My Lady Enslaved (2 page)

“What did you do with your tattoo, Lia?” He stood then and stepped swiftly toward her grabbing her chin into his gloved hand. “Do you think to fool anyone by cutting it away?” he asked as his free hand clamped over the lower curve of her right buttock.

She was naked!

. . . And now she knew why Lia had cut the back of her thigh, Chloe thought frantically, as she tried to twist away from the English nobleman’s hands. Only he held her pinned to his tall frame by one gloved hand tightening on her buttock. She could feel the press of his black satin evening clothes touching her naked skin from her knees to her breasts. All at once he tilted her head back roughly with his fingers on her chin. She whimpered in fear, caught helplessly against the heat of him.

“Who are you so afraid of, my little Asian whore, that you would mar your own beauty so?” he asked harshly, twisting her chin higher.

Chloe watched him abruptly turn away from her and stalk to the chair where he grabbed up a black leather riding quirt from the richly padded seat. She instantly jerked helplessly against the restraints holding her wrists, seeing nothing but the wicked riding quirt as she watched him turn slowly and gracefully toward her once again. He was tapping the quirt along the outside of his muscled thigh.

“Beginning to understand, are we, souillion?” The expression on his rugged features was dangerous and lethal and Chloe clenched her eyes with a terrified whimpering sound escaping her throat.

How could he be weak? He'd killed men before . . . many of them and that did not allow for weakness. He had assassinated largely in stealth, yet some men face to face, skill to skill. Whether it was by sword, pistol, knife or fists, he had honored them with the chance. Those were the ones that did not haunt him, but of course he had been haunted before he ever became what he was now, a cold-blooded killer. But it was ironic because he could not place himself solidly there, as the killer he was proclaiming. It was an odd hitch in his consciousness that he fought with. The ones that nagged him into saying, “You did it for your country. You saved lives . . . countrymen's lives.” Harrison shook his head of collar length hair and swiped a restless hand across his hard jaw. Still, he'd never killed women or children. Never that.

Catherine was his sister and she was beautiful, compassionate, loving . . . and everything good that he was not. In spite of everything, he'd never regretted that. Because he had understood by the time he was five years old and Catherine was born that if he did not do something to turn their father’s insane rage continually toward him, Catherine would be lost, just as he was. So he had, daily, weekly, and through all those years that his crazed unbalanced father had lived until . . .

Harrison took a long swallow of whiskey feeling the slow burn down the back of his throat as he left that thought unfinished. Nonetheless, he knew why he could not whip Lia, and it was because he knew what it felt like to be whipped helpless . . . and God help him he loved his sister. He swung back toward Lia. No, there had to be other ways, because he knew better than anyone that not even the lowliest beast deserved to be whipped helpless.

Yet after all was said and done, it was the shape of Lia’s lithely-rounded hips and what was between that really drew him. He was not a celibate man, at least he'd not been before he was disfigured. So he'd seen his share of women’s cunt’s before. Yet Lia’s, seeing it for the first time, was unique and would be delectable to any man, he argued with himself. It was the way the downy curls of her ebony-colored pubic hair did not cover her pussy lips so that a man could easily see her little girls pink slit.

He stopped beside her. Very close. Seeing that her eyes were still clenched and she was silently crying. No wracking sobs behind the gag any longer, just quivers. He found that it heightened his sense of revenge to have her quivering before him and it was then that he decided on the first way he would make her pay without using the whip. It was, he thought, brilliant.

A small helpless sound escaped Lia’s throat. Ignoring the sound Harrison reached his gloved hand forward to touch his fingertips between the impressive cleavage of her uplifted breasts. She panted in fear, he assumed, as he watched her pink-colored nipples crimp tight into quarter-inch spikes thrusting forward in trembling shame. He languidly stroked his fingertips through her cleavage, downward over her fragile rib cage and petted further to her shivering belly. Her skin was unblemished, an ivory-cream color, and he experienced a rabid desire to feel it against his scarred flesh without the gloves. But not yet. First she must be made to learn the impersonality of the gloves she was responsible for.

