Devi's Paradise (12 page)

‘You will say it. Call me master.’

‘No!’

The following silence drowned out everything except her breathing. Then, without warning, the whip whistled as it fell across her, so swift and so agonising that she was struck dumb. But for a second only, then a scream rushed from her throat to her mouth and echoed round the vault. It was leather that had bitten into her tender skin, a riding crop or whip – not a long instrument of pain but something short and easy to control, able to be used precisely.

Romilly hung absorbing the fire, just as she had taken it into herself when her father caned her. Now there was an entirely new element, or was it that she dared acknowledge the truth at last? Pain and heat communicated with her sex, adding to the arousal Armand had already produced in her clitoris, and it forced her to recognise something concealed in the darkest recess of her being. A strong male was dominating her, just as the Earl had done, and she was grateful!

She recovered a little and braced herself for another blow. Not the whip this time. His open palm slapped her hard across the bottom. It stung, burned, augmented the pain of the fiery weal left by the lash. Armand did it again, raining harsh smacks over her backside until the whole area throbbed. She needed to relieve her bladder, clenching her sphincter desperately, but his next spank was the final straw. She let go, warm urine gushing down her inner thighs and forming a puddle at her feet. It was the worst moment of all, reducing her to a sobbing child who has just wet herself.

‘Where’s the oh-so haughty milady now?’ he whispered. ‘You’ve just pissed like a mare in a field.’

‘Bastard,’ she retorted.

Armand didn’t stop, using the crop again till she was almost delirious, her fevered imagination dreaming of him thrusting his cock into her, carrying her to his bed, using her as he now abused her. She wanted to be released, wanted the torture to end, wanted Armand to take her and satisfy her.

‘Don’t hurt me any more,’ she begged. ‘I feel like a slave you’re punishing… a servant… a menial. I’m not like that. I’m the daughter of an earl. I’ve never been treated thus.’

He thrust the whip handle between her buttocks, moving it up and down till it became saturated with her sweat, urine and sex juice. ‘A slave is all you are… my slave… and you will address me as master.’ He thrust the handle against her and she feared it would enter her anus. ‘Say it,’ he growled.

‘Muh… master,’ she faltered, hating him, but worn down by pain and desire. Words sprang to her lips that she stopped herself from uttering, foolish things like, ‘Take me. Do what you will with me. Destroy my wretched virginity… fill me with your spunk… I need you. I want you!’

She baulked when the words ‘love you’ followed. She didn’t love him. Never could. She remained silent as Armand unfastened the chains and took her into his arms. She hurt everywhere, yet the powerful hunger in her vagina was all consuming. Surely he wouldn’t leave her thus, unfulfilled and virginal still?

When she spoke it was as if someone else was pleading, ‘Take me.’

‘I intend to,’ he answered, ‘but first I’m going to wash you.’ So saying, he took up a large wooden bucket and sloshed it all over her, making her start and scream and shiver.

His chamber was draped in black and purple and the furnishings were ornate, weirdly fantastic pieces from every corner of the globe. The bed was an ornamentally carved four-poster, with heavy velvet curtains, coverlet and pillows, and a graceful Venetian scene painted on the tester.

Wax dripped down the ivory candles in silver sconces six feet tall. They illumined all except the far corners, and these remained dark and sinister. Tapestries hung on the walls depicting hunting scenes, with men on horseback and deer with anguished eyes, blood spurting from their throats as they were pulled down by packs of snarling dogs. The fireplace was huge but empty. In that temperate climate it was more of a showpiece than a useful adjunct to comfort. A small table was drawn close to it, with wine and goblets, cheese and rye bread and fruit. Armand ignored all this and drew Romilly to the bed. She was still naked, and thankful that they had not encountered anyone on their way from the dungeon.

