What the Mistress Did Read online

  Dedication

  To the women everywhere who allow authors to explore the limits of eroticism and encourage us with your support. We’ve come a long way—but don’t call me “baby”.

  Chapter One

  Such a delectable morsel.

  Standing in front of the fireplace, fingers knotted into the sides of her skirts, Miss Annabelle Frasier tries to stare me down. The generations of aristocracy in her lineage allow a credible effort, but it isn’t enough. No matter the careful styling of her wig into a powdered coiffure fit for a queen, the width of her panniers or richness of her accoutrements. To me she is a fledgling, sweetly young, trying wings not yet adult enough for the journey attempted.

  The sight of her moves and angers me, stirring feelings I never imagined experiencing under such circumstances. She is an unwelcome disruption in the carefully crafted pattern of my life, and the urge to set her upon her ear is hard to resist.

  Oh, the delicious danger of it.

  “You must realise he is now mine, Lady Gillingham. Surely you know the time has come to let him go.”

  My gaze travels slowly from the pale heart-shaped face to the tips of her pink shoes peeping from beneath costly striped sarcenet, trimmed with the finest Brussels lace, and back up again. Compounding the insult, with a sweep of my hand I encompass the room and, by extension, the entire house. “My dear Miss Frasier, do you see your intended husband here? Believe me when I say I am not holding him captive.”

  For a long moment, she simply stares at me, the remarkable grey-green eyes flashing, lips parsimonious with annoyance.

  Even so vexed, she is a fetching sight and, although still amused, a frisson of fear touches my spine. Skin like a peach just ripe on the branch rises above the low-cut bodice of her striped gown. Eyes clear, wide-set and beautiful, even without the aid of cosmetics. Not a wrinkle or line mars her complexion. I know, without even a glance in the mirror, the same can no longer be said of me. When she finally replies, I watch the movement of her soft pink mouth, fascinated against my will.

  “Lord Harrington and I are to wed, my lady. Surely your conscience tells you there cannot be three in a marriage? The vows taken are sacred, not to be trifled with.”

  It takes some effort to bank my annoyance and present only laughter. “I take no vows, madam, make no promises, so my conscience is clear.”

  Miss Frasier pales, delicate lips trembling, and for a moment I think she might cry.

  I want her to. Base though the sentiment is, I want her to know pain, to hurt as I do.

  But, true to her cold breeding, she rallies without even a single tear. Raising her chin, she glares at me, but the rapid rise and fall of her bosom betrays her agitation. I watch that motion of tender flesh, think of David filling his palms with it, and allow myself, for the merest second, to imagine what he would feel.

  “You have had your time with Lord Harrington.” Her voice is frigid and stern. Arrogance resonates in every syllable, and my amusement melts beneath the heat of irritation. “As of the date of our marriage, he will no longer require your services.”

  Prideful chit, to seek to dismiss me as though I were no more than a housemaid! Rising from my chair to swing my skirts around the intervening table, I step close enough to see the pulse beating in her throat. So close our hems touch and I imagine the frantic pace of her heart surrounds me.

  “I doubt, little one, you will be capable of giving David what he needs, so I caution you about trying to be rid of me so soon.” The corners of her lips turn down, my use of Lord Harrington’s given name causing anger, as is my intent. “Many a married lady will tell you, better the mistress you know than the one you do not.”

  Her face tightens, grows paler yet beneath the powder, and when she speaks, it is in a disgust-laden rush. “There is nothing you give Lord Harrington I, as his wife, will not.”

  I laugh then, for how could I resist? But beneath the laughter lies rage and an honest contempt for her innocent avowal.

  “You are correct, of course. There is nothing I give David you are incapable of, although I doubt you would be willing.”

  I move closer yet, using my superior height as emphasis, seeking to shock and frighten. Her eyes widen. “I do not know to what you refer.”

  There is a wealth of reluctance in her words, but curiosity echoes strong in them too. I laugh again, reaching out to caress her velvety cheek with my finger. Instinct makes her recoil, but pride stems the motion and causes her to still beneath my touch.

