Corset Diaries

by Katie MacAlister

  “Love, you mean,” I said as I knotted the black necktie and tugged on it to make sure it was tight enough that he couldn’t get his hands free, but not so tight it cut off circulation. Tonight was my turn to be conqueror, and I very much looked forward to tormenting him until he begged me for mercy.

  “Yes.”

  “Hmm.” I sat back on my heels and looked at him spread out before me, a vast panoply of flesh, his arms stretched above his head, his chest rising and falling with quickened breath, his long, long legs tense with the knowledge that I was soon going to have him delirious with pleasure. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those men who holds a bad relationship with one woman against every other woman in your life?”

  “Erm . . .”

  “Because if you are, I’m going to have to punish you,” I said, reaching for the drawer of the nightstand next to the bed. “I expected better from you, Max, I really did. Just because your ex-wife was a vindictive shrew doesn’t mean I am.”

  “She wasn’t a vindictive shrew,” he said, watching with interest as I withdrew a small bottle and a black scarf from the drawer. “What’s that you have?”

  “Lick Me Lemon massage oil. And this”—I tied the scarf over his eyes—“is a blindfold.”

  “A blindfold? Blindfolds are not in the rule book,” he said, tipping his head back so he could see alongside his nose. I adjusted the scarf so he couldn’t peek.

  “Sure it is. It’s in Appendix C of the rule book. Don’t tell me you didn’t read the appendices?”

  His head did a little blind thrashing from side to side thing. “I don’t like being blindfolded. I like to see you while you torment me. Take it off.”

  “So sorry, busy at the mo. This darn cap . . . ah, there it goes. Mmm, lemony. So, your ex-wife wasn’t a shrew? Was she a heartless, self-indulgent bitch?”

  “No. What are you doing now? Where did you get the massage oil? Take off this damned blindfold!”

  “Nope, it’s there for a purpose—I want you to feel totally at my mercy, bwahaha! The massage oil is from Teddy. I asked him to get it when he was making his covert whisky-and-cigarettes run to town. Was she mean to you?”

  “Carol? Not in the sense you mean. What do you plan on doing with that oil?”

  “Use it on you, silly.” I rubbed the bottle between my hands, warming it up a bit as I considered him. “Was she a spoiled rich brat who couldn’t live the life of a poor architect’s wife, betraying you with your best friend, the postman, and the kid who mowed your lawn?”

  “No. Use it on me how?” He pulled at the ties, his brows pulling together in a frown above the blindfold as he realized I hadn’t used a slipknot as he had during our previous round of Bondage Love-o-Rama.

  Even though he couldn’t see it, I gave him my very best leer. “You’ll see. Or rather, you’ll won’t see, but you will find out, heh heh heh. If your ex wasn’t a shrew or a bitch or mean or a spoiled rich kid, what was she?”

  He pulled on the ties again, his frown deepening. “A soulless succubus who chewed men up and spat them out when she was through with them. What sort of knot is this?”

  “Fisherman’s knot. Peter used to take me sailing,” I said as I flipped open the lid of the massage oil, and drizzled a line down his chest, inhaling deeply. The sharp scent of lemon blended perfectly with the spicy smell of Max.

  He sucked in his breath. “Do you think we can get through the evening without mention of your late husband?”

  “Why?” I asked as I scooted forward and let my fingers dance around the oil. “Does it bother you to have me talking about him?”

  “Yes,” he gasped as I oiled up one adorable little nipple nub, and gave it a friendly tweak before lowering my mouth to it. He squirmed as I nicked my tongue across his nipple, sucking it into my mouth so I could scrape it gently with my teeth.

  “Really?” I blew across the nipple and spread oil on its mate. “It doesn’t bother me. I’m not comparing you to him, if that’s what you’re thinking. Peter wasn’t at all into games; he was a very white-bread guy when it came to sex. He never would have let me tie him up, blindfold him, and bring him seven times to the point of coming before finally letting him blast off.”

