The Red Velvet Horse (Siren Publishing Allure) (13 page)

“Fuck you,” I cried out, more in anger at my own body’s betrayal of me than anything else and was, therefore, totally unprepared for his response.

“Why you foul-mouthed little doxy,” he spat out angrily, and before I knew what was happening had dragged me out of bed and upended me across his bony knees.

“I’m going to spank some manners into you,” he told me furiously, hardly even waiting until I was properly balanced before spanking my bare bottom with considerable relish.

Spank…spank…spank…spank…spank…spank…the swats were hard and uncompromising and fell relentlessly on my tender flesh.

Spank...spank...spank…spank…spank…spank…I bit down on my lower lip and tried not to call out.

Spank…spank...spank...spank...spank…spank…But the pain was becoming too much for me as my bottom burned and smarted as if it were on fire.

Spank…spank…spank…spank…spank…spank… “Please, sir, I beg you to stop...” I cried out at last, trying in vain to twist myself away from his iron grasp.

But my furious employer was not about to be swayed by my feeble plea for mercy.

“Not quite yet, my lady,” he told me with much sarcastic venom dripping from his words. “Your cheeky little bottom has not been chastised enough for my liking.”

Spank...spank…spank…spank…spank…spank, the hard over-the-knee spanking continued until I was howling like a wolf at the full moon. Spank… spank… spank…spank…spank…spank…and finally when I didn’t think I could stand the pain for another moment he stopped.

“Now are you ever going to be disrespectful to me again?” There was steel in his voice, as his hand rested threateningly across my blistered behind.

I could hear the cries of the barn owl again, and the screech of a hawk in the nearby woods.

“No, sir,” I assured him most obediently. And when he ordered me back into bed so we could finish our “business,” I found, much to my utter disgust with myself, that I was even randier than before, for the spanking had excited me as much as it had pained me.

Fuck…fuck…fuck…fuck…fuck…fuck…my scarlet bottom swished desperately, grinding against the crisp linen until Joseph reached beneath me and cupped it with his hands.

“The spanking made you horny you dirty little vixen,” he whispered lustfully. I knew better than to answer this with a sassy reply as before. My poor bottom had been chastised enough for one night.

Fuck…fuck…fuck…fuck…fuck…fuck…and there was just the pain in my bum and the excitement in my cunny and the wild primordial rush to consummation.

Fuck…fuck…fuck…fuck…fuck…fuck…and I was screaming louder than when I’d been spanked, but this time with the high howling shriek of ecstasy that bespoke of a wild thing loose in the forest, and reverberated eerily around the room long after the powerful pumping contractions had at last subsided.

“And you were the one who didn’t want to become my mistress,” Joseph mused smugly, and tipped me over his knee once again. This time to caress my sore behind with a cooling ointment and tease my twitching cunny and back passage with the tips of his fingers.

“You’re a hot woman and I don’t mean just your bottom,” he told me salaciously, giving me a couple of light love spanks to illustrate his point.

My dislike for Joseph grew exponentially, he was everything I despised in a man, stingy with money, and with no sense of humor or imagination worth a sou. The fact that he had aroused me so thoroughly during our first sexual encounter, despite my considerable resistance to the contrary, played no small part in the hatred.

“When can I see you again?” Curtis asked, as April boarded the bus on a windswept evening. “In private, I mean.”

It was the end of the fiscal year at Village Antiques, and one of the busiest times because they were stocktaking.

“Not much chance of that for about another week,” she replied regretfully. “But I’m here now, why don’t we make the best of it?”

There were only a couple of other passengers on the bus, and much to her relief, they both got off before the layover point at the top of the hill.

“I want you in a bed,” Curtis complained, his blue eyes serious beneath finely arched brows. “The back seat of a bus cannot compare.”

“What it lacks in comfort, it more than makes up for in excitement,” she protested. “Why, I find it quite incredibly erotic.”

Curtis cut the engine and lights. “You do, do you?” He pulled her head down so he could French kiss her deeply on the mouth.

“Wow…I could feel that right down to my toes.” She squeezed her eyes shut to better savor the wonderful sensations. She wished she had a blindfold.

“Sit on me,” he ordered. She needed no second invitation.

With deft movements, she quickly unzipped his fly and straddled his nine-inch cock. She moved her hungry cunt up and down its rigid length until she convulsed and throbbed out a cornucopia of bliss.

Another bus roared by precariously close––had they been seen? And then parked directly in front of them.

“This is what I don’t like about shagging in public.” Curtis zipped himself up and straightened his uniform. Just in time too, before the other driver appeared at the door and asked him when he was due to leave.

That was a bit too close for comfort April had to admit. Still surreptitiously smoothing down her skirt and coat while staring fixedly ahead with feverish eyes. Yet, it was this very sense of danger––were you going to get a chance to climax before you were interrupted––which made it so breathtakingly erotic and exciting.

She did her level best to stay off the bus for the remainder of the week. By Monday, after a grueling weekend at the shop, she was overtired yet unable to rest because of a mounting sexual build-up. Masturbation didn’t help. In fact, it made her hornier.

“If I don’t get bonked soon I’ll implode,” she joked to Curtis as she boarded his bus. Then settled herself back against the hard seat with her legs spread apart in lascivious invitation.

“You’re incorrigible,” he told her with a smile. When they got to the layover point he wasted no time in laying her out on the back seat and mounting her enthusiastically.

“Oh God…that’s great...great…” She pumped her hips around energetically to meet his thrusts.

* * * *

As the months passed slowly by, I dreaded Joseph Murchison’s visits to my bed more and more. It was the betrayal of my dignity by my own body that grew feverish from his persistent probings and fuckings that I dreaded most of all. I was a virtual prisoner, with no resources other than those he provided.

