For a long moment there is silence as we lie together, our bodies entwined in our own breathless, mutual pleasure. I am lost utterly to the experience, enjoying the warmth and scent of his skin against me as he slowly rouses from his pleasure-induced stupor. I watch his face as he comes back to life, raising his head and leaning over me again with a smile.
“Well, my love,” he purrs, drawing his long fingers through my splayed hair. “Now, you are truly my wife.”
I inhale deeply, and offer him a small smile. “Thomas…” I begin, feeling my face flush with embarrassment as I answer. “I never knew there could be such a thing between a gentleman and a lady…”
“Oh, Lydia,” he says, planting chaste kisses against my mouth. “There is so much more that I want to share with you.”
I pull at the bondage, still holding me down against the bed, wanting desperately to touch the man who has just shown me such devotion. He watches me, clearly enjoying the show. “Would you like to be free now, my love?” His tone is sardonic, and the sound fills me with frustration at my bound and helpless state.
“I cannot believe you have bound me,” I reply, my inner conflict on the bondage rising to the surface in my voice.
He laughs; a soft, gentle sound. “I will always bind you when the need arises,” he assures me. “You will behave, or you will be forced to behave.”
My tender muscles clench reflexively at his words, squeezing his own organ which rests there. He looks down at me, his eyebrow raised as he acknowledges the sensation. “I can tell that you like that idea,” he says softly. “It pleases us both.”
With that his mouth is on me again, his tongue intruding as it pleases, whilst his left hand roams my chest and belly. Once again I am torn between my desire for him and the vexation at not being able to move as I please. Squirming beneath him, I writhe against the cravat at my wrists.
As his lips move away, they form into a smile as they surmise my uncontrollable response to the bondage. “Oh, Lydia, I do so like to see you struggle this way,” he says darkly.
I still, panting as I look into his eyes. “Will you please untie me now, Thomas?” I ask imploringly.
He nods, his fingers already moving north to tug at the silk. “I will, my love,” he answers. “But you can be sure that you will find yourself bound and at my mercy again soon.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven: Dark Endeavour
The next few days pass in a frenzy of unadulterated passion. Thomas has become literally the centre of my entire world, guiding me through the exploration of our mutual pleasure. He possesses me in any way he chooses, tying, spanking, and claiming me at will, and I revel in his utter mastery of me. We rarely leave the gratification of the suite, but of course the lure of the city is too great to ignore completely.
Venturing out one evening, we eat at a dazzlingly indulgent restaurant, and enjoy the delights of the Theatre Royal. I have not seen any live theatre since my father has passed away, and being able to share the experience with my new husband makes it especially pleasing. We return to the Mivart to find Lucy and Buckton awaiting us. Given the nature of our stay thus far, I have not spoken to Lucy since the day of the wedding, and I am genuinely happy to find her well and at my service.
Taking her to one side, whilst Thomas gives Buckton some instructions, I task Lucy with some specific directives of my own.
“Of course, My Lady,” she agrees pleasantly upon hearing my request.
“Please ask Buckton to accompany you,” I say. “I should not like the thought of you alone in the city.”
She nods with a small smile. “There is no need to worry, My Lady,” she says, reassuring me. “But I am certain that Mr. Buckton will be happy to escort me.”
* * *
It is Thursday, and the evening of our final night in the splendour of the Mivart. Thomas and I retire after a decadent meal, and by the urgency of his tone with the hotel staff, I sense that my husband has something particular in mind for us. He turns, locking the door to the suite behind us. His expression is guarded, as though he is trying to suppress some undeniable need within him. Since our wedding night, Thomas has claimed me in several new ways; some sensual and loving, and others more demanding and debauched. I have sometimes felt dread at his suggestions, yet cannot deny the pleasure and love he has bestowed upon me in our first days as man and wife. There is something about his face now, however, which sends a reflexive wave of fear through me. Yet fear, I am learning, can itself be a potent aphrodisiac, and I try to calm my erratic breathing as he approaches me.
