The Red Velvet Horse (Siren Publishing Allure) (3 page)

But then fate stepped in and gave her a shove.

Mr. William Rudge, my employer, has recently taken his nephew into the business, a spindly unpleasant youth with stringy hair and a leering expression. First of all his attentions were restricted to bold stares and some fumblings at his trousers, but now have progressed to crude remarks and rubbing against me whenever the opportunity arises.

“Let me see your cunt, darlin,” he whispered lewdly. Trapping me in the storeroom where he grabbed at my skirt and tore a petticoat.

I managed to extricate myself before the encounter could go any farther. But, this foul person is doubtless intent on having his way with me by force, if I do not yield to his most unwelcome advances willingly…which I would never do.

I cannot complain to Mr. Rudge, for he is unlikely to take my word over his nephew’s. And would most likely dismiss me for mischief making, without a reference, into the bargain.

There is nothing for it but to accept the proposal of marriage from Ned Beasley, and I will give him my answer after Sunday morning service.

“You won’t regret it, Hannah, I can promise you that,” he told me with great delight and swung me high in the air in celebration.

Yet, as the arrangements for our upcoming wedding progress, I cannot help but feel a certain uneasiness in his presence. He is such a restless man with his sudden quick jerky movements and overly bright eyes.

Now into this already volatile mix, kismet was about to toss another salvo. For just as Hannah was preparing to leave the tailor’s shop and wed Ned Beasley, she boards a tramcar and there is Tom.

You cannot imagine my great joy as I once again feasted my eyes on his beautiful countenance. “I’ve missed you,” I exclaimed quite forgetting all decorum, and he too appeared quite beside himself with pleasure at this most unexpected and quite thrilling re-acquaintanceship.

The tram’s bell clanged and passengers jostled against us impatiently as they boarded, but our eyes were riveted on each other and our surroundings of no consequence.

“Can you meet me at the Rose Tea-room tomorrow at eight?” he asked me at last. I nodded my assent with the greatest of pleasure.

The possibility of my husband-to-be, Mr. Beasley, suddenly deciding to visit on the same evening, was one that I dared not even contemplate. For more and more I was feeling like a trapped bird being lowered in a cage down a mineshaft.

Poor Hannah, April thought, taking a long sip at her cooling coffee. She’s been working like a slave for years, and cannot even take a couple of hours off to have tea with a man she adores, without being thrown into a quagmire of worry and stress.

If these were the good old days, then thank heavens for the new “bad” ones.

The gas lights in the wall brackets flare, sending a ghostly glow around the tea room where I sat opposite Tom. Scarcely able to take my eyes from his face, or believe that this was not but a wild dream.

No words were necessary as I sipped absentmindedly at my tea and let the full magic of the moment wash over me like a friendly wave.

“Same time next week?” There was a caress in his voice as I boarded a tram at the corner.

I nodded, my breasts tingling as if overfull with milk. When he kissed me lightly on the cheek, a thrill shot through my slippery cunny like a bolt of lightning hitting a rod.

But this moment of ultimate bliss was not to last. For as I hurried up the pathway to my lodgings, glancing nervously at my fob watch as I did so––for I had stayed longer with Tom than I should have done––I noticed that the entire lower floor of Mrs. Muirhead’s boarding house was ablaze with light. And that Ned Beasley’s horse and buggy were standing near the entrance to the stables.

“Where on earth have you been girl, we’ve been worried sick about you,” my landlady exclaimed. The Scottish burr was more prominent than usual in her disapproving tone.

“I’m sorry, I was kept later than expected,” I stammered awkwardly, hating having to resort to lies and subterfuge.

I made to escape to my room, but before I had a chance to move Ned Beasley appeared in the doorway with a face as dark as thunder.

It seemed that he had gone to my place of employment, in order to escort me safely home. Of course, it had all been locked up.

“You must have just missed me,” I lied, avoiding his accusing eyes. My face felt unnaturally tight and flushed.

Although that seemed to placate him somewhat, there remained a certain tension and suspicion for many days following this incident; making it impossible for me to risk seeing Tom again. This sorry state of affairs fairly cut me to the quick.

* * * *

The distinctive call of a chickadee––
fee-beee, fee-beee
––carried plaintively through the open window.

April took a long sip from a glass of lime juice, and settled herself down on the couch. The tattered pages of Hannah’s manuscript lay close at hand.

The wedding plans are going full steam ahead, with the reception to be held in Mrs. Muirhead’s parlor. I have chosen a green suit for the ceremony with a matching hat. But my heart lies heavy in my chest.

I have deliberately avoided seeing Tom again, for I fear one more glance at his beloved face and I would be lost, and quite unable to marry Ned Beasley. This marriage, although a loveless one––at least on my part––offers a greater security for my future.

Ned Beasley lives in a turreted granite mansion in Shaughnessy, which requires a small army of servants to run. Chief amongst them is a brittle-faced housekeeper named Mrs. Ribton, who clearly resents my intrusion into her neatly ordered domain.

But, it is in Mr. Beasley’s bed, where I must pay my way like any whore in a brothel that the real misery lies.

For he has turned out to be a cruel rutting little turkey cock, this diminutive wine merchant husband of mine, with an insatiable sexual appetite for the bizarre and kinky.

Not finding him attractive in the physical sense, or in any other way save his prosperity, I must endure for the sake of security and the dignity and respect afforded a married woman as compared to that of a spinster.

“I’m going to ream you up the bum, it’s a tighter fit than your cunt,” he told me lasciviously, and this on our wedding night. “Mr. Cock-a-leekie here will give your bowels a good nudge, so you won’t need any Epsom Salts.”

And I certainly didn’t. What’s more, I found it painful to even sit down so sore was my back passage and tender innards afterwards.

