by Nina Lane
Startled, she took a step backward, her wrist tightening against Gabriel’s grip. The three men had favored her with simultaneous sharp glares, which served to impale her to the spot.
Her heart thrummed like a taut instrument in her chest as she followed Preston’s instruction to dispose of her robe, revealing her freshly washed body, pearls of dampness still clinging to her skin. Her nipples tightened in response to the cool, morning air, providing the three men with an enticing image of the ways in which they might attend to her breasts at a later date.
Lydia started to protest that she could do the shaving herself, for she was fairly faint with nerves at the thought of any one of these men taking a sharp razor to her delicate folds. The cavernous space of the dining room gave the act an edge of impersonality that made her want to turn and run.
Her protest died in her throat when Preston’s expression hardened, but her eyes flashed rebelliously at him as Gabriel assisted her onto the table. She had hoped it would be Gabriel who would do the actual shearing. He appeared to have the patience to do a careful, precise job without allowing the razor to slip. Instead, it was Preston who settled into a chair in front of her and gave her a charming smile.
“You didn’t think I would relinquish this job to someone else, did you?” he asked, as if he had read her thoughts. “Something I have been anticipating with great delectation?”
“I imagine you’ve been anticipating many things with great delectation,” Lydia muttered.
Preston gave a laugh of delight. “How right you are, my haughty Lydia. You have no idea how many times during our childhood I longed to see you debased.”
Lydia closed her eyes against the stark reality that he now had the power to debase her in any number of ways. She felt his hands on her inner thighs, pressing her legs apart so she was fully exposed to their view.
The lush, dark curls between her legs were still damp from her shower, glistening in the light from the overhead chandelier. Preston picked up a pair of scissors and began a thorough trimming of Lydia’s vulva, each snip of the blade causing her to draw in a breath until Kruin remarked mildly that she had better lie still or risk injury.
Preston’s scissors clipped so close to Lydia’s outer labia that she felt the coldness of the blade against her skin. Sweat broke out on her forehead as she silently prayed he wouldn’t damage her most vulnerable areas.
When Preston was satisfied with the closeness of the cut, he sprinkled more water on her before he scooped up a handful of lather and began to massage it into her mons. Lydia jerked in response to his touch after the fright of the sharp steel.
Preston took his time stroking the lather against Lydia’s vulva, amusing the other two men by sliding his finger down the soft folds of her sex. Foam dampened his fingers, along with a viscous moisture that made him chuckle softly. The nub of Lydia’s clitoris swelled in response to his sensual ministrations, and as he trailed the tip of one finger around the hard knot, Lydia began to pant.
Her eyes were tightly closed again, her hands clenched into fists at her sides, her skin flaming with mortification over the sensations winding through her body and the method by which those sensations were being evoked.
Preston picked up the razor and positioned it at the top of Lydia’s downy triangle. Her eyes flew open when she felt the edge of the blade, but a warning look from Kruin made her clench her teeth and force herself to endure this indignity. Gabriel gave her a slight smile before moving around to obtain a better view of the proceedings. His own excitement already pressed against the front of his trousers.
With great pleasure, Preston drew the razor over Lydia’s mons, leaving behind a path of silky smooth skin that carried the promise of delicious sensations. He was careful to shear every last hair off before moving down to her labia, which proved more awkward and difficult to barber.
Preston, however, was not without experience when it came to erotic shaving. Had Lydia known this, she might have been somewhat comforted, but as it was, she suffered in tense silence as Preston alternately stroked the razor over her plump lips and ducked the blade in water to cleanse it.
Kruin’s big hands closed around Lydia’s ankles, startling her as he lifted her legs off the table to allow Preston easier access to the hairs that sprouted farther down and encircled her anus. Lydia’s face burned with humiliation at this further insult, but she didn’t dare move for fear the steel blade would slip.
