The Irish Devil

by Diane Whiteside

  He produced the first carving, a dark green dildo. Viola gasped and her hand flew to her mouth as she stared. William saw her nipples harden under her tunic’s soft blue silk. He smiled privately; he looked forward to discovering how far her curiosity would take them both.

  “Jade? And in so many colors, too. How lovely,” Viola breathed. Truly the half dozen dildos were beautiful as they gleamed against the silk in the lamplight. Two were ivory, the other four of jade ranging in color from deep green to a delicate pink. All of them appeared remarkably lifelike, even if noticeably smaller than William’s enticing cock. “May I touch them?”

  “Of course.” William handed her the elegant green dildo.

  She held it up to the light, fascinated by how the darker veins in the stone mimicked a man’s throbbing veins. She caressed it, exploring the smooth texture. Her hand easily fell into the same movement she used on William’s heated cock.

  He choked. Viola glanced at him and caught sight of a very impressive bulge behind his fly. Her mouth twitched while her blood beat a little faster.

  “You mentioned different sizes, but all of these appear to share the same dimensions,” she remarked demurely.

  William unrolled two more cases from the chest. Viola gasped. “Dear heavens, what could anyone hope to use one of these for? They’re immense.”

  He handed her the largest, exchanging it for the one she’d held. She explored it delicately, enjoying how its cold surface quickly warmed in her hand. She squeezed it experimentally but couldn’t wrap her fingers around it. It was, after all, slightly larger than William’s cock when fully erect. “And an experienced concubine can take all of this into her channel,” she mused.

  “If you’d like to see something other than dildos,” William suggested with a faint rasp in his voice, “you might examine one of these.”

  “Thank you.” His tone made her eyes widen briefly. She accepted a string of five jade beads, all the size of large marbles and spaced well apart on a stout linen cord. The cord had a long tail before ending in a wide braided ring. “What is it? Not a bracelet, surely.”

  “Not designed for that, although you could wear them that way if you wished. They’re more often slipped inside a lover’s backside, to tease and stretch the senses.”

  Viola considered the beads dubiously. “As you used the little ivory dildo? But that mimicked your cock, while these have no such stiffness. They’d be more likely to dance inside one.”

  She glimpsed his face as she toyed with his beads. The hunger blazing from his eyes answered her question and ignited an answering heat deep in her core. What would it feel like to be his plaything, excited beyond endurance by the trinkets he could no doubt wield with fiendish skill? Ecstasy surely, especially when he studied her so closely, like a pianist considering his instrument before a concert.

  Viola swallowed, her breasts firm and aching under the soft silk. For the first time, she was glad of how quickly the Chinese costume could be removed.

  “What if a woman is bound by ropes?” she whispered, voicing her oldest fantasy. “Can she still be pleasured?”

  “Sweet singing Jesus, of course she can be.”

  “Perhaps we can try such a thing one evening.”

  He chuckled, a soft rumble evocative of masculine anticipation. “Tonight, little temptress.”

  Viola’s eyes met his. She blushed but didn’t look away from his lust. “Yes, please.”

  William scooped her up in his arms and kissed her, a long sweet dance of lips and teeth and tongues that set her pulse racing. She swayed when he set her down, giddy and barely able to stand erect. He kissed her again, then steadied her.

  She forced her eyes open to watch him when he turned to the bed. He returned with a thick coil of soft cotton rope, like a magician would use. Her eyes widened at the amount.

  “Relax, sweetheart,” he soothed. “It’s very soft, with just enough roughness to hold a knot. It won’t hurt your skin.”

  “I’m not afraid of that,” Viola denied promptly. “I’m certain you would never harm me. But what could you possibly need so much rope for?”

  He grinned. “To dress you in, sweetheart, like an exotic sacrifice to a man’s hunger.”

  Her fascinated pussy immediately throbbed. Viola gulped, unable to find words.

  William kissed the top of her head, nuzzling her hair. “But for your first time, we’ll just use this single length of rope to bind your wrists.”

