Which takes me back to my story.
While the female represented a wide spectrum of physical types, the male in this performance had been chosen to intimidate his male audience. He was slabbed with muscles, his legs corded with massive thews that led to narrow, sleek hips which supported a cock that was, I am forced to admit, even larger than mine.”
Nora smiled at how much it must have pained him to write that and took a sip from her glass.
“His entire body had been oiled, including his thick shaft, which jutted above a heavy, pendulous sac. He was truly a goliath. But that was not the surprising part. The surprising part was the silver bar piercing the head of his cock.”
Nora had lifted the glass to her lips with her free hand and almost choked. “Good God,” she muttered. Could Edward read her mind?
“I’ve always believed I was a man well-versed in sexual deviance, but I simply hadn’t imagined a thing like this was possible.
Yes, I stared. And, I admit, I wondered what such a thing must feel like. Well, after the initial excruciating pain, of course.
His first action was to remove a peg from the frame on which the woman was tied. That simple action allowed him to easily turn it, positioning her any way he wished.
He moved her until she was largely in profile to the audience, and then secured the device. Next he went to a table where several implements had been laid out and selected a light-weight flogger.”
Nora shivered and closed her eyes, her inner muscles clenching as the image of Edward with a flogger in his hand filled her mind. She groaned, torn between servicing herself or finishing the letter.
She stroked herself with one hand while the other lifted the letter.
“As you know from experience, a light flogger is the most deceptive of all whips. When wielded properly—as I flatter myself I do—”
“Ha! You know it’s not flattery,” she muttered, taking another sip of whiskey to sooth her strangely parched throat.
“—as I flatter myself I do—the first phase of a well-done whipping will feel more like a caress.
Our Goliath warmed up his massive arm with several light blows—so light his subject barely quivered. It didn’t take long for his arm to get into a hypnotic rhythm, the fall of the lash and slight shudder of her body mesmerizing.
Although the big room was silent, the atmosphere of arousal was palpable and added an element to the whipping I’d not experienced before. I found it affecting and was as hard, I suspect, as every man watching.
He was very good at his job and she didn’t realize the blows had begun to redden her skin, so slowly did he increase their force. She marked beautifully and began to flinch and whimper as his blows fell harder.
Goliath was as stimulated as his subject, his enormous cock arched hard against his belly, weeping so copiously it slickened his shaft.
Her whimpers turned to grunts as his biceps bulged with the violence of his strokes, both their bodies glistening with exertion. And then she began to shudder, her spread hips clenching and futilely attempting to thrust against their tight bonds as she climaxed.
He tossed aside his flogger and went to stand before her, sliding a huge hand around her slender waist and then another around his monstrous, pierced cock. He was clearly primed but he pumped himself several times to display his length and girth, like a stag displaying its enormous rack before the lesser members of the herd.
He mounted her with one brutal thrust, holding her filled and arched as she writhed.
His thrusts, when they began, echoed his flogging. Subtle movements of his powerful hips, thighs and ass, designed to hold the eye to the point at which they were joined.
It was mesmerizing to watch such a huge organ in motion, and to know the metal impaling him must be heightening her pleasure.
I felt movement beside me and looked away from the riveting display to see that Banks had stood and approached the duo. He’d removed his coat but otherwise wore his trousers, waistcoat, shirt, and even his cravat.
He’d also opened the placket to his trousers before moving toward the stage, and his organ—respectable for a man his size—jutted out through the opening, hard and slickened.
Goliath paused in his thrusting, his huge chest heaving with the effort of restraining his orgasm. He appeared unsurprised by Banks’s arrival so I knew the scene must still be following some script.
Trust Banks.
Incidentally, I learned afterward that although Goliath was an employee at the brothel, his female companion was the wife of one of the men in the audience. This performance was the wealthy man’s gift to his wife.”
“Oh Edward,” Nora murmured. “How bloody lovely.”
“I sat there aroused and frustrated, imagining that I was this Goliath and the woman was you. I also imagined just watching you with two other men. I imagined all types of scenarios.
I know you’d have reveled in driving me mad with lust and jealousy while you allowed others into those parts of your body that I considered mine.
Why did I never live out such fantasies?
Jealousy and no small amount of fear, I’m ashamed to say. Jealousy is self-explanatory, but the fear? I feared you would enjoy one of the others more than me.”
“You foolish, foolish, man.”
“As always, you were the stronger one, having never objected no matter how often I brought in other women. And then there was my anxiety about engaging in such an act with other men, worrying . . . well, I’m sure you can guess.
I greatly enjoyed what I’m about to relate, Nora. But I can’t help wishing the woman had been you.”
Nora groaned, her eyes never leaving the page, her fingers caressing in a way that would draw out her pleasure.
“Banks took his position behind her and, I have to admit, there was something unspeakably erotic about her naked, whipped body pressed against his fully clothed person.
Goliath was still thrusting, but his strokes had become languid and deep.
Banks reached around the woman’s body and fondled her breasts while his hips pumped slowly, rubbing his cock against her lower back. He worked her nipples until she began to squirm and moan before exploring the rest of her body and ending at his destination: her whip-reddened, wide-spread ass. He produced a bottle of oil from one pocket, making sure to oil the hand that was on the side of his audience.
