Slave of Darkness

by Francesca Lewis

‘Don’t talk about it, just do it,’ she gasped.

  He drew the whip down over her belly and she clenched her stomach muscles, seconds before the second blow fell, catching the taut skin over her right hipbone. Once more she gave a cry, but this time there was more pain and it felt delicious.

  Steve was breathing heavily. His hands explored her more urgently than she could remember, and when he touched her between her thighs and felt how wet she was he reacted by sliding two fingers inside her. She contracted her muscles around them, moaning with delight. Quickly he started to massage her and the heavy ache began. She wanted to thrust her hips up to get greater stimulation, but she was unable to move.

  Just as she’d hoped she was at his mercy, and she tried to forget it was Steve who was in control. She began to imagine it was Sir Edward who had her lying spread-eagled and defenceless, displaying everything, her shameful response only too evident to him. As Steve’s fingers continued to massage her, the delicious ache spread until finally it turned into a piercing moment of exquisite pleasure and her body shook in orgasm.

  ‘Was that good?’ asked Steve tenderly, and immediately the spell was broken. Marianne felt like screaming. She didn’t want tenderness, didn’t want his kind enquiries, she wanted him to continue as he had been and, above all, to keep silent.

  ‘Mmm,’ she murmured, hoping that if she didn’t answer properly he’d stop talking.

  ‘You were right about this,’ he muttered. ‘It is a turn on.’

  ‘It’s best if we don’t talk much,’ she whispered.

  ‘I suppose it is,’ he replied, and she gave a little sigh of relief. Now she could turn the scenario into anything she wanted. She was so lost in pleasurable sensations she didn’t realise Steve was going to hit her again until the cat lashed down onto her breasts, catching her erect nipples and making her hiss. This time her skin burned and she whimpered with shock. Steve decided to lick the abused flesh and she felt his cool tongue moving across the rising weal. He drew a nipple into his mouth and his teeth grazed the sore bud, making her whimper with discomfort.

  And her legs and arms ached. The muscles were cramping, but the feeling was exactly the same as when she’d been forced to crouch naked in the outhouse, and she was revelling in it.

  Steve abruptly straddled her and, moulding her breasts between his hands, lowered himself so he could stimulate his throbbing cock between the soft globes. He’d never fucked her breasts before, and Marianne was excited both by the sensation and by the fact that he was entering into the game so wholeheartedly. She loved the way he ground his erection in her cosseting cleavage. It was obvious from his grunting that Steve was going to continue until he came, and Marianne knew she couldn’t stimulate herself because her hands were trapped, her wrists fastened to her thighs. For the first time she understood the disadvantages of the contraption, and began to whimper with frustration.

  Steve misread her reactions. ‘Isn’t this great...’ he croaked urgently, thrusting his hips with increasing abandon. Because she didn’t want to break the spell, because the whole point of this was to place herself in the position where she had no control, she didn’t contradict him. With despair, she wondered why it was that she seemed doomed to spend most of her time stimulated beyond belief, her pleasure constantly ready to be released but with ultimate fulfilment never allowed.

  She could tell Steve was fast approaching the point of no return. His fingers tightened convulsively around her breasts as he mauled the flesh even tighter around his erection. The ache between Marianne’s thighs was now so intense it was almost unbearable. She could feel the moisture seeping from her sex, but there was nothing she could do to trigger her climax. Her fingers clawed helplessly at the night air.

  Then, with shocking abruptness, strong hands gripped the tops of her thighs and she felt them wrenched apart so harshly that she uttered an astonished cry. Steve grunted his approval, clearly thinking she was urging him on to greater efforts.

  She couldn’t imagine what was happening to her. She knew the hands didn’t belong to Steve because his were still busy working her breasts around his shaft... and then realisation dawned. Very faintly she was able to make out the figure of Sir Edward Sharpe looming over the bed. He was staring at her in his usual, penetrating way, his eyes glinting in the dark. Having parted her thighs so roughly, he waited a few seconds, then she saw him raise an arm, and tensed, because she knew he was about to strike her.