  “What can you know of entering the lists of love?” I let my voice soften and fall, so it strokes her ears just as my finger does her face. “What would you need to know to keep a man as…adventurous…as David happy?”

  She turns her gaze away, does not deign to reply, and I chuckle quietly, letting my finger circle her throat as I step around behind her. Leaning close so she will feel my breath on her cheek and neck, I whisper, “You will marry a virginal bride. All honour will go to you. At night, when he comes to your bed, David will give you his seed, hoping to get you with child. It is his duty, and it will be done. But when he comes to me, it is not because he has to but because he wishes to. When he comes to me, it is to find true release—the release you will never know to provide.”

  I feel her shudder beneath my fingertips, hear the sudden cessation of her breath. Finding the pulse-point beneath her ear, I stroke over it, absorbing the fearful, thumping rhythm. When she breathes again, it is in rushing gasps, and it takes three or four inhalations before she finds her tongue.

  “He will teach me whatever he wants me to know—to do. I will never gainsay him.”

  For a moment, the images assail me, driving through my heart, my body. Annabelle Frasier supine, glorious in her youthful desirability, legs spread to reveal the flushed pink cunt, nipples puckered, elongated with need. David strong and masterful, bending over her, smiling, his thick cock rampant, prepared to initiate her into his diverse world of intimate pleasures.

  A fresh wave of rage almost overcomes me, tempered not at all by the spiralling frisson of lust heating my belly and quim. My fingers curl before I realise, nails scraping across the tender skin below Annabelle’s jaw. She flinches as I spin away. Crossing the room to the window gives me precious moments to collect myself, but the passing of those seconds is not enough to quell the need to shock, to hurt.

  “Your intended husband is a man of much experience, with needs even I have found…varied.” Turning to face her, I release a salvo from my considerable arsenal—one guaranteed to cause as much damage as possible. “When night after night you lie on your back in bed, legs open, being fucked the same way, over and over again, think of this—I have never had David the same way twice. As you wonder at the sameness, the lack of pleasure, the brevity of your couplings, remember my words. The man you are marrying has desires far beyond the boredom of a bed, a fuck and a spending of his seed. Yet, that is all he will demand of you. For the rest, he will turn to me, or someone like me. Resign yourself to that, my dear, and you may yet achieve a happy life.”

  Now her eyes fill with tears but I know they are those of rage or disgust rather than sadness or pain. Miss Frasier’s face contorts, her lips open, but no sound emerges. I want to laugh once more but know my small, triumphant smile is far more effective. Speechless, unable to formulate a reply, flushed with overwhelming fury, she glowers, and after a moment to savour the sight, I turn away to pull the bell cord at my hand.

  The door opens immediately, and I have the final word as I sweep past her frozen form.

  “Thank you for coming, Miss Frasier. Lincoln will see you out.”

  Dismissing her is easy, but her words linger. I have won this battle, but, as I make my way upstairs, I am sa
ddened by the knowledge that, in the end, we both will lose the war.

  As a child, I often stood behind the weavers that plied their trade on my father’s estate, fascinated by the flash of the shuttles, the emergence of something so solid from the thin twists of yarn. One line built upon the other, until the pattern could be seen.

  The night after Miss Frazier’s visit, while the sting of it is still fresh, David comes to me, directly from the House of Lords.

  For a moment, he stands in the doorway and looks to where I am seated in front of the fireplace, a book open on my lap. In that brief passage of time, I allow myself to see him truly, fully, as I rarely take the opportunity to do anymore. His clothing is, as always, beautiful and immaculate, reflecting his deep need for perfection in every facet of life. Only the richest materials, the finest embroidery, will do. From the careful styling of his wig to his shoes, dyed a deep green and ornamented with gold buckles to match his coat, he radiates all the confidence a man of his station should possess.

