Blooming: Veronica

by Louisa Trent

  She opened her thighs. For him. Just for him. And as he looked, she realized this was not a straightforward triumph. A Pyrrhic victory was all she had achieved. No mistake, her teasing had affected him, but his response equally affected her. Remaining neutral was impossible when she wanted him inside her so badly.

  “Beautiful, so beautiful,” he crooned. “Now your titties, please.”

  She was not the only one with power here. He was at her mercy, but she was equally at his. This thing, whatever it was, between them went both ways. Her hold on him was the same as his hold on her. Neither of them had full control over the other.

  My, how she hated that. “No titties.”

  He backed up to the marble bench she had indicated. “Now, you really have been bad, darling, teasing and then not delivering. Come to me and accept your punishment.”

  “Providing you use the flat of your hand, not your stick. No buffer between us this time.”

  “Agreed.” After removing his coat, he rolled up the sleeves of his immaculate shirt.

  She walked to him, more sulky than sultry now, and rounded over his knees, bottom up, head down. “Do the honors, sir, before the blood rushes to my brain.”

  The chilly night air feathered across her raised hips, but he soon warmed her exposed flesh.

  His hand came down on her buttocks with a resounding swat.

  “Ow!” she protested.

  “Too much?” he asked, praying she would say it had not been enough.

  “No, damn you. It was only the surprise. I have never been spanked before, you see.”

  His hand came down again, harder this time, the smack making an incredibly sharp sound that reverberated through her, the rebounding heat of his discipline making her squirm.

  Her cunt, yes, her cunt, went from dripping wet to sopping wet, her passion flooding her, the copious moisture trickling down her thighs. Could he tell? Could he tell how juicy she was? Goodness! Would the evidence of her wanton desire leave a telltale mark on the leg of his trousers?

  Heavens, she hoped so!

  His hand came down again, the palm slightly cupping her bottom cheek as it made contact before slowly lifting.

  He wanted to keep his hand there. She could tell. He wanted to have his fingers linger.

  But no. Duty came first.

  He spanked her again, and she moaned full-out through her gaping mouth, anticipating, hungering, for the next rousing, stimulating, highly exciting spank.

  She waited for the next, but nothing happened.

  When he continued to delay, she complained, “Whatever is keeping you?”

  She found out.

  He fingered her, a back-to-front entry as she hung over his lap. First, he touched her clitoris, a tender regard.

  “Sore?” he asked, a rub across the barbell lodged inside her.

  “A bit. Complete healing will take additional time.”

  “Too sore to continue?”

  “Never. It is only that the jewelry is highly…stimulating. The barbell magnifies the normal sensitivity.” Her bottom began to move. Just a little at first. Then an extravagant amount.

  Before, she had squirmed. Now she writhed.

  “I see,” he rasped and increased the pressure.

  “Oh, dear, dear, dear,” she sobbed, her hips gyrating. “A bit of a sting. I…I…like it.”

  “Enough for now. Until you heal. More might rip the clit’s hood.”

  “But—”

  “Shh. I said enough.”

  In compensation, he pushed a thick finger inside her.

  “Wet as the rain soon to fall,” he said and squeezed in two additional digits.

  They felt so good, so right.

  Too good, too right.

  She unsuccessfully swatted his hand, did manage to push away. Only briefly, before he hauled her back over his knees again.

  “My ass waving in the air is not at all how I envisioned this tryst,” she whined.

  “You did offer,” he said and began moving three fingers now up inside her. Up, then out. A slippery penetration.

  Of course, he had to comment on it. “Your readiness can be heard inside the ballroom.”

  “You embroider the facts, sir. The orchestra is playing,” she wheezed, just as the number ended.

  He chose that precise moment to increase the speed and depth of the fingering. Knowing the guests inside the hall might indeed overhear them provoked her to greater heights of arousal. He must have known the effect his statement would have on her, and that was why he made it. The supercilious swine.

  “Let it happen,” he said.

  She sniffed. As if she could do anything to prevent it. Wave after wave of unanticipated pleasure washed over her. Sensation threatened to drown her. Her lungs about to burst for want of air, she could no longer speak, argue, deny what was about to happen. Moving with his strokes first, then pushing back against his strokes later, then bucking like a mare put to the saddle for the first time, she knew with certainty that she was about to scream.

  He must have realized it too. Just as her release triggered her vocal cords, he pulled her upright onto his knees and smothered her hoarse cries with his mouth, thereby saving her already tarnished reputation from wrack and ruin.

  Afterward, while she watched, her husband placed his fingers in his mouth, the ones he had used on her, and cleaned off her juices. With noisy relish.

  She had never thought to see such a thing, hear such a thing, especially not done by a staid man like Talbot Bowdoin.

  Chapter Twenty

  “Your turn next.” While he stared at her, unable to turn his gaze away, his bride fell to her knees between his spread feet.

  Clever girl. She found his cock, released his cock, examined his cock, breathed on his cock, kissed his cock, and he arched his jaw to the moonless sky, surrendering to her siege, giving himself over into her hands and lips, and Christ Jesus, her tricky tongue.