Preston scraped away her hairs with a precision that rivaled that of a master barber, then put the razor aside and reached for a small bottle of oil. Lydia opened her eyes when she no longer felt the rasp of the blade and tried to pull her ankles out of Kruin’s inexorable grip.
From his position behind Preston, he gave her a searing look that warned her to be still. Lydia glared at him, her legs straining as she fought his strength, fought to free herself from the shame of her position and what she had endured.
“Lydia.” Preston’s sharp voice cracked through the air like a whip.
“Let me go!” Lydia snapped, unable to stop herself as a rush of relieved adrenaline went through her. She pushed her upper body up, her legs kicking wildly at Kruin.
“Stop.” Gabriel’s arm clamped like a steel band around Lydia’s ribcage. His features hardened with uncharacteristic irritation as he glowered down at her, his green eyes like chips of sea glass. “This is completely inappropriate, Lydia. Stop it right now.”
Lydia stilled, her breathing hard, her entire being aflame with rebellion and the need to be free.
“You made the choice, Lydia.” Preston looked disgusted with her display. “Don’t act like we’re subjecting you to something you didn’t agree to.”
“I didn’t agree to this,” Lydia said coldly.
A deadly silence settled in the room—silence edged with an ominous sense of danger.
“Excuse me?” Preston said, his voice eerily soft. “What did you say?”
Lydia’s teeth sank into the plump fullness of her lower lip. She sensed immediately that no other words she might have uttered would have been received with such displeasure. She closed her eyes as the fight drained from her. When Preston repeated his query, she shook her head.
“Nothing. I did agree to this.”
The horrid thing was, she had agreed, had willingly walked through the door with the knowledge that they would do with her as they liked. And, in exchange, she would have her anonymity.
The silence hung for several minutes before Preston resumed his task. He dispensed a small puddle of oil onto his fingertips and began rubbing it into the cleanly shaven areas of Lydia’s vulva. Her body twitched in response as his fingers slipped once again into the damp folds of her sex, only this time with far more calculating movements.
With a start, Lydia felt her clitoris throb, a tight circle of pleasure that began to wrap around her loins. She struggled against the sensations, even as Preston’s finger slid into her wetness, even as she was aware that three men were watching her dispassionately when she began to gasp for breath and writhe on the table.
A moan escaped her parted lips as Preston began rubbing the sensitive bud of her sex, his fingers splaying over it to pull up the protective hood. And then pleasure crashed over Lydia’s body, her hips pumping involuntarily as she rode out her rapture in front of them all.
Kruin released her ankles, letting her thighs fall limply to the sides as shame crept in to overpower her pleasure.
“We will excuse your wantonness this time,” Preston said. “In fact, for now, you may take your physical pleasure. However, be aware, Lydia, that you will soon not be allowed to experience an orgasm without our permission. Not in front of us, and certainly not alone. And lest you think otherwise, you should know that any self-gratification will be exceedingly obvious to us all. Is that quite clear?”
Lydia nodded, unable to look at any of them.
Her shorn vulva glistened with oil, and Gabriel brought a mirror to her so she could view Preston’s handiw
ork for herself. The sight of her bare triangle caused her to burn with mortification, for now she was utterly revealed, her modest concealment scraped away to expose every aspect of her secret charms.
When had that taken place? Lydia thought now as she sat in the afternoon warmth of the garden. Yesterday or the day before?
She tried to calculate how long it might be before another shearing was in order, since Kruin had informed her in his emotionless manner that she would be kept bare for the duration of her stay here.
Which, as Lydia well knew, was indefinite. As she had never before had to endure a shaven vulva, she had no conception of how long it might take before the hairs began to grow back.
She let out her breath in a long sigh. However long it took, she had no doubt that one of the three men would appear to whisk away the offending stubble as soon as it was discovered.
In truth, Lydia was currently rather enjoying her bare state, as the gentle breezes were causing the most delicious sensations to play along her sex, cooling the humid warmth that gathered there as a result of the Louisiana heat.
