Authors: Lisabet Sarai
“No, sir, they’re fine.” Should she tell him he could tie her much tighter, if it pleased him?
He skimmed his hands over her shoulders and down to her elbows. His fingers were soft, without the calluses of a working man, and oh, so knowing! Shivers danced up her spine. She straightened her back to present her breasts and parted her thighs as she’d been taught. Oceany musk drifted from her soaked pussy. Her taut nipples throbbed with her pulse. Her clit beat in time. The three swollen nubs made a triangle of need, with her consciousness staked between them, stretched and fragile. One touch to any point and she’d shatter.
As if in answer to her silent plea, he reached both hands around to cup her rounded flesh. Catching the tips between thumb and forefinger, he rolled them back and forth like marbles. A gasp escaped her and she arched into his palms. Sensation sizzled down to her clit, as if he were exerting the same firm pressure there.
“You are exquisitely responsive.” His praise thrilled her. “But how do you feel about a bit of pain?”
She had no time to consider the question. He gave her a vicious pinch, nails biting into her engorged nipples. Her eyes closed, she let the shock of hurt arc through her and die away. Pleasure followed in its wake, radiating from his fingers down to the hungry gulf between her thighs. He squeezed again, with much greater force. Would he pierce the skin? Imagining her blood staining his fingertips, she came near to swooning.
“Oh, Olivia! I have so many ideas about what to do with you, I can’t decide which to try first.” He nuzzled her neck then nipped her shoulder. As the pain surged then receded, she struggled to remain still, knowing that was what was required.
“If you weren’t bound, I’d have you on your hands and knees, so I could spank your soft, white bottom…but I don’t want to stop to untie you now. That will have to wait until later. And I didn’t bring up my crop—I didn’t know if you could bear it.”
I can bear whatever you care to inflict
, Olivia thought, though she wasn’t quite ready to admit this aloud. If he read her as clearly as it seemed, she wouldn’t need to tell him.
She heard his footsteps as he came to stand in front of her. She still didn’t dare to meet his eyes—not until he commanded it.
“Look at me, girl. Today, tonight—for the next forty-eight hours—I will be your master. And you will be my plaything, my slave, my whore.” The words were as thrilling as his touch had been—perhaps more so. They kindled a dark fire in her soul. “Do you consent? Will you serve me?”
His eyes bored into her, pinning her like a captured butterfly. His voice rang with authority. Still, she discerned a touch of uncertainty in his expression and demeanour. Did he really doubt her?
“Yes, sir, I will. I’m yours to command.” The words rolled off her tongue, familiar and satisfying, as if she used them daily.
“You’re sure?” His gaze was relentless but she met it bravely, glad to have someone at last know who she really was.
“I’m completely certain, sir.” There was a delirious freedom in that confession. Her clit pulsed and she thought for an instant she’d fly off into climax from that alone.
His hand strayed to the buttons of his trousers and her gaze couldn’t help but follow the movement. In the space of a few heartbeats he had freed his erect penis from his clothing. It was as solid and sturdy as the rest of his muscular form, pale, veined and topped by a ruddy helmet that was slick with evidence of his excitement. Saliva filled her mouth at the sight. Her pussy filled with moisture, too, hungry to feel that hardness deep inside.
He took a step towards her, brushing the smooth cap over her parted lips. “Open your mouth, whore.”
Olivia needed no encouragement. His rampant cock drew her like a magnet draws iron. Leaning forward, a bit ungainly because of her bonds, she opened wide and engulfed him, halfway to the root. His moan sent shudders of delight through her body. She swirled her tongue over the stretched skin of the head then sucked him deeper, wanting to swallow him whole. He tasted of salt and sweat, a masculine flavour that made her more ravenous than ever.
She pulled back slightly, made a tight ‘O’ of her lips, then bobbed, running her mouth up and down over the taut, silky skin.
“You’re a clever little slut,” Andrew muttered through gritted teeth. “I’ll wager this isn’t your first time eating a man’s prick.” He wound his fingers into her hair and held her head still. “Open!” Jerking his hips, he drove his cock down her throat with bruising force.
The onslaught stole her breath. Before she could adjust, he pulled back then thrust again. She choked as his cock slammed into her palate and would have squirmed away had he had not held her head fast.
