His Dark Delights - Box Set: BWWM Historical BDSM Victorian Erotica

by N. J Ross

  I felt the beads quiver in my kitty as the Duke slammed the door shut, and I almost dropped to my feet that second, desperate to touch myself and add to the burning pleasure that was already building back up inside me, but I knew that there were potatoes to peel, and I had no choice but to do as my Master had said, and go out there and peel them.

  Chapter 7

  In the kitchen, I found myself moving more slowly than usual at first, as every movement caused a vibration in my pussy, making me gasp with erotic lust, arching my back in sheer pleasure as I peeled the potatoes. The cook shook her head at me in disdain, but Rory’s eyes looked fit to pop out of his head.

  ‘Can I do anything to help you, Melody?’ he asked, lingering beside me, but the cook was quick to snap at him. ‘Get out of here , boy,’ she said. ‘You’re slowing her down. Melody. Chop them spuds at double-speed, would you? And then go and fetch me some hot water.’

  I bit my lip as I began to move faster, the beads jiggling faster than ever, building me up to some terrible climax, so that I was barely able to stand up any longer as I worked. When I finished the potatoes, I walked quickly along the floor to go and fetch the hot water, but had to stop halfway, grabbing on to the windowsill, my knees weak as I felt myself about to come.

  ‘I’m sorry, cook!’ I cried, my legs giving way, my lips trembling. I let out an almighty moan and succumbed to the power of my orgasm, the juice running quickly down the insides of my thighs, clear and wet, like drool. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I panted, managing to walk again, hurrying to get the hot water, but already feeling another climax creeping up on me.

  ‘Oh, I can’t work like this!’ I cried.

  ‘What’s wrong with you, you little hussy?’ the cook cried. ‘First you come in here wearing the most brazen little prostitute’s outfit I’ve ever seen. Then you start moaning and groaning and falling all over my floor as you work!’ She shook her head. ‘Dear me, the young ‘uns of today.’

  ‘I’m sorry!’ I cried, running out of the kitchen, holding on to the banister as I rushed up the stairs, desperately looking for the Duke, to ask him if he might take pity on me and let me release the glass beads a little early. I had become a huge tangle of lust since he had put them into me, like a was a machine with only one object: to satisfy myself, over and over again, and I couldn’t take it any more. I was like an animal on heat. I was a disgrace.

  I ran up another flight of stairs, crying out at the pleasure the beads were giving me, and I was so distracted by lust that I burst right into the Duke’s enormous chamber, catching him lying on his four-poster bed, completely stark naked, with a huge, almighty staff of white flesh sticking right up between his legs, and one of his hands placed around it, gripping it firmly as he tugged at it.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry sir!’ I cried, trying to turn around again, to get out.

  ‘Come back,’ the Duke growled urgently, and I turned back to look at him. His body was so pale and tight and muscular. He had the most perfect pectoral muscles and the hardest-looking abdomen I had ever seen. Granted, I had only ever seen the servant boys half-naked, washing themselves in the old tin bath in the cellar once a month in the evenings, but still. This man was a god in comparison to those boys.

  The Duke got off the bed and stood up to face me, his great staff of white flesh sticking right up, on end, as if standing to attention. I noticed that the end of it was a slightly darker colour, and a little fleshier than the rest, and I wondered what it might feel like to insert something so big and strong inside my moist little kitty…

  ‘I see you could not wait for me,’ said the Duke, smiling. ‘Well, as you can see, our encounter this morning has rather excited me too.’ He looked down at his fleshy rod, and took hold of it, stroking it slowly as he continued to speak to me. ‘I had hoped we could do this romantically,’ he said. ‘I could have lit some candles, prepared a bath for you, tied you down nice and securely and fucked you as hard as I could while you begged for my mercy…’ He grinned. ‘But I can’t wait for all that now,’ he said. ‘I have needs. I need to spill my seed into you, Melody, and I need to do it this minute.’

