by Nina Lane
THE EROTIC LIGHT
Nina Lane
Copyright © 2014 by Nina Lane
All rights reserved.
Published by Snow Queen Publishing
ISBN: 978-0-9887158-9-9
http://www.ninalane.com
[email protected]
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
Disclaimer: This book contains graphic sexual scenarios which some readers might find objectionable, including dubious consent, BDSM, spanking, whipping, caning, and enforced female submission. Read at your own risk.
This book is for sale to adults only, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made this purchase. The author and publisher are not responsible for any loss, harm, injury, or death resulting from the information and practices described within this work. Please engage in safe, consensual sexual practices only.
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
EPILOGUE ALSO BY NINA LANE
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHAPTER ONE
“LIFT YOUR SKIRT, Lydia.”
Preston Severine stepped back and made a sharp gesture with his hand. The beginnings of a wicked smile curved his well-shaped mouth, and the hard glint in his blue eyes belied the elegance of his aristocratic features and thick blond hair.
Lydia had no doubt what that gesture meant. She had both witnessed and obeyed its unspoken command countless times in the weeks since she’d first come to live at the sprawling Louisiana plantation known as La Nouvelle Vie.
A flush burned her cheeks as she turned, gathering the loose folds of her dress into her fists and drawing the material over her voluptuous thighs. Cool air brushed against her bare skin, but her shame burned away the soothing breeze.
“Higher,” Preston murmured.
Up, up, up… Lydia inched the cotton dress higher until it slipped over the curve of her bottom, exposing her pale round cheeks to Preston’s hot gaze. She felt it, felt the ice-blue of his stare, the way he tracked every inch of her creamy flesh while imagining what he would do to her next.
And he could do anything he wanted. Anything at all.
Apprehension seized Lydia’s chest, causing her breath to shorten. No matter how many times she submitted to his orders, tendrils of fear still curled through her whenever he issued a command. She’d lost track of exactly how long she had been living at the plantation, but the new year and Epiphany had already passed, and a king’s cake had been served at tea the previous day to commemorate the beginning of the Carnival season.
Two or three months then, Lydia surmised, since she had willingly walked through the doors of the rambling old mansion. Since she had desperately agreed to enslave herself to three men in exchange for an escape from her criminal past. Preston, a man she’d known since childhood, had initiated the whole arrangement, offering to shield and protect her from law enforcement if, in exchange, she would submit her body to him and two other men.
She had agreed, shedding her old identity, her past, her former life. She had become only Lydia. She had become a captive to Preston with his dark, wicked streak and his desire to possess every aspect of her being. She had become submissive to Kruin, a huge, muscular man whose commanding presence alone caused fear to shimmer in Lydia’s blood. And she had become enraptured by gentle, handsome Gabriel with his beautiful black hair and green eyes that seared through to her very soul.
And though she had formed an understanding with the dark trio who inhabited this sprawling place, though she had learned to accept what they wanted from her, though she had nourished a strange desire to please them… Lydia still could not smother her shame, her embarrassment, and the reckless, rebellious urge to disobey.
It struck her now, the urge to let her skirts fall again to conceal her nudity. She wanted to spin around and lash out at Preston, then stalk from the room and out into the warm, humid air of the gardens.
Lydia captured her lower lip between her teeth. She bit down hard to prevent her wild impulse from taking hold of her senses. She knew all too well what would happen should she surrender to such rebelliousness, but of course that knowledge did nothing to suppress the urge.
The sound of Preston’s shoes moved across the thick carpet. Perspiration broke out on her forehead. The drawing room was his favorite place in which to torment her. The antique furniture, gilt-framed oil paintings, and heavy velvet drapes enclosed them in a space of dark elegance, which seemed to draw forth Preston’s deviant streak.
Then again, he never kept his darkness, his burning need to control her, far beneath the surface of his skin.
Lydia squeezed her eyes shut when Preston splayed his long, cool fingers over the globes of her bottom. His breath tickled the back of her neck, stirring the long brown tendrils of hair that had escaped her ponytail. He trailed one hand lower, between the shadowy cleft and into the succulent space between her legs.
Preston encountered the dampness glossing her secret lips. Lydia gasped, her heart kicking against her ribs. He gave a low chuckle and rubbed his forefinger over her moist sex. Her breasts swelled, her nipples tightening.
“Ah, Lydia.” Preston’s voice rumbled deep against her skin. “I love that you are so quickly aroused. What is it, I wonder, that sparks your desire into force? Is it my commands? Your being compelled to submit? Is it the simple act of disrobing and baring your lush body to the air?”
He lowered his head, the citrus scent of his cologne reaching Lydia’s nose in the moment before his lips pressed against the side of her neck. She shivered.
“Or,” Preston continued, “is it that you simply cannot bear waiting any longer to cream all over my prick?”
