by Colette Gale
The woman made an exasperated sound. “Well, the more clever and stubborn ones usually turn out to be the most worthwhile. Still, I have no patience for impudence, girl. You had best mind your manners when you’re with me. The last thing I wish to do is mar that beautiful skin of yours—but make no mistake. I have forms of punishment that will leave no marks. Now come with me. I expect utter obedience and obeisance.” With an angry huff, Marcine swished out of the bedchamber, leaving Jane to keep up with her fast pace.
She glanced at Darkdale as she left the chamber, but he seemed to be paying no attention to her…and for some reason, that made her even more apprehensive.
Jane scurried down the corridor in Marcine’s wake, trying to ignore the discomfort of her knees traveling over a variety of bumps and sharp edges. The woman led her toward the back of what turned out to be a house that was much deeper than it was wide.
“In here.” Marcine flung open a set of double doors.
Inside were two women wearing simple gray frocks that could only be described as uniforms. Judging by their gray hair and facial lines, they appeared older than Marcine by at least a decade. Each had hair that was scraped back into a tight bun high at the back of the head, and they stood as if at attention, waiting for a command.
The room was furnished in a manner Jane had never seen before. There was a large square tub made of tile situated in the center of the chamber—large enough to hold three or four people. It was filled with water so hot steam rose from it. Piles of fluffy white towels sat near one edge, and at the other was an array of small pots, jars, brushes, tubes, and other items she couldn’t identify. Some pleasing, musky scent wafted from the pool and filled the room.
Elsewhere in the chamber were trunks and wardrobes, mirrors lining one wall, and a large platform-like bed draped with blankets, cushions, and furs. One wall was lined with cupboards, drawers, and shelves.
“You may stand now,” Marcine told Jane, then took a seat in a large, plush chair that looked more like a throne than a mere resting place. She gestured languidly as she picked up a notebook and pencil and began to peruse the open page. “It makes it easier for Belinda and Bernice to attend to you. And, I would say, they most certainly have their task cut out for them. Wouldn’t you, ladies?”
The women—possibly twins—made assenting sounds as Jane pulled to her feet more slowly than she would have liked. She was sore. She wondered if the tub was for her, and recalled Darkdale’s words that she needed to be bathed. A bath would be welcome, as long as it didn’t entail the sort of ministrations she had been subjected to while being cared for by the women of Cold Eyes’s village.
She shuddered at the memory just as Belinda and Bernice approached. Uncertain what was expected of her, Jane waited passively. No one would be shy about telling her if she was wrong.
The twins walked around her as if she were a prize mare—or a statue—and examined her from head to toe. They lifted her hair and tsked over the slender red welts from Marcine’s riding crop, and the less noticeable ones from Darkdale. They pored over her hands and toes then poked and pinched her in more than a few places.
“I’ve half a mind to cut it all off,” said Marcine when she noticed the two women using their fingers to comb randomly through Jane’s tangled curls as if to sort it out. “But I suppose Kellan would be annoyed. So I’m afraid you’ll have to work through it. I’ll be certain to charge him extra.”
“Into the bath with you, then,” said one of the maids. “And don’t slip on the tiles. ’E wants to be the one to put any bruises on you ’imself.”
Despite those foreboding words, Jane eagerly climbed into the tub. Even though she hissed at the bold heat, she sank in as quickly as possible. The aroma was that of lavender and sandalwood, and it was soothing and relaxing. For the first time since arriving at Darkdale’s home, she felt blissful as her muscles loosened and she warmed up pleasurably.
However, her contentment lasted only a short time, for no sooner had she submerged up to her shoulders than the two women were “attending” to her.
One began to work on her hair, shoving Jane’s head unceremoniously beneath the water and holding it there longer than she would have chosen. Then the maid scrubbed and soaped, rinsed, then scrubbed and soaped again. After that, a thick, sweet-smelling paste was massaged into her hair from scalp to ends, and Jane’s head was wrapped in a cloth with all her hair tucked up into it.