  She bit back her disappointment and nodded obediently. He was always very concerned that she trust him, no matter what he did. Tying up more than her wrists might be frightening for some women, if they had no prior experience of how a man treated them while bound.

  Viola longed for more than just a single bond, to be utterly helpless to resist his wicked hands and mouth. Her breasts ached at the thought of being entirely at his mercy. If not tonight, then surely they could do so on another night.

  He dropped the rope onto the chair and set about undressing her. She couldn’t have moved if she’d wanted to, not while his hands turned the release of every frog of her tunic into an opportunity to caress more of her skin, both over and under the silk. He licked her neck and nibbled her ear until she was nearly dizzy from excitement.

  Finally William cupped her face in his hands. “Sweetheart,” he drawled.

  A stray thought wished he’d just once use that lovely Irish accent of his throughout an evening, instead of his western drawl. Viola still managed to answer him. “Yes, William?”

  “Place your hands behind your back, wrists overlapping each other.”

  She glanced down to see where her hands were and squeaked in surprise at her dishabille. She didn’t have a stitch on and her breasts jutted strongly.

  “Sweetheart,” William reminded, a faint thread of laughter softening his deep voice.

  “Sorry,” she murmured, and quickly put her hands where he’d ordered. The posture made her flushed nipples even more prominent. She closed her eyes and shivered.

  “Sure you want to do this?”

  “Yes,” Viola growled. She might not be entirely certain of everything involved but she knew quite well when she was aroused. As she was now.

  He kissed her shoulder. “Little spitfire.” He wrapped a couple of loops around her wrist and tied a knot. “Comfortable so far?”

  She tested the result. The rope was close to her skin but not nearly as tight as Hal’s efforts when they were growing up. He’d practiced every sailor’s knot on her wrists and ankles, striving to find a combination she couldn’t slip free of. “Quite comfortable,” she answered honestly.

  “Good.” His voice had deepened, which her pussy thought was a splendid omen. Blood mounted to her skin and heat built deep in her core.

  “Sweetheart,” he said softly, “will the rope hold you?”

  Viola blinked at him. “Do you want me to test it?”

  “Yes, of course, sweetheart. Be thorough.”

  She obeyed him. The ropes around her wrists definitely had more play in them than she’d expected. Still, she couldn’t reach the rope ends to untie herself.

  “A dozen roses if you can free yourself, sweetheart.”

  “You don’t think I can.”

  “No, sweetheart, I don’t. But you must be certain the bond will hold before we can explore its possibilities.”

  She tugged gently. Force wouldn’t free her.

  “Are you sure yet you can’t slip free? Try again, sweetheart.”

  Viola frowned. Perhaps she could reach the rope ends if she twisted and arched her back at the same time. She’d been very flexible during her tomboy childhood and adolescence. Plus, she’d worked long and hard in Edward’s various failed mines, burrowing through the rocks and earth. Perhaps some of those moves would help her here.

  William choked softly. She glanced up at him, keeping her body in the same position. He seemed fascinated and startled, close to Hal’s expression the first time he watched her wriggle free.<
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  “Do you want me to stop?” she asked softly.

  “Oh no, sweetheart, please continue. You simply surprised me, that’s all.”

  She considered him dubiously for a moment. He nodded encouragingly at her and she returned her attention to the knot.

  Rope brushed the heel of her hand but she couldn’t quite grab it. Encouraged, she tried again.

  This time, Viola also rolled her shoulder, bowing herself into close contact with the soft rope. An end fell into her hand. She caught it and slid her finger into the loop. A few seconds of intense effort later, she pulled the knot free and brought her hands around in front.

  She looked back triumphantly at William.

  “Bloody hell.” His jaw dropped. He looked utterly dumbfounded and quite frustrated. His trousers no longer sported a spectacular bulge behind the fly.

  Viola gulped as she realized she’d bested him. Outmaneuvering Edward had always brought swift, and unpleasant, retribution. Casting her eyes down, she tried to think of an apology.

