A Courtesan’s Guide to Getting Your Man (30 page)

Once I had given tentative agreement for the excursion, Lord B
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informed me with a smile that it was a particular kind of party. “It is a bacchanal,” he said languidly as he teased my nipples. We lay entangled in my great copper bath and I had just given him a quick release with my soap-slicked hands. I still tingled with unfulfilled arousal and his relentless tweaking of my nipples was making it worse by the moment.

Then his words penetrated, though nothing else had. I raised my head from his damp chest and looked into his gleaming blue eyes. It could be difficult to ascertain his seriousness sometimes. Or his sincerity. He was a slippery fellow, bathing or clothed.

“An orgy?” I had never attended an orgy. That wasn’t Robert’s style of entertainment. I imagined piles of sweating, gleaming bodies, men and women touching and kissing and sucking and fucking in a great heaving mass of lust and wickedness. Men with men, women with women, watching and being watched.

I wanted to be bad. This would be bad, indeed.

“You like that, do you, you dirty thing?” Lord B
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’s fingertips tightened harshly on my nipples. I took the pain, writhing against him, riding the pulse of fear I felt when his darkness rose thus in him. It excited and alarmed me at once, flooding my body with sensation, stilling those unwanted thoughts in my mind, thoughts of friends lost and pledges broken.

“Yes,” I breathed. “I like it.”

“What do you like?” His voice went deep and harsh. “Tell me.”

This was something I had learned from this man. Sir had taught me to use all the words without shame. Lord B
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had taught me to use the words for arousal itself. Speaking them and hearing them added a wicked layer to our pleasure that I had not known before. I took a breath to speak. Before I could say anything, I felt him slide his soap-slicked fingers down between my buttocks. When he pressed the tips of two fingers to my anus, I shivered. Lord B
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wanted to take me there most of all. He told me that often as I sucked him, that one day he would soap his cock and spread my buttocks and let the tightness of my anus wring the cream from his cock.

At first the idea had appalled me, but as he slowly circled my sensitive anus with his slippery fingertips, I felt my arousal increase. He pressed a single finger deeper.

“Tell me,” he urged. He twisted that fingertip.

I gasped and began. “I want to watch,” I confessed. “I want to be watched.”

He laughed, a deep rumble against my cheek. “You enjoy making a spectacle of yourself, I know that much. Shall I fuck you in the center of the ballroom, take you on the floor like a bitch in heat, while all eyes watch you whimper and cry as you come?”

The image made me shiver. “Would that really happen? Is it truly that sort of party?”

He probed me more deeply, using his fingertip like a small cock, thrusting in and out. “You tell me, wicked Ophelia. Tell me how it will be.”

I closed my eyes and clung to him, hiding my hot face against his chest. I could not shock this man. I could not repel him. I opened up the darkest chamber of my rather extensive imagination and said the words aloud. “You will bind me,” I whispered. “You will tie my hands and then lead me to the center of the crowd.”

With his other hand he continued to twist at my nipples. The sensations from both directions drove me more deeply into the picture in my mind. “You will rip my clothes from my body and display me for everyone’s eyes.”

I felt his cock rising again, pressing hard to my belly, though I had recently wrung him dry. He liked the image I painted, and that knowledge made me braver still. “While they watch, you will press me down to my knees and remove your rigid cock from your trousers.”

He tilted his pelvis, pressing his erection against me, sliding it against my soapy skin. “You will open your mouth, before all their eyes, and take my cock deep into your throat.” His hand left my nipples and moved lower.

I wrapped my arms about his neck and pulled myself higher against him, until his questing fingers could find my cunte. All the while, his slippery penetration of my anus had never halted. Now his finger was thrusting up to the second knuckle, fucking in and out slowly and relentlessly. When his other hand began the same process to my cunte, I gasped and shuddered, pressing my body hard against his.

“You will be my little harem slave,” he went on, sounding a bit breathless himself. “You will service me while they all watch. I will bury my hands in your hair and drive my cock deep, then pull it wet and slippery from your lips, only to do it all again. Your hands will be bound behind you and your beautiful breasts will bounce from the force of my thrusts.”

