Tainted Love

by Louisa Trent

  "I'm sorry." She separated her knees.

  "A little more, I should think," he advised, standing over her.

  She parted her knees until her vagina was stretched all the way open for him to see.

  He nodded. "The gift is nothing special. I just think it is time you...

  "Oh Doyle!" she cried, interrupting his explanation. "A sketch pad and charcoal. How very thoughtful!"

  "...started sketching again," he finished.

  She wrapped her arms around the pad. "Tony Camaro asked about my work." She shook her head until her braid bobbed. "What work? I don't have any work in progress. I told him I paint flowers every now and then, but he knew I was not being entirely candid. He looked so disappointed in me. Unbearable, his sad expression."

  She looked up at him, her lashes moist. "I have disappointed any number of people."

  He merely shrugged.

  She took a fast swipe at her eyes. "At least when you are brutally honest with me I know where I stand."

  "What do you expect me to say?"

  "The truth!" she said, a tad too boisterously. "I know you are positively furious with me. Avoidance only makes it that much more difficult. I agonize over when the ax will fall."

  "No ax today, Lily! Today, you draw. I fish. We shall both keep our heads."

  "Fine. Your way as always, Doyle. Forgive me for pushing too hard!" She covered her mouth. "Oh excuse me! There I go again, bringing up the past. Henceforth, I shall ban the word push from my vocabulary. Will that suit you?"

  "Lily..." he warned.

  "No! You can keep me on edge for as long as you like, in a kind of torturous anticipation. I deserve it." She sniffed. "So ... anyway ... I shall draw if you agree to pose. As I recall, you hardly move a muscle when you fish. You won't even know I am there."

  "Agreed," he said evenly, but the black and furious look in his eyes belied the words. "That way, I get the pleasure of your company without your chattering disturbing my fish."

  He suggested they pretend, and so she would. "I beg your pardon, I never chatter."

  He rolled his eyes. "Like a magpie. Don't you remember when I took you and my brothers to Crown Point and we would walk out on the breakwater to Josey's lighthouse? You never stopped talking. The three of you would drive me mad. All of you would be squabbling about something and expect me to take sides."

  "It wasn't all bad, was it Doyle?"

  "Never said it was. You were a real tomboy when I first met you. Looking back, you seemed so incredibly young and..."

  "And...?"

  He walked over to where she stood and played with her braid. "...and pretty. And fresh. And sweet. And a whole lot of pretty. And I knew John had a huge crush on you and that made everything so much worse. I used to overhear him talking about you to his friends when he thought I wasn't around. He had a hard-on all the time for you, honey. And I understood, because, well hell, I had a hard-on for you all the time too!"

  He wound her plait around the thickness of his wrist and pulled. Her eyes stung with tears of homecoming as she came up from her crouch to a more upright positioning on her knees. "I only had eyes for you. No other boy fascinated me the way you did."

  "That so?" he asked, removing the straw hat and undoing the bottom of her braid.

  "Yes, that is so."

  He parted the strands, running his hands through her hair until it was wild, then brought the heavy mass of it to his face, forcing the hard tips of her bared breasts to brush against his shirt. "You were so young, Lily."

  "Not so very young."

  "You were a dreamer. And, as I recall, you were a young lady with ambitions. The last thing on your mind was marriage and settling down with my babies in here." His hand flattened on her bare belly. "I was ready; you were not."

  Babies? What of his personal freedom? What of finally losing the care and responsibility of raising his brothers? He was ready for a family? She hadn't known!

  He looked down at her, slanting his eyes in that way of his when he was searching for an answer to an unasked question. "You would do anything for your grandmother, would you not?" he asked out of the blue.

  "Yes ... anything."

  "You know, I remember that you came to me once and asked if I would do anything to help my family."

  "I remember. You said you would. It's one of your more admirable qualities. After your fondness for torture, of course."

  His hand roamed her bare back. Was he even aware that he now cupped her naked bottom?

