Daddies Taboo

by Iona Nixon

  When we get our breath back, I can only smile when he leans over, kisses me and says "Hey you".

  The End.

  The Ducal Pet

  Claire thought her shame had been complete when she'd left her home. She followed the solicitor out to the Ducal carriage while every villager watching from their windows, witnesses to her shame. Her father had still been abed, sleeping off the excess of drink and gaming. She would not be there in the morning to pour his bath or bring his breakfast.

  He had sold her.

  Once at the mansion, her humiliation grew. The maids washed and brushed and plucked, as if her common origins made her too dirty to even be touched by a lord. Their fingers cleaned her intimately, but they only spoke to give her a command.

  Stand up. Raise your arms. Spread your legs. Bend over.

  No part of her body remained her own.

  Then a footman – a man – arrived at the room. The maids relinquished her, clad as she was in only thin sheath through which every curve and color of her body was visible. As if that weren't bad enough, it ended mid-thigh, exposing her legs completely. The footman made no pains to hide his perusal of her.

  A smirk was his verdict.

  More following, this time through carpeted hallways and gilded wall panels. The air was cool in the hall, pricking her skin, as if her exposed skin wasn't already obscene.

  At last they arrived at the two closed doors. Perversely she was almost eager for it. She would service the duke and be done with it. He may want to use her in the future, but she had no expectation that she would hold his interest. He could have any woman he wanted, just as he had bought her. She had a fair enough face and a spritely enough figure to attract attention in the village, mostly unwanted though it was, but the duke visited London, where any number of fairer faces and finer figures were for sale.

  She wasn't afraid of the pain. It could hurt no less than her father's angry tirades. She would survive it.

  The doors opened, but instead of a bedroom, there was large sitting room. It held a few sofas and chairs, but sparingly. It seemed odd to her, to leave so much empty space, but then her entire home could fit into this room. No, it was her home no longer. She had no home.

  The doors clicked behind her just as a smaller door opened to the side. A man, the duke, walked in. But he wasn't alone. A beautiful woman hung on his arm, fully dressed in a beautiful brocade gown – laughing, elegant, stately. Everything Claire wasn't.

  They took no notice of her as they strolled to the largest divan and settled down. He sat with his arms splayed across the back of the seat, his legs spread – at once both casual and commanding. The woman flounced down beside him, cooing over him with her decolletage spilling near his face. Claire fidgeted in front of the door. Had she come to the wrong place? Had they not seen her?

  But then the duke's icy grey eyes snapped to her. Not as if he hadn't seen her, but as if he would deign to take notice of her now. His eyes trailed over the curves and into the crevices of her body. The woman also stilled and took her measure of Claire's body.

  A knowing half-smile spread across the woman's painted face. "You have a new girl," she said.

  A predatory gleam darkened his eyes. "Yes. A new pet, my dear." He turned back to Claire. "Who said you could stand?"

  Claire's heart thumped wildly in her chest. She did not want to anger him, but she didn't know what he wanted. "Should I...sit?"

  A storm crossed his features, marring his smooth brow.

  "Your grace," Claire added anxiously, stringing her fingers together. She bobbed an awkward curtsy just for good effect. She had never spoken to a duke, not to any royalty, though she knew the rules as any educated girl would. It was only her nerves making her act a fool.

  He relaxed back, but his face still looked stern. "Kneel. You are my pet, and pets belong on the ground."

  Claire gaped at him. He wasn't jesting.

  This wasn't what she had been brought here for...was it? The man had made it sound as though she were to be used for carnal purposes. She didn't understand.

  "Down," he said, his tone allowing for no argument.

  She felt her knees hit the hard floor.

  "Good girl," he said approvingly.

  Her body was flushed hot and chilled cold all at once. It had betrayed her.

  "Now," he said, "crawl over to me."

  Thoughts raced through her mind, thoughts of escape, thoughts of defiance, but where would she go. What could she do? She had no choice but to obey.

  She slowly crawled across the floor, her eyes on the smooth planks just below her, the wood cold under her hands and bruising to her knees.

