by Louisa Trent
"Charles..." she sobbed.
"Charles," he scoffed. "Would you give this to Charles or to any other man?"
In a carnal trance, she didn't answer. It was the mirror. Their reflection in the mirror. For in the glass, she saw him remove her hands from her buttocks, she saw him raise one of her legs, and then the other, lifting her onto the top of the dirt-strewn table.
"I love the wildness in you," he said, rolling her body into a balled crouch, forehead down and touching the tabletop, legs bent beneath her belly, knees squishing her breasts, bottom extended outward over the edge so that her buttocks were completely open and available for penetration.
The hopelessness of her love for this one man defeating her, she let go of the image in the mirror and wept into her hands as she lewdly raised her bottom.
"Hush. Don't cry, " Doyle crooned, his penis going into her buttocks again, greased head pushing against greased eyelet.
His palm smoothed her spine. He was petting her, soothing her, as he made the fated push.
"Doyle," she moaned. Then screamed, feeling a pop, feeling him enter her.
Physically pained and emotionally depleted, she went limp as mournful tears for respectability lost, streamed down her face at his entry.
A male grunt came from behind her. A sexual sound. A lusty sound. A sound of intense enjoyment. Doyle was feeding himself into her, pushing every last inch of his thick length up inside her buttocks, until he was lodged there deep.
When it was done, when she was fully penetrated, he moved slowly, gently, a considerate and lush sodomy.
Pained moans changed to pleasured groans. To her lasting shame and humiliation, she pushed back against his thrusts. In receptive abandonment, she hiked up her buttocks, wordlessly urging him to deepen the thrusts, while her hands clawed at the dirt and leaves and stems on the worktable, slivers of filthy refuse adhering to her bare breasts.
His mouth opened against her shoulder, his teeth biting into her skin, he drove up into her buttocks, burying himself.
She purred deep in her throat, the sensual sounds a woman makes on the road to satisfaction. There was no mistaking them for the sounds of a respectable lady.
Doyle didn't rush her ruination; he took his time about it. Long, smooth strokes followed by even longer, smoother strokes. He pulled all the way out, and then made his return. No hurry. No impediment. She was his, entirely his.
That acknowledged, she didn't wish to climax, didn't wish to own the dark thrill of this congress. But, undoubtedly, she was coming; already, the first swells of delight exploded inside her. Her denial of pleasure gave way to a catastrophic epiphany...
She loved Doyle, and always would.
They climaxed together, on the same breath, on the same ecstatic cry, his ejaculation the final possession.
He stayed inside her buttocks for a long time afterwards, whispering endearments to her, telling her that he loved her, telling her everything would be all right now that she belonged to him completely, his palms massaging the post climactic tremors away.
There was nothing to say, nothing to do, and so she did and said nothing.
He withdrew. Still she stayed mute and still, her wild mane of red hair covering her tear-streaked face; dirt and leaves and pieces of plant roots and stems clinging to her breasts and belly; semen gushing out of her buttocks, the ejaculate dribbling wetly onto the backs of her legs.
"Let me help you down," he said, and did.
Head bowed, tangled hair falling knotted over her face, sticky with come where no woman who calls herself a lady is ever sticky with come, she stood before him. Though the sodomy itself caused her no humiliation, her enjoyment of the unnatural act, pain and all, most certainly did humiliate her
"Are you all right?" he asked.
She nodded.
He picked up her fallen chin. "Next time, I promise you only pleasure."
So, there was to be a next time...
Doyle led her, naked and submissive, into the house. Her need for him defeating her, she knew she would do whatever he demanded of her over the hours to come.
She was taken to the far end of the hall. And Doyle was very mistaken about his brothers' sleeping habits--one brother in particular was wide-awake as they passed his bedchamber door.
Tall and muscular, his face set in judgmental lines, John Donovan stalked naked and huge and angry to the threshold. "Why is that cunt here, in this house?"
"She's my guest for the evening," Doyle replied. Two hands clamped on her shoulders prevented her from making a speedy escape.
Shame washed over her. Not so much at her nudity, as John was naked too and rapidly becoming fully erect. As was Doyle: his cock prodded her from behind. And, apart from this no small irregularity, both men had only recently witnessed her masturbate. She would have to say that modesty was no longer a significant consideration between them.
No, what shamed her was causing a rift between the two brothers, a rift only she could mend by withdrawing from Bar Harbor, and from their lives. Perhaps then, both men could move on.
"John, I need to say how sorry I am for my callous disregard of your tender feelings when you were a lad. I caused a rivalry between you and Doyle then and I have absolutely no intention of causing a rivalry between the Donovan men now. I know how much you love one another." Sparing herself nothing, she added, "Please believe me, I am not here to disrupt this household in any way. On the morrow, I return to Boston to wed my fiancé. Tonight is simply about a pound of flesh."
John gave a curt nod. Then turning on his heel, he reentered his bedchamber, slamming the door behind him.
After that interruption, they proceeded to the next bedchamber down. Mellow gold light filtered the darkness when Doyle lit an oil lamp on the bedstand.
