Taming Maria (25 page)

The spinney
was peaceful, sunlight pouring between the branches, making
patterns on the grass. She quickened her pace, dodging and twisting
as she reached open ground. In the distance came the clarion call
of a hunting horn and the baying of hounds. Maria was possessed
with terror, though trying desperately to keep calm. This is how an
animal must feel when it is being chased, she thought, and
remembered reading somewhere about escaped slaves or convicts being
hunted by bloodhounds.

She picked up
her skirt and started to run. Coming out on the open moor she found
nowhere to hide. Over her shoulder she could see Damien, but he was
a long way off. A copse presented itself on her right and she
plunged towards it, even though there was boggy land between
herself and shelter. Carefully skirting the marsh she managed to
avoid being sucked in, sweating and panting, hearing the horn and
the hounds, stumbling through bracken, with brambles tearing at her
clothes and her feet sore with no protection save the thin leather
slippers.

If the dogs
get me I shall be savaged! She panicked, sure that those nightmare
beasts would soon be on her. Damien would not let them bite her,
would he? Spurred on by the idea that he might, she was running as
fast as the uneven terrain allowed. No longer a pleasant spot, the
moor had become a thing that seemed intent on hindering her,
tripping her feet, snagging her skirt, delaying her like some
malignant spirit. She reached the spinney, rushing along the path
that wound through it, hoping to conceal herself in the shrubs and
trees.

Crouching in
the undergrowth she kept very still, though her heart was hammering
and her breathing was rapid. The horn was closer and so were the
voices of the dogs and the thud of hooves. Maria reached for a
stick that lay close by. It was solid and heavy, a branch broken
from a tree during a storm. At least she would give the hounds a
fight before they overpowered her.

They were in
the spinney, crashing and snuffling, following her trail. She
glanced above her, but there was no way in which she could scale
one of the trees. Instead she rose, put her back against the bole
and lifted the stick. With a crashing of undergrowth and triumphal
barking the largest of the hounds hurled himself on her. Maria hit
him hard on the muzzle, drawing blood. He yelped and backed off,
snarling ferociously. The second dog launched himself into the
attack and Maria caught him a blow on the side of the head, but he
was not to be deterred, his jaws fastening round a fold of her
skirt, tugging and drawing her closer to those hideous teeth and
salivating jaws.

She struck out
at him again, but he seized the stick in his teeth and wrenched it
from her grasp, then sprang at her, bringing her to the ground. The
other dog recovered his courage and joined in. Maria was rolled
beneath their smelly bodies, arms in front of her face, striving to
protect herself from those murderous fangs. Her clothing was being
ripped from her, their claws and teeth damaging her skin. She
screamed and shouted and cursed, but could feel resistance draining
from her.

Then a hand
reached down and grabbed her arm, pulling her to her feet and away
from the dogs who cowed back as Damian shouted, 'Leave it! Rex!
Rufus! To heel!' They retreated, still growling, but his upraised
crop was enough to silence them, and a couple of swift blows had
them whimpering and shrinking back.

Maria was
shaking from head to foot, the ordeal robbing her of strength but
not courage. 'How could you?' she stormed, a wild-eyed
termagant.

'Tut! Tut! It
was but a jest!' he protested, touching the tip of her breast,
bared where the bodice had been torn.

'A jest! Are
you mad? I could have been killed by those brutes.'

'No, no. They
are harmless as babes,' he said, patting their heads where they lay
on the grass, gazing up at him with soulful eyes. 'Aren't you, my
boys? Faithful Rufus and brave Rex. Come, stroke them my dear
Maria.'

'Go to hell!'
she grated, and started to march off the way she had come.

He was beside
her in a flash, jerking her round to face him. 'Where do you think
you're going?'

She tore her
arm free. 'To find my horse.'

'Oh, no you're
not. You have to be chastised first.'

'Why? I
haven't done anything deserving of punishment.'

'It's part of
the game, Maria.'

'For you,
maybe.' She stood her ground, glaring up at him. Her green eyes and
fiery hair seemed to be sparking with it.

