Читать книгу The Blonde Samurai - Jina Bacarr - Страница 10

Mayfair, London

Six months later…

Since assuming my role as Lady Carlton, I have developed an intense dislike of the smell of freshly polished leather, the tangy odor rutting up my nostrils like tiny maggots eating away at my brain with their sorriest secrets.

His secrets. Women. Floggings. Tempestuous howls. As if the cheeky maid who caught his lordship’s eye relished the sensation of being skinned alive, a practice best served by a skilled master, according to a slim tome I found in the library called The Misadventures of Molly Pearlbottom.

Quite a bawdy read and one I recommend highly, a story that will instruct you in the delights of spankings and whippings, where Molly uses her role as a submissive to dominate her master to pleasure her. Confused? Read it and you’ll see what I mean. I can’t bring a book of that nature into my home, you insist. You bought my book, didn’t you? But that’s different, you say, you’re a member of the peerage, albeit tarnished around the edges with the venial sin of being Irish. I understand your concerns, dear lady reader, so I shall exercise my writing skills in hopes of re-creating a scene for you from the novel that will please you and make you swoon. You’re not a novelist, you sputter, smirking. What is a novel but a memoir with the names changed? I believe I’ve reached the point in my writing where you toss the rules out the window and follow your instinct (and your nose, if you’re writing a sex scene) and let it happen. So, in accordance with the memory of what I read on that stormy afternoon in Lord Penmore’s library with the steady sound of rain beating on the roof and moisture seeping between my thighs, and what I’ve since learned about the delicate art of bondage from a true master, I will re-create a chapter in the life of Molly Pearlbottom.

The licentious goings-on still make me sigh…

Molly Pearlbottom, daughter of the town vicar, had one aspiration in her young life: to be flogged by the dashing Lord of Malworth Hall. He was taller than any man she’d ever seen, and his world was one of aristocrats and power, strappings and aggression, strength and domination. Every time she walked by the great manor house, she daydreamed about being bound and nude before his approving eye, then wrote about it in her curly handwriting in her copybook. All the other girls in the village had received their share of whippings and spankings by the roguish lord, who dutifully followed the family tradition of all the lairds before him. Every third Wednesday of the month, precisely at noon, he chose a willing recipient of his silver-handled, blue riding crop from all the girls who lined up under the great oak tree on top of the hill. Dropping their drawers and turning their bare backsides toward him, they all wondered, Who would be the lucky lass today? Her ivory-smooth bottom smarting from delicate pink welts rising up on her skin like fresh blossoms, her flesh quivering with delight, her squeals and whimpers signaling a secret code of pleasure?

Not Molly. Her father kept her so busy on Wednesday afternoons washing down the rectory with soap, a brush and a pail of water, she never had the chance to find out. Fervent, irrational, her father allowed her no leeway, overwhelming her with chores. She had no opportunity to assuage her hunger for whippings and the pursuit of her secret pleasure.

Until today.

The Honorable Horace Pearlbottom had been called away from his vicarage to London in light of a fiscal emergency (funds liberated from the church bank account for a new organ that never materialized had not struck the right chord with the church elders) and he had not yet returned, sending Molly into a gleeful tizzy. Today was the third Wednesday of the month…

…and so it was this innocent found herself bound and tied to iron rings embedded in the hard belly of the towering oak, nude except for her Sunday blue bonnet, white stockings and garters, the Lord of Malworth Hall about to take a crop to her virginal arse.

Molly shivered, the riding crop making a sharp sound when it cut through the air, tantalizing her with its whispered promise of pleasure, her nervous expectation heightening the experience. She stood waiting, waiting, hot juices flowing from her sex and down her thighs and dribbling onto her best stockings. She gave it no further thought, for a girl couldn’t wear anything but her best to be pleasured by his lordship. She licked her lips, dry and cracked, her mouth parched and tasting like rotting peaches, sweet and sour at the same time. Her wrists hurt from the tight bindings and she was losing sensation in her arms pulled straight above her head, as if the nerves in her armpits were so taut they experienced a numbing effect.

Closing her eyes, shuddering with an emotion she could only describe as blissful anticipation, her sensual need blurring with a taste of fear, she heard the crop find its mark, strike with full force it did, the sound filling her ears, but where? When she wiggled her arse, she experienced no pleasure, no excitement, no dubious badge of honor stamped upon her buttocks. Nothing.

