by Nina Mason
“Yes, Mistress Margaret.”
Reaching into her stiff bodice, the viscountess withdrew the letter and held it out to her mistress. Taking it from her hand, Maggie examined the direction to be sure they were not being deceived. The letter was indeed addressed, in a confident feminine hand, to Princess Mary of Orange in The Hague. It also was pleated, folded roughly to the size of a calling card, bound in silk floss, and double sealed to protect the privacy of the message within.
As Maggie set the letter on the sideboard, Lady Fitzhardinge leaned forward and closed her lips around the head of Robert’s phallus.
“No. I want you on your knees. So I can see to you whilst you see to him.” She shifted her gaze to her husband. “Do what you will to take your pleasure, but refrain from achieving climax.”
“Aye, Mistress Margaret.”
No sooner was the viscountess kneeling before him than Robert clutched her head in both hands and drove into her mouth. Maggie walked around and took a seat on the settee. When the duke looked over at her, his eyes glassy with desire, a wicked thrill pulsed through her veins. Holding her husband’s hooded gaze, she slowly licked her lips as she dragged her hands down her naked body.
“Do you enjoy me watching another woman gamahuche you?”
“Aye, Mistress Margaret.”
Pleased by his response, she leaned back on the settee, opened her legs and, whilst he raptly watched, fisted her dildol whilst fingering her clitoris.
“Do you enjoy watching me play with myself?”
“Aye, Mistress Margaret.”
Rising from the settee, she dragged the soft tails of the flogger across his buttocks as she circled around behind the viscountess. Kneeling down behind her, Maggie lifted the lady’s petticoats, exposing her bottom, which was fleshly and dimpled. Maggie slapped one of her cheeks with a cupped palm, making her grunt around Robert’s cock, before embedding the glass phallus in her cunny.
After a few hard strokes, Maggie withdrew, removed the godemiché, and lay down upon the settee with her head on one arm and her feet on the other. “Come here,” she said to her husband. “’Tis my turn to suck your cock whilst the viscountess watches.”
* * * *
Robert was astounded—but in no way displeased—by this new side of his wife. Though he’d met Mistress Margaret before, he’d never seen her take control of any apart from himself, and was a bit shaken by how arousing he found this new take-charge persona. She was so self-possessed, so daring, and so unlike the accommodating woman she’d been since they left Balloch Castle five years before. All this time, he’d thought Hugh’s abuse or the loss of her babies had shut the door on that part of her personality. Glancing down at her now, stretched out on the sofa, naked except for his devil’s mask, he felt a mixture of elation, relief, and hope. This woman could handle herself whilst he was away in Scotland, come what may.
Turning back to the viscountess, he carefully withdrew his member from her mouth. He’d been close to finishing and the eye in his glans was weeping over the deprivation. He moved toward Maggie, holding his engorgement like a wounded limb as he awaited her next command.
“Now straddle me, gently, and place your phallus in my mouth.”
“What about me, Mistress Margaret?” said the viscountess. “What would you have me do?”
“You can either watch or take the glass dildol into the bedroom and have your way with the woman tied to the bed.”
“May I do one and then the other, Mistress Margaret?”
“You may, Lady Fitzhardinge.”
Robert, his groin ablaze with the need for attention, climbed onto the settee atop his wife and positioned himself so his knees were in her armpits. She pulled off the mask and slowly, seductively, ran her tongue around the inner border of her lips. The gesture drove him so wild with desire, he had to close his eyes for a moment to recover his wits. When he opened them again, he found her eyeing him with a gaze hot enough to melt the flesh from his bones. As he returned her stare with equal heat, she opened her mouth in invitation. Easing forward, he guided his cock betwixt her parted lips. Wet warmth engulfed his glans, sending thrills swimming through his system. Closing her lips around his shaft, she began to suck. The overwhelming rush accompanying the effort stole his breath. Gripping the arm of the settee, he dug in his fingers, fighting for control. As much as he yearned for release, he also wanted to prolong the pleasure—for both of them.
