The Devil's Masquerade (Royal Pains Book 3)

by Nina Mason

  “When are you going to pound me hard with your cock?” Mrs. Crosse wanted to know.

  “Later.” He hoped Maggie would give him leave to fulfill his promise. If not for his fear of hurting his wife, he’d plant his flag in the apothecary’s black-bearded bog without a moment’s hesitation.

  Picking up the flogger, he walked around to the foot of the bed and gazed longingly on their two lovely bums whilst stroking his oil-slick, lavender-scented erection. He shuddered as his thumb stole across the empurpled dome, smearing a bead of pre-ejaculate.

  “Take me now, Robert.” Mrs. Crosse circled her hips in a way that made him weak in the knees. “Make me remember this night always.”

  Striding to the side of the bed, he struck her softly with the flogger. She gasped and clenched, but made no noise to suggest she objected. He struck her again, dragging the soft leather tails across her flesh.

  “Oh, you’ll remember this night always, Mrs. Crosse. That much I can promise you.”

  Climbing onto the bed, he crawled up behind them on his knees, and commenced playing both their bottoms like a pair of drums, alternating betwixt open and closed-palm slaps. When he’d had his fill, he bent to kiss and lick the marks he’d made on each plump cheek. Moving behind Maggie, he fit his cock against her tight, wet entrance. He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth to keep from thrusting into her like a wildman.

  “Occupy me, Robert,” Maggie pleaded. “Please.”

  “No, occupy me,” begged Mrs. Crosse. “You can have her anytime, but I have only tonight.”

  Maggie rocked her hips and pushed back, taking the head of his cock into her. He gasped at the intense surge of pleasure attending the partial penetration. He held back, fighting to cage his desire. He slapped her on her cheek, hard and open-palmed.

  “I will occupy you when I am ready. Both of you. And not a moment sooner.”

  Despite the rebuke, he filled her in one long, languid thrust, thrilling at the feel of her encasing heat.

  “Dear God, Maggie. You feel so good.”

  “You devil!”

  Mrs. Crosse’s foot struck him in the hip, dislodging him from Maggie and nearly knocking him off the bed. Regaining his balance, he snatched up the flogger and let it fly across the widow’s buttocks. Once, twice, thrice, with no mercy.

  “You bitch!” He whipped her again. “I shall teach you to defy your Lord and Master.”

  “I want you inside me,” she sniveled, face in the pillow. “I’ve dreamed of swiving you these five years. Why will you not put me out of my misery?”

  “Yes, Robert,” Maggie put in. “Why will you not give the poor woman what she yearns for?”

  “For you, Rosebud.” He gaped at his wife’s back, all astonishment. “I have no desire to hurt you.”

  “Occupy her, dear heart. Go ahead. I shan’t begrudge you for it.”

  He could not believe his ears. Aye, she’d agreed beforehand, but he did not believe her heart was truly in her consent. “Are you certain?”

  “For the love of God,” cried Mrs. Crosse. “Just do it.”

  Robert, disinclined to argue, moved into position behind the widow and, fisting his cock, rubbed the aching tip the length of her vulva, which was lusciously heated and swollen. Upon reaching her entrance, he thrust his hips, taking full occupation with one slick stroke. He groaned as he attained his full depth, so sublime was the envelopment of her humid flesh. As he pumped her, Maggie came up on her knees beside him and unfurled the flogger against his clenching posterior. Good God in Heaven. The feeling was so stimulating, he would be hard pressed to hang on.

  As he fought the urge to ejaculate, Maggie’s mouth found his. When he gave her his tongue, she sucked it hard whilst she cupped and squeezed his balls. It was too much by half. Too good, too intense. His thrusts picked up speed. Mrs. Crosse let out a pleasurable cry every time he slammed into her, seating himself to the hilt. With each forceful stroke, his legs shook and pleasure pulsated through every inch of his body.

  The apothecary was screaming now and driving back to meet his thrusts. Maggie was sucking his tongue so hard the base felt as though it was tearing loose from his mouth. She was squeezing his cods and whipping him, too.

  Holy God. Holy God. Holy fucking God.