  He stepped forwards, grabbing me in his huge arms, and pushed me down to the floor, so that I was kneeling in front of his bed. Then, he pushed my face down onto his mattress, and lifted my rump up onto the bed, taking my hips in his hands and placing me on the mattress on all fours now, and he climbed over me. ‘I’m only ever going to fuck you once as your fiancé, Melody,’ he said firmly. ‘After this, every time I fuck you it will be as your husband. Do you understand?’

  Weakly, filled with lust and desire, desperate for his fleshy staff to pierce my kitty and make me his, I nodded.

  ‘But until you are my wife,’ he said, ‘you are merely my plaything, and that is how I shall treat you as I fuck you now.’

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ I said obediently, my rump in the air, my legs parting slightly, willing him to touch my sex.

  ‘Good,’ said the Duke. ‘Then I shall make you mine.’ Swiftly, I felt him pull the glass beads out of my cunt, making me gasp with shock as the cool air passed over my empty entrance, and then, suddenly, my entrance was filled with something else.

  ‘This is my cock, Melody,’ he whispered into my ear. I felt the smooth tip of his cock push my soaking wet pussy lips apart tenderly, resisting slightly. And then, after a small bump of tension, and a little, tight pain, he was all the way inside me. I was totally full of him and it felt incredible. Then, smoothly, expertly, he began to move inside me.

  It was such pleasure, such unbelievable, powerful, bone-juddering pleasure. The little, tight muscles inside my slit gripped so hard, trying to keep him inside the whole time, begging him, with their grip, not to pull out. I felt like all that time spent with the beads inside me had made my muscles naturally tense, and from the way the Duke was growing it seemed that he was enjoying the tightness of my passage very much.

  He pushed harder. It felt like his whole body was a muscle, was a cock, getting exactly what it wanted from me, from my generous womanly form. His hands were everywhere. In my mouth, on my breasts, stroking my naked left nipple, poking erect out from the torn fabric. He was holding me tight, pressing me down to the bed as he fucked me, made me his.

  ‘I’m yours, Duke,’ I moaned. ‘Do what you want with me.’

  I felt him shudder as I said this, and he pumped harder. He was so strong, moving me exactly as he wanted, and what he wanted was to get himself as deep into me, as much as he could. He began to get faster and faster and then, with a moan, he grabbed me and turned me so I was on my back. He took hold of my hips and lifted them up.

  This time, when his cock slipped effortlessly into me, it felt even bigger. It was touching some other part of me and he just pushed more and more. It felt even better than before but totally different, as though he knew, just knew that this is what I’d wanted all along.

  As he fucked me, I felt something different now. I felt the cold glass beads, which were soaked in my pussy juices, pressing against a new entrance. It was the tight little rosebud of my asshole. ‘Sir!’ I shouted, but my protestation simply made him even keener to stick the beads inside me, and with one swift movement, at the same time his cock plunged deep within me, the Duke pushed the beads right up my back passage, making me ache with joy. He moved harder and harder, moaning, groaning, straining to get in and out of me and with every movement of his cock, I felt an equal movement in my backside, like I was being massaged in two different places, giving me twice as much pleasure, making me shout out twice as loud. I could feel my cheeks burning red, and then pleasure building up inside me, burning deep within my kitty, so that I was almost on the point of climaxing, when suddenly I felt this incredible build up of tension in the Duke’s cock. It seemed to pulse with a liquid, throbbing energy. He was spilling his seed into me!

  The thought of this powerful white man throbbing inside me drove me over the edge. In a fog of lust and passion, I reached my hand in
between my legs and started to rub my nub soft then hard and, as he continued to burst inside me, I felt my own climax building inside. I screamed loud and said his name over and over as my body tensed and tightened. My pussy pulsed in time with the last few spurts of semen from his cock, and, just as my orgasm reached its strongest climax, the Duke pulled the beads out from my anus, causing me to scream in ecstasy as the wave of powerful vibrations moved over me. It was like my whole body was juddering with joy.

