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Divorce?
I mention it here should the curious idea have crossed your mind, albeit ’twas not a practical one for a girl in my situation. British law dictated that I could only obtain a divorce from James by proving he performed some bestial act such as cruelty upon my person (calling the two prostitutes as witnesses was not an option since their livelihood would shrink considerably if they testified against his lordship in an open court). He, on the other hand, could divorce me simply for the act of adultery. I had to think of something else, but what?
“I demand you stop this display of power, James,” I said, stalling him with a steady but weakening voice that threatened to betray me. God, now he was teasing me with gentle stroking between my thighs. When would he stop? “Or I shall scream for help.”
“And who do you think will come to your assistance, milady?” he said in a mocking tone. He leaned closer, the smell of a fragrant liqueur on his breath scenting his words with a menace I dared not ignore. “The room is soundproof and the servants are used to such goings-on.”
I ignored his remark. “I imagine that is Lord Penmore’s best cognac I smell on your breath.”
He laughed at my impudence. “And this is his favorite crop.” He raised his arm in a long arc, his handsome face gleaming with sweat, his dark hair matted and wet and sticking to his forehead and cheekbones. “The moment is at hand, my dear wife. Before I take you to my bed, I shall tantalize you with a most erotic stimulant upon your beautiful breasts—”
“Release me, James—” I demanded. No matter how aroused I was by the crop, I refused to allow him to dominate me in a situation where I had no say in the matter.
“And end our little game?” he taunted me. “I intend to enjoy myself as I watch you squirm—”
The hiss of the flogger cutting through the air chilled me as the implement struck the wooden table with such force splinters of wood bounced upward and landed on my breasts, stinging my bare flesh and making me jump. Seeing my reaction, he threw his head back and laughed, then raised his arm again, taking aim at my nipples, hard and taut and quivering.
“I won’t miss this time,” he vowed.
“You wouldn’t dare,” I yelled, my breath becoming erratic. He wouldn’t stripe my nude flesh pink then rip my maidenhead from me with such cold audacity, would he? “If you do, I swear I shall faint—”
Yes, I said it. After all my preaching about the silly, inane things aristocratic ladies do to keep their noses out of undesirable, odorous places, I had succumbed to the same devices and uttered a weak, feigned excuse. What choice did I have? I’d married a man devoid of any sense of propriety.
“You give me cause to think, milady,” he said, smirking. “You should be primed with a whipping to stimulate your sexual juices, but I wouldn’t wish my bride to have a case of the vapors before I can pleasure her with my cock.”
“It’s about time you came to your senses,” I muttered, relieved. “And stopped playing this deviant game.”
“Who said the game was over?” He put down the flogger, allowing me to slow down my breathing for a precious few seconds before he slid his hand down my belly, covering my pubic region with a protective caress, then rubbing me with a sensual touch. I groaned. I couldn’t stop myself. “You will find I am a man who covets his bridegroom privileges with great ardor,” he continued, then he grabbed the soft flesh of my pubic mound and squeezed it, ripping the buttons off my pantaloons and finding his way inside me, his fingers probing me, looking for what I imagined was proof of my virgo intacta, that fold of mucus membrane yet unbroken by a man’s cock. Or had my robust riding upon a steed already done the job?
I’ve no doubt there are those among you who have sworn to your husband that vigorous exercise was the culprit when he thrust into you on your wedding night and found no obstacle on his path to marital joy. Was it the handsome young lord with no yearly stipend? Or your groom with the strong, muscular body, or the foreign gentleman with the charming accent? I make no judgment upon you. Whoever he was, I’ve no doubt you were young and in love. I have since learned the uncontrollable power of such a physical love, the driving need for touch, smell, taste and penetration with a beloved, how impossible it is to stop it, thinking about how much you crave it, the gnawing inside you that hurts so much you can’t control yourself when his fingertips touch your cheek or brush your lips.
But I was, at this moment, still a virgin and untouched by any man. I have nothing to gain here by delivering an untruth to you. Still, I prayed my virginity was intact, for a wild idea was forming in my brain, a way to save my virtue and my pride. But without proof of my purity, I had nothing to bargain with, for his lordship had made a contract for a virgin and I feared more wrath from him if he didn’t believe me untouched.
“Release me, James, now,” I said with more insistence than before. “Or there shall be hell to pay.” I struggled to force apart the leather restraints that fastened me to the table, turning my body from side to side while each prostitute held an ankle, spewing lewd expletives at me and keeping my legs spread apart.
