The General’s Wife: An American Revolutionary Tale (10 page)

She was wonderfully wet and swollen.

He spread her open carefully, pink and perfect, her little white nub of pleasure peeking out.

“Have you ever been licked?”

“Licked?” She asked as if it were the most curious idea in the world.

“A man’s tongue between your legs?”

“I’ve never heard of such a thing.” Her voice held a trace of wonder.

Inwardly he groaned. No man had ever tasted her sweet flesh. The mere thought of being the first to pleasure her made him hard again. He ground his groin into the mattress as he slowly drew his tongue through her slit.

Clara jumped at his touch, crying out in surprise. He gently urged her body back down against the pillow, soothing her with honeyed words until she relaxed.

And then he proceeded to tease and taunt her with his tongue.

She gasped, but did not flinch, instead rolled her hips, undulating rhythmically against his mouth, her cries and moans accenting every upward thrust. He swirled his tongue around her clit and flicked his gaze up to watch her descend into lubriciousness.

He worked the erect nub tirelessly, willing her toward climax.

Her belly tightened, her breaths quickened. She was there.

She tugged on his hair. “Paul, I need you. Inside me.” Her voice was soft and pleading.

But he couldn’t, it was still too soon. He rubbed himself more furiously onto the mattress, as his delicate licks turned into frenetic laps. He sucked in her clit, the engorged nub hard against the tip of his tongue, then released her only to begin again. Her entrance fluttered provocatively, tightening and relaxing, tempting him to be inside her, to feel her gripping his prick. He slid his tongue around the throbbing hole, wanting desperately to plunge in and taste all of her. She thrashed against the sheets, calling out his name, pressing her hips against him with more demanding force. He sucked her in once more, then gently nipped her lusting pearl of pleasure.

She seized a pillow to scream into it as she slammed her crotch into his face. A second later, she was silent, her face still covered, her chest rising and falling rapidly with her breaths.

Paul hauled his body alongside hers, satiated despite his nagging erection. He took the pillow from her face to grin down at her. She looked up at him, panting, smiling.

“I didn’t know it was supposed to be like that,” she said breathlessly.

Paul leaned on an elbow and kissed her cheek. “It isn’t always like that, my lady.” He touched her nose with a fingertip. “You appear to have quite a responsive body.” His hand meandered along her belly, her waist, finally cupping a perfect breast. “And quite an appetite.”

She licked her lips. “I want to taste.”

Paul bent down and kissed her mouth. She sucked his lips and tongue a bit too eagerly.

He laughed as he pulled away gently. “Easy, love.” He pulled up the covers. “Let’s get some rest.”

He sighed. He couldn’t wait to fuck her.

* * * * *

The fire had died, but the warmth of their bodies huddled under the blankets was all Clara needed against the chill of the late autumn night. She had slept only a little as thoughts of the last few weeks busied about in her head.

Making love to Paul was the most revelatory experience she had had in her life. During the few times she and her husband had engaged in relations, something was always missing. That something was her own pleasure. It was a pity the general had not thought to explore her carnally. He would have been pleasantly surprised, and might have found he had no need of whores. Her capacity for sensual delight was boundless.

But could she have satisfied all his desires? What were those desires exactly? And why did Constance almost end up dead? Paul had said there were five men with Constance, that she had been bound and flogged. Could she herself have been able to bear such torturous abuse? Did not a wife have a duty to gratify her husband? And would her own husband have abused her to such a horrific extent?

A chill crept up her spine and she pulled the blanket more tightly around her shoulders. “Paul? Are you awake?”

He groaned sleepily against her shoulder. “What is it, my love?”

“Why did my husband want to hurt Constance?”

He tensed at her side, then let out a heavy exhale. “I truly don’t know.” He lay in silence for a moment, then raised himself on an elbow. “Every man has a unique way in which he expresses desire and wishes to experience fulfillment.” He drew his fingers along her arm, sending tingling shivers to tighten her nipples. “To produce an erotic culmination, some men like to be dominated by a woman, to submit to her commands. Others like to dominate a woman and have her submit to his will.” He rested his warm palm on her belly.