  The first blow fell high up on her thighs. It felt like a whip, but the force behind it was far greater than anything Steve had used, and a dreadful burning followed instantly. Then, as it started to die away, he struck her again, a fraction higher. With increasing trepidation she realised he was moving nearer and nearer to her most vulnerable area.

  She instinctively attempted to close her thighs, but Sir Edward was too determined and easily held her legs apart. She gave a tiny murmur of protest. Clearly this angered him, because the whip promptly cut down again and she squirmed, desperately trying to avoid the blows whilst trapped beneath Steve, who was lost in his own ecstasy.

  It was a totally unbelievable situation – and she revelled in it. But all too soon it would be over. As another stinging blow caught her she knew her juices were flowing copiously. She’d never felt so wet or ready and the throbbing ache inside her was just about unbearable.

  ‘I-I’m nearly there!’ gasped Steve.

  Marianne knew she was too. Sir Edward delivered two final sharp blows with the whip, both of them falling across her lower belly. The pain seared through her like an electric shock, and she wondered if she could stand any more. She wanted to cry out, to beg Sir Edward to do something to help her. Staring wild-eyed over Steve’s shadowy shoulder, Marianne saw Sir Edward bend closer, examining her, and then she felt his fingers touching her juicy flesh. She gasped, and he rubbed expertly.

  ‘Help me... help me...’ she implored.

  Through hazy vision she saw Sir Edward smile enigmatically, and then felt something smooth and sturdy penetrating her. She had no idea what it was, but her muscles tightened gratefully around it, clutching convulsively at this desperately needed object which was filling her so beautifully. Sir Edward moved it with careless force so that, even at this late stage, her pleasure was mixed with discomfort. But she welcomed it – embraced it. This was what she needed, this was what her increasingly debauched flesh desired – and suddenly she knew it was the handle of the whip that was skewering her.

  Now she could picture the instrument of pleasure, now she knew what was being done to her, she was driven even more frantic. She heard herself gasping and moaning as he continued to thrust in and out of her greedy opening. Then, as the delicious pressure built to a climax, he pressed his thumb on her clitoris and, with a scream of ecstatic disbelief, Marianne finally climaxed.

  As she writhed helplessly Steve withdrew from between her breasts and thrust between her gaping lips. ‘Suck it!’ he hissed aggressively, and her mouth immediately filled with his salty spending. She breathed through her nose and swallowed desperately, and Steve spasmed above her as her mouth filled again.

  Gradually his hips stilled and his shoulders slumped, and for a few minutes the only sounds in the dark room were his heavy breathing and the suckling of Marianne.

  ‘Bloody hell... that was bloody incredible,’ he eventually gasped, ruining the moment with such an unnecessary and crass summing up, rolling off her and leaving her exposed to the chill of the night. He laid there, his chest heaving, while Marianne peered dreamily into the gloom through lowered eyelashes. But the man she was looking for was not there.

  ‘You look stunning,’ said Steve admiringly, slipping an arm round Marianne’s waist. She stared thoughtfully at herself in the mirror. The sleeveless coral pink shift dress ended two inches above her knees and had a softly draped cowl neckline. The colour suited her. In it, she felt both confident and sexy, but surprisingly not as
sexy as she felt on her journeys back into the past when she was wearing the complicated drawers, bodices and stockings that were the fashion of the time. She wondered what on earth Sandra and Graham would think if she turned up at their house dressed like that, and smiled to herself.

  ‘What’s the joke?’ asked Steve, his hands lingering on her upper arms.

  ‘Nothing,’ she replied. ‘We’d better go or we’ll be late.’

  ‘I keep remembering what you looked like in those cuffs,’ said Steve. ‘Shall we have another game when we get back?’

  ‘If we do it too often it’ll lose its novelty,’ she said, wanting to dampen his enthusiasm.

  ‘You know, these days you seem to be two different girls,’ Steve observed during the drive.

  Marianne glanced sideways at him. ‘How do you mean?’ she asked carefully.

