by Louisa Trent
On the plus side – he could make me no argument, not about anything. Considering the task in which he was engaged, he was helpless against my verbal wrath. In short, what he had devised was all quite…quite…
I screamed to the rafters:
In the dark room, I heard him move – better than what I could do – and felt him lift off and away. I missed his agile mouth already…
“Why did my knowledgeable seamstress never discuss male oral reciprocity?” I wondered aloud.
“You talk to your dressmaker about things like this?”
“Only during fittings. Only between discussions of darts and hem lines and the like. She is French, after all.”
“Oh. That explains everything,” he replied, a smile in his voice.
Odd, our talks. I could say anything I pleased to him, and without embarrassment. “You need a longer tongue, sir. You could go deeper then. Lions have huge tongues. You remind me of a lion, all tawny and strutting.”
“I would trip over it if my tongue were any longer. And smother you.” He wiggled it, saying afterwards, “See? Just the right size for French kisses. Another perfect fit between us, I would say.”
“I would say, I need to pee. Take me to the WC at once.”
“Afterwards,” he replied, topping me, his erect member already prodding the slit between my legs, the pubic lips laid open and vulnerable by the ropes. “Mmm. Wet and excitement scented. I cannot resist. The urgency of your bladder will strengthen your orgasm.”
He entered, his sensual kiss of before making the insertion an easy glide. Forgetting about my distress, I purred.
And vexing to say, I learned shortly thereafter that his theory played out:
My climax was absolutely deafening.
* * * *
Afterwards, true to his word, he escorted me where I needed to visit. Staying to watch, naturally. Then, he brought me up a tray of food.
“You cook?” I asked, uncaring of my stuffed-full mouth.
“I cook, yes.”
“Do you do everything well?”
“Yes.”
“Stealing too?”
“I was a thief beyond compare. That no one knows of my skill testifies to my talent. But no thievery for me, not anymore.”
He sounded so sincere, I believed him. Almost.
“Never?” I asked swallowing a hefty fork of Shepherd’s pie.
“Never. I have gone legitimate.”
“But you must have used ill-gotten gains in reestablishing yourself in whatever you now do.”
“I needed a stake in business, yes. Investing my ill-gotten gains was the lesser of two evils. Life is not always black and white, you know. Speaking of which…now that you are rested and properly nourished, time for your discipline.”
“What of the fucking I allowed you? That does not count?”
“Hardly allowed. You had no choice in the matter. You were tied, remember? ” He raised a brow. “And, by the way, do you consider finding your release of another kind punishment?”
I wished to say, he had forced pleasure on me, that it had been a punishing release due to a certain lack of equality between us.
Trying for honesty, I kept quiet. No hardship. I was used to keeping quiet, used to people not valuing my opinions when I did find the courage to speak, a rare happenstance until he came into my life.
“Speak up,” he demanded. “Openness between us, regardless of how mundane or ugly the subject matter.”
He wanted to know my every thought?
Unusual. No one ever had before, especially a man
As he seemed genuinely interested, I found the courage to speak my mind openly. Though I broached the delicate topic in a matter-of-fact manner. Accusing him, deriding him for the punitive practice, would gain me nothing. “You talked of my discipline, and your eyes lit up with relish, sir. Does your carnality always come with a bite?”
“Christ, yes,” he replied. “This is not political, however. My predilection for dominance has nothing to do with my wishing to keep a woman naked and under my thumb at all times.”
I glanced down at my nudity, at his closeness to the mattress. His nearness in no way threatened or intimidated, but it did assert his carnal possession over me.
In the bedroom.
He had yet to retie me straddled to the bedposts, the position he had placed me in during my extended nap. Asleep at the time, I’d had no say in the matter. The bondage was something enacted upon me…with my prior ambivalent agreement. Now he pulled me from the bed, where I had been seated cross-legged, not a nod to modesty anywhere in the revealing pose, and set me naked on my fee. While I watched, he pulled a cat o-nine tail – a switch by any other name – from a drawer beneath the wooden bed frame.
He eyed me impassively. “Say cease if this is not something you agree to.”
“And if I do say it?”
“Then, we are done. This is not an item on a restaurant menu. Full swallow. You may not pick and choose what you choose and deny me the rest. You disobeyed. Now, you pay the price.”
“You will only whip me if I do something against the rules?”
He thumbed his jaw. “Yes. Your failure to trust me was against the rules. You should have confided in me.”
“What was there to confide? I only returned home.”
“To a man you know little about.”
“The same applies to you, and you are holding a whip, which Mr. Osborn would never hold in his hand.”
“Men punish women in other ways. I at least am open about it. With me you know where you stand. Trust is important to me.”
“And if I refuse my chastisement?”
“Then, you must leave. No choice about it. You made your choice when you broke trust with me and dissembled about the location and purpose of your errand. Had you told me the truth, I would not have liked it, but I would not have stood in your way…after some discussion.”
Leaving him was too great a price to pay for my transgression. What were a few red stripes in contrast to aborting the remainder of my time here?
