A Courtesan’s Guide to Getting Your Man

by Celeste Bradley

  Sir entered me hard from behind, driving his cock into my soaking, slippery cunte in one forceful stroke. The abrupt penetration coincided with one of the trembling aftershocks passing through my body and I cried out in exquisite pleasure. As he thrust hard and fast, my sore nipples dragged back and forth over the coverlet, the golden rings twisting beneath me. I cried out again and again as he fucked me, but my pleasure only seemed to release some dark force within him. He gripped my hips in his hard hands and used his strength to deepen his thrusts. It hurt. The wildness and pain drove me higher.

  It was glorious. It was hard and pitiless and animal. I came again, my gasps leaving my open mouth only to be muffled by the coverlet. I filled my two fists with the silken stuff and heard threads pop beneath the strength of my grip.

  Sir reached orgasm with a roar. His grip on my hips tightened painfully as he thrust into me hard, once, twice, thrice more. His thick cock throbbed inside me and I gloried in my helplessness, in my power.

  I felt his weight on the mattress next to me as he collapsed, pulling my hips with him, keeping himself driven into me. I rolled easily, as limp as a sleeping cat, unwilling to let him leave me.

  We panted like horses after a hard gallop, our breaths coming in ragged unison. After a moment, he reached around me to carefully release the gold rings that had so effectively tortured my throbbing nipples. I gasped as the pain slipped away to leave a rich tingling behind. It was then that I realized I could have removed them myself any time after my hands were released. Such was his power over me in that moment that it had not even occurred to me. I let my hands lie limp and obedient, leaving the gag untouched. It was not for me to remove it. Tonight, swept into the Sin of Wrath, I belonged to him.

  * * *

  After I had dozed for a little while in Sir’s arms, still obediently gagged, I had a single erotic thought drift across my sated mind.

  Your mouth shall service my cock.

  I slid from the circle of his sleepy embrace. He grunted in surprise and sat up as I left the bed to kneel on the carpet beside it, facing the great bed like an altar. I wish to worship your cock.

  Sir sat up and gazed at me for a long moment. I dropped my eyes and sat back on my heels demurely, naked, beseeching, my hands loosely upturned on my lap.

  “Do you wish me to remove the ball from your mouth?”

  I nodded silently.

  He stood to walk the necessary half-step toward me. Even as he reached behind my bowed head to untie the cords of the gag, I had raised my cupped hands to caress the weight of his testicles with my palms. I heard him take a quick breath in surprise. I did not know they were so sensitive. I was intrigued.

  The cords loosened and I let the ball slip from my mouth and fall to the carpet. I was well done with it. My lips had another purpose now.

  Before my eyes, his cock began to rise. I had not seen this before, this rush of blood to darken the head of him, this pulsing swelling and thickening. I knelt before him and observed the power of my merest touch upon his senses. I softly massaged his testicles, as gently as I would two ripe fruits, and his stiffening cock throbbed before my eyes.

  He caressed my hair, his eyes unreadable behind his mask. “Open your mouth, Ophelia. Take my cock inside.”

  I licked my lips and bent to kiss the silken head of him. I tasted my own salty cream and yet another flavor, sharp and tangy. His come, the same milky liquid that now slicked down my own thighs and had every night for nearly a week. I liked the taste of him. I began to lick at the bulbous head, to catch every hint of his come on my tongue. He gasped as I lapped at him. One big hand came down to fist in my hair. He pressed my head closer. I opened my mouth and let him enter me that way.

  As he slipped between my lips, inch by inch, I stroked him with my tongue, rolling it over and around him to get all of that mysteriously delicious taste from his rigid flesh. Intent upon my feasting upon him, I did not realize until a moment later that his entire body trembled in response.

  This gave him so much pleasure, this swirling motion?

  Apparently so, for he tightened his grip in my hair and began to enter my mouth so deeply that the thick head of his cock drove far back into my throat. It took a moment of concentration to allow that thick invasion, but when I had the trick of it I could take the entire length of him into my hot mouth.