Her comfort level had increased significantly when Preston informed her that she was to wear no underclothes. The loose, cotton dresses Gabriel furnished for her proved to be quite luxurious. Air drifted underneath the hem constantly, and her unfettered breasts swayed with every movement, giving her a feeling of unconstrained freedom previously foreign to her senses.
“Lunch, Lydia.”
Recognizing Gabriel’s voice, she stood and walked toward the house. He was waiting for her on the veranda, clad in a pair of dark trousers and an open-necked, navy shirt that made his green eyes seem almost crystalline.
“You can walk around the grounds, you know,” he said.
Lydia nodded, for they both knew there was no escape. She almost smiled. How could there even be an escape for something into which she had willingly entered?
No one, not even Preston, had forbidden her from leaving the confines of the house or the plantation grounds. And yet she was still utterly trapped, her criminal activities having led her to this place that reeked of depraved sexuality.
She glanced at Gabriel, the aesthetic side of herself appreciating the sharp, handsome planes of his face, the dark arch of his eyebrows over his emerald eyes, the masculine sensuality of his mouth. She wanted to ask him how he had become involved with Preston, how he had arrived at La Nouvelle Vie, but she was wary of attempting to delve too deeply.
“What does it mean?” Lydia murmured. “La Nouvelle Vie?”
“A new life.” He looked at her then, his eyes touched with a hint of softness. “Remember, Lydia, that’s what you have here now. And take your inspiration from your new surroundings.” He waved a hand at the grounds. “The ivy and the oak trees. Remember you must strive to be like both.”
Before Lydia had a chance to question his enigmatic statement, Gabriel stepped aside to let her precede him into the house. Although he had told Lydia that she was to obey any order he chose to present, he appeared unable to rid himself of certain vestiges of chivalry.
Lydia’s bare feet padded on the hardwood floor as she entered the solarium, where all the breakfasts and lunches were served. Plants filled the glass annex, giving it the aura of a lush jungle.
Preston and Kruin were already sitting at the solarium’s glass table, which was filled with assorted dishes prepared by an elderly woman who appeared three times a day in the kitchens. Lydia did not know the woman’s name, nor even what she looked like, as she arranged the table and disappeared back into the kitchens before anyone had arrived to eat.
Like a spirit in a haunted castle, Lydia thought, as she settled in a seat next to Gabriel and reached for the crystal glass of lemonade that had been placed at her setting. She wondered if the cook knew what went on here, or if she simply didn’t care.
Whatever the situation, the woman prepared perfectly delightful meals, with today’s lunch consisting of cold, roasted pheasant; wild rice dotted with crunchy, little pinenuts; avocado salad; soft, fresh rolls that burst with steam when one split them open; and individual cups of meringue custard dusted with a sprinkling of nutmeg.
Preston ate heartily, his dark eyes dancing with amusement and anticipation as his gaze kept straying to Lydia. He rambled on about several newspaper articles he had read that morning, making a point to mention the police’s continuing search for, as they put it, “the fugitive embezzler.”
Lydia paled, her fingers clutching at the cloth napkin in her lap. “What else did they say?”
Preston smiled, his tongue flicking out to capture a grain of rice that clung to his lower lip. Lydia found the gesture somehow obscene, and she turned her attention to her food, which no longer appeared appetizing.
“Merely that they’re searching for you, Lydia, darling.”
“They won’t find me.” As much as she had come to dislike Preston, she silently willed him to confirm her statement.
Preston laughed. “Oh, sweetheart, don’t worry. Of course they won’t. Not here.”
Lydia’s gaze met Kruin’s from across the table. He ate with the precision of a musical conductor, with no wasted energy and every movement edged with purpose. He returned her look steadily and then, to her great relief, shook his head in an almost imperceptible movement.
For Lydia, it was enough. She returned to her lunch with renewed enthusiasm.