Oh God.
Lydia’s knees weakened, even as the surge of mutiny rose in her again. How she hated the truth of Preston’s words, hated that he knew her pleasure would overwhelm her with shattering force, no matter how fiercely she tried to prevent it. Worse, his touch spiraled heat through her and pushed her closer and closer to the edge.
Even now, as his finger continued to tease her folds, she felt the arousal begin to tighten around her loins. Her heart rate increased, and her breath started to come in gasps.
She struggled to keep herself from clamping her thighs around Preston’s hand. That had been one of her very first and oft-repeated instructions—unless told otherwise, she was always to keep her legs separated as both a symbol and a reminder of her availability.
Preston slipped his hand away and placed it on her lower back, urging her facedown onto the flat surface of the inlaid cherrywood table that was directly before her. The heat of embarrassment swept into Lydia’s face as she lowered herself into the position that never failed to give Preston great delight.
Even from behind, she felt sheer enjoyment radiating from him. He carefully arranged her dress around her waist, leaving her legs and upthrust buttocks bared to his gaze. Lydia’s toes curled i
nto the plush carpet. She leaned her hot cheek against the wood and closed her eyes. Her nipples pressed onto the hard surface of the table, and she fought the urge to squirm about in order to further stimulate the sensitive buds.
Preston’s hands moved over her bottom again, stroking and squeezing, then down over the curves of her thighs and calves. He made a murmuring noise of approval at the sensation of their lush smoothness sliding against his palms.
Lydia experienced a twinge of pride. She took special care with her personal grooming, keeping both her legs and her sex shaven clean of coarse hair, and her skin hydrated and soft with rich, sweet-smelling lotions.
Preston bent to curl his hands around her ankles and position them farther apart. Lydia winced as her bottom cleaved apart, exposing the puckered hole of her anus, and her labia parted to reveal the extent of her arousal. A puff of hot breath against her folds gave her a start.
Preston had never… Surely he wouldn’t…
No. He had once used his tongue on her sex as a method of humiliation rather than pleasure, deriving enjoyment from her embarrassment. Preston would never worship her body in a manner meant solely to arouse, for that would mean putting himself in a position of subservience. And Preston Severine would never be subservient, especially not to her.
He grasped her hips and rose to his feet. Relief spilled through Lydia. She loved the feeling of a man’s mouth on her sex. That was exactly the problem. She loved it so much she knew she would never be able to contain her pleasure if Preston swirled his tongue over her folds. And by succumbing to orgasm without explicit permission, Lydia would then break the most important rule the men had enacted for her.
She knew all too well the consequences of breaking that rule, and still she had to fight hard to obey it, because her body’s natural inclinations and needs were often too strong for her to resist. If Preston were to lick her swollen, oh-so-ready pussy… well, she would likely start writhing shamelessly against his face before coming with a scream.
God only knew what punishment that kind of behavior would invite.
Lydia gave a desperate sigh and tried to banish such thoughts. The sound of leather sliding against fabric filled the air. She curled her hands around the edges of the table. Preston’s belt fell to the carpet with a soft thud. His zipper rasped. Lydia’s heart hammered in her throat.
She squirmed, unable to stop herself from arching her back in invitation even as apprehension shuddered through her. She never knew which orifice Preston intended to take advantage of, though he appeared to enjoy each with equal satisfaction.
She, however, did not. She’d never become accustomed to having a man prod at her backside, let alone fill it with his thick shaft.
Now Preston trailed his forefinger down the cleft of her bottom and probed again at the tight opening. Lydia tensed, her teeth biting into her lower lip. The edge of the table dug into her soft belly.
“Preston, please,” she whispered.
He chuckled. “Please what, my sweet Lydia? Please do? Or please don’t?”
She choked back another plea, not wanting to give him reason to divert from the path of his intentions, for in any other direction lay an exacting punishment.
Tension corded her thighs. She pushed her bare toes farther into the rug. She waited, imagining his gaze tracking over her damp flesh, his elegant hand fisted around the projecting length of his erection, stroking up to the moist, swollen knob…
With a soft moan, Lydia twisted her hips and pressed her forehead to the table. She wanted him inside her, wanted his shaft pumping in and out of her tight channel. She wanted the friction to whisk heat over her nerves and drive her arousal to the breaking point. And yet her desire was tempered by fear because the pleasure of such an immersion would pull her toward the inevitable rapture of orgasm.
When finally she felt the slick head of Preston’s cock pressing between her thighs, she gasped and writhed again as if to impale herself on the shaft. His hands closed on her hips, his fingers digging hard in warning.
“Do not move,” he hissed.
Lydia groaned, her entire body straining against the natural impulse. Sweat trickled down her spine. She inhaled hard as Preston pushed farther, not entering her but sliding his cock into the valley between her thighs until he was fully embedded.