“Here,girl, stick out your arse more so I can reach you,” his lordship bellowed, his tremulous voice exciting her. “Without delay!”

“Y-y-yes, milord.” Molly poked her backside outward in a most ungainly manner, releasing gas as she did so, her embarrassment at letting go like that in an unladylike pose replaced by her pent-up need for deviant pleasure. What was he waiting for? She’d longed for this moment, dreamed of it, the heat of her excitement filling her neck and face when she doodled in her book, drawing a female stick figure bent over and receiving the ultimate kiss of fire over and over again…

She couldn’t stop a sudden shiver announcing her imminent expectation of the crop finding its mark this time.

His next stroke landed before she could swallow, making her choke on her saliva. But it was a sublime pleasure, she had to admit, panting, her need building to a higher peak. Her loud, guttural sounds inflamed the lord’s passion for his work. A rawness in her produced a flow of sweat on her body that made her naked buttocks shine with an illumination as if a regal white halo circled her arse. She heard his lordship uttering with amazement the number of strokes falling on her behind with an even regularity.

“…eight, nine, ten, eleven…” he counted as she settled into the rhythm of the whipping, the white heat emitting from the crop branding her pearl-white bottom with the pleasure she craved.

It was no wonder she let go with a loud, frustrated groan when he stopped before her twitching pussy had found its release, the wildly burning sensations making her belly full and heavy and bringing her back to the edge. She clenched her teeth, trying to hold on to the pleasurable sensations, begging him for more. Silence. What was happening? It was as quiet as an empty pew on a church holiday. She opened her eyes and turned her head, praying he hadn’t deserted her, when the next stroke found her hungry arse and sent her back up the spiral, laughing and gushing with joy.

“Yes, yes,” she groaned without shame. “More…more.”

Dear, sweet Molly, the vicar’s daughter, got her wish. His lordship laid one, two, three quick strokes upon her red-streaked buttocks, hot and fiery, the tip of his crop striking the crack between her cheeks and sending her into wild abandon, her sweet juices oozing down her stockinged legs. She never heard the sweat-soaked lord pause for a breath as he continued his strokes, her cries of want turning into a crashing cacophony of wails and screams as she reached the height of an orgasm that never seemed to dissipate. And why should it? she asked herself as the laird’s strokes continued until he pulled every quiver, every spasm from her hungry pussy. No matter what happened, she must find a way to take her place under the old oak tree as often as possible. But how?

“I’ve never seen a lass take to the crop with so much enthusiasm,” his lordship said, soothing her red bottom with soft caresses after he’d released her, then he surprised her by taking off her bonnet and stroking her hair as if it were soft velvet, running his fingers through it with a careful and loving touch. “Why have you not come to me before?”

“My father, the vicar, keeps me busy on Wednesday afternoons.” She mewled softly, snuggling her body closer to him. She wanted to hold on to this moment and never let it go.

“A pity, my fair Molly, for I’d like to see you quiver again under the stroke of my crop.” He sighed. “But I cannot go against the vicar’s wishes.”

“If I may be so bold, milord,” she began, thinking.

“What is on your mind, Molly?” he asked, turning her face to his and studying her eyes beaming with excitement.

“Since you’re the laird of the land, why not start a new tradition?” she asked, giving him but a moment to think it over before she pressed onward. “Shall we say, every Thursday at three in the afternoon?” She twisted her body to show him her lovely bottom crisscrossed with red welts, then wiggled, making him take in his breath. “I’m finished with my chores then.”

He smiled. “Thursday it is, Molly, just for you, and don’t be late, for I’ll be bringing a surprise for you. Now, spread your buttock cheeks, girl, and show me your arse hole.” He unbuttoned his silk breeches the color of a ripe plum and out popped the biggest cock she’d ever seen, not that she’d seen many, but she was sure his was the biggest. “I’ve got something here I know you’ll like.”