  The woman tittered a laugh as Claire approached. "She's a pretty little thing, isn't she?" she asked. "Might I have a go at her?"

  "I'm looking forward to it," he said. "After me, of course."

  "Of course, your grace," she said, her voice lower, more breathy. Then there was a pause where Claire heard only soft wet sounds and rustling. She dared not look up. When she reached him, she kept her pose on all four limbs, staring at her distorted reflection in his boots.

  His hand came into view and snapped. She looked up. The woman had her arms wrapped around his neck, and she looked to be...nibbling his neck. The duke's eyes had darkened, but not from anger this time.

  "Come," he said, patting his leg.

  Claire inched forward, unsure what he wanted. He grasped her hair and tilted her head sideways. She gasped but didn't fight. He looked over her face thoughtfully.

  "Yes, very pretty," he muttered. Then louder he said, "You will be my pet. My sweet bitch. You will obey my every command and anticipate my needs. If you fail or displease me in any way, I will sell you to a gutter whorehouse in St. Giles, where you will die an ugly death. Do you understand?"

  His fingers tightened, pulling the hair painfully from her scalp. "Yes, your grace."

  "Good girl." He released her. "The most important skill you will learn is to suck my cock."

  Claire gasped at the thought. She knew what he meant. She'd heard enough leers and calls from the local boys, but she hadn't thought she'd ever do it. In her naivete, she'd assumed all she'd have to do was spread her legs.

  "Release my pants, and we will measure your natural talent," he said.

  Her entire being recoiled at the command. All except the very small part of her focused on self-preservation. She would have to do it, she knew. The alternative he described would be far worse. Her father had brought less and less coin for her to purchase food with, until she was thin and tired all the time. When he had run out of even that, he had used her as his gambling marker – and lost. She had nowhere to go. There were worse fates than a rich lord's whore.

  She tried to ignore the way her hands shook as they reached up to his placket. The woman beside him giggled.

  Claire fumbled with the buttons, finally opening his pants, only to encounter his underclothes. She fiddled with them, afraid he would scold her for taking too long, but he just watched her from hooded eyes.

  His manhood grew and hardened underneath the fabric as if it had a mind of its own. Certainly his face, hard set with slashes of shadow, showed no sign of arousal or pleasure. When the underclothes were released, his member sprang out at her and she jumped back. The woman thought this was dreadfully funny.

  "Touch it," he said softly, and she knew his patience was thin.

  Her fingers tentatively touched him – he was soft and hot and hard. A spark of interest stirred in her. This was the first time she had ever touched a man. Her father had touched her occasionally, in ways she knew wasn't appropriate for a father and a daughter. He had come into her room at night and put his hands beneath her nightgown. Be a good girl, he'd told her. And she had lay still, been a good girl for him, even when he pinched or pulled or poked. But he had never asked her to touch him in return. She was thankful for that, but now that she had this duke in her hands, she was...something. Curious, that was all.

  It was
only natural to be curious about this thing that essentially owned her. Technically it was the duke who owned her, but it was his cock that kept her there. So long as she pleased it she was safe. A palm-full of heavy, warm flesh controlled her entire life.

  "Kiss it," he told her.

  She leaned forward and pressed a small kiss on the tip.

  He groaned. "Again."

  She did and he gripped the back of her head to hold her there, her lips pressed to him. A small tickled her nose, a sort of musky, male smell, like the kind she might smell when men were sweaty and laboring. Except deeper, more elemental, and it came from him, his privates. Only they weren't private anymore.

  "I love it when they're like this," he gasped. "New and innocent – Jesus!"

  The woman laughed and resumed her stroking of him. She curled her bright red fingernails through his hair, down his chest over his shirt. "Yes, darling. She is a delightful little piece. She will grow tiring after a while, I am sure, not knowing what to do, but for now you should enjoy her."

  "I will teach her what she needs to know," he snapped.

  "Yes," she soothed. "Yes, your grace."

  But he shook her off. "Give me space."

  She moved over with an indignant sound. "I am not your pet."