As he pistoned in and out of her mouth, he tugged at her chestnut locks, positioning her like some inanimate doll in order to increase his pleasure. The pins loosened and her hair tumbled down her back, tangling in the ropes that secured her arms. A few strands caught in her mouth, where they were soon soaked with saliva and his copious pre-cum.
He continued, relentless, until her lips grew sore and her jaw ached, but she never considered asking him to stop. His thrusts became ragged. Tiny contractions rippled along his cock as he approached his peak. Her own arousal increased in synchrony, though she had no stimulation other than the taste and the smell of him, the slide of his hardness over her tongue.
She knew he was close, yet his final explosion surprised her. He swelled for an instant against her tongue, impossibly hard, and bitter fluid flooded her mouth. She gulped it down, to show him how eager a slut she could be, but he pulled his cock from her lips, spattering her cheeks and tangled hair with fresh dollops of spunk. The bright shame of it brought her still closer to the edge.
He released his grip on her hair. She leant forward, off balance, to press her lips against his softening organ. She hoped he could read the reverence in her gesture, that he would see how grateful she was for his use of her, how very glad she was to be herself at last.
Andrew gave a satisfied chuckle. “Well done, Olivia. I believe you have a natural aptitude for this sort of game.” Crouching in front of her, he kissed her bruised lips. He tasted like milk tea and tobacco, simultaneously sweet and harsh. She’d never get enough of his flavour. His tongue wormed its way into her mouth, agile and demanding.
Can he taste his own jism?
she wondered as she opened herself to his explorations. The filthy notion ramped her excitement higher still.
Down on one knee now, still plundering her mouth, he clutched her to his chest. He fingered the ropes behind her back, the bonds that marked her as his slave. His closeness dizzied her.
Could I climax from just his kiss?
Between her splayed thighs, her clitoris beat like a second heart. Fast as thought, he sank his hand into her drenched cleft, thumbing the bead at her centre, curling his fingers to stroke her inner walls, still kissing her all the while.
Come for me, Olivia.
She could have sworn she heard his voice, though his lips were locked on hers.
It didn’t matter. His fingers commanded her, and she obeyed. Pleasure welled and broke like the waves on the rocks below the Cliff Walk. She shook in his arms, helpless to resist, as he coaxed another climax from her heated flesh.
And still he kissed her, hard, insistent, drinking the nectar of her surrender as though he’d never get his fill.
Chapter Five
“Are you related in any way to the Baltimore Alcotts?” Catherine MacIntyre inquired, dabbing her lips with her damask napkin. “Robert Alcott was a major investor in Alasdair’s first railway, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Sorry, ma’am, but there’s no connection.” Olivia’s fair skin was flushed, though whether with excitement, embarrassment, or a mixture, Andrew couldn’t decide. She certainly looked ravishing in the burgundy velvet gown he’d chosen for her, despite the fact that it was off the rack. The newly electrified sconces kindled red-gold sparks in the nut-brown curls piled above her forehead. Teardrop pearls dangled from her earlobes. A matching choker circled her throat and drew the eye to her flawless décolletage.
Almost like a slave’s collar.
She shifted in her chair, making him smile. It was likely that she was feeling the effects of the spanking he’d delivered later that afternoon, after they’d both recovered from their initial crises. He’d brought her to climax twice more while she’d been stretched across his lap, but he hadn’t yet been inside the juicy cleft that clung so eagerly to his probing fingers. That would have to wait for tonight, after this endless dinner. He wanted to have plenty of time to plumb her body—and her secrets.
Was it possible that she was still a virgin? She’d been adept at sucking him. Her independent upbringing made it likely she’d spent plenty of time alone and unsupervised. Still, even when she was acting the part of a whore, there was something of the lady about her bearing, a natural aristocracy despite her humble origins.
“Mother, I told you earlier. Miss Alcott’s father was Prince Stefan Taksony Esztergom of Hungary…”
“Please don’t jest, Mr MacIntyre.” Olivia’s cheeky grin belied her polite words. “In all honesty, Mrs MacIntyre, I cannot claim any sort of distinction or noble blood. My father teaches history at Amherst College—my mother, mathematics. As for me, I graduated from Wellesley with a degree in English literature. I’ve studied poetry and painting in Paris. At the moment I earn a modest living as a representative of the Union of Women Textile Workers.”
