Seducing the Master (An Erotic Historical in the Red Chrysanthemum Series) (26 page)

She pumped herself along his length, using
his shoulders as leverage, but as she neared her climax, or because
she tired, her motions became more erratic, compelling his cock
into different angles.

He had never tried so hard not to spend.
Because he did not want to hand her another easy victory. Because
he did not want to face the possible consequences of spilling his
seed inside of her. But reasoning could not win the day. Not when
she felt so divine upon his cock. Not when the sounds of her
groaning and grunting filled his ears. Not when her ass slapped
against his legs. Not when she cried out and erupted into spasms,
her cunnie grasping his member, her body shaking atop his with such
violence that he thought she might fall from his lap.

And that was when he could contain himself
no longer. With a roar, his release poured from him with a force
that threatened to knock him to the ground were he not bound to a
chair. His body jerked against the rope, and she had to hold onto
him to keep her balance. He met her liquid heat with his own,
relief and pleasure rippling through him from head to toe. He
pumped himself into her womanhood, desiring to unload more than he
had into her. His cock throbbed as if in anger.

She had won. His forbearance could not
prevail over the charms of her body. When the intensity had
subsided, he slumped into his bonds, spent. He did not think he had
ever been fucked like that before.

Their foreheads touched. She breathed
heavily still but spoke for the both of them. “
My God.
”

She crushed her lips to his. His fury
momentarily cast aside, he did not pull away. At last, she
disengaged herself and stood, stumbling a little for her legs were
shaky. She went to the sideboard and poured herself a glass of
port. Still dazed, he watched as she returned to him, riveted to
the movement of her hips and the enchantment of her navel above the
now crooked scarf.

She presented the glass to his lips and he
drank, though he wondered that she did not untie him as of yet.
With a hand on his shoulder, she finished off the last of the port
in the glass, then bent to speak into his ear in a low and sultry
tone.

“Stay awhile, Master Gallant. I shall
return.”

She squeezed his shoulder and walked past
him.

Where the devil is she going?
But he
could not turn his head far enough to see. He only heard the door
open and close. Left alone, he growled in frustration. His
indignation returned. She had succeeded in ravishing him. What more
did she intend? To make him suffer? Did she wish to avenge the time
he had left her strung to the rafters for thirty minutes?

He strained against his bindings, but they
held. He looked about for any implement that might cut or loosen
the ropes but found nothing. Even if he could hop his way over to
the sideboard, he would not be able to open the drawers. He had no
choice but to wait for her.

He would have to inform Joan. Miss Terrell
had gone too far. Joan would have to dismiss her from the Red
Chrysanthemum, per her own rules. Sir Arthur would not be pleased,
but he did not require the Red Chrysanthemum to partake of Miss
Terrell’s charms. Though Charles did not want to be responsible for
Miss Terrell’s loss of room and board, she was a clever young
woman. And pretty. And seductive. While she enjoyed the favor of
Sir Arthur, she would not require the Red Chrysanthemum either.

Charles looked down at his traitorous cock,
which lay to the side. She had not replaced his fall. The Red
Chrysanthemum abounded with comely members of the softer sex, but
they did not all inspire his cock as Miss Terrell did. Was it the
novelty of being with a Negress? While in China, he had been
curious to lay with an Oriental. Their small, light bodies differed
from those of the women in England. But he had never taken much
notice of blackamoors before.

He shook his head at himself, at how easily
he had surrendered to her. She held much more influence over him
than he was comfortable with. While his cock had enjoyed her mouth
and her cunnie, he had ceased to mind his bindings and incapacity.
But now that he could once again think—with the appropriate head—he
did not appreciate the submissive position he had been placed in.
He
was the dominant. Not Miss Terrell. He needed to make
that known to her. He needed to reclaim his authority.

After what must have been twenty minutes,
Miss Terrell returned. She had exchanged her scarf and corset for a
shirt, a man’s shirt, that might have served as her nightgown. He
could see the tops of her bosom over the drawstrings of the
décolletage. Beneath the hem, her feet and calves were bare.
Despite the plain garment, she still compelled.

