by Nina Mason
“Yes, Lord and Master.”
Her use of his role-playing title sends thrills through his blood.
Leaning closer, she kissed the flesh just above his pubic hair as she swept her fingers lightly over his genitals. His breath caught and his cock jumped in response. The blood of arousal rushed southward, stirring his lusts.
She worked her way down and around, making him harder with each brush of her mouth. As she kissed him, she ran her fingers up and down his inner thighs and over his balls. The feeling was so pleasurable, his cock grew hard in no time.
Her use of his title let him know she was giving him control. He was more than happy to take the reins. “Put your hands behind your back.”
When she had obeyed his command, he palmed his cock and milked a pearl of pre-ejaculate from the tip. He then pressed it against her lips. “Taste it.”
Her tongue darted out and wicked away the shimmering bead.
Shivering with pleasure, he said, “Now, tease me with your tongue. Swirl it around the collar of my glans and poke it in the hole on the tip.” When she did as he’d asked, his nipples hardened, his knees weakened, and his cock pulsed with approval. He gasped, moaned, and buried his fingers in her hair. Her curls were damp and silky soft, just like her tantalizing tongue.
“Now open your mouth so I can fuck it.”
The moment she complied, he gripped the sides of her head and thrust. Sublime warmth enveloped his length. Her tongue fluttered around his firm flesh like a butterfly’s wings. He pushed deeper, meeting her hard palate.
“Suck me,” he whispered. “Suck me good and hard.”
Ringing her lips around his girth, she gave him what he asked for. The suction felt sublime. She began to slide her mouth up and down his length whilst sucking and licking him to the edge of reason.
Holy God.
“Take me deeper.”
Obliging angel that she was, she admitted him to her tonsils. The feeling gave him such a rush, he had to fight for control. This was only the appetizer. He must not deprive himself of the delicious courses to come by finishing too soon.
“Let go,” he commanded, tugging on her head. “Before I spend myself in your mouth.”
When he was free, he helped her to her feet, took her face in between his hands, and kissed her deeply. Then, he took her by the wrist and led her to the bed.
“Lie down,” he instructed. “On your back with your bottom at the edge of the mattress.”
She assumed the requested position. Inserting himself between her knees, he bent over her and pinched her nipples. She gasped in pain and surprise. The sound of her distress only spurred his lusts.
He put his mouth where his hands had been and slurped her hard nipple into his mouth. As he sucked, flicked, and nipped her turgid flesh, he moved a hand between her legs. Her maidenhair was still damp. Her vulva was moist, too, but not from the bath.
Her hands were in his hair, twining and stroking the long, wet strands. He toyed with her clitoris, rubbing, circling, and flicking until she was writhing with pleasure. Withdrawing from her, he took his cock in hand and guided it toward her entrance. He claimed her with a forceful thrust. Then, he fucked her hard and fast until she shattered around him.
He pulled out of her before he achieved his own climax. He was saving himself for dessert. He just hoped she would not withdraw her offer.
“Get up on all fours,” he commanded.
“Yes, Lord and Master.”
She positioned herself in the middle of the bed on her hands and knees. He climbed up behind her on his knees. His legs were shaking and he was damp all over, partly from exertion and partly from the bath. He ran both hands over the globes of her arse before drawing one back. He landed it with a satisfying crack. She jumped and squealed, more in surprise than pain. He had cupped his hand in a way that would mark her well but cause little discomfort.
He ran his fingertips over the handprint he’d left upon her snowing flesh. “You were a naughty girl in my absence and must pay the penalty.”
“You said I could. You said what women did in bed together meant nothing.”
He spanked her again, on the other side this time. “Do not talk back to your Lord and Master or I shall be forced to employ the whip.”
“No, please, Lord and Master. Not the whip. I beg of you to show me mercy.”
She was playing with him and he liked it. He reached to the night table and opened the drawer. Good girl. She had put his toys in the proper place. He felt around until his hand found the flogger. Withdrawing it, he dragged the soft tails down her back, over the cheeks of her arse, and along her inner thighs. Then, turning the whip around, he pushed the handle into her vagina.
