He brooded at home, took more than his usual token of baths, smoked and drank excessively, paced and glowered out of the window. His sister, Cecile, with whom he shared his apartments, put his sulkiness down to an unfulfilled love affair, and left him largely to himself. She had plenty of distractions of her own and no need to be under his feet.
However, as the days passed and MacCaulay’s remembrance of that night lost some of its harder edge, he was left not only with feelings of abasement, but of unmistakable arousal. He recalled the commanding grip of the African upon his penis and the repugnant intrusion behind: repugnant but devastatingly stimulating. The excitement caught in his throat. No less rousing was the image of that she-devil, with her harpy mouth around his cock. How he’d like to choke her with it, or take that crop of hers and thrash her to within an inch of her life. This led to thoughts of the figure beneath her costume. He imagined full breasts with dark nipples, the whip leaving livid marks against the tender flesh. It would be no less than she deserved.
To appease the strange desire evoked by these memories and to soothe his injured ego, he sought out a ‘night butterfly’ in a dark alley, intending to take her roughly up against the wall, releasing some of his pent anger and frustration. To his discomfort, he was unable to raise an adequate erection, and the trollop laughed in his face, shaking down her skirts and strutting off with a toss of the head, as well as his shilling in her pocket.
His desire for revenge simmered steadily, until the only answer was to return to the scene of his degradation. He must endeavour to achieve a private audience with that Queen of the Night, so that he might humble her as she had him, by whatever means presented.
It was a full week before he steeled himself to return.
Chapter Five
Fit for Royalty
As he entered the salon, he found there was not a seat to be had. It seemed that Mademoiselle Noire’s performances had gained acclaim; all were eager to witness her invention. MacCaulay was obliged to stand at the back of the room, near the door.
He was just in time to see Mademoiselle enter, leading a girl by the hand. The woman he had come to think of as Medusa wore a dress similar to that of the previous night, but in deepest violet rather than black; it was a shade which set off the auburn in her hair to great advantage. Meanwhile, her dress bore a lower décolleté, so that the curve of her breasts was more apparent. Beside her, the blindfolded girl stood meekly, the fairest blonde hair piled upon her dainty head. She was cloaked in a cape of pale blue silk, which she gripped tightly about her.
“Tonight Gentlemen,” began Mademoiselle Noire, her voice dripping with erotic promise,“I am delighted to introduce Hetty. She is new to our harem and is making her first appearance tonight, in honour of a special guest soon joining us.”
She then lifted the cloak from the girl’s shoulders, removing it with a flourish, to reveal her pale nakedness. The girl moved her hand to cover her pubis.
She was in the bloom of youth, when mere prettiness is the utmost beauty, being soft and fresh, with no need of embellishment. Her skin was luminous. Her breasts were pleasingly pert, and would offer an adequate handful, if not large, each topped with a rosebud nipple almost indiscernible from the milky flesh. Her figure was slight, yet curving to the hip in the way that is most pleasing to men. Her legs, though not long, were sculpted just as they should be. She was a worthy addition indeed, perfect in her radiance.
“Hetty is aware of the distinction of being chosen this night and, though a little shy, is delighted to know that her first performance is to be with one so illustrious … we might even say regal.”
Mademoiselle’s words hung in the air. It seemed that a member of the royal family, albeit perhaps some distant cousin, would be taking his pleasure.
Mademoiselle Noire guided Hetty to a padded divan, where she bid her lay back in comfort. Her sweet cunny was adorned in the palest gold of coverings.
“Hide not your treasure my dear. The candlelight is illuminating you to best advantage, and it is only fitting that the many eyes tonight upon you be allowed to devour your most beautiful aspect,” Mademoiselle assured her.
She took then a long ostrich feather and ran its soft blade up the girl’s leg, from ankle, to the top of her inner thigh, lightly across her mossy garden, up her torso and across her breasts. The girl shivered, perhaps in anticipation, perhaps from some small draught in the room.
Mademoiselle lifted a decanter of claret from the table beside her and poured the liquid, darkest red, over Hetty’s breasts, so that the droplets lay in stark contrast to the paleness of her skin. The liquid ran down and pooled between the girl’s orbs, and on her stomach. Replacing the decanter, Mademoiselle then bent her head with great deliberation to the girl’s nipple, lowering her mouth upon it, to suck gently thereupon. The girl gasped in surprise and responded immediately, her legs widening and her back arching a little. Mademoiselle suckled droplets from both nipples, then licked the mound of the girl’s breasts and the button of her rounded belly.
Afterwards, she stood at the end of the divan and poured the claret onto the girl’s pubis, so that the wine clung between the golden hairs and dripped down her labia and inner thighs. Mademoiselle drew up a footstool and knelt between Hetty’s legs, dipping her head and inserting a probing tongue with utmost delicacy, as if licking the fondant from a cake. Hetty wriggled somewhat at this sensation, and lifted her legs, so that her cunny was better placed to accept the ministrations of Mademoiselle’s mouth - which sucked the soft folds of her secret place.