Armand loosened his jacket and embroidered waistcoat and took them off. His shirt came next and beneath it his torso was copper-hued, rippling with muscle and scarred, too. Romilly wanted to trace over those old wounds with her fingers and listen to him relating stories of how he got them. But she did neither, sitting as still as stone while he kicked off his shoes with their square toes and fancy buckles. His finery suggested that either he had a good tailor somewhere near or he wore stolen plumage. He would have passed muster at one of King Charles’s assembles. He unbuckled his belt and his breeches slithered low about his hips. Romilly averted her eyes.

‘Look at me,’ he ordered, and pushed them down further.

His exposed phallus stood out from the nest of wiry black hair that coated his lower belly. It thrust towards her, swarthy skinned and curved. The foreskin was retracted over the swollen helm and pierced by a thick gold ring. She had expected it to be huge and resemble Nathan’s, but was unprepared for this revelation. It was shocking, even alarming, but very arousing. She was excited and apprehensive enough about this act that was made so much of by humans, but it was unexpected that his cock should be adorned in such a way. Would it cause her discomfort or joy? She had no yardstick whereby to measure fornication. The aphrodisiac was still confusing her, adding to the shock sustained by her beating.

Armand stood there, hands braced on his hips, giving her the full benefit of his manhood. There was no hesitation, no modesty; he simply took pride in it. The cock quivered and became even larger and he came towards her, taking her head between his hands and looking down into her face. His hairy chest brushed across her sensitive nipples. His cock seeped dew around the ring. Romilly waited with baited breath. Armand laid her back, holding her arms out at her sides and lowering his head to kiss her. His hair fell forward, tickling her face. She closed her eyes, resistance melting like snow in sunlight, She felt almost boneless and of little consequence compared to his ruthless passion.

But the quilt chaffed her sore back and she hissed, ‘You hurt me, you brute,’ twisting her face to one side to avoid his mouth.

His relaxed expression changed to one of anger. ‘You deserved it. I shall hurt you again if I choose.’

He handled her harshly, running his hands down her body, cupping her breasts and rolling his thumbs over her nipples. He spread her legs and examined her delta. Going down on her, she felt the outrageous surprise of his lips on her crack, slurping at the pink wings, nibbling the hard pleasure button till she gasped and shuddered and came, not in gentle waves, but in one violent explosion.

Armand knelt between her thighs, lifted her pelvis and thrust his member against her vulva. The pain was excruciating and she screamed. He continued to press into her inch by inch, and raised her legs to clasp his waist, bringing them ever closer as he ruptured her hymen.

She could feel that mighty prick deep within her, and pain faded, replaced by pleasure as the ring rolled against the lining of her vagina. She pumped with her hips, wanting more, and he increased his movements, faster now, losing grip on anything that resembled tenderness and care. He lay full-length on her, crushing her, and she felt another orgasm building but couldn’t attain it, her love-bud needing his mouth or fingers. He was beyond caring what she wanted, concerned only with his own satisfaction, driving into her until he arched his back, neck strained and she felt his prick throb inside her, not once but thrice, filling her with his seed.

Disgust and self-loathing swept over her and she struggled from under him, wanting nothing more than to be cleansed of this man’s emission. How could she have submitted to him? It would have been better had she seized his sword and driven it through her heart. Now she was a wretched creature no better than the poor slaves who served him and his crew. To make it worse he showed no sign of remorse, lying there looking at her, arms folded under his head.

Romilly left the bed, snatched up his shirt and threw it round her, its folds reaching to mid-thigh. Armand laughed, ‘And why, pray, are you borrowing my clothes?’

‘I need to cover myself; I feel contaminated,’ she answered pithily.

The laughter left his eyes, leaving them angry. ‘You didn’t ask me if you could.’

‘I don’t have to ask you for anything.’

‘Don’t you understand? I’m king here. I can have everything I want.’

‘Except me.’

‘I’ve already
had
you.’

‘Not really.’

‘Close enough. My sheets are smeared with your virgin blood.’

‘I hope you’re proud of yourself, monster. Now I want to rejoin my friends.’

‘You are sleeping here, with me.’

‘And if I refuse?’

‘You’ll be chained to my bed.’

