Taming Maria (2 page)

The young
clergyman was stroking this appendage from base to tip, working the
foreskin up and down over the bulging red helm and exclaiming under
his breath as he did so. Toying with it, as if it were the most
wonderful of playthings, he took his hand away, releasing it from
his palm so that it sprang up, slapping against his belly, reaching
almost to his waist.

'Good
heavens!' Jane breathed in Maria's ear. 'What a monster! Is that
the thing we women are expected to take into our bodies?'

'I'd love to
try, wouldn't you?' Maria whispered, her genital area on fire, her
own miniature organ drumming in response to the sight of Robin's
much larger pleasure instrument.

They stared
fascinated as Robin, no longer able to keep his hand away, began to
rub his cock again. It jumped, swelled, the helm oozing juice and
he pulled down his trousers further, exposing a fine pair of balls
in their hairy sac. He weighed and caressed these in his free hand
and his penis grew ever bigger in response. Maria longed to fondle
them and replace his fingers with her own, feeling the silky smooth
skin of his shaft, the ridge of his uncircumcised knob, the red and
shiny glans.

He was
groaning now, his pelvis moving uncontrollably. Maria guessed that
something stupendous was about to happen, though she did not know
what. Would it be like her own sensations when she brought herself
to fulfilment? What form would it take with a man? Robin's cries
were almost piteous and his cock leapt in his hand. He rubbed it
harder, harder still, almost brutal in his quest for satisfaction.
Then, suddenly, it gave a final spasm and white fluid jetted from
its single eye. Once, twice, thrice it discharged until finally
drained of its tribute.

The penis
sagged and shrank. Robin wiped it on his handkerchief and collapsed
against the tree, utterly spent, eyes closed and a peaceful smile
on his face. He looked hardly more than a boy, his brown hair
flopping over his forehead, his prick still resting in his
hand.

'I want to do
that for him,' Jane said, as they crept away. 'I think I love him.
How can I tell him? Help me, Maria.'

'She'll be
here in a week,' said Arabella, wife of an earl, mistress of a huge
country estate, and enthusiastic hostess of many an extravagant and
orgiastic party.

She was in the
vault of Strafford Hall, a magnificent gloomy pile in Hampstead, on
London's outskirts. It belonged to her master, Viscount Damien
Strafford. Manacled to a wooden crosspiece, her arms were
outstretched and her legs, too, a brace holding her knees apart,
her ankles in metal cuffs chained to the lower struts. She was
naked apart from straps that passed round her neck and hoisted her
breasts high. The nipples were pierced with gold rings from which
dangled little bells that tinkled whenever she moved. Her ribs were
arched, her belly flat as a lad's, the navel embellished with a
further ring supporting chains that disappeared into her delta.
This was hairless, a handsome barber ordered to shave her
daily.

'I'm glad to
hear that. It is high time I met my old friend's daughter. We were
close, you know. He saved my father's life in battle and I owed him
a debt I could never repay,' Damien replied, running the leather
thongs of a flogger through his long, aristocratic fingers.

'How noble,
and I expect you've not forgotten that she's an heiress. Whoever
marries her will come into a fortune,' Arabella reminded, as she
feasted her eyes on him through the veil of honey-gold ringlets
that straggled over her face. The vault was lit by braziers set at
intervals along the grey stone walls.

He was worth
looking at, his black hair curling around his neck and over his
brow. His broad shoulders were covered by a fine linen shirt with
full, belled sleeves. Open at the throat, it displayed a tanned,
darkly furred chest. He strode over to stand directly in front of
her, his long legs apart, covered in black leather breeches that
fitted flawlessly, outlining the bulk of his penis at the apex of
his thighs, and ending in highly polished riding boots.

Arabella had
taken her fill of good-looking men, but no one thrilled her like
Damien. They had been lovers for ages, or rather she had been his
submissive. Love did not fit into the equation. Both milked life of
its bounteous pleasures, and neither gave a damn about anyone
else.

'Would I
forget such a detail?' he answered, a cynical smile lifting his
finely chiselled mouth. 'No one else shall have her dowry, lands
and possessions. We'll see to that, won't we, my sweet little
slave-slut?' He emphasised this remark with a flick of the
whip.