“How are you, my love?” he asks, his tone deliberately casual, and yet at the same time clipped.
He walks toward me at a slow and even pace, his fingers slipped into the large pockets of his evening coat. I resist the urge to bolt, despite my accelerated heart rate and the increasing feeling that he is going to pounce on me at any moment…
“Thomas?” I ask. “Is everything as it should be?”
He pauses, his lips curling into a smile as he closes the distance between us. “You are coming to know me too well,” he muses out loud.
I gape at him, knowing my face must demonstrate my bewilderment. “How so?” I enquire. “How can your wife know you too well?”
His dark chuckle makes the muscles south of my belly tense in excited anticipation. I watch, bewitched as his right hand rises slowly to my face, caressing the side of my cheek. “I mean only that already you have come to know my mannerisms and expressions. I know you can sense something of my needs and expectations for this evening.”
I pause, his words reinforcing the feelings I have already acknowledged. “What do you intend for us, Thomas?” I ask, hearing the tremble in my voice at the question.
He towers over me, his presence as dominating as his physical stature. “You shall see, my love,” he says gently, tracing his digits down the line of my shoulder to the place where my gown begins. Taking a small step forward, he presses himself against me. “Tell me, Lydia, how are you? Are you tender from all of my attention this week?”
In spite of how intimately Thomas has come to know me these last days, for some reason the question makes me flush, and I feel the heat rising to my face in an instant. “My Lord, I…” I falter, dropping my eyes to the chain of his timepiece as I try to find the words.
One finger rises to my chin, propping it up and forcing me to look him in the eye. “You can be honest with me, Lydia,” he says evenly, “and furthermore, I expect you to be. I think I made my expectations on this subject clear to you some weeks ago?”
I swallow hard at the sudden edge in his voice, and at the same time my mind recalls the spankings I have received on the subject of my honesty with Lord Markham. “I am a little sensitive,” I reply, my voice coy. “But I do not want it to prevent your pleasure, Thomas?”
He smiles, his finger relaxing at my chin. “There are a vast number of ways to create and elicit pleasure, my love,” he says. I look to him, his voice now deep and low. The sound resonates within me, pooling arousal at my core. “I am going to bind you,” he purrs, “and then I am going to pleasure you—over and over again.”
I swoon at his words, the prospect of what he suggests making me giddy. “Thomas,” I squeak, unable to articulate anything further.
His smile is knowing. “Strip now,” he demands sensually. “I would like you naked and kneeling on the bed.”
I look to the place he indicates, feeling my breath accelerate further. Without thinking, my hands are at the fastenings of my dress, fiddling with the ties there. Thomas moves behind me, untying the lengths of the fabric and then falling back to watch me as I slip the gown from my body. Neither of us speaks as I move toward the giant four-poster—the destination for nearly all of our wedded lovemaking—and climb obediently on top of it as he had requested.
Kneeling in my place I wait, hearing him moving behind me. I am nude, breathless, and all too aware of my absurd vulnerability. Yet at the same ti
me, my body is thrumming, whirring with excitement at what My Lord has in store for me this evening. He rounds the bed next to me, and I risk a glance to the right to see the now familiar lengths of rope in his hands.
He climbs on the bed beside me, displaying the rope in his open palm. “I am going to bind you facing forward tonight, Lydia,” he explains, watching my responses to his words. “Then I am going to devour your sweetness, explore you with my fingers, and bring you relentless pleasure.”
I gasp at his explanation, watching as he gently places my limbs where he desires them to be. He draws my legs apart softly, before moving me forward onto all fours with my wrists crossing in front of me. Sitting on the bed next to me, he winds the length of rope around them. I watch wordlessly as he works, transfixed by the look of the bondage against my own skin. Lately my wrists and ankles have been left with the most pretty-looking patterns from the ropes, the sight of which has proven most hypnotic during my quiet times of reflection.
My wrists, now bound together in front of me, support my weight as I kneel on all fours. He moves toward my rear, taking his time and stroking the backs of my legs. “You are so beautiful, my love,” he coos, kissing my inner thighs. “So exquisitely stunning, and you are all mine.”