“You cannot stop me,” he rasped, pressing closer to her shivering body as he stroked his gloved hands deliberately lower to the top of her curling black pubic hair. Lia’s lush conical-shaped breasts heaved upward beneath her anguished and labored breathing, then he deliberately moved his hands, circling and plucking at the jutting spikes of her shamelessly aroused nipples. He pulled both of her nipples outward between his gloved fingertips, engorging and stiffening them further into fevered rosy-pink.

“A-! A-!”

Lia’s nude body squirmed sinuously as she tried to twist away while he abraded the swollen plump spikes of her nipples relentlessly with a rolling motion between the leather of his thumb and first finger. She tried to writhe away again, this time coming up on her toes for leverage and he stopped her quickly by pushing his knee between her bare shaking thighs. He continued pressing his knee upward until her cunt rode his leg and her back was pressed hard against the bedpost behind her.

“Now we will play, my little pussy,” he whispered harshly.

Lia’s eyelids jerked open and he saw her anguish and fear before he turned his gaze away, telling himself that he was glad, as he clasped her breasts fully into his hands slowly kneading the meaty soft flesh. Her breasts were young and firm, weighting his hands elegantly as he began to incessantly play her nude body like a finely tuned instrument beneath his gloved fingers. He fondled and petted her exquisitely rounded contours until she was writhing in passion despite herself.

She ardently rode her legs over his thigh, rolling her drenched cunt across the width of his leg as he stroked his gloved hands once again over every contour of her opulent curves. Starting high on her arms stretched upward over her head, to sweep down into the hollows of her armpits, lingering over her breasts, belly, hips, and the back of her firm thighs. Her head fell forward in defeat with her face pressed into the crook of his neck as he groped his hands around each of her buttocks deeply massaging the pliable female flesh over and over. Each kneading motion of his splayed fingers rode her cunt up over his thigh and thrust her pillowed breasts into the wall of his chest.

She began whimpering . . . erotic sounds not in fright this time but of needy arousal. The sound shocked him out of his own haze of passion and he abruptly realized that he'd been grinding his stiff dick against her hot cunt like a humping beast.

“Christ,” he swore holding himself still, gripping Lia’s buttocks tightly with their groins locked together. The posture he held her posed in lifted her shapely legs upward around his hips. “How does it feel to be a bitch in heat?” he hissed with a sneer. Trying desperately to break the tension.

“Your limitless lust will make you my slave,” he hissed. Wondering vicariously as his own lust drew hard on him which one of them he truly meant. Then he angled his body back and grasped Lia’s smoldering drenched pussy into his gloved hand. Squeezing. “Look at me,” he demanded as she whimpered sharply and turned her head away from him.

He grabbed a thick pile of her waist length hair and tugged, stretching her neck as he forced her to face him. With his other hand holding her exquisitely hot cunt, he stretched his middle finger forward searching for the opening of her vagina. Her irises were black with passion and fear as he caressed her tender entrance with his gloved finger, circling more . . . prodding lightly.

“My slave,” he rasped venomously as he slowly began to take off his gloves and she hung there, his prisoner, knowing if the gag were not in her mouth that she would be begging him to touch her again.

 

Chapter Three

 

When Chloe saw Ravenscar’s hands, she flinched in reaction and she knew with little doubt that Lia was responsible for the scarring injuries. The man before her was seeking revenge. Seeking retribution where there could only be Buddha’s serene judgments. Yet he would take his own justice out on her because he thought she was Lia. She whimpered then, woefully in fear and with the unrequited arousal harshly riding her. What would he do to her? What would he do?

“Are you wondering who I am, Lia?” he asked with a wicked sliding whisper.

Didn’t she know, Chloe thought fearfully? Didn’t Lia know?

“It must be driving that sharp vixen’s mind of yours mad not to know . . . or why.”