“How delightful,” she said playfully.
“You’ve not moved.”

Where the bloody hell would he have
gone?

“Would you care for another glass of
port?”

“Am I to be relieved of these bonds, Miss
Terrell?” he asked.

“Not yet. And I am still Mistress
Terrell.”

“Then I will decline the port, Mistress
Terrell,” he said. He did not want to drink from her hands again as
if he were a babe.

“Suit yourself.”

She stood behind him and rested an arm on
each of his shoulders. She held a book before him.
Fanny
Hill.

“First, I will have you read, Master
Gallant, from the top of the page.”

Despite her claim to being the Mistress, he
noticed she had addressed him as the dominant several times. This,
then, was her revenge. She had made him wait, pinioned and
helpless, as he had made her wait. Now she made him read, as he had
asked her to read.

“‘Next we took from the side of the room a
long broad bench,’” he began, deciding that his compliance might
encourage her to release him sooner, “‘made easy to lie at length
on by a soft cushion in a callico-cover.’”

She leaned her head beside his to look fully
upon the book. “’Do you begin from the top of the page?’”

“Yes,” he answered, wondering why she asked
the question. Her fragrance tickled his nose and he wanted to
sneeze.

“Proceed. But slower.”

He did as told. “‘And everything being now
ready, he took his coat and waistcoat off; and at his motion and
desire, I unbuttoned his breeches, and rolling up his shirt rather
above his waist, tucked it on securely there; when directing
naturally my eyes to that humoursone master-movement, in whose
favor all these dispositions were making, it seemed almost shrunk
into his body, scarce showing its tip above the sprout of hairy
curls that clothed those parts, as you may have-seen a wren peeping
its head out of the grass.

“‘Stooping them to untie his garters, he
gave them to me for the use of tying him down to the legs of the
bench: a circumstance no farther necessary than, as I suppose, it
made part of the humour of the thing, since he prescribed it to
himself, amongst the rest of the ceremonial.

“‘I led him then to the bench, and according
to my cue, played at forcing him to lie down: which, after-some
little show of reluctance, for form-sake, he submitted to; he was
straightway extended flat upon his: belly, on the bench, with a
pillow under his face; and as he thus tamely lay, I tied him
slightly hand and feet, to the legs of it; which done, his shirt
remaining-trussed up over the small of his back, I drew his
breeches quite down to his knees; and now he lay, in all the
fairest, broadest display of that part of the back-view; in which a
pair of chubby, smooth-cheeked and passing white posteriors rose
cushioning upwards from two stout, fleshful thighs, and ending
their cleft, or separation by an union at the small of the back,
presented a bold mark, that swelled, as it were, to meet the
scourge.’”

She purred at the image and looked down at
his cock, which, while not erect, showed visible signs of
awakening. Cleland’s prose had warmed his blood. He would have
thought his cock to lay dormant the remainder of the night, given
his fatigue and after having spent twice.

“You fancy the scene do you, Master
Gallant?”

He ignored the question and continued to
read. “‘Seizing now one of the rods, I stood over him, and
according to his direction, gave him in one breath, ten lashes with
much good-will, and the utmost nerve and vigor of arm that I could
put to them, so as to make those fleshy orbs quiver again under
them; whilst he himself seemed no more concerned, or to mind them,
than a lobster would a flea-bite. In the meantime, I view intently
the effect of them, which to me at last appeared surprisingly
cruel: every lash had skimmed the surface of those white cliffs,
which they deeply…’”

Having reached the end of the page, he
waited.

“Do you require a respite?” she asked.

“Not at all, Mistress,” he replied. He had a
newfound suspicion.

She hesitated, then turned the page.

He finished the sentence. “‘…reddened, and
lapping round the side of the furthermost from me, cut specially,
into the dimple of it, such livid weals, as the blood either spun
out from, or stood in large drops on; and, from some of the cuts, I
picked out even the splinters of the rod that had stuck in the
skin.’”

