Читать книгу Lords, Ladies, Butlers and Maids: Period Erotica in Private Houses - Alegra Verde - Страница 5

His hand was heavy, hard, and easily spanned the width of my backside. I closed my eyes against the quick, stinging slaps. The heat that suffused my face matched the throbbing burn that was spreading across my bare bottom. I was mortified. My curiosity, as usual, had got the best of me and I’d allowed this thing to go too far. I moved to rise, my hands gripping his hard wool-clad thigh, but the large hand that had been resting on my back, the feel of its weight enough to keep me still, pressed down firmly just as another stinging slap sliced at my bottom. The sound seemed to reverberate. I tensed. The long-fingered hand fell again, three times in rapid succession. To keep from crying out, my fingers gripped and twisted the thick stitching at the rim of the settee’s cushion, and the fabric of his trousers. I could feel the white-hot stripes it left. The walls of my sex began to clench, and the flesh began to swell and grow moist. I squirmed restlessly and the hand at my back grew heavier.

Embarrassed by the growing dampness between my legs, I buried my face in the thick, dark cloth, only vaguely aware that it was the tail of his evening jacket. My teeth scraped my lower lip and held on. Tears crowded my eyes and I couldn’t breathe. The flat of his hot hand fell again, and his fingers slipped between the high round cheeks of my bottom, their tips sliding down to tease my slick opening, a brief reprieve before the sting came again. A tear slipped through a lash and ran the length of my cheek. The scalding hand fell again and the tips of my breasts tightened as the red heat streaked through my body. My heart beat faster and the soaking folds of my sex throbbed.

In the other room, a low reedy flute was playing Waltz No. 1 from Mozart’s Three Waltzes, the cello close behind, trying to catch up; both seemed lost in time and tempo. The harsh pulse of hot hand against supple flesh was a far more thrilling music. I imagined the maze of long white marks his fingers had made on the reddened skin. A woman laughed, high and shrill. The brush of full skirts against narrow walls; the pungent smell of tobacco. The voices in the hall grew more distinct.

‘Ward made short work of him, he did …’ The sound of a hoarse male voice made husky by years of smoke. A quiet laugh then the soft thump and swish of silk like a woman being pressed against wallpaper. The sounds drifted through the closed door, but the searing hand paid them no heed. Slap, piercing sting; I gasped, my fingers knotting then flexing against the coarse cloth. Slap, slap, and then a long slow throb. Two fingers pinched and twisted a bit of plump flesh high on my arse. The shock ran the length of my body, leaving me trembling. My sex pulsed and tightened. I could feel the moisture seeping. His hot palm and hard fingers burned against the flesh of my thighs; again, quick and sharp.

The image of the wooden rod my tutor used to use flashed on the inside of my closed lids. ‘If you’re going to be brazen enough to demand that you be allowed to study Latin, you should at least put forth an effort,’ the bespectacled young man had barked as he wielded the thin length of wood. There was always the swishing sound and then the biting sting across my thighs. My breasts felt heavy and my nipples felt as though they were piercing the fabric of my bodice. I pressed my lips together, trying to suppress the moans. My fingers snagged between a layer of soft wool and coarser upholstery as I tried to bury my face, but sounds still escaped.

‘It would have been a better fight in 1829. Byrne was in better shape two years ago.’ The voice in the hall was light, playful and very female.

‘What bloodlust! An hour and a quarter of raw knuckles and bruised ribs not enough for you?’ the man’s whiskey-smoked voice again.

‘Shh, remember, I was never there.’ Silence, the rustle of fabric pressed and sliding against the wallpaper, a moan. Long fingers slid down the crevice of my bottom and slipped in, through the wetness that seeped from my sex.

A giggle from the other room. ‘Not here.’ The shuffle of dancing shoes, the light click of heels on the wooden floor before the narrow strip of carpet claimed their sound. I trembled, my stomach pressing into the slightly open V of his lap.

