The Gentlemen's Club: Volume One in the 'Noire' series (5 page)

When she spoke, it was with
her usual taunting. “I had begun to think you would never dare return,” she
reproached. She stepped forward, so that he was within two paces of being able
to grasp her about the neck.

She saw the look upon his
face: the tension and suppressed anguish, and his desire for revenge. It was
exactly as she had anticipated.
 

“Perhaps you
harbour
some resentment for your treatment at our last
meeting?” she enquired, the habitual smirk upon her lips.
 

“I would expect nothing less.
In truth,” she continued, “I think you deserve some ‘justice’ for your
humiliation, do you not?”

He remained silent, allowing
the Medusa to speak, awaiting her apology.

“It is said that all is fair
in love and war, so it is only fitting that I present you with this,” declared
Mademoiselle Noire. Reaching behind her, she brought forth the crop and held it
out to
MacCaulay
.

He took it, feeling its
weight. It was a fair length but very light, allowing it to be wielded with
alacrity.

She watched him turn the whip
in his hands, feeling its suppleness. “I grant you permission to use it against
me, in whatever fashion you choose, for ten strokes – no more.”

He had never imagined that
she would place herself at his mercy so willingly, and his suspicions were
raised, but she made no move to run or evade him as he drew closer. Inches from
her body now, he could smell the musk of her skin and see the pulse at her
throat. Her décolleté was barely covered by the flimsy chiffon, breasts rising
softly with each breath. He touched the end of the crop to her chest, brushing
the silk covering her delicate nipple.
 

He pulled the ribbon between
those luscious orbs, so that the fabric fell away to each side, revealing the
bare flesh of her breasts in earnest, the curve of her belly, her dark bush
below and her long legs. He had thought of little else but exacting his
retribution upon this siren but, now, as she stood before him, so vulnerable, he
was perturbed, feeling confusion, and a stirring lust in his loins.

He knew not whether to beat
her or embrace her. The blood rose within him and his tongue grew dry in his
mouth.

Mademoiselle Noire allowed
him to run his eyes over her physique, knowing her body to be all that a man
could desire:
fleshily
voluptuous, yet well toned and
shapely.

His hands clenched against
the stem of the crop, itching to reach out and seize the abundant camber of her
breasts, to thrust his mouth at them, to devour them, to suck at those ripe
nipples. He would graze his mouth down her belly and then bury his face in her
bush, raising her leg, so that he might feast all the deeper. He imagined its
plump wetness and the taste of her juices. His desire to consume her near
choked him.

“I’m waiting good sir,” she
prompted, her voice silken. “You see me before you. I’m unprotected against
your wrath. Remember, ten strokes.”

Clearly, she desired him to act,
to vent his anger upon her.

His eyes searched her face,
seeking there some softness. If her lips had been upward cast and parted, he
would have flung aside the crop and crushed his own upon them, taking her kiss
at whatever cost, even were she to suck forth his soul.

However, her mouth, though
full and sensual, betrayed its usual subtle sneer. He saw only derision and
disdain, which steeled his heart to put aside thoughts of ravishment and raise
the cruel whip against her.

The first stroke caught the
soft skin of her stomach with a light flick, such as would sting, but not
greatly hurt her.
 
Her face remained
still.

He paused, moving her again
to encourage him.

“I believe you can do better
sir.”

Irritated by her tone, which
seemed ever to mock him, he raised the crop higher this time and brought it to
bear against her upper thigh with a sharp crack, the tail end stippling the
silk and leaving a tear through the fabric.
 
Her breath caught in her throat this
time and she exhaled slowly, languorously.

“Again.”

At once, he realized that he
was no more than a pawn in her game: she in control. The knowledge brought a
flood of fury, making him brandish the crop with more force, sending its tail
across her bare breasts, leaving a livid welt against their bounteous
flesh.
 

She gasped audibly now, and threw
back her head, an auburn curl escaping, touching her cheek. Her body seemed to
stretch and unfurl under the pain of the stroke, resonating with new vibrancy.
 

The sight of her stirred his
blood and his thoughts were again distracted. His tongue might trace the line
of the weal, warm saliva removing some of the bite of the lash. The bulge of
his phallus within his trousers grew more uncomfortable.

However, anger won out, and
he twirled her round so that her back was to him. He sent three swift strokes
to her buttocks, the whip making light work of her robe, so that the silk there
shredded at its touch.

She moaned in obvious
pleasure, and let the gown fall from her shoulders, so that nothing stood
between her and the lashes that remained.

MacCaulay
hesitated again, observing the stripes rising on her
tender flesh. Her skin was faultless, but for the injury he had inflicted.

She looked coquettishly over
her shoulder. Her pleasure in the ‘punishment’ was beyond the delight of a
simple spanking. The pain brought pure carnal satisfaction.
 
Yet again, he was merely her instrument.
He raised the crop and flourished it severely against the underside of her
cheeks, knowing it would be felt most keenly there. This he followed with
another, and two more to the middle of those lush fruits. The flesh of her
peach-soft buttocks quivered under the blows.

He went to raise the whip
again but a deeper voice from the shadows interrupted, commanding,
“
No more!”

It was the African, all the
while hidden from view.

MacCaulay
stepped back, then froze in horror, reminded immediately
of their last encounter. He dropped the whip and turned to flee, but
Mademoiselle Noire stayed his arm, her face without rebuke.

“You have nothing to fear,”
she assured him. “Our noble savage will not harm you. He is here for me: not
for you.”