It was an intrinsically masculine room, surprisingly Spartan quarters devoid of any female geegaws or bows or ruffles. Opening a high chest drawer, Doyle took out the mastery plug, held it out for her to see. It was the same one she had worn before, only this time the situation was far less romantic. This was about a man's use of a whore, nothing more.
She walked to the large bed. Sweeping her knotted hair out of his way, she held onto the cannonball post, and bent at the waist. "Will this do? Or do you need me lower?"
He kneaded her bottom. "I think I can manage," he said dryly.
Afterwards, she slept for a while on his bed where he placed her, soiled and sticky and covered with a lightweight quilt. When he wanted her next, he merely whispered, "Again," into her ear.
There was no question that she would refuse the use.
He helped her to stand. When he instructed her to round over the end of the bed, her face in the bedding, her bottom raised over the footboard, she did so with a docile swiftness.
And Doyle was right. There was only pleasure the next time, and the time after that, and the time after that. Each occasion was easier--and more luxuriant--than the one before. Though he refused the vaginal approach, taking her only anally, there was no hurt, no muted scream as he sodomized her.
The only pain came at daybreak when she told him goodbye.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Stifling a huge yawn with the back of her hand, Lily curled up on the settee situated in the corner of the brownstone's front parlor, promising herself she would seek her bed right after putting a few last finishing touches on the sketches started six weeks earlier in Maine.
She added a shadow here, a line there, polishing the landscapes until they took on a life of their own. It gave her a great deal of satisfaction to sign her name at the bottom when each work was finished.
Art critics said her work mirrored nature, that her landscapes were a little wild, a little untamed, a little out of control, and very passionate. High praise indeed for an artist who had spent the last ten years of her life with a tight lid on her emotions.
No more.
Now she laughed when she felt like it, cried when she felt like it, and when she was angry, she didn't t
ry to swallow it. Not that she danced naked on Boston Commons whenever she felt the urge, because she didn't, but she no longer tried to be something she was not and she no longer tried to be in control every waking moment of every day.
She had learned the hard way that there is an essential rhythm in life, a natural orderliness, and that is all anyone might reasonably expect. The rest of life's moments just happened, and that spontaneity is what made it all interesting.
With that blinding revelation came the realization that she would make mistakes as she wandered through the maze of life. And that was fine. Everybody makes mistakes. Everybody occasionally becomes lost along the way. As Doyle had related, everyone has 'asides'.
Lily now understood that one corrected the mistakes as best as one could, and then moved on, as best as one could, while trying to find the best way.
One of the mistakes Lily had made, she acknowledged, was her engagement to Charles.
Upon returning to Boston, she immediately dropped off a note for her ex-fiancé at his family's Back Bay residence; Charles deserved more than a hastily written letter.
Charles remained impassive during the initial part of her prepared speech, until she told him about Frank Johnson, alluding to her sordid reputation in Bar Harbor, while stressing her innocence. His blue eyes narrowing, Charles had wiped his moist palms with a linen napkin, politely excused himself, and left the posh restaurant without saying another word.
And that was the end of that!
Twittering to herself, Lily signed her name to the bottom of another finished landscape.
Her chuckle ended on a sigh. Charles wished to wed a marble statue--perfection cut in stone--not a flesh and blood woman. She was intrinsically flawed, but as she had happily discovered in Doyle's arms, the delights of the flesh were ample compensation for not spending one's life stuck on a cold pedestal.
She now liked herself. Nightmares no longer plagued her, her appetite continued to improve, her breathing problem was a thing of the past, she was drawing again, and most importantly she was at peace with herself.
At peace, but not happy. There was no happiness without Doyle.
She loved him. Missed him. Wished to share her life with him, mistakes and all. Theirs would not have been a fantasy romance. They were both strong-willed people. Doyle would be overbearing and she would call him on it. They would argue and make up, the process repeated ad infinitum--if only for an excuse to resolve the matter later in bed!
When the doorknocker was dropped, brass against brass, her pencil clattered to the floor, and her daydreams were pushed aside.
Who was that at the door this hour of the night?
Uncurling herself from the cushions, she went to see. "Who is it?"
"Let me in, Lily!"
Of course, her caller was Doyle. Who else would start issuing commands before even saying, 'hello'?
"It's too late for a visit, Doyle."
"I am not a visitor."
She cracked the door. "Sshhh!" she whispered. "My roommates are all abed."
Like a nor'easter, he stormed right past her into the front parlor. The room was of average size, but it seemed to shrink now that Doyle was inside. She felt herself shrinking too, the sheer bulk of him dwarfing her.
Choreographing each move, and keeping his elbows tucked-in, he covered the square footage in one gingerly step. He picked up her drawing pad. "This is the estate we visited."
She backed up to the wall. "Yes."
"Good execution. May I have it for the next book?"
"Well... All right... Of course. I am glad you like it."
He returned the pad to its former resting place. "Your grandmother visited me at my office early this morning and accidentally let it slip that your engagement is officially off." He picked up her left hand, stroking the bare knuckle. "I am here to bring you home."
"Just like that?"
"No point wasting any more time."