  ‘Well, last night, although I admit I was a bit reluctant, you were incredible. You showed me a side of you I hadn’t realised existed, and we both had a superb time. Then today you don’t seem to want to talk about it. Your moods seem to keep changing. It’s the same with your work.’

  ‘My work?’

  ‘Yes. First of all it’s a modern romance, then it’s a historical novel and now, despite the fact that you tell me you’ve started writing, I haven’t seen a word of it. Why is that? You normally like me to read your manuscripts.’

  ‘It’s only a rough draft,’ she countered defensively.

  ‘But I always read the rough drafts.’

  ‘This time I want to polish it more before I let you see it,’ she said hastily, knowing that if he saw the explicit sex scenes with their bizarre erotic content he’d think he was living with three women, let alone two.

  ‘You always used to be such a reliable person,’ he went on. ‘That was one of the things I loved about you. You didn’t have moods and I always knew where I stood.’

  ‘Are you trying to say I’ve changed and you don’t like the new me?’ she challenged.

  ‘Of course I like the new you, I’ve already said that – or at least, I like some of you. I just wish you didn’t keep having these mood swings. Take now, for instance. I feel I’m irritating you, but you couldn’t get enough of me last night.’

  ‘I wish you’d stop harping on about the other night,’ snapped Marianne. ‘I haven’t changed and you are irritating me. You’ve just never looked at me properly before.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ he objected. ‘You have changed and you know it. You just won’t admit it.’

  ‘Do you think we could stop arguing now we’re here?’ asked Marianne. ‘You’re the one who was so anxious for us to make friends with Sandra and Graham. The least you can do is be civil for the evening.’

  ‘I’ll be civil,’ he said, climbing out of the car. ‘You were the one who kept losing track of the conversation when they came to us.’

  ‘Hello there,’ called Sandra, opening the front door of the small cottage. ‘What a lovely dress, Marianne.’

  Marianne smiled. ‘Thanks. I got it in London before we moved.’

  ‘You can’t get such lovely things round here,’ said Sandra with a wistful sigh.

  ‘What sort of lovely things?’ asked Graham, appearing in the hall.

  ‘Dresses like the one Marianne’s wearing.’

  Graham looked appreciatively at Marianne, his eyes crawling none too discreetly over her breasts. ‘The dress is nice, but you set it off to perfection,’ he said, with a suggestive smile.

  ‘Thank you,’ she responded politely, but the compliment seemed empty and she didn’t like the undercurrent she detected in his smile.

  The cottage had been thoroughly modernised inside and while Steve rhapsodised over everything, particularly the kitchen, giving Marianne meaningful glances as he did so, she wondered why on earth Sandra and Graham had done such a thing. If she’d inherited a quaint little cottage she’d have kept it the way it was. The whole atmosphere of the place had been ruined. If there had been any ghosts from the past here, they would have been banished by the indelicate changes.

  ‘Graham forgot to get the beer in,’ said Sandra apologetically. ‘I wondered if you’d like to go with him to get some, Steve? Marianne and I can talk girls’ talk while you’re gone.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Steve agreeably.

  ‘You don’t like it, do you?’ Sandra said to Marianne the moment their husbands had left.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘The way we’ve done the cottage up.’

  Marianne smiled. ‘Of course I do. It’s lovely. You must have spent a fortune on it.’

  ‘It did cost quite a bit, but you don’t have to pretend to like it.’

  Marianne felt uncomfortable. ‘Well, I suppose I’d prefer it if the interior was more in keeping with the exterior,’ she admitted.

  Sandra looked curiously at her. ‘Steve was right; you really are obsessed with the past.’

  ‘No, I’m not. I’ve just got different tastes from him.’

  Sandra shook her head. ‘Come on, admit it. Moving to Moorhead House has changed you, hasn’t it?’

  Marianne felt shocked. ‘That’s what Steve’s just been telling me. But he’s wrong, and so are you. Besides, you didn’t know me in London so how can you tell whether I’ve changed or not?’