‘You like that, don’t you?’ he whispered, his voice cold like the sting that followed as he raised his hand and let it fall hard and tart against the fleshy rise of my arse. Again, and once more, harder, before he shoved me off his lap and I tumbled in a whirl of lace and taffeta to the carpet at his feet.

‘You’re Ethel’s cousin Jen, are you not?’

I nodded.

‘An unmarried girl of barely twenty.’ His eyebrows were arched and high as he spoke. ‘Are you accustomed to spending time alone with men who are not related?’

I shook my head while surreptitiously rubbing cool fingers over a particularly searing spot on my bottom, but I couldn’t think. I was only aware of my stinging backside, the knowing tingle between my legs and the hard press of my nipples against the crisp corded pleats that ran the length of my bodice.

He stood over me. Tall. Long legs in slim trousers. The brocade of his burgundy waistcoat beckoned me. I wanted to touch the thick swirling thread that made up its intricate design. I wanted to run my finger around the tight swirls and trail it down past the last gold button. It had worked its way free of its hole and shone like a brilliant jewel, a garnish at the bottom of his waistcoat that drew the eye to the two pointed tips of lush brocade. They framed and nearly touched the beginning of the long bulge that lay invitingly just beneath his waist, a plump sausage that trailed down to just inside his thigh. I reached out to touch it.

‘No!’ His voice was soft but firm, his eyes dark.

Someone laughed, a man, deep, throaty, followed by a peal of feminine giggles. The sounds wandered off down the hall.

I withdrew my hand.

He unbuttoned the placket, reached in and tugged until the tip and just a little more of his thickly swollen sex peeked out.

‘Do you want to touch it?’

I nodded, unable to speak as the muscles of my sex trembled and my nipples hardened further, straining against the uneven fabric.

‘Only your mouth,’ he said and held the plum out to me.

Kneeling before him now, I leaned in and licked the purplish helmet. It was slightly salty and very warm. There was a faint savoury smell, musky, like the sea in summer. His hand trembled, but he said nothing. I slipped my mouth over the hot little hood and sucked. I liked the way it felt in my mouth, all warm, round and slick. I sucked harder, making sure that my teeth only skirted the tender skin. He held more out to me and soon I had a good portion of him in my mouth. I gripped one of his thighs with one hand and the edge of a tight round cheek with the other while I sucked at him. I tasted as much of him as I could. My mouth slid up and down the heated skin; my tongue lingering over the notch under the hood and the places where the engorged veins made the skin rise and swell tightly.

He groaned and one of his hands fell to my head, his fingers sifting deeply through the tresses until they were snugly tucked into my curls, holding me in place but giving me enough room to continue sucking the ever-hardening length of him. The tugging way his fingers threaded through my hair reminded me of last summer, of the way Henry had held my head as we knelt near the pond.

Henry and I had grown up together as his father’s estate abutted ours. We had spent the day together saying our goodbyes as he was leaving the following day for the requisite Grand Tour. He and I had always played like boys together, rough and tumble, and he didn’t let up when I began wearing long skirts, although the play had become somewhat amorous on his part.

That afternoon, after some tumbling and much laughter, we had ended up sprawled on the grassy bank. I was flat on my back and his head was lost somewhere under my skirts. I whacked him with my fist to dislodge him, but I’m sure that the many layers of cloth stunted the blow because he continued to forage. His head nudged its way beneath my chemise and his teeth began to graze the sensitive skin of my inner thigh. An odd jolt ran the length of my body. I was so stunned and curious that I stilled, waiting for what might come next.

He continued on his way, licking and nibbling, until he reached my sex, which he began to lave with his tongue. It was an odd sensation, wet and raspy, not unlike the kiss of a big dog. I laughed and whacked him again, but he held my hips and continued. I didn’t like the way his fingers dug into my hips or the afflicted way he was breathing. It sounded as though an ancient asthmatic was tangled beneath my skirts. I shoved him with all my might, kicked out at him and rolled away, leaving him panting a few yards off.