Our mistress of theatre did not remain long at her work but, on standing, Hetty’s cunny had clearly bloomed as intended, her peony now full and open, revealing the darker inner recesses and the nub of her pleasure mount. Hetty sighed as she felt the warm tongue leave its duties. Never was a girl more ready for plucking than this ripe fruit.
“I have tasted the eternal fountain Gentlemen.”
Mademoiselle’s words curled through the air like fingers about the neck of a lover.
The crimson drapes at the end of the room then parted, to reveal the awaited guest. His costume was nothing if not theatrical: scarlet velvet britches to the knee, legs and feet bare, as was his chest. A large piece of fabric had been removed from the front of his trousers, so that his genitals were visible. In some degree of excitement, his organ was already almost fully erect, bobbing before him as he walked. Besides an open waistcoat of red velvet, trimmed in ermine, he wore short black leather gloves and a black hood, which covered his whole head, although with small openings for his nose, mouth and eyes. MacCaulay perused the size of the man’s phallus and commended its shape and inclination to memory, in case he should ever encounter it in one of London’s bathhouses and be able to identify the bearer.
Approaching the girl, the guest claimed a pot of honey from beside the claret and, using his gloved finger, traced each areola of her nipple with the syrup. His mouth then fell somewhat greedily to its task of suckling the sweetness, like a hungry infant seeking its mother’s lactating breast. As he did so, one leather gloved hand held her belly and the other the girl’s forehead.
He repeated the action several times, bringing Hetty to delightful squirms of pleasure. It was a technique of which MacCaulay made mental note. The royal guest then placed more honey upon the girl’s lips and gave her a kiss of great gentleness, carefully sucking her full mouth until the honey was all but gone and she had only to lick the remainder for herself. This he repeated three times, creating an atmosphere of strange intimacy.
Leaving the girl’s lips, now flushed with nibbling and sucking, he proceeded to her mount, carefully inserting his gloved fingers within. It was not long before Hetty was brought to a state familiar, gently moaning, lifting her buttocks to his touch and rotating her pelvis against his hand in a most wanton manner. Her juices glistened between her legs and the smell of her sex wafted through the room. As she approached her crisis, he removed his fingers and lifted her buttocks high, one
hand firmly under each cheek, so that his phallus entered her dripping cunny with utmost ease.
Once ensconced in her welcoming folds, he set about pumping her in worthy fashion, at last giving full vent to desire, withholding nothing of his prowess. His action met with the girl’s approval, inspiring her to wrap her legs about him and raise herself to full extent, moving against his groin with each thrust. Amidst her moans and his grunts, growing now louder, the pair burst forth in happy coincidence, reaching the peak of paradise at the precise same moment. Hetty gave full voice to her ecstasy, with a series of squeals and sighs, providing the sweetest evidence of her fulfillment.
At this, the company, one man and all, stood to applaud the girl – and her suitor – for their charming and inspiring performance. The hooded guest bent once more to kiss Hetty upon the lips and then departed.
Chapter Six
Punishment
Throughout the seduction of Hetty, Mademoiselle Noire had avoided MacCaulay’s eye, so it was with some surprise that he received her invitation via the Master of Ceremonies, informing him that the lady sought his company for a private audience. Consenting readily, and wondering if his chance for retribution were to be presented so easily, MacCaulay was led not upstairs, as he might have expected, but down, towards the very cellars of the building.
There, in a room so dark that it took some moments for his eyes to adjust, he became aware of Mademoiselle reposed upon a chaise, no longer wearing her evening gown, but a negligee of finest silk chiffon, tied in front by a single ribbon. As he approached, she stood, lifting an oil lamp beside her, so that its glow half illuminated her features. Her guipure lace mask remained about her eyes. The dull flicker of the flame revealed the upper curve of her body, in silhouette beneath the flimsy material of her gown. The room was damp and chill, so that MacCaulay wondered at her removing so much clothing. Nevertheless, she stood with utmost composure, as if in the warmest of chambers.
When she spoke, it was with her usual taunting. “I had begun to think you would never dare return,” she reproached. She stepped forward, so that he was within two paces of being able to grasp her about the neck.
She saw the look upon his face: the tension and suppressed anguish, and his desire for revenge. It was exactly as she had anticipated.
“Perhaps you harbour some resentment for your treatment at our last meeting?” she enquired, the habitual smirk upon her lips.
“I would expect nothing less. In truth,” she continued, “I think you deserve some ‘justice’ for your humiliation, do you not?”
He remained silent, allowing the Medusa to speak, awaiting her apology.
“It is said that all is fair in love and war, so it is only fitting that I present you with this,” declared Mademoiselle Noire. Reaching behind her, she brought forth the crop and held it out to MacCaulay.
He took it, feeling its weight. It was a fair length but very light, allowing it to be wielded with alacrity.
She watched him turn the whip in his hands, feeling its suppleness. “I grant you permission to use it against me, in whatever fashion you choose, for ten strokes – no more.”
He had never imagined that she would place herself at his mercy so willingly, and his suspicions were raised, but she made no move to run or evade him as he drew closer. Inches from her body now, he could smell the musk of her skin and see the pulse at her throat. Her décolleté was barely covered by the flimsy chiffon, breasts rising softly with each breath. He touched the end of the crop to her chest, brushing the silk covering her delicate nipple.