  As he slowly withdrew, I let suction build as I swirled my tongue upon the pulsing vein running beneath his rod. The sound he made, somewhere between harsh and helpless, made me realize that the tables had turned on his game tonight.

  Even naked and on my knees, it was I who controlled him.

  Remembering how he had held my hips as he fucked me, I raised my hands to his buttocks to pull him more deeply into my throat. He might have intended to dominate me, but in that moment, I took control of his pleasure.

  I gained the rhythm quickly, digging my fingers and fingernails into his buttocks to control his speed. He wanted to go faster, I could feel it, but my new power intrigued me. He wished to teach me dominance and control. Well, I wished to learn it well.

  I backed off from the length of him, despite his pressing hand in my hair. Licking my lips, which were swollen and puffy from sucking at him, I lifted my head to meet his dark gaze. His expression was unreadable behind the mask, but I knew from the trembling of his body and the pulsing rigidity of his cock that my lover was well at my mercy now.

  “Do not touch me,” I ordered him. “Grasp the curtain bar above your head and do not release it.”

  His jaw tightened. I could see him begin to form a protest. My fingernails tightened ever so slightly over his buttocks even as I ran my hot tongue possessively over the smooth, rounded head of him. His hands flew to grasp the curtain bar as his eyes closed and he let his head fall back, so racked with pleasure that he had no will left to argue.

  I could not let such obedience go unrewarded. To show my appreciation, I took his cock back into my mouth in one deep, wet plunge, all the way to the hilt.

  If I had not heard the animal moan from his lips myself, I would not have thought it to be human.

  Left to the joys of my own exploration now, I allowed my world to narrow down to two things. His cock and my mouth. While he strained and writhed above me, I tortured and pleasured him for as long as I cared to. I felt the pulse in his thick vein increase more than once, upon which moment I decreased my suction and my lapping and let half his length fall untended from my lips. Each time the cry he gave became more desperate.

  It was cruel. I quite enjoyed that fact. I knew from my own experience that when I finally allowed his orgasm to overwhelm him that it would be tenfold in power, so I felt no guilt at my pitiless play. I had endured much restless aching at his hands this week and I found myself disinclined to ease his longing anytime soon.

  It was only when my own jaw and mouth, unaccustomed to such activity, began to protest that I decided to drive this weary stallion home at last. Redoubling my caressing of his testicles, including the hard, throbbing place just behind them, I took his cock deep into my throat. Increasing my pace, I even allowed him to move his hips toward me now, helping to thrust and withdraw as I sucked and swirled and lapped at the underside of his length.

  In this moment I raised my gaze to catch the sight of him, powerful and strong, yet helpless in his lust. His naked, muscular body rippled with tension in the light of the single candle, shining with sweat from his long torture, stretched taut and undulating between my sucking mouth and his own white-knuckled grasp on the curtain bar. His dark head dropped back as wordless pleas left his lips, moans so full of deep, hoarse begging that I knew it was time to allow him to break.

  I felt his testicles tighten to hard rocks in my hands and instinctively I drove his cock deep into my throat. It swelled to such an enormous proportion I feared it would crack my jaw. He let out a deep, helpless roar even as his cock pulsated violently inside my mouth.

  I was too filled with him to breathe. I held on by will alo
ne, letting every drop of his come pour down my throat even as I began to feel dizzy. When his moans decreased to helpless panting, I finally backed away, slowly allowing his still thick cock to slip from my swollen lips. He left a trickle of that sharp, sweet taste on my tongue as he left me.

  He released the bar above his head then, only to collapse to his knees before me. We knelt together on the carpet, leaning against each other. Sir wrapped one caressing palm around my sore jaw and dropped his damp forehead to my shoulder. We spent several moments relishing the simple act of breathing normally again.

  Then he lifted his head. With both hands, he swept my wild hair back from my face so that he could gaze into my eyes. “What possessed you?” His voice was hoarse from his guttural cries.

  I licked my swollen lips. “You deserved nothing less.”