  Mrs. Crosse wailed as her muscles clenched around his ramrodding tarse. When he started to tremble in the preamble of climax, Maggie removed her mouth from his and commenced flogging his arse with abandon whilst saying, “God, how I love watching you swive her. I should be jealous, but I can only think how much I wish it were me you are hammering and me who is hammering her.” Then, turning the flogger on his partner, she cried, “Come on, Mrs. Crosse. Come for us, dearest. Make it the best climax of your life, because you will never know the pleasure of my husband’s penis again.”

  Mrs. Crosse shattered around him, crying out as if being murdered. As her sex pulsed around his, his bollocks drew up, ready to unload. He slowed down and pulled out nearly to the point of disconnecting before pushing into her again. He was breathing hard, his heart was pounding, and he was sweating like a hog. Grasping her hips, he watched with lurid intensity as his blood-gorged stave, slick with her juices, slid in and out of her quivering pink quim.

  Upon his soul, she felt good. Not better than Maggie, just different. And having the two of them together…well, he just hoped the experience had not forever ruined him for one-on-one relations with his Rosebud.

  His cods convulsed, shooting white-hot pleasure up his shaft. Though it took everything he had to pull out, he’d be damned if he’d put a child in Gemma Crosse. Docking his pulsing organ against her tailbone, he groaned as his seed fountained across her back.

  As he dropped back on his haunches, Mrs. Crosse collapsed on the bed.

  “Oh, Robert,” she said through heavy breaths. “So long, so long I have dreamt of this, pleasured myself to the image of you swiving me thusly, out of my senses with the need for your pizzle.”

  “And now that you’ve lived out your little fantasy,” Maggie said snidely, “you had better be satisfied. Because you will touch my husband again over my dead body.”

  Robert gaped at his wife in astonishment, too winded to form words. Somewhere in the miasma clouding his thoughts, he was aware Mistress Margaret had come to the fore.

  A knock at the front door jolted him out of his fog. Scowling in the direction of the intrusion, he growled, “Who the devil could that be at this ungodly hour?”

  “Perhaps the baby would not settle,” Maggie proffered, seemingly her sweet self once more.

  “Whoever it is can come back tomorrow,” Mrs. Crosse put in miserably. “This is my night, damn their eyes, and there is already one too many at the party to please me.”

  Maggie slapped the widow’s rump with a resounding crack. “Be glad I am here, you ungrateful wretch, or you’d still have naught but your fantasies to keep you warm at night.”

  The caller knocked again, harder this time. Whoever it was clearly knew they were at home and had no intention of going away until they’d answered the door. “Untie her, Rosebud, whilst I go see who it is,” he told her, climbing off the bed. “For it might be a summons from the king.”

  “If it is, will you go?” Mrs. Crosse sounded put out.

  He picked up his banyan and punched his arms through the sleeves. “I fail to see where I have another choice. If he demands my presence, I must attend him.”

  Whilst tying his belt, he hastened toward the front door. The caller was now pounding hard enough to wake the dead. Around his face, his hair was damp with sweat and his erection, though wilting, was still evident beneath the thin silk of his robe. Opening the door but a crack, he peered through the gap. To his surprise and dismay, there stood Viscountess Fitzhardinge, eyes smoldering and mouth compressed.

  “Well, it’s about bloody time you opened the door.”

  “I was in bed,” he returned crossly. “Have you brought me a letter?”

  “I have indeed, but w
as beginning to think you wanted it not.”

  Her hands were empty. “Where is it?”

  “Stowed behind my busk for safekeeping.”

  “Then let me have it.”

  “Not so fast.” She pushed on the door, which he buttressed with his shoulder to keep her out. “I thought we might have ourselves a little game of hide and seek before I surrender the contraband.”

  God’s flesh. He already had his hands full, and here was another hoping to play slap and tickle. Not that he would mind if Maggie was still feeling generous, but her mood had clearly changed as soon as he’d spilled himself all over the apothecary’s back.

  “I told you last night I have been a faithful husband.”

