Velvet - Erotic Stories of Domination and Submission

by Diana Castle

  Séverin looked back at Philoméne. De Sade’s daughter. The Marquis had spent a great deal of time in prison and had even been locked up at the insane asylum at Charenton. If Philoméne was truly his daughter, mightn’t she also have inherited his predilection for libidinous behavior? His madness?

  “That still is no reason....” Séverin stopped.

  Philoméne was rubbing against him. Her breasts, her stomach, her thighs, her cunt. Even within the contraption, restrained as she was, she was able to twist her body against his.

  The maddened pulse of his heart threatened to crush it inside his chest. His loins flooded with heat and his cock strained eagerly against the front of his breeches. He ran his hands over her smooth hips and taut behind. He felt moistness on his fingers. At first he thought it was sweat. He pulled his hand away. A thin runnel of blood flowed down his finger. Her blood. From the whip.

  “Sweet Jesus,” he hissed. He glanced, horrified at the Comte, who only stared back at him, his eyes dark and unfathomable.

  Philoméne was still rubbing her body against his. “Please, please, fuck me. Fuck me.”

  Séverin closed his eyes. He mumbled a prayer and begged for forgiveness though he did not know from whom. He quickly undid the front of his breeches. Holding firmly to her waist, he guided his cock to her hairless cunt and thrust it inside her.

  The Comte went back to whipping her.

  “Mon Dieu!” Philoméne whispered against his ear, her trembling lips caressing it. “Yes, yes.”

  Adjusting his thrusts to go deeper, Séverin desperately wanted her to orgasm around his cock while the Comte was whipping her. He wanted to feel her climaxing from both her pain and her pleasure.

  The Comte was so accomplished with the whip he was able to lay it precisely along Philoméne’s back without striking Séverin. But he would not have minded if the Comte had struck him. The sensations that were shooting through his body were unlike any he had ever felt.

  Philoméne cried out. The exquisitely tight feeling of her cunt around his cock was bliss to him. Dark ecstasy crouched at the edge of his eyes, threatening to blind him. Her moist, tight cunt slid eagerly along his cock, her hips pumping hungrily.

  Séverin wondered how long he could go without coming. Not long. But he wanted Philoméne to climax first. He wanted to feel her squeezing his cock when she came. He fucked her harder, his hands gripping her hips.

  “Harder,” he shouted. “Whip her harder!”

  “Yes, yes,” Philoméne cried. “Harder, harder!”

  He did not know if she meant for him to fuck her faster or for the Comte to lay his whip along her back more powerfully. But as he thrust his cock deeper inside her, he heard the whip slicing faster through the air.

  Philoméne screamed. “God!”

  “Please, please, my sweet,” he moaned. “Come for me. Come for me.”

  He lowered his head and took one of her breasts in his mouth. He sucked hard on the stiff nipple then gripped it with his teeth.

  Philoméne twisted in her bonds, her hips shuddering in some wild, lewd convulsion of orgasm, her contractions so intense her cunt painfully squeezed his cock. He pulled her quivering body tightly to him as she climaxed, wanting to feel everything she did, needing in some way that defied all reason to make her a part of him.

  Her head lolled back, and Séverin moved his mouth up her throat. Her pulse thrummed violently beneath his lips. He sank his teeth into her skin.

  She screamed again. He pounded his hips, his cock thrusting deep inside her. He gripped her quivering ass, felt the tiny furrows of scoured flesh, the warm slickness of blood.

  He exploded, climaxing in long, excruciating, burning pulses. He shouted hoarsely, desperately, in a blissful, blinding agony, a dark, illicit pleasure thundering through him like a black river. She twisted her body against his, her sweat clinging to his shirt.

  After the last, hard throb of his orgasm, Séverin slowly lifted his face from Philoméne’s neck. Her head was down and her tangled hair hid her face.

  He gently took hold of her chin and lifted her face toward his. Her green-gold eyes gazed coolly into his with a serenity that made the edges of his eyes sting.

