“What did you do with your tattoo, Lia?” He stood then and stepped swiftly toward her grabbing her chin into his gloved hand. “Do you think to fool anyone by cutting it away?” he asked as his free hand clamped over the lower curve of her right buttock.
She was naked!
. . . And now she knew why Lia had cut the back of her thigh, Chloe thought frantically, as she tried to twist away from the English nobleman’s hands. Only he held her pinned to his tall frame by one gloved hand tightening on her buttock. She could feel the press of his black satin evening clothes touching her naked skin from her knees to her breasts. All at once he tilted her head back roughly with his fingers on her chin. She whimpered in fear, caught helplessly against the heat of him.
“Who are you so afraid of, my little Asian whore, that you would mar your own beauty so?” he asked harshly, twisting her chin higher.
Take the gag off,
Chloe pleaded with her eyes.
Take the gag off and I will tell you.
“Do
not
look at me like that,” he suddenly snarled, and then he released her, backing away. “Brandy-colored doe’s eyes on a venomous bitch!” he hissed.
Chloe watched him abruptly turn away from her and stalk to the chair where he grabbed up a black leather riding quirt from the richly padded seat. She instantly jerked helplessly against the restraints holding her wrists, seeing nothing but the wicked riding quirt as she watched him turn slowly and gracefully toward her once again. He was tapping the quirt along the outside of his muscled thigh.
“Beginning to understand, are we, souillion?” The expression on his rugged features was dangerous and lethal and Chloe clenched her eyes with a terrified whimpering sound escaping her throat.
He ought to whip her,
Harrison goaded himself. He ought to flay Lia’s round sleek ass red! He ought to make her cry and whimper more. Damnation, why was she doing that whimpering, he thought viciously, as he watched her. Could she play the simpering game this long and not once express any hint of defiance, anger, or lethal revenge in her dark brandy-colored eyes? Not once! Only this fear and this helplessness?
Yes!
Yes, she could. Lia was the best, he savagely reminded himself. Lia had fooled Napoleon himself. She was the consummate actress in the guise of an undercover spy. He raised the quirt and watched Lia’s incredibly lovely body shuddering as large crystal teardrops slid down over the red silk gag he had tied over her mouth. He stepped closer and she sobbed, quivering like a helpless frightened doe.
“Damnation,” he swore hoarsely, throwing the quirt across his bedchamber in a violent gesture as he stood straining like a beast against its leash, clenching and unclenching his scarred hands. He dropped his chin looking down at the black leather encasing those hands. Knowing whose fault it was. Damning himself for his . . .
this
weakness.
How could he be weak? He'd killed men before . . . many of them and that did not allow for weakness. He had assassinated largely in stealth, yet some men face to face, skill to skill. Whether it was by sword, pistol, knife or fists, he had honored them with the chance. Those were the ones that did not haunt him, but of course he had been haunted before he ever became what he was now, a cold-blooded killer. But it was ironic because he could not place himself solidly there, as the killer he was proclaiming. It was an odd hitch in his consciousness that he fought with. The ones that nagged him into saying, “You did it for your country. You saved lives . . . countrymen's lives.” Harrison shook his head of collar length hair and swiped a restless hand across his hard jaw. Still, he'd never killed women or children. Never that.
He stalked past his enslaved trembling victim and went in search of the whiskey decanter on his bedside table. Drinking was the only way he could sleep at times by wiping away the guilt, the dreams, or his horrible past. However it was
his
past no matter how tragic his youth had been, and he had risen above it. Moved beyond it, and even helped his sister out of the hell-hole that they’d lived in as children.
Catherine was his sister and she was beautiful, compassionate, loving . . . and everything good that he was not. In spite of everything, he'd never regretted that. Because he had understood by the time he was five years old and Catherine was born that if he did not do something to turn their father’s insane rage continually toward him, Catherine would be lost, just as he was. So he had, daily, weekly, and through all those years that his crazed unbalanced father had lived until . . .