It was around this time that a notorious brothel in a neighboring town was the target of a police raid. “This has happened before and no doubt it will again,” the proprietor, Mrs. Dolly Brackenshaw, was quoted as saying in the local newspaper. She had also vowed to remain open for business as usual. It immediately gave me an idea.

Pleading the need to take long walks by myself, which often lasted many hours, I set out for Dolly’s on a tawny October afternoon. “Yes, I think you’ll do very nicely, luv.” She turned me this way and that while she looked me over approvingly. “Afternoons it is, and the house takes fifty per cent.”

So it was that I began whoring several times a week, and in fact became so popular with the clients that Dolly tried to persuade me to come in evenings as well.

“Sorry, that’s impossible,” I told her with some regret, for I was anxious to make as much money as possible in the shortest period of time. Winter was just around the corner and would make travel that much more difficult.

Yet on the other hand, I had no wish to become a full time whore again either.

* * * *

“Why you dirty little bitch,” Joseph exclaimed, with a face dark as pitch. I had just finished an afternoon at Dolly’s and was heading home astride a rented mount. It was my custom to leave the horse at a stable, about a half-mile from the orchard, and walk the rest of the way. “I’ve been suspicious of your doings lately and today I decided to follow you.”

For a moment, the world heaved around me. Flashes of panic zigzagged behind my eyelids. This was one eventuality that I had not expected.

“Peddling your ass at a whorehouse, then coming home to sleep with me,” he added furiously, the veins fairly sticking out at his temples in ugly blue knots.

It was a bright and crisp December day, and I was aware of a flock of snow geese flying in perfect formation across the sky on their yearly migration from Canada.

Caught in the act, so to speak, I was for the moment bereft of words. The possible ramifications of this unfortunate occurrence I had not had time to contemplate. Perhaps this was an advantage, for they must by their very nature be dire, indeed.

Joseph was sitting astride Maggie, his trusty chestnut mare. Every so often she would toss her head and whinny in alarm, sensing the threatening atmosphere that was percolating furiously all around her.

A few of the townsfolk had stopped to gawk and listen to the angry exchange. An inebriated man in workman’s clothes uttered an obscenity before lurching on his way.

“We are making a spectacle of ourselves and our private business,” I protested, although feebly. “May I suggest we discuss this in a quiet manner at home.”

“You can suggest all you want, you filthy little whore, but you won’t set foot in my house ever again.” With that ominous parting shot, Joseph dug his heels into Maggie’s flanks and galloped off down the cobblestone road.

By the time I reached the stables it was full dark, but instead of leaving the horse and continuing the rest of the way by foot, I made arrangements to keep him for I would require transportation for myself that very night.

My mind felt numb and was unable to form a coherent thought, let alone a string of them. What would I do? Where would I go? was about the limit of its present capabilities. For I had been well and truly stunned by Joseph’s furious appearance as I trotted quite happily down the main street. My cunny still wet and twitching from a most delightful encounter with a farm machinery salesman. Who, incidentally, had tipped me most generously for my enthusiasm.

Yet my financial situation was by no means solvent, and I had intended to tough out the winter with Joseph before striking out for greener pastures in the spring. When the periwinkles are in the lane, I promised myself, every time I had to submit to this uncouth man’s crude embraces and vulgar expressions.

Of course, this afternoon’s events had broadsided all that. When I rode into the orchard courtyard and left my horse with the groom, I contemplated the vagaries of fate while gazing up at the night sky where a tiny crescent moon kept company with a dazzling Venus.

All my things had been packed by an embarrassed and harassed looking kitchen maid who bobbed an awkward courtesy before beating a hasty retreat in the direction of the scullery.

I never saw Joseph Murchison again.

It was impossible to carry all my belongings––although meager––on horseback. My attempts to rent a buggy, at such short notice, failed. So it was that I ended up pushing what remained of my earthly possessions in a rough-hewn handcart I had bought from the village carpenter at an over-inflated price.

Traveling on a muddy rutted path made by carriage tracks, my feet sinking into the mire and then struggling out again and grappling for purchase, I was chilled to the bone and shaky with fear.

A bird of prey screeched overhead and from the woods, on either side of me, wild things scampered and cried out eerily in the darkness.

I had no clear plan in mind for my future, except to retrace my footsteps to Mrs. Knowles’ hotel in Richmond Hill. Where I could at least be sure of a clean bed and decent board at a reasonable price, although my memories of the place were of the most heart-rending kind. For it was there that I had learned that Tom no longer cared. In fact, he must actually have started to hate me, otherwise why would he refuse to even acknowledge a telegram sent in such distress?

It was also in the good Mrs. Knowles’ parlor that I had subsequently met the loathsome Joseph Murchison. To dwell on past miseries is a fool’s game, so here I must desist, lest I become one of their number.

I walked all night and into the next day, stopping only for sustenance breaks––the carpenter’s wife had sold me a loaf of bread and some cheese––and to go to the toilet. By the time the lights of a town appeared on the horizon, freezing rain was falling like a black opaque screen. Exhausted, my clothes muddy and wet, I stumbled along with renewed vigor. Here I could at last rest for the night and get a good meal inside me for the next day’s ordeal.

Youngstown was a small but thriving community on Lake Ontario with several boarding houses and hotels to choose from. I settled on one called the Wentworth Arms, a reasonably priced establishment catering to the commercial traveler.

“My, you look as if you’re just about all in,” the landlord commented kindly. “You’re too late for dinner, but I can have a simple supper prepared for you, if you’d like.”

“That would be much appreciated, sir,” I replied gratefully. For in truth, I felt I could not have taken another step in that wet and icy night to save myself. “I am also in desperate need of some good hot water that I might bathe.” I added ruefully, indicating my soiled and splattered state.