Arabella
squirmed and pouted. 'More, master... give me more. You know I'll
support you whatever you decide to do. Maria is an innocent, a pawn
in our game. Let me help you tame her for I gather that she is
wilful and likes her own way. Sir Piers spoilt the girl, I
fear.'

'Leave it to
me,' Damien assured her, standing closer and running the pliable,
many-thonged implement between her legs. 'I shall enjoy breaking-in
this wild creature. You know that nothing pleases me more than
subduing a hell-cat. Take yourself, for example. Didn't you fight
me, once upon a time?'

'I did,
master, I admit it,' Arabella murmured, while he moved the tails
backwards and forwards over her love-lips and nubbin, the leather
darkened by her emissions.

'Her
initiation should prove to be enjoyable.' He replaced the thongs
with his fingers, tugging at the labial chains, frigging her till
she yelped. 'When is she arriving? I can't wait to begin her
education.'

He removed his
hand, threw the flogger aside and picked up a whip. She rested
against him for a second, and then he turned her on the crosspiece.
This was cleverly designed to give access to its victim, back and
front, according to the master's desires. Her shapely shoulders,
spine and buttocks were now displayed for his amusement. She
guessed that the curve of her thighs and calves, the slender ankles
and high-arched feet would satisfy his aesthetic taste. He was a
connoisseur of art and lovely women. He moved closer and she knew
he was breathing in her scent, a combination of heady French
perfume, sweat induced by passion and the female juices that
betrayed her arousal.

She shuddered
as he trailed his lips over the nape of her neck, and then ran his
tongue around the rim of her ear. She gasped. He withdrew and was
silent for a long moment. She grew restless, trying to turn her
head and glimpse him, but he kept out of sight. She was in a
ferment of anticipation. He had excited her, then left her
frustrated. He knew so well how to do this. She hated him for it,
cursed him, lusted after him, completely out of control where he
was concerned. Despite her restraints she tried to rub her clitoris
against a knot in the wood, her aching breasts and pierced nipples,
too, the tiny bells jingling.

Concentrating
on seeking satisfaction, she was taken completely off guard by the
fire that shot through her backside as the whip struck. She yelled
and it fell again, not on the same spot, but a little higher. No
sooner had she started to assimilate the agony when that wicked
strip of leather writhed like a serpent as it flew high, then
became a bar of pain as it landed, controlled by Damien's hand.

She had
received it many times before, and had used it, too, well versed in
the dichotomy of pain/pleasure. She sobbed, tears running down her
face and was not sure if she was crying with happiness, fear or
sheer agony. She smiled as he caressed her skin gently, around her
arse, between her legs, a finger dabbling in her dew and massaging
her clit, but she was wary enough not to sink into joyful
anticipation. And she did not forget the instrument of torture he
held in his other hand.

It touched
her, gliding along her body. She started as he pressed the tip into
her crack. Wet with her dew, he inserted the tip further, and then
flicked the sensitive clit head. She wriggled in an attempt to
control her rising pleasure. As soon as she believed she was
finding the rhythm that would lead her to bliss, he took it away.
He moved, and she no longer breathed in his smell.

She felt the
whip tickle between her toes, up her legs, behind her knees. He was
taunting her with it, goading her into breaking down and begging.
She stayed silent.

Biting pain
stung her back. 'Tell me what you want,' he crooned above the hiss
of the lash. It became gentle, drifting around her upper thighs.
'Shall I whip your arse? Your crack? Spin you and lash your belly,
your breasts, and your mound? It's no use answering for I shall use
you as I fancy. And at the moment I fancy seeing your hinds change
from blush pink to hellish red. Like this!'

She heard the
sound of the whip rushing through the air. She felt his power and
the force of the lash raining down on her flesh again and again.
Her breasts seemed to become one with the wooden cross, her whole
being as nothing compared to his will. This was not new, yet
whenever Damien mastered her, it was as if for the first time.

He made her
seem worthless, as if she was the most debased of slaves being
punished. Each blow quivered through her flesh to her loins,
rousing her towards orgasm yet never quite achieving it. He was
like a creature possessed, blow after blow falling on her while she
entered that state where pain could hardly be distinguished from
sexual pleasure. Then he stopped. She heard the clunk as the whip
hit the stone flags. His hand folded round her delta, the middle
digit rubbing her clit until she forgot the pain and was swept up
in a mighty orgasm that broke into rainbow shards around her.