Harrison took a long swallow of whiskey feeling the slow burn down the back of his throat as he left that thought unfinished. Nonetheless, he knew why he could not whip Lia, and it was because he knew what it felt like to be whipped helpless . . . and God help him he loved his sister. He swung back toward Lia. No, there had to be other ways, because he knew better than anyone that not even the lowliest beast deserved to be whipped helpless.
Christ
, she was beautiful, he thought, pacing back toward her slowly in a round about widening arc. He could not deny it. What sane man wouldn’t be thrilled to have a woman stripped naked and tied to his bedpost? Lia’s hair was the color of black mink and hung straight and lustrous down to her tight little ass. No other women had an ass like the women of Asian descent and Lia was a mongrel Asian. She was born of an Asian whore and a French aristocrat and she was taller than most Asian women with longer legs and not as much slanting to her brown eyes. Only a provocative tilt that hinted at her ancestry above a cupid-nose and gracefully cupped chin. Her face was delicate and feminine but he imagined that it would look impish if she smiled. Her lips were the kind that begged a man to kiss them, reddened, bow-shaped, and full.
Yet after all was said and done, it was the shape of Lia’s lithely-rounded hips and what was between that really drew him. He was not a celibate man, at least he'd not been before he was disfigured. So he'd seen his share of women’s cunt’s before. Yet Lia’s, seeing it for the first time, was unique and would be delectable to any man, he argued with himself. It was the way the downy curls of her ebony-colored pubic hair did not cover her pussy lips so that a man could easily see her little girls pink slit.
He stopped beside her. Very close. Seeing that her eyes were still clenched and she was silently crying. No wracking sobs behind the gag any longer, just quivers. He found that it heightened his sense of revenge to have her quivering before him and it was then that he decided on the first way he would make her pay without using the whip. It was, he thought, brilliant.
“My
name is Ravenscar and you will
never
call me anything else but Ravenscar,” he commanded in his grating voice, watching Lia’s eyelids scrunch tighter. “And I will call
you
, my pussy, my whore, or my slut!”
A small helpless sound escaped Lia’s throat. Ignoring the sound Harrison reached his gloved hand forward to touch his fingertips between the impressive cleavage of her uplifted breasts. She panted in fear, he assumed, as he watched her pink-colored nipples crimp tight into quarter-inch spikes thrusting forward in trembling shame. He languidly stroked his fingertips through her cleavage, downward over her fragile rib cage and petted further to her shivering belly. Her skin was unblemished, an ivory-cream color, and he experienced a rabid desire to feel it against his scarred flesh without the gloves. But not yet. First she must be made to learn the impersonality of the gloves she was responsible for.
“
Spread
your legs . . . pussy,” he whispered insidiously.
“M-m-m!”
Lia’s head jerked fearfully back and forth as her voluptuous nude body undulated against the restraints holding her.
“You cannot stop me,” he rasped, pressing closer to her shivering body as he stroked his gloved hands deliberately lower to the top of her curling black pubic hair. Lia’s lush conical-shaped breasts heaved upward beneath her anguished and labored breathing, then he deliberately moved his hands, circling and plucking at the jutting spikes of her shamelessly aroused nipples. He pulled both of her nipples outward between his gloved fingertips, engorging and stiffening them further into fevered rosy-pink.
“A-! A-!”
Lia’s nude body squirmed sinuously as she tried to twist away while he abraded the swollen plump spikes of her nipples relentlessly with a rolling motion between the leather of his thumb and first finger. She tried to writhe away again, this time coming up on her toes for leverage and he stopped her quickly by pushing his knee between her bare shaking thighs. He continued pressing his knee upward until her cunt rode his leg and her back was pressed hard against the bedpost behind her.
“Now we will play, my little pussy,” he whispered harshly.
Lia’s eyelids jerked open and he saw her anguish and fear before he turned his gaze away, telling himself that he was glad, as he clasped her breasts fully into his hands slowly kneading the meaty soft flesh. Her breasts were young and firm, weighting his hands elegantly as he began to incessantly play her nude body like a finely tuned instrument beneath his gloved fingers. He fondled and petted her exquisitely rounded contours until she was writhing in passion despite herself.