She tossed back her hair, saying mockingly, ‘Are you so afraid that I’ll run away? Armand Tertius despised by a woman. Not too good for your reputation, eh, captain?’

He was out of bed in a flash, gripping her fiercely by the upper arms and shaking her. ‘You’ve still not learnt, have you, bitch? You are at my mercy. I can take my fill of you, fuck you legless, bugger you, beat you till I tire of your insipid charms, and send you to the slave block to be auctioned to the highest bidder.’

Romilly had had enough. She was bruised and bloody, hurting inside from his thrusts, sore from his invasion of her maiden delta, dazed with wine and drugs. She capitulated, though she knew it to be but temporary; they had much to sort between them, he and she. So she crawled back into the bed and he shackled her by one wrist, the iron cuff fastened to a ringbolt attached to the bed-head.

After this he dressed and slung on his sword, then headed for the door. ‘You’re leaving me?’ she shouted at his uncaring back.

He looked over his shoulder at her and the arrogance of him caught at her heart, yet infuriated her. ‘I shall be back, you can count on that,’ he answered, his fascinating, accented voice belying the heavy promise contained in his words.

‘Lack-a-day, I wonder what’s happening to Romilly,’ Alvina murmured, stirring in George’s arms. Ordered to entertain the pirates during Armand’s absence, the pair had been copulating with her lying across the table and him performing above her.

She had been drinking steadily, and such an exhibition did not embarrass her. In fact, she found that doing it before so many men, all cheering and egging her on, had added to her arousal. Sabrina was jealous, full lips pouting, and this made Alvina all the more determined to put on a good show. The coffee-coloured woman thought she was queen bee around there, and Alvina was delighted to put her nose out of joint. As for George, he was only too willing to oblige. Man, woman or dog, it was all the same to him, just as long as he could get satisfaction.

Alvina disengaged herself from him, meeting Jamie’s worried eyes. He wasn’t joining in the revelry, neither was Joshua. They surveyed the scene glumly and Jamie had difficulty in controlling his temper. Alvina dragged a shawl about her nakedness and filled a glass from a wine bottle.

‘I don’t think he’ll hurt her,’ she said consolingly, knowing he was fretting about Romilly.

‘That’s not the point,’ he raged. ‘I’m in an awkward position. She’s my betrothed and he has probably deflowered her by now. She may even fall pregnant, and if we get out of this mess alive I shall have to honour our agreement and play father to her bastard brat.’

‘Is that all you care about; your title and reputation?’ Alvina questioned, sipping the wine and watching the antics of a girl who lay on the floor.

Her slim body was coated in sauces, fruit and vegetables from the supper table. Cooling gravy trickled down her honey-coloured skin and formed puddles in her navel. Several seamen where bending over her and licking her clean, paying special attention to her crack. One leaned above her and stuck his cock in her mouth, and two stood on either side while she masturbated them.

Alvina imagined relating the scene when she got back to Court. The dandies would express mock horror, rolling their eyes and making elaborate gestures while their pricks hardened under their breeches. She would be the toast of London. It did not occur to her for one moment that they might never return.

She had always been cushioned by wealth and couldn’t see it stopping. A letter to the Governor of Jamaica explaining their plight and he would pay Armand what he demanded, looking after her until a ship arrived to take her home. Retelling her adventures would provide hours of amusement at parties. And if Romilly lost her cherry on route, good luck to her. All would end well; Alvina was sure, ever the optimist.

She wandered round the room, avoiding the arms outstretched to trap her, but dismissing those who were so bold as to try, with a warm smile and a shrug. These men were tough and rough, accustomed to desperate women who traded themselves for gold in order to survive. Alvina had seen their type in the slums of London and hanging around the places of entertainment. Whores were whores the world over, and she thanked God that she hadn’t been born in straightened circumstances. Sex for her was fun, not work.

The fiddlers were playing, but no longer serious pieces. Instead they scrapped away at lively jigs and the men capered and danced and the girls tripped lightly, skirts flying out, displaying long legs, bare bottoms and pudendum.