  I swear Max’s eyes bored holes through the thick black cloth over his eyes. He started struggling against the ties. “Seven times? Is that what you have planned? SEVEN TIMES?”

  I smiled and drizzled more oil on him. “I got the jumbo economy size. I thought seven has a nice sound to it.”

  “Oh, my gaaaaarg!” he said as I slipped my oily hands around his arousal, rubbing a little extra on the very tip of him, then slathering it around with my tongue. His hips thrust upward, his hands flexing convulsively as I spread the oil everywhere I could lick.

  “Now, let us discuss these issues you have with women, and how we can overcome them,” I said, smiling as I found a rhythm that had him thrashing around on the bed, moaning nonstop.

  In the end, I only managed to bring him to the verge of ecstasy four times before I gave in to his pathetic pleadings and sobbed entreaties and impaled myself on him. It was a wild, sensual experience riding him when he was bound, and although I threatened to just please myself and leave him wanting, our shared joy was a million times sweeter than had I really done so.

  “I love you,” I whispered, kissing the slightly reddened flesh along his wrist where he had struggled against the ties.

  The blindfold was askew on his head, exposing one eye. He cracked that open to glare a blue-eyed glare at me, his chest heaving madly, his breath loud and harsh as he sucked in great quantities of air. “Tomorrow,” he croaked.

  “Tomorrow?” I asked, sliding across his sweat and oil-slicked body to release his other hand. “What’s tomorrow, Maxikins?”

  He pushed the blindfold off his other eye, pinning me back with a molten blue gaze that threatened to ignite my still simmering blood. “Retribution.”

  That thought has been the only thing that’s kept me going through the day.

  Today, as anyone consulting the A Month in the Life of a Victorian Duke calendar will know, is Tennis Day. I have been dreading this day for two reasons: one, I don’t play tennis, and two . . . well, I don’t play tennis. Oh, the day started out well enough—me draped over Max, him lying on my hair, the two of us squished together sleeping the lemon-scented sleep of the exhausted, our legs entwined, that first thin, drowsy awareness as warm and comforting as the heartbeat of the man lying beneath my cheek, but then life, as it usually seems to do, took a turn for the crappy.

  “Dad, I don’t feel well, I have a stomachache, and Mam’selle says I have to wear this stupid dress and play tennis—oh!”

  I pried myself off Max’s chest to peer over his arm at Melody. Unfortunately, she was not alone.

  “Looks like you owe me a hundred pounds,” Tabby said to Matthew. He peered around her and Melody, scowled furiously at me, then stepped back muttering to himself.

  “Max,” I hissed, trying to pull the blanket out from under his arm so I could crawl under it and hide.

  “Mmm?”

  “Dad! You’re in bed with her! Naked!”

  “Max, wake up,” I whispered louder as I slid to his side, yanking madly on both the blanket and my hair.

  “Tessa? Love, give me a few minutes. You wore me out last night with your wild, lustful demands,” he mumbled.

  I swore into the pillow, damning his lovely English accent. “You’re the only man I know who can mumble understandably enough for a microphone to pick you up clear across the room. Max, wake up!”

  He rolled over to face me, one sleepy hand tugging me toward him. “Insatiable wench.”

  “MAX!” I pinched him on his side. Hard!

  He opened his eyes. “Tessa, I’m not at all interested in rough sex. I don’t mind tying you up as I did the other night—”

  “Oh, god,” I moaned, and tried to crawl under him. I wondered how much it was going to cost me in blackmail money to get the film fr
om Tabby.

  “—nor did I mind it when you had your turn tying me up, but I draw the line at hurting you, or vice versa. Now, if you’d like me to spank you, why, I think I could see my way clear to indulging—”

  “MAX!” I shrieked, slapping a hand over his mouth, then forcibly turned his head until he could see who stood in the doorway.

  “Bloody hell,” he said indistinctly around my fingers.

  “In a nutshell,” I said, and tried to summon up a smile for the camera. I failed miserably, Tabby told me later.