I could see it, just as he described it. “You will be huge in my mouth. So big I will not be able to take it all.”

His fingers quickened. Two long fingers now fucked my cunte and I felt another slippery finger ease its way into my anus. He had never penetrated me so, but he had told me that he wanted to train my anus to take his cock someday. I knew what he was doing.

I made no protest.

Instead, I lost myself in the story. “I need to be fucked,” I moaned. “In front of the crowd. Pull your wet, slippery cock from my mouth and push me to the floor.”

“On your back or on your face?” he gasped, sliding his cock faster and faster against my soapy belly.

I shuddered. “Facedown,” I whispered. “Facedown with my bare breasts on the cold marble and my buttocks high in the air, my hands bound behind my back.”

“Yes,” he breathed. “Your hair is loose and wild and it hides your face. All gazes are riveted to your beautiful bottom, bare and inviting. I want to spank that bottom, to leave the shape of my hand pink and angry on your ivory skin.”

“Yes!” I panted. “Oh yes!” I was impaled now, two fingers deep before, two fingers deep behind. I had never felt such a thing before. He began to thrust them in unison now, harder and faster until the force of it slid me up and down his big body, the pressure of my slippery body satisfying his rigid cock at the same time.

“I will fuck you there, my hot little bitch, in front of everyone! I will take you hard and fast until you come, quivering and begging and weeping in your release. The world will see you come for me!”

I came for him, then and there, my cunte contracting tightly against his invading fingers, my mouth gasping my release into his neck even as his cock spurted hot and throbbing against my belly. I clung to him, shivering at the power of those dark and disturbing words to bring me to such pleasure.

That and his hands—his relentless hands, with daring fingers and shameless invasion tactics—sweet heaven, how I responded to those clever, wicked hands!

After those hands, perhaps I feared that I might not survive an intimate encounter with his cock.

*   *   *

When our breathing had eased, I remained where I was, my face hidden against his neck. Though the water was chilling rapidly, I had no wish to open my eyes. I held very still as he slid his fingers from my cunte and then, more slowly, from my anus.

“I believe,” he said meditatively, “that we shall be needing another bath.”

Oh God. Hot embarrassment flooded my face. My confession and my response had shocked me, never mind him!

“Ophelia, my little harem girl, why do you cling like a limpet from the sea?”

I clenched my eyes tight but allowed my death grip to ease from about his neck. My body slid back down into the bathwater and I shivered.

“Tell me that you are not discomfited by our little fiction?” He laughed outright. “You are! Why, I had no idea you were so sweet!” He made it sound like a ludicrous fault.

I pinched the skin just above his navel. “I am not sweet,” I muttered.

“You are! Sweet little Ophelia, still a virgin—at least in places.”

I turned my face away and he relented, pulling me into the warmth of his arms. “Don’t be ashamed of a few dirty words, my pet. They are just words, meant to add to our pleasure. When we are done, the words wash away in the bath, just like the other results.”

He was right. They were only words. “I must confess, I needed that,” I told him. “Your tongue is most talented, but it did me good to be fucked, even a little.”

He tipped my face up and caught my gaze with his blue eyes. “I will fuck you at the orgy,” he promised, or perhaps threatened. It was difficult to tell with him. “I will take you so hard you will wince when you sit.”

I met his gaze boldly. “I shall return the favor, my lord. Right down to the wincing part.”

This bargain struck, I began to look forward to the orgy with great anticipation.

*   *   *

Our destination was a country house outside of the city, the C
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estate in Surrey. The carriage ride might have been tedious but for Lord B
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’s imaginative use of time. I arrived breathless and exhausted and my knickers had disappeared entirely, though I searched the interior of the carriage well. Anticipation alone would have kept me in a state of semiarousal. Lord B
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’s clever hands turned anticipation into torturous denial.

I loved every moment of it.