  ‘Fuck!’ I shouted. ‘Oh, fuck!’

  The Duke smiled, looking down at me proudly. ‘You know what, my ebony princess, my dark delight?’ he said, panting, his cock still hard and spilling a little seed onto my stomach. ‘I think you can still be my plaything, even when you are my wife.’

  ‘Yes please, my husband,’ I said, exhausted and sweaty. ‘I think I would like to always be your plaything.’

  The Duke reached down and kissed me full on the mouth, and I tasted the sweet, salty richness of his desire on his lips, learning, finally, what it meant to become a woman, and knowing, deep down, that I was very much going to enjoy married life. And I was going to be the most obedient wife in the world. Most of the time…

  PART TWO

  Chapter 8

  Past the bustling, smoking metropolises of London and Manchester, north, past sleepy villages where fishwives and farmers mill and chatter all day long, even further, past the tilled fields and tended crops of wheat and barley, past the wild places, the towering grey rocks and fierce bushes of foxglove and dandelion, past the shrubs and the grass, and the frosty heather, that’s where you’ll find me, striding over the landscape with a knife in one hand and a basket in the other, lonely and shivering, but happy and free.

  My name is Faith, like my grandmother before me, yet, unlike my grandmother, I know the bleak beauty of the North Yorkshire Moors like no-one else. I live in Malton, you see, a small village which lies on the doorstep of the moors, and twenty miles from the centre of the county of York. My grandmother, being the finest African woman you ever laid eyes on, never knew this pale country. It was my mother who was brought to England as a slave, some thirty years previously. Happily, slavery was now abolished in this part of the country, but that did not stop black women from being frowned upon by certain white gentlemen and ladies of the English countryside.

  However, I am one of the lucky ones, born into this country with a trade and a certain level of independence, despite my lowly birth. I am what is known as a herbalist, and my education started as soon as I could walk. My mother was a hard woman, and although she was a slave, she didn’t suffer fools gladly. In fact, she didn’t suffer them at all. She taught me that the best way to know for sure if a plant stings is to ‘grab it ‘tween yer fingers’. And a lot of the plants I’m after sting like buggery. My mother died only three years ago, when I was but sixteen. Losing her was like losing my heart, but she always taught me to be tough and strong in the face of misery, so after grieving, I just carried on with life. I never knew my father, so now the inhabitants of Malton were like my family. Even though, being the only black woman in Malton, I stuck out like a sore thumb.

  Milkthistle, St John’s Wort, Rosehip and Lovage; those were the tools of my trade. I’d be sent out by my master, Alec Harding, who managed the stores of the Duchy in Yorkshire, into the wilderness to restock our supplies every few weeks, depending on our needs. I was actually quite useful to the Duchy of Yorkshire. Ever since the Duke had gone missing a few years ago, I’d needed to find the special herbs which the Duchess’ physician gave her to calm her and quiet her worries. I used to live for my trips away, because the work I completed from day to day in the workshop was so tiresome that it fair drove me round the twist. I would either spend time grinding herbs in the pestle and mortar, or drying them by the furnace in the local pub. Sometimes, if the weather was fine (which was of course an unusually rare occurrence) I could dry my herbs outside, on racks in the courtyard. Spending time out there wasn’t so bad, although I’d often get hoots from the stablemen and the other brutes that inhabited the village.

  You see, I was what you might call a ‘bit of alright’. That means I was young, and not so hard on the eyes. My hair was raven-black and smooth, and my eyes were like two sparkling pools of onyx. My black skin was highly exotic to the men of this town, and because of my hard labour, I had a strong, muscular young body with an ample bosom and a pert backside, the like of which the skinny white women of this country would never achieve. People used to tell me that I must be descended from black faeries. I was no princess, that’s for sure, but compared to a lot of the other serving wenches round here, I was a beauty queen. You might think that that’s a good thing, but it caused me no end of trouble. I got cat calls and vulgar demands shouted at me almost every time I crossed the courtyard. The men all asked for a ‘peek at yer black snatch’ (which has such a disgusting meaning I’ll spare your blushes), and then usually would ask me to ‘flash us your tits’ (again, I’ll leave this to your imagination).