I giggle reflexively at the proclamation, leaning against my elbows as I imagine which part of my skin he will touch next.
“Lie flat against the bed,” he instructs me, and gingerly I move down as he demands, stretching my bound arms out in front of me. As I do so he extends my legs, and I feel him at my right ankle, the now familiar feeling of the rope against my soft skin as he anchors it against the wooden post. I twist my head to the right, and see him concluding the knot. Our eyes meet for a moment, and the knowing look I find in his face is loaded with carnal intent. Smiling, he moves seamlessly to the left ankle, repeating the process and securing my outstretched leg to the other post. I watch him for a moment before turning my face back to the bed.
With my limbs now secure, his movement stops. I cannot see him from my place on the bed, but I imagine him standing there, behind me, watching my squirming, bound body. The thought of him enjoying the look of my helplessness makes me so inexplicably hot and aroused, that somehow it serves to only drive me on, closer to desire. I writhe against the covers, akin to a serpent, feeling the strength of the unrelenting rope against my skin, and wondering what my husband will do to me next. Time elapses, and still he makes me wait as though the anticipation of the event is somehow an experience in itself. Then, eventually, and just as I am certain I can take no more, I feel his hands upon my calves, and his fingers running north up inside my thighs.
“Raise your hips, Lydia,” he orders me. His voice is husky and already clearly loaded with desire of his own. I obey at once, straining my legs against the ropes as I indeed raise my hips, exposing my intimate parts for his eyes.
“How tempting you are,” he says. “And how I am going to ravish you…”
I turn my head to the left, pressing the side of my face against the bed as I listen for further clues about what is coming next. Then all at once I feel the weight of Thomas’s body on the bed behind me, and between my bound legs. Within a moment his hands are against my buttocks, pressing and spreading my inflamed cheeks apart. I wince at the sudden hurt, my bottom still warmed from the spanking I had received earlier over his knee. The entire bridal tour has been one long ride of spankings; some given as penance for behaviour my husband is disinclined toward, and others delivered just for our mutual pleasure. As such my bottom had been spanked thoroughly every day, and sometimes on more than one occasion. It now has an almost permanent rosy hue.
His hands, now prizing apart the delicate skin of my behind, hold my hips in place and it is then that I feel the heat of his breath against my intimate flesh. I gasp, knowing what I think will transpire next. He presses himself into my wet lips, his hot mouth grazing the area with soft kisses.
“Thomas,” I moan into the bedding. “Too much. This is too much…”
He answers me with one long lick of his tongue, followed by a sharp swat to my right bottom cheek. “Enough,” he snaps, but I can hear the joviality in his voice. “Lady Markham will lie bound in her place, and accept whatever her lord bestows upon her…”
“Yes, My Lord!” I gasp, feeling his tongue plunge into my soft, moist flesh.
I bury my head into the covers, my mouth drawn open by the unrivalled pleasure that his lips create. His mouth drops lower, offering pleasure to the small bud which is now pulsing between my legs. Again I groan, squirming in my binds, desperate to move my legs, for some reason wanting to prevent his access, and yet at the same time never wanting to permit him to stop. The large hands of my husband hold me in place, and his tongue does not relent. Soon enough, my squirming has turned to rocking, my hips bucking back to meet the exquisite torture that his tongue promises to provide. The fleeting contact it delivers is as intense as it is delightful, and before too long I am heading back toward the summit of the pleasure I seek. Sensing my pursuit, Thomas increases the pace against my throbbing need, tormenting it ruthlessly until I scream, calling out and muffling the sound in the bedding in front of me. Once more I find myself flying higher than the clouds above us, circling our bodies as though I am some astral being invented from pleasure.