He chuckled,
undid his belt and let his breeches gape. He held her bruised
buttocks apart and thrust his erection into her cunt. He fucked her
hard for a few strokes and then pulled out. Her battered body
responded, wanting more and more of him.

He set her
free, each manacle removed before he forced her down in front of
him. The folds of his shirt partly concealed his upraised cock.
Arabella greeted it rapturously, an acolyte kneeling before this
unusual altar. Her mouth opened wide and her tongue licked the
length of it, finding the weeping slit and tasting the rich salty
dew of his pre-come coupled with her own wetness. She rocked there,
forgetting the pain that flooded her, taking him deeper until the
mushroom-shaped tip butted the back of her throat.

She choked on
it, gasping, 'God, you're so big!'

This pleased
him, and he used her hair as a halter to draw her closer, her face
buried in linen and skin and the hairy mat coating his lower belly.
She breathed in the musky odour of aroused male, mingled with the
eau de Cologne with which he always doused himself. He began to
ride her face and she worked to bring him to the peak, cheeks
caving in as she sucked vigorously.

At that moment
she loved Damien, in so far as Arabella could be said to love
anyone save herself. She was proud to be the one to bring him
bliss. Usually she had to share him, for he was always up for it.
But just for that minute fraction of time he was hers and hers
alone, that marvellous, complex, cruel yet strangely sensitive and
aware man. It was supremely satisfying, making her feel like a
queen, an empress, a goddess.

He groaned as
she enveloped his length and girth, and she felt his knees tremble.
His penis swelled to its full extent. It surged and then her mouth
was filled with the warmth of the semen that flooded from him. She
took it all, coughing but swallowing, greedily licking up the drops
that escaped to bedew her lips.

He pulled away
from her, wiped his cock in her hair and adjusted his clothing,
once more in perfect control of himself. Filling two goblets with
wine, he handed her one and allowed her to put on her clothes. This
took a matter of moments, for she had been wearing a
semi-transparent gown that offered no more concealment than a
nightdress. It was the height of fashion and Arabella was always in
the forefront.

They moved to
a divan covered in a lavishly embroidered Oriental quilt. Damien
clapped his hands and a magnificently muscled Nubian servant
wearing nothing but a loincloth brought in an exquisitely chased
Turkish hookah. Rose water bubbled in its bowl as Damien and
Arabella drew deeply of the fragrant smoke, and then blew it
upwards towards the silk tenting that draped this luxurious
couch.

'Our young
ward has no idea of the delights in store for her,' Arabella
murmured dreamily and relaxed within the circle of Damien's arm,
forgetting the stripes he had inflicted, or rather rejoicing in
them, an adjunct to the sensual pleasure he always lavished on
her.

'I miss Maria
so much,' Jane confided to her leather-bound journal, the trustee
of her deepest secrets.

She was seated
near the window of the dormitory in the almost deserted school.
'The coach came for her two weeks ago,' she wrote on, 'and it
already seems as if she has been gone a lifetime. Papa has written
to say that I shall be collected tomorrow. They will stop here on
their way to London. I may be able to see Maria, perhaps even be
allowed to stay with her, although I understand that we will be
visiting Percy and his parents in their townhouse in Mayfair. Papa
is thinking of purchasing one there, though he already owns a
residence in Bath and, of course, our country seat.'

She stared
into the distance, tapping her lips with the tip of the quill pen,
the brass inkwell to hand, the diary she had been keeping for
months lying open on the escritoire. Suddenly her attention
sharpened. There in the garden below her walked Robin Claremont,
upright and manly, hat beneath his arm, the sunlight glinting on
his brown hair. Jane drew in a sharp breath, closed her book and
locked it with the key she wore on a ribbon around her neck, and
then slipped it into the valise that stood, half-packed, on her
bed. This was too good an opportunity to miss. She could use saying
goodbye as an excuse for addressing him. In reality, she had
thought of little else since that never-to-be-forgotten day when
she and Maria had caught him pleasuring himself.