What the Mistress Did Page 12

He does as he is told, shifting to the center of the mattress and settling himself, one leg raised, an arm flung over his head in a pose of such abandon I have to stop and admire him. David knows the effect he has on me. There is a preening air about him, while subtle movements of legs and arms and torso are designed to pull my gaze from one part of his body to the next. His face is stoic, but the gleam from beneath his half-lowered eyelids belies his attempt at unconcern.

  I laugh lightly and say, “Give me your ankle.”

  Stretching his legs wide apart puts his foot near to where I stand at the end of the bed, and I reach down to retrieve the leather manacles hidden beneath the bed frame. I cannot trust silk to hold him tonight—not with what I have devised.

  He makes no complaint as I secure his ankles and wrists. In fact, I can clearly see that being immobilised in this new way excites him even more. As he tests the strength of his bonds, the chains holding him fast to the bed chime, and a flush rises to stain his cheeks. He takes a deep breath as though trying to contain his excitement, but, on releasing it, his chest once more rises and falls quickly, and his cock is so hard it stands slightly away from his belly. Climbing onto the stepping stool at the side of the bed, I reach over to catch the liquid strung between the tip and his stomach. As he watches, I raise my finger to my lips and slowly lick it clean, smiling when he growls low in his throat.

  “How I wish your wife could see you this way.” His body goes rigid, and a fresh spurt of crystalline excitement beads on the head of his cock before slowly trailing down. “I think she would enjoy this as much as I.”

  “Why must you speak of her now?” The strangled quality of his speech is telling. “She has no bearing on our time together.”

  “I speak of her because to do so arouses you.” Resting my hand on his thigh, I gently squeeze. “Do not try to deny it, David, for I will not believe you.”

  “Do not say that, Marianne. This time is for us alone.”

  The appeal in his eyes strikes a chord deep in my heart, but I cannot succumb. Instead I shake my head. “Ah, David, if it were only so. But by her very existence, Lady Harrington has become a part of our play, whether you will it or no. And tonight she will be a very real participant.”

  His head rises from the pillow, and his eyes open wide, his gaze darting from one end of the room to the other, as though looking for Annabelle. Then he relaxes, and smiles in patent relief. “For a moment I thought you meant she were here, but it is one of your tricks, isn’t it?”

  I laugh and walk away without replying, feeling the sharp stab of his gaze following me as I go to the open wardrobe door and reach into the drawer to take out my choice of tools. David inhales sharply through his teeth when the plume emerges, and I meet his agonized gaze as I make my way back to the bed.

  “God, no, Marianne.”

  But the streak of cruelty that lies just beneath my skin is ablaze, demanding release, and I reply with a grin, “God, yes.”

  David begins to struggle against the manacles, and I watch him twist and turn for a piece before saying, “You will hurt yourself if you continue, and it will serve no purpose in the end.”

  “Not the feather, please,” he entreats. “Anything but that.”

  “Strange to know a man who can take a whipping, or being fucked in the arse with a dildo, should be so frightened by something so innocuous.”

  And he is afraid, terrified by the thought of being tickled. But he is also, even now, aroused by what I am about to do. As I watch, his bollocks draw tight to his body, and his prick now stands straight up in the air. Resting the plume on the bed beside his hip, I take the length of black silk from over my arm and fold it into quarters, making it impervious to light.

  “I will cover your eyes so that sensations will be heightened.” Drawing close enough to suit actions to words, I gaze down into his glazed and frantic eyes. “Once you are suitably aroused, I will bring your wife in, so she may have her way with you. Will you like that?”

  An inarticulate sound issues from his throat, and the tip of his tongue sweeps over dry lips. With gentle touches and his assistance, I wrap the silk over his eyes and knot it behind his head. Settling him back on the pillow, I place a kiss upon his mouth, drawing back when he would deepen it.

  “Or would you prefer your wife ply the plume over your body, dearest?” I make my voice mocking, although the thought causes me to tremble with delight. “I think it would please you greatly, would it not?”

  “You witch,” he groans, his hips rising slightly from the bed in uncontrolled lust. “You will kill me with your teasing.”

  “Teasing, is it?” I laugh and pinch his nipple, eliciting a moan. “We will see if it is mere teasing, won’t we.” I look toward the screen and raise my voice slightly. “I have secured him for your pleasure, so you may come out now, Annabelle.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Everything seems to stop as I look towards the screen. David goes almost preternaturally still, not even seeming to breathe. Indeed, I am holding my breath too as I wait.