Meanwhile, the other woman bustled around, laying out items on one of the tables, showing options to Marcine, who either approved or declined as she sat in her throne chair and sipped tea—which had been brought to her by an unusually subservient Trevor.
Once she was thoroughly washed and her hair was rinsed of the paste, Jane was brought from the tub and settled on a far less comfortable chair than Marcine’s. Still, it was better than being on her knees, and she knew better than to complain—even mentally.
Here, her hair was combed out (none too gently), her toenails and fingernails clipped and lotioned, her skin buffed and moisturized. During this process, Marcine deigned to rise from her seat and walked over to check on the progress.
“She cleans up well, I’ll grant him that.” She pursed her lips as she circled Jane, then finished by standing in front of her and pointing directly at the bush of hair between her legs. “That must be attended to. And beneath her arms, and her legs as well. And then you’ll have just enough time to do the bejeweling, for Kellan bade me to have her prepared by six o’clock.”
Jane’s eyes widened at her words, but she had no time to speak or otherwise respond. Bernice and Belinda ushered her from the chair and directed her to a narrow, backless sofa. She was directed to lie on her back, and while Bernice arranged her newly combed hair so it wouldn’t tangle, the other twin pulled her legs apart.
Jane tensed, prepared to be manipulated, teased, and mastered as she had been in the past, but Belinda’s touch was utterly impersonal—even detached—as she began to do…something down there.
At first, all Jane felt was a little bit of tugging and prickling. When she was finally able to lift her head, she saw that the woman was snipping off the bright red hair that grew at the apex of her thighs. Quickly and with cold efficiency, Belinda cropped the tight, coarse curls until they were short and neat.
Meanwhile, Bernice roughly lifted Jane’s arm and applied some sort of thick, sticky paste over the hair growing there. Then she placed a strip of cloth over the paste and ripped it away. Jane gasped in shock and surprise, but before she had a chance to react (really, what could she do anyway?), Bernice moved to the other side and did the same there while Belinda conducted the same process on Jane’s legs. This was more painful, and by the time the twin was working on the second leg, Jane was blinking back tears of pain. The last two strips of cloth were the worst, for they were aligned over paste that had been painted onto the outside of her labia. Thankfully, Belinda and Bernice each pulled one strip at nearly the same time, which left Jane nearly sobbing with shock and pain, and completely denuded of hair except for a narrow strip down the center.
She wasn’t certain whether she preferred this form of torture, or the one she’d succumbed to at the hands—and mouths—of the women in the jungle.
“Much better,” mused Marcine when the two maids finished their task. “Now, I suggest you take some time to rest whilst your hair dries and your skin settles. You shall need all of your strength for tonight, and in the meanwhile, we have other preparations to make.”
She gestured to the large bed and Jane gratefully went over to it, surprised that she should be afforded such a luxury. Without a backward glance, Marcine left the chamber, taking her two maids with her. At the door, she paused. “Lest you should entertain any thought of leaving, I shall lock the door. So do yourself a favor and rest when you can.”
The door closed behind them and Jane heard the ominous sound of a heavy bolt being thrown. As she lay on the soft bed, she looked around the chamber, wondering if this wa
s some sort of test or trick. But after a while, her eyes drooped and she did ease into sleep.
It was a light, restless sleep, for at some level she feared being tricked or otherwise disturbed awake…yet it was a repose filled with images and thoughts she’d tried to protect: worry, fear, and love for Zaren and her papa.
But Zaren would not be banished this time, and his amazing blue eyes cast upon her, filled with love and warmth. Though he desired her, his gaze was not at all filled with the bald lust and cold lasciviousness of Darkdale’s. In her dreams, Jane reached for Zaren, begged him to save her, wondered if he still loved her after all she’d given up and all that had happened to her…but he was always just out of reach.
She cried in her sleep and in her dreams and despaired of ever seeing him or her papa again.
***
Jane startled fully awake when the door’s bolt was thrown open. Marcine and her companions paraded in as Jane noticed that the light outside had dimmed. It was past afternoon and into the evening, and she was surprised she had slept at all.