  A small laugh escaped him. “I deserved the torture, or the pleasure?” His thumb slid to caress my lips, silencing my reply. “Never mind. I don’t think I want to know.”

  I smiled wearily. Precisely, my darling Sir.

  Eleven

  On the seventh night, I traveled to the Swan’s house in late afternoon, uncaring that I would be missed by Aunt Beryl that evening. It no longer mattered. I was more than through with my relations and intended to inform them of my victorious ruination on the following day. My little house was fully furnished and Robert had already agreed to everything the Swan had negotiated for on my behalf. Society had already begun to buzz with gossip about the new courtesan in town.

  All was ready, but I missed the Swan. I had only seen her once during the week, when she’d informed me of Sir’s absence. It seemed whenever I arrived or awoke in her house that she was out or unavailable.

  This day was no different. The Swan’s footman allowed me in the house without hesitation, but she was not within. At loose ends, I wandered up to “my” room and dawdled there.

  The restraining straps had been removed from the bed frame. The room looked as if any respectable guest might occupy it. Mere walls and curtains and carpet told no tales of the wicked pleasure and naked debauchery they had witnessed.

  The only evidence that remained lived in my memory.

  I sat upon the bed where I had spent so many marvelous, unbelievable hours and stroked my hand down the satin counterpane. Then I lay back upon the pillows and imagined my new lover-to-be, Robert, straining and gasping above me.

  The picture did not displease me, especially when I put Robert in a mask.

  * * *

  Warm lips descended upon mine. I opened my eyes to see that the room was dark, with only a single candle lighted upon the mantel.

  Sir sat beside me on the bed, a slight smile upon his masked face. He looked thoughtful and a bit … sad? It was as if the mask beneath the mask had fallen away.

  Yet before me was a man who could be whatever a woman wanted him to be. He was as skilled a player as the Swan, as I myself hoped to be.

  If a woman wished to see love in his eyes, she could convince herself it was there. If she wished to see sadness at a parting of the ways, I knew perfectly well that it would gleam from his dark eyes.

  So I banked the girlish romantic coal of hope that tried to glow in my heart and smiled easily up at Sir. “Let the lesson begin.”

  He lifted his chin and the trick of the candlelight was no more. Standing, he took my hand and helped me from the bed. Still with my hand in his, he led me across the room where stood a tall dressing-room mirror.

  I was placed to face the mirror, while Sir stood behind me and his gaze met mine in the glass.

  “The Seventh Sin,” he said in my ear in his husky whisper, “is Pride.”

  He undressed me then, removing everything from the pins in my hair to my stockings. He would not let me help, but attended me like a servant—a servant whose touch lingered rather inappropriately! I enjoyed the sensuousness of his gentleness. When I was entirely naked with my hair falling riotously over my shoulders and my nipples crinkled from the chill of the room, he stood behind me once more.

  With both hands resting warm on my shoulders, he turned my face toward the mirror. “You are magnificent,” he told me. “Your beauty is undeniable, but you are so much more than milky skin and flashing eyes. In our few days together, you have shown me the wisdom and joy and effortless courage you hold within you.”

  His hands slid down my arms. I leaned back into the warmth and solidity of him. He stroked his palms up over my belly, crossing them to embrace my waist. “You are a powerful being, sweet Ophelia, glowing with strength and spirit.” He bent his dark head to kiss my neck. I reached a hand up to bury my fingers in his thick hair.

  “I beg of you,” he murmured into my skin, “let no man wrest that indomitable will from your generous heart.”

  I turned into him then, intent upon his kiss. I wanted every moment, every taste, every touch of Sir’s I could have that night, for I knew that when our time was over he would return to his patronesses and I would move on to Robert.

  Our last lesson.

  I was proud. I had become someone I had never believed I could be. I was a scarlet woman, an artist of pleasure, a rebel soldier. I was the sword-wielding insurrectionist of my own life.

  I was a courtesan.

  * * *

  In the darkest hours of the night, when the coals had burned down to ash and the candle’s flame had long ago stuttered out in a pool of melted wax, I let out a long sigh of completion.