Resplendent in her nakedness,
her flesh golden in the glimmer of the lamp, she beckoned Lord
MacCaulay
to the chaise longue upon which she had been
sitting, and bid him make himself comfortable.

The flame’s illumination
flickered across her body, so that her curves were thrown alternately into
light and shadow.
MacCaulay
noted that some bruising rose
already to the skin.

She lowered herself over the
taller end of the seat and, extending her arms, bid
MacCaulay
take her bare hands. She stretched taut through her spine, her head dipped: a
few more locks of hair escaped from their close-pinned arrangement.

“My ebony god, having
suffered at my hand, deserves also to punish me,” smiled Mademoiselle. “Forty
lashes, but not from the whip.”

She parted her legs and raised
her buttocks slightly. The giant then emerged fully from the inky shadows, naked
also, his organ at full fortitude.

Mademoiselle kept her eyes on
those of Lord
MacCaulay
as the creature took his
position between her legs, where her secret place awaited its thrashing.

“I deserve punishment for my
wicked ways don’t you think?
 
I’ve
caused pain and only pain will suffice in return. Forty lashes and no less:
each one deeper and harder than the last.
 
Offer me no respite or pity, no matter how I might plead.”

The African grasped her hips,
guiding the tip of his thick phallus into position, and, with a motion
unexpected in its fierceness, rammed himself into the heart of her. Her pelvis he
pulled back resolutely against his, so that her cheeks slapped hard against his
abdomen. The motion must have rent her almost asunder. Her face contorted in
anguish: her eyes closed and mouth opened in a shriek of pain.
 
She grasped
MacCaulay’s
hands tightly.

The dark creature held her
there, against his stomach, his penis deep within, relishing his fleshy burial.
Slowly, he then withdrew, his fat organ appearing inch by inch.
Savouring
the moment, he paused, before plunging into her
once more, hauling her hips towards him.
 
She cried out again, but less acutely than the first time: the cry
followed by a small gasp and sigh. The giant held her against his torso, swiveling
his hips, grinding against her. This brought forth another cry: soon
transformed into a low groan.
 
MacCaulay
wondered that any woman could endure that dark
weapon without injury, but Mademoiselle
Noire’s
pain
was also her pleasure.

The beast delivered several
full-bodied piston strokes, each one sending a shudder the length of her body
and evoking her song of pain and bliss. His pace quickened, thrusts coming one
upon the other with growing intensity, so that her hair tumbled every way. Her
cries became indistinguishable from sobs.

MacCaulay’s
head grew light. His body was present, but his legs
and arms were numb. As Mademoiselle Noire submitted to the beast’s unrelenting
pounding,
MacCaulay
felt aware of his own desire,
imagining that it was he administering those brutal strokes.

The African lashed her
harder, opening his legs wider and bending at the knee, while lifting her rump
to allow the deepest angle of entry. His hands imprisoned her hips, so that her
passage was his entirely. He hammered into her with resolute greed and the
energy of a body indefatigable.

At last, he gave his final
thrusts, arching his back and pulling her fully onto his groin. He slammed his
ebony phallus into her, skyrocketing hard through her flesh, so that his jet
seared her. She flung back her head, arching in
parallel,
her breasts raised upwards, so that it was all
MacCaulay
could do to keep hold of her hands.

He watched as Mademoiselle
Noire, this woman who held him under her perverse spell, writhed in ecstasy,
face transformed. She was lost in her own world of pleasure;
MacCaulay
played but a minor part.

At last, breathless, the
giant stepped back, fulfilled.
MacCaulay
let loose
her hands, so that she slumped exhausted over the divan of the chaise, her hair
in disarray, face flushed and pupils dilated from lust. She looked him once
more fully in the face, saying nothing, since no words were needed.
 

He had fantasized about
chastising her but her own enactment far surpassed anything his own imagination
could conjure. Once more, she had outplayed him and, simultaneously,
demonstrated to
MacCaulay
that her sexuality was not
to be categorized or anticipated. For him to judge would be obscene, since
every aspect of her
behaviour
roused his own
appetite. He admired her embracing of her raw desire and her formidable skill
in manipulating his emotions.

He knew, without question,
that acquaintance with her would prove his undoing, so that no satisfaction
would be had elsewhere, no matter whom he invited into his bed. No conjured
debauchery could compete with Mademoiselle
Noire’s
unadulterated
wantonness.

Chapter Seven

Torment

MacCaulay
blundered blindly up the stairs, arriving eventually
back upon the street, where the rain-spitted night and chill wind brought him partially
to his senses. Grim horror beat within his chest, knowing that he had crossed a
threshold from which there was no return.
 
He could not escape her image: mouth contorted in gasps of torture and exaltation;
body convulsed in the euphoria of passion; and her eyes frenzied by the
intoxication of lust.

He waved off his carriage, needing
to feel the cool air on his cheek and shake off the power of the memories
assailing him. His feet took him where they might, past the homes
of men of breeding and fashion: Devonshire House,
where the Cavendish family resided behind forbidding brick walls; Stafford
House, which was more a palace than St. James’ and had hosted some of the most
glittering gatherings of the century; Bridgewater House, with its fine frontage
onto Green Park; Holland House, headquarters to some of the most brilliant men
of the age and celebrated for its library; and Grosvenor House, with its
distinguished colonnades and priceless gallery
.
The exercise served only to remind him of the society to which he should be
keeping. Yet, his thoughts remained with ‘her’.