What the Mistress Did

by Anya Delvay

  Insinuating my thigh between hers, I align my cunt with her leg and begin to ride it, already on the verge of an ecstatic explosion. She spreads her knees, tilts her hips forward. The wet heat of her quim slides along my leg, and she breaks from our kiss, dropping her head back on a gasp of pleasure, exposing the sweet satin of her throat.

  I set my lips to it, finding those places I know she loves, still pinching and tugging the nipple between my fingers. She is rubbing her cunt against my leg, hips working harder and faster, lost in the rapid climb to culmination, insensate to everything but that waiting moment of bliss.

  Before she can react, I turn her face toward the end of the bed, bending her so she leans against the high footboard. She arches her back, spreads her thighs, presenting her cunt and arse for my delectation and, unknowingly, her husband’s as well.

  A glance at David reveals incredulous, staring eyes, a face darkened and mottled with disbelief and rage. I trail my hand over Annabelle’s arse, his gaze following the motion before rising to meet mine.

  I smile and lick my lips, and he glares, tries to speak, begins once more to struggle against the manacles. Placing my hands on Annabelle’s buttocks, I ease them apart even further.

  “How delicious you are, sweetling, with your cunt all red and wet. I don’t know whether to spank it or kiss it. Perhaps I should do both.”

  “Yes,” she cries, breaking her silence, uncaring of—or perhaps even more excited by—the danger. “Yes, Marianne. Do not make me wait.”

  And she looks over her shoulder, eyes wild and torso heaving with each desperate breath. Looks past me to David, just as my hand descends.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The ensuing scene is like something from a crazed dream.

  Before her husband’s gaze, I ply my hand against her arse, cunt, thighs, while Annabelle writhes and moans and begs for more. I pause to squeeze her reddened skin, looking at David, who is now silently, stonily, watching our play. He may try not to be moved by it, but already his prick stands again, and a flush of lust suffuses his chest and face.

  “How you love to be spanked, dearest. Do you wish it were David’s hand administering the blows? They would be harder even than this.”

  “Yes,” she gasps, arching even farther, lifting her buttocks higher into the air. “Yes, I want it harder.”

  “You will have to ask your husband to assist you in that way on another occasion. I doubt he will refuse you.”

  David’s eyes flash at me, a terrible storm of emotion swirling in their depths, but we are too far along to undo what has been done.

  “You wife likes a little roughness in her play, David. Strange you have left her to find it outside the marital bed.”

  “He is a beast.” Annabelle sounds as though she is crying, but her head is cradled in her arms, and I cannot be sure. “A beast.”

  “Perhaps, dearest,” I reply, slipping two fingers into the satin slickness of her cunt. As they are gripped by her inner muscles and pulled deeper, we both gasp with pleasure, and my voice is strained as I continue. “But he is your beast, and it is up to you to tame him.”

  “To Hades with him,” she says, pushing back against my hand, rotating her hips. “Fuck me, Marianne.”

  I laugh, give her what she wants. My arm is a blur of motion as I plunge my fingers into her cunt again and again. The scent of her arousal permeates the air. Each loud slap of my hand against her quim elicits moans and sobs. Taking her to the brink of climax is the work of seconds, and when I pull away, she curses me soundly.

  “Wait,” I tell her, pulling her resistant form into my arms, tilting her head up so she must meet my gaze. Tears dampen her cheeks, and I catch then with my lips, my heart breaking as I speak. “I want to taste you, feel you under my lips, my tongue. When you spend I want to lick the very last drop from your flesh.”

  She surrenders and allows me to lay her down with her head resting on David’s thigh. There she is the epitome of sin, of carnal delight—a siren wrought of slumberous eyes and creamy skin pink-tinged with passion. Tenderness and the knowledge of the end rush ever closer, guide my actions. I kiss her lips, her ears and throat. The sensitive mounds of her breasts are pushed close together so I can lick the firm, hot skin, nip and suck the elongated nipples. Her supple form undulates beneath me, and her pleasure becomes all I yearn for, all I desire.