  Ridiculous. She had no need to do this. He had never asked for or expected repayment in kind for sexual favors, which were his pleasure to bestow. For that matter, he had not thought there would be sexual favors. He had cast himself in the role of her publishing mentor, yet here he was on the receiving end of her sexual coaching. Did she think he had need of her instruction?

  He did not! His experience far surpassed hers. She had been on her knees once on a grimy pier; he had been on his knees too many times to recall each instance, but there had been plenty.

  All forgettable.

  He would not forget this time.

  Granted, her mouth was not as expert as other mouths that had claimed the same piece of geography as she claimed now, but after ten years of nothing, her something felt damnably good.

  Better than damnably good. Her mouth felt like homesteading, like she had settled in for keeps, not as though she were doing a temporary staking before moving on to a new region to explore. He had never before had a partner give him a permanent thick or thin commitment. And to be just, neither had he ever committed himself to more than a night with any one, two, or a dozen partners.

  Is that what had been missing before, the locked-key imprisonment of marriage?

  Locked key. Sounded ghastly. Hideous. Like a ball and chain, rope and noose, a death sentence.

  The prospect of a lifetime of bliss sounded more palatable. But he had not expected bliss, had given up on the notion. Until he read her book, understood how she thought, her inner thoughts, not the public way she presented herself to the world.

  There had been no need to read between the lines. She had put herself into every word, infused herself in every phrase. So foolish. So rash. So brave.

  So goddamned ballsy.

  His Veronica. His fragile beautiful sweet blue flower. She was all his. How had he ever gotten so lucky as to have her permanently in his life?

  Her licking and kissing and fondling and breathing and tonguing came to an abrupt halt. His bride asked in an aggrieved voice, “Must everything about you be gi
ven to gross exaggeration, sir?”

  “I beg your pardon? What have I said?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Well, see there? No cause for complaint then, Mrs. Bowdoin.”

  “There is every cause for complaint. Do you have anything about you that is average?”

  “My dancing. Average at best.”

  “You twirled me on the floor, making up new steps as you went.”

  “Only because I had no idea of the old steps. And why are we discussing this now, madam? Hardly seems the correct time.”

  She skimmed a finger down his cock, from pubic nest to blunt head. “Everything must be excess with you, sir.”

  “Wh-what do you mean?”

  “I mean this, your make is so enormous, I can hardly accommodate the head of your cock inside my mouth.”

  He surged at her words, becoming even larger and harder, more impossible for her to take. Hardly his fault. What man would not puff up in pride, given the compliment? “I would suggest you refrain from all such remarks here on out, lest you inspire even greater exaggeration.”

  “Are all men as long as you?”

  Another surge. “Madam, do not go further.”

  “And the diameter. My, my, my.”

  He jutted into her face, precum dribbling from the end of his cock, set like a stick of dynamite to go off any minute. “Continue on in this mode, and I shall spurt. Take me into your mouth at once!”

  “Ever so much better, sir. I do so prefer vocal enthusiasm to silent endurance.” She grinned up at him and gave him another long, wet, luscious lick, sliding her tongue over and around his quivering flesh until he had all to do not to force the issue by ramming himself down her throat.

  Nevertheless, he had ten years of training below his belt, and he held steady, letting her do what she would as he rocked on the bench and recited Homer’s epic poems, the Iliad and the Odyssey, to himself, backward from the beginning, to keep from losing his load.

  Not a pleasant experience.

  Eventually, when she’d had her fun, she took him into her mouth, a full welcoming.

  A full reckoning.

  Before, he had been hanging on to his seat for dear life. At her capture. he reached out into thin air. Flailing. Not knowing how to save himself. Somehow, his searching hands found her and he grasped her thin shoulders to steady himself. In this raging storm, she was his bulwark. His lifeboat. His rescuer.

  She might also sink him.

  He could not resist her, and he had no defenses against her. Lord, but the woman knew how to suck. She turned his testicles inside out.

  Not so dignified anymore, was he?

  Death was not proud. The little death was completely without shame. His cock gone as straight as a sword he would gladly fling himself on top of if not for it being attached, he started to let go, to convulse, to give in to a scream.

  He could see it all now. Guests would come rushing from the ballroom to see who had died out on the balcony. The voyeur would finally get his comeuppance.

  But no. She at least spared him that. Calmly, efficiently, she placed a palm over his drawn-back lips and caught one eruption in her mouth and the other within her hand as he experienced his first devastating upheaval with a partner in a decade.

  She swallowed afterward, this from a woman who talked about him not doing anything in half measures.

  After catching his breath, done while watching his wife lick cum from her lips, he knew with a certainty he would blurt out something ghastly, like “I love you,” if they tarried.

  Biting his tongue against the truth, he stuffed his cock, still wet from her mouth, back in his trousers, took up his walking stick, and rose shakily to his feet, the shakiness nothing to do with his bad leg and everything to do with bad her as he brought her up with him.

  “May I kiss you, Mrs. Bowdoin?”

  “In an effort to share the moment as you did with me, no doubt,” she said.