As he fucked her with the flogger, he fingered her clit until she was trembling on the verge of orgasm. Pulling back, he withdrew the whip. She whimpered at the loss, longing for completion. He will not give it to her. Not yet.
Tossing the whip aside, he moved closer and, just as he’d fantasized about doing, he palmed his cock and slid it along the crack of her bottom. Her beautiful, virginal bottom. Finally, he would taste the forbidden fruit of her rectum.
Delving into the nightstand drawer once more, he withdrew a bottle of lavender hair oil. He pulled the cork, poured a puddle in his hand, and rubbed the oil up and down his length as he hungrily eyed the dusky puckers of her anus.
Pressing the tip of his now glistening cock against his objective, he said, “I shall be gentle, Rosebud. And go slowly. If you find it too objectionable, use your safe word and I will stop at once.”
“Yes, Lord and Master.”
He pressed hard, into the tight ring of muscle. “Relax,” he told her, “and it will be easier.”
When he felt her tension ease, he pushed another inch deeper. Then, he waited, holding himself still, giving her body time to adjust. After several torturous moments, he pressed deeper. Another inch, then another pause.
God’s flesh. This was too divine. Her sphincter was so taut, so deliciously taut it was as if he’d died and gone to heaven. Not that her cunny was too lax to suit him by any means, but this was…well, more constricted, more sublime.
“That’s it, dearest. Breathe and relax. Submit yourself completely to me. Let me stroll in the secret grotto you have locked me out of for so long.”
“It feels strange,” she said, sounding dubious.
“Not to me. To me, it feels marvelous.” He stilled himself. Are you not enjoying it, even the tiniest bit?”
He had relinquished their role-playing for the time being. He needed to go easy on her, to be gentle and sensitive. If he was too rough or demanding, she might never allow him to do this again. And that would not do.
“’Tis not as bad as I thought it would be.”
“Would you rather I handed the reins over to you? I shall remain still whilst you use me like a godemiché and take things at your own pace.”
“Yes, I think I would rather be in control.”
He steadied himself and waited. After several agonizing moments, she pushed back, admitting him deeper.
“There you go,” he said. “Is that better?”
“Not really. Perhaps ’twould be better if you played with my cunny while we did this.”
“Of course,” he said. “Whatever you think might help.”
He reached around her leg and fondled her vulva. As her pleasure mounted, her body became more willing and responsive. She pushed back little by little until most of his length had entered through her back door.
He burned with the urge to move. As good as it felt to be sheathed to the hilt in her bunghole, he would never get off without friction and motion. “When you can bear for me to move, do let me know.”
“Move? You mean pull out?”
“No, I mean fuck your arse until I come off.”
“Oh. Well, I suppose that would be all right, as long as you do not get carried away.”
He flinched. Not get carried away? How the devil was he supp
osed to enjoy himself without getting carried away? Well, he would simply have to do the best he could.
He drew out of her ever so slowly. Christ, but the view was glorious. Watching his oiled-up cock sliding in and out of her bunghole was almost as thrilling as fucking her. He sank into her again, playing with her clit as he did. She circled her hips and pushed back to meet him, taking him deeper.
Sweet Jesus. His resolve was being tested to the limits. He kept up the long, slow strokes until she was trembling on the cusp of climax. God’s teeth. If he was going to get there with her, he’d better start pumping right now.
Bending over her, he grabbed a hank of her hair and jerked her head to the side. Then he kissed her, open-mouthed. She gave him her tongue, which he sucked with vehemence as he began to hammer her backside. She squealed into his mouth, but made no effort to disengage. Moments later, he felt her body spasming in orgasm. He released her mouth and picked up speed. The pleasure, the pressure built to a fever-pitch. His cods convulsed, ejecting their contents.
The extra lubrication made her dark passage even slicker. He was still coming, still hard. He pushed deeper, relishing the heat and snugness as he gave her a semen emetic.