  Then William started to chuckle. She smiled demurely, hopefully.

  He threw his head back and laughed. Viola looked up at him through her eyelashes and smirked. He caught her up into his arms and sat down on the bed, roaring with glee. “You brazen little filly, you took me at my word. You escaped my harness.”

  Viola laughed, chin high in triumph. For the first time, she felt like his trusted friend as she shared his laughter. It emboldened her enough to tease him. “Where’s my dozen roses, oh expert ropesman?”

  He laughed again. “In the garden, oh lady of a thousand surprises. They shall be spread before you in moments, after your humble servant recovers.”

  They laughed together at his tomfoolery, savoring the moment.

  William chuckled again. By the saints, Viola had been sweeter than sweet when she freed herself from his rope. And when she smiled, with all that demure mischief in her gaze, like a filly who’d escaped from the paddock and was now happily munching her way through the kitchen garden, joy had bubbled through his veins like champagne.

  William controlled himself finally and lifted his eyebrow at her. “Well, sweetheart, shall we try again? After you’re tied, I’ll fetch your roses.”

  Viola’s eyes twinkled and she dropped a demure curtsy. “As you wish, sir.”

  William tied her again, making very sure she couldn’t escape. The dance excited her even more this time until she was flushed and panting, with dew sliding over her pussy, when she lay fully bound on the bed.

  To his delight, she was even more responsive when bound. She couldn’t touch him when she was tied like this. All she could do was what he permitted. And he wished her to think solely of the pleasures found in her own body.

  He nuzzled and licked her pussy, feasting on her dew for a few minutes, before he reluctantly went into the rose garden.

  She turned her head to watch the door and smiled when he returned. She was blushing, but she didn’t ask to be released.

  “Your reward, sweetheart.” He offered the roses with a sweeping bow, and she laughed.

  Then he tickled her with her dozen roses until her giggles became gasps of arousal. Viola moaned and bucked as he urged her excitement higher and higher until she shattered, sobbing her rapture. “William, oh William, thank you.”

  His heart stopped beating and triumph surged through his veins. He’d taught her something new about pleasure.

  Then and only then did he finally take her. He lay down on the bed and draped her over him like living silk as his cock slid home. He stayed still for long minutes, enjoying how her pussy held him. By all the saints, he’d pleasure her well before he released her.

  In this position, she had to focus solely on his movements. Given her liking for cock, this should be the ultimate reward for a woman who also enjoyed being bound.

  She shuddered slightly but didn’t try to escape. A soft moan escaped her lips.

  Then he kissed her and fondled her back in all the ways she liked, while his cock slowly teased her inner muscles. He rebuilt her arousal slowly, until carnal fires burned fierce and bright in both of them.

  William groaned as he climaxed, feeling her sharp teeth bite his shoulder as rapture rocked her. Triumph bubbled through his veins.

  Afterwards, William carefully untied Viola’s wrists and slid her under the covers. She always slept so very soundly after lovemaking.

  Paradise, here in this room. In an isolated town, circled by hostile Apaches as dangerous as any castle’s moat. For now, he could forget about the outside world where no amount of wealth could make men forget his Irish parentage.

  He needed to be careful not to believe too much in the warmth of her embrace. Fantasies were greatly enjoyable, and they could lay bare the heart as nothing else he’d ever done. But society would exact its tolls when one left the bedroom’s sanctuary.

  He’d learned that lesson in San Francisco years ago, when he’d first been flush with his share of the Comstock. Marriage had seemed a good idea at the time, since it would give him the home and family that he longed for. He’d been a member of San Francisco’s leading fantasy club by then, a place where willing men and women met discreetly to explore the darker side of their carnal imaginations. Lady Irene had sponsored him years ago to London and Dublin’s best fantasy clubs. His acceptance there, combined with an extremely large sum, had gained him membership in San Francisco’s version.