Strangely, though he was about to punish me, at no time did I feel as though he were treating like a child. Oddly, I felt his equal in every way. I had a say in what went on here, and the ability to call a halt to it.
“You might consider all this a perversion. Others would agree. I say it is what it is. I need this from you, Miss Malone.”
At least, he was honest about it. At least, he left himself vulnerable too in his carnal need. Clothed from head to foot, but stripped of all artifice, he waited for my reply.
I nodded. “Where shall I stand?”
He lit a lamp. “Against those hooks in the wall.”
Perhaps I blocked out the sight before, but I did see the hooks to which he referred now.
I walked toward them, saying over my shoulder. “Will you draw blood, sir? I shan’t want scars. Mr. Osborn, you know. However would I explain the raised ridges on my…on my what, sir?”
“Arse. Five across the buttocks for the first offense, incremental strikes of two thereafter. No blood drawn. No random strikes to the breasts and belly. I am never careless when I ply a whip. And I have no intention of being a cruel master to you.”
He was not a careless man. Not a cruel man. But I did see the insecure orphan in him at every turn, the parentless child trying to make sense of his world, trying to control more hurt from getting to him. His rules were not arbitrary. Trust featured strongly in all of them.
He attached me to the wall with leather banding.
Snaking his hand around to my front, he played at my nipples, about an inch or so removed from the wall before me.
He pinched the sensitive ends until they hurt and I was jerking involuntarily against the restraints. Feverish anticipation took me over then. In that fever, I pushed out my hips for him.
“More,” he said. “Bring your arse closer.”
I went to a slant, my legs separated as far as the banding around my ankles permitte
d, my bottom cheeks parted by necessity.
He reached inside the demarcation, thumbing the rear inlet.
My breathing stuttered. “You intend to enter me there, do you not, sir?”
He deliberated his answer before replying. “I do. You may, of course, refuse me the sodomy.”
“And you will stop should I utter cease.”
“Yes, exactly. Everything straightforward between us.”
I hung my head as he fingered me deep. “My husband – will he suspect what I have done, what I have allowed you to do to me?”
“Mr. Osgood?”
“Yes.”
“I doubt it. If anything, he will find you a more willing wife because of it. You already have shown yourself to have an aptitude for it, Miss Malone. To earn his trust though, you should voluntarily tell him. Why keep secrets?”
“I told him I was no virgin.” I went limp as he pushed another finger inside my rear inlet, breathing in and out with some difficulty as he made the forbidden trespass.
“Lovely,” he growled. “All of you is lovely like this.”
Would Mr. Osborn find me so, or would he turn from me in disgust?
The conman’s fingers fell away, and their loss left me feeling empty.
“Ready, Miss Malone?” he inquired courteously.
I grew chilled at his retreat across the floor, his entrenchment directly behind my back. Shivering, I replied, “Ready, sir.”
The five stripes across my posterior burned, but the application was as careful as he promised. He made no mistakes in their placement. My breasts, my belly, my mons showed no evidence of ill-treatment. Afterwards, he kissed every glowing ache before releasing me.
“Go bathe,” he said, and followed me toward the WC.
I never once thought to deny him access to either the room or to me. I never once thought he would not follow me. There was no granting me privacy, nor did I expect there would be here on out. My body belonged to him now. One word imbued my road to escape:
Cease.
Chapter Eighteen
The conman snuggled me closer to him in bed. “After a long and strenuous evening, lovely weather greets us this morn, Miss Malone. How about a walk outside, get a breath of fresh air?”
What a perfectly dreadful suggestion! Ours was a clandestine affair. What if someone saw us together and that information somehow made its way back to Mr. Osborn?
There would go my chances for marriage, for children, for an end to my aloneness.
Yes, I wanted my cake and eat it too, I mused, rubbing eagerly against the erection nudging me. Society was rife with gossip. Wagging tongues brought down many a nuptial.
Not mine, I vowed.
I offered him an alternative. “Why not stay abed all day, instead, sir?”
“You have been cooped up in the house too long. I would not want the roses to fade from your cheeks.”
“If ever I had roses, they faded in my girlhood.”
“Nonsense. You make for a lovely adult woman, roses all abloom in your face.”
I snorted. “Men prefer fresher bouquets.”
“Girls are a bore. Your experience makes you all the more interesting.”
Little did he know, beyond what he provided, I had no experience. After the night before, though, I must now be downright riveting.
It had been an energetic interlude, one that lacked for nothing, save sleep. The conman had been potent and virile and demanding, all qualities I now understood I enjoyed. Still, his prodding hardness told me he was game for more.
Scooting away from his nips and kisses along my shoulder, I assumed the position:
On my belly, either up on all-fours or face down and flat as a board. Sometimes tied, other times not. Four occasions he’d had me during the prior evening. He could always manage to get it inside me, regardless of my pose. He eschewed rubbers still, and so my backside was semen-coated with his hasty withdrawals.
No complaints. My sore backside would have made a face-to-face coupling uncomfortable. This way, the only face I would see during intercourse would belong to my future husband. Mr. Osborn would never take me any other way. I was to be wife, with all the dignity and respect that role entailed, not his strumpet.