  There is no movement or sound from the dressing room, and I imagine Annabelle frozen with shock, wondering what to do. My heart flutters; a chill descends upon my spirit.

  Trust me, I plea silently. Trust me to right the wrongs we all have committed.

  David chuckles softly, but there is an edge to both the sound and words that follow. “For a moment, I almost believed you, Marianne, and will admit to some disappointment at your jest. There is no one here with us, is there?”

  Annabelle has become a woman of daring, and by doubting her presence, David could not have goaded her more effectively. Unable to resist the opportunity offered, she emerges, but slowly, cautiously, like a fawn from a thicket. She pauses beside the screen, trembling, her gaze sweeping his aroused and immobilized form, locking on his straining and engorged phallus. She bites her bottom lip, the tip of her tongue visible for an instant between her teeth, and the breath leaves my chest with a rush.

  “She is playing shy.” Amusement and need are a strange combination—at odds with and yet so very compatible with each other. The two emotions war in my heart, and make my voice a whisper. “Come closer, dearest.”

  Annabelle looks at me, still poised as though to run, and I hold out my hand, beckoning her to me.

  “I do not believe there is someone else here.” David shifts as though growing tired of the game, drawing my attention away from Annabelle’s searching gaze. “Why are you pretending this way? What do you want me to say? That I desire my wife? That I wish she were here?”

  “Do you?” I do not look at him but at Annabelle, seeing uncertainty threaten to overcome her curiosity and lust. “She is a beautiful woman and, I think, a passionate one, if you take the time to delve beneath her cool façade.”

  “You cannot know…” Anguish colours his voice, and both Annabelle and I turn to look at him. By the time we do, whatever emotion that might have been on his face is hidden behind a stony mask. “I will not speak of her—not to you or anyone.”

  I do not realise Annabelle has moved until her arm slips around my waist. Hugging her close to my side, absorbing her warmth, I ask, “Not even to Annabelle herself? Surely she has a right to know how you feel.”

  “She is not here, so even if I were willing, I have nothing to say.”

  “Ah, I see,” I reply, urging Annabelle up the stepping stool. “She will have to force you to speak. I believe I can arrange that. Climb onto the bed, darling.”

  The mattress dips under her weight, and David’s eyebrows rise, remain that way as she climbs over his leg to settle between his spread knees. Moving silently, I position myself close to his head and whisper, “Do you still disbelieve me?”

  It takes but a second for him to realise there really are now two of us in the room, and his cock, which had grown flaccid during our conversation, immediately begins once more to thicken.

  A lusty smile tilts his lips, and he mockingly asks, “Is that really you, Annabell
e?”

  I am not sure whether she will answer him or not but am not surprised when she remains mute.

  “Of course it is.” I laugh, contemptuous in turn. “But she seems disinclined to speak to you. Perhaps it is because you have been so neglectful.” Picking up the plume, I trail it down the centre of his chest. A shudder races through his body. The remnants of his scornful smile dissipate like smoke in the wind as I lift the feather away and continue. “Often when a woman grows quiet, it is because she is resentful—perhaps even feeling vengeful. Is that the case, Annabelle?”

  “That is enough, Marianne. You’ve carried this ridiculous charade past the point of amusement.”

  David’s voice is rough, angry, and a spark of equal—mayhap even greater—ire heats my blood. Without replying I spin on my heel and fetch his silk stock from the back of the chair he left it on. As I walk back toward the bed, I tell him, “You promised to do as I say tonight, to be my slave. Is this how a slave behaves toward his mistress?”

  “You go too far. The game is over. Untie me, at once.” He strains against the bonds, his body twisting, arms and legs tugging in vain.

  “Nothing is over,” I retort, “until I so say.”

  He opens his mouth to reply, and I stuff the wadded fabric in my hand between his lips. Thrashing his head from side to side achieves nothing, but I watch for a moment more to make absolutely certain.

  “If, indeed, your wife feels some resentfulness toward you for your lack of care”—I pitch my voice to be heard above the muffled curses emanating from behind the silk—“I believe this is a good way for her to act upon those emotions.”

  David stills, his chest rising and falling rapidly, sweat trickling down his face and neck, pooling in the hollow beneath his breastbone. Even without discernable movement, every muscle is tight, bulging with his effort to escape.

  It is one of the wickedest and most beauteous sights I have ever beheld, and I shudder as the fire of my rage is transformed to almost uncontrollable desire.