Molly did as he asked, a smile on her lips and a new feeling of independence surging in her soul as he mixed her juices with a rose-scented oil, his fingers gently massaging her puckered entrance before he slid his cock into her, stretching her anal hole with a deliberate slowness. She groaned, but she didn’t complain. How could she? She, Molly Pearlbottom, the vicar’s daughter, was as happy as a nectar-filled flower being sipped by a hummingbird, her bottom dewy and tinted pink, her eyes glowing and a naughty, curious voice inside her wondering what that surprise could be…

I can’t reveal the rest of the tale without spoiling it for you, but I assure you I found books like this and others in Lord Penmore’s library. I admit I embellished the scene with a new ending, giving Molly the upper hand with his lordship. I predict that someday you, yes, you, dear lady reader, will have the opportunity to read such stories about empowered females.

Until then, you shall have to make do with your imagination as I did, evoking speculation as to what went on in that padded room in the London town house. A girl tied to a cross, struggling with feigned distress and teasing his lordship with her tongue circling her lips. Or James strutting around the room cracking a single-tail whip, his willing victim bent over, her arse quivering with anticipation. Not to mention my husband orchestrating the regal decadence of a hot wax scene, the gummy residue trailing an elaborate pattern around the girl’s nude breasts and hardening on her taut brown nipples. I prayed it was not the melted wax of votive candles, such unholy thoughts grabbing me and not letting go.

Were these scenes conjured up by my starved libido? Or demon nightmares of flesh and blood? That is for you to decide, dear lady reader. I spin these tales not merely to tantalize you, but to give you heed as to what may be going on under the confines of your own roof. I beg you to confront your husband if you believe ’tis so. Then again, you may wish to participate…

Though I was not acquainted with what other depravities went on in the upstairs back room, his lordship devised a clever method to let me know when his private hell was in session. The smell of turpentine, beeswax and charcoal powder, along with other smells I couldn’t identify, permeated the air. I couldn’t help but inhale the arousing odor when I went searching for a new book to read in the library, the fancy of my imagination overpowering my need for literature when I rustled my silk skirt and pearl-embroidered petticoats up the stairs. I would grab a book without more than a glance at its title then pretend to look through it, while inside I discarded the idea of reading as a way to soothe my hunger and focused instead on the illuminating power of smell to satisfy my lust. I would inhale the pungent odor and imagine a bundle of twigs tied together with crisp blue ribbons taken from my hair and wielded by a tall man with shoulders the breadth of an ancient Spartan and dressed in black from head to toe. In my daydream, I lifted up my skirts and turned my bare backside to him, my white stockings held up by blue garters, my quivering flesh covered in quick succession with crimson stripes from the striking of the rods, blow following blow, and groaning gave in to more groans.

I grew so accustomed to the scent of fresh black polish, quite distinct it was, that my capacity to ignore it barely diminished. On the contrary, the vitriolic odor awakened a dark side of my personality I had previously left hovering in that limbo part of my mind that existed between dreaming and doing.

Would I enjoy the reality of a whipping as much as the fantasy? I often wondered. I couldn’t answer. I was either going mad or I was a fool to deny my husband access to my bed. Or my bottom.

Much to my surprise, Lord Carlton kept to his promise to keep his hands off me, but he fancied tormenting me with a constant fluctuation of upstairs maids with more than a willing backside to please him. Chaste with their speech and their manners when I was within earshot, giggling and flirty, they skirted past me, keeping their eyes down, reminding me of aberrant schoolgirls begging the headmaster for a strapping.

Distraught as I was by this uncomfortable situation, I was also curious. To relieve the itch in my mind as well as on my behind, I sought the confidence of the maid, Lucie, inquiring as to why the household help changed so frequently. I wondered if she would open up to me, but I needn’t have worried. The young woman was eager to expound at length on the indiscretions in this house, including the wicked games played by its inhabitants (such as Blind Man in the Buff and French Licking), and making me promise not to say anything to Campbell, the housekeeper.

I assured her I wouldn’t, and oh what tales she told me! About canings alternating with whippings, nipples pierced with gold rings, pony games astride nude girls. And masked evenings when the master of the house, Lord Penmore, drizzled his most expensive cognac over the bare buttocks of a girl tied to a post, then dipped his fingers in the liqueur and lit them on fire. The alcohol on his skin burned off quickly, she told me, when he ran his fingers over the girl’s naked backside, the flames skimming over her skin and disappearing faster than a maiden’s sigh.

Take a moment, dear lady reader, to compose yourself as I must do.