To add to my discomfiture, he had unbuttoned his pants and his manly part protruded from the opening, thin but long and obviously aroused.

‘I need you,’ he panted. ‘I’ll come back for you, I promise. Just let me put it into you for a moment,’ he begged holding it in his right hand.

‘I’ve no desire to marry you, Henry Ledbetter,’ I said with a laugh. He was a fool and obviously thought I was one of his pack.

‘Well, you might at least lick it,’ he grimaced. ‘As I did you.’

I rolled my eyes at him and began to stand.

‘Please,’ he begged. Henry was like that, always coaxing me to try something new, and while it might have resulted in a twisted ankle or having to hide under a heap of soiled hay, it was always interesting. So I’d crawled over to him and examined the offering. It looked relatively clean, rather pink really. I’d leaned in to smell it and in his eagerness he jabbed the knobby point at me, grazing a nostril. It was damp and smelled of heat, boy and, oddly enough, grass. It was not unpleasant so I licked it and found its saltiness appealing. I let the knob slip between my lips and Henry groaned. I liked the smooth round head so I sucked it as I would a lemon drop, savouring its shape and tartness. That is when his hand gripped my head and held me there while he thrust once, twice, and then he cried out as he erupted inside my mouth. Stunned, I had fallen back on my bum, as had he.

But this was different. Although his fingers were threaded through my hair, he didn’t hold me stiffly as Henry had. He let me move, suck and taste him freely, only increasing the pressure when he especially liked the way my tongue or lips felt. Only then did he thrust into my mouth, and then it felt right, then I could suck him in earnest. I liked the way its smooth skin rode the roof of my mouth and the way he trembled against my lips. I liked the sounds that he made, husky moans of appreciation.

‘You’ve done this before?’ His voice was deep, throaty, almost hoarse.

I nodded and then shook my head, but did not relinquish the firm morsel between my lips. It hadn’t been like this with Henry so I wasn’t sure whether it counted. I wondered: if I sucked him hard enough, would he erupt as Henry had? Would it taste the same, hot, creamy and somewhat sticky?

His laugh was short and a bit strangled.

‘Have you ever had a man’s cock between your legs?’ he asked, as his fingers slipped through my hair to my scalp, cupping my head as though to hold me more firmly.

That stopped me, the tip of the plum poised just between my lips. It was time to pull back, time to smooth my skirts down and scurry away. Had I been born male, I’d have had all manner of amorous adventures by now, but having been born female I knew and respected my limitations. Well, the most important ones. Although I had admittedly pressed the bar, I knew when to release it. As it stood, I didn’t really know this man or his limits and he didn’t know me. Based on my behaviour thus far, he had every right to believe that I was both experienced and loose – when in fact I’d vowed to save the finale for my marriage bed. Just how far would he press his advances? I couldn’t very well risk crying out and being caught in flagrante delicto. So I sucked at the rounded tip once more, my tongue tracing the moist dimple at its centre before relinquishing it. I could still feel its shape in my mouth as I pressed my forehead into the warm wool of his hard thigh. His hand still in my curls was gentle for a moment and then it fisted around a clump of hair.

‘A tease,’ he said, tugging me up by my head and hair, his palm gradually opening to firmly cup my scalp, directing me until I was on my feet and standing before him. ‘I should show you just what …’ His words were a harsh whisper, but he was buttoning his pants. When he was done, he took me by the arm and yanked me towards a plushly upholstered armchair, where he summarily pushed me head first over its thickly padded arm. Briefly, I flailed about with my arms outstretched and my hands grabbing clumsily at the cushions, struggling to regain my balance, frightened but more than a little curious. Layers of cloth fell heavily over my head as he plucked my skirts from where they had moulded to my bottom and then tossed them out of the way. A brief waft of cool air assailed my bare nether cheeks just as the sting of his hot palm began its assault again. Stunned, my sex twitched, but I squirmed, trying to burrow through the layers of skirt, eager to find light. My bottom burned from the barrage of angry smacks.