  He kissed her lips as he slid his hands up her scoured back and caressed the welts along her skin. Then he lowered his head and reverently kissed each of her breasts as if they were the holy icons of some blessed saint. Then, just as tenderly, he helped her out of the Comte’s contraption.

  Once she was free, she sagged against him, her body shivering. He picked her up, cradling her tenderly against his chest, and carried her over to the Comte’s bed, where he laid her down on her belly. Some of the blood from her back stained his shirt. He ignored it. He looked over at the Comte , who stood, silent and still, watching him.

  “Do you have some kind of salve for this?” he asked.

  The Comte curtly nodded. He placed the whip on a nearby table and went over to a chest.

  Séverin turned back to Philoméne. “Lie still. I will take care of you.”

  She nodded and closed her eyes. The Comte handed him some towels, along with the salve. A part of him was appalled at what the Comte had done to her, at what he himself had done, but another part recalled how hard her sex had gripped his cock when she came.

  He longed to feel that again.

  “You will leave France,” the Comte said in a tone that brooked no defiance, no questioning on Séverin’s part.

  He nodded. Using the towel, he gently blotted the blood away from Philoméne’s back.

  “You will take Philoméne with you. She cannot remain here. Eventually they will kill her.”

  Again, Séverin nodded, putting the blood-stained towel aside. He did not need to ask who they were. He knew. The wolves who now ruled France.

  “I have a friend in Philadelphia,” the Comte went on. “His name is Moreau de Saint-Méry. I have already written him. He will be expecting you.”

  “But what of you?” Séverin asked as he carefully applied the salve to Philoméne’s back. Her head was resting on her arm, her eyes once again open as she stared at him.

  “I was only able to secure papers out of France for two. You are not the only one with friends in the new government.” He shook a finger when he saw Séverin was about to protest. “No, my dear boy. I am old. You and she are young. You will go to the New World, to this république américaine, and find a future for yourselves.”

  “It will be no different there.” Séverin moved his hand soothingly over Philoméne’s ravaged back as he applied the salve. “The wolves are everywhere.” He recalled how it had felt fucking Philoméne while the Comte whipped her. “You have shown me that.”

  “Yes. But I did it only to make you stronger.” He placed a hand on Séverin’s shoulder. “The wolves prey on the sheep. But they also protect what is theirs.”

  The Comte leaned over the bed. He stroked Philoméne’s hair and kissed her gently on her forehead. “Adieu, my sweet one. Séverin will take care of you from now on.”

  He picked up the necklace she had worn at dinner and handed it to her. “Take it with you. As compensation for all you have endured under my hands.”

  Philoméne didn’t take the necklace. Instead, she reached over and, grasping the Comte’s hand between hers, kissed it.

  The Comte let her go on for a moment then brusquely pulled his hand away. “Enough. Go. Both of you. Before I change my mind.”

  Séverin rose from the bed and walked over to the Comte. He took the hand Philoméne had kissed and grasped it with both of his. “ I will miss you.”

  “And I you. Make your preparations. You both will leave as soon as possible.”

  * * * *

  The ship rocked beneath them. The captain had informed them they would reach land sometime tomorrow. Philoméne turned sleepily in Séverin’s arms where the two lay in their bunk.

  “Are you feeling better?” he asked.

  She’d experienced some seasickness when they first set sa
il. She nodded, her fingers clutching the front of his shirt. He drew her closer, holding her carefully, mindful of the healing scars on her back.

  She looked up at his handsome face, still unable to believe he was here with her. Until they’d actually boarded the ship at Cherbourg, she had expected him to change his mind, to remember who and what she was and be disgusted by it and leave.

  But he hadn’t. He’d stayed with her and done as the Comte had asked of him. Taken care of her. And they had fucked. Each and every night she’d stayed at his home until they received the travel papers from the Comte and the arrangements had been made for their passage on the ship to America.

  Séverin’s dark brown eyes gazed down at her. “Philoméne?”

  “Yes?”

  “Are you really de Sade’s daughter?”