Then it was my mouth that Mr. Cock-a-leekie jiggered next. Plunging in so deep that I gagged and coughed while a great wad of sticky cum was forced down my throat…

Still, it’s better than working twelve hours a day in Mr. Rudge’s tailor shop, I told myself resignedly. Yet even as I spoke the placating words aloud, knew the price I paid for security and respectability was too bitter a harvest to bear.

* * * *

“Poor Hannah,” April murmured, shuddering at the thought of the odious Ned Beasley and his brutal Mr.Cock-a-leekie. The poor girl was well and truly trapped. There was no recourse to easy divorce in her time. The abominable indignities her husband forced upon her person, were something that simply could not be spoken of.

However, even if they were, they would probably be regarded––if they were believed at all––as his marital “rights.” While during the frightful scandal that would be sure to follow, Hannah would be bitterly reviled for betraying the sanctity of the marriage bed for public consumption.

* * * *

The nights in Mr. Beasley’s bed grow harder to endure. He has bought clamps, which he affixes to my nipples, and another similar device that attaches to my clit. Then he spanks me with a belt.

Bent almost double over a chair, I bite down on my lower lip until I taste blood. While, all the while, the cruel cut of the strap scourges my soft flesh until it hangs in tatters.

Unable to stand the pain any longer I scream out in terrified agony. “Stop…please stop…you’re killing me.”

This only serves to enrage Ned Beasley even further.

“Shush, woman, do you want to waken the whole house?” he scolds angrily, stuffing a handkerchief into my mouth and never missing a stroke of the harsh bottom spanking he is administering with such relish.

Afterwards he enters my back passage most roughly, and quite wild with excitement, rogers me until he reaches the zenith of his passion.

I have to somehow escape from this sadistic brute of a husband before he kills me, or I go hopelessly insane.

* * * *

“Roger me Holt,” April moaned invitingly. She got down on all fours and wiggled her behind in the air. When he readily obliged, moving into her cunt quickly with long rigid thrusts she added, as if in afterthought. “In my back passage…”

It was a hushed Sunday evening, and they were playing together on April’s bed. Spice looked on in solemn disapproval.

Hannah’s description of the brutal anal sex forced upon her by her fiend of a husband had appalled April. It had also excited the kinky side of her nature, and she had resolved to try this great taboo at the earliest opportunity.

“So you want to be sodomized?” Holt’s breath felt hot against her neck and shoulders. When she nodded, he greased her anus with Vaseline and explored her twitching little bum hole with his finger.

“Oh God that feels good…” she moaned, ripples of hot desire searing through her, making her hungry for more.

He eased his cock into her slowly, overcoming the resisting sphincter muscle and gradually building to a well-paced tempo that sent her into paroxysms of desire.

“Oh it’s wonderful…please don’t stop…” she groaned, as he played with her nipples and then ran his hand down over her quivering belly to her very wet cunt.

She tried to hold back on the huge gushing crescendo that was building deep within her womb, to savor the exquisite ecstasy of this moment as long as possible. But the sheer force of her passion overrode all attempts at control.

“Just go with it sweetheart…let it come…” Holt murmured huskily, and together they skyrocketed to a great thunderbolt of an orgasm that seemed to go on … and on…

“Sheesh, that was a whopper…” April lay in a delicious state of post-coital contentment. “Remind me to be sodomized more often.”

She could smell the musky masculine scent of him, rising from his sweating pores and tangling in his chest hair. She breathed it in appreciatively with tightly closed eyes, savoring every moment of this pricelessly erotic interlude.

* * * *

Through the sulfurous mist of a gloomy Christmas Eve, the old turreted house stood eerily aloof from its neighbors. The only acknowledgement of the season, a string of blue fairy lights that clung to the ivy on its granite walls.

April wound her muffler tighter against the damp and moved closer to the forbidding mansion. So, this was the scene of Hannah’s sexual torment at the hands of the sadistic Ned Beasley.

She had wondered if it still stood. And had felt compelled to drive over to see, when she reached the pivotal point in the old manuscript. For this was where Hannah had spent a miserable Christmas season so many decades ago.

It seems that my husband is sinking ever lower in his depraved behavior towards me. No longer content to merely strap me sorely and fuck me most cruelly in the ass, he has now insisted that as part of the seasonal celebration, I put myself on par with the turkey. This I am forced to accomplish by keeping a piece of liverwurst, which is used as stuffing for the festive bird, stuck up my cunny and in my back passage at all times.

This is uncomfortable, but afraid to enrage him further thereby causing him to abuse me even more, I am complying.

“Does it make you horny, wife?” he whispers to me lewdly, as we sit at a neighbor’s table on a foggy Christmas Eve. I am wearing an emerald satin gown with a matching comb in my hair.

I ignore him, but can feel his lecherous eyes glued to my bottom as I walk towards the card tables for the evening’s play. I smooth the material over it with my hands prior to taking my seat, more as a gesture of protection than to prevent creases from forming while I sit.

All the time very much aware of the chunky sausages that are residing snugly in my most private of orifices and causing me, despite my best efforts, to feel exceedingly randy and desirous of a good rutting.

Upon arriving home, Ned Beasley wastes no time in throwing me to the bed and hiking up my skirts. Removing the liverwurst from my cunny and nudging his steely cock into its place.

“Ah that’s good,” he rasps approvingly. “We’ll keep your bum filled up for now.” Then as a feverish afterthought: “What does it feel like anyway? A meaty sausage in your ass while I’m fucking you?”

“Full-up,” I reply tersely, and indeed it does. For with every thrust of Ned’s cock, friction is created through the thin dividing wall separating my cunny from my back passage.

The hypnotic clip-clop of horses’ hooves passes slowly by on the cobblestones beneath our window.