  "That kind of loyalty, misplaced or otherwise, is a character trait you and I share," he whispered, fingers feathering the crevice between her buttocks.

  "Perhaps," she said, shivering, not understanding what he was getting at; not understanding what he was doing to her.

  Granted, she now knew she wasn't completely frigid. She might fear other men's touches, but she didn't fear Doyle's. But total abandonment? Complete surrender? Full mastery? In her state of mind, was she capable of a passive's trusting submission? For he would require her to give over all control to him: He dominated all his women.

  Confused, she started to re-braid her hair.

  "Do not."

  Her hands dropped. He was demanding big things from her and requesting smaller ones. He requested that she go hiking with him, that she would draw, let her hair go wild. These were easily accomplished. His demand that she return to the free-spirited girl she was before the night that Frank died was more difficult to accomplish.

  "Seeing your hair free, the way it was meant to be, gives me pleasure. To see you free, the way you were meant to be, would pleasure me greatly."

  Free? Yes, she certainly felt free, Lillian thought, looking down upon her nudity. But her nudity wouldn't be all that Doyle demanded of her. "Things are never simple in life, are they?"

  "And that is the very reason I fish. Nothin' simpler than fishin'. It's easy for a man like me to understand."

  Doyle was not as uncomplicated as he would have her believe. There were unfathomable depths to him she had never explored. Doyle was a man less of the sunshine than of the shadows and she knew in her heart that he would hide his despair and his anger for only so long before he exploded. This game he insisted they play would come to its own bitter conclusion. The confrontation would be on his terms; she dared not rush it. She owed him that much.

  He helped her rise, and they walked to the stream together, side-by-side. He kept her nude, but he didn't touch her again, nor did he have her touch herself. He said nothing more, and neither did she. Only the faint hiss of his fly cast upon the calm water disturbed the quiet.

  * * * *

  Even at a distance, the enormous stature of the man striding toward them told Lillian that he was a Donovan.

  John had been tall when she had left Bar Harbor, but boyishly lean. He was a grown man now, and he had filled out.

  She sank low in the saddle. "Your brother, John, is here."

  "So he is," Doyle said without any show of emotion.

  "Why did you not warn me that he would be here today?"

  "Warn you? Why should I warn you about John?"

  "No reason."

  "Where else would he be anyway? We live in the same house. His generator business is next door."

  "Do you think it's wise for him to see me, here, with you?"

  "Wise? Hell no! We both know you are not exactly his favorite person. So what?"

  "I feel sick," she muttered, hand at her mid-section.

  With a curse, Doyle jumped to the ground. He held out his hand for her to dismount.

  It had rained on their return, and John sloshed through the mud, his oil-skin slicker open and flapping around his massive legs. The set of his features told her that he would waste neither his time nor his breath on polite small talk, lack of superficial pleasantries being a familial characteristic with the Donovan men; when they had something to say, they got it off their chests no matter who was around to hear.

  The seat of her trousers welded in p
lace.

  Doyle hauled her out of the saddle and placed her beside him, where she stood, hair whipping around her face, obviously naked under her lad's shirt.

  Doyle had not permitted her to fasten the garment all the way. 'Just one button,' he said. 'Lady's choice.'

  She closed the middle button. A bad choice, she understood now that it was too late: Her high breasts jutted through the gaping shirt.

  Though humiliated when a puff of air tickled a fully exposed nipple, she did nothing to cover herself.

  "Why is this bitch here?" John's question was directed at his brother, but his gaze remained fixed on her naked flesh.

  Doyle anchored her to his side. "Hey--watch what you say now! Lily and I are ... seeing ... each other."

  John threw up his hands; his mouth turned hard. "Have you lost your mind, man? She fucks anything with two legs and a cock." His finger was pointed in her face. "Have you forgiven what this cunt did to you, to us, so soon?"

  If a mere look could kill, she would already be lying dead in the sludge under John Donovan's boots.

  "I think it would be better if I left," she whispered.