  As my lips skim over the gently rounded belly, she arches to meet them and, with a languid motion, lifts her hand to grasp David’s cock.

  Covering her quim with my lips, I am suddenly aware of the connection—my mouth to her cunt, her hand to his cock. Annabelle joins David to me, lies between us, a link and a barrier. It is just, I think. Mete and right. Yet I can no more resent her than I could stop from laving from arse to clitoris, gathering the tang of her lust on my tongue.

  This will be the last time I taste her, so I take my time, exploring the entrance, slicking over her labia, pressing into her fundus. As though catching my mood, Annabelle no longer demands release. Instead her hips rise and fall with the rhythm of waves lapping softly on the shore, and the motion of her hand on David is equally languorous.

  Looking up along her body, I see the beautiful, shuddering form, the bright flush of her cheeks. Beyond her is David, equally beautiful, torn between anger engendered by our deception and enchantment at the hedonistic display. In between is her hand on his cock, slowly rising and falling in time with each ripple of delight that trembles through her flesh. Driven by an impulse I can hardly interpret, I press my fingers over hers, and she opens them, entwines them with mine so we, together, become agents of David’s pleasure.

  It is too much, and I look away, battling wave after wave of emotion even as my lips close around the stiff little clitoris before me. With the very tip of my tongue, I swirl and flick, causing Annabelle’s gasps to become little cries of bliss. I begin to suck—softly at first and then with increasing force—and her voice rises apace. Suddenly she bows up, lifting her arse off the bed, shaking it in wild abandon.

  “Yes, oh yes. Marianne, I die.”

  Her spendings drench my face, for there is more than my tongue can collect, but I try my best nonetheless, wanting to drown in them if I can. Over and over I lap at the hot slick flesh, while she wails and shouts her bliss, holding me in place with one hand even as we retain our grip on David.

  When she subsides, I pull away from them both, sit up. Annabelle smiles, just a lazy satisfied curl of lips, and releases David’s cock so as to sweep her hands over the length of her body, as though reliving my caresses once more.

  “That was glorious.” Even her voice echoes with the same satisfaction. “Now it is your turn.” She gestures to David, “Will you have him now?”

  How I long to accept her offer. My body is aflame with want, trembling and quivering for fulfillment, but instead I shrug, pretending indifference. “You have seen me take your husband, or be taken by him, many times. Tonight I would have you return the favour.”

  She searches my face with those too-keen eyes, and as I feel the cloth tearing from the loom, it is with the greatest difficulty that I keep my tumultuous emotions under control.

  There will be time aplenty later to release the tears and pain.

  “Very well,” she says, holding out her hand to me. “But only if you assist.”

  Gripping my fingers, she straddles his hips, looks into his face as I reach beneath her for his cock and place it to the mark. David is trembling, his fingers clenched into fists, his chest heaving. Slowly Annabelle lowers herself onto his shaft, her gaze never leaving his. When she is fully seated, she stays there, pulling me closer to her side.

  “Although I asked her to instruct me on your preferences, Marianne has taught me what I like, David. It is a shame you never thought to give me those lessons yourself, but I no longer mind that. I doubt you could have done as fine a job.”

  Even though I ache, laughter bubbles up in my chest. “Thank you, dearest. That is sweet of you to
say.”

  “Not at all,” she replies, turning to me, capturing me with her fathomless gaze. “I own you a debt of gratitude, and more.”

  “Then repay me,” I say, still smiling slightly, pushing back the agony of loss. “Show me what you have learned.”

  And she accedes to my wish. Oh, how she fucks David. First slowly, with a rocking of hips that I know causes his prick to slide in small, thrilling increments in her cunt—a sensation I know well and can almost feel within myself. As her excitement builds, so does her tempo. Now she rides him harder, lifting up and pounding down, taking the thick length as deeply as she can. David moans, the sound echoing from his chest, and his hips rise in an effort to meet each plunge. But his eyes are still filled with that overwhelming rage, sparking like lightning in his gaze. Suddenly she stills, grinding her pelvis down onto David’s body, shuddering and trembling, her fingers almost crushing mine with their convulsive grip.

