by Anya Delvay
I press my palm over her, covering the burning flesh, and she rubs against it, the movements jerky and desperate. I let her almost reach culmination, then pull away, and once more she sobs my name. So sweet is the sound, so desirous am I for her pleasure, that I cannot resist another quick round of stinging blows.
“Ah!” she cries, lifting her arse higher yet. “Ah, Marianne. Please, darling, please.”
Plunging two fingers inside her, I revel in the tightening of her flesh, her now inarticulate cries. It will take little to bring her to release—another few slaps, perhaps a tickle on her nub—but I do not want the torment to yet end.
I am also passion-struck, my quim fluttering with ever-quickening lust. Annabelle had wanted to give me pleasure before. Now I will demand it of her.
Ignoring her disappointed moan, I withdraw my fingers.
“Roll onto your stomach.”
She shudders, a soft sob issuing from her throat, but, as I slip off the bed, she does as I command, turning her head to watch as I pick up the flogger.
“This will be a test of your ability to follow my orders, Lady Harrington.” Annabelle winces, although whether from the use of her title or the sinuous sound of the leather connecting with my palm, I cannot tell. “Do as you are told, and I will allow you pleasure to match the pain. Disobey, and take the consequences. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
She cannot. She does not, and just by her answer, proves it. Even with the foretaste I have given her, she does not yet understand. There is a moment when the pain becomes the pleasure, all craving centered on the next blow, true agony found in the thought that blow will not come.
Climbing back onto the bed I sit beside her head and stroke her flushed cheek, watching her buttocks flex and relax, her hips undulate against the mattress. I think of the first time David introduced me to the bliss of flagellation, my initial shock, the burst of freedom inside as I succumbed to the allure of the lash. It was a gift, and one I will now pass on to his wife.
Moving slowly, I reposition her farther down on the bed, stretch her legs wide apart and tie them to the posts. Kneeling between her thighs, I caress the smooth, unblemished skin of her arse, let my fingers travel up to the base of her spine and then down to her legs. How very wet is her slit; how swollen her clitoris. I use my thumbs to part the lips, and her low gasps turn to soft, pleading groans. When I trace the outer contours of her quim, her hips jerk, and I tease her for a long, delicious moment before crawling over her body to the head of the bed.
Moving the pillows so I can lean against them, I sit with my legs draped over her arms to lie on either side of her body. Annabelle raises her head, and her mouth is inches from my cunt. The sight of her tongue slipping out to wet her lips almost undoes me. It takes all my strength not to slide forward, demand she suck and lick me to climax. I take a deep breath, marshal my control.
“Do you still wish to pleasure me with your tongue?”
“Yes.” So emphatic is the word, I feel the rush of her breath against my quim. “Oh, yes.”
“Then you must earn it.”
She raises her eyes to meet my gaze, and I shudder at the lust I see on her face. “I will not disappoint you.”
“Do not touch me until I give you leave. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
I move closer and have her wrap her arms around my thighs and rest her forehead against my mound. Now her back and buttocks lie before me, and a tipping back of her head will bring her lips into contact with my quim. Anticipation and need are a sweet torment, and I revel in the sensations coursing through my veins.
“You will count each blow. For each number you miss, you will receive another, uncounted, stripe. When the allotted number have fallen, I may allow you to lick me to climax. If you please me with your behaviour, I will condescend to allow you release. Is that clear?”
“Yes,” she whispers, and I smile.
We will see.
“Six is my favourite number.” I drag the leather thongs of the flogger over her back, feeling her grip on my legs tighten. “We will begin with six.”
The first blow echoes like a shot around the room, although it is not as hard as I could have made it. Annabelle gasps, body arching, pressing into the mattress, fingers digging into my legs.
“One,” she counts, voice tremulous but sure.
I trail the leather over the marks and then let loose the second.
“Two.”
Each time I increase the strength, although varying the position of the stripes, and her voice loses some of its assurance by the time I get to the sixth. Her entire body trembles, and she is driving her forehead into my pubis with such force I am in almost as much agony as she.