  “I know what you told me.” She pushed harder on the door. “But am more inclined to believe what I perceive with my own senses. You let a lady into your rooms this evening—a very attractive young lady who has yet to take her leave. You also took your sweet time coming to the door, and, if I am not mistaken, you are wearing only your banyan at the moment. Though I might not be a great wit, neither am I blind to the evidence of impropriety.”

  “Have you been spying upon me, My Lady Fitzhardinge?”

  “If you thought after last night that I would not keep a watchful eye on you, you are a bigger fool than you take me for.”

  “I never said you were a fool.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “No, as I recall, you called me a liar, cheat, and whore, which by all appearances is a case of the pot calling the kettle black.”

  The fist of Catholic guilt punched him in the gut as he opened his mouth to deny the accusation. All at once, he was acutely aware his fingers were sticky with the icing of another baker’s buns. Did it still count as adultery if a man’s wife had not only given her permission, but shared the pastry with him?

  “Not that it’s any of your business,” he said, thinking fast, “but the female caller is an apothecary, who has brought me some special lotions to help reduce the appearance of the pock holes on my face and body.”

  “A likely story.” Her eyes narrowed to slits. “And where is the duchess whilst this alleged chemist applies her unctions to her handsome husband?”

  “Within,” he said. “Helping.”

  “Gracious me.” Her eyes gleamed. “How liberal-minded all you papists seem to be. Perhaps I should reconsider converting.”

  The accuracy of her assumption caused Robert’s cheeks to burn with embarrassment. Moistening his lips, he said, “Pray, detain me no longer, viscountess. For I am still recovering from my recent illness and require much rest.”

  She lifted an eyebrow archly and fixed him with a challenging gaze. “If you want the letter, you must take it from me, My Lord.”

  “By reaching my hand inside your stays?”

  “I would be equally satisfied by an invitation to join your little soiree.” She batted her eyes. “The choice I leave to you.”

  He took a moment to weigh his options. He could invite her in, pin her down on the sofa, and snatch the letter from her bodice, he supposed, but if she should cry rape, which she very well might, he would lose both the letter and the upper-hand.

  If, however, he invited her to take part in the threesome—thereby making it a foursome—she could not disclose what they’d gotten up to without also implicating herself.

  On the upside, he would get off again and also get the letter—and very possibly the proof he needed to prove Princess Anne’s disloyalty to her father.

  On the downside, he’d have three women to please instead of two and risk upsetting Maggie—and hazard parting with his wife on bad terms.

  Then, he saw. This was bigger than his marriage. Much bigger. The whole future of the British monarchy rested upon his decision.

  Reminding himself he was now an agent for the king, he forced a grin and opened the door. “Do come in, My Lady Fitzhardinge. And allow me to help you disrobe.”

  As the viscountess flounced into the parlor and alighted upon the settee in a swish of silk petticoats, he wondered why Maggie had not come in to see who’d been at the door. Excusing himself with a bow, he went into the bedchamber to check if aught was amiss. There, he found Mrs. Crosse and Maggie on the bed. The apothecary was still tied and blindfolded whilst his wife, to his surprised delight, was pounding her hard with the glass dildol whilst donning his devil’s mask.

  The viscountess be damned, he had to go to them, had to be part of this. Shedding his banyan, he climbed upon the bed and positioned himself behind Maggie. His cock grew instantly hard as, from over his wife’s shoulder, he watched the glass phallus move in and out of the widow’s vagina. God, but it was erotic to watch her swive another woman. Far more arousing than he’d ever imagined. The only thing that could make it even more so would be to fuck his Rosebud whilst she fucked Mrs. Crosse.

  Pressing the front of his body against Maggie’s back, he let his genitals absorb the retort of her thrusts. “Oh, aye, Rosebud,” he whispered, quivering with excitement. “Swive her. Swive her like a demon.”

  Reaching around, he took his wife’s breasts in both hands and thumbed the nipples whilst grinding his erection against her clenching buttocks. “May I occupy you Mistress Margaret?”

  “By all means.”