Doing so would not be easy, however. The viscountess had already teased him to the precipice of climax, and Maggie’s oral suction and twirling tongue were threatening to drive him over the edge.
She took him deeper and moaned, adding vibration to her other sweet tortures, which included the perfectly applied scraping of teeth.
“Maggie, I—I cannot hold on. Please stop or I shall spill myself forthwith.”
Without warning, she spanked his arse. The sting of the blow bit him hard. His cods drew up sharply, ready to fire. He withdrew abruptly and clenched his jaw, fighting the impulse with every ounce of willpower he could summon.
“Pray, let me please you for a time, Mistress,” he said, unconcerned he was begging. “Let me drive you to raptures with my mouth and then swive you with the same wild abandon as the other night.”
“Oh, do let him, Mistress Margaret. And when you’ve had your fill, command him to do the same to me.”
“Be silent,” Maggie barked, fixing the viscountess with a scornful glare. “And go untie Mrs. Crosse. Then, strip to your stockings and garters and return to us.”
Confusion clouded Lady Fitzhardinge’s eyes. “Pray, who is Mrs. Crosse, Mistress Margaret?”
“The lady you will find bound in my husband’s bedchamber.”
As the viscountess exited the room in the direction of his bedchamber, Robert sat back on his calves and gazed upon Maggie in astonishment. “What do you mean to do with them?”
“Naught,” she said. “’Tis yourself I mean to do things to, husband. I thought, since we cannot visit your governess together, we might all play the part of your governesses here and now. First, however, I need to know what such a person does, so that I might give the ladies the proper instructions.”
“I have a better idea.” He stroked his erection. “Let me spank the three of you. One after the other. Here on the sofa. Over my knee.”
“Oh, yes.” Her eyes gleamed with excitement. “That does sound divine.”
When the two ladies returned from the bedroom, Maggie climbed off the settee and told them the plan. “We are all going to line up and take our turns over the duke’s knee.”
“Over his knee?” The apothecary’s eyes widened. “Does he mean to spank our bottoms?”
“He does indeed, Mrs. Crosse,” Maggie returned with a deliciously wicked smile. “But do feel free to take your leave if you wish not to play along. For we cannot have any spoilsports hanging about to dampen the amusement for the rest of us.”
“No, no. I shall stay. I was not expressing reluctance—only surprise.”
“Well, I, for one, am up for it,” put in Lady Fitzhardinge, now in only her stockings and ribbon garters.
As Robert repositioned himself in the center of the cushions, he let his gaze roam over the three figures before him. Two brunettes and one blond, all beautiful in their own way. The viscountess was more Rubenesque than the other two, but he had no objection to a woman with meat on her bones. In fact, when it came to the art of pinkening bottoms, the broader the canvas, the better.
“Mrs. Crosse shall be first, followed by Lady Fitzhardinge and my wife—in that order.”
He wanted Maggie to go last because he would be in desperate need of release by the time he got to her and, to safeguard his present and future happiness, he’d much rather come off with his wife than the other two.
As the ladies lined up by the sideboard, he put on the devil’s mask, which Maggie had left on the settee. Through the eyeholes, he made another study of his harem. Standing there naked, they put h
im in mind of the three furies of mythology and, arousing though the association was, he’d prefer they were fully dressed. For the preparation of the receiver of the spanking was half the excitement for a practitioner of le vice Anglais. The layers should be peeled back ever so slowly and one at a time, until the buried treasure of bare flesh was at last discovered.
Even the mere thought of the unveiling sent a sweet quiver of ecstasy through his pelvis. He reached a hand toward Mrs. Crosse, who looked more nervous than the other two. When she clasped his fingers, he drew her to him and helped her to recline across his knees in the proper position—with his hard cock embedded in the soft flesh of her belly whilst her breasts and her wiry muff rested upon either thigh. For a long moment, he feasted his eyes upon the tempting feast set before him.
To savor the experience whilst allowing her anticipation to fully flower, he passed his open hand over her mounds, which were as smooth and pale as bleached satin. Once, twice, thrice. With each pass, he squeezed and pressed the plump flesh, fighting the urge to plunge his hand betwixt her thighs, which she kept together.