“Now,” said Marcine briskly, “let us see what we can do to make you even more lovely.”
They prodded Jane to her feet and gave her a spoonful of mint leaves with which to chew and clean her teeth. As Belinda began to do something to her long tresses, Bernice came to stand next to them. She was holding a silver tray with a variety of jewels, tiny pots, and brushes arranged on it.
As Jane stood silently, Marcine used a brush to dab some sort of clear liquid onto one breast, making several dots around the edge of her areola. Then, using tiny forceps, she picked up jewel after jewel and affixed tiny, lentil-sized gems to the dots she’d made.
When she was finished, there were six tiny emeralds winking in a circle around Jane’s left areola, which had shriveled and tightened beneath the woman’s ministrations. Marcine moved on to do the same to the other breast, taking her implements and supplies from Bernice’s tray. Jane’s nipples thrust strong and hard from inside the glittering circles, and when she finished her task, Marcine used the tip of a different brush to stroke over one of them.
Jane jolted and shivered at the unexpected sensation, and her nipple tightened even more. With a faint sound of satisfaction, Marcine flickered the brush over the other nipple, lighter and in a more prolonged fashion. She glanced up at Jane, amusement lighting her cold blue eyes, stroked slowly and carefully around the nipple, and then flicked the soft sable brush hairs across the sensitive tip, over and over, back and forth, ever so lightly until Jane had to bite her lip to keep from moaning.
“It’s clear why he chose you,” Marcine commented, resting the brush back on the tray. “You’re not only lovely to look at, but you have a responsiveness most men would kill for—in themselves as well as their women.” She tilted her head to one side, a little smile curving the corners of her mouth.
As she looked at Jane, holding her gaze, she reached forward and slid her hand down along the gentle swell of Jane’s belly. Her fingers brushed lightly over her soft, perfumed skin, trickled through the patch of short, trimmed hair and over the sensitive bare skin of her mound, and then moved down to cup her quim. Jane tensed even as the familiar rush of pleasure surged to her sex, and she couldn’t control a little quiver.
Marcine’s hand remained there, warm and steady and still, with just the slightest bit of pressure upon the lush folds there. She watched Jane, her gaze critical and cool, as she held her there—literally in the palm of her hand.
Jane’s heart began to thump harder, and she couldn’t control the reaction of her body to that soft, steady, confident pressure. Her breath grew rough, and all of her concentration, all of her awareness, focused on Marcine’s hand. She was aware of herself swelling and tightening against the woman’s palm and fingers, of growing damp and hot, and of the deep-seated burn of lust building and building until she needed to move and writhe and shift…
When Marcine at last adjusted her hand, sliding it softly and slowly down and over the full, wet folds, her fingers were slick and wet. Jane shivered, shuddering with restrained need. Then one digit moved, sliding just the barest tip inside her, and found the underside of her tiny, ripe pearl. Then, leaning a little closer, her expression passive, Marcine pressed hard, up into her as the pad of her finger twitched once against Jane’s burgeoning clit.
A single stroke. And all at once Jane’s body let go, and she came, a flood of heat and pleasure washing over her as she stood there, cupped by Marcine, helpless to deny the convulsions of her body, hot and weak and wet.
“My goodness,” breathed the other woman, whose eyes had never left Jane’s face. “You are a delight.” She removed her hand and Bernice offered her a cloth to wipe her fingers. “It’s no wonder Kellan wanted you—and for so long.” She paused, looking at Jane with consideration. Then she smiled, still cool and amused, but now with a layer of heat in her eyes. “I look forward to further exploration.”
She turned back to the tray and selected another brush, then gestured for Jane to step up onto a stool Belinda had brought over. Still a little trembly in the knees, Jane nevertheless climbed onto the stool. This position put her hips and belly at Marcine’s eye level, and for a moment, Jane felt weak. The woman’s mouth was right…there.