Could she make a man submit to her will? “Which type of man are you?”

Paul chuckled. “The sexual needs of men are complex. I did not mean to imply that there are only the two types. There are, perhaps, endless varieties of letches.”

“So, you like something else, then?” She would do whatever it was.

“Well, I am a bit like yourself in that I achieve gratification through a great many experiences. Like what we have already enjoyed together.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “But, since you inquired, I do derive pleasure from having a woman submit to my erotic desires while she is restrained.”

A thrill stirred in her belly under his hand. She tilted her hips hoping he would proceed further.

“However, I absolutely do not gain pleasure from hurting women. That is something that seems to be unique to your husband.” He thinned his lips, momentarily lost in thought. “I never truly felt comfortable leaving Constance alone with Strathmore.”

Clara reached up and stroked his cheek, masculine and rough. “Paul, I want to know what my husband did to her. I want to see where it happened. I want to experience what it is he likes to do to women.”

Paul looked at her with concern. “Clara, do you know what you are asking?”

“I mean to say, not the hurting part. But, I do want to experience what this ‘letch,’ as you call it, is.” He had ignited her imagination since their very first kiss. Her curiosity was as insatiable as her body.

He pulled her close. “I’ll see what I can do. I need to be certain that we are not seen or heard on the property. It might be best if we do it at night.”

In the dark, where no one could be witness to whatever wickedness lay in store to thrill her.

* * * * *

Clara tasted the stew and, much to her surprise, found it to her liking. She lit the oil lamp and placed it at the center of the kitchen table, then snorted in amazement. Paul had taught her so much, every day filled with learning even the simple tasks only servants had ever done for her. She was hungry to learn anything and everything he was willing to show her, not just carnal pleasures.

He came through the door just in time for dinner.

“I see you’ve been busy,” he beamed.

“Sit.”

He plopped on the bench as she put his bowl on the table before him. He breathed in the scent of the steam, then shoveled a spoonful into his mouth.

He beamed again.

Clara exhaled with a measure of pride and relief and joined him at the dinner table.

“I needed to make sure Redmond and Annabella hadn’t left yet,” he said, chewing. “I don’t want any surprises coming from General Strath—, uh, your husband,” he added soberly. “Once Annabella delivers the ransom note, we’ll have to be on constant watch.”

“Does Annabella know what is expected of her?”

“I talked to Redmond. She’s not happy, but she’ll do it.”

Annabella was tremendously brave. And tremendously in love with her betrothed. “I can only imagine it will be difficult for her to leave Redmond now that she’s found him.”

Paul pursed his lips. “Yes, well, I’ve given them two days’ time. Ethan will make sure things go as planned.” He resumed eating.

And if things went well, perhaps Annabella and Redmond would be reunited after the war. Whenever that would be.

“Clara, love,” Paul started. He pushed his empty bowl aside. “I’ve set things up for us, for tonight. For what you said you wanted.”

Clara gulped.
Constance.

He met her gaze. “Tonight you will encounter several new experiences which I think you are ready for. But one thing that you might find strange is a change in my character. What we will be doing is a sort of performance, at least between you and me.” He sighed. “Your husband, I fear, does not act.”

“A performance? Like acting on a stage?” Excitement fluttered in her core. Only a certain type of woman did such things. Women like herself led horribly boring lives.

“Yes, of a sort.” His forehead wrinkled in concern. “Love, it will be very different for you. If you feel something is wrong, if you experience pain you’re not willing to experience, you need to let me know. Especially after what your body has just been through.” He stretched out his hand for her to take. She lay her palm against his and his thick fingers enveloped her with their strength. “Ever since your husband began engaging my girls for his particular letch, I had to lay down some unique rules for him. I’ve not needed to use this for any other client, just him.” He drew in a long breath. “I’ve found it useful to choose a word to say so the one restrained can let the other know there is a problem.”

“A word?”

“An unusual word. One that you might not say in the course of love-making.”

“Oh.” That covered quite a bit of the English language. Or perhaps it wouldn’t be English? Incantations in a foreign tongue? It was all so intriguing. “Who chooses this word?”