The conman massaged along my spine. “Most inviting. But you must have had enough of bed, eh? I should think you ready for a change of scenery. As a fellow pervert, may I suggest some exhibitionism?”
I gasped. “Unfair to dangle naughty carnality before my nose, sir! I have never done what you just suggested. What is this exhibitionism, anyway?”
He jumped from the bed, and pulled me after him. “Time to expand your repertoire to include public deviancy.”
“Oh, for joy. Something to tell my grandchildren about someday.”
I thought the cad would laugh. Or at least offer me a chuckle. Instead, he slapped my sore bottom.
“Ouch,” I cried. He had taken such care with my well-being the night before, at least of my buttocks, now this. Such inconsiderateness was unlike him!
Scowling at him, I gingerly nursed the area with a hand. Then going to a full-length mirror installed in the room, I looked over my shoulder at the glass.
Red and angry welts. No more than I expected.
Then, I stared straight ahead, examining my frontal nudity. “Good Lord. My body looks like a battle zone.”
My breasts were a swollen mess, the nipples still painfully distended and badly discolored. Bite marks also adorned them. I recalled every one of their placements. My cunt looked the worse for wear, the pubic hair matted and fragrant with carnality. My thighs bore the deeply-shadowed marks of fingers, pulling them roughly apart.
What I had enjoyed in the heat of the moment, I enjoyed all the more now.
“I should bathe,” I said, reluctantly, agog…no, infatuated…with the sight of my body.
“You will go as you are. Leave off everything but the gown under the cape. Exhibitionism depends upon the quick efficiency of both its participants.”
“But you often tarry, sir.”
He had the grace to look shamed. “Too long?”
“No,” I said honestly. It felt good to be truthful about something.
“Longer than you are used to, though?”
As he was the only one I was used to, I had concluded that an hour or more was standard.
I let that observation go in lieu of the eagerly volunteered: “Perhaps we should try a timed rehearsal, sir.”
“No need. You are ready to go off now, just from speaking of it.”
Damn him for an arrogant cur! He was right of course.
Rather than argue, I licked my swollen lips, and tried hastening things along. “Very well, sir. We should leave straightaway.”
* * * *
“Is that your Mr. Osborn over there, Miss Malone?”
At present, I leaned against a solid wall in a clean but otherwise nondescript alley, no doubt a prostitute’s trysting spot, my naked belly pressed to the bricks, the conman’s back-to-front cocking driving me mad.
Needless to say, it took a great deal of effort for me to speak, never mind give the question posed me any legitimate consideration. The only reason I bothered with the struggle was so he would get on with the matter at hand.
Namely, the big finale – my first exhibitionist climax.
His strokes had slowed appreciably while awaiting my answer. And, from experience, I knew the conman would never go first. Not once had he completed our pairings until I found my pleasure, always before him.
For a cad, he was quite the gentleman.
“Over where, sir?”I panted, looking in the same direction as he now, but a bit fuzzy about it…understandably.
Without coming, the conman pulled out of me, his withdrawal swift.
And unappreciated by me.
“The Light-Skirt Brothel,” he told me, “is the most deviant whorehouse in the District. Never been there myself for recreation, but your reporter seems to have some prior knowledge of
the address. See? The madam is letting him right in.”
So, she was, I thought, dazed by the sight of the reporter entering the unmarked building. None of these brothels advertised…
“I know you are enamored of him…but Christ, what a prick,” continued the conman. “He looks to be going right in, no hesitation. And here I thought you two had an understanding of sorts.”
“No, no. This cannot be right. Mr. Osborn is simply lost.”
I watched for my soon-to-be-fiancé to realize his error, to understand he had gone to the wrong address, and promptly back away and leave, disgusted by what he had glimpsed ever so briefly inside.
People lost their way here all the time. Meaning to take a shortcut through a tavern or whatnot, they wound up at a house of ill-repute instead. All these old and decaying structures looked alike. Once again, for the sake of police patrols, no identifying signs hung outside the door signifying the building was a whore house.
“You say you have never been there, yet you know the brothel’s name?” I asked.
Obviously I had caught the conman in a lie. Strictly word-of-mouth recommendations were how those sorts of places garnered new clientele.
“I know all the whore houses, here in town and in other locales. I once made it my business to keep up with them all,” the conman replied. “That does not mean I frequent them.”
While the conman remained behind me, his position protecting me from prying eyes, I kept watching and waiting. A red-faced Mr. Osborn never left.
God, no! That meant his entering the building was no accident. He had not simply lost his way and ended up by mistake – What? Fucking a whore?
Unless, perhaps, this was about business, not pleasure. The reporter might have gone to the house of ill repute for professional reasons, to conduct an interview with a young prostitute, for example.
But not even wishful thinking could keep that raft afloat long. Not only was Mr. Osborn a reporter for the society pages – whoring was an unlikely subject for any article he would ever write – prostitutes were notoriously leery of talking about their occupations. Pandering and solicitation were both illegal after all. A whore would never leave herself or her madam open to legal prosecution.