  ‘I know how you were when we first met, and you’ve changed, even in such a short time. You were so different from the people round here. Now you sound as though you’ve lived here all your life.’

  ‘I—’

  ‘And you look different. I can’t explain how, but you do. It’s as though you no longer want to be the person you were. Perhaps it’s the change of pace, or maybe I’m just imagining it all.’

  Marianne was worried. It was one thing for Steve to have noticed she’d changed and to be complaining about it. That was understandable. However, if even Sandra thought she was different, then that was dangerous. She knew she had to keep her two identities completely separate. Despite the fact the past now held more fascination for her than the present, she mustn’t allow Marianne Clifford to take her over. She sensed the lurking danger of allowing such a thing to happen.

  ‘Perhaps you’re right,’ she agreed, trying hard to smile. ‘It’s a bit of a culture shock, really, moving here so far away from everyone and everything. I’ve been surprised at how easily I’ve slipped into the new way of life, and I am beginning to forget the sort of person I was. But I don’t think it’s a drastic change.’

  ‘Yet you say Steve’s noticed?’

  ‘Yes, but then he’s still travelling all round the country. Nothing much has altered for him, he simply has a different base to come home to.’

  ‘How about some wine?’ asked Sandra, lightening the mood a little. ‘We might as well start; the boys will be a while yet.’

  After a couple of sips of wine Marianne decided to ask Sandra a question, one she wouldn’t have dared ask if Steve had been there. ‘Remember you told me about Judith Wells, the woman who owned Moorhead House before my aunt?’ Sandra nodded. ‘Well, you haven’t found out any more about her since then, have you?’

  ‘I did mention it to my mum,’ admitted Sandra. ‘According to her, Judith Wells went totally mad after she was admitted to a mental hospital. Apparently she used to spend all her days waiting for a visit from her brother. She did have a brother – he was called Daniel, I think – and he went to see her several times, but she used to get terribly angry when he arrived, shouting that he was an impostor. In the end he stopped going. God knows who she was expecting. Whoever it was, he never came.’

  ‘How dreadful,’ said Marianne quietly, knowing very well who it was Judith Wells had been expecting every time the nurses told her her brother was visiting. She could imagine how terrible it would be to look across the room, hoping to see those dark, unfathomable eyes, to feel that erotic pull –
a pull she was certain existed between the brother and sister even though it was forbidden – only to have her hopes dashed.

  ‘How’s your book coming along?’ asked Sandra, trying hard to generate some brighter conversation.

  ‘Very well.’ At last Marianne was able to be genuinely enthusiastic about something. ‘I can’t stop writing. To be honest, I wouldn’t have minded if Steve hadn’t come home this weekend because I was in full flow, but naturally I’d never tell him that.’

  Thereafter the atmosphere and chat eased, and when the boys returned the rest of the evening passed quite pleasantly. Marianne was relieved there were no distractions from the past. Clearly she’d been right in assuming that her connection with Sir Edward and his household only existed when she was at Moorhead and the surrounding moorland, places where Marianne Clifford had been. Though this was a comfort because it meant she could concentrate properly on the evening’s socialising, she also suffered a sense of loss at being separated from the house.

  ‘That was a good evening,’ said Steve, as they drove home. ‘They’re nice, aren’t they?’

  ‘They’re okay.’

  ‘I think we’re lucky to have them in a place like this. If it weren’t for them it would be like being buried alive here at weekends.’

  ‘I’d no idea you disliked it that much,’ said Marianne. ‘You’d better not come home if that’s how you feel.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ said Steve, his voice softening. ‘How could I possibly stay away from the new, exciting you?’

  ‘So I’m exciting now, am I? I thought I was a confusing schizophrenic earlier in the evening.’

  Steve rested his left hand lightly on her knee and squeezed. ‘Not now,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to argue. I just can’t wait to get into bed.’

  Marianne’s heart sank.

  To her relief, once they were in bed Steve seemed to sense her reluctance. ‘Are you tired?’ he asked sympathetically.

  ‘A little,’ she lied.