The buzz of conversation and the clink of silver around the thirty-foot table died away. The guests at his mother’s ‘casual dinner’ rustled their silks and satins. Letty’s fiancé, Harold Fisk, nearly choked on his roast beef. Selena Larimer seemed about to slip under the table with embarrassment, as if it were she who had been revealed as a traitor to her class. Mary Beth Linton smirked at her sister, then beamed a look of sympathy in Andrew’s direction.
His mother was the first to recover. “That’s very interesting. When were you in Paris, and where did you study? My nephew Philip was at the Sorbonne for a year, back in 1902…”
Andrew prayed Olivia would have the sense not to drag the topic back to her job as an anti-capitalist rabble-rouser. Hopefully his escort for the weekend would not insist on discussing the immorality of her hosts. If the blasted girl would just keep her mouth shut, his mother’s consummate social skills could smooth over almost any gaffe.
Olivia seemed content to have caused her sensation. The conversational fabric reknitted itself around non-controversial subjects, though the company seemed chastened and nervous. Most made their excuses earlier than they might have done on another occasion. Andrew was grateful. He was eager to get hold of his own wayward guest and to punish her for her imprudent behaviour.
However, as his mother’s host, it was his responsibility to send off the visitors who were not staying at the mansion. This task occupied him for a good half-hour. When the last carriage had departed the circular drive, he stepped back into the entry way, looking around for Olivia.
Catherine MacIntyre watched him from halfway up the grand oval staircase, her hand on the gold-plated banister. She shook her head, her expression sombre.
“Where in the name of heaven did you find her, Andrew? And what possessed you to invite her to this house?”
“It’s my house. I’ll invite whomever I please.”
“But a labour activist! How completely inappropriate! I’m sure the news is all over Newport by now. Boston and New York will know by tomorrow morning.”
“So what?” Andrew patted the pockets of his dinner jacket, seeking his cigarettes. “Why should I care?”
His mother sighed. “I expect we’ll have at least a few cancellations for the ball. People are afraid their reputations will be tarnished if they’re seen in the same room with someone like her.”
“What do you mean ‘someone like her’? She’s a perfectly delightful creature, beautiful, intelligent, well-spoken and polite despite where she comes from.”
“But Andrew…”
“I can buy and sell them all, Mother, and they know it. They’ll come to your gala because they go where the money goes. They want your favour, and mine. Mark my words, no one will cancel. They wouldn’t dare.”
Finally locating the embossed silver cigarette case, he removed one of the slim cylinders and stuck it between his lips. He was almost ready to light it right there in the massive, two-storey atrium as a gesture of defiance, but the genuine sorrow in his mother’s face stopped him.
“Everything will be fine, Mother. Don’t worry about Olivia—or about me. I know what I’m doing.” He headed for the darkened terrace, brandishing his box of matches. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”
As he leaned on the granite balustrade, though, holding the fragrant smoke in his lungs and listening to the ocean sighing against the cliff, he wondered. What
was
he doing with Olivia? That afternoon, she’d pleased him beyond measure. He’d come down to dinner as excited as a kid at Christmas. The sight of her, resplendent in her finery, had only improved his mood. But the memory of her behaviour at dinner reminded him how alien she was to his world. He couldn’t realistically imagine a future that included such a foreign creature, delicious as she was. After the weekend, she’d be gone, and he’d be faced once more with the odious requirement that he choose a spouse from among his peers.
“You seem pensive.” Olivia glided up to stand beside him, gazing into the night. Her scent had him half hard in seconds. “Are you feeling guilty? Contemplating the immorality of your life?”
“Miss Alcott, it is you who should feel guilty. You managed to completely disrupt my poor mother’s dinner. She’s quite distressed.” He bent to bury his nose in her soft curls. He couldn’t help himself.
“I regret having caused her pain, but someone needs to tell the truth about this life of yours. It’s a bit obscene. You have everything you could desire. You can do whatever you want.”
“Do you think so? I’ve far fewer choices than you’d imagine—as you saw this evening. I’m shackled by wealth and privilege, imprisoned in a kind of gilded cage. Before I do anything, I must consider the expectations of family and society.”