  "No, you are my mistress, so you'd better start acting like one. This girl here is better behaved than you."

  Even without looking, Claire could feel the woman's glare. But her mouth was still pressed to the man's intimate part, held there inexorably by his hand behind her head.

  "Open," he snapped.

  Without thought, she opened her mouth and he pushed himself inside, back, back into her throat. She made an urgent sound and struggled against his hold.

  He gave an unsteady laugh. "Yes, just like that."

  He pulled back slightly and Claire could have fainted with relief, but then he pushed back in. She couldn't breathe. Her eyes widened as she tried to tell him that, but he just studied her, fascinated. Tears began streaming down her face and she jerked against him. He released and she popped off of him and tumbled to the floor. She knew she'd done the wrong thing. She would get in trouble, maybe get sent away now. Unwilling or unable to move, she lay staring at the floor, with the thin, small nightgown not covering anything.

  "Bad pet," he said, sounding amused. "Come, you'll have to make it up to me."

  That meant she could stay. Relief poured through her. She sat up and wiped the tears from her face.

  "Suck on her tits," he said, nodding toward the woman.

  The woman wasn't laughing now. She stared daggers as Claire approached her. Claire wasn't sure what to do, but the woman reluctantly grabbed her breast and pulled it from the bodice, then the other one. Her gown was a deep wine color with gold embellishments, but her breasts were displayed vulgarly, pale with tiny rosy nipples, much smaller than Claire's own. The woman was a blond English rose, a sharp contrast to Claire's dark hair and Irish green eyes.

  Claire put her mouth around one of the nipples and sucked gently. The woman moaned. Claire continued to suck as the woman grabbed her head and pulled it in tight. Then she moved Claire's head to the other nipple. Claire sucked softly, and then tried using her tongue to caress the nipple in her mouth, receiving a deeper moan for her efforts. The flavor was slightly salty, but not nearly so dark and deep as the duke had been.

  "She's quite good," the woman gasped. "Thank you, your grace."

  "You're welcome, my dear. I am always a generous master, am I not?"

  "Yes, your grace," she said, pulling Claire's head more urgently, tighter to her breast.

  Claire struggled to breathe, to keep her balance as she crouched precariously over the woman, but not seated on the divan. The woman made it even harder as her hips began to rock. Her fingers tangled in Claire's hair. Her nails dug into Claire's scalp. Claire swayed her body with every subtle and not-so-subtle nudge and focused on the one thing she could control – her tongue. That she used to full advantage, swirling and licking and flicking so that the woman overcame her anger and softened her hold.

  "Melissande. Your cunny," His Grace rasped. "Show it to her."

  Melissande pushed Claire back abruptly and yanked up the voluminous satin skirts and petticoats. Her legs were clad in black stockings hooking to a belt, but she wore no drawers at all. More than that, there was no hair there. Claire flicked her eyes up to Melissande, who laughed.

  "Never seen that before, eh?" she taunted. "That's the way His Grace prefers his cunnies."

  Claire's thighs tightened around her own thatch of hair, as if to protect herself.

  "Let's see it," His Grace said. Clair looked over at him to find him reclined back on the cushions, stroking his cock.

  "Show us yours," he said hoarsely.

  With trembling hands, Claire lifted the sheer hem of her shift, exposing the upper part of her thatch.

  Melissande nudged the inside of Claire's knee with her toes and Claire knew she had no choice. Slowly she spread her knees on the hard floor, exposing the full view of her privates, from the dark brown hair to the pink lips tucked inside.

  His Grace sucked in a breath and sped up his hand.

  Melissande giggled. "So much hair. I'm surprised you didn't have her shaved first."

  The duke moved so quickly that Claire barely registered it. Where before he had lounged, now he pounced. His fingers grabbed onto Melissande's tiny nipple and pinched it tight. Claire knew it must be painful because redness flushed to her breast. Melissande's mouth gaped open and her eyes glassed over.

  "I want her this way. It is not for you to question," he said, then he twisted sharply and Melissande's entire body jerked and she bubbled pleas for mercy. Then he released her with a growl and stood in front of Claire.

