The Red Velvet Horse (Siren Publishing Allure) (5 page)

“Oh yes…” she groaned ecstatically, as he inserted two fingers high up into her cunt while keeping his thumb positioned over her throbbing clit.

“Boy did you ever need that,” he exclaimed, while the walls of her cunt convulsed around his vigorously fucking fingers, and she burst forth in a violent orgasm that was almost painful in its intensity.

“Now it’s your turn Holt,” she whispered, after the strongest of the spasms had passed. She quickly stripped off his clothes, and reached for his pulsating cock. Then she formed a tight little cunt with her hands, moving them up and down rhythmically, until he too was transported to Shangri-La.

* * * *

Our exile continues in Toronto, where I take in sewing to eke out a meager existence. But oh how I long for the ocean breezes and moderate temperatures of the pacific coast.

To make matters worse, the letters from Tom have stopped coming, and this fills me with angst and a great unhappiness of spirit.

Has he fallen ill? Or, had an accident?

Worry dogs my every waking minute and it’s hard sometimes not to snap at others in my present state.

But then the stress of another week going by and still no word from him, begins to turn the concern to suspicion and then to anger.

He has met someone else.

The idea, which was already half-formed in the back of my mind now moves to the forefront, and torments me both night and day. If only I was nearer, so I could go round to his home and see for myself. But the two thousand miles of frozen wilderness stretching between us weighs as heavily on my spirits as the burden Atlas bore on his shoulders.

In my misery, sometimes angry and at others tearful, I dispatch several emotional missives to him, demanding why he is ignoring me, but still he does not reply.

And it is around this time that another incident occurred that was so troubling it banished all thoughts of Tom from my mind.

“There’s a man watching the house, Madam.” Mattie announced excitedly, as she returned from posting a letter on a freezing evening in February. “I thought I saw him before, but I wasn’t sure. Now I am.”

“Shush,” I demand irritably, worried nearly witless that the “him” is none other than my brutal husband, Ned Beasley, whom I had long thought of as, the Beast.

I stride to the window and pull back the draperies. And sure enough, there standing on the corner opposite, by the haberdashery store, is a tall figure clad in a long black cape, much out of style in today’s fashions.

Well, at least it wasn’t the Beast himself, I consoled myself with some relief. Yet, whether or not it was an agent of his, I had no way of knowing.

“Take him over a beaker of tea,” I instructed a less than willing Mattie. “Say that you’ve noticed him standing there and thought that he must be cold. See what you can find out.”

I then began to pace up and down, my nervousness increasing by the minute. Could that monster that had so abused my poor body have somehow discovered my whereabouts? And could he impel me by the strong arm of the law to return to his matrimonial bed of such pain and shame?

“He’s not watching our house at all, Madam,” Mattie informed me upon her return. Now obviously pleased to be the center of attention, and rubbing her hands together towards the fire as she held court.

“But what is he doing loitering on the corner and looking this way?”

“Waiting for his daughter, who works in the haberdashery store,” she replied triumphantly, and with a slowness of delivery that one uses to an imbecile or child.

I poked at the fire; relief flooding over me like a welcome tide. Yet, the incident had unsettled me more than I cared to admit. For my sense of safety from the evil clutches of Ned Beasley had now been sorely tried.

What if that stranger on the corner had been from a private detective agency? I tormented myself in this fashion until I thought I’d go mad. And how well had I covered our tracks against just such a calamity?

It was around this time that a Mr. Jeffrey Sutton, a most handsome and pleasant-mannered widower moved into the house next door.

“Would you care to take tea with me, Madam,” he invited one radiant day in early spring. Mattie and I were playing a game of croquet on our back lawn. I noticed with pleasure his warm hazel eyes and the laughing tilt to his lips.

It had been a long time––too long––since I had been with a man, and my body ached for the comfort only a hard member impaling my cunny could bring. Any hopes that this service would be performed by Tom had long since vanished, as I had not had a letter from him in many months. I, therefore, had to accept the fact that he was no longer interested in me.

Jeffrey was a retired stockbroker, and from him I learned how to better manage my finances. For it was a fact, that I had not been utilizing my resources to their full potential.

“You’re a pretty little thing that needs a man in your life,” he told me with much affection. And soon he was gamahuching me on the chaise longue in his parlor while his pet parrot flew around the room squawking “fuckee…fuckee…fuckee.”

“Where did he learn such language?” I asked demurely, straightening my petticoats after enjoying a long and most delicious orgasm.

“I rescued him from a bawdy house.” Jeffrey laughed in unison with the bird’s rude rantings. “Some of the clients didn’t like him, and they were going to throw him out.”

“And how was it that you were acquainted with such a place?” I asked in mock surprise, my eyes suitably wide for the occasion.

“Oh, I wasn’t a client if that’s what concerns you,” Jeffrey assured me most forcefully. “No, indeed, not that. I knew the Madam on a strictly business basis, and was able to assist her in making some very wise investments.”

As an especially torrid summer moved sluggishly by, I spent more and more time with Jeffrey. “Are you going to marry Mr. Sutton, Madam?” Mattie asked me more than once, her face strained with anxiety.

“All in good time,” I replied evasively. “One cannot rush affairs of the heart, and in fact, can never know quite where they will lead.”

Although, I knew full well that there had been no divorce from Ned Beasley, and therefore, could not undertake to become someone else’s wife.

Or could I?

After all, I’d been passing myself off as a widow, ever since leaving the salty breezes of Vancouver.

Interesting, April thought, as she settled down to enjoy the next chapter in the erotic adventures of Hannah Wilks. For here was Hannah accepting a proposal of marriage from Jeffrey Sutton. The fact that she was still married to the sadistic Ned Beasley did not seem to bother her.