He pulled out of her, breathless and sated, and dropped on his back onto his side of the bed. She came down beside him and set her head on his chest.
“Thank you,” he said, grateful for her generous gift.
“I want you to be happy,” she whispered.”
“I am happy, Rosebud, now that I am home again with you.”
* * * *
Awakened in the night by wee Jamie’s cries, Maggie climbed out of bed, being careful not to wake Robert, who was sleeping soundly beside her. Locating her dressing gown in the dark, she pulled it on and tied the belt as she hurried down the hall, hoping the baby would wake Gemma, too.
Maggie got her wish. Upon entering the bedchamber, she found Gemma on her feet in her shift, rocking the baby. The tiny flame of a single candle on the bedside table and the moonlight coming through the undraped window were the only sources of light.
“You needn’t have come,” Gemma said softly as Maggie drew nearer. “I would have seen to the little one.”
“I know,” Maggie said, “but I wanted to speak with you alone.”
“What about?”
“Our relationship… and how it must change now that Robert’s come home.”
Gemma met Maggie’s gaze with a twinkle in her eye. “There will be no more offerings to Sappho, I gather.”
“Are you all right with that?” Maggie set her hand on Gemma’s arm. “For you are dear to me, and I do not wish to hurt you.”
“You are dear to me, too, duchess. As dear to me now as your husband has been for some time.”
Her words gave Maggie pain. “You still love him, then?”
“A woman does not get over a man like the duke as easily as she gets over a cold.”
“No, indeed,” Maggie agreed with a smile. “I do, however, hope we can all be good friends.”
“I meant it when I said I was at your disposal. If you need anything at all from me—be it personal, professional, or prurient in nature—you need only ask.”
“That is very good of you, dear friend,” Maggie told her. “And if you ever need aught I might provide, you need only send word.”
Gemma laughed softly. “Does that include another trip to the closet with the peephole?”
“It might.”
“What about a ménage à trois with your husband?”
“I’ll have to ask him, of course, but—”
“Ask me what?”
The sound of Robert’s voice gave Maggie a start and spun her around. He was in the doorway, leaning against the jamb in one of his silk brocade banyans.
“How long have you been standing there?” she wanted to know.
“Only long enough to know you two are planning something,” he returned, “but not long enough to know what it might be.”
“We weren't planning anything,” Maggie said truthfully. “We’re merely discussing future possibilities.”
He came into the room, took the baby from Gemma, and seemed to forget what they’d been talking about. “Well, hello, my little man. What seems to be the trouble?”
Looking up at Gemma, he said, “And hello to you, too, Mrs. Crosse. You’re looking well.”
“Welcome home, Lord Dunwoody,” she returned. “You’re not looking half-bad yourself.”
Returning his gaze to the baby, he bounced him gently. “Did you miss your Papa?” Then, without lifting his gaze, he said, “Maggie tells me you met Lord Mulgrave.”
Gemma let out a soft laugh. “Did she also tell you my new nickname for him?”
“No, though I should very much like to hear it.”
“Lord Lobcock—on account of his large tarse.”
Robert's gaze jumped to Gemma's. “How would you know the size of his tarse?”
Before Gemma could answer, Maggie chimed in, “I saw it, remember? That day in the chapel.”
He turned a reproachful gaze her way, making her uneasy. “May I ask under what circumstances you felt compelled to discuss the size of Lord All-Pride’s cock with Mrs. Crosse?”
“You may ask,” Maggie replied, holding his gaze with narrowed eyes, “but I may choose not to tell you.”
He smirked, thankfully, and shifted his gaze back to Gemma. “While we’re on the subject of Lord Lobcock...I wonder if you might know of something—a potion of some sort—that will make a man very ill without arousing suspicion or endangering his life.”
“Ill in what way?” Gemma asked, taking the words out of Maggie's mouth.
Robert grinned diabolically. “Something akin to food poisoning would do very well, methinks.”
Maggie regarded her husband, unsure how she felt about his request. “You mean to indispose Lord Mulgrave?”
“Do you think he deserves less for the things he’s done to both of us?”