Yet after the final blow, she raises her head to meet my gaze and her voice rings out almost as loudly as the sound of the leather meeting her flesh. “Six.”
“Such pride,” I taunt, lifting my hips as though in invitation. “Do you think you’ve earned the right to please me?”
Her eyelids flutter, and a small smile curves her lips. “That is for you to say.”
Little wretch—so assured of her success. To give in to her now seems wrong, but my body screams for release, and I curl my fingers into the dark tresses at the back of her head, and pull her to the mark.
Oh, the sounds she makes as she gorges herself on my cunt—wet sucks and harsh moans of pleasure. Coupled with the sensation of her tongue and lips, the vibrations of her enjoyment driving into my flesh make me drop the flogger and hold her with both hands. The sheer wantonness of our actions is a potent aphrodisiac, and it flows through my body like a maddening drug.
I writhe against her. “Suck harder,” I cry. “Bite me, lick my cunt.”
Annabelle growls and groans, following my directions, fingers digging into my legs to hold me tight to her face. I have no intention of moving away, but her grip, as though confirming her desire, adds to my manic bliss.
When I climax, it seems to last forever, the darkness behind my eyelids shot through with flashes of light and explosions of colour. Annabelle cries out, the sound muffled by my body, and her fingers grasp even harder as she licks and swirls her tongue through and over my quim, as though to capture every last drop of my spending.
Finally I pull away but for a time cannot move farther, so satiated am I.
When able, I look down at her, see her desperate need and rejoice.
“Six again, I think.”
She closes her eyes, a spasm racking her frame. When she lowers her head back into position again my body, I feel the heat of her sobbing breaths.
Now she falters with the count, and I realise the bliss of flagellation has her caught in its coils. Each time the thongs lift away, her arse rises to follow them, seeking the next encounter, and she ends up taking nine instead of the six I proposed. I believe she would take more, had they been offered.
As soon as she finishes the count, her mouth once more covers my quim, tongue and lips frantically working. Bracing my feet, I lean my head back against the headboard and pump against her, watching through lowered lids as her hips mimic the motion. She is too busy to notice when I lean slightly forward, is unprepared when I push away from her mouth and the flogger comes down low on her arse, aimed so some of the stinging tips land between her thighs.
Annabelle shrieks, writhes, legs pulled taut by the effort to close. Her nails dig into my flesh, and as I lash her cunt again, her head strains back, mouth open on a silent scream.
“I did not say you could touch me.”
It is doubtful that she hears me, for Annabelle is caught in that moment of intense bliss where the pain has taken her beyond any sensation she has ever known. Body tight, she is bowed, head and legs lifted, hips jerking and grinding deep into the bed. Oh, how the sight moves me, makes me ache with longing and delight. Her muscles strain with the craving for release; the reddened skin of back and arse glows. I trail the ends of the thongs across her skin, and with each pa
ss, her entire frame shudders as tiny sounds emerge from her trembling lips.
Breaking her compulsive grip upon my legs takes some effort, for she holds on, trying to pull me closer when I would move away. Finally I am free, and I swiftly secure her arms by the wrists to the posts at the head of the bed. She is watching me as I finish, and I smooth a tear from her cheek with my thumb.
“You’ve been naughty, Annabelle.” I try to make my voice cold, but the warmth of my regard and passion wins through. “I will have to discipline you.”
“Yes.” It is a whisper but fierce and strong. “Yes.”
It is then I realise there is nothing I can do that she will not take, and enjoy, and my heart leaps. My intention was to corrupt David’s wife, and I have succeeded far beyond my wildest imaginings.
Climbing back onto the bed, I settle between her legs. The pretty little cunt is swollen and red, a-froth with juices. If I had any doubts as to Annabelle’s enjoyment of my attentions, the sight before me would calm them. I ruffle the hair at the edge of her quim, and she moans, hips immediately pumping for three or four beats before quieting once more.