  At first, her meaning escaped him. Then he recalled lapping at her cream after finger fucking her. “Naturally, Mrs. Bowdoin. How could it possibly be anything more?” he whispered and kissed her long and deep.

  Let her think he only wished to taste his cum upon her lips. The alternative would strip him bare, barer than he had ever been during coupling.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Two nights later, Veronica paced her bedroom floor, her new red satin dressing gown, yet another gift from her doting husband, rustling as she circled the perimeter.

  He would come to her tonight. Talbot Bowdoin would walk through the connecting door, which separated his chamber from hers, and demand his conjugal rights.

  And she would do as her husband bade her. Not out of necessity, but out of curiosity. There could be no other reason. Since childhood, she had always insisted upon knowing how everything worked.

  How did Talbot Bowdoin work?

  Incessantly, it would appear, though not on her.

  After their naughtiness at the party, she had seen little of him. Locked away somewhere in the house, he did whatever it was he did from morn to night.

  Regardless of how busy he was, his hours of toil ended tonight. After what happened at the party, how could they not take their marriage one step further and go at it like rutting animals?

  Perhaps that was a tad sanguine of her. She would settle for less. Much less. If he could not offer her passion, she would take whatever he could offer her.

  It was the smart thing to do. As a matter of practicality, their marriage had to be consummated. This would protect her legally by removing the possibility of a future annulment.

  And that was not at all why she wanted her husband to bed her.

  She wanted to go to bed with her husband to know what he was like as a lover.

  Presumably, he shared her inquisitiveness. After all, he had tried both sexes on for size, a commendable decision in her opinion. Had she any doubts about her sexual orientation, she would have done the same.

  Despite his past doubts, he did seem oriented to her now. After rushing her back into the ballroom from their illicit sojourn out on the balcony two nights prior, he had made their excuses to their host, some flimsy pretext about his needing to tinker with one of his inventions, and practically dragged her by the hair on her head from the mansion into the carriage. Then, muttering, “We shall see one another later, madam,” he had returned to Linwood the way he had arrived to the party from Boston—on horseback.

  She had seen neither hide nor hair of him since.

  Done with waiting like some virginal bride for him to burst through the door, Veronica decided to take matters into her own hands.

  She turned the knob, crossed the threshold, and walked into an empty room.

  Where was he? Where had her irritating husband gone?

  The house was dark and quiet, the live-in staff all abed—servants rose early out here in the country—the ceiling and sconce gaslights extinguished. Never having ventured far from her second-floor bedroom, she made up her mind to do some exploring of Linwood to find her missing spouse.

  Taking up a small lamp, she descended the stairway. The third floor housed the servant quarters, and he would not have gone there…unless he was carrying on with a maid.

  She knew with a surety that Talbot would never take advantage of anyone in domestic service, anyone who depended upon him for their livelihood. He was just not that sort.

  What sort was he?

  Of illegitimate birth, her husband had the driving ambition to make something of himself.

  What?

  What had he made of himself?

  It was obvious by the property he owned—and by her father’s say-so—that Mr. Bowdoin had wealth, but how had he come by his money?

  Not through the usual means of inheritance. Even his name was fabricated. He was literate, well-spoken and mannered, but other than admitting to having investigated his sexuality as a young man, she had no idea what type of man she had married. The external wrapping, yes, but
nothing to do with what made him tick.

  “Difficulty sleeping, Mrs. Bowdoin?”

  Veronica jumped, then spun round to face the questioner, an older woman by the sound of her mature voice.

  “Did I frighten you?” a woman in her late sixties asked. “If so, please forgive me. I am Mrs. Long, housekeeper here at Linwood. We have yet to meet, as I just now returned from Salem. My niece’s lying-in. A lengthy birth.”

  Forgetting the difference in their stations, forgetting this unknown woman had startled her nearly senseless, Veronica asked, “Did the baby live?”

  “Yes, I am very much relieved to relate. A healthy baby girl pushed out after almost two days of hard labor. My niece would have moved heaven and earth to save that child.”

  The lamp Veronica was holding nearly slid from her hand. Would that she had been able to do the same for her baby…or died trying. “I am glad your niece succeeded in giving birth to a healthy baby girl, Mrs. Long. And welcome home to Linwood.”

  “Most generous of you. And the same to you. Have you had chance yet to meet your household staff?”

  “I only just recently arrived. A bit of whirlwind ever since,” she demurred, furious with her husband for not introducing her and chagrined with herself for not insisting. Good servants kept a house running like clockwork. Bad servants made everyone’s life miserable.

  Mrs. Long touched the bib on her neat white apron. “You will meet the servants on the morrow. I shall bring them around to the front hall at noon, if that is convenient.”

  “Most convenient.”

  “If Mr. Bowdoin could come too, ma’am? We have had a new girl enter service since his last visit to Linwood.”

  “He will be there.”

  So she said, but how could she be sure? Her wily husband had escaped her clutches for two days. Where was he?

  “The master of this house is always so busy with his inventions,” Mrs. Long said.

  Veronica finally broke with convention and asked the embarrassing question. “Do you know where Mr. Bowdoin is now?”

  “Why, with Sonya, I would imagine. Come nightfall, you will usually find him there.”