“No,” Maggie replied, remembering the masquerade ball and all the hours she'd suffered Lord Mulgrave's company since. “I think he deserves more.”
“So do I,” said Robert, still jostling the baby, who'd long since stopped crying, “but I shall be satisfied with making him suffer a few days of misery.”
Gemma looked from one of them to the other. “Dare I ask what he’s done?—besides sniffing around the duchess, I mean, like she’s a bitch in heat.”
Robert turned his gaze on her. “Did my wife not tell you how he nearly raped her?—or how he manipulated the king into sending me off to Scotland to get me out of the way?”
“No,” Gemma said, looking surprised. “While I knew he was an arse, I had no idea he was as bad as all that.”
“He’s a snake who will stop at naught to further his ambitions,” Robert said in a near growl.
“In that case, I know just the thing to bring on the symptoms you desire,” she said with a gleam in her eye. “Tomorrow, I shall go and fetch it from my shop. A few drops in his drink, and, for the next three days, Lord Lobcock will not know which end to keep over the privy bucket.”
Chapter Twelve
Two days later at just after ten o’clock in the morning, Robert, with Maggie at his side, watched the Duke of Monmouth mount the scaffold and salute the crowd. Tower Hill was crowded with spectators, who had come to see the darling of the Protestants lose his handsome head.
While Robert pitied Lord Monmouth his fate, he could not deny he’d brought this upon himself. He had taken part in more than one failed intrigues against his father and uncle, and now had attempted an outright coup d’état. Surely, the bastard duke did not honestly believe his Uncle James would give him no more than a slap on the wrist, the way his father always had. Perhaps if Charles had been stricter with his son, his tomfoolery might not have evolved to this tragic point.
The only real problem Robert had with the king’s decision to put his nephew to death (aside from being forced to watch the gory exhibit
ion), was that he would make an Anglican martyr of Monmouth.
“I have heard him described as dashing,” Maggie said near Robert’s ear, “and now can see for myself that the reports were not exaggerated.”
“I daresay his head will make a very pretty ornament when displayed atop Temple Bar or the Tower wall,” Robert replied sardonically.
Maggie swatted the widely-cuffed sleeve of his gray-green silk coat. “You are horrid to say such things.”
“I only speak truth,” he said, leaning closer to her ear. “What is truly horrid in all of this is that the execution will be carried out by the most incompetent headsman in England.”
Maggie, wearing a shocked expression, leaned back and pressed her hand to her décolletage. “Whatever do you mean?”
“Even in the hands of a capable headsman, decapitation by way of a free-swinging axe is a ghoulishly inexact procedure,” he explained under a sky as dull and gray as pewter. “Poor aim, deficient force, ill-timed movement, and the stubborn structures of the neck can all impede a good result. In the hands of a butcher like Jack Ketch, Monmouth will no doubt suffer multiple blows. I strongly suggest you close your eyes when the moment arrives.”
“Poor Monmouth,” she said, looking even more distressed. “Why did my father not request someone more skilled to do the job?”
“Because he wants your cousin to suffer as much as possible.”
Maggie looked aghast. “No. You must be mistaken. He would never do anything so vicious.”
“Believe that, if it makes you feel better, dearest, but do not doubt the validity of my information. For I have had it straight from the horse’s mouth.”
Throughout their exchange, Robert kept his voice low, so as not to be overheard. They were seated on dais set up for the viewing of the morbid proceedings by the royal party, from which one person was conspicuously absent—Lord Mulgrave, who would not have missed Monmouth’s execution for the world, were he not indisposed.
Last night, at the court dinner, Robert had dribbled a few drops of Gemma’s potion into the wineglass at Lord All-Pride’s place at the table and, wrong though it may be, he derived extreme satisfaction from having caused Mulgrave’s illness. That pompous arse deserved to be taken down a few notches, not just for getting Robert sent off to Scotland, but also for his attempted rape of Maggie. He only wished the king had not stopped him from challenging the earl to a duel. Had he been allowed to fight, he would have run the prick through at the first opportunity.