  She did not speak for long moments. The Comte had asked her that question the night she told him who her mother was. She had never even heard of the Marquis de Sade until then. When she learned from the Comte who de Sade was and the things he had done, she had not wanted him to be her father, despite her having wanted a father for as long as she could remember.

  “I do not know who I am,” she finally said.

  Séverin smiled and stroked her cheek. “Neither do I, my sweet. Not anymore. But we will find ourselves. I promise.”

  She smiled up at him then kissed him and, as the ship lurched around them, the wind and waves driving them towards the New World, he entered her and they both lost themselves in the infinite oblivion of ecstasy.

  Equilibrium

  Helen Carter cautiously sipped her cup of hot white tea. Wrapped securely in a blanket, she was re-reading one of her favorite erotic novels. This was how she spent nearly all of her nights. At home. Alone. Lost in the fantasy of a life she feared she’d never have. She wondered sometimes if people could sense the longings in her. The desire to balance the dark cravings she had with the persona she presented to the outside world. To find a sense of equilibrium.

  She was reading an especially delicious scene in which the Viscount Letchford finally had his ward, the innocent Lady Margaret Claypool, lying across his knees with her lace silk petticoats hiked up around her slender waist, her pantalettes rucked down around her trim ankles, and her pert bottom awaiting the first smack of his dictatorial hand.

  Helen squirmed against the couch. How she longed to be in the same situation as Lady Claypool, waiting for the descent of that dominant, masculine hand against her naked buttocks. The resounding smack and then the ecstatic pain that followed.

  Helen’s pussy fluttered in response to her heated imaginings. After she was done with the story, she’d let herself enjoy a nice little session of masturbation. She was always able to bring herself to the most wonderful climaxes after she’d read one of her spanking stories. She just wished, sometimes, that what she read about or fantasized about could also really happen.

  The apartment intercom buzzed.

  Sighing, she set the book aside, rose from the couch and went over to press the talk button.

  “Yes?” She hoped the door attendant wasn't able to hear the irritation in her voice. He was, after all, only doing his job.

  “Sorry to disturb you, Ms. Carter."

  Damn. He had heard her

  "There’s a driver here with a package for you,” he went on.

  “A package?" She frowned. At this time of night? “From whom?”

  She heard a muffled conversation in the background. Then the door attendant's voice. “Everett Lyles.”

  Her heart thumped hard in her chest. Everett Lyles? Why would he be sending her a package? And at this time of night?

  “Shall I send the driver up, Ma’am?” the door attendant asked.

  Helen bit her lower lip. She had no idea why a man she’d only met a week ago, and briefly at that, would be sending her a package. “Um, yes, please do."

  She crossed her arms over her breasts. It had been a week since her presentation to Everett Lyles. As an architect at the firm that Lyles had contacted as a possible designer for the mansion he was building, Helen had been given the assignment to woo him—as the firm's president had not so subtly put it.

  A wealthy expatriate from England, Lyles had been tall, impeccably-dressed and shockingly gorgeous, with an equally gorgeous accent that had not only sounded upper class and moneyed but, by the end of Helen's presentation, had left her panties damp and her nipples hard.

  But her presentation had been for naught. As she was leaving work, the firm’s president informed her that Lyles had decided to go with another company. Her boss had let her know that in that genteel but unquestionably pissed-off tone of his.

  Helen suspected his anger had less to do with Lyles' decision not to hire their firm and more to do with her and what he saw as her failings. If her boss had his way, and if times were different, he would have ordered her to sleep with Lyles or at least blow him under the conference table. Anything to get his business. That was the kind of man he was.

  But she hadn’t slept with Lyles or given him a blowjob or let him peek under her skirt. Although she resented her boss and the way he saw her merely as a sexual means to his business ends, she’d also been so horny after her presentation to Lyles that if had made any kind of sexual proposition to her she might have accommodated him.

  But he hadn’t made any such overtures. In fact, he hadn’t appeared interested in her at all. Which was why she was curious as to what he could possibly be sending her.