Taking the dildo, I work it slowly, carefully into her. Gasping, sobbing, she lifts to facilitate the insertion, so wet there is no need for any lubricant other than that which her body has already provided. The urge to fuck her is as intense as her desire to spend, but she cannot be allowed to get away with her disobedience.
“You like that, don’t you darling?” I give the leather cock a half turn, and she moans in reply, hips once more trying to thrust back. “I will leave it there for a space, while I mete out the rest of your punishment.”
I know she expects to be flogged some more, but the tender skin cannot take much more without the risk of severe bruising. Besides, there are other, more subtle means of torment.
Leaning back, I drape my legs over hers and reach down to touch myself, telling her what I am about. And as I quickly bring myself to climax, it is to the chorus of her pleading gasps, the sight of her cunt contracting around the encroaching dildo.
The release is sweet but not enough. I want to devour her, body and soul. Restraining myself while planning and waiting for that moment keeps my lust at fever-pitch.
“It is a husband’s duty to deflower his wife, so David should be the first to take your arse,” I tell her and watch as she stiffens, buttocks clenching. “But I would be remiss if I didn’t at least introduce you to the game.”
“Marianne.” Her voice trembles, with fear or lust, I cannot tell. “No.”
But I have already taken a dollop of grease onto my finger, and despite her plea, I tenderly anoint the puckered hole. Annabelle squirms, tugging at her restraints, but I am unrelenting. Round and round I circle, until her cries of denial turn first to shocked groans and then to sweet sounds of pleasure. Tickling and tormenting, I encourage her to enjoy the liberties I take.
“How good you are, Annabelle. How wanton. Do you want me to fuck you now?”
“Yes, yes,” she moans, her body pulsing under my caressing finger, hips writhing once more.
Swiftly I untie her feet and urge her up onto her knees. Withdrawing the dildo from her cunt, I strap it on, my hands trembling so violently I can hardly complete the chore.
One day Annabelle will offer herself to David in just such a manner, and I imagine him kneeling behind her as I am, looking down at her as she whimpers and begs for his cock.
Which one do I envy the most? Which would I most like to be?
Trying to push these tumultuous emotions aside does not work. Buffeted by them, I can hardly stay upright. What have I become, that I could long to be the object of both David’s and Annabelle’s desires—crave them both with equal fervour? A wave of insane laughter burns my chest but cannot find its way out through the constriction of my throat. Even my ability to breathe deserts me.
“Marianne, please, please.”
Her voice pulls me back from the darkness, and I lean against her for a moment, gasping, taking strength from the heat and vibrations of her supple form.
“Yes, dearest,” I whisper, reaching around to find her nub, tenderly stroking it until she shivers and sobs. “Yes, I am here.”
The dildo slides easily into her cunt, and she arches up to receive it, pressing her forehead into the mattress. I do not cease my forward motion until my stomach rests again the red, heated flesh of her arse, and I hold her hips still, savouring the contact, the sight of her glorious spine and trembling, outstretched arms.
I commit it all to memory, staring and staring at her bunched fists gripping the silk ties, the dishevelled hair and curve of her nape. The beauteous planes of her shoulders, the soft lines of her back, welted at my hand, are all absorbed, affixed into my mind.
Slowly I withdraw, plunge forward again, hard, wanting to brand the moment upon her the way it has been seared upon me. Each inward thrust slaps my stomach against her punished buttocks, and her cunt must be outwardly sore from my hand and the flogger, but Annabelle pushes back to meet me, adding to the force of our connection.
Finding her clitoris once more, I hold it lightly between my fingers, increasing the pressure a little each time our bodies come together. She’s keening, rocking, and I know she is about to climax when her body stiffens beneath mine, shuddering, reaching, as I fuck her harder and harder.
Her head comes up, and she cries my name, her legs going out from under her, unable to provide support during the explosion of release. I follow her down, land atop her thrashing form, somehow keeping the dildo inside her cunt, my fingers on her clitoris. I am relentless in my need to make this last as long as I can, and she is limp, utterly spent, before I cease moving, rubbing, caressing her intimately.
