by Jina Bacarr
“If I permit you to return to your rooms without being pleasured by my cock,” Lord Carlton said finally, his voice even, “I shall have your word we will continue to live as man and wife?”
“Yes, milord. In all matters except in the bedroom.” I hated making a pact with him, a dirty, vile agreement based on his lust and my temerity, but I had no choice. The scandal of an annulment would cause my mother such grief I couldn’t bear it. My marriage to Lord Carlton and entrée into British society meant everything to her. Though I didn’t approve of my mother’s brashness, I understood her hunger for the finer things in life. Reared in poverty, Ida O’Roarke didn’t have a pair of shoes to wear on her scarred feet until she was seven. Now she owned a hundred pairs made of the finest Italian leather.
No wonder my mother put an end to the heated whispers and snickers when she took her seat in the bridal pew at my wedding. Head held high, she stared them down until they turned away, shamed by her strength and fortitude. No doubt the rumors of an O’Roarke indiscretion had followed us across the Atlantic after my younger sister, Elva, found herself with child after lessons of another sort from her French fencing master. I knew it bothered my mother even if she didn’t show it. She couldn’t bear up under more aspersions cast upon us.
Such a scandal célèbre would also have far-reaching repercussions on my father. He had such great hopes for his business ventures in the Orient with the opening up of Japan to the West. It was no secret that companies from the United States hadn’t been able to catch up to the British in forging their part of the Yokohama trade. Many nights I’d listen to Da lamenting to his cronies about how American merchants eked out a tenth of the Japanese imports compared to the British. My marriage to a titled Englishman had assured him of the entrée he needed to compete in this exciting new commercial venture.
A surge of hope raced through me. His lordship had also done me a great service. I was now Lady Carlton and as such, I was included in the dalliances and nuances of British society. I sensed a new arena would open up to me as an intimate member of the royal set, where I could speak my mind without being rebuffed, where I could meet famed personages and learn from them, where I could delve into politics and the arts and explore them without fear of reprisal. Something I couldn’t do in New York because we were considered nouveau riche and were not invited to society soirees.
Tense, I prayed my line of reasoning would keep my husband from violating me. Whatever his choice, I must remain strong. It wouldn’t be easy to recover from such a sexual betrayal of my innocence, but I must if I were to survive. If I couldn’t give completely of myself to a man, my heart, my soul, I wanted no man—
Until I met Shintaro. Then I couldn’t get enough of his masculine sexual energy, him stroking me, licking me, touching the back of my neck with his strong hands, coddling my breasts, rubbing my nipples, nuzzling my belly, slapping my buttocks, thrusting into me…his heavy breathing, his sensual grunting expressing his pleasure, though it took many months for him to reveal his spirit to me, his hopes, his dreams. For the way of the warrior demanded he keep those feelings hidden, though at times I’d see them flicker in his brooding black eyes when he looked at me, like an elusive wind blowing restlessly in the dark recesses of his samurai soul.
I couldn’t stop breathing hard, panting. But that part of my story must wait until that enchanted time when the samurai and a maiden chanced to find each other in a hidden valley in the land of the shoguns. First, being a part of this world was something I wanted, wanted it dearly, and it all hung on the next few words tripping off the tongue of my husband, Lord Carlton.
I shivered, though the heat from our bodies dripping with sweat from arousal and need warmed the room with intensity. He raised his eyebrows and snorted, as if spewing fire from his nose announced he was in control of my fate. Finally he loosened the bindings holding me down.
“You’ve won, my dear wife,” he said coldly. “For now.”
Then he left me to revel in my triumph. Alone.
I lay back as the leather restraints fell from my wrists, the sudden relief coursing through me and making me lose control of my pubic muscles and bringing me the pleasure I had fought so hard to repress. I didn’t try to stop it when the tension in my lower body reached a crescendo, experiencing spasmodic contortions. I thrust out my belly, rocking my hips and buttocks as I writhed from the probing of phantom fingers pleasuring me…
Arms aching, chills making me shiver, I pulled myself to my feet, fighting back nausea and the light-headedness that seemed to overwhelm me as I dragged myself back to my rooms. I opened the door and was nearly inside when I heard my husband’s voice beckoning the two prostitutes to rejoin him. Giggling, squealing and the sound of the flogger hitting its fleshy mark echoed in the hallway. I turned and to my relief, no one followed me.