  Though her answer was barely audible through the mouthless papier mâché mask, he’d heard enough. Sliding his hands down her velvety, bedewed flesh, he attached one to her hip whilst the other glided around to her behind. He squeezed and slapped the flexing globes before pressing the hand betwixt her legs. With two fingers, he parted her labial lips and proceeded to circle her clitoris, which, to his delight, was as engorged as his cock. She also was so tantalizingly wet he could scarcely stop himself from diving right in.

  Maggie let her head fall back, onto his shoulder and, in a breathy rasp, said, “Who was at the door?”

  “The Viscountess Fitzhardinge,” he answered. “She has brought me a letter and, for reasons I will explain later, I have invited her to join our little party.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Maggie was not in her right mind. She could not have been. For, had she been in possession of her reason, she would have been enraged with her husband for inviting another woman to join their depraved little party. But fury was not the emotion churning in her breast at present. The feeling she was experiencing was much closer to unabashed turpitude.

  Robert pulled off the devil’s mask and captured her mouth in a kiss so scorching it burned away the last traces of decency. She was an animal now. Feral and free. Driven by instinct. She felt no inhibitions, no shame—only his tongue probing her mouth, his hard cock wedged in the crack of her bottom, and his fingers circling her clitoris. Her cunny was so swollen, so ready, the entire lower half of her body throbbed with the need to mate. That, however, could wait. Right now, she wanted even more to be in charge, to order him about, to make him her slave.

  She broke free of his mouth. “Robert, will you let me be your mistress?”

  “Aye.”

  That he knew when her dominant alter-ego came out to play—and both embraced and indulged her darker half—pleased her beyond measure.

  “And obey my every command without question?”

  “Aye, Mistress Margaret.”

  “Good.” Withdrawing the dildol from Mrs. Crosse’s cunny, she took back the devil’s mask and put it on. “Now let us go and greet our new guest together.”

  Wearing only the mask and godemiché, Maggie snatched up the flogger and led the way to the parlor. Pausing in the doorway with Robert hidden behind her, she took a moment to study the viscountess. She’d seen the woman around the palace, but knew her only as one of the patronizing Protestants belonging to her half-sister’s salon.

  “Good evening,” she said, entering the room. “I am Mistress Margaret, and I understand you wish to join our game.”

  Lady Fitzhardinge, wearing an expression of shock, stared at her for a moment before she recovered herself enough to reply, “I fan
cy very much to be included.”

  Mistress Margaret stared her down. “In order to play, you must do exactly as I say—to the letter—or be punished. Do you still wish to take part?”

  “Indeed I do. Most eagerly.”

  “Good. The duke tells me you have brought us a gift. Is this true?”

  “Yes.”

  Frowning hard, Maggie slapped the flogger against her bare leg. “You will address me as Mistress Margaret, and will be punished each time you fail to do so. Do you understand and agree?”

  The viscountess lowered her gaze in deference. “Yes, Mistress Margaret.”

  “Where is the letter?”

  “Hidden inside my stays, Mistress Margaret.”

  Robert remained behind his wife, but was still out of sight of their guest. Peering over her shoulder, Maggie said to him in a commanding voice, “Go to her and stand before her.”

  Lady Fitzhardinge’s eyes lit up as the duke, naked and aroused, stepped into view. He went to the sofa and stood before the viscountess, who leered unabashedly at his jutting erection, now only inches from her nose.

  “He is an impressive specimen of masculinity, is he not?”

  “He is indeed, Mistress Margaret.”

  “Would you like to touch his phallus?”

  “Very much, Mistress Margaret.”

  Maggie moved to the sideboard to improve her view of the exchange. “You have my permission to do so, but please be brief.”

  The viscountess reached out a hand and ran her fingers softly over the duke’s organ, which jumped under her touch.

  “Now kiss it,” Maggie commanded. “But, again, be brief.”

  Obediently, Lady Fitzhardinge leaned forward and pressed her lips against the tip of his glans. When the duke made a hissing sound, Maggie’s gaze jumped to his face, which wore an expression of heavy-lidded pleasure.

  “Do you enjoy her touch?”

  “Aye, Mistress Margaret.”

  “Would you like her to suck your cock?”

  “Aye, Mistress Margaret.”

  “Do it, you whore, but first, hand over that letter.”