‘Un-mar-ried-girls-should-not-play-grown-up-games-with-men.’ A pointed slap accompanied each syllable.

His fingers slid lower, slipping into the wetness that seemed to spill from between my legs and coat my sex. I could feel the heat suffusing my face. Discomfited, I struggled harder to free myself from my skirts, but a hand pressed, then neatly splayed against my waist to hold me in place. Another sting and then his fingers slowed, dipping low, sliding down along the swollen lips of my sex, lingering and exploring its slippery crevices. A finger and then a thumb found a particularly sensitive bit of flesh and began to strum it. Even as I tried to scoot away, he kept coming, finding and teasing the deep wet place until a series of waves like a sustained shiver began to rise from the place where his fingers tarried. I shivered as … tremors and icy tingles rose, just there, and there, wherever he touched, moments of incoherence, tiny knots of delirium … and then a tremulous pulse swooshed, rushing upwards and through my centre. I closed my eyes and tightened my thighs, almost involuntarily, around his fingers as I tried to brace myself. Unable to hold it at bay, I buried my face in the silk upholstery and gripped the chair’s edge, my body twisted and tight as it crashed over and through me, leaving me tingling and without air to breathe.

Still trembling in its aftermath, I managed to struggle up, my head finally emerging from its blanket of skirts. Suddenly, I was tumbling sideways and landing in a sprawl of lace and pink taffeta at his feet again. He took a step away, dodging the delicate fabric as I ended on my backside, my fluff of a dress modestly covering all but a long line of sheer silk-covered legs and daisy-sprigged garters. A smile crossed his lips as he glimpsed the garters; the tips of his fingers met his nose and he inhaled deeply. The familiar bulge at his thigh seemed to lengthen. Just as suddenly, the smile faded and he glared down at me.

He watched me for another moment, and then he took a step backwards, pursed his lips and turned towards the door.

‘Let that be a lesson to you,’ he huffed. He did not look back as he stepped out into the corridor and pulled the door closed.

* * *

How had I come to be in such a predicament? I told myself that I had come merely to apologise for causing the last bottle of his favourite port to shatter. He’d been so crestfallen when it had crashed to the floor, and he’d been so terribly handsome when his full lips had made that astonished O, a dark lock of hair falling forwards as he glared down at the pool of ruby liquid. He’d looked up from the pieces of broken glass and frowned at me, a scowl that said I had deprived him of his final joy, but he quickly recovered his manners and turned away.

‘That was the last bottle! It cost more than a month of your wages,’ he had shouted rudely at the poor servant, who had immediately fallen to his knees and with a hastily retrieved napkin had begun to dab at the spreading stain on the carpet. ‘I shall take it out of your wages. Better yet, you are dismissed. I’m sure we can find someone who can get a bottle of wine from the cellar to the table without incident.’ The red-faced servant was still on his knees dabbing and carefully placing shards of green glass on a silver tray when his master had stormed out of the room.

I hadn’t wanted him to punish the servant, as the incident had been my fault. Seeking refuge from one of my more ardent suitors, I had stumbled upon the bridegroom as he sought a moment of privacy in a comfortable corner of the library. He was quite striking standing there before the fire, his arm resting on the mantel, his head lowered as though he sought a moment to revive his wits after the rigours of introductions to his prospective in-laws, of dancing with matrons and charming the family patriarch. I had witnessed his charm, his easy laughter, and how it drew others to him. In my haste to flee my wayward thoughts of the brooding gentleman, I had blindly collided with the tray-bearing footman. In order to avoid trampling me, the servant had sacrificed the port.

After assuring the shaken footman that I would placate his master, I’d gone in search of the angry bridegroom. I found the sombre gentleman sipping what appeared to be a whiskey, neat, in the solitude of an unused sitting room.

