by Josie Litton
Another tack, that was what he needed. He just had to find it.
When he finally did comply, he told himself that he was simply curious. All that reform nonsense aside, he had her number, counted up in those tears she had come so close to shedding on his behalf. Whatever she chose to dish out, he was supremely confident that he could take it and her as well, at least so long as he remained cool, calm, and collected. In short, the man he was and was meant to be.
“You remember where the floggers are?” he asked when he was secured. With a tilt of his head, he indicated the cabinet along the far wall.
“Their presence is burned into my mind, along with all your other toys. But I have no interest in them.”
That gave him pause. What exactly did she intend?
With a little shrug, she removed her robe.
Fuck him.
Well and truly for he was fucked and not in the usual good way.
Jane-‘this has nothing to do with revenge’--wore what he could only think of as the Devil’s Red. Sheer red stockings ended half-way up her sleek creamy thighs where they joined the dangling bits of a red lace-and-silk garter belt. There was a lovely gap of skin from just below her navel to above her waist before the little bustier took over, boosting her already luscious breasts.
In his first heated perusal he couldn’t help focusing on the one garment that was missing. Her cunt was sweetly bare and, he noticed with satisfaction, already dewed.
Was it a good thing that she was far from immune to him or should he be worried about that?
Never mind, he was too pre-occupied berating himself for ordering the damn stuff in the first place. What had he been thinking to acquire such instruments of torture that could be turned against him with such stunning ease? Not that he could ever, in his wildest dreams, have imagined that she would dare to do so.
Still, it was the measure of a man that he could stand tall in the face of any challenge. Certainly, his cock was doing its best not to let down the side, even cruelly confined as it was. The cage bobbed under the force of its enthusiastic thrusts.
Licking her lips, Jane managed to lift her gaze from the display at his groin and said.
“I have a confession.”
“You’ve always enjoyed tormenting men? Every word on the pet application that hinted at your natural submissiveness was a lie?”
“No, silly.”
What-ho? To the best of his lordship’s recollection, no one had ever used that word or any remotely like it to describe him. But then she was affording him so many firsts.
“I had no idea how enthralled I would be by your body,” she said. “I knew you were handsome, I’d seen your photographs. But even so I was totally unprepared. Even all those weeks when you wouldn’t let me come, I couldn’t help dreaming of you…wanting you…”
What photographs? What was she talking about? Not that it mattered--
His cock swelled yet further, an exquisite torment, pain flowing in and through a dark pleasure unlike any he had experienced before.
She stepped closer, running her fingertips lightly over the broad sweep of his shoulders. His breath shuttered to a stop. He was vividly aware of the thundering of his heart.
“Everything about your body fascinates me. You’re so different from me…so hard…”
Her palms flattened against his chest. “…so strong…like velvet over steel…”
Her thumbs arched downward, flicking over his nipples. He had to grit his teeth to stifle a groan.
“And now,” she said, smiling, “I can enjoy you to my heart’s content.”
Once, a dozen years before when he was scarcely twenty, his lordship had run into a spot of bother in India. It happened on a visit to an outlying province near the Afghan border. Rough country and not particularly well policed. Suffice to say, he’d spent an unpleasant few hours in the company of a tribal warlord who had a rabid hatred of all things British. The sole exception being Crawfords Custard Creams; he was weirdly obsessed with those, had boxes of them everywhere.
The encounter ended when a Special Forces contingent arrived to retrieve his lordship. Lofting away in one of their black helicopters, he managed to lift his head sufficiently to note that no evidence of the warlord remained save a few still-burning fires where his camp had been. Such a waste of all those innocent biscuits. After a fortnight in hospital, he was back at work with His Majesty’s thanks and a quite nice Order of St. Michael and St. George to show for the experience.
All that notwithstanding, the next few minutes were easily the most torturous that his lordship had ever experienced. ‘Mistress Jane’s’ hands were everywhere, stroking down his chest, along his thighs, even around to fondle the hard cheeks of his ass. He tensed particularly at that. Surely, she didn’t intend--
The next moment brought a spurt of relief when her attention moved elsewhere. Only for the torture to redouble as her lips and tongue traced the path her hands had taken before returning to give particular attention to his nipples.
Had they always been that sensitive? He couldn’t remember even particularly thinking about them before. Now every lick, every flick speared directly to his groin. When she began to suck on one, he jerked so hard in the restraints that every muscle in his body burned. The graze of her teeth had his head banging back against the wooden support. And when she tweaked the rigid tips between her thumbs and forefingers--
“Damn!” he yelled.
Her smile was pure carnal satisfaction. It only deepened as she stepped back a little and cupped his cock once again in the palm of her hand.
“Poor thing,” she murmured, “so cruelly locked away. Whatever am I to do without you?
Doing his damndest not to outrightly pant, he said, “There’s no need to deny yourself. Let it out.”
That was the ticket. She was such an exquisitely responsive creature and he knew exactly how to make her come--slowly, suddenly, a single long-drawn out orgasm, a thundering cascade of one flowing directly into the next. He knew her body better than she possibly could. Knew the sensitive little spots behind her ears, how she shivered when he stroked the nape of her neck, the way she responded when he raked his teeth lightly over her nipples. And so much more.