"No polite inquiry to determine how I might feel on the subject?"
"I don't do polite inquiries."
She wore only a nightgown, and suddenly she was conscious of this fact. "I think I should throw on a wrap if you intend for us to talk. Would you excuse me?"
He sidestepped into her retreat, blocking her way. "No."
"Pardon?"
"I am not giving you the opportunity to escape this time."
"Really, Doyle! I cannot very well crawl out a window in my night rail."
"I am counting on that very thing." His eyes dipped to her chest. "So, you look remarkably healthy."
"Thank you."
His scrutiny grew more intense. "Your breasts are fuller."
"You are outrageous, sir!" she sputtered, crossing her arms over the aforementioned fullness.
"Much fuller." he crooked a finger. "Come here."
"I most certainly will not!"
"Six weeks have passed. Do you have anything you need to tell me?"
Her mouth gaped. "I do not believe this! Are asking me once again if I am with child?"
"Are you?"
She stammered, "I ... I don't know. I am never on time and ... and ... I honestly don't know."
Crossing the meager space between them, and hand extended, he boldly splayed her belly over the thin white nightgown.
Doyle was domineering! Arrogant! But she quickly went from anger at his presumption, to arousal at his presumption when, in an ever-deepening caress, he dragged the soft material upwards along her thighs.
His heat, his nearness, scorched her. Protesting was out of the question. She stood still, letting him do what he wished.
"Six weeks and you don't know?" he said, his hand flattened against her now bare belly as if he were trying to feel the reality of his child. "I was hoping a baby was the reason you broke off your engagement."
"I ended the engagement because I didn't love Charles. There was no other reason."
"Yes, there is: You belong to me--that is your reason. You are a one-man-woman. When you mate, it's for a lifetime."
"Lust is not enough."
"No, but it's a good place to start." He kept his hand on her belly, angling his head to kiss her mouth, a long lingering kiss that left her resolve weak and her blood pulsing. "It hurt when you left the way you did but I knew you had to work out things back here. Now that you have, we can leave. If we go now, we can be back home in our own bed on the morrow."
"I am already home," she managed to choke out.
"How can you possibly say that, Lily, when we are not together at night in the same bed?"
Her nipples puckered, jutting suggestively under the gown. She had no control over her response. No control over her body. No control over her reaction to him. She knew how libidinous she must look. But how futile it was to deny her desire when her hands already palmed the wall behind her for support, and her legs were drifting apart in sexual encouragement.
He took her pose for the invitation it was, and walked his fingers upwards, taking her nightgown with them. His smoky eyes dared her to stop him. But, of course, she didn't. That trip upwards seemed to take forever. She wished he would hurry. She was throbbing for him to hurry.
He fisted the linen up to her neck and looked his full, concentrating on her chest. His fingers closed gently around a breast, weighing her, rubbing her, flicking his thumb across the distended nipple.
"These are tender. Your nipples are darker too. You might very well be carrying my child."
"Not from anything we did the last time we were together."
"No, not from that night." He smiled. "Does the memory of that last time excite you, puss?"
"Yes," she said softly.
"If I told you to remove this nightgown right now, you would do it."
"Yes."
"If I led you to bed you would go."
"Willingly. Doyle, there is nothing here to prove. I shall do anything you ask. You are my weakness."
"As you are mine." His hand dropped from her body. "Get dressed. We leave i
mmediately."
"No."
His brow lifted. "You intend to wear that in the carriage?"
"I am not returning to Bar Harbor with you. I have a position here. A life here..."
"Are you suggesting we live in Boston?"
She looked away. "You would never live here happily. The city would smother you eventually. You need your freedom. We--the situation--would never work."
"Can you say you have found happiness here?"
She shrugged.
"I do not understand any of this," he groaned in exasperation. "Are you suggesting we see each other only on weekends? That we make love only on Saturday nights? That I become your suitor? Your romantic swain? I am too old for those roles, Lily. That is not the kind of relationship I wish to have with you."
"Let's be sensible about this, Doyle. We have been apart for ten years. We don't really know each other anymore. Yes, there is a physical attraction between us and we acted on that attraction in Bar Harbor, but that might easily burn itself out over time."
"It's more than just the carnal and you damned well know it!"
"What I know is that carnality is a very large part of it."
"Yes, it is," he ground out. "I want you and I always will. But you are not a quick fuck to me. I ask you again to be my wife."
"I cannot..."
"When will you trust me? When will you tell me the real reason you fear returning with me to Maine?"
"I am not afraid!"
His jaw went tight. "Give us a chance. Give me a chance. Tell me the truth."
"I told you: I am concerned that all we have in common is the physical. Hardly enough to build a relationship."
His jaw clenched. "Okay, if physicality is all it is, I say we satisfy ourselves now!"
Her shoulders lifted in surrender. "How would you like it this time? On the floor? On a table? Against the wall? Out in the street? I shall do whatever you say..."
"Why are you doing this? Why are you bringing us to this? Why are you making this cheap when it's not cheap at all!"
"Well, I would prefer the bed," she said, going down the hall in the direction of her downstairs bedchamber.