Table of Contents
Cover Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
The Rake
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Epilogue
Glossary
Notes
This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
Epub ISBN: 9780753530795
Version 1.0
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This book is a work of fiction.
In real life, make sure you practise safe sex.
First published in 1999 by
Nexus
Thames Wharf Studios
Rainville Road
London W6 9HT
Copyright © Aishling Morgan 1999
The right of Aishling Morgan to be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Typeset by TW Typesetting, Plymouth, Devon
Printed and bound by
Cox & Wyman Ltd, Reading, Berks
ISBN 0 352 33434 7
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
It was a magnificently wanton position, displaying every inch of her ready charms and leaving the open holes of her vagina and anus pointed at the ceiling. Her hand was back between her legs, cupping her mound, with one finger rubbing at the centre in a lazy, sensual manner. Swallowing hard, he walked quickly across to her and placed a candle to the entrance of her vagina. She sighed as it went in, but made no increase in the pace of her masturbation. Charles placed the second candle by the first, easing it into her vagina.
‘In my breech, Charles,’ Judith sobbed, ‘and then light them.’
‘Light them?’ he queried even as he pulled a candle free of her vaginal opening and put it to her anus.
‘Yes, then watch me in my pain,’ she demanded. ‘Come, do it!’
To list all those who have assisted – wittingly or unwittingly – in the creation of The Rake would be a mammoth task. It would start with long-departed French nobles, include historians, wine-merchants, re-enactors and modern-day rakes, and finish with many spectacularly naughty girls and boys. Particular thanks, though, must go to Ishmael, James and Spencer, all of whom allowed me to bully them into reading and commenting on the manuscript in under a week.
THE RAKE
Aishling Morgan
One
At the Château de Montrichard, the midsummer ball of 1788 was in full swing; yet, rather than participate in the revels, Henry Truscott viewed the dancers with a glassy-eyed stare. Anyone watching him would have thought him drunk or maybe exhausted, but the truth was that his entire mind was fixed on one of the dancers. She was Eloise de la Tour-Romain, daughter of the Comte Saônois. Her dress was a magnificent creation of pale green silk, heavy with flounces and sewn with bows and roses of subtly contrasting hues. The dress matched the jade of her eyes and piled red-gold curls of her hair, both features that added to the exquisite delicacy of her face, along with a small, proud nose, and a pert chin. Her lips were full, the lower perhaps a little fuller than its neighbour, creating an impression of a permanent sulky pout which Henry found particularly alluring. Lower, her flawless neck swept down to the upper surface of apple-like breasts whose embonpoint threatened to spill from the restraining silk. A trim waist served to exaggerate the fullness of her chest, while the flare of her skirts barely hinted at womanly hips and entirely concealed the charms of her bottom and legs – charms which Henry found no difficulty in imagining. All of her, from immaculately coiffured hair to dainty shoes, gave the impression of warm, haughty beauty – of a poised, disdainful shell concealing immense passion.
Sadly, she was so far above him socially that to do more than pass a polite greeting to her would be regarded as an intolerable breach of etiquette. This did not stop him wondering what it would be like to push her gently down into a kneeling position and lift her magnificent brocaded skirt, along with its spray of supporting petticoats, baring her undoubtedly splendid rear. He would then kiss the smooth pink globes, working slowly towards the centre her knees came apart to make available every crevice of her divine bottom. She would sigh in her rising passion as his tongue began to explore her . . .
‘Deuced fine filly, isn’t she?’ a masculine voice broke into his reverie.
‘Eh, what?’ he replied, turning to see his friend and the only other Englishman in the room, Charles Finch. ‘Er . . . yes, she is rather.’
‘I understand,’ Charles continued, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, ‘that she is available . . . at a price.’
‘You’re teasing me, Charles,’ Henry replied. ‘A member of her family, prostituting herself? Why, the idea’s ridiculous.’
‘Not so, not so,’ Charles continued. ‘She takes – it would seem – a peculiar delight in extracting money from admirers. Also – so I believe – the Comte is somewhat less than generous with his wealth. Indeed, he is an out-and-out miser by all accounts.’
Charles fell silent as he took a sip of champagne, Henry returning to his reverie. Well, why not? The worst that could happen would be for Eloise to scream the house down and have the footmen give him a sound thrashing before ensuring that his name was disgraced throughout polite European society. His family, led by his priggish elder brother Stephen, would then probably make him take service in the colonies, or at the least confine him to their Devon estate in the Torridge valley. Yet it was a gamble, and gambles were the stuff of which Henry’s life was made.
‘Then you will excuse me, Charles,’ he addressed his friend. ‘I have a proposition to make.’