‘It was my fault, the wine,’ I stammered. ‘You mustn’t punish the footman.’

He took his time assessing me and then he smiled and nodded. ‘Would you care to take his licks?’

My damp hands grappled with the fabric of my skirts. I remembered the first time I’d seen him in Lady Latham’s garden. He’d had the young widow over his lap, her skirts rucked up around her waist, her bright pink bum in the air as his hand rose high and landed hard. I’d come bearing lemon scones, a particular favorite of Grace Latham’s. I wouldn’t say that she and I are friends, but we are neighbours and her conversation can be diverting. She and the bride are contemporaries and it was at one of Grace’s gatherings that the bride and groom were introduced. As I made my way through the back gardens, I had heard moaning, but nothing prepared me for the sight of the long-legged young man with his hand on Lady Latham’s naked bottom. Stunned, I tripped and fell on my backside, scattering scones. However, instead of fleeing, I had hidden, ducking behind the shrubbery to watch.

‘If it would save him from further punishment,’ I offered, wondering if he was teasing or being ironic. Then he sat up straighter, one palm splayed on the seat cushion of the armless settee, the other still holding his drink as he perused the length of me again before beckoning me towards him with a crooked finger. Taking one of my hands in his, he held it lightly as he placed his glass on the floor beneath the seat. Well, I had agreed to the punishment; what could I do? Before I could think twice, he had pulled me belly first across his lap and tossed up my skirts. After a cursory brush of warm fingers against warmer skin, he was spanking my bare bottom.

I was all at once appalled, frightened and, yes, titillated. Images flashed before me of Lady Latham’s rosy bottom, of her squirming on his lap, of the intense look on his face, of the way his tongue darted out to wet his lips as his hand fell. I wanted to see and feel what he would do next. Would he touch me as he touched her? How far would he take it? How far would I let him? I liked the feel of his huge hand as it splayed across my bottom. I liked the sting and release, the way it made the lips down there twitch. I wondered if he really punished his servants in this way – maybe the females. I wondered if they did things, spilled the gravy on his shirt or failed to keep the fireplace in his rooms lit, so he would call them to task. I couldn’t imagine him doing this to the footman. But I could imagine my hand on his bottom, firm and round. I might slap it lightly unless he begged me to make it harder. My hand would sting and grow warm, and the sounds of his groans would make me wet. When he’d finally mounted Lady Latham, I had watched the way his backside rose and fell, the way his sac swayed as it hung heavy between his thighs. I wanted to touch him then, to slide my hand over his smooth arse, to cup his sac, but I just held my breath and watched.

Maybe he’d chosen this method of punishment to humiliate me. Although my heart raced and, admittedly, I was a little frightened, I didn’t feel humiliated. I opened my legs slightly, just so, and hoped that he would touch me there, where I felt all wet and wanting. Even though I was certain that this was not the proper way to behave with one’s almost married host, I wanted to feel the slide of his fingers just so, just there, and he seemed willing to oblige. However, now he seemed truly angry, having left me crumpled on the floor without even offering me a hand up.

My bottom was still tingling and the flesh between my legs was aquiver as I clutched at an armchair for support, then stood and went about righting my clothing. He was an odd one, and I couldn’t help but smile, as I had enjoyed our little sport. I had no doubt that our brief tryst would remain a secret between the two of us, as the soon-to-be-wed groom would be as reticent as I. I, of course, wished him and my cousin Ethel the best. She’d been on the shelf for several years and had finally given in and decided to buy herself a husband, a very delectable one at that, tall, dark and with very large and powerful … hands, and a strong will. I had to commend his restraint, as I was quite tempted to throw caution to the wind and my legs in the air. Although I knew Ethel was never one to share, I hoped that there would be another opportunity to bare my bottom before her alluring fiancé. Meanwhile, I checked my face in the glass of a nearby watercolour, a still life of fresh fruit with bowl, fluffed my skirts and headed back into the fray of the engagement party.