I lay my head alongside hers, my chin on her shoulder, simply feeling her breathe, enjoying the tiny aftershocks periodically shaking her body. I am exhausted, not physically, but mentally, emotionally, and I do not want to leave her, but I rise anyway, knowing to remain will be further punishment.
Not to her, but to me.
There is a part of me that wants to walk away, but it is a lone voice crying in the wilderness of my heart. Our time together is short, and more than anything, I want her to think of me with some tenderness when I am gone.
Fetching the salve I use after similar encounters with David, I return to sit at the side of the bed and begin to gently apply the unguent to her abused skin.
“This will ease the ache and stop you from bruising too badly.”
She sighs, eyelashes fluttering against her cheek. “Thank you, Marianne.”
Silence falls between us, and I take my time smoothing the cream into her skin. The need to touch her, to impart through my fingers all the softer emotions she engenders in me, overrides all else. With her wrists still tied to the bedposts, Annabelle is lax beneath my hand, the slender torso rising and falling gently with her slow, even breaths. Yet when I again glance at her face, which is turned toward me, her eyes are open and her teeth worry her lower lip.
Stroking along the top of her thigh, over the swell of her buttocks, I wonder what she is thinking, feeling, but do not ask. Of all the lessons life has taught me, the most important is not to request information you may not truly want. If, like me, she is contemplating the end of our time together, I do not wish to know.
She takes a deep breath, her back rising beneath my hand, and holds it. I know she wants to speak, and my heart begins to race.
“Marianne, I must tell you—”
There are sounds in the corridor outside my bedroom, postulations and replies in a voice I easily recognise. Horror sweeps through me on an icy, terrifying wave as I look across the bed and see the door fly open, and all I can do is press down between Annabelle’s shoulder blades, hoping she will not turn to look.
“Damn you, Marianne.” Imogene sweeps through the portal, face livid, while my butler, Yeats, hovers in the passageway, averting his eyes from my nakedness. “I knew there was someone else.”
&nb
sp; Chapter Fourteen
Glancing down, I realise Annabelle is staring up at me, eyes wide in her unnaturally pale face. As Yeats closes the door behind her, Imogene advances toward the bed, and I move swiftly to stop her from coming too close. She tries to sidestep around me, but I grasp her arms and hold her, push her back, even as she struggles to break free.
“Damn you, Marianne,” she says again. “How could you betray me this way?”
“Stop it, Imogene.” I know I should try to placate her, but, still stunned by her appearance, desperate to save Annabelle from harm, I have only one goal. “I want you to leave, immediately.”
“I will not go.” Imogene’s face is red, contorted with rage, and she fights me with all her might. “Not until I see the face of the whore you’ve taken to your bed.”
Fury swamps me. Releasing one of her arms, I slap her, and she stumbles, falls as I let her go. Lying in a jumble of skirts, she stares up at me, her wig askew, mouth working soundlessly, and the hectic colour flees her face, leaving two slashes of rouge in garish contrast to her powdered skin. It would be a comedic sight if I could find even a modicum of amusement in the shattered shards of the night.
“You have no right to berate me—no right to overstep our friendship this way.” Although cold, my voice reverberates with ire. “Go home, now, and we will forget this ever occurred.”
A fresh wave of red sweeps from her bosom into her face, and she tries to rise. The tangle of her petticoats and widths of her panniers make it difficult, and I do nothing to assist her.
“How can you say such a thing to me?” On hands and knees, she tugs at the impeding fabric, and I hear something tear. “How could you play me false and then insist I act as though naught is wrong?”
“I will not have this conversation with you now, Imogene.” Unable to stand her presence a moment more, I reach down and haul her to her feet. Tears pool in her eyes, slide through the powder coating her face. Despite my anger, the sight of them moves me, and I try to gentle my tone as I continue. “We will talk tomorrow, when you are calm.”