Henry rose to his feet, pausing a moment to adjust the set of his bottle-green coat and set a strand of his thick brown hair in a convenient mirror before securing a flute of champagne from a footman with a practised gesture. Eloise, he saw, was executing the complex steps of one of the most modern dances, the upper curves of her not insubstantial breasts quivering deliriously as she moved. Her partner was some ageing grandee, tall, stick-thin and wearing an elaborate wig that added close to a foot to his height. This, Henry realised, was going to be a problem. There would not be a moment in the evening when she was not either partnered by some pompous noble or else surrounded by a throng of attentive suitors, few of whom he knew more than slightly, and none of whom would want to make the necessary introductions. Henry thought for a moment and then found the answer. It was bold, reckless even, but undoubtedly sound. Returning to his seat, he explained his plan to Charles, whose initial look of incredulity quickly gave way to laughter.
‘Henry,’ his friend quipped, ‘you shall either be hung or succeed magnificently and become the talk of the L
ondon clubs, though I’d not care to place money on which!’
Henry merely smiled and sat back to wait his moment. It came within ten minutes, Eloise detaching herself from the dozen or so young beaus paying court to her and sweeping gracefully from the room. Henry followed, leaving Charles with the information that a competent physician lived in the Rue Gaumont. As he had surmised, Eloise mounted the splendid double staircase and took the passage that led towards the guest wing of the Château. He followed at a discreet distance, noting the room she had entered and walking nonchalantly down the corridor. After a moment came the sound he was waiting for and he took his fate in his hands and pushed the door boldly open.
The daughter of the Comte Saônois stood by the fireplace, skirts raised to her belly, knees akimbo and cunny held wide to emit a golden stream into the receptacle beneath her. For the briefest instant the tableau held, Eloise’s mouth open in shock, Henry’s eyes fixed on the soft bulge of her belly and the luxurious tangle of curls surrounding the open, pink divide between her legs.
‘Sir!’ Eloise exclaimed, dropping her skirts without thought to the consequences. ‘Ah! No!’
‘Do excuse me,’ Henry began, bowing politely. ‘It was not at all my intention that you should spoil your beautiful dress.’
‘And so, what was your intention?’ Eloise retorted, her perfect English delivered in a tone of icy hauteur.
‘Well,’ Henry continued, ‘it is my experience that women are often more willing to give what has been seen than what has not, if you follow my meaning.’
There was a pause as Eloise registered utter outrage, her cheeks flushing and her eyes growing round. Henry could see that she was about to scream for assistance.
‘A moment,’ he cautioned, ‘before you call the footmen, bear in mind that – not to be over-delicate – you are standing in a pool of your own piddle: hardly a respectable position for the daughter of a count, do you not think?’
Eloise glanced down at the tell-tale stain on the pale green silk of her dress and the pool that was expanding slowly on the floor beneath her. She paused, torn between her embarrassment and the need to have the cause of it dropped into the river after a richly deserved beating.
‘Bastard!’ she contented herself with. ‘Get out!’
‘A moment, please,’ Henry continued. ‘I wasn’t suggesting you should surrender yourself to me merely for the satisfaction, though I assure you it would be an experience not lightly forgotten. No, I had in mind the sum of fifty guineas, in gold.’
Before Henry could react, she had stepped back and picked up the chamber-pot into which she had been discharging the results of the evening’s champagne. Realising her intention, he ducked frantically, only her poor aim saving him as he grappled for the door and flung himself into the corridor.
‘Damn!’ he swore to himself, brushing at a damp spot on his sleeve. ‘Still, the Devon air will do me good.’
Eloise de la Tour-Romain stood at her window in the Château de St Romain as a maid fussed over the buttons of her gown. Directly beneath her, the village huddled at the base of the crag on which the Château was built. Beyond it, vineyards rose in a bowl of golden green foliage to the foot of the cliff that enfolded St Romain like a curled protecting hand. To her left was the break in the cliffs and the great spread of the vineyards of Auxey and Méursault, with the brighter green of the Saône flood plain in the distance. Much of what could be seen was the property of her family, and the view normally gave her a feeling of serene comfort. Now, it produced only dissatisfaction and a curious sense of irritation.
She had been plagued with similar feelings ever since the ball at Montrichard. Her outrage at Henry Truscott had been genuine. Not only had he quite deliberately barged into her room while she was in the process of filling her chamber-pot, but he had offered fifty guineas to take his pleasure of her. Her shame and fury at him seeing her nakedness and at soiling her gown had been as nothing compared to her feelings at being offered such a miserable sum for an erotic liaison – as if she, the Demoiselle Eloise de la Tour-Romain, were a common strumpet!
It was true that the vulgar, lecherous and elderly Marquis d’Aignan had made a less than discreet offer of money for her chastity after she had rejected his clumsy advances. She was also aware that he had been doing his best to propagate a rumour to the effect that she had accepted. There had been other lovers too, and by no means all had left on agreeable terms, while many had been obliged to part with handsome gifts in return for her favours. Some had even paid money in advance, yet only a discreet handful and never such a miserable sum.
Therefore the Englishman’s assumption was less surprising than it might have been, yet it still left her burning with an indignation that had barely faded over a month. To make matters worse, there was her inner knowledge that the experience had been exciting. Henry Truscott, unlike the Marquis, was no decaying fop with rheumy eyes and liver spots on his skin. Indeed he was anything but, being well built, handsome and undoubtedly bold. Nor did he have any of the foppish effeminacy that marked so many of her male acquaintances. Indeed, he disdained both a wig and powder. He had also been right about the effect on her of his having seen her cunny; it had made her want to yield, a piece of self-knowledge that drove her to a state of tooth-grinding rage.