He’d fuck her senseless, so daze her with pleasure that she would be putty in his hands. And then the real fun would start. For him, if not for her.
“I suppose I could…” she murmured.
For just a moment, he seized on a filament of hope only to have it cruelly snatched away.
“But, no, I have other plans.”
With a final, firm squeeze of his swollen balls, she turned, walked a short distance away and sat down in his favorite leather wing chair, facing him. Holding his fevered gaze, she slowly lifted her stunning legs and rested her ankles on the chair’s broad arms. With her cunt thus fully exposed, she settled herself more comfortably and began to play with her own nipples peeking above the lacy edge of the bustier. As she stroked and tweaked them, the lips of her sex glistened all the more brightly.
Finally, she slipped a hand between those lovely lips and began to stroke herself. Her head fell back, her eyes drifting closed. Pearly drops of fluid appeared. Her busy fingers gathered them up, rubbing them over her distended clit. Her breath quickened…she moaned--
So, too, did his lordship, in anguished rapture, watching her come, the sight so exquisite that he could not look away. Not the first time or the second…not even the third, after which she rested briefly before resuming.
Twice more he suffered the tortures of the damned watching his pet pleasure herself. His cock throbbed, his balls clenched, sweat slicked his skin, droplets of it dripping down to sting his eyes. A pitifully few drops of pre-cum managed to escape him but that was nothing compared to the torrent of desire that made his entire groin feel as though it was in the grip of a merciless vise that a demon was steadily tightening.
And still, he could not look away. He was in thrall to her, enslaved. Like Prometheus bound to
the rock for his sins, he could only go on suffering after she gave a final rapturous sigh and lay back sated. For him, there was no relief, not even when she bestirred herself at last to rise from her throne of pleasure, free one of his wrists and bid him do the rest. With a smile over her shoulder, she sauntered off.
Watching her, he could not help but think that the sway of her hips was that of an all-too-well satisfied woman, insufferably pleased with herself and emboldened to go right on misbehaving in all the most appalling ways.
Chapter Twenty-three
Back in the kennels, his lordship endured a sleepless night. The dogs themselves weren’t the problem; they merely snorted softly in their dreams as they chased phantom foxes. The problem was himself or more precisely, his cock. It would not, could not quiet.
A thousand times he replayed the vision of lovely, cruel Jane disporting herself. A thousand times--this may be a slight exaggeration; his lordship was in a fevered state--his cock throbbed with the anguish of denied release.
In desperation, he turned his mind to thoughts of the retribution that he would inevitably exact from her. She thought he’d been excessive in denying her orgasms? Fine, then he would let her come. Again and again and again, forcing her to climax without rest, not stopping even when what began as screams of pleasure faded to hoarse moans of helpless torment.
How many times could a woman be made to orgasm? Once, on a visit to the Odalisque, he’d seen two lords bet on which of them could make his pet come the most. All toys were allowed, including wands. His lordship had lost interest when the tally reached a dozen or so for each pet but he’d heard afterward that the competition had gone on a good deal longer. Before it was over, both females were scarcely conscious.
Jane was strong and fit; he wouldn’t be at all surprised if she could go on for hours. Perhaps he’d video it for his own pleasure and as a reminder for her afterward if she ever again carped about not being allowed to come.
Belatedly, he discovered that as enjoyable as such vengeful planning was it did nothing for his immediate predicament. By dawn, he was desperate enough for relief to try to claw the cursed cage off. Alas, it was designed to foil any such attempt. In the end, he only worsened his condition.
Trying a different approach, he made a valiant effort to redirect his mind. Stretched out on the bedding--admittedly quite comfortable--he folded his arms behind his head and gave himself up to the purest of thoughts.
Fluffy white clouds above gently undulating lawns…bunny rabbits hopping about on the grass...their little bunny tails wiggling…the sweet curve of his pet’s delectable ass jiggling as he thrust into her…
He groaned and tried again. Fluffy white clouds…morning dew on the grass…the scent of wild strawberries…the loveliness of her nipples like ripe berries begging to be licked and sucked…
Desperate, he gave up on the damn bunnies and summoned the image of his fourth form literature professor, a formidable woman with a distinct moustache and a tendency to spit when lecturing on Ibsen.
That should have more than done the trick but no, his cock remained indefatigable. The professor morphed into a gloriously naked schoolmarm wagging a come-hither finger at him.
He was going mad. He should have realized it sooner. Too much solitude to contemplate her cruelty--an entire night!--would threaten any man’s sanity. She didn’t want to be inhumane? Hah! She was the very soul of merciless discipline.
Breakfast arrived. He ate absently, taking little notice of the omelet stuffed with gruyère, accompanied by grilled tomatoes and the link sausages he’d always liked. Shortly thereafter Jameson appeared.
After another exasperatingly one-sided conversation, his lordship found himself at the stables.
“Do I understand correctly?” he inquired with what he thought was admirably contained fury. “I am expected to muck out the stalls?”