  "You are not going anywhere, Lily. We still need to discuss your grandmother's Memory Garden."

  Doyle turned to his scowling brother. "Let us pass, John. This has nothing to do with you."

  "Nothing to do with me? Anything that concerns this family's livelihood is my business. This woman almost destroyed us once. I stood by idly then--never again."

  "John!" Doyle warned. "It's not like before. She's under my control now. She will do whatever I tell her to do."

  "Ha! She will bring you down again."

  Doyle turned his jaw to her. "Undo your shirt, Lily."

  She cringed. Oh, God! To reveal herself, to make an exhibitionistic display of herself, before John of all people...

  But she would not come between the two brothers; she would not! Never again would she be a cause of disharmony between them.

  Her chin meekly lowered, she undid the single button that held her shirt together.

  "Part the shirt, Lily. All the way down the front. Do not think to keep anything back for yourself."

  She separated the two edges until her bruised nipples, the evidence of Doyle's suckling, proudly jutted.

  "Now the trousers. You needn't take them off, not yet, but they must come all the way down. You have such a pretty red pelt, such a sweet pussy," he said, softly, tenderly, making love to her with his tone of voice even as he made his licentious commands. "And you are not to concern yourself with your female privacy; there is no one here, save John and I. This is only between us. You wronged the Donovan name grievously once before and now you must prove that you will never do so again."

  The breeches were tight, and her skin was moist from the heat of the day. They clung to her legs as she peeled them down to her belly.

  From under her lashes, she looked up at Doyle, hoping against hope that this was as much as he would demand of her.

  When he shook his head, she knew then that he would demand her all.

  Understanding she must do this or divide the Donovan household, she lowered the breeches to the ankle.

  "You know what you need to do," he said.

  A woman's most secret place resides between her legs. It is there she receives the man she loves into her body, it is there she gives birth. And Doyle was insisting she share with another man what she had only wished to share with him. It hurt, that insistence, that willingness on his part to allow another into their private world, even if that other person was his brother. But accepting that this is what she must do to prove to him how completely he owned her, parting her thighs, she surrendered the last vestiges of herself to Doyle Donovan.

  Doyle cupped a bared breast. "This is mine." His hand smoothed down her belly; he cupped her cleft, owning it with his palm. "As is this. Have no fear, she will pay me what I am due, everything I am due. I will make sure of it, brother."

  She was sobbing now. Sobbing, because Doyle's hand was rubbing her cleft, and despite John's presence, she was melting. Needing Doyle's touch, his deeper caress, she rubbed him back, her pubic hair becoming sticky as she masturbated herself against his hand. Why would he not give her his fingers? Even one finger would help her gain some measure of relief, some assuagement, against the awful gnawing in her cunt.

  "Mmm." The moan was pulled from her throat.

  "Take off your shirt now, sweetheart."

  "Yes. Yes. All right." Discounting John's audience, no longer really aware he was even there, she yanked off the shirt, and dropped it to the ground.

  "Oh, yes," she murmured, her throat arching. "Oh, yes. " As a reward for her submission to his authority, the heel of Doyle's hand ground against her cunt. She would do anything to have even a fleeting touch of his fingertips inside her. "Oh, please," she begged, tearfully. "Please?"

  "I would like it if you to stepped out of those breeches now, Lily."

  Which would leave her not only naked, but vulnerable to her feelings for him. Her trousers were her only defense against a total submission to her love for Doyle.

  For his part, Doyle had never forced her to do anything. This command, as all past commands, was gently given; in no way did he use coercion. To obey or not to obey, to gain her pleasure or not gain her pleasure, was left entirely up to her.

  She chose pleasure over discretion.

  A tear rolled down her cheek, as she kicked free of her loosely tied boots and then the breeches. Left naked and writhing, about to come, she knew she would die if she didn't have this.

  "Please Doyle?"

  "Please what?"

  "Please, I need your fingers inside me."

  "Where inside you?"