He skipped the next sentence. “‘I was
however already so moved at the piteous sight, that I from my heart
repented the undertaking, and would willing had given over,
thinking he had full enough; but, he encouraging and beseeching me
earnestly to proceed, I gave him ten more lashes.’”

He skipped to the next paragraph, but she
said nothing.

“‘Resuming then the rod and the exercise of
it, I had fairly worn out three bundles, when, after an increase of
struggles and motion, and a deep sigh or two, I saw him lie still
and motionless; and now he desired me to desist, which I instantly
did; and proceeding to untie him, I could not but be amazed at his
passive fortitude, on viewing the skin of his butchered, mangled
posteriors, late so white, smooth and polished, now all one side of
them a confused cut-work of weals, livid flesh, gashes and gore,
insomuch that when he stood up, he could scarce walk; in short, he
was in sweet-briars.’”

When next he skipped a paragraph, she
stiffened at the lack of transition but said nothing, confirming
his suspicions. She had not acted out of deliberate defiance,
risking punishment, when she had refused to read for him before.
She was not being contrary. She simply did not know how to
read.

“‘He had then little to do, but to unloose
the strings of my petticoats, and lift them, together with my
shift, navel-high, where he just tucked them up loosely, and might
be slipt up higher at pleasure. Then viewing me round with great
seeming delight, he laid me at length on my face upon the bench,
and when I expected he would tie me, as I had done him, and held
out my hands, not without fear and a little trembling, he told me
he would by no means terrify me unnecessarily with such a
confinement; for that though he meant to put my constancy to a
trial, the standing it was to be completely voluntary on my side,
and therefore I might be at full liberty to get up whenever I found
the pain too much for me.”

“You may turn the page, Mistress.”

“Of course!” she snapped. “I merely pause to
praise how well you read.”

She turned the page for him.

“‘All my back parts, naked half way up, were
now fully at his mercy: and first, he stood at a convenient
distance, delighting himself with a gloating survey of the attitude
I lay in, and of all the secret stores I thus exposed to him in
fair display. Then, springing eagerly towards me, he covered all
those naked parts with a fond profusion of kisses; and now, taking
hold of the rod, rather wantoned with me, in gentle inflictions on
those tender trembling masses of my flesh behind, than in any way
hurt them, till by degrees, he began to tingle them with smarter
lashes, so as to provoke a red colour into them, which I knew, as
well by the flagrant glow I felt there, as by his telling me, they
now emulated the native roses of my other cheeks. When he had thus
amused himself with admiring, and toying with them, he went on to
strike harder, and more hard, so that I needed all my patience not
to cry out, or complain at least. At last, he twigged me so smartly
as to fetch blood in more than one lash: at sight of which he flung
down the rod, flew to me, kissed away the starting drops, and
sucking the wounds, eased a good deal of my pain. But now raising
me on my knees, and making me kneel with them straddling wide, that
tender part of me, naturally the province of pleasure, not of pain,
came in for its share of suffering: for now, eyeing it wistfully,
he directed the rod so that the sharp ends of the twigs lighted
there, so sensibly, that I could not help wincing, and writhing my
limbs with smart; so that my contortions of body must necessarily
throw it into infinite variety of postures and points of view, fit
to feast the luxury of the eye.’”

This time he stopped for, in his mind, he
saw not Fanny but Miss Terrell displayed in similar fashion, her
backside as properly abused. She reached for the corner of the page
to turn it, though he had not reached the end, then
reconsidered.

“Your reading has excited my appetite,” she
said, tossing aside the book. “I hunger again for cockmeat.”

Her words made his cock jerk. She did not
fail to notice and went to stand before him. She smiled at his
erection. “I see you be wanting more as well.”

“First, I bid you untie me, Mistress,” he
said, “to improve the circulation in my…extremities.”

She hesitated but bent down and undid the
ropes about his legs. He stretched the limbs. She undid the bonds
about his arms, and relief rushed into them. Standing, he shook the
numbness from his arms.

His anger returned with the freedom. Now it
was his turn for a little revenge.