Yet, after a week of high temper she had been forced to acknowledge her feelings, if only to herself. With her most trusted maid standing guard at her door, she had pulled up her shift one night and put her fingers to her cunny, rubbing the hard bump of her clitoris as she thought of how things might have been, had Henry Truscott been bolder still. Rather than make his outrageous offer, he might simply have come forward into the room, pushed her down on the bed, pulled up her pee-soaked skirts and mounted her without preamble. Her breasts would have been pulled roughly free of her bodice as his cock found the entrance to her cunny. Then she would have been full, her vagina stretched around his prick as he took her vigorously on the bed, as indifferent to her half-hearted squeals of protest as to the dampness of her pee that would be soaking into her belly and his chest.
Her climax had been exquisite, yet it had only served to deepen her sense of chagrin and she had sworn to inflict on him the same depths of shame, frustration and longing that she herself had suffered. The question was – how? To admit to what had happened was unthinkable, and so it was impractical to visit ordinary justice on him. She had toyed with the idea of hiring rogues to give him the drubbing he so richly deserved; yet, while satisfying, it was not a revenge that would suit the crime.
As she stared out across the Burgundian countryside, her thoughts were once more running on the impertinent Englishman, only to be brought sharply back to the moment as her maid accidentally pinched the skin of her back.
‘Natalie!’ Eloise snapped, her anger transferring instantaneously to her maid.
‘I beg pardon, M’selle,’ Natalie responded hastily as Eloise turned to face her.
‘Stupid, clumsy girl!’ Eloise stormed. ‘Get on your knees!’
For a moment, Natalie’s face registered the strange blend of fear and longing that Eloise had long come to recognise, then the little maid fell quickly to the floor. That the maid enjoyed being punished, Eloise knew; yet the knowledge in no way reduced the satisfaction of doing it. Indeed, Natalie’s immediate acceptance of even the most painful and degrading of punishments only inspired Eloise to push the boundaries of what she would do.
‘You are an imbecile,’ Eloise stormed at the grovelling maid. ‘A coarse, graceless peasant! Can you not even do so simple a thing as button my gown?’
‘I . . . I’m sorry, M’selle, I . . . I slipped,’ Natalie stammered.
‘Quite! Did I say you could speak?’ Eloise retorted. ‘Now, fetch the chamber-pot out from under the bed.’
‘No, M’selle, please, not that!’ Natalie begged.
‘Yes, that,’ Eloise sneered, ‘and for your protest you may expect twice as many strokes as usual. Now fetch it out!’
> Eloise watched with immense satisfaction as the trembling maid crawled to the bed and drew the chamber-pot out from underneath it. It was a ritual they had played out before, and Natalie knew only too well what she had to do. Placing the pot in the exact centre of the floor, she knelt over it, her pretty face no more than a foot above the china lid. With her lips set in a petulant moue, she removed the cover and, as a wicked smile turned up the corners of Eloise’s mouth, Natalie lowered her face into the chamber-pot.
Deliberately taking her time, Eloise walked to her dressing table and picked up a heavy, long-handled hairbrush of silver and badger’s hair. Smacking the smooth side thoughtfully against her hand, she went to stand above Natalie, looking down on the humiliated maid with every evidence of pleasure.
‘Turn your skirts up,’ Eloise ordered coolly.
Natalie obeyed, her face still deep in the chamber pot as she reached back to take hold of her skirt of plain blue wool. Bunching the material in her hands, she lifted it, exposing her shift. With the skirt on her back, she pulled up the shift, revealing pert buttocks well parted to display a tight ruddy-pink anus nestled in a bed of dark hair and a pair of pouting, hairy cunny lips.
Eloise admired the view of her maid’s naked rear. Natalie was slight, her bottom a round ball of firm flesh, the cheeks now quivering slightly in anticipation of the coming beating. Nor was that her only reaction. Her anus was pulsing slightly, the puckered hole alternately opening and squeezing shut, intermittently revealing a dark centre, a sight that filled Eloise with both disgust and delight. Natalie’s reaction to the prospect of punishment also showed in the state of her cunny, the lips of which were already somewhat swollen, while a single, tell-tale drop of white fluid had formed at the entrance to her vagina.
Smiling broadly to herself, Eloise brought the hairbrush down across the hapless maid’s bottom, making the flesh bounce and drawing out a squeak and a sob. The smack left dark flushes on the pale tan skin of Natalie’s bottom, a semi-circle on one buttock and a vaguely triangular shape on the other. Eloise chuckled, taking open pleasure in the maid’s suffering. Once more she brought the brush down across Natalie’s quivering nates, aiming lower to mark the rounded tuck of the maid’s bottom. Again Natalie yelped and again the brush left its imprint in the soft flesh of its target.
The Rake Page 1