managed to make his response seem like a joke. “I’m afraid she’ll say no.”
He—they meant her?
“And to think, you’re denying her the chance to meet your charming brother.”
“When Anish got married,” Ash said, addressing Belle, “the engagement ceremony alone took a week.”
“She burned his hand during the Panigrahana, did she not?”
Ash’s lips quirked in what might have been a smile.
“The—what?”
Ash replied. “A Hindu wedding usually extends for several days, or even weeks if the families involved are truly idiotic, but it only actually contains three parts: the Kanyadaan, or the giving away of the daughter by her father, the Panigrahana, or the couple voluntarily holding their hands near the fire to signify union and the Saptapadi, or the circling of the sacred fire. Because the ceremony is, you see, at heart a Vedic ritual in which the primary witness is the Sacred Fire, Agni, so—”
“Oh, shut up.” Piers made a face. “Nobody cares about fire deities. And in any case, you’re stalling.”
“I’m not stalling,” Ash replied. “I’m refusing to dignify your verbal excrescences with a response.”
“Oh, come on now, I’m sure she’d love to see you in a turban. And she’s been with you this long, hasn’t she? If she hated you that much, she would have fled by now.” Piers put down his empty glass, having made short work of his drink. “Isn’t that so, Belle?”
So, clearly, he didn’t know.
“Yes,” Belle said.
“Belle knows,” Ash said stiffly, “that she’s free to leave whenever she wishes.”
“And yet she’s still here.” Piers seemed profoundly self-satisfied. “Ipso facto.”
Ash turned to Belle, as if waiting for some sort of response. Or perhaps waiting for her to rescue him. Belle had never seen him so discomfited before, and she had to admit, if only to herself, that she found him rather charming like this. She enjoyed these all too rare glimpses into Ash the real human being. Ash the school boy from Harrow, scowling out from under his straw boater hat, must have looked very nearly the same.
“A woman,” she said, with some asperity, “does not anticipate having to make up for her suitor’s deficiencies in confidence by pre-approving him. A man,” she added, “is not a mortgage.”
Piers roared with laughter.
“Moreover, a woman should not be expected to discuss the topic in question unless and until her suitor is fully prepared with a ring. And preferably a picnic basket containing, oh, I don’t know. Handmade chocolates or whatever it is that’s meant to be presented in this sort of situation.” She shrugged. “Having never been proposed to, naturally, I wouldn’t know.”
“And what sort of ring would you want?” Piers asked, clearly enjoying this repartee.
Belle made an expansive gesture. “Oh, I don’t know!” She was making things up as she went along. She’d truthfully never given much thought to the topic of rings, having never been much of a jewelry-wearer—having never, until recently, had the chance to be much of a jewelry-wearer—so she decided to name the silliest, most outrageously impractical ring she could think of. “A cushion cut canary diamond, flawless in every respect, set in a split trellis. Which, of course, would have to be covered in diamonds as well.” There was a term for that, but she couldn’t remember it. “But those would have to be white, I think.”
“All this and heaven, too.”
“Exactly!” Belle beamed delightedly. The whole thing was so ridiculous, she should have asked for a twenty carat ring. A casket full of twenty carat rings. Who cared?
Diana appeared in the door.
Ash stood. “And on that note,” he said, “dinner is served.”
EIGHTY-TWO
“Tell me more about Grace?” Belle asked.
They were sitting in the dining room, sipping cold cucumber soup garnished with smoked salmon. Piers had been regaling them with stories about life in London, his wife’s career and the antics of his children, as well as asking both Ash and Belle questions about their respective callings. He showed particular interest in Belle’s art, asking to see her studio the next morning. Belle, pleased, had agreed to give him a tour.
Piers put down his spoon. His tone became serious. “She is, quite simply, the best person I know.”
Belle smiled.
“I’m exceedingly fortunate that she puts up with me,” he added. “I know I’m not the easiest man in the world to live with—or to love. I…grew up in a very different kind of environment than Grace did. Her childhood was idyllic. She’s still close with her parents. And her siblings. I, on the other hand…I need things that she doesn’t. Which she knows, and accepts. She accepts me, and always has. Her family has made me feel welcome in their home since I was a poor student.”
“That’s wonderful,” Belle said.
“Yes it is.”
“But,” he continued, “not to be overly sappy, let me tell you both about the case I just closed.”
The next course was served: roast pork loin stuffed with apricots and served over green beans. There was also, Belle was pleased to see, something that looked and tasted just like a twice-baked potato but that the French called something else. Just like they called green beans something else. There was, mercifully, also another bottle of wine.
Ash tasted the wine, declared it drinkable, and poured Belle a glass. She was seated to his left, Piers to
his right. His hand lingered on the glass, over hers, and was gone.
“Yes,” he said. “Do.”
“I know Ash has a strong stomach.” Piers sipped his wine. He’d had several glasses already but appeared completely unaffected. “And you must, too, dear girl, to be living with him.”
“Oh, he’s delightful.” Belle glanced at Ash, who said nothing. But his eyes softened slightly.
“Ah, young love.” He turned appreciative eyes on his pork, and tried a few bites before continuing. “Supposedly pork tastes just like human flesh. The other white meat, and all that.” He cut another piece. “At least, according to the chap we just arrested. We call him Fang, because he’s got metal teeth. Had his own removed, I guess, and these ones implanted.
“Apparently the set God gave him wasn’t sufficient to the challenge.”
“What challenge?” Belle asked stupidly.
“Chewing. His victims. He’s eaten ten—that we know of. But he claims to have eaten five times that. Overcompensating. Probably.”
Despite his cavalier tone, Belle could tell that Piers took the case—and his career—seriously. It was in his eyes. He might be smiling but, when he talked about his work, they were as hard and emotionless as steel. This wasn’t, she realized with a thrill of fear, someone she wanted to meet in a dark alley. At least, not if she were a criminal.
Beneath his jovial façade, this smiling man was absolutely terrifying.
Which Belle, oddly, found comforting.
“How did you catch him?” she asked.
“He’d made it his mission to rid the world of prostitutes, much like a certain crown prince a hundred years ago.” Piers meant Jack the Ripper, whose identity had never been conclusively proven. Although popular theory still held that it might have been Queen Victoria’s son. The boy, who was unstable, had had an…unsavory reputation in London that the palace never entirely succeeded in covering up.
“He stalked his victims in secluded places, apparently assuming that any woman who had the misfortune to be alone in one must therefore be a prostitute. So we set up a sting.”