Damien
permitted himself a quirky smile. 'Come, come. Admit that this has
your blood racing and set your cunt aflame. I'm about to administer
a suitable reprimand.'

She fought him
like a feral cat, but he was too strong for her, dragging her
towards a tree stump. 'Damn you!' she swore as he pushed her down
and, with one hand on her neck and a knee at the back of her legs,
forced her to bend over it.

He held her
arms behind her and slipped a noose around her wrists. She was on
her knees, the stump's roots digging in painfully as Damien made
her lie across it, breasts pressed into the knobbly surface. Her
skirt had been torn by the dogs, but he lifted what remained of it
and she felt cold air on her bare buttocks. He exchanged his crop
for a many-thonged taws.

Looking across
she could see the horse cropping the turf and the hounds scratching
at fleas or licking their genitals. Then all her attention was
focused on the eruption of agony as Damien's taws struck her
backside. She cried out, but there was no one to come to her aid,
the hounds and the horse busy about their own concerns, no Charles
there to save her this time. As when Damien had whipped her before
she tried to absorb the pain, waiting in fearful anticipation for
the next blow, not one lash but several, working in harmony to
inflict as much distress as possible.

And it came,
as sure as night follows day. Damien wielded the implement with
masterly skill, never striking the same place twice, hitting her
right buttock, then her left, the backs of her thighs, her waist
and tethered arms. A multitude of red stripes fanned out. She was
pressed into the stump's rough bark, seeing a cluster of fungi at
its base and a little pool of dew in a crevice, trying to fix her
attention on anything except the awful anticipation of the next
lightning strike.

This was the
worst part, this tense waiting. She was never sure when it would
come. Sometimes seconds went by in silence, the clearing almost
normal, filled with birdsong and sunlight and she began to hope he
had finished. Then she would hear the swish, the rush of air, and
feel the blow that numbed her before breaking into a hellish
agony.

Urine escaped
her, trickling down her inner thighs to nourish the stump's root,
but she was beyond caring. He came closer, running a hand over her
welts. She was too numb to feel anything. He reached round and
jabbed the handle of the taws into her mouth. 'Suck it, my beauty.
Suck your master's toy as you will soon suck his cock!'

It tasted of
leather and she soaked it with her spit. When Damien's organ took
its place she sucked that too, inhaling the salty smell of him, and
the tartness of his jism on her tongue, and the feel his hairy
balls jiggling against her chin as she performed fellatio. He
withdrew before he climaxed, going behind her, freeing her arms and
inserting his erection into her vagina.

The pain
faded, swallowed up in the delirious pleasure of feeling him inside
her. She knew she was betraying Charles, but desire overwhelmed
scruples. It was as if Damien and she were the only man and woman
on earth, like Adam and Eve in The Garden of Eden. And where was
the serpent? Damien must be him, as well as portraying Adam. The
glade was like a golden bowl, brimming with sunshine, and Damien's
rhythmical strokes were soothing and arousing, the pain subsiding.
He knew what she wanted, a hand cradling her crotch, his middle
digit masturbating her nubbin. She held her breasts, thumbs
revolving on the nipples and her moans changed to urgent cries of
need as the pathway to climax opened before her.

Damien pumped
and lunged and frigged her organ until they were both ready and, as
she came, so did he, and they were united in bliss. He sighed,
slowed, but held her against him, and his lips caressed that erotic
spot at the top of her spine. If only things were different, she
mourned. If he was more like Charles and less of a reprobate, but
then he would not be so fascinating. It is his very badness that is
so attractive.

He withdrew
his cock without a word and, as she had received no further
instructions, Maria got up from her sore knees and tried to wrap
her torn dress around her. Silently Damien handed her his jacket.
He swung her onto the front of his saddle and mounted behind her,
and then he whistled to the dogs that got lazily to their feet, and
followed his horse as it clopped from the spinney and headed for
home.

Arabella was
luxuriating in a bath of warm water. It was all very well dallying
with sons of the soil, but although she enjoyed the smell of sweat
and raw sex while they were fucking, she needed to get rid of it as
soon as they had discharged into her. The groom had been
entertaining, a handsome lad who thought himself a fine, randy
stud, until he came up against her sophistication and expertise. He
left before dawn, dazed and worshipping at her shrine, and fully
equipped to pleasure the village maidens and most of their mothers
too.