My emotions spent, I collapsed atop the pure white eider-down and sank into its virginal folds, then wiped the sweat from between my breasts with the torn silk of my wrapper, the fine threads unraveling between my fingers. I had seen a new side of my husband tonight, one that disturbed me. James was impetuous, disquieting, illusive, and I sensed a desperate need within him to assert himself upon women.
Yes, I had won, but how long would he keep his end of the bargain?
I didn’t trust him, but one thing I knew for certain: I wouldn’t allow him to dominate me, mentally or physically. From this moment on, whatever unpleasantness I might experience with my husband, whatever actions he might take to rouse my emotions or disturb my sense of reasoning, I would fight back.
I would endure.
3
Mayfair, London
Six months later…
Since assuming my role as Lady Carlton, I have developed an intense dislike of the smell of freshly polished leather, the tangy odor rutting up my nostrils like tiny maggots eating away at my brain with their sorriest secrets.
His secrets. Women. Floggings. Tempestuous howls. As if the cheeky maid who caught his lordship’s eye relished the sensation of being skinned alive, a practice best served by a skilled master, according to a slim tome I found in the library called The Misadventures of Molly Pearlbottom.
Quite a bawdy read and one I recommend highly, a story that will instruct you in the delights of spankings and whippings, where Molly uses her role as a submissive to dominate her master to pleasure her. Confused? Read it and you’ll see what I mean. I can’t bring a book of that nature into my home, you insist. You bought my book, didn’t you? But that’s different, you say, you’re a member of the peerage, albeit tarnished around the edges with the venial sin of being Irish. I understand your concerns, dear lady reader, so I shall exercise my writing skills in hopes of re-creating a scene for you from the novel that will please you and make you swoon. You’re not a novelist, you sputter, smirking. What is a novel but a memoir with the names changed? I believe I’ve reached the point in my writing where you toss the rules out the window and follow your instinct (and your nose, if you’re writing a sex scene) and let it happen. So, in accordance with the memory of what I read on that stormy afternoon in Lord Penmore’s library with the steady sound of rain beating on the roof and moisture seeping between my thighs, and what I’ve since learned about the delicate art of bondage from a true master, I will re-create a chapter in the life of Molly Pearlbottom.
The licentious goings-on still make me sigh…
Molly Pearlbottom, daughter of the town vicar, had one aspiration in her young life: to be flogged by the dashing Lord of Malworth Hall. He was taller than any man she’d ever seen, and his world was one of aristocrats and power, strappings and aggression, strength and domination. Every time she walked by the great manor house, she daydreamed about being bound and nude before his approving eye, then wrote about it in her curly handwriting in her copybook. All the other girls in the village had received their share of whippings and spankings by the roguish lord, who dutifully followed the family tradition of all the lairds before him. Every third We
dnesday of the month, precisely at noon, he chose a willing recipient of his silver-handled, blue riding crop from all the girls who lined up under the great oak tree on top of the hill. Dropping their drawers and turning their bare backsides toward him, they all wondered, Who would be the lucky lass today? Her ivory-smooth bottom smarting from delicate pink welts rising up on her skin like fresh blossoms, her flesh quivering with delight, her squeals and whimpers signaling a secret code of pleasure?
Not Molly. Her father kept her so busy on Wednesday afternoons washing down the rectory with soap, a brush and a pail of water, she never had the chance to find out. Fervent, irrational, her father allowed her no leeway, overwhelming her with chores. She had no opportunity to assuage her hunger for whippings and the pursuit of her secret pleasure.
Until today.