All the while, she lay quietly, though no doubt in dire suspense, with her hands resting upon the floor and her midsection pressing his erection—a firecracker with a hissing fuse.
“What are you waiting for?” Her voice was a near whimper.
“I will begin when you are ready.”
“I am as ready as I shall ever be,” she said impatiently.
“I beg to differ.” He rubbed her bottom in a circular motion. “You will not truly be ready until your whole body trembles with anticipation.”
He took a breath and let it out. Stirring though the overture was, he would not be wholly satisfied until his hand stained her cheeks a radiant shade of red.
When she began to tremble, he braced her loins with his left arm whilst raising the right. He brought the open hand down upon the middle of her right cheek. A loud smack broke the breathless silence of the candlelight parlor. Mrs. Crosse cried out in pain and writhed against his cock at the same time Lady Fitzhardinge squealed with delight. Though he’d not applied the slap with any great force, the red imprint of his four fingers and thumb were now stamped in crimson upon her becoming white bottom.
The first strike could not have been more successful. Or more erotically exhilarating.
Raising the arm a second time, he brought the hand down with similar force, but on the left cheek this time. Again, the rosy imprint of his hand bloomed upon her pale flesh. Again, she shrank under the blow and cried out, shortening all the more the sizzling fuse between his legs.
“Maggie,” he said, straining to speak, “bring me Signore Dildo.”
Obeying promptly, his wife left the room and returned a moment later with the leather godemiché, which she set upon the cushion before retaking her place beside the viscountess. Giving his stinging hand a much-needed break, he checked the readiness of the widow’s cunny, pleased to find her slick with creamy moisture.
After prying her legs apart, he pushed the dildol into her and, leaving it embedded, resumed the spanking. He gave her a dozen blows in all, striking alternately the right and left cheeks, which grew redder and redder. With each smack, she wriggled more vigorously, burnishing his cock with her belly. He was the pestle and she the mortar, and the persistent grinding of their parts was so exquisitely torturous, ejaculation threatened at every moment.
Obliged to stop the spanking, he seized Signore Dildo by the testicles and proceeded to pump the toy in and out of her with increasing rapidity until her body convulsed in orgasm. Her paroxysms against his cock were too sublime. As carnal pleasure surged up his shaft, he shut his eyes and bit his bottom lip to thwart the discharge.
When she ceased quivering, he removed the false phallus and ordered her to kneel before one of the opposite chairs with her back to him. As he cooled his lusts to a manageable level, he gazed with a mixture of pride and satisfaction upon his handiwork. Atop her columnar thighs, her round bottom now resembled a glowing red garden orb.
As he admired his artistry, the clock on the wall behind struck the hour and sounded eleven chimes.
“I should go soon,” Mrs. Crosse said without turning, “but promise to return as soon as I can to perform the procedure.”
“I shan’t be here when you return,” he offered, primarily for Lady Fitzhardinge’s benefit. She might be game to take part in erotic escapades, but she still belonged to the enemy camp. “For I must away to Scotland to tend to some business that has arisen at my estate, and have no idea when I might return again into England.”
“Will you go with him, Mistress Margaret?” the viscountess inquired. “Or is it now safe to call you Duchess?”
“I am not going with him,” Maggie replied with a note of sadness in her voice. “For the journey is long and perilous, and I wish not to be away from my son for overlong. And, yes. You may call me by my real name now. But recommend you address my husband for the duration of the evening as Lord and Master.”
“How lovely.” The viscountess tittered before adding, “I cannot tell you what a good time I am having this night. I never dreamed when I brought you that letter things would end in so delightful a way.”
“Have you any notion as to what the letter contains?” Maggie asked.
“No, not for certain,” Lady Fitzhardinge replied. “Though I can hazard a guess, given the things I’ve heard pass betwixt Princess Anne and Lady Churchill within the walls of the Cockpit.”
“They speak openly of treason?” Robert put in.
“Not treason per se, but enough has been said to let me know what is in their hearts.”
