Amelia was ready to succumb to the joy of orgasm but she wanted a little more stimulation first. ‘Finger me,’ she demanded. ‘Finger my quim.’ To make her point, she shook Bernice’s head, extracting a squeal of pained protest.
Amelia didn’t know if it was because of the brutal treatment, or if Bernice genuinely wanted to do as she had been told. Regardless of the motive, the effects were the same.
Bernice slid two fingers between the slick lips of Amelia’s pussy.
Her fingertips easily penetrated the flesh, causing Amelia to growl. Both digits entered slowly and slipped deep into the moist confines of her cleft. When they pushed deeper into her sodden hole her sex felt hot against the coolness of Bernice’s hand. The copious flow of her juices coated the intruding fingers, reminding Amelia just how arousing the act of domination could be. The climax racked her body with demanding convulsions that left her groaning.
‘Stop!’
Bernice lifted her head. She slid her fingers slowly from Amelia’s pussy.
‘Was that OK?’
Amelia sighed, unable to put words to the joy she had just experienced. She simply grinned to show her appreciation and whispered, ‘That was formidable.’
Amelia released her fingers from the woman’s hair and grabbed her wrist. She knew that she was holding the hand that had just been touching her. The fingers dripped with the wetness of her climax. With a cruel smile, she raised the hand to Bernice’s mouth.
‘Lick your fingers clean,’ she insisted.
Bernice was beyond hesitating. She did as Amelia asked without thinking about it. Snatching her wrist from Amelia’s grip, she placed the sodden fingers between her lips. Eagerly she began to lick at the spent pussy juice. The satisfied murmur that accompanied her lapping was like a purr of contentment.
‘Formidable,’ Amelia said again.
As soon as Bernice had finished licking the last droplet from her fingertip, she giggled and lay down beside Amelia. Without waiting to ask permission, she hugged her new lover tightly.
Amelia allowed the embrace to continue for a full three seconds before easing herself from the hug. ‘You can go back to your own bed now, Bernice,’ she whispered. Her breathing was still touched by the exertion of their lovemaking. ‘I need to sleep.’
In the poor light, she could see the puzzled and unhappy frown that creased Bernice’s face.
‘But I thought I could sleep with you tonight,’ she mumbled. Hurt and upset were clear in her tone. ‘You said I had a gift and you wanted to share it, in return for my sharing your bed.’
Amelia shrugged. ‘I don’t want to share it any more tonight. I’m tired.’
‘But I thought –’ Bernice began miserably.
Amelia didn’t allow her to finish. ‘Then you thought wrong,’ she broke in. ‘I just wanted to use you before I slept, you silly little bitch. Now I’ve used you I’m ready for sleep. Fuck off.’
Amelia could see the tears welling in Bernice’s eyes just before the woman turned her head away. Normally the sight would have excited her but her appetite had been more than satiated. She grinned to herself and urged Bernice from the bunk.
‘Thanks again,’ Amelia said, as she felt the naked body slide from the bed. ‘And, if it’s any consolation, I’m sure that you’ve just helped me to have a really good night’s sleep.’
Wrapping the quilt tight around herself, Amelia took a moment to relish her solitude as she closed her eyes. She could hear the distant hiccupping of muffled sobs. The sound of Bernice’s misery was like a lullaby and she listened happily to it as she fell asleep.
Chapter Three
The pounding on the door was relentless.
Robyn was snatched from the depths of her sleep by the dull, constant sound and for an instant she was disorientated at waking in a strange bed. A moment’s panic slapped her alert as she was struck by the fear of having committed a cardinal sin. No matter what she or Harold did with another partner, it was an unwritten rule that they returned home afterwards, to wake in the warmth of each other’s arms.
Yet here she was in a strange bed. The only consolation that came to her mind at first was that she was alone.
The pounding at the door continued. Robyn ignored it.