  His favorite filly at the San Francisco fantasy club had been Belinda Carlyle, a widow from a respectable eastern family. Given their carnal compatibility, he’d decided to ask her to go driving with him, a respectable activity that could lead to a relationship outside the club. Possibly even marriage.

  He’d arrived early on his next visit to the club and looked for her in the parlor outside the women’s retiring room, the usual place for masters and fillies to meet. To his surprise, he’d found himself alone in the overheated room, with its red damask wallpaper, fussy little chairs, and explicit paintings.

  In the hush, he’d heard Belinda talking to her best friend from inside the dressing room. “Donovan? Don’t be absurd—I’d never let myself be seen with him in public. He’s good enough for a fantasy or two, but nothing more. No matter how much money he may have, he’s still Irish.”

  Those few sentences had destroyed his half-formed dreams of a wife who’d also be a true companion in the bedchamber.

  He’d never enacted another fantasy with Belinda, of course. Now he reminded himself, yet again, that an affaire was not marriage. A woman could enjoy one without tolerating the other.

  Chapter Twelve

  The waltz stuttered to a stop. Viola sat perfectly still, fingers resting lightly on the keys, as she tried to regain her concentration. But she couldn’t remember the passage, even though she’d first memorized it at age ten. All she could think of were Mrs. Smith’s girls.

  Would William’s next mistress be one of them? She’d overheard tales of how gentlemen selected a companion for the evening in a brothel. She could see the scene now: a dozen simpering women, each preening and posing to catch his eye, while he studied them from the doorway. They’d throw their chests forward to better display their abundant bosoms, and they’d lick their lips at the chance to gain his affections.

  Sluts, every one of them. At least a parlor house’s madame would choose a suitable companion after conferring with the gentleman, thus removing any chance for the trollops to thrust themselves upon his notice.

  She cursed softly, using a phrase that would have shocked Edward. She tried to play again, this time an exercise so fundamental that she’d first learned it under her grandmother’s watchful gaze.

  Grandmother. Family was so important to Grandmother Lindsay. Three sons, nine grandsons, and two granddaughters. She’d always teased her husband, the Commodore, that he provided for the sons so it was her joy to look after the girls.

  Sons. Donovan & Sons. One day, William would marry to gain those sons.


  Unbidden, a vision of his wife rose up between Viola and the piano. She’d be tall and richly curved, the picture of fertility as she carried a baby in her arms, while a little boy clung to her skirts. The lad would be the image of his father, with raven black hair and bright blue eyes.

  Viola’s fingers curled into claws. Even the security of wearing European clothing, instead of the Chinese silks William preferred when they were alone, didn’t make her happier.

  The stamp mill’s beat swept through the room, muffled somewhat by distance.

  Viola swept her hands across the keyboard and slammed the lid shut, repudiating the vision. It was none of her business whom William married. Besides, he was so intent on building a fortune, he’d likely have little attention to spare for his family.

  She pushed the bench back and stood up. William had encouraged her to stay in the compound this afternoon, instead of working in his office. She’d planned to play the piano, but now she’d have to think of something else to do until he returned.

  The courtyard outside was silent, except for the stamp mill’s steady beat and a few desultory clucks from the chickens. Abraham stood still as a bronze statue by the shrine, listening to something beyond the compound. No billiard balls clacking, no pans banging in the kitchen, no sentries whistling as they watched for Apaches.

  Viola looked up at the watchtowers to see what they were studying. Both telescopes were focused on the depot below, not sweeping steadily across the landscape beyond Rio Piedras.

  A distant roar came from the depot, composed of thuds and men’s voices saying nothing understandable. The hair pricked on the back of her neck.

  Picking up her skirts, she ran up the stairs of the closest watchtower.

  The sentry jerked back from the telescope and reached for a rifle when she burst in. He was unknown to her, probably one of the teamsters William had brought from San Francisco.

  “Let me see,” she demanded fiercely, made nervous by his tension.

  He hesitated. “Mrs. Ross, you shouldn’t. It’ll overset your nerves.”