We now reside at the other side of the continent from the Beast, she wrote in her elegant handwriting. Therefore, the chances of my being found out and prosecuted as a bigamist are very slim.

She had, it seemed, taken great pains to tell Mattie that a bolting horse had killed Ned Beasley. Thus leaving her free, as a widow, to marry again.

She had even typewritten a letter to herself in the public library, ostensibly from a Vancouver law firm, explaining in detail how this demise had occurred.

“Clever wench, and so devious,” April said to Spice, shifting his considerable weight from her leg as she did so.

I have chosen a peach silk dress for the big day. Which, is to take place on the first Sunday of June. While Mattie, although I have given her an extra allowance for suitable clothing, continues to pout her displeasure. So determined is she to keep our present status unchanged.

Jeffrey is a virtuoso between the bed covers. A thoughtful and experienced lover, who delights in bringing me right to the precipice of fulfillment, then pulling me back at the last excruciating moment.

He has a large florid-headed cock that is long enough to bang against my womb as he quickens at the final moments of bliss.

I am well satisfied with the choice I have made. Not only will my new husband be of great satisfaction to me sexually, but financially, and I will be secure for life.

And while it is true, that with the investments Jeffrey has made with my own money I would be comfortable, as his wife we will be downright wealthy.

There is also the improved social status to celebrate as well. The wife of a successful stockbroker holds an infinitely more elevated position in society, than a widow trying to supplement what small resources she has by taking in other people’s sewing. And my sorely pricked fingers and tired eyes rejoice at the reprieve.

As a blossom dappled May draws to a close we spend idyllic days in the garden, followed by sizzling nights in Jeffrey’s bed.

One of his favorite positions (and now mine also) is A la Negresse––from behind. So with the oil lamp burning low in the corner and the hypnotic clip clop of horses’ hooves echoing from the street below, I kneel with my hands clasped behind my neck, and with my breasts and face resting on the bed.

When Jeffrey kneels behind me, I hook my legs over his and pull him to me with them. I hear his deep moan of satisfaction and my nipples tingle with excitement. He then puts a hand on each of my shoulders and presses down. This is a very deep position and as such wholly satisfactory. However, there is one aspect of it that is mildly disconcerting. Being deep in nature, it is also inclined to pump one full of air, which escapes like a volley of little farts––without the odor––at the end of the session.

For many days now, I have been watching the activities of a red-tailed hawk, a most majestic looking bird with an exceedingly loud voice. He has taken to sitting for many long hours in the branches of the cypress tree, and then suddenly soaring in swift flight to surprise a squirrel, lizard, or other ground dwelling prey.

Jeffrey tells me this bird is an unusual find indeed in these parts. This makes me all the more appreciative of the moments I spend spying on him through my field glasses.

The weather remains warm with a cooling breeze as soft as angel’s breath. And as we picnic in the meadow on crisp fried chicken and peach pie, I lift my dazzled eyes to the heavens and exalt in the sheer unbridled joy that god has seen fit to bestow upon me.

There is then a long period of silence from the elated Hannah. And, as April thumbs through the fragile pages looking for the next entry, she feels the icy hand of foreboding clutching at her heart.

And here it is. Dated November thirteenth.

As the gloom of another wet day draws to a close, I pull the draperies across the rain-glazed windows and poke at the fire in the grate.

It is almost six months now since my great happiness was so cruelly shattered, and my fortunes dashed on the hard unforgiving face of fate.

For not only did Jeffrey Sutton turn out to be a bounder who deserted me on the very eve of our wedding, but a scoundrel who absconded with all my invested resources as well.

I took all of this exceedingly hard, and retreated to my bedchamber for weeks. The shock and disappointment gnawed at my insides like flittermice feeding on the carcasses of cattle.

How could he use me so cruel? I sobbed inconsolably, refusing to eat the meals that Mattie brought up for me. And indeed, often sweeping the tray from the bedside table in my state of misery and rage.

But on the day when there was no more coal for the fire, and the larder was depressingly bare, I had no choice but to rise up, wash my tear-ravaged face and soldier on.

Unable to pay the rent, we moved to smaller, meaner accommodations on Parliament Street. What followed was a long and bitter winter. Every bit of jewelry and furniture that would fetch a half-decent price was sold. Even my trousseau went on the public auction block.

I was fretful, but Mattie at least proved loyal and remained with me, although I could no longer afford to pay her wages.

I tried to get as much sewing as I could to see us through until spring, but the work was slow in coming, and what pittance I did receive for my efforts was immediately gobbled up by our meager expenditures.

“The butcher says he won’t give us any more credit until the bill is paid.” Mattie informed me one snowbound January day, when icicles dangled from the rooftops like candles.

I cursed Jeffrey Sutton for a heartless rogue and scoundrel, as we huddled around a mean fire in the ugly broken grate.

There was only one thing for it, I decided bitterly. And it was an action I had resisted taking from the outset of our present problems. I would have to go back to work in a bawdy house.

So it was that I dressed carefully in the freezing bedroom, my hands blue from cold as I applied a liberal coating of powder and rouge. I had heard of a house of ill repute over on Jarvis Street. And that’s where I made for, shivering both from fear and the elements, through the premature dusk of a frigid and ice-bound afternoon.

“Well, I think you’ll do nicely, dearie.” The pock-faced old Madam looked me over like a prime piece of meat. “The house keeps fifty-percent, remember, and don’t try to gyp me, sweetheart, or you’ll be sorry, if you get my meaning?”

“Yes, Mrs. Cloud,” I replied obediently, transfixed by her sharp black eyes and raddled features. For I was certain that a disease contacted through sexual intercourse had left her thus. And dreaded that some such awful sickness would also do for me in the end.