The Honorable Horace Pearlbottom had been called away from his vicarage to London in light of a fiscal emergency (funds liberated from the church bank account for a new organ that never materialized had not struck the right chord with the church elders) and he had not yet returned, sending Molly into a gleeful tizzy. Today was the third Wednesday of the month…
…and so it was this innocent found herself bound and tied to iron rings embedded in the hard belly of the towering oak, nude except for her Sunday blue bonnet, white stockings and garters, the Lord of Malworth Hall about to take a crop to her virginal arse.
Molly shivered, the riding crop making a sharp sound when it cut through the air, tantalizing her with its whispered promise of pleasure, her nervous expectation heightening the experience. She stood waiting, waiting, hot juices flowing from her sex and down her thighs and dribbling onto her best stockings. She gave it no further thought, for a girl couldn’t wear anything but her best to be pleasured by his lordship. She licked her lips, dry and cracked, her mouth parched and tasting like rotting peaches, sweet and sour at the same time. Her wrists hurt from the tight bindings and she was losing sensation in her arms pulled straight above her head, as if the nerves in her armpits were so taut they experienced a numbing effect.
Closing her eyes, shuddering with an emotion she could only describe as blissful anticipation, her sensual need blurring with a taste of fear, she heard the crop find its mark, strike with full force it did, the sound filling her ears, but where? When she wiggled her arse, she experienced no pleasure, no excitement, no dubious badge of honor stamped upon her buttocks. Nothing.
“Here, girl, stick out your arse more so I can reach you,” his lordship bellowed, his tremulous voice exciting her. “Without delay!”
“Y-y-yes, milord.” Molly poked her backside outward in a most ungainly manner, releasing gas as she did so, her embarrassment at letting go like that in an unladylike pose replaced by her pent-up need for deviant pleasure. What was he waiting for? She’d longed for this moment, dreamed of it, the heat of her excitement filling her neck and face when she doodled in her book, drawing a female stick figure bent over and receiving the ultimate kiss of fire over and over again…
She couldn’t stop a sudden shiver announcing her imminent expectation of the crop finding its mark this time.
His next stroke landed before she could swallow, making her choke on her saliva. But it was a sublime pleasure, she had to admit, panting, her need building to a higher peak. Her loud, guttural sounds inflamed the lord’s passion for his work. A rawness in her produced a flow of sweat on her body that made her naked buttocks shine with an illumination as if a regal white halo circled her arse. She heard his lordship uttering with amazement the number of strokes falling on her behind with an even regularity.
“…eight, nine, ten, eleven…” he counted as she settled into the rhythm of the whipping, the white heat emitting from the crop branding her pearl-white bottom with the pleasure she craved.
It was no wonder she let go with a loud, frustrated groan when he stopped before her twitching pussy had found its release, the wildly burning sensations making her belly full and heavy and bringing her back to the edge. She clenched her teeth, trying to hold on to the pleasurable sensations, begging him for more. Silence. What was happening? It was as quiet as an empty pew on a church holiday. She opened her eyes and turned her head, praying he hadn’t deserted her, when the next stroke found her hungry arse and sent her back up the spiral, laughing and gushing with joy.
“Yes, yes,” she groaned without shame. “More…more.”
Dear, sweet Molly, the vicar’s daughter, got her wish. His lordship laid one, two, three quick strokes upon her red-streaked buttocks, hot and fiery, the tip of his crop striking the crack between her cheeks and sending her into wild abandon, her sweet juices oozing down her stockinged legs. She never heard the sweat-soaked lord pause for a breath as he continued his strokes, her cries of want turning into a crashing cacophony of wails and screams as she reached the height of an orgasm that never seemed to dissipate. And why should it? she asked herself as the laird’s strokes continued until he pulled every quiver, every spasm from her hungry pussy. No matter what happened, she must find a way to take her place under the old oak tree as often as possible. But how?
“I’ve never seen a lass take to the crop with so much enthusiasm,” his lordship said, soothing her red bottom with soft caresses after he’d released her, then he surprised her by taking off her bonnet and stroking her hair as if it were soft velvet, running his fingers through it with a careful and loving touch. “Why have you not come to me before?”