  I’m sure you can understand quite why it is that I’m happiest out in the moors, rooting around for plant and bud.

  It was on one of those trips out into the moors that I discovered something remarkable. I remember the day so clearly because unlike almost every other trip I’d ever made; the sun was fat in the sky and the clouds (my almost constant companions) were nowhere to be seen. I’d decided that because the weather was fair, it’d be safe enough to search for bog myrtle in the marshland to the east. It wasn’t somewhere I’d been to many times in my young life, but I knew that we were dangerously low on astringent herbs, and the bog myrtle would be invaluable to old man Harding and the court of the Duke’s family in York.

  When I finally crossed the stream which marked the start of the marshland, I noticed something in the distance that I’d never seen before. It was a dirty looking hut, not big enough to be anything more than a single room, really, but it looked sturdy and, yes, there was a plume of smoke curling from the chimney on its roof. Obviously someone lived here, or at least stayed here sometime. I immediately felt excitement pluck at my heart. I’d been looking for somewhere, anywhere to stay on my excursions into the wilderness. If I was lucky, I could speak to the owner of the hut and negotiate it as a place to stay on the odd time that I’d come out this far. It would mean that I’d be able to gather that many more herbs, and I’d be just a little bit less tired when I returned to the village. It was probably a hut of an old shepherd or similar I picked up my skirts and got myself ready to cross the oft-treacherous ground of the marsh.

  Chapter 9

  The marshland was surprisingly firm underfoot, and although I felt the wet squelch of the muddy ground a few times when I stepped slightly awry, I managed to make it across the boggy ground without so much as a slip or a mishap. There were clear patches of very soft ground though, which I avoided like the plague. I shuddered to think how treacherous it would be out here, late at night, with the moor fog descending and visibility poor to non-existent. With rain in the air it would be even worse, with one wrong foot-step sealing your fate at the bottom of the slimy bog.

  When I came close enough to the hut to examine it a little, I was surprised to see that by its side was a section of tilled land, which had been planted with crops. I recognised potato plants, lined up in neat rows, and a brace of cabbages, also growing big. Whoever lived or stayed here was quite the adept farmer. The hut seemed quaint to me, somehow, and friendly, as though it had been well looked after. Indeed, rather than being made from festering old beams of wood, which would not have surprised me given the shack’s environs, the quality of the timber was excellent, and the little abode looked dry and quite cosy.

  I circled around the building, peeping in at the window, trying to see what was inside. I was hoping that someone didn’t live here all year round, as that would mean I most certainly would not be able to stay here on my nights away from the fort. As I approached a window on what was the backside of the s
tructure, I saw that there was a gap between the hanging curtains which I could sneak a look through. Inside the cottage was the warm glow of a dying fire, and I could make out what looked to be the shape of a bed, and perhaps a cabinet or table of some kind.

  I surveyed the area, and was saddened to see no obvious signs of bog myrtle which was an essential ingredient in the Duchess’ medicine. The lush green little tufty plant was quite obvious for someone as experienced for me to spot, and try as I might, I could see none of it. It struck me as strange, as the last time I was in this area, I most assuredly found a few shrubs of the plant, and took half a sack’s worth with me. Perhaps whomsoever lived here had been harvesting the local herbs, as well as running a well appointed farm.

  After waiting for what must have been three quarters of the hour, and knocking a few times on the door of the hut, I decided that the time had come for me to head back to the fort. The late afternoon sun was beginning to dip below the ragged Yorkshire hills, and if I left it much longer, I’d struggle to make my way back through the marsh without suffering a mishap of some kind. And then, I heard a sound which chilled me to the very core.