“Keep still,” he ordered, paying no attention to my plea and pushing deeper inside me with his two fingers, exploring me, making me gasp, then he smiled. “So you are a virgin.” Was he playing a game or did he really know? He withdrew his fingers and sniffed the honeyed smell off the fleshy pads, then waved his fingers under my nose. The strong scent of my desire hit my nostrils, making me gasp. “But not for long,” he finished.
I have no doubt my cheeks flushed as red as the girl’s corset, creeping down the side of my face to my jaw then down my neck, not with embarrassment but shame. My husband intended to rape me and he believed me helpless to stop him. Damn if I’d allow him to perform such an odious act upon me. I must put forth my proposition now.
“If you violate me, James,” I said quickly, “I shall go to my father and tell him everything.”
He laughed. “What ridiculous plan is hatching in that small female brain of yours?” he said, the curiosity in his voice pressing me to speak further.
“I shall tell him about the prostitutes,” I said, ignoring his insult. He would pay for that dearly. “As well as the whippings and floggers and other instruments of domination, everything that takes place in this room. I’ve no doubt my father will break our marriage contract and withdraw any funds he’s already given you then cut off your line of credit at the banks.” I spoke in a rapid pace without taking a breath, my flippant remarks a way for me to cover up my embarrassment and bruised ego. Even as I said the words, I harbored a deep hope that my husband retained feelings for me, feelings that he would show me in a time of duress. I was hungry for his affection. A tender stroke on the cheek, a lingering look into my eyes, a brush of his lips with mine. Simple things, but so important to me.
I saw nothing but a cold look in his clear blue eyes. I shivered.
“You’ll get nothing from me,” I said, attempting to keep up my act without my voice cracking, “do you hear, nothing.”
Lord Carlton pulled back, thinking about what I’d said, then motioned for the two prostitutes to exit the room and leave us alone. Snickering and complaining, the two girls did as they were told, giving me a moment to contemplate where the situation would lead. Hard to believe that before tonight I had made the mistake of imagining my life with him down to the last detail, describing him to my female self in the most glowing terms, giving him attributes no man could possibly attain. In doing so, my fabricated lover overshadowed the man, swallowing him up in my subconscious. Signs of his infidelity were always there—his wayward glances at other women (perhaps even you, dear lady reader), his lips brushing the skin of my soft gloves but not the heated skin of my palm, never asking my father if he could be alone with me. I didn’t see him as he was until now.
I prayed his love of women and drink and the life of a bon vivant were more important to him than fucking his bride. Yes, I said f—Wait, don’t close the book, then pout because I spoke so freely. It’s women like you who perpetrate the whole idea of sex as something indecent. Open your eyes and understand that I use the vulgar word with no excuse, for that’s what his lordship had in mind. Fucking. Any girlhood illusion I had about the debonair lord I had married vanished. The man I had perceived to have a great wit had proven he had no honor, was debauched but so charming he could tempt a sister of the cloth to denounce her savior. All my romantic ideas were gone. Shattered like a beveled-glass mirror and broken into so many pieces no illusion remained. I was a fool to believe our marriage was different, that I could change the behavior of a man from the upper class, a class that thrived on infidelity in an aristocratic society. I had been warned that in my new position it was expected that I would ignore James’s indiscretions, as I’m certain you do those of your husband. I couldn’t. I was in a state of excitement on my wedding night and believed I could make him become the man I thought I’d married by threatening to leave him. Foolish on my part, but that’s how it was. I threw myself into a panic, knowing this was my moment to bargain with his lordship regarding the intimate details of our marriage contract, a contract that allowed no pleasure for a wife. I hadn’t wanted to believe my life would follow such due course. I became aware that I would proceed at my own peril.
“If I permit you to return to your rooms without being pleasured by my cock,” Lord Carlton said finally, his voice even, “I shall have your word we will continue to live as man and wife?”
“Yes, milord. In all matters except in the bedroom.” I hated making a pact with him, a dirty, vile agreement based on his lust and my temerity, but I had no choice. The scandal of an annulment would cause my mother such grief I couldn’t bear it. My marriage to Lord Carlton and entrée into British society meant everything to her. Though I didn’t approve of my mother’s brashness, I understood her hunger for the finer things in life. Reared in poverty, Ida O’Roarke didn’t have a pair of shoes to wear on her scarred feet until she was seven. Now she owned a hundred pairs made of the finest Italian leather.