  “Do you want me to talk to her?” I asked Max in a whisper when Melody spun around and ran out of the room, her eyes bright with tears.

  He rubbed a hand over his eyes. “No, I’ll do it. Later.”

  By the time he promised to pay Tabby and Matthew roughly the sum it would cost to build a small house if they would conveniently lose that bit of film, there was just enough time for me to dash to my own room, have a quick wash, allow a tight-lipped Ellis to dress me in a dress of white batiste and blue satin damask with silk rosebuds down the front of the bodice, and make it downstairs for morning prayers.

  Melody was noticeably absent. Tabby and Matthew had enormous grins on their faces, which I did my best to ignore. Barbara latched on to me on the way in to breakfast, and rattled on and on about how popular she had been before she sacrificed her life to marry her husband while we plowed our way through a breakfast of grapes, oatmeal, broiled beefsteak, tomato omelet, potatoes, crumpets, and toast. That is, everyone but me plowed through it. I ate about two bites of toast, sick with worry about what had happened that morning. I knew Tabby and Matthew could be counted on to keep the film from ever reaching Roger’s grubby little mitts, but I worried about Melody as I poked at my toast and omelet.

  Yes, she could be an obnoxious little beast, but she was also still a kid, and no kid wants to see her father in bed with a naked woman, especially when that woman is someone she loathes.

  I tried to get a private word with Max before he left to do the morning rounds of the estate, but Barbara grabbed my arm and wouldn’t let go, talking and playing to the camera, with occasional digs at Henry, who followed us as we went to the morning room.

  I endured an hour of it, then managed to escape by pleading the need to use the toilet. I hurried up the stairs as fast as I could bound in the white-and-blue dress, heading straight for the nursery. I knew Max had said he was going to talk to Melody, but I shared the responsibility for being in his bed, so it was only fair I should take some of her anger.

  I found her curled up on the window seat in the nursery, alone except for Barbara’s old spaniel, who was asleep on a faded cushion, a couple of dismal-looking Victorian kiddy books, and a ratty teddy bear that looked like it had been in the house when it was originally built.

  “Hey, Melody, how are you doing?” I asked, closing the door carefully behind me. No need for everyone to hear her when she started in on me. “Where’s Mademoiselle?”

  “She’s out mooning over Bret.”

  “Her, too? Hmm. It’s just as well she’s not here. I wanted to talk to you for a bit about your dad and me.”

  “Go away,” she said, her knees under her chin, her cheek pressed against the window.

  “Look, I know you’re angry and hurt and probably a lot of other things because you think your father has betrayed you, but you have to believe me when I say it’s not true. Your dad has a big heart, and he will always, always have room for you in it.”

  She looked at me with acute hatred. “I don’t care about that. Leave me alone. I want to be alone.”

  “Melody, I’m sorry that something we’ve done has upset you, but you know, both your father and I are adults, and as such, we interact on an adult level. I know you’re a bright girl, so I don’t need to spell it all out to you, but I wanted you to know that just because Max and I like each other a whole lot, that isn’t going to affect your relationship with him—”

  “Go away!” she yelled, then suddenly hunched her knees tighter to her chin, her face set in a pained grimace.

  I stepped closer, wanting to comfort her but not daring to do it. “Are you OK?”

  “Yes. Go away. I’m fine.”

  She didn’t look fine. She looked pale and clammy. I felt even worse than I had before, knowing that there were a million better ways for her to find out the truth about Max and me.

  “All right. I just want you to know that if you want to talk about it or ask questions or . . . oh, I don’t know. If you need someone to help you figure things out, I’ll be happy to help.”

  She didn’t say anything, just grunted and stared out the window.

  I hesitated for a moment, but when she didn’t look back, I turned and started for the door.

  “I’m having the painters in,” she said in a rough whisper just as my fingers closed around the doorknob.

  “You’re having what?” I asked, looking over my shoulder. She kept her face turned toward the window.

  “Having the painters in.”