“My father, the vicar, keeps me busy on Wednesday afternoons.” She mewled softly, snuggling her body closer to him. She wanted to hold on to this moment and never let it go.
“A pity, my fair Molly, for I’d like to see you quiver again under the stroke of my crop.” He sighed. “But I cannot go against the vicar’s wishes.”
“If I may be so bold, milord,” she began, thinking.
“What is on your mind, Molly?” he asked, turning her face to his and studying her eyes beaming with excitement.
“Since you’re the laird of the land, why not start a new tradition?” she asked, giving him but a moment to think it over before she pressed onward. “Shall we say, every Thursday at three in the afternoon?” She twisted her body to show him her lovely bottom crisscrossed with red welts, then wiggled, making him take in his breath. “I’m finished with my chores then.”
He smiled. “Thursday it is, Molly, just for you, and don’t be late, for I’ll be bringing a surprise for you. Now, spread your buttock cheeks, girl, and show me your arse hole.” He unbuttoned his silk breeches the color of a ripe plum and out popped the biggest cock she’d ever seen, not that she’d seen many, but she was sure his was the biggest. “I’ve got something here I know you’ll like.”
Molly did as he asked, a smile on her lips and a new feeling of independence surging in her soul as he mixed her juices with a rose-scented oil, his fingers gently massaging her puckered entrance before he slid his cock into her, stretching her anal hole with a deliberate slowness. She groaned, but she didn’t complain. How could she? She, Molly Pearlbottom, the vicar’s daughter, was as happy as a nectar-filled flower being sipped by a hummingbird, her bottom dewy and tinted pink, her eyes glowing and a naughty, curious voice inside her wondering what that surprise could be…
I can’t reveal the rest of the tale without spoiling it for you, but I assure you I found books like this and others in Lord Penmore’s library. I admit I embellished the scene with a new ending, giving Molly the upper hand with his lordship. I predict that someday you, yes, you, dear lady reader, will have the opportunity to read such stories about empowered females.
Until then, you shall have to make do with your imagination as I did, evoking speculation as to what went on in that padded room in the London town house. A girl tied to a cross, struggling with feigned distress and teasing his lordship with her tongue circling her lips. Or James strutting around the room cracking a single-tail whip, his willing victim bent over, her arse quivering with anticipation. Not to mention my husband o
rchestrating the regal decadence of a hot wax scene, the gummy residue trailing an elaborate pattern around the girl’s nude breasts and hardening on her taut brown nipples. I prayed it was not the melted wax of votive candles, such unholy thoughts grabbing me and not letting go.
Were these scenes conjured up by my starved libido? Or demon nightmares of flesh and blood? That is for you to decide, dear lady reader. I spin these tales not merely to tantalize you, but to give you heed as to what may be going on under the confines of your own roof. I beg you to confront your husband if you believe ’tis so. Then again, you may wish to participate…
Though I was not acquainted with what other depravities went on in the upstairs back room, his lordship devised a clever method to let me know when his private hell was in session. The smell of turpentine, beeswax and charcoal powder, along with other smells I couldn’t identify, permeated the air. I couldn’t help but inhale the arousing odor when I went searching for a new book to read in the library, the fancy of my imagination overpowering my need for literature when I rustled my silk skirt and pearl-embroidered petticoats up the stairs. I would grab a book without more than a glance at its title then pretend to look through it, while inside I discarded the idea of reading as a way to soothe my hunger and focused instead on the illuminating power of smell to satisfy my lust. I would inhale the pungent odor and imagine a bundle of twigs tied together with crisp blue ribbons taken from my hair and wielded by a tall man with shoulders the breadth of an ancient Spartan and dressed in black from head to toe. In my daydream, I lifted up my skirts and turned my bare backside to him, my white stockings held up by blue garters, my quivering flesh covered in quick succession with crimson stripes from the striking of the rods, blow following blow, and groaning gave in to more groans.