Nothing would happen, nothing could happen. All she had to do was live here with them and concede to their desires.
No matter how base those desires were.
A little shudder rippled through her body.
Gabriel glanced at her. “Are you cold?” he asked politely.
Lydia shook her head. She dipped her spoon into the creamy, golden custard, the flavor of which melted as lightly as sunshine on her tongue. Before she could take a second bite, Preston pushed his chair back and stood, dropping his napkin to the table.
“Now!” he proclaimed with authority. “Let us go into the drawing room for some entertainment.” He flashed another smile at Lydia. “Lydia, darling, won’t you accompany us?”
Lydia stared at him, wondering if he was giving her a choice. Before she could respond, Gabriel and Kruin were also standing, their gazes fixed on her. Apprehension seized her, her legs trembling as she stood and turned toward the drawing room.
CHAPTER TWO
Ah, how he had wanted her like this. How he loved to see her buttermilk cheeks burn with humiliation. Preston Severine knew that his imagination could conjure up only a fraction of the scenarios he would enact with Lydia. She presented an infinite array of possibilities, many of which had flared through his brain as a teenager.
They were the same age, had grown up together in the heart of New Orleans with its sagging, bright buildings and wrought-iron fences. Lydia had come from a wealthy, ancestral family with a huge home in the French Quarter, while Preston lived with his mother in a one-room apartment infested with winged cockroaches. Lydia’s father, determined that his daughter would not be coddled, insisted that she attend public school along with the majority of other children.
And so Lydia and Preston had attended the same schools, explored the swamps together, played ball in the street, until Lydia had eased into womanhood. Then she had begun to shed the remnants of her childhood, painting her features with cosmetics and flirting with older boys.
When Preston sought her romantic attention, she had laughed and called him a child. He was too young, she said. She needed someone older, more experienced, a man, not a boy. He still smarted from those remarks.
Slowly his obsession with her had grown. He watched her walking down the street, her budding breasts pressing against her shirt, her hips beginning to round out the fabric of her skirt. Her hair flowed like a waterfall, and her lips seemed more succulent with each passing day.
Preston began wondering about the changes of her body, the hair growing under her arms and between her legs, the size of her burgeoning nipples. As his
own body matured, as he woke each morning with a stiff penis, Preston’s curiosity about Lydia grew even more explicit.
Thoughts of Lydia naked, aglow with perspiration, riding his youthful erection with heaving fervor…how such thoughts had overpowered his days and nights! How many times he had rubbed his penis mercilessly, imagining thrusting it into Lydia’s glistening pussy, her eyes half-lidded with lust, her mouth open and red. And then he had spurted all over his own clenching hand, feeling a rush of embarrassment over his pathetic fantasies.
Nothing he said or did had caused young Lydia to look at him with anything more than irritation or a condescending smile. As she became aware of her family’s position in the world and in relation to everyone else, she developed a supercilious demeanor that only served to excite Preston all the more.
He began to imagine what it would be like to bring her down a notch, to see her haughty expression melt into one of lust, to rip her designer clothes from her body and expose her trembling flesh.
Now, finally, over fifteen years since they had departed for college, Preston had Lydia right where he wanted her.
He closed the door of the drawing room. A magnificent satisfaction settled inside him as he gazed at her and knew that she was his to do with as he liked.
He adored the flash of anxiety on Lydia’s face, the evidence of her awareness as their personal…what was a good word? He disliked the term “slave,” for that carried such a negative connotation, and there was nothing negative about their little agreement.
Plaything, maid, servant—none did justice to Lydia’s true role as theirs to mold and command as they saw fit, to teach her to take pleasure in her position and to revel in her surrender as they reveled in their authority.
And she would, Preston knew. She had been staunchly in control for her entire life, her future always hers to direct and manage. She had been proud, imperious, assertive. And she had the intense intelligence to be able to skim vast amounts of money from a large corporation for ten years without incident.