The butler inclined his head. “That is Mistress Jane’s wish, milord. She said something about the benefit to you of fresh air and healthy, productive exercise.”
“You understand that she is a demon from hell and that all who follow her are damned?”
Jameson sighed and handed him a shovel. “As you say, sir. If I may suggest, you’ll find mucking boots in the tack room.”
Good idea. The boots were a world away from the bespoke Broginis that he favored for riding but they would at least save him from stepping in shit. Any more than he had already done, metaphorically speaking.
Xerxes and the other horses were out in the paddocks; the grooms had made themselves scarce. He had the stables to himself. Beginning at one end, he got slowly to work. Before long he had to admit that as much as it was an affront to his dignity, the simple physical task did bring some relaxation to his sorely tried body. Gradually, the aroma of hay and manure coupled with the rhythmic swing of the shovel evoked a pleasant sense of familiarity.
He was a boy, home from school for the summer, drawn down to the stables as much for companionship as for something to do. Even then, he’d known that he could never be just one of the lads there but his willingness to pitch in and do whatever was required still won him a measure of acceptance. Time and a man’s responsibilities had blurred the memory of satisfying labor, easy laughter and the sense at the end of the day of a job well done.
He was contemplating how far he had drifted from such simple pleasures when he realized that he was no longer alone. Jane was standing at the stable doors, left open to admit sun and a pleasant breeze. She was wearing a crisp white blouse with a high lace collar buttoned all the way up to her neck and a wide dark skirt. Her hair was gathered in a neat bun at her nape. She looked like an absurdly innocent yet sexy version of the schoolmarm he had accused her of being.
“You’ve been working,” she said as she surveyed the tidy stalls clean and laid with fresh straw. Her surprise was evident.
He set the shovel down and stared back at her. “Did you think I’d let the horses pay for your effrontery? Believe me, pet, that will be entirely on you.”
For just a moment, he had the satisfaction of seeing a flicker of concern cross her enchanting face. It vanished as she shrugged.
“All the same, I hope you haven’t worn yourself out. How did you sleep, by the way?”
“Like a rock. You?”
“Superbly. Get cleaned up. We’re going for a picnic.”
He did so because he chose to; what man wouldn’t want to shower after a morning spent mucking? Standing under the rush of water with a cake of grainy soap in his hand, he wondered if they weren’t both lying. He certainly knew that he was but after all those orgasms, she really should have slept well. Yet the hint of shadows under her eyes suggested otherwise.
Looking forward to discovering what had kept her from her illicitly earned rest, he accompanied her on a pleasant walk across a meadow and along the edge of the home wood until they came to the folly. Two centuries before, an ancestor of his had conceived the notion that what Burleigh Abbey really needed was a ruin, specifically the remains of an ancient Greek temple. When Foreign Office bungling failed to quell the objections of the Greeks themselves, bent on preventing him from securing the real thing, he had his own built.
It sat on a pretty hillock overlooking the lake. Swans were paddling by as they approached. Consisting of a circular stone platform surrounded by Doric columns and topped by a peaked roof, the folly had settled into the English countryside where it now looked perfectly at home.
Inside, he was pleased to see that a table had been set for two.
“You must be starving,” Jane said, taking the chair that he, as any gentleman would do, held out for her. As he settled into his own, she lifted the silver covers from both their plates.
He was pleased to see another of his favorites, poached salmon in dill sauce with asparagus spears and small, crispy potatoes accompanied by a dry Pinot Gris.
They ate in oddly companionable silence until she said, “I thought you would kick up a fuss about the stables.”
“Then you should have picked a different task. There are few lengths that a man of my kind--”, he emphasized the words deliberately. “--won’t go to in order to assure the well-being of his horses.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. Have you always enjoyed riding?”
“As far as I can remember. My father put me on my first pony when I was three. He said that I took to it instantly.”
“What happened to him?”
His lordship hesitated but he had long since come to terms with the fact that his father’s life had ended just as it had been led--in careless self-indulgence and an utter disregard for consequences.
“He died eleven years ago on a steep curve in Monaco, behind the wheel of his favorite Lamborghini.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. And your mother--?”
“She still lives there.”
“To be near him?”
“What?” The image of his mother--whose enthusiasms ran no further than social gatherings and spaniels--making regular visitations to his father’s grave was the far side of bizarre.
“God, no, he’s in the vault here. She just prefers a Mediterranean climate.”
Innate good manners drove him to ask, “And your parents? What about them?”
She had mentioned that her mother was deceased. He hoped he wasn’t trampling on a sensitive spot by bringing up a father she might never have known. The lower orders were notoriously careless about such things.
His concern was misplaced. Quietly, she said, “They were both killed ten years ago in the Birmingham bombing.”
He inhaled sharply. With the evocation of that name, the shadow of dark memory rose in him. A pall moved across the folly, the sparkling lake and the sun-lit day.
A bad business, Birmingham. Several hundred dead, many times more injured when an anarchists’ truck bomb destroyed much of a two-block radius in the center of that city. He’d been fresh out of Oxford, still finding his way through the labyrinth of the Home Office, when it happened.