The bed wasn’t that strange, she realised. As sleep evaporated and conscious thoughts replaced her dreams, she remembered exactly where she was. This was Holbert Manor.
The house had a lurid reputation. The more civilised locals referred to it as Holbert Manor. The more uncouth used the word ‘whorehouse’. Robyn supposed that both names were equally appropriate, depending on your view of the building’s history.
The manor house had been built by a Mr Holbert at the end of the seventeenth century. The building was large and impressive and an admirable example of the period’s architecture. Holbert had raised numerous children and the house had remained in family ownership through a neat line of male descendants. However, by the end of the eighteenth century the family’s investments had failed and their fortunes were in a state of terminal decline. Fortunately, the last remaining Holbert saw a way of exploiting the property’s isolation.
He placed a dozen prostitutes in the manor house’s many bedrooms.
The locals never forgave him for ruining the reputation of their village but the owner didn’t seem troubled by their opinion. As word spread of the nefarious activities at his property, profits increased and he was able to reverse the downturn in his family’s fortunes. With shrewd acumen and a penchant for the daring, he managed to succeed where his forebears had failed. Admittedly, the manor house was stuck with its unfortunate reputation while the owner pimped his way to financial strength. But those who visited the modern-day Holbert Manor all agreed that was a small price to pay for the piece of history that had been saved. And, Robyn supposed, if the last of the Holberts hadn’t died from a crippling bout of gonorrhoea he would have been a comparatively happy man.
A fist continued to pound at the front door, dispelling the last wispy fragments of sleep.
It was a gorgeous building, set prominently in forty acres of cultivated land. Harold had purchased the manor house on an impulse when he and Robyn had been visiting an auction. Together they had planned to rejuvenate the property and, although they weren’t intending to reopen a bordello, their intentions had involved a torrid aspect that excited her tremendously.
Harold had talked about using different rooms for different depraved acts. He had suggested inviting some of the couples and singles with whom they had both played. He had suggested spending a season exploiting an extensive list of fantasies. He had even suggested installing webcams into each room so they could voyeuristically enjoy the pleasures being enjoyed by their guests.
But none of those plans had ever come to fruition.
As she stared up at the cracked ceiling of the master bedroom she wished she had at least taken the time to employ a plasterer.
The fist continued to pound on the door, shaking the timeworn oak against the jamb.
‘I’m coming,’ Robyn growled. She silently cursed the visitor who had roused her from her sleep. She glanced at her wristwatch and saw that it was almost nine o’clock. After her long, arduous journey from the city she had wanted to sleep a lot longer. Her back and her buttocks still ached from the hours she had spent behind the steering wheel. The stiffness of those muscles added kindling to her smouldering anger. She snapped open the clasps on her suitcase and snatched the dressing gown she had thrown in there. After punching her arms into the sleeves, she wrapped it tightly around her naked body and made for the stairs.
The fist still beat upon the door. The sound echoed hollowly throughout the building.
‘I’m coming, I’m coming,’ she chanted miserably. ‘What can be so bloody important that you need to wake me at this time of the damned day?’
Once the words were spoken aloud, she was struck by a pang of nervousness. She stopped on the galleried staircase, staring down at the door.
The locals had no reason to call on her.
It was disturbing to think that a stranger was outside while she was there alone and vulnerable. She remembered telling Gayle that she was heading for the manor house. And, as soon as she thought of her PA, Robyn recalled their conversation of the previous night.
‘A guy called Dominic was looking for you,’ Gayle had said. ‘He said he met you at the party. I told him where you’d gone.’
Robyn’s nervousness dissipated in a flash and she decided that she already knew who was going to be on the other side of the door. Gayle had told Dominic about her trip and, remembering he was an agent, she felt certain it was him. Not only was he intent on pushing his latest protégé onto her, she also suspected he wanted to use that black condom she had given him.
That final thought slowed her pace as she marched down the steps.