Feel better now? Did you…? Of course you didn’t. Ladies don’t do such things, you’ve been taught, but if you dare to question your physician about a common thread woven into the fabric of our femininity, I daresay he’ll tell you it’s not uncommon for him to find milady’s hairpin stuck in her vulva. Yes, I’m talking about masturbation. Will you continue reading if I tell you I discovered my own vices to seek pleasure? I am aware ’tis a sin by the holy sisters, but the church and I have been on shaky ground since the night I denied my husband his connubial rights. So you can imagine how delighted I was to find illicit tomes in the library that alluded to mysterious items known as olisbos depicted on vase paintings in ancient Greece. These drawings of dildos left nothing to a woman’s imagination. Further investigation revealed these charming toys came from the magic of a shoemaker’s hand, his skill molding the wood then covering it with finely stitched padded leather.

Since I knew of no shoemaker in London who possessed such talent, I relied upon my own culinary skills with the vegetable variety. Unfortunately I found them messy, ill fitting and difficult to procure out of season (unless I was able to locate a greenhouse that cultivated various Mesopotamian delights). I must admit, that with the help of a natural implement, I reached orgasm in less time than it took to brew a proper cup of tea, something I’ve learned to appreciate on cold English mornings. It was the cold English nights that left me fretting about on my bedsheets, a rising heat making me perspire despite the chill, a need to capture intimacy in my life even if it wasn’t with a man (taking a female lover wasn’t practical since I could trust no one in my social circle. Not even you, dear lady reader).

I amused myself by adapting the principles of a children’s game and devising a word square with the various Latin words for clitoris: virga (twig), mania (madness), dulcedo amoris (sweetness of love), tentigo (lust) and more. When I ran out of Latin words, I went in search of another dictionary and, to my delight, I found a discarded dildo in the spanking room. (I admit, the door was open and I peeked inside.) After making sure the snoopy housekeeper wasn’t watching me, I hid it under my skirts and took it back to my rooms. I was tempted to make use of it in the privacy of my boudoir, burying my loneliness under layers of silken sheets while allowing my unabated curiosity free rein to insert it inside me and feel its heat radiating through me. I’m sorry to say that after inspecting the dildo at a closer range, I returned it. It became apparent to me no amount of washing or scrubbing could purify away the lingering scent of its previous owner.

I didn’t let that stop me from continuing my search for self-gratification and from imagining what delights such an implement could bring to me. A pleasure so exquisite that a secret longing deep in my belly made me shiver with anticipation. That indefinable hunger drove me to explore other means to find satisfaction, though I hesitate to share it with you if you’ve turned pale and are experiencing indigestion because of the indelicate subject matter. Skip over these next few pages if you must, but I’ll not deny these enticing thoughts ran through my mind on many a lonely day.

Such as today. Desiring not to be disturbed, I closed the curtains and locked the door to my rooms before I opened the polished wooden box lined with red velvet. Sitting next to my china ring stand shaped like a tiny tree with willowy branches, the dark walnut box held the jewels James had given me on our wedding day, as propriety dictated. Family heirlooms including a garnet necklace surrounded by stars, a diamond brooch with a large ruby in the center and a turquoise bracelet set off with diamonds. Cold stones given with a cold heart.

The box contained another jewel. One I enjoyed wearing above all others. Sleek, round and bulbous. The energy oozing from it when I slipped it inside me awakened my soul with a gentle vibration I could only describe as magic.

My dildo.

Tempering my need for physical release with practicality, a fortnight ago I decided to forgo my embarrassment regarding my predicament and embarked on a secret shopping trip. Armed with an address I found scribbled in the back of a gentleman’s magazine I removed from the town house library, I sought out a certain shop on Holywell Street not far from Waterloo Bridge. A seedy establishment selling pornographic pamphlets as well as male enhancements and sexual aids. There I found the perfect item to assuage my hunger.

A dildo made of rubber with the wistful moniker the Widow’s Comforter.

