The Red Velvet Horse (Siren Publishing Allure) (6 page)

“I run a class establishment here,” she informed me flintily. And indeed, as I looked around at the plush upholstery and thick Turkish carpets, I had to agree.

She then gave me something of a guided tour of the premises. On the ground floor, there was a spacious red velvet lounge where the women greeted their clients. A nude statue of Aphrodite holding Eros stood in the far corner.

There were about a dozen bedrooms or “knocking-shops” as they were popularly called, upstairs. Then, with a significant amount of pride and an air of mystery, Mrs. Cloud opened the double red doors at the end of the hallway.

“And this is where we keep the specialty of the house,” she informed me proudly, stepping to one side, so I could enter.

It was a medium-sized chamber hung with rich draperies, and devoid of all furnishings save for a strange looking contraption sitting directly in the middle of the room, a plush and well-padded red velvet horse, the type of thing that acrobats vault over at the circus.

“The girls call him Neddy.” Mrs. Cloud had an unpleasant leer as she gave the lewd looking thingy a suggestive pat. “He’s used for a score of kinky goings-on, like birchings, bondage and bum fuckings.”

* * * *

“Wow,” April whistled. The Red Velvet Horse sounded like a raunchy piece of property. An absolute must have for the connoisseur of the erotic and taboo.

She recalled a basement sexarium that an old friend of hers had had. Complete with wall manacles, whipping stool, and ceiling mirrors. But this horse––Neddy––was at once so classy and verboten that all the usual standard type of sexual equipment would pale by comparison.

Quickly leafing through a Collector’s Guide to the Erotic, which featured such items as a bench with handcuffs, and two-way mirrors, she came across a similar device, although not as opulent looking as the plush velvet horse of Hannah’s experience.

By golly I’m going to order it, she decided on impulse. Compelled by a force stronger than time, to act out the sexual adventures of a nineteenth-century femme fatale.

* * * *

The western horizon was streaked with bands of pink, gold and purple, as twilight descended.

April turned down the oil lamp in the small room off the kitchen, which she had furnished in authentic nineteenth century style. She even had a recording of horses’ hooves playing on the stereo to add to the atmosphere. Her hair was swept up in an elaborate bun and she wore a sequined black dress trimmed with ermine and buttoned high-heel boots.

“Let’s have a glass of sherry while we’re waiting for dinner,” she suggested to Holt, who was also dressed for the part in a high-necked pin striped shirt with matching cravat.

Clinking their glasses together, they drank to Hannah’s memory. The glow from the candles on the rosewood table reflected in the rich amber liquid.

The strong tingle of excitement that had been spiraling from deep within April’s groin all evening had now spread tantalizingly throughout her entire body. And, as she eyed Holt from beneath curling lashes, she fantasized wickedly about what the grand finale was going to be.

For the vaulting horse designed for sexual high jinks had arrived, and was now set up ready and waiting for them in the darkened far corner of the room.

“You’re looking absolutely ravishing tonight.” Holt sat down beside her on the striped Regency sofa. He put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her towards him, a great passion smoldered in his devastatingly blue eyes.

“Mmm...yes…” April moaned with pleasure as his tongue found hers and explored it with a rhythmic tension that left her breathless with desire.

Then he ran his hand under her dress and caressed her black-stocking clad leg from calf to thigh. “You smell so good,” he murmured hotly, referring to the lavender water she had dabbed on her wrists, neck and behind her knees.

She raked her fingernails down his buttoned crotch and twisted her leg over his in an uninhibited gesture of raw desire. “I think it’s time for Neddy.” It was the erotic session she had been looking forward to for weeks.

With the hypnotic clip-clop of horses’ hooves playing softly in the background, and the flaring of the oil lamp sending eerie shadows up the walls, April climbed up on the padded horse, then prostrated herself across it with her bottom raised high in the air.

“God, but you have a lovely ass.” Holt’s voice cracked with passion. He tossed her skirts over her head, yanked down her under-drawers, and grasped her firmly by the waist.

He stood on a small stool to the rear of the horse that brought him up to an ideal level for entering her smoothly and masterfully.

“Oh God,” she groaned as if in pain, as his rigid cock poked deep within her gurgling sluice gate of a cunt. “Oh my lord…”

Then he rode her with superhuman energy until they both convulsed in one great hammer blow of a climax.

“This Neddy is one neat idea.” Holt’s fair skin looked flushed in the flickering light from the log fire.

April moaned and swished her bottom around, willing him to lick her with his tongue and crying out in joy when he did so.

“Oh yes…oh yes…” she repeated like one in a trance as the piercing flames of passion seared through her dripping cunt.

He tongue bathed her from clit to rectum, in a long slow lapping movement that drove her wild with desire.

“Oh please…please…” she raved on like a madwoman, clutching Neddy with trembling hands, her tingling nipples rubbing against his back with tantalizing friction.

Holt inserted two fingers into her cunt and fucked her diligently, while tongue fucking her anus to the same torrid beat.

“Wow, you can really see all the action with this old horse,” he commented later. “I never knew you had such a pretty little rosebud of a bum.”

“Until I was astride Neddy with it up in the air…” April laughed, feeling wonderfully sated yet still pleasantly sexual. “How would you like to trade places and I’ll see what I can do for you?”

He needed no second invitation.

Now both completely naked with the firelight playing softly on their skin, April started out by rubbing oil over Holt’s back and legs, paying special attention to his inner thighs and crotch.

“Ah yes...that’s great…” he whispered as she fondled his balls, and rectum, entering him with two fingers, and driving him simply gaga when she tapped against his prostate gland.

“Now is that ever a little goody that I don’t have,” she murmured sensuously, noticing with approval how he reared up and almost neighed like the horse he was on, when she applied pressure to this super sensitive A-Spot.