  Placing her other palm on David’s chest, Annabelle leans forward until she is staring into his eyes.

  “How dare you be angry?” I have never heard this tone from her before—irate and aroused, with a deep harsh undercurrent I cannot interpret. “How dare you do this, Lord Harrington?”

  I know not why, but my first impulse is to comfort her, and I hear myself say, “Hush, darling.”

  “No.” She turns her flashing eyes to me, shrivelling the words on my tongue. “No. He will answer to me—to us.”

  Once more she trains her full, furious attention on her husband. My heart pounds ever faster as her words spill out, boiling over and through me.

  “Was there ever any thought for us as you laid your plans and charted your future? Did you ever spare the smallest thought for Marianne and me?”

  David’s eyes narrow, and he bucks under her, although whether to stop her words or display his need to reply, I cannot tell. Annabelle leans closer yet, until her face is just inches from his, and her voice falls to a powerful stabbing whisper.

  “I am your wife, who you vowed to love and honour, but I know Marianne was already in your heart when you arranged our betrothal, our marriage. You betrayed us both with your actions, yet you lie there with your prick in my cunt, enraged, even as you long for me to give you release.”

  Once more he bucks beneath her, shaking his head, and she laughs, scorn rampant in the sound. “Why are you angry, my lord? Is it because you wanted to keep the two halves of your life separate? Or is it because now you cannot hide from me?”

  Pain akin to that in her voice rakes my heart. I cannot let her continue—allow her to say something that will destroy the thread I am trying to weave between them.

  “It is in the past, Annabelle.” The hand I place on her back for comfort is trembling and will not stop. “Now is the time to look ahead, not behind.”

  “No.” An emphatic toss of her head belies the tears now trickling down her cheeks. “He used us like whores, Marianne, expecting us to take whatever crumbs he gave and be grateful for them. For you there was pleasure without honour, and me, honour without pleasure, while David tried to ensure he lost nothing in the bargain. And he has the temerity to be enraged?”

  “But we used him too.” The admission is dragged from my heart, and the weight of both gazes, turned upon me, is almost unbearable. “Every time he came to me and you watched us in our most intimate moments, we used him to fulfill our own ends. Every kiss you and I shared, every touch, was a betrayal more heinous than his. He never lied to me, and you knew of his association with me when you agreed to marry him.” I am almost sobbing, pain tearing at my chest, and I cup Annabelle’s damp cheek in my palm, allowing my thumb to brush her lips. “How can you expect him to release his anger when you hold on to your own? And how can you hope to go forward, together, if you will not forgive? Will you be content with a marriage where loathing and convenience are all you share? Is that not what you sought to avoid by coming to see me? Will that be enough?”

  Following instincts I hardly recognise, I reach forward and pull the silk from David’s mouth, holding his gaze as I ask him the same question. “Will that be enough?”

  “No,” he whispers, then licks his lips and repeats, “No.”

  Annabelle is still crying silently, and when I turn to her, the expression on her face halts the words I would have spoken.

  The young girl I saw the first time she came through my doors is still there, faintly lingering in her tears, but serves only as contrast to the woman staring back at me. Memories of my rage at her youth and innocence now seem almost dreamlike, a figment of imagination rather than reality. Inconceivable now is the hatred, resentment and envy I felt. There is too much pain and fear in her eyes—too much knowledge—for me not to be moved. The resemblance to the empty image of myself I saw in the mirror is marked, and I realise I have indeed taught her the lesson I so scornfully believed she most needed to learn.

  I am sure she will, after this experience, be very careful what she wishes for. My heart aches with sadness at that true loss of innocence.

  Taking her hand, I press it to my cheek, willing her to listen and believe.

  “Sometimes what we desire comes woven in a shape or pattern other than we envisioned, and it is our choice whether to accept or reject what we receive. Do not throw away what you have out of pride or hurt sensibilities.”

  “As you have?”