  I have adored him for so long, given to and received from him every intimacy imaginable. Yet, as a matter of self-protection, lying between us has always been the caveat of impermanence—the knowledge he would never truly be mine. I have freely acknowledged this and seen his flash of emotion as I did. It was, I am sure, relief at my rationality and reasonable outlook. There will be no crying, no grovelling, when the time comes to sever our attachment.

  I now realise this lie can only sustain me—can only stretch—so far. Agony blows through my heart like the onset of a winter storm.

  His lean, handsome face is stoic until the door to my boudoir closes behind him. Only then do his true emotions emerge. The air of competence and authority falls away, and his expression visibly softens.

  “Darling.”

  How can one simple word elevate me to the heights of delight and throw me into the pit of Hell, all at once? I want to rise, to run to him, but beneath my joy runs a powerful river of pain and rage. I remain seated, holding the place in my book with one finger. Retreating behind hauteur seems the best course, so I raise my chin and survey him coldly.

  “Come here.”

  He recognises the tone of my voice, knows I need to be in charge of the night ahead. There is an upward tilt of his lips, quickly suppressed, and he strides across the room to throw himself at my feet, bending his head as though in supplication.

  “Did you stop the passage of the tax bill in the house as you wanted?”

  “The bill will pass. Those fools will allow it, despite all the arguments we raise against it.” His voice is humble, as befitting a servant of desire. “There is nothing left to be done.”

  It takes no effort to make my voice cold, emotionless.

  “You will allow this to happen?”

  “I cannot stop it. I have tried, but it will pass.”

  “What good are you?” I see his shoulders twitch at the harshness of my tone. “What use to the nation, to the world?”

  “None,” he whispers. “None at all.”

  “I shall put you to use, then.” I use the book in my hand to rap him on the shoulder. “Lower your head, worm. I am in need of a footstool.”

  “Yes, mistress.”

  He bends before me until his elbows are on the ground. Raising the hems of my skirts, I lift my feet and place the arches on his shoulders, close to his neck, digging the heels of my shoes into his collarbones. David grunts, acknowledging the pain, and I flip skirt and petticoats down, covering his head.

  I go back to my book, forcing myself to pretend to read a chapter, taking my time, contemplating how best to meet my desires. Miss Frasier’s visit earlier is, after all, David’s fault. Had he chosen a more biddable chit, rather than that cold, arrogant miss, I would not have this sensation of ice eating away at my innards.

  My slave does not move, not even when I stretch my legs out, settling my feet on his back, arranging my skirts to modestly cover my calves. All that can be seen of David now is his green, silk-covered bottom, protruding from beneath layers of ruffles and satin. I can feel his warmth beneath my petticoats, hear his roughened breathing.

  Pressure builds inside, a mingling of ire and craving. My pleasure will be found in his despair, in his pain and subjugation. Tonight I need him exactly where he is—at my feet, at my mercy. And I will deny him that mercy, again and again, until I have my fill.

  Scraping my heels along his back, I place them on his shoulders once more. My heartbeat echoes in my cunt, insistent, thrilling. His nearness entices me to spread my thighs and demand his attentions there, but it is too soon to allow him leave to move. However, it doesn’t mean my lust has to go unsatisfied.

  Slipping my hand into the pocket-slits in my petticoats, I work my fingers through to my shift and raise the hem. David shivers but holds his position, even as the undergarment snags his wig in passing. In a thrice, the linen is bunched around my hips. I let my thighs fall open, and my fingers find the damp curls framing my quim. David’s shoulders tense under my feet.

  “Stay still, slave.” I rub the wet strands at the beginning of my slit between my fingers, ensuring the scent of my arousal will permeate the confined area beneath my skirts. “Do not move, on fear of punishment.”

  “Yes, mistress,” is his humble reply, and the sound of that harsh whisper fires my desire all the more.

  His head is bowed so he cannot see what I am doing, but I mean for him to know—will tell him until I can no longer articulate for the pleasure.

  “I have need of release, but you are not worthy of supplying it for me.” I part the lips of my cunt, shuddering even at that small movement. “Therefore, I will have to supply it for myself.”