She had sent
her calling card, via the post-boy, to the rectory, announcing her
intention of taking tea with the rector's wife that afternoon. She
envisaged a leisurely hour or so dressing for the occasion. Maria
should come with her, learning how to comport herself among the
lower orders. Her maid, Kitty, was hovering in attendance. They
understood one another very well, Arabella receiving unquestioning
obedience and giving the maid numerous benefits in return.

Arabella ran
her soapy hands over the length of her body, rousing the nipples
into crests, and following the line of her rounded belly and
dimpled navel to the dark groove that split her shaven mound. She
rested her head on the rim of the bath, gazing down as she parted
her thighs and played with the rings piercing her labial wings. The
sensation quickly communicated with that most sensitive of organs,
her clitoris. With her other hand she parted her labia and
stretched it open. Her swollen bud stood out proud and she tickled
it into even greater stiffness and prominence.

More soap was
needed to make it silky smooth. She applied the scented bar to her
slit, moving her hips against it, the water sloshing slightly, a
moan escaping her lips at the spasm of pleasure that made her ache.
Consumed with perfect delight she closed her eyes and became one
with her sturdy little organ that always provided her with immense
satisfaction whether she was with a man, a woman or alone.

'Ah,' she
sighed, so close to orgasm that she held off for a moment, wanting
the feeling to die back so that she might have the pleasure of
bringing it on again. She guessed Kitty was watching with a hand up
under her skirt, frigging her love-bud. This image heated
Arabella's blood so much that she had to take her finger away, lest
she come.

A knock on the
boudoir door roused her from her sensual musings and she heard
Kitty leave the bathroom and answer it. This was followed by the
murmur of voices, Kitty's and a man's, and then the maid returned,
saying, 'There's a Mr Robin Claremont wishing to see Lady Maria. He
claims to be a friend of Lady Jane Dunn.'

Arabella
opened her eyes. They sparkled with mischief. 'Does he, indeed?
What sort of person is he, Kitty? Young, old, ugly or
personable?'

Kitty pulled a
thoughtful face. 'Mid-twenties, I could say, milady. Tall, with
brown hair and eyes and most pleasant features. But the thing is,
he's a cleric, or so he said.'

Arabella stood
up, the water cascading over her voluptuous curves. 'Indeed. A
person of principle, no doubt. Ask him to step inside. I can resist
anything but temptation, Kitty, and a man of the cloth is a
challenge.'

Robin waited
in an elaborately draped, very feminine room. It was redolent of
perfume, face-paints, hair pomade, and woman. He remained standing,
nervously turning his hat round and round in his hands. The maid
who had let him in was pert, pink-cheeked and confident. She had
made him feel inadequate, and done nothing to raise his confidence
in the outcome of his mission. Only love for Jane buoyed him up and
kept him going during the journey by stagecoach from Bath to
Dorset, and the sojourn in a tavern at Parnham Combe, where he had
hired a horse to ride to Raven Towers.

The
supercilious butler had looked down his nose and told him that Lady
Maria and Viscount Strafford were out, but that Lady Arabella would
see him. He had been conducted up the grand staircase by a
uniformed flunky.

The very last
thing he had expected was for this beautiful woman to sweep through
from the bathroom wearing nothing but a white towel. Utterly
confused, he bowed, 'Your ladyship.' He kept his eyes anywhere but
on her person. Sirens from the Scriptures sashayed in front of his
mind's eye - The Queen of Sheba - Delilah - Jezebel!

His cock
responded to these images. It was embarrassing and he held his hat
before him. Arabella gave him a radiant smile, and held out her
hand for him to kiss. 'I apologise for being dishabille,' she said
with a winsome smile, her voice low and mellifluous. 'I was taking
a bath.'

Robin could
feel his cheeks burning. He had never been in such intimate
surroundings with a woman before. 'It is I who must ask your pardon
for disturbing you at your ablutions.'