I admit Banks surprised me and prepared her like a gentleman, rather than just bulling in. He insinuated a finger, his massaging gradual, heightening her pleasure while whetting the audience’s anticipation. And then two fingers, three fingers, her whimpering becoming primitive grunting.
Goliath stilled his thrusting while Banks slicked his cock with more oil, pumping it—a clear act of showmanship.
There was not a sound in the big room as he positioned himself at her entrance—my own body tensed, my cock hard and weeping—and then he breached her. I caught my grunt of pleasure, but several of the audience did not. The air was thick with savagery and sex as he slid in slowly, gently, until he was seated.
Goliath had removed his enormous organ and was casually fisting it, priming it as if waiting for some signal.
It occurred to me the woman was far more fortunate to have Banks at her back entrance than Goliath.”
“I would want you there, Edward,” Nora whispered, her jaw clenching with the effort of holding her hand in check.
“Banks began fucking her with slow, deep thrusts while Goliath waited until an out stroke, and drove into her, hard.
I confess I’ve rarely been so close to climaxing in public. I could almost feel the inside of your body, Nora. I could imagine your small pelvis, stuffed with so much cock you felt ready to burst.
Like the men performing before me, we—me and your mystery lover—would fuck you in alternating thrusts. You would straddle the border between pleasure and pain as your orgasm built, your body’s contractions taking us with you. And when you reached the precipice we would fuck you in time, fill
ing you with hot spurts of—”
Nora threw down the letter like it was on fire, her hips jerking as the waves of pleasure pounded her. Finally, whimpering with exhaustion and drink, she curled up on her side and began to drift into sleep.
The letter.
The thought woke her with a start and she briefly struggled to sit up. But the combined effects of sexual lassitude and drink overwhelmed her. She closed her eyes and gave herself up to soothing oblivion.
❈❈❈
“Hallo, Nora,” a hot voice whispered in her ear.
Nora gasped as rough hands seized her by the waist and flipped her over.
Her eyes felt weighted, her head heavy and thick as she struggled to place herself.
Strong hands fumbled at her bunched up nightgown and tore it, not in one long rend, but a series of furious tugs.
Nora swam through alcohol and sleep, fighting her way to consciousness like a ponderous turtle. “Edward? Wha—?”
Hot breath coated her ear. “Not Edward you bloody whore. And who the hell is he? Your newest cunt-pricker? Already thrown aside poor Clive?” An ugly breathy laugh followed the voice, which she’d never heard so filled with hate and loathing.
“Der-ck?” she mumbled, a hand pressing against her back as his legs straddled her thighs, his hands fumbling and bumping her naked bottom.
“That’s right, Nora. I’ve come to take a bit ‘o what I deserve.” His breath was ragged and something blunt shoved between her cheeks. “You kept me dancing after you were like a right princess, aye?” He thrust against her, his cock breaching her dry, unprepared body.
Nora screamed, or tried to, but Derek pressed her face into the pillow, until she was more worried about breathing than the agonizing tearing and thrusting.
“Treating me like a servant.” He thrusted and grunted. “While all the time you were nothing but a fucking whore. Thought kneeing my jewels was funny, didn’t you?”
He cuffed her head hard, the blow setting off sparks behind her eyes.
“Thought you’d had the last bloody word Nora.”
He struck her again. And again.
As she sank into darkness it occurred to her that he’d called her Nora. Derek had somehow found out who she was.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Mr. Smith
Nora? Oh my God! Nora! Are you dead?” Charles flung himself on the poor woman and was pulling at her shoulder.
Smith strode toward the bed. “Good God, Charles, get off her so she can speak. You’re crushing her—look her hand is moving. She’s not dead.” His voice sounded calm, but inside he was chilled and shaking.
He sat on the mattress beside her. “Nora, can you hear me?”
She groaned.
On the other side of the bed, Charles bounced up and down. “Oh, God! What do we do? We must call a doctor I’m—”
“Charles if you do not sit down in that chair this instant, I will pick you up and lock you out of the room.”
Charles’s very pretty jaw dropped open and then his eyebrows plunged. He opened his mouth, looked at Nora, and then swallowed whatever he was about to say. The look he cut Smith, however, told him Smith would pay later.
Smith was afraid to look too closely at the blood smeared bedding around Nora’s hips. Her torso was naked, the bruises and scratches telling at least part of the tale.
“Nora,” he asked, “Are you hurt inside? Do you need a doc—”
“No doctor.” The words were muffled, but strong. Her arm moved and at first Smith thought it was to push him away, instead her hand felt blindly until it landed on his. Her slender, work-roughened fingers were cold, and her grip was crushing. And then she began to sob.
❈❈❈
Nora was so mortified by her behavior she didn’t want to turn over.
Poor Smith. He’d held her hand and awkwardly patted her shoulders with his free one. Charles had disobeyed him, coming to sit on her other side. The two of them clucking and murmuring so much like broody hens that soon she began to laugh.
Their hands froze. “Is she choking, Smith?”