Taking it home wrapped in plain brown paper, I made quick use of it, its shape and size becoming as familiar to me as a lover’s touch. So it was no surprise I found need of its heated comfort on this cold February morning. I caressed its tip nestled among the jewels, warming it with my fingertips. Then I sucked in my breath, begging my body not to betray me with a sudden rush of heat to my pubic region. Tightly laced and sweating, I couldn’t hold back my need any longer. I gave in to temptation, seeking the solace of the secret shadowy space behind the pearl-inlayed dressing screen in my bedroom. Hiking up my skirts, the rustling whispers of silk filling my ears with enchantment, I found the slit in my pantaloons and slid the love instrument inside me, my body closing around its rubbery thickness. With familiar dexterity, I guided the shaft in and out of me in time to a silent rhythm in my head. I groaned, pressing the dildo against the walls of my throbbing flesh hot with my juices again and again. Moving my hips, my musings became so strong I couldn’t stop myself. My breath quickened, my muscles deep inside me contracted, holding tight around the illusion of a hard penis inside me, begging for that delicious instant of release. If you’ve indulged in such an activity then you were rewarded as I was with powerful, gut-wrenching orgasms. Lingering for what seemed like hours, days, my pubic muscles experiencing the most delicious spasms…

But the satisfaction I found was not to last. After two weeks of errant use, the lack of an emotional connection became so unappealing to me I considered taking a lover. I immediately tossed the idea into the rubbish. No doubt such an affair would be discovered, since the household staff here and at Braystone House amuse themselves by spying at us through holes bored through the wainscoting on walls and solid mahogany doors. (If you don’t believe me, check your walls and doors before you indulge in a tryst when your husband is out of town.) I’ve heard many servants line their pockets with guineas by becoming “witnesses” in adultery trials, acting out what they’ve seen for the judge, complete with moans and compromising positions. Within days, the whole sordid mess is published in scandal sheets and licentious gentleman’s magazines.

I shivered at the thought. I relished my privacy, not to mention how distasteful the idea was of shaming my family with so thoroughly a bourgeois faux pas. Social mores notwithstanding, I harbored a deep-seated resentment that while my husband indulged in appeasing his salacious sexual appetite, I remained sensually starved. It was disconcerting at best to believe I would spend the rest of my life writhing under the probing of my own fingers and nothing more. Sometimes my craving for the connection of flesh on flesh was so daunting, I pulled up my chemise and cupped the firmness of my breasts in my hands, rubbed my nipples and stroked the tender skin on the insides of my thighs. I wanted so to be touched, caressed, anything over the cold deadness of the rubber phallus.

I sought an outlet for my loneliness and found it in the world of society, where I exuded a flaunting of ego I found so satisfying. At home, I was the girl with the empty dance card, my views scoffed at, my mind ignored. Here in London I was Lady Carlton, a member of the peerage, albeit through marriage, who could trace their lineage back to the first duke of Braystone. He was a brave ancestor of my husband who distinguished himself in battle with King Charles II, then fought alongside his sovereign on an expedition to Scotland, where he sacrificed his own life so Charles could escape.

Unfortunately, my husband, James, possessed none of the valor of his forebear nor the nihilistic intolerance for the wrongs done to humankind. He had no principles I was aware of and swayed so far from the model of moral rectitude, I dared not challenge him for fear of reprisal of a salacious nature. Yet in spite of or because of his failings—I’m not sure which—he entertained a lively and fashionable existence in London drawing rooms and clubs.

Which meant I was also included in the invitations.

What can I say? I reveled in the glitter and elegance, the youthful splendor, the gaiety, the daring subterfuge, the arts and the opera. I forged my path with aristocratic arrogance and made a place for myself in British society. And that included fashion. I’ve always loved color and developed a sense of how to use its pure, uncomplicated beauty to enhance what I saw as my shortcomings: my tall body and long face. I used simple diagonal lines in the clothes I wore to create an illusion of prettiness, draping myself in hues of rose, apricot and blue to create the illusion of a creature beautiful and mysterious.

I nurtured my instinctual attraction to lace and silk with frequent trips to the House of Worth in Paris, as well as art galleries and museums, to achieve a new level of refined smartness. My unique sense of taste and fashion matured like a ripening fruit, my raw talent at the core sweetening my outer skin with a prettiness I’d never felt before, whether I was tipping my ivory lace parasol at a cocky angle while flirting with Lord—at a garden party or slipping on my third pair of lamb-white kid gloves since morning before sitting down to afternoon tea at Brown’s with the duchess of—.

This new courage I found meant I could assert myself, flaunt my skill at repartee, show off my knowledge of world politics and play the game as the men did. I was a notable player in this milieu of the high-society hostess.

And I had no intention of giving it up.