Gradually the sensation slows, and as it ceases, I want to collapse, the weight of the hedonism making me lethargic. I sigh, freefalling in the midst of my climax, pulling futilely on the ropes at my wrists. Thomas’ kisses have moved to my thighs again, but by the time I can catch my breath, it is his fingers I can feel upon my wet, sensitive skin. One, and then two digits press against me, before they dip, probing deep inside my wet core. A groan leaves my lips at their presence, the pull on my ropes growing tighter as the sensations torment my body.
Thomas climbs higher on the bed, straddling my body so that his face comes in to view over my left shoulder. His fingers move in and out of me, driving a rhythm of their own.
“Thomas!” I call out, searching his face for the reassurance of his eyes. I find them, loaded with carnal intent.
“Feel me inside of you, Lydia,” he says, his voice overflowing with the desire flowing through him. “Up on your knees,” he commands, and I obey without a word, sensing his need for my submission.
Once I am in place, his fingers, wet from my recent climax travel north to my darkest, and as yet virgin hole. Not needing my consent, Thomas presses them forward, dipping them directly into the exposed hole. I gasp, tensing at the intimate sensation.
“Relax for me, Lydia,” he says firmly.
Exhaling into the covers, I try to do so. I will the tension in the ring of muscle to ease, and still his fingers probe, consuming the area at once.
“Thomas,” I say again, not really certain what I am beseeching him to do, but unable to contain the burden of the emotion I feel.
“Yes, Lydia,” he coaxes from over my bound body. “I told you that I would possess all of you, and tonight I will.”
My body tightens at his words, feeling the sinfully wicked sensation of his digits working their way in and out of my most private place. In my mind I know it is wrong to find glee in such naughty pleasure, and yet the feeling is singly the most compelling that I have ever known. The more he demands from me, the more I yield to his will, and after some moments I welcome the peculiar intrusion, feeling myself pushing back against his digits like a brazen hussy.
“Thomas,” I say, finally able to articulate the words, “please take what is yours.”
Our eyes connect again; his orbs look fit to burst with emotion. “Not yet,” he whispers. “First I have vowed to give you pleasure, and then my love—when you are ready to detonate—then I will take what belongs to me…”
I let out a long sigh, uncertain of everything he intends, and yet safe in the knowledge that I am his most willing captive. The sight of his face leaves me, and I feel him shifting back into position a
t my rear. His fingers, still exploring my virgin hole, continue to probe, teasing me and eliciting guttural sounds from my mouth. And then, just as I am sure that my body can take no more sensation, it is his mouth I feel, again at my swollen wetness.
I moan aloud, feeling his left hand yet again holding my hips in place as his tongue and lips devour me. At the same time his right hand delves deeper into my soundly spanked bottom, claiming the other part of his wife. Now I am truly writhing, unable to escape either the attentions of his hands or his mouth, and yet yanking at my bondage all the same.
Instinctively I leverage the use of my arms, pulling my weight forward and onto my elbows. Almost at once the left arm of Thomas tightens at my hip and pulls me backward, toward his waiting face. “Where are you going, my love?” His voice is dark and teasing. “You will stay in the place I have put you, or you will be punished again.”
“But, Thomas!” I moan, my words sounding incoherent in the heat of the passion. “I cannot—I must not!”
“Oh, but you will…” he tells me firmly, and with that, my hips are drawn back into the proper place, his mouth connecting with my exposed flesh, before suckling against it. Wrought with pleasure and heady with the bondage, I am defeated, falling face-first against the covers once again. All the time he consumes me, his tongue lapping and offering soft caresses, before his lips seek my trembling bud once more and draw upon it. The sensation is sweet agony, and for one long moment I seem quite unable to take a breath. I know I am panting into the bedding, and yet I seem incapable of controlling myself, my body now just a vessel for my husband’s desire.
It is at this time that something shifts in me, and rather than resist the sensations he creates, I once again choose to yield. I focus solely on what I can feel; his hot mouth clamped at the apex of my thighs, and his ruthless digits continuing to exercise their authority over my bared bottom. The combination of the two leaves me reeling, and I submit to the inevitable conclusion—the bound and exposed Lady Markham will have no choice but to climax once more.
Taming Lady Lydia Page 32