  I made a I’m totally lost motion with my hand. She turned to glare at me. “I’m having my period.”

  “Oh,” I said, the light finally dawning. “Oh. I’m sorry. Do you need anything?”

  She looked back out the window and wrapped her arms tighter around her legs. A stray thought wafted through my mind, sending me forward even though her body language screamed for me to go away.

  “Melody, this isn’t by any chance the first time you’ve . . . er . . . had the painters in?”

  She shrugged, which I took to mean yes.

  I moved the ratty teddy bear so I could sit down in a raggedy wicker chair that bumped up against the window seat. “Oy. You really have had a heck of a morning, haven’t you?”

  She blinked fast a couple of times and twitched her shoulders. The sympathetic route was clearly not going to be welcome.

  “OK, let’s take this from the top. You know about periods, right? I mean, they’ve taught you about it at school?”

  Her face was pale, making her birthmark stand out even more. “Of course. I’m not a baby.”

  “Obviously not. In fact, a lot of cultures would consider you a woman today, although I think there’s a bit more to it than just cramps. Right, so I don’t need to tell you what’s what. Now, you’ll probably want some ibuprofen or aspirin, and you’ll need tampons, which, luckily, I smuggled in because there is no way I’m going to use the rags that Victorian women used.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Rags?”

  “Ucky thought, huh?” I stood up. “Come on, squirt, we’ll go down to my room and I’ll get you a few things. No one will see you.”

  She got to her feet slowly, her face suspicious. “Why are you being nice to me?”

  I smiled. “Because no one deserves to suffer through Mr. Monthly Visitor without a little pampering.”

  “Mr. Monthly Visitor?”

  “Yeah. It’s what my mother called having the painters in.”

  She hesitated at the door. “You won’t tell anyone?”

  I crossed my heart. “Nope. Not even your father, unless you’d rather have me tell him than tell him yourself.”

  She thought that over while we went downstairs. I gave her a quick course in tampons, gave her the tiny cache of ibuprofen I had snuck in with the tampons, and advised her to ask her governess for a hot-water bottle. “Sometimes heat helps. Does your back hurt?”

  She shook her head, one hand on the door.

  “Good. If you need something else, let me know.”

  Her jaw worked for a minute, then she blurted out, “You were having sex with my dad, weren’t you?”

  “When you saw us in bed? Not right that moment, but yes, if you’re asking if your father and I have slept together, we have. Does that make you angry?”

  She shrugged again, a brittle, tense movement that said a lot more about her emotions than she knew.

  “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why
do you want to have sex with Dad? It’s . . . it’s ugly.”

  “You mean your dad’s penis is ugly?”

  Her right shoulder twitched.

  “Ah. Well, I admit that as a rule, penises aren’t the most amazing sight I’ve ever seen, and sometimes they can look downright funny, especially when you’re—well, we’ll let that go for now—but you’re just going to have to take it from me that I don’t think anything about your father is ugly.”

  Her face wasn’t pale now, it was as red as a ripe apple. “I think it’s just gross. I wouldn’t want anyone touching me with one.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Melody. You have a few more years before you’ll see if you want to change your mind about boys and the men they grow into. Is there anything else?”

  She shook her head and faced the door, opening it just a crack so she could peek out and make sure no one saw her.

  “Would you tell him?”

  “About you and the painters? I might, if you said the magic word.”

  Her whole body tightened, curled in on itself, but she managed to get the word out. “Please.”

  I laughed and gave her a gentle push out the door. “The magic word is Tessa, squirt. Remember, only two ibuprofen at a time. Any more and you’ll make yourself sick.”

  She nodded and dashed out the door, thundering up the stairs before I could blink. A second later the thundering returned and she came back down a few steps.

  “Tessa,” she yelled, then turned around and raced back up the stairs to the safety of the day nursery.

  “Oh, poop,” I said, sniffling back a few tears as I made my way downstairs. “She had to say it. Damn it, now I’m going to end up liking the little snot. I just hate it when that happens.”