She ardently rode her legs over his thigh, rolling her drenched cunt across the width of his leg as he stroked his gloved hands once again over every contour of her opulent curves. Starting high on her arms stretched upward over her head, to sweep down into the hollows of her armpits, lingering over her breasts, belly, hips, and the back of her firm thighs. Her head fell forward in defeat with her face pressed into the crook of his neck as he groped his hands around each of her buttocks deeply massaging the pliable female flesh over and over. Each kneading motion of his splayed fingers rode her cunt up over his thigh and thrust her pillowed breasts into the wall of his chest.
She began whimpering . . . erotic sounds not in fright this time but of needy arousal. The sound shocked him out of his own haze of passion and he abruptly realized that he'd been grinding his stiff dick against her hot cunt like a humping beast.
“Christ,” he swore holding himself still, gripping Lia’s buttocks tightly with their groins locked together. The posture he held her posed in lifted her shapely legs upward around his hips. “How does it feel to be a bitch in heat?” he hissed with a sneer. Trying desperately to break the tension.
Lia wailed, it was a hurt humiliated sound as she jerked over his thigh. Possibly trying to escape but with nowhere to go it only rubbed the heat of her cunt, hot over his impassioned cock. He snarled in denial yet his hands which were filled with her lush feminine ass lifted her too easily to slide up and down the raging length of his dick.
God.
He did it again and she mewled with the sound of longing and denial.
“Your limitless lust will make you my slave,” he hissed. Wondering vicariously as his own lust drew hard on him which one of them he truly meant. Then he angled his body back and grasped Lia’s smoldering drenched pussy into his gloved hand. Squeezing. “Look at me,” he demanded as she whimpered sharply and turned her head away from him.
He grabbed a thick pile of her waist length hair and tugged, stretching her neck as he forced her to face him. With his other hand holding her exquisitely hot cunt, he stretched his middle finger forward searching for the opening of her vagina. Her irises were black with passion and fear as he caressed her tender entrance with his gloved finger, circling more . . . prodding lightly.
Chloe died a hundred shameful deaths as Ravenscar penetrated her convulsing core with his leather encased finger.
How could she respond?
How could she undulate her hips so wildly and ride his fingering like the begging slut he wrongly named her! Only nothing mattered but the friction of leather abrading her and plunging deeper inside her with ever stronger thrusts.
“A- A- ,”
she cried against the gag as Ravenscar began to smudge his thumb over the bead of her clitoris while his other finger coupled her harder. Her thighs lifted and spread wider with intense erotic begging motions as her head fell back and her breasts thrust forward brazenly.
Suddenly . . . horrifically . . . he stopped!
She wailed with a muffled sound beneath the gag as he pulled away from her and stepped backward leaving her throbbing . . . and unrequited . . . and quivering in shameful lust. It was horrible! She was left in agony to watch Ravenscar smiling at her with his heavy-lidded gaze of coal black eyes and his sneer of impossibly handsome lips over arrogant white teeth.
“My slave,” he rasped venomously as he slowly began to take off his gloves and she hung there, his prisoner, knowing if the gag were not in her mouth that she would be begging him to touch her again.
Chapter Three
When Chloe saw Ravenscar’s hands, she flinched in reaction and she knew with little doubt that Lia was responsible for the scarring injuries. The man before her was seeking revenge. Seeking retribution where there could only be Buddha’s serene judgments. Yet he would take his own justice out on her because he thought she was Lia. She whimpered then, woefully in fear and with the unrequited arousal harshly riding her. What would he do to her? What would he do?
“Are you wondering who I am, Lia?” he asked with a wicked sliding whisper.
Didn’t she know, Chloe thought fearfully? Didn’t Lia know?
“It must be driving that sharp vixen’s mind of yours mad not to know . . . or why.”