She looked down and saw Marcine watching her, a knowing light in her eyes. But apparently the blonde had other plans, for she nudged Jane’s thighs apart a little and began to paint another set of small adhesive dots on the bare skin of her nether lips. More jewels followed there, and then Marcine directed Jane to bend over.
She walked around behind her as Jane obediently put her hands on her knees. Jane tried to keep her mind away from the image she must present to Marcine: her full, wet, red pussy, on display and eager for more pleasure. It was all she could do to keep her self from growing full and wet again at the thought of what the other woman might do.
When Marcine touched her, Jane flinched…but it was only the damned brush again. This time, Marcine made feather-light dots on the backside of her quim, and affixed the tiniest of diamonds and rubies there, around the edge of her opening.
“There. Quite delectable, you are. Kellan will be pleased. Belinda, you must finish her hair and eyes, then it will be time to deliver our lovely Jane to her master.”
As Jane was helped down from the stool—it would do no good for their handiwork to be ruined if she fell or moved awkwardly—Marcine eyed her once more. “’Tis a pity I won’t be there to enjoy the entertainment tonight. I’ll have to speak with Kellan about changing that in the future. Oh, and Bernice—the gloves and stockings, please.”
Jane was positioned in front of a long mirror as the final touches were attended to: her hair braided in one long, loose braid that hung over her shoulder or down her spine, black liner drawn thinly around her eyes, then their lids painted green and blue in a design not unlike butterfly wings. Marcine added two more diamond crystals, one at the corner of each eye, and then a single, fingernail-sized one just below Jane’s left collarbone. She brushed soft pink color onto her lips, and then turned to Bernice to take a bundle of cloth.
Black lace stockings and matching black gloves were the only articles of clothing Jane was allowed, and then her entire ensemble was covered by a flowing, silken black cloak.
“The finishing touch…” Marcine moved to stand behind Jane.
The next thing she knew, something dark and black went over her eyes and was tied tightly in the back. Just as Marcine finished, somewhere in the house a clock struck six.
“Perfect. You are just ready. Come now, girl…let us go to meet your master.”
And Jane, blindfolded, enveloped in a sensuously silken cloak, was led from the chamber.
— VIII—
As Jane walked along, the innermost parts of her upper thighs rubbed against her sex. Because of the addition of the jewels there, Jane felt even more pressure than usual on her sensitive clit and swollen quim.
Every step was a little tease of potenti
al pleasure, and with the silken cloak sliding over her tight nipples at the same time, she felt as if her body was slowly coming alive and aware.
She couldn’t help a sense of trepidation as she was prodded along to meet Darkdale, for how well she remembered his threat of last evening: that she was to be punished tonight…with the help of his guests.
What sort of punishment could he have in mind? One of unbearable pleasure, or a tortuous one of frustration and humiliation? Or some combination of both?
After being directed for what seemed like an interminably long walk, Jane was pulled to a halt. Still blindfolded, she could see nothing—not even a crack of light from beneath her black sheath. There was silence for a long moment, and she wondered briefly if she had been left alone.
Then suddenly there was a soft clapping sound. “Brava, Marcine.” She recognized Trevor’s voice. “He will be well pleased.”
“Naturally,” was the woman’s throaty reply. “Has he returned?”
Before Trevor could respond, there was the sound of a door opening, and a gentle waft of outside air followed. Now Jane recognized where she was: back in the octagonal room where she’d been left on her hands and knees for hours yesterday. The room one could see just beyond the main entrance of the house, where Darkdale sat in his chair and she sucked him dry.
“I see you’ve finished your task.” Darkdale’s voice was accompanied by brisk footsteps that drew near then stopped. Along with him came the scent of London—dampness and coal smoke—mixed with his own male essence.
Jane stood silently, feeling his presence as he circled around her. The edges of her cloak were pulled up and away, presumably by one twin on each side, as he examined her.
“You are well worth the extravagant expense, Marcine,” he said. “She is even more lovely than before, and yet has adopted an appropriate air of mystery as well as passion.”
Marcine gave a husky chuckle. “A feat that is captured in the amount of my bill, Kellan.”