‘You’re an idiot, Robyn,’ she muttered to herself. ‘No wonder you always get into trouble: fuck first and ask questions later.’
The fist continued to hammer at the oak, rattling the iron hinges against the frame. ‘All right, all right, Dominic,’ she grumbled. She stormed down the steps and turned the key in the rusty old mortice lock. Geriatric tumblers groaned in protest. ‘I’m opening the door, Dominic,’ Robyn called through the thick timbers. ‘But I hope you’re not expecting a fuck.’
The door opened to a stranger, smiling at her.
‘I’m not Dominic,’ he began pleasantly. ‘And I’ll accept whatever hospitality you’re willing to show me. I’ve got no expectations. I’ll let you set the ground rules.’
Robyn raised a shocked hand to her mouth, unable to believe she had just embarrassed herself so much in front of a stranger. In spite of his reassuring grin and the warmth of his eyes, she felt as though she had committed an unforgivable act.
‘I thought you were someone else,’ she began.
‘My friend Dominic has that effect on people,’ he agreed. ‘I wouldn’t want to fuck him at this time of a morning either.’ His smile tightened and he added, ‘I wouldn’t want to fuck Dominic at any time of the day, but that’s just personal choice.’ Extending a hand, he said, ‘Yale Walters. I believe Dominic told you a little about me.’
Robyn shook the hand. She remembered Dominic talking about Yale Walters. Erotic paintings. That was not something she wanted to discuss today. She glanced into the artist’s face again, trying not to be won over by his warm smile. ‘What the hell are you doing out here in the middle of nowhere, Mr Walters?’
‘Call me Yale,’ he said with a grin. ‘And the reason I’m here in the middle of nowhere is because I’m looking for a columnist with a good eye for genius.’
She studied him for a moment longer and then grinned herself. He was attractive. His long dark hair had been gathered behind his head into a sleek ponytail. His complexion was olive and clean-shaven, revealing the sort of pretty-boy looks she always favoured. Only the glint of his menacing dark eyes prevented him from appearing truly perfect but she could overlook that one small flaw.
The muscles of her inner thighs trembled. As the heat of arousal swept through her she had to make a physical effort to quell the rising response.
‘You haven’t found a columnist with a good eye just yet,’ she said. ‘I need to be wearing make-up for that. If you can find the kitchen, you can make yourself a coffee while I get dressed and put some lippy on. Then maybe we can talk.’
‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ he agreed, closing the door behind himself.
As she rushed up the stairs, Robyn turned and was surprised to see he remained in the doorway. Instead of searching for the kitchen, he took two steps forward and stood proudly in the centre of the hall.
He looked like the laird of the manor, returning to his retreat.
Robyn dismissed the thought and continued to hurry up the stairs.
* * *
In the ancient bathroom of Holbert Manor, Robyn struggled to turn her thoughts away from sex. It was a difficult task and nothing seemed to help. Each of the toiletries she pulled from her vanity case sent her mind back to the lewd line she usually favoured. Every lipstick looked as though it had been modelled on a phallus. The red and purple ends protruded from their long, sleek cases, like miniaturised cocks that needed to be drawn across her ripe lips. The roll-on deodorant was blessed with the dome-like shape of an erection’s bulbous glans and Robyn could even see a crude comparison between ejaculation and the squirt of white paste she used on her toothbrush.
‘Stop thinking about sex.’ Staring into the pockmarked glass of the bathroom mirror she told her reflection, ‘You have to think of your marriage.’
Seeing how weary she looked, she cursed Harold for the invidious situation he had placed her in and wondered why he was treating her so badly. They had always enjoyed their open marriage and, even if he had grown tired of that arrangement, she thought he could have discussed the matter with her before imposing such a harsh restraint on her lifestyle. Instead he was acting like a boorish bully, demanding that she behaved according to rules that he had only just formulated.
It wasn’t fair. It was an imposition she didn’t deserve. But there was nothing she could do about the situation.