  Claire had remained in place, too afraid to move. Her legs were spread most uncomfortably and humiliatingly, but she stayed in position. His Grace stood between her legs and nudged at the tender folds of her cunny with the toe of his boot. She wasn't sure what reaction he expected so she stayed still, trying to ignore the cock that bobbed in front of her eyes.

  Then his hands were on her head, petting her, guiding her to look up and open her mouth.

  "There you are, sweet girl. That's a good bitch. Open up wide."

  She did exactly as he asked and opened her mouth wide for his cock. This time he didn't push into her throat. He didn't hold her head down so she couldn't breathe. He put only the tip inside her mouth and jerked at his cock so that it looked almost painful. Again and again he pulled and stroked it as his breath sawed roughly from his chest. Claire waited – open and desperate. Finally she was rewarded with a warm spurt to the back of her throat.

  "That's right. Drink it. Swallow it all."

  Before she'd heard his words she had known that she would drink it. The salty fluid was a balm to the humiliation, telling her that she'd been his good bitch without words. The gulps of his pleasure were proof that she would live another day. Her tongue found the slit of his cock to seek out any lost drops, until he gently pushed her away with a sigh.

  Claire heaved breaths of respite while the duke righted his clothing. Then he knelt beside her and poked a rough finger into her folds. He pulled his hand back out and rubbed his forefinger against his thumb, then darted his tongue out for a taste.

  "Wet," he pronounced.

  He scooped up a tear that lingered on her cheek and sucked the finger into his mouth. "Perfect," he said.

  He stood up and nodded at Melissande, who sat sniveling on the divan. "Go suck her dry," he told her. "Don't stop until she's come."

  Then he strode from the room without a backward glance, and Claire was left alone in the room with a woman who clearly despised her.

  Melissande crawled toward her. Claire couldn't help but scrabble back on the wood until she hit the wall, but Melissande kept coming.

  "Don't worry, little girl. Melissande will take care of you." She pinched the inside of Claire's thigh. Claire whimpered but
allowed her legs to fall open, bared to Melissande's snarling red lips. Melissande lowered her head slowly, slowly enough so that Claire began to shake in fear. Somehow this was worse, far worse, than anything the duke could have done to her with his body.

  No matter how painful or humiliating it would have been for him to put his cock inside her, at least he owned her. But Melissande, she didn't own Claire. Melissane was the duke's mistress, just another plaything, albeit one with higher status.

  In those moments on her knees in front of the duke, swallowing his seed, Claire had felt fully owned. She had felt... almost special. But there was nothing at all special about being left to get suckled on her softest parts by a woman scorned. Even though she suspected the duke had done it as a reward for good behavior, it didn't feel like one.

  At least until Melissande's tongue touched her cunny. First it tickled. The foreign feeling drew shivers all over her body. A soft moan escaped her as Melissande's tongue explored the damp folds. Up and up, Melissande lapped the wetness as she'd been ordered until she reached a certain spot that made Clair jump.

  Melissande chuckled hot breath against Claire's damp skin and licked again and again there. Now Claire understood Melissande's rocking motion, for her own hips were doing much the same, shoving up against Melissande's mouth.

  Pleasure zinged through her body on every empty thrust, her canal clenching on nothing. The feelings spiraled higher and higher, until Claire was sure she would explode. Her hips pushed up into the air – into nothing. Melissande's mouth was gone.

  Claire whimpered, and Melissande released a throaty chuckle. "Didn't get yours, dearie? I'll just have to try again."

  And then Melissande's mouth was back on that spot that was so sensitive – too sensitive. Claire gasped and groaned. "Please, ma'am. Just a moment, I beg you."

  Melissande licked harder, pressing down with her tongue. Claire's hips were no longer reaching upward but squirming into the wooden floor as if to get away. Melissande gave her no mercy, using her tongue and lips to bring her to the brink. Claire lost count of the number of times Melissande propelled her to the unknown peak of pleasure only to leave her gasping and breathless and even more desperate.