“I think she’s laughing.”
The laughter seemed to cut off the torrent of sobs and she finally turned over.
Smith hurried to cover up her naked breasts, which she found endearing.
“What time is it?” she asked, merely to break the awkward silence.
The two men exchanged an uneasy glance that sent a bolt of fear to her heart. “Is it Edward? Did something happen to Edward?” She sat bolt upright, flinging off the covers.
“Shhh, darling,” Smith murmured. “Edward’s fine. Well, as fine as he ever is given that he’s Edward.”
Charles grabbed several cushions and put them behind her. “Here,” he said, gently pushing her shoulder. “Lie back.”
Nora complied, the small hairs all over her body suddenly prickling. “What is going on? Please, tell me.”
Charles looked at Smith, who nodded.
“We came about this,” he handed Nora a newspaper. It had been folded back to the society section. “Second column about halfway down.”
“Is it true? That’s what people will be asking all over London this morning. Was N—H—the rising painter and protégée of The Pre-Raphelite Brotherhood—truly a daughter of Mary Magdalene? This newspaper has it from reliable sources that N—H—who has been causing hart ache—” Nora laughed and then winced at the pain it caused in her head.
Smith nodded, his expression grim. “Yes, very clever isn’t he?”
“N—H—who has been causing hart ache in the art world once was employed by a certain M—T— before accepting a more permanent position—”
Nora put the paper aside. “I don’t need to read any more of it.”
“That is an excellent decision,” Smith agreed, his icy tone leaving no doubt in her mind that he was already making plans to get to the bottom of the article.
Nora laid a hand on his, which had clenched into a fist. “I don’t want you getting involved, Smith.”
“Nora!” Charles snapped, his handsome face suffused with anger. “You need to put your bloody pride aside and let Smith help you. If nothing else, he could teach this newspaper person a lesson that would have them thinking twice before writing anything else about you.”
Nora bristled at his bossy stone. “And you might want to think twice about your willingness to employ your lover like a club, Charles.”
Charles recoiled as if she’d slapped him. “Why you—”
“Not now, children.” Smith’s tone was one of boredom. He gave the younger man a stern look before turning to Nora. “I won’t do anything to anyone without your approval. Fair enough?”
Nora studied him with narrowed eyes, not trusting his acquiescent mildness.
His face hardened. “But I do want to know who did this,” he made a gesture that encompassed her person. “Unless it was something you wanted or requested,” he amended, his tone and expression skeptical.
Nora didn’t need him to fight this battle for her, either. “I did ask him for it,” she lied.
Both men made sounds of disbelief. “Then why did you weep as if your heart was breaking?” Charles demanded, crossing his arms.
“I’m not myself this morning. I drank a great deal more than I am used to last night—certainly more than I should have. Things got—well, they got rough. But it wasn’t anything I didn’t ask for.” She held Charles’s narrow-eyed stare, feeling the heat from Smith’s glare burning into the back of her skull.
“Now,” she said having to reach deep to find the strength for a brisk, no-nonsense tone. “I have things to attend to today.”
Charles stood up, marched to her dressing table and brought back a hand mirror.
Nora gasped, turning her face from side to side. Her cheekbones were badly bruised, even her jaw.
“Now you see why we don’t believe you,” Charles said. “You can’t go out like that and you need somebody to tend to the scratches on your shoul
ders and back, not to mention your windward passage and likely your—”
“Charles.”
Charles looked at his lover, his expression innocent. “What did I say?”
Smith ignored his question, instead addressing Nora. “I’m going to give you some time to think about this—to heal. And we will revisit the subject.”
His expression was one she recognized—the one she was hoping to capture in the portrait she’d just begun, the one she hoped to surprise him with.
Nora nodded. “Very well.”
“Good,” he said as if there were never any doubt in his mind. “And now you will direct Charles and me to pack you a bag.”
She frowned. “Why?”
“You are going to stay at my house for a while. Not only do you need care, but I daresay things will be uncomfortable for a while.”
She groaned, having already forgotten about the paper. Still—she looked up at Smith and saw the depth of worry behind his hard stare. Why not stay with him? Her eyes began to water at the thought—it had been so long since somebody had tended to her.
And she so needed tending.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
It was Saturday night—or Sunday morning more accurately—and he was alone, lonely, and anxious. And he couldn’t bloody sleep.
He leaned over and stared at the bedside table, squinting at the clock. Did that say three o’clock or four o’clock?
“Bloody hell,” he muttered, feeling the bed beside him for the spectacles he now needed to read scientific articles. And, apparently, the big face of a clock.
It was a few minutes before three. He grunted. What the hell did it matter what time it was? He thrust back the covers and swung his feet over the side. What was making him restless, he decided, was his desire to write Nora’s letter. It had only been through a sheer force of will that he’d waited until Sunday—albeit three o’clock in the morning.
He’d been anxious about this letter because, really, it would bring him to the current date and was the last installment of his life. What could he write about after this? She’d never answered any of his—perhaps she’d never even read them. The pain that squeezed his chest at that thought was too much to be borne.
His Harlot (Victorian Decadence Series Book 1) Page 29