  I wince, shocked by her words, unable to hide the evidence of my agony for that brief moment. Yet there is no urge to cause harm in her expression, and I find the strength to nod. “As I have.”

  There is a flare of understanding in her eyes, a moment of communion deeper than any we have ever shared. When I look at David, I see the same recognition, and my heart knows not whether to rejoice or shrivel away.

  Suddenly exhausted, I bend to kiss him, rise and repeat the brief salute on Annabelle’s lips before slipping from the bed.

  “You have much to discuss, I am sure.” I take my robe from the back of a chair and put it on, keeping my back turned to the bed. “I will leave you to it. Please, take whatever time is necessary and let yourselves out, as usual, when you are ready to depart.”

  There is a sound from the bed—perhaps one of denial—but I do not pause on my way out of the room. The peace between them is too fragile for either to call me back, fearing the other’s reaction. One colour has been woven out of the tapestry, and it is up to them to create a new pattern with what is left.

  As instructed, my maid waits in another room and makes quick work of dressing me. My luggage has already been sent ahead and arrangements made to pack and forward the rest of my necessary personal items. While the first stage of my journey to my mother’s home will begin in the morning, I have arranged lodgings at an inn on the outskirts of London for the remainder of the night. Silly, perhaps, to leave the comfort of my own home in this clandestine manner, but I have known from the moment I resolved to bring David and Annabelle together I would not want to remain.

  Before leaving, I reread the letter I had earlier composed to them, then seal it, vacillating between having it given to them before they depart and having it sent to their townhouse the following day. Eventually, realising I am simply delaying the inevitable, I decide on the latter, giving orders to that effect.

  The carriage lurches into motion, and I hang on to the strap, closing my eyes so as not to lift the curtains and look back, glad at that moment for the strange icy miasma cloaking my emotions. I feel nothing—neither sorrow, nor pain, or fear—and hug that sensation of emptiness close to my heart.

  The loom is empty and cracked right through, unusable and almost comforting in its silence.

  I almost pray it will last.

  Chapter Eighteen

  My mother is old and irascible, and declares I will not be content to remain in the quiet of her home above two days. I stay for a month, embroidering, walking, going to the occasional dinner with her aged acquaintances. Through it all, I am encased in that blanket of cold, calm accept
ance of all that is placed before me.

  My brother writes that Mother is happy to see my wild spirits have finally been subdued and extends his initial invitation from a month to two. I can, he states, accompany our mother when she travels as usual to his country seat in mid-November and stay through the Yuletide season before continuing on to our sister.

  I decline, although without explanation, suddenly inundated with a desire to go farther afield than Derbyshire. It is the blind instinct of a wounded animal to escape from the place where the injury occurred—to keep fleeing, as though distance will bring healing.

  Edinburgh is cold, damp and filthy, yet imbued with a sense of intellectual excitement that awakens my reluctant senses and draws me in, even against my will. Elizabeth, my sister, her husband and brood live quietly but have a circle of interesting friends who accept me without question. Despite the cold distance separating me from true emotion, I become comfortable and consider settling in this strange, new world.

  Although enjoying the comforts of my sister’s home, I take a house for the express purpose of facilitating an affair with a persistent Scottish suitor. My eventual surrender to him stems not from any particular desire but from a need to feel something, anything, even if just physically.

  Lying back as he fingers my quim, murmuring his approval, vowing eternal devotion, I am a ghost standing to one side, watching myself perform. He is gentle but not tentative—an experienced if uninspired lover—and seems determined to persist until I climax.

  Closing my eyes, I imagine we are being watched and spread my legs wider, arching my back to display my body to full advantage. My lover’s everlasting chatter is cut off with a groan as he succumbs to the enticement of my up-thrust nipple.

  The observers come closer, drawn by the allure of my damp flesh and slowly rising desire. Bending one knee, placing my foot flat on the bed, I set my hips gently pumping, simulating the act of being fucked. The hand on my cunt feels familiar, the two fingers slowly moving inside setting a rhythm I know all too well. The lips covering my nipple seem softer than before, the tongue a rasp of wet velvet across my skin.