I scarcely cared about the details of our host’s home, but the grandeur eventually penetrated the fog of my sexual heat. Grand foyer, grand staircase, grand guest chamber. Our host for this event, Lord C
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, had once offered a fortune for a mere week of my time, but the man’s flat, icy gaze left me feeling as though I ought to check on my loved ones. The thought of his hard hands on my body made me shiver and not in a pleasing way.

But I was not here to sleep in Lord C
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’s bed. I had my lover and he had me. We had come to watch and be watched. If Lord C
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’s reptilian gaze was one of those in the crowd, I scarcely cared. Let him see what he was missing.

Lord B
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and I took a moment to retreat to our chamber and refresh ourselves. I decided against seeking out another set of pantaloons from my baggage, for my lack of them tended to make Lord B
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’s eyes darken in hunger whenever I reminded him. He pulled me close before we left our room.

“Sit on my hand at dinner,” he demanded. “I will service you until the last napkin hits the table.”

I licked the outer edge of his ear. “I will rub you beneath the tablecloth until your rigid cock tilts the table. Everyone will wonder why the apples keep rolling away.”

We ran hand in hand down the hallway, eager to begin our wicked, wild adventure.

Twenty-five

After an amusing feast of food presented in the shapes of various body parts, downed with copious amounts of rather good wine and accompanied by a very ribald minstrel fellow who composed filthy ditties about the various guests on the spot, our group retired to the main event.

The ballroom of the great house was festooned in black drapery. Fainting couches and cushioned settees occupied the not-very-private nooks created by these hangings. At intervals throughout the room, strange exotic objects sat on lacquered pedestals. Some I recognized. There were several olisbos, a few of them of outrageous proportions. I saw marble carvings shaped like elongated eggs, which Lord B
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promised to demonstrate for me as he passed a possessive hand over my bottom. There were black silken ropes, gags with balls, riding crops, and even some silver spurs.

I had dressed for the evening in a deceptively demure gown of pale blue silk. The bodice exposed a great deal of pale flesh and, if tugged just so, would reveal two rosy semicircles of aureola. In addition, if I stood in the right light, the skirts of my new dress became quite translucent, revealing that I wore nothing underneath.

A burly footman announced the next entertainment. A dancer from a faraway land, he told us, a recent acquisition of our host’s. The minstrel put down his lute and began to beat a rhythm from a small hide-covered drum.

As we watched, Lord B
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stood behind me with his arms about my waist. I leaned back against him. The girl before us was quite beautiful, in a dark, earthy way. Like me, she was small. Unlike me, she was slender and delicate. Her face was sharply featured, almost boyish. Her body was somewhat boyish as well, very lean and even a bit muscled. I thought of a ballerina, honed and strong.

When she began to move to the drumbeat, I understood her lithe figure. She leaped high, like a cat, then whirled like a dervish until her skirts flared about her flashing ankles and calves. Her exposed midriff undulated in a way I had never seen. Her raised arms beckoned even as she whirled away from us. She seduced us with the erotic motions of her body and then defied us with her angry dark eyes.

Try to tame me,
she dared the crowd.
I cannot be caged.

My heart quickened at her teeth-bared defiance. She was a free and wild creature, brought here against her will, imprisoned like an animal, displayed like a possession. Her black eyes promised retribution, yet she danced on command.

Survival, I thought. She is merely biding her time. The man who thinks her conquered might just wake up dead one morning.

Good for her.

She must have caught something of my empathy in my gaze, for she circled the room in a wide circle, growing ever closer to me, her eyes never leaving mine. Even as she whirled, her head snapped back around to fix me with her feral gaze. My breath quickened as she neared me, for she was lovely in her ferocity. I had admired the Swan’s beauty and noticed the lush bodies of the other courtesans at the bacchanal, but I had never been stirred by another woman.

Until now. I wanted her to draw closer. I wanted to reach my hand out to stroke her gleaming golden skin. I wanted to feel the rippling strength of her dancing thighs beneath my palms. I wanted to press my pink lips to her cocoa-tinted ones, to taste her wildness, to sample her defiance.

What was this strange excitement? How could I desire a woman when all I had ever thought about were men?