  "My cunt. Inside my cunt. Oh, please? I will do anything, anything you ask..."

  But already it was too late. She couldn't help it, couldn't stop it. Weeping, then screaming, the climax rolled over her as she rubbed her body frantically against his open palm.

  When it was over, John said, "That whore will destroy you yet."

  Afterwards, so weak was she that Doyle had to hold her up. "That is not true! I came home to try to make things right." She spoke up into Doyle's face. "Please believe me!"

  John laughed. "Why would anyone believe a lying slut like her, Frank Johnson's paid prostitute?"

  She gasped.

  "Did I hit a nerve?" John sneered. "When Frank suggested that you entertain him and his friends up at the cottage that night, you agreed. But something went wrong. Frank got himself killed. And you let my brother take the blame."

  She covered her face with her hands. The fear was so graphic and so consuming that she fought for each wheezing breath she forced into her lungs. She had just transcended the pinnacle of pleasure, but that pleasure had now turned to ashes, leaving her cold and humiliated.

  Doyle smoothed his hands over her bared back. "Easy, honey. Johnny is just blowing steam. Take a deep breath, Lily! Just breathe. You cannot help how you are. Promiscuity is in your nature."

  She grabbed at Doyle's hands, and said, as though in a trance, "It was raining. You came to me in the rain. Beautiful, white candlelight surrounded the bed. Don't you remember? You gave me a bouquet of white lilies. They were so beautiful. So lovely. A bridal bouquet, you said. And I felt like a bride too."

  Darkness encroached. The medicinal smell suffocating her, the light inside her head flickered and dimmed. As blackness took her over, she had a distinct perception that Doyle had opened his mouth to speak.

  Too late.

  She succumbed to the relief of total, forgiving, unconsciousness.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  "That was Doyle checking in. He told me all about your day yesterday," Victoria Hill said, giving Lily one of her penetrating, grandmotherly looks, the kind that still made her squirm. "You didn't tell me you had a ... weak spell yesterday, dear."

  "I felt a little faint. Nothing to concern you."

  "I am concerned. Perhaps
you should see a physician..."

  "No physicians."

  "Doyle seemed worried..."

  "He needn't be." The corners of her mouth lifted.

  "Granddaughter, you are not hiding anything from me behind that smile. Control is admirable; too much is unhealthy."

  Lillian looked away. "I dare not lose my control, for to lose it would..."

  Her grandmother sighed. "What? What do you fear so, my darling child?"

  She paused. "Are you aware the outside lanterns were not switched on the other night?"

  "A mechanical problem. I have no idea how it happened. When I told John Donovan I wished to show off how modern we were here in Maine, he assured me the new system he installed was virtually foolproof."

  To hide her apprehension, Lily surveyed the carpet under her feet. "You told John Donovan I was coming home?"

  "Yes, I did. Why do you ask?"

  "No reason..."

  Mrs. Hill let it go. "Now, Lily, before you make plans--you are still posing for Anthony today, are you not?"

  "Yes. Of course. I know how important this painting is to him."

  "I placed the gown you are to wear in your bedchamber, dear."

  * * * *

  Anthony Camaro's studio was only a short stroll along the walkway that connected the cottage to his home. As a child, Tony had given her drawing lessons outside, at the end of the Widow's Walk. He never joined her at the easel because he said that landscape painting made him sad. Tony painted women, all beautiful, and all sublimely naked. It was a running joke in their small community that Tony C. could charm the clothes off any woman and often did.

  Because of the sensitive nature of his subject matter, no distractions of any kind were allowed in his studio. Natural light came from ceiling skylights, although there were a few windows necessary for the ventilation of paint and combustible cleaning fluid fumes along one back wall.

  When Lily arrived, Tony removed his paint-stained gloves, threw his expensive sable brushes down on his easel, and rushed forward, arms outstretched. "Ready to begin our session, Lily?"

  She gestured to the understated but elegant gold silk dress she was wearing. "Will I do?"