He pulled the ribbon between those luscious orbs, so that the fabric fell away to each side, revealing the bare flesh of her breasts in earnest, the curve of her belly, her dark bush below and her long legs. He had thought of little else but exacting his retribution upon this siren but, now, as she stood before him, so vulnerable, he was perturbed, feeling confusion, and a stirring lust in his loins.
He knew not whether to beat her or embrace her. The blood rose within him and his tongue grew dry in his mouth.
Mademoiselle Noire allowed him to run his eyes over her physique, knowing her body to be all that a man could desire: fleshily voluptuous, yet well toned and shapely.
His hands clenched against the stem of the crop, itching to reach out and seize the abundant camber of her breasts, to thrust his mouth at them, to devour them, to suck at those ripe nipples. He would graze his mouth down her belly and then bury his face in her bush, raising her leg, so that he might feast all the deeper. He imagined its plump wetness and the taste of her juices. His desire to consume her near choked him.
“I’m waiting good sir,” she prompted, her voice silken. “You see me before you. I’m unprotected against your wrath. Remember, ten strokes.”
Clearly, she desired him to act, to vent his anger upon her.
His eyes searched her face, seeking there some softness. If her lips had been upward cast and parted, he would have flung aside the crop and crushed his own upon them, taking her kiss at whatever cost, even were she to suck forth his soul.
However, her mouth, though full and sensual, betrayed its usual subtle sneer. He saw only derision and disdain, which steeled his heart to put aside thoughts of ravishment and raise the cruel whip against her.
The first stroke caught the soft skin of her stomach with a light flick, such as would sting, but not greatly hurt her. Her face remained still.
He paused, moving her again to encourage him.
“I believe you can do better sir.”
Irritated by her tone, which seemed ever to mock him, he raised the crop higher this time and brought it to bear against her upper thigh with a sharp crack, the tail end stippling the silk and leaving a tear through the fabric. Her breath caught in her throat this time and she exhaled slowly, languorously.
“Again.”
At once, he realized that he was no more than a pawn in her game: she in control. The knowledge brought a flood of fury, making him brandish the crop with more force, sending its tail across her bare breasts, leaving a livid welt against their bounteous flesh.
She gasped audibly now, and threw back her head, an auburn curl escaping, touching her cheek. Her body seemed to stretch and unfurl under the pain of the stroke, resonating with new vibrancy.
The sight of her stirred his blood and his thoughts were again distracted. His tongue might trace the line of the weal, warm saliva removing some of the bite of the lash. The bulge of his phallus within his trousers grew more uncomfortable.
However, anger won out, and he twirled her round so that her back was to him. He sent three swift strokes to her buttocks, the whip making light work of her robe, so that the silk there shredded at its touch.
She moaned in obvious pleasure, and let the gown fall from her shoulders, so that nothing stood between her and the lashes that remained.
MacCaulay hesitated again, observing the stripes rising on her tender flesh. Her skin was faultless, but for the injury he had inflicted.
She looked coquettishly over her shoulder. Her pleasure in the ‘punishment’ was beyond the delight of a simple spanking. The pain brought pure carnal satisfaction. Yet again, he was merely her instrument. He raised the crop and flourished it severely against the underside of her cheeks, knowing it would be felt most keenly there. This he followed with another, and two more to the middle of those lush fruits. The flesh of her peach-soft buttocks quivered under the blows.
He went to raise the whip again but a deeper voice from the shadows interrupted, commanding, “No more!”
It was the African, all the while hidden from view.
MacCaulay stepped back, then froze in horror, reminded immediately of their last encounter. He dropped the whip and turned to flee, but Mademoiselle Noire stayed his arm, her face without rebuke.
“You have nothing to fear,” she assured him. “Our noble savage will not harm you. He is here for me: not for you.”
Resplendent in her nakedness, her flesh golden in the glimmer
of the lamp, she beckoned Lord MacCaulay to the chaise longue upon which she had been sitting, and bid him make himself comfortable.
The flame’s illumination flickered across her body, so that her curves were thrown alternately into light and shadow. MacCaulay noted that some bruising rose already to the skin.
She lowered herself over the taller end of the seat and, extending her arms, bid MacCaulay take her bare hands. She stretched taut through her spine, her head dipped: a few more locks of hair escaped from their close-pinned arrangement.
“My ebony god, having suffered at my hand, deserves also to punish me,” smiled Mademoiselle. “Forty lashes, but not from the whip.”
She parted her legs and raised her buttocks slightly. The giant then emerged fully from the inky shadows, naked also, his organ at full fortitude.
Mademoiselle kept her eyes on those of Lord MacCaulay as the creature took his position between her legs, where her secret place awaited its thrashing.
“I deserve punishment for my wicked ways don’t you think? I’ve caused pain and only pain will suffice in return. Forty lashes and no less: each one deeper and harder than the last. Offer me no respite or pity, no matter how I might plead.”
The Gentlemen's Club: Volume One in the 'Noire' series Page 3