She considered trying to deceive Harold. The man downstairs was handsome and youthful and he inspired a warm and fluid need between her thighs. She could happily take the young artist in her arms, and between her legs and into her bed, and enjoy his caresses of her naked body. More than that, she could eagerly fuck him throughout the rest of the morning and into the afternoon, exploiting each and every one of the myriad rooms in the manor house. And then, a voice at the back of her mind suggested, she could lie to Harold.
But Robyn knew she couldn’t do that.
Since the day they had met he had been able to read any deception she attempted, by simply looking into her eyes. Common sense told her it would be a grave mistake to try and deceive him. Robyn knew she would be found out and Harold had already detailed the fate that awaited her if that happened.
‘We have a relationship based on trust,’ he had once said. ‘It takes a hell of a lot of trust for us to sleep with other people. It takes a hell of a lot of trust for us to stay true to each other if we’re pursuing sexual relationships with other people. If either of us starts to abuse that trust we’ll be left with nothing.’
At the time she’d thought the words sounded profound and kinkily romantic. Now she wondered if there wasn’t some degree of hypocrisy in Harold’s sentiment.
Brushing that thought aside, sure she was wrong to be blaming Harold, Robyn wished there was a way she could prove her love for her husband so she could get back to satisfying the more urgent demands of her libido.
It was easier to shut Harold and his peevish behaviour from her thoughts. She was unhappy with the misery his memory now evoked. But, with Harold out of her thoughts, she found herself contemplating her visitor.
As she brushed her teeth she tried not to give in to the disturbing image of Yale’s naked body twining with hers. She could see the picture so clearly it was as though she was reliving a memory. Yale’s hair had been released from the ponytail. His hands brushed her body as he stroked her naked waist, moving his fingers up to the swell of her bare breasts.
The tips of his fingers touched the hard thrust of her nipples and …
‘I’ve made that coffee. Are you going to be much longer?’
Yale’s shouted query disturbed her thoughts and she shook her head as her mind returned back to the bathroom. After rinsing her mouth she called, ‘I’m coming.’
Silently, she chastised herself for using that term. It had connotations that made her uncomfortable. Deciding that her reflection was the best she could make it, Robyn slipped from the bathroom and retrieved a pair of jeans and a T-shirt from her suitcase. They were simple, unflattering clothes; she had already decided that an understated style would be best for dealing with someone like Y
ale Walters. The less attractive he found her, the better it would be for both of them. Determinedly, Robyn decided she would give him no sexual encouragement whatsoever.
* * *
‘These are phenomenal,’ Robyn whispered. ‘That one is breathtaking, and that one is …’ she left the end of the sentence unspoken, contenting herself with an elated sigh.
Yale preened beneath the praise. ‘Naturally I’m showing you some of my better pieces,’ he began demurely. ‘I had wanted to make a good impression on you but if you really think they’re that good …’
‘I do,’ Robyn told him eagerly. ‘I really do.’
‘I’ve got some more in the van. I’ll bring them in for you.’ He was out of his chair and rushing towards the door before she could utter a word to stop him.
Not that Robyn would have tried to stop him.
She was enthralled by the images and the intense detail of each painting. The subjects were erotic and sexual, but he had made every picture far more than just a nude. The images of his models possessed a realism that she couldn’t quite define. It was more than just an expression on a face, or a particular emphasis in a stance. It was as though, with the deft skill of his brush, he had captured a moment from life.
The first canvas he had shown depicted a woman with a whip. She was wielding the length of black leather over a couple: one male and the other female. With either a brush or a palette knife – Robyn couldn’t decide which he had used – the artist had captured their naked bodies to perfection. More than that, he had caught the terror of the submissives’ expressions and the wicked smile of the woman brandishing the whip. As Robyn studied the picture more closely, she could see the rash of stinging marks that peppered the blonde victim’s backside. Each red welt seemed to pulse painfully as she gazed at the painted image.
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