The candor of her remarks amazed Robert. He’d assumed the viscountess, as an Anglican member of Princess Anne’s entourage, shared the views of her friends.
“You harbor no similar sentiments?”
She stood straighter and sucked in her breath. “Though I would not admit as much to them, I am as loyal to the king as are the two of you.”
“Your secret is safe with us,” Robert assured her. Then, his ardor considerably cooled by the conversation, added, “And shall we now get on with it? Or have you lost your enthusiasm for the sting of my hand upon your backside?”
“Oh, no, Lord and Master.” The viscountess’s cheeks colored. “I still desire most ardently to be spanked.”
As a wicked idea crossed his mind, a devilish smile bloomed beneath his mask. “What would you say to a birching instead?”
“A birching? Well, I am not sure about that. Will it smart overmuch, Lord and Master?”
“Oh aye,” he said, still grinning. “Like the dickens, if I perform the task to my satisfaction.”
“Will you still see to my pleasure the way you saw to Mrs. Crosse’s?”
He shifted his gaze to the apothecary, who yet knelt before the chair, her shapely bottom as red, ripe, and tempting as the apple Eve offered to Adam. “Are you well satisfied, Mrs. Crosse, with your night of passion?”
“Yes, Lord and Master. ’Twas more than I bargained for—and not an experience I shall rush to repeat—but I cannot claim to be disappointed.”
He looked to Maggie, catching the slightest of smiles dancing upon her lips. “Will you be so good as to fetch the switch from my dressing room?—along with the silken rope, which I presume is still on the bed.”
The day they’d moved in, he’d cut a small branch from one of the trees lining the path to the bowling green—in case he had need of it, for purposes either erogenous or punitive.
“Yes, Lord and Master.”
As Maggie left the room, he held out a hand to Lady Fitzhardinge. As she approached, his wife returned and set the rope beside his thigh before pressing the supple green switch into his hand.
Upon regarding the weapon, the viscountess’s eyes widened in fear. “Oh, dear. That does look daunting. Will you promise not to be too rough?”
“Come here,” he commanded, “and call me Lord and Master, or I shall only birch you and
omit your pleasure.”
Hesitantly, she stepped toward him. “Forgive me, Lord and Master. My fear of the switch caused me to forget myself.”
“You are forgiven,” he said. “Now hold out both your wrists so I may tie them.”
As she carried out his order, he picked up the cord and began to bind her wrists.
“Why must you tie me thusly?” she asked with fear in her eyes.
“So that you make no attempt to shield your behind from my blows.”
She trembled a little and her lower lip quivered as he secured the bindings. Ready to continue, he helped her position herself across his thighs. She was heavier than Mrs. Crosse, though not to a distressing degree. He’d lost his erection, but had every confidence his lusts would rise again as soon as he got underway. For there was naught like a good birching—be he giver or receiver—to inspire a raging cockstand.
“I will deliver a dozen quick cuts,” he said, “which will give you pain, but naught too severe to bear.”
She gave a little sob and shook her head, knocking loose some of the pins holding her coiffure. He fingered the escaping tendrils with the tenderness of a lover before running his open hand down her back. Her bottom was broad, albeit well-shaped. As pleasing as he found the snowy hillocks he now caressed, he would find them even more appealing when they were blushing under the biting kisses of the birch.
Raising the switch again, he brought it down with another hiss. God, how he loved the sound of a switch kissing the plump flesh of a lovely bottom. She let out a wail and clenched her cheeks, driving her bush against his thigh in a most arousing fashion. Setting the branch aside, he pressed his hand between her legs and slid his fingers along her juicy crevice until he came to her clitoris, which was swollen with arousal.
His counterpart was no less engorged. He teased and finger fucked her into a lather before inserting Signore Dildo, who rode her hard until she broke.
As the orgasm shuddered through her, he picked up the birch and brought it down nine times in succession. Though the blows were not hard ones, they elicited the desired response. With each searing kiss, she let out a breathless gasp and jerked her hips from side to side, building his lust to a fever-pitch.