He clenched his fingers into her hips. “Tighten,” he ordered.
Lydia closed her eyes and squeezed her thigh muscles around his shaft. A low groan rumbled through Preston’s chest as the constriction intensified his pleasure. Lydia’s heart throbbed inside her head, her breath emerging in quick little pants that fogged the polished table.
The instant Preston began pumping between her thighs, Lydia discovered that every glide of his slick phallus rubbed against the pulsating nub of her sex, driving her excitement uncontrollably higher.
God in heaven. Would the man never cease finding new ways to arouse and torment her?
Her sex quivered and began to ache as Preston continued his relentless drive toward his own climax. Heat sparked along her nerves, pooled in her loins. As she lay spread across the table with Preston’s flat, hard belly slapping against her bottom with every thrust… Lydia knew with a mortal sense of dread that she would not be able to withstand the spiraling pressure.
She gripped the edges of the table, the hard tips of her breasts jostling against the smooth surface. Preston’s shaft stroked her clit with quicker strokes, his breath harsh and rapid behind her, his fingers clutching painfully at her hips. Moisture flowed down to ease the path of his thrusts, compelling him to order her to grip his penis harder.
With a gasp, Lydia tightened her thighs again, the button of her arousal throbbing within the moist folds of her sex. Hard and veined, his erection slid between her thighs faster and faster, the resounding smack of flesh against flesh echoing against the papered walls of the drawing room.
“Ah, that’s it, my dear,” Preston grunted, pausing once to grind his hips against the globes of her bottom, his shaft slick with their mingled fluids. “Squeeze those delicious legs around me. Hard.”
Even when she felt the bliss spool through her, Lydia struggled to forestall it, for she knew well the consequences of her disobedience.
“Preston!” She hated the plea wrenching her voice, but could no more prevent it than she could stop breathing.
How many times had she begged him for permission to climax? And how many times had he denied her? It was almost as if he wanted her to capitulate unwillingly, for no other reason than to give him an excuse to administer one of the punishments he so enjoyed.
“Oh, Preston, please…” She tried to swallow the words, knowing how her begging excited him.
He responded by pumping hard against her, the hard crown of his cock hitting her in a particularly sensitive spot. Lydia shrieked. Sweat dampened her neck as she sucked in air and fought for control, the lines of her body arching with tension.
His cock swelled between her legs. She flexed her thighs around him with a desperate desire to urge his orgasm to completion before she surrendered to her own. He thrust again, rubbing his groin against her buttocks.
“That’s my girl,” he breathed, his hands curving around to stroke across her belly. “My sweet Lydia… so hot and tight… ah!”
He gave the shout an instant before spurting against her inner thighs, the warm splashes trickling down to dampen her legs. Lydia shuddered, sinking her teeth hard into her lower lip in the hopes the pain would dull the edge of her urgency. But when Preston continued pumping his softening erection against her sex, she knew she was lost. Her sensitized nerves burst with rapture, heat exploding through her with an intensity that made the portent of pain insignificant.
A shriek tore from her throat as vibrations suffused her, peaking and ebbing like a fierce tide. She pressed her sweat-damp face against the table and gasped. Her legs trembled. Preston moved away from her, landing a hard spank on her rump that made her cry out with surprise.
The
mild sting melted into the lingering sensations pulsing through her. Lydia pushed herself slowly from the table and turned to face him, her cheeks saturated with the heat of shame. A mixture of her fluids and his dripped down her inner thighs, and her sex still throbbed. She suppressed the urge to press her fingers into the swollen crevice between her legs, to ease the last delicious sensations from her body.
Preston’s crystalline eyes raked over her disheveled figure—the messy cascade of hair over her shoulders, the fevered expression in her dark eyes, the glossy sheen of her naked thighs. Lydia eased herself upright, allowing her dress to fall over her hips and conceal her nudity.
“So.” Preston pulled a hand through his blond hair. A veil of cold descended over his sharp features. He fastened his trousers with a flick of his fingers. “We’ll add that to the growing list of your infractions, shall we?”
Although he phrased it as a question, Lydia knew his words to be an irrefutable statement. She nodded anyway, for of course there was no other appropriate response.
“Go clean yourself,” Preston ordered as he strode to the door.
After he’d gone, Lydia took a moment to try and collect her composure. Although she’d submitted to Preston countless times—submitted to all three men in ways that still shocked her—she thought she would never grow accustomed to the morass of humiliation and shameful pleasure such liaisons inspired.
She pressed her hands to her hot cheeks, then pulled the heavy length of her hair away from her sticky neck. Her hair had grown so long in the past weeks, falling past her shoulder blades in a dark, straight curtain. She hadn’t worn her hair so long since she was a teenager, well over fifteen years ago.
What a different person she had been then. What a different person she had been just a few weeks ago.