  A large, masculine hand ran up my naked thigh.

  “I have taught you everything I can,” he whispered into my ear, his breath hot. “Tomorrow you will choose your first lover.” He kissed me, more tenderly than he had in the last seven nights of exquisite pleasure. “Are you certain that this is what you wish? Once you become a courtesan, you may never return to the life you’ve always known.”

  I hooked my arm about his neck and kissed him back with all the skill and confidence that he had given me as he’d instructed me in the Seven Sins of the Courtesan. “I know what I want. Only as a courtesan can I be truly free to decide my own destiny.”

  He bowed, a little sadly, I think. “So be it. I shall leave you, sweet blackbird.”

  I lay back down in the nest of silken sheets a different woman than when I had first slid between them. I watched him leave with a smile, although I think my heart broke just a little. He had taught me so much, although I had never learned the name of the man I knew only as “Sir.”

  The next morning I found a gleaming black feather upon my pillow.

  It was time to begin my new life.

  The Blackbird had taken wing.

  VOLUME II

  Twelve

  Boston, Present Day

  It is only one step, I told myself, a single step forward or a single step back. It was up to me to decide which I would take.

  My hand hovered over the latch. My heart beat fitfully. My mind whirled. Hadn’t I longed for this moment? Hadn’t I dreamed of the freedom to determine my own destiny? Of course I had. But in my girlish dreams, I had been unaware that freedom came at a price, and the currency was risk.

  So be it. I opened the door and stepped across the threshold, not knowing which world I had entered. Was it the beginning of a life fully lived, or a willful and perilous mistake?

  Piper placed Brenna’s checklist on the edge of the bed, right next to the outrageously impractical pale pink bra and panty set, the cost of which could cover a day at the Cape, complete with parking, hot dogs, and butterscotch sundaes from Four Seas.

  The underwear was just the finishing flourish of a weeklong consumer orgy Brenna had called Piper’s “Reinvention.” The narcissistic bacchanal had included teeth whitening, a new pair of designer eyeglasses (plus her first contacts ever), a deep-conditioning hair color and cut, a facial, an exfoliating massage, eyebrow shaping, a bikini wax, and the purchase of tote bags full of expensive makeup (complete with lessons on how the freaking hell Piper was supposed to use an eyelash curler without caus
ing a corneal abrasion). Then there was the new wardrobe—fitted blouses, tailored skirts and trousers, and even a few curve-hugging dresses—complemented by five pairs of impractical shoes, an assortment of statement-making bags (never call them “purses,” Brenna had explained), and accessories such as earrings, bracelets, and scarves.

  Piper now understood that the pursuit of beauty was a full-time job. It was a wonder Brenna had ever managed to earn her doctorate. It was a pricey hobby, too. Piper’s makeover required siphoning six figures from Granny Pierpont’s trust fund, a reckless decision as that was her only buffer against poverty should she lose her job. And what did she have to show for all the effort and expense? Piper’s eyes swept to the new full-length mirror bracketed to her bedroom wall. She stared in fascination at her naked reflection.

  She still didn’t recognize herself. True, she no longer gasped at the creature looking back at her, but Piper remained cautious of the woman with the killer green eyes, the lustrous skin, and the shiny, bouncy dark brown hair. She was curious as to how long the woman in the mirror had possessed those smooth shoulders and delicate collarbones. She wondered how the woman could have been running around Boston for the last decade with her 36C boobs smushed into a 32B sports bra. She couldn’t remember why the woman had been morally opposed to contacts, lipstick, and mascara.

  As for everything below the underwire? She was a stranger to herself, really. Brenna claimed Piper had never allowed herself to bask in her own glory. Though her friend might have found a less histrionic way to phrase it, she had to concede Brenna had a point. Piper had never been the type to spin in front of the mirror in the buff, checking out the curve of her buttock or the slope of her thigh. She’d never been the type to enjoy being moisturized, fluffed, coiffed, and generally encouraged to feel connected to all her body parts.