  The entrance to my cunt is slick and hot, and I circle it, loving the sensation of soft caresses, the anticipation of the harder, more insistent, to come. My clitoris throbs, waiting, but to touch it would break the torture I inflict on us both.

  “Can you smell my desire, slave?”

  “Yes…” I kick his shoulder, and he grunts, quickly adding, “…mistress.”

  “And can you hear the sound of my fingers playing with my cunt?”

  “Yes, mistress.”

  “Do you wish it were your fingers, or perhaps your tongue on my cunt?”

  “Yes, oh yes, mistress.”

  David sounds breathless, as though he has been running, and I smile, elated. I need him to suffer, to be denied that which he desires most at this moment, which is permission to see, to feel.

  “You do not deserve to touch me, to give me pleasure.” Inserting two fingers into my cunt, I moan and brace my feet harder on his shoulders. I am breathless now too, as the pressure inside me climbs and climbs in tandem with the movement of my hand. “You are not man enough to fuck me, so I am forced to fuck myself. I have two fingers inside my cunt, and it feels sublime. Do you think you could do better, slave?”

  “Please, mistress, I would try to do better, if you would allow.”

  “No,” I cry, caught on the desperate edge between anticipation and culmination. “You do not have my permission to move, to touch me, to see what I am doing.” The words are choppy, forced out on my ragged breaths. “I am going to make myself spend—” I find the almost painfully tender peak of my clitoris. The first touch makes me arch and catch my breath—“and you”—a rub, a moan—“shall”—another rub—“not”—almost, oh, so close!—“move.”

  The final word emerges as a near scream as my release overtakes me. Jerking and shuddering, crying out again and again, I do not stop touching myself until the very last tremor subsides and my body slumps back, boneless and satiated.

  Silence blankets the room, broken only by the sound of the logs burning in the fireplace and our mingled breathing. Finally I straighten, pushing on his shoulders to regain my prior position, and pull up my skirts to look down at his still-lowered head. His wig has been dislodged, revealing his short dark hair. When I speak, I make sure my voice cracks like a whip, giving him a foretaste of wha
t is to come.

  “You moved.”

  Chapter Two

  “No, mistress.”

  I am not appeased by David’s quick reply.

  “Do you think me a fool? Did you believe me so lost in ecstasy I would not feel you lift your head?”

  I do not give him a chance to respond. Instead I push him away with my legs, and he falls to one side.

  “Get up,” I snap. “Get up immediately.”

  He rises, standing with bowed head, hands fisted at his side. The front of his breeches is distended, and a dark mark, evidence of his lust, spreads across the silk.

  “Take off those clothes. They are far too fine for one such as you.”

  His hands shake as he complies with my demand, moving as quickly as he can so as not to anger me further. And I am angry—almost violently so. There is no time to contemplate where this rage comes from, and I really do not care. All I can do is act on it, and hopefully leech it from my soul.

  David is beautiful, with a lean and muscular horseman’s body. The breadth of his shoulders taper wonderfully to a narrow waist, and I let my gaze wander over his chest and follow the faint trail of hair down his abdomen to his groin. I linger there, watching as he grows even more aroused under my perusal. I love the slight curve of his cock, the thickness of the smooth and rigid flesh that fills my mouth and cunt to capacity, the full cods hanging below. Strong thighs shift as he subtly poses, displaying his attributes to greatest effect.

  Usually I find him irresistible, and on the nights I try to master him, the sight of his unclothed form often softens my resolve. Sometimes just seeing his erection makes me curtail our play and allow him to take control, longing for the delicious stretching as he enters me, the delight of his powerful thrusts as he holds me, takes me completely. I see that knowledge in his eyes, in the beginnings of a smile pulling at the corners of his lips.

  It is not so this night.

  “Kneel.”

  There is a fraction of a moment when I think he will refuse, and my breath hitches in my throat. When he sinks to his knees, I draw a deep shuddering inhalation into my lungs. I am hungry for his submission—crave the utter destruction of his poise and confidence.