  There was a knock. Helen peered through the peephole. It was the driver and, good Lord, he was dressed in the full regalia. Chauffeurs’ peaked black cap, dark suit, black tie, white shirt, black leather gloves.

  She opened the door.

  He tugged the rim of his cap. He had a kind if a bit weathered face. “Miss Carter?”

  “Yes?

  He handed her a large white box. She took it, awkwardly cradling it in her arms. The chauffeur gave her a slight nod then turned and walked down the hall to the elevator.

  Helen closed and locked the door behind her. She took the box to the couch, and sat down. She stared at it. Everett Lyles had sent her a package. She didn’t even know him. Hadn’t even expected to hear from him again.

  She opened the box. Tissue paper hid the contents. On top rested an envelope. She took out a sheet of expensive-looking stationery. The handwriting was bold and black and starkly masculine against the cream-colored paper. As she read, she frowned, but the beating of her heart sped up.

  This coming Friday she was to be outside her apartment at 7:45 p.m. exactly. Carlton, whom the note described as the man who had dropped off the box, would be waiting for her in a limo. He would drive her to the east side of the city. Helen recognized the address. One of the firm’s clients had lived there before moving into his ten-bedroom mansion outside the city. The address screamed money.

  The rest of the note instructed her to wear what was inside the box. She placed the note on the couch. She turned back to the box and pushed aside the tissue paper. She stared at the contents.

  Red silk blouse.

  Long black skirt.

  High-heeled, ruby-red, fuck-me shoes.

  Black sheer stockings and garters.

  A lace push-up bra and a red thong that would leave the cheeks of her buttocks exposed.

  As Helen stared at the clothes, she noted that something had been slipped in between the skirt and the blouse. She pulled it out. It was a sepia-colored, vintage photograph of a Victorian man spanking the plump, bare bottom of a young woman.

  Blood rushed through her body and warmed her face. How could he have known? How had Everett Lyles—a man in whose company she’d only be in for forty-five minutes, if that—comprehended the most secret places of her heart in that short span of time she had spent with him?H

  In her mind she saw him. Those dark, fallen angel features. That firm, sensuous mouth. And the way he had sat during her presentation; the hot, scorching essence of cool, controlled masculin
ity.

  “Lower the lights.”

  She had been adjusting the focus on the projector. At the sound of his voice, she had looked over at him. They were the first words—other than his clipped greeting of her—that he’d spoken and he had spoken them with the type of smooth, solid authority that tolerated no disagreement or disobedience on her part.

  “Excuse me?" she said even as a dark thrill pulsed through her.

  Lyles made a slight gesture with his chin towards the screen on which her slide presentation was projected. “I can't see that. The lights. Lower them.”

  Helen walked over to the light switch on the wall, acutely aware of her body; the pivoting of her hips under her slim skirt, the whisper of her stockings as her thighs crisscrossed, the rise and fall of her breasts under her fitted jacket.

  She lowered the lights then looked over at Lyles, who inclined his head in approval. But his handsome features were otherwise aloof. For the next half hour, as she went over her presentation, he sat unmoving, his long fingers steepled beneath his chin, his sea-green eyes gleaming in the low lights of the room.

  When she had finished, he had asked her no questions, voiced no concerns nor raised any issues. He had only thanked her and rather curtly at that. She had left the conference room confused and a bit angry for she had worked hard on the presentation.

  Now there was this. A blatant invitation to come to his luxury apartment and let him indulge her most secret fantasy.

  She stared at the photo, her cunt moistening as she imagined some proper, straitlaced, extremely strict Victorian man vigorously spanking her bare buttocks for some transgression on her part.

  The man in her imaging looked exactly like Everett Lyles.

  She shook her head to clear her fevered thoughts and focused back on the clothes. How did he know she would even wear such things? They certainly weren’t her usual style of clothing. She had dressed very conservatively for the presentation. It hadn’t pleased her boss. She had seen it in his eyes when she showed up at work that day. But what had he expected her to wear? A see-through blouse and a skirt with a slit up to her crotch?