Paul chuckled at her enthusiasm. “I will for tonight. The word will be ‘patriot’.”

“‘Patriot’?” Clara giggled. “Yes, I can say that. I think.”

He grew stern again. “You only say it when you feel you are in danger, you understand that?”

She nodded. “Yes, right. I understand.”

“And if you are unable to say that word—”

What?
“Why would that be?”

He drew in a breath and squeezed her hand. “I won’t touch upon that at the moment, but if you are unable to speak, you must let me know without using words. I suggest that you stomp three times with your right foot.”

The scenario was becoming completely and utterly fantastical. And wondrously exciting. “Yes, I will do that.”

A log popped in the fire, shooting sparks to land on the floor of the hearth. Paul turned to look out the window.

Clara followed his gaze. Through the trees the hazy grays of dusk were turning to the dark shades of night.

He stood and turned off the lamp. “Get your wrap, my lady, and I shall show you a new pleasure.”

Yes, oh yes.
Clara grabbed her cloak and his hand.

They crossed the grounds behind the kitchen in the direction of the house, but off to the left. A low, unassuming building of stone and brick lay ahead in the darkness. It looked like a blacksmith’s shop.

“This is a smithy’s when not needed for other purposes,” Paul explained as he led her inside. He bolted the door behind them.

The workshop seemed much larger on the inside, with wooden beams below the ceiling spanning the length of the space. The pale stone walls were whitened with ash, and against one wall stood a large brick hearth blackened by smoke. The particular shape of the hearth, smaller than the kitchen’s and with a shelf, was the only hint of the building’s usual use. There were no tools of an ironmonger. Instead there were devices and contraptions of metal and wood that reeked of iniquity, as if she were a prisoner in the black tower of the Castle of Otranto. Clara shuddered.

Paul took off her cloak and kissed her mouth, deeply, reassuringly. “Love,” he said. “This is when the performance begins.”

She nodded.

“Take off your clothes.”

“I—”

“Take off your clothes in silence.”

It was said in a commanding, biting tone tinged with chastisement. The flutter of excitement stirred again, surprising her.

She slowly stripped, even her stays, another skill he had taught her. Paul did not watch, but instead busied himself with lighting the fire.

Once nude, she wrapped her arms across her nipples contracting from the cold. He came forward, now divested of his jacket and waistcoat, the placket of his shirt unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up, his expression cast with determination and a touch of lust.

With gentle force he unwrapped her arms and placed them at her sides, then slowly drew a finger from her neck to her mons. “You are so lovely tonight,” he growled with a dark sensuality.

“I—”

He placed a finger to her lips. “No words.”

He was harsh. His face, his demeanor had changed, his eyes no longer their comforting light brown, but a foreboding black.

He took her by the wrist and led her to a spot just before the forge and signaled for her to stay still. She looked down to see chains and manacles on the floor, contraptions Paul proceeded to place around her ankles. She remained silent as he did so, the shock of the cold, bare metal rippling goose bumps across her flesh.

He reached up to pull down similar devices hanging from the wooden beams. Horror ripped through her at the realization of what was to come. Frozen by fear and the floor constraints, she remained still as he placed the metal bindings on each of her wrists.

She stood spread-eagle in the middle of the room, the fire warming her back. Paul circled her, slowly, as if she were his prey, teasing her with tender touches, fleeting across her flesh, anywhere and everywhere. She stared straight ahead, unsure if she was meant to look at him, flinching when he tickled, struggling to remain silent. He stopped behind her, his breath hot and hungry. He kissed her neck as he drew his nails from her thighs, over her buttocks, to the middle of her back, shooting chills to tingle the tips of her fingers.

He pressed his heated skin against her back. He was shirtless. The tingles speared her toes.

He cupped her breasts, kneading her nipples delicately, a tenderness in juxtaposition to the milieu. She forgot herself, relaxed against him, and let out a sigh.

He pulled back as the dangerous sound hovered. Mortified, she bit her lip in shame, waiting for chastisement, hoping for chastisement, and unsure from where such a desire sprang.