“But you have the G-Spot…” he groaned. And when she persisted with her rhythmic fucking of his anus, soon burst forth in a highly charged blowout of an orgasm.

* * * *

Spice had taken a liking to Neddy, and would lie across the horse, kneading his claws into the deep velvet.

“Out of here toots, it’s my turn,” April chased him away good-naturedly. She had added a new and extremely exciting feature to Neddy that kept her lustfully enthralled for many blissful hours. A large rubber dong strapped around the horse’s back, that she would squat over and impale her hungry cunt on.

Thrilling over and over again as this erotic delight brought her to an exquisite paradise of the senses that was peerless in its intensity. And gave a whole new meaning to the joys of riding.

Over a hundred years earlier, the sensuous Hannah was also discovering the unique pleasures that such an erotically structured mount had to offer.

When I am astride Neddy, my breasts and face pressed against his back, and my bum high in the air, I get a thrill so penetrating that it fairly makes my head spin.

The gentleman love it too, for they can examine all the petals of my cunny, in a way that would not be possible otherwise.

“My, what a bonnie wee cunt it is.” Old Jock was one of my regulars. He poked his stubby finger into the crevices and folds until I got so wet I was squishy.

“And your bum hole’s a treasure too…look how it fights my finger and then opens up for it like a flower to the sun.”

“Oh yes…yes,” I gasp, as the heat and excitement builds.

“Ah, you’re a naughty wee lassie, I should spank you before I fuck you.” And much though I’ve heard this many times before, as it is all part of our usual ritual, it loses nothing of its ability to arouse quite maddeningly.

For now, Jock takes a small ivory-handled switch and begins to whip my buttocks until they glow like a furnace in a foundry.

“Ouch,” I gasp in lustful spasm as the frenzied orgasm starts deep in my womb and builds…

It is at this point in our play that Jock throws down the switch and caresses my scourged bottom with a tender hand.

I gasp and convulse at this most exciting of junctures, and when he taps lightly on my twitching clit burst forth in an eruption so powerful, it threatens to buckle the sturdy Neddy’s very foundations.

“Ah, you’re a good wee lassie,” Jock coos and gentles me down until the most intense of the contractions pass. Then he pulls me down to the edge of the horse and penetrates my anus with his great unwieldy cudgel of a cock.

“Egads...” I gasp as my ass hole resists this invasion of its sanctuary. But I’ve learned how to relax the troublesome sphincter, so the gentleman can, without too much bother enjoy me all the way to the bowels.

Jock rides me like the experienced old trooper he is, with his stones banging tantalizingly against my cunny and his hands groping over my belly and breasts.

“Oh God...” I am soon in a state of near frenzy as the excitement builds once again throughout my trembling body.

“Oh God...” as with feverish skin and swollen lips I erupt most dramatically, swishing my ass around with all the energy of a dervish.

Then Jock sits down on the armchair and draws me across his lap.

“My word lass, I could never get enough of your bonnie wee bum.” He drools with unfettered lust, stroking, patting and lightly spanking my rosy posterior until we both begin to squirm with the heat of the moment.

“So you want to go off again, you bad wee girl, ” he scolds lasciviously, and promptly impales my cunny with his rigid member as I sit astride him.

I can hear a horse whinnying in the courtyard below and the sporadic barking of a dog in the distance.

“Aye that’s a girl, faster…faster,” Jock moans, as I ride him with all the gusto that I had displayed earlier on the good Neddy.

* * * *

“But it’s highly unlikely that any of the buildings Hannah mentions will still be there.” Holt stirred his coffee with more vigor than was necessary.

April glanced at her watch. It was barely noon, but the Green Man Bistro was crowded. “You’re probably right, but I still feel I have to go and see for myself.”

She had told Holt of her intention to fly to Toronto at the end of the week, in order to retrace the footsteps of the nineteenth century seductress. And besides, she needed a vacation quite badly. This was as good as an excuse as any to incorporate the two.

“You can always call Fern if the shop gets too busy for you to handle.”

“Oh, I daresay I’ll manage somehow.” Holt spread too much butter on a piece of rye toast. “But as for Hannah Wilks, I cannot understand your fascination with her. She was just a cheap oversexed harlot who should have had her bottom soundly spanked.”

“I believe a number of her gentlemen friends did just that.” April laughed suggestively. “And far from deterring her, the lady got off on the thrashings big time.”

“Oh, all right, have it your own way,” he conceded defeat with at least a modicum of grace. “ I still think it’s a waste of time and money.”

* * * *

Toronto broiled beneath a scorching red demon of a sun. It was high summer and the only relief came with the violent thunderstorms that would crash through the heavens at the end of a sizzling day.

April mopped a sweaty brow and turned her footsteps towards the first house Hannah lived in when she moved here. It was at number 46 Simcoe Street. She described it in her manuscript as being “modest,” and she had run a small dressmaking business from the downstairs parlor. On the opposite side of the street, there had been a haberdashery store.

But there was nothing remaining of either building, just an ugly glass monolith of a skyscraper that reared up like some monstrous beast from the burning grit of the asphalt below.

Yet still she remained, screwing up her eyes against the blazing search-light of a sun and attempting to, at least, get a feel of the place where Hannah had once lived.

She managed to hail a taxi to take her over to Parliament Street, where she went in search of the “mean and shabby” accommodation Hannah had moved to after Jeffrey Sutton had taken off with her money.

Here she found a row of grimy rundown rooming houses that could well have been standing for over a century. For underneath the grime and neglect, they still bore the marks of sturdy Victorian building standards.

Feeling quite exhilarated with excitement she walked up the broken, litter-strewn path to number 19.