No wonder my mother put an end to the heated whispers and snickers when she took her seat in the bridal pew at my wedding. Head held high, she stared them down until they turned away, shamed by her strength and fortitude. No doubt the rumors of an O’Roarke indiscretion had followed us across the Atlantic after my younger sister, Elva, found herself with child after lessons of another sort from her French fencing master. I knew it bothered my mother even if she didn’t show it. She couldn’t bear up under more aspersions cast upon us.
Such a scandal célèbre would also have far-reaching repercussions on my father. He had such great hopes for his business ventures in the Orient with the opening up of Japan to the West. It was no secret that companies from the United States hadn’t been able to catch up to the British in forging their part of the Yokohama trade. Many nights I’d listen to Da lamenting to his cronies about how American merchants eked out a tenth of the Japanese imports compared to the British. My marriage to a titled Englishman had assured him of the entrée he needed to compete in this exciting new commercial venture.
A surge of hope raced through me. His lordship had also done me a great service. I was now Lady Carlton and as such, I was included in the dalliances and nuances of British society. I sensed a new arena would open up to me as an intimate member of the royal set, where I could speak my mind without being rebuffed, where I could meet famed personages and learn from them, where I could delve into politics and the arts and explore them without fear of reprisal. Something I couldn’t do in New York because we were considered nouveau riche and were not invited to society soirees.
Tense, I prayed my line of reasoning would keep my husband from violating me. Whatever his choice, I must remain strong. It wouldn’t be easy to recover from such a sexual betrayal of my innocence, but I must if I were to survive. If I couldn’t give completely of myself to a man, my heart, my soul, I wanted no man—
Until I met Shintaro. Then I couldn’t get enough of his masculine sexual energy, him stroking me, licking me, touching the back of my neck with his strong hands, coddling my breasts, rubbing my nipples, nuzzling my belly, slapping my buttocks, thrusting into me…his heavy breathing, his sensual grunting expressing his pleasure, though it took many months for him to reveal his spirit to me, his hopes, his dreams. For the way of the warrior demanded he keep those feelings hidden, though at times I’d see them flicker in his brooding black eyes when he looked at me, like an elusive wind blowing restlessly in the dark recesses of his samurai soul.
I couldn’t stop breathing hard, panting. But that part of my story must wait until that enchanted time when the samurai and a maiden chanced to find each other in a hidden valley in the land of the shoguns. First, being a part of this world was something I wanted, wanted it dearly, and it all hung on the next few words tripping off the tongue of my husband, Lord Carlton.
I shivered, though the heat from our bodies dripping with sweat from arousal and need warmed the room with intensity. He raised his eyebrows and snorted, as if spewing fire from his nose announced he was in control of my fate. Finally he loosened the bindings holding me down.
“You’ve won, my dear wife,” he said coldly. “For now.”
Then he left me to revel in my triumph. Alone.
I lay back as the leather restraints fell from my wrists, the sudden relief coursing through me and making me lose control of my pubic muscles and bringing me the pleasure I had fought so hard to repress. I didn’t try to stop it when the tension in my lower body reached a crescendo, experiencing spasmodic contortions. I thrust out my belly, rocking my hips and buttocks as I writhed from the probing of phantom fingers pleasuring me…
Arms aching, chills making me shiver, I pulled myself to my feet, fighting back nausea and the light-headedness that seemed to overwhelm me as I dragged myself back to my rooms. I opened the door and was nearly inside when I heard my husband’s voice beckoning the two prostitutes to rejoin him. Giggling, squealing and the sound of the flogger hitting its fleshy mark echoed in the hallway. I turned and to my relief, no one followed me.
My emotions spent, I collapsed atop the pure white eiderdown and sank into its virginal folds, then wiped the sweat from between my breasts with the torn silk of my wrapper, the fine threads unraveling between my fingers. I had seen a new side of my husband tonight, one that disturbed me. James was impetuous, disquieting, illusive, and I sensed a desperate need within him to assert himself upon women.
Yes, I had won, but how long would he keep his end of the bargain?
I didn’t trust him, but one thing I knew for certain: I wouldn’t allow him to dominate me, mentally or physically. From this moment on, whatever unpleasantness I might experience with my husband, whatever actions he might take to rouse my emotions or disturb my sense of reasoning, I would fight back.
I would endure.
3
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?”