  I want to stroke the feather over his skin until he weeps, take his cock in my mouth until he spends and his member grows soft between my lips. Lick and finger his arse until he is once more aroused, and ride him, forcing him to pleasure me until I can take no more. Forcing him to admit his love—to say he will never let me go.

  This insatiable need for him has never been stronger, more compelling. Suddenly I am gasping for breath, losing the already tenuous hold on my emotions. To the world, even to David and Annabelle, I am strong, indomitable, hidden behind a wall of control. Even in passion I cannot allow myself to express all I feel, what I need—or to trust.

  The plume flutters, all but unheeded, from my hand.

  It is too late now to long for what can never be. My machinations have led me here, and only I can extricate myself from this stark moment of despair.

  Yet, although the thought strengthens me, it takes every scintilla of will to tear my gaze away and look to Annabelle. In her face, her eyes, are mirrored the same sentiments. All the love, yearning, pain I feel are there, as she looks at her husband, and the overwhelming agony of it almost tears me asunder.

  With a slow, almost tentative movement of her hands, she touches David’s legs, slipping her palms over his knees, up along his thighs. My fingers tingle as though feeling the sensation of his hair-roughened skin, and as I watch, he relaxes, just fractionally, but enough to be noticeable. She soothes him—without words, without erotic intent—just with that light, knowing touch, and a new revelation comes into my heart.

  He and I—she and I—are as flame to flame. Together, David and I, Annabelle and I, burn like the sun. There is no shelter, no shade, no cooling water. In the end there can only be destruction as we consume each other, until there is nothing left but ash.

  Bitterness rises in my throat, and I turn away from the sight of her tenderness—his acceptance of it. Bending to retrieve the plume, swallowing again the acrid taste of loss, I welcome the agony and self-directed revulsion.

  They will keep me sane and allow me to enact the final scenes of this, my personal tragedy.

  The first time I try to speak, nothing emerges from my throat, and I am forced to swallow again to clear it. Thus I am shocked at how steady and controlled I sound when I say, “Your husband despises being tickled.” Annabelle looks up, questioning me with her eyes, and I nod. “I discovered this purely by accident one night.” Memory threatens to choke me once more, but I refuse to succumb. “David was lying on his back, much as he is now, and I was astride, fucking him slowly as he held on to the head of the bed for purchase. He looked so delicious, stretched out before me, I touched his chest and face, running my fingers lightly over his skin. When those patches of silken hair beneath his arms caught my attention, I didn’t hesitate but ran my fingertips through them.”

  I pause, glance down at his body, reliving the moment. Looking back at Annabelle, I continue. “If you ask David, he would tell you it startled him, and I know it did. He grabbed my hands, told me to stop. What he won’t tell you, but I will, is that, in that instant, as he shouted for me to cease, he also raised me off the bed with a powerful thrust”—I pause again, look once more at his flushed, damp body and smile—“and he climaxed, still fucking up into me, swearing and crying my name.”

  He shakes his head and tries to speak, but I ignore him.

  “If I were to remove the stock from his mouth, he would, I am sure, also say he hates to be tickled. Of course, that is the truth. It strips him of control, reduces him to laughter, weakens him in a very basic manner. But that matters not. Pleasure comes in many forms and, whether he would admit it or not, your husband finds great pleasure in being stimulated in that way.”

  I hold out the plume to Annabelle, but she seems frozen in place and does not move to take it. Instead her gaze falters, slides to David’s body and then back to mine.

  “Look at his cock, dearest,” I urge. “Look how hard it is again, when just minutes ago it was soft. Just the thought of what is to come has brought him to this state. Seize the moment, Annabelle, and with it the power that comes with being a woman.”

  The light of battle enters her eyes, and she smiles as she plucks the feather from my fingers and rises onto her knees. Teasingly she brushes the tip against David’s cheek, following the motion as he turns his head away to evade the light touch. Again and again she strokes—first his face, then his neck and down to his heaving chest. David squirms, twists, tugs against his bonds until the chains rattle and clank against the wooden bed frame.

  But she is unrelenting.

  Holding the feather at an angle, she inserts the pointed tip into his navel and swirls it around, letting the wispy barbs farther along the shaft brush ever so slightly against the head of his cock. His muscles lock, trying to fight the impulses raging through his blood, and I think he will succeed in that battle until Annabelle leans forward and sweeps her instrument of torture down one outstretched arm to his ribcage and back up.

  David shouts through the silk, his body bowed off the bed, held up by shoulders and heels. So intense is his reaction, I am surprised he does not climax.

  His response seems to shock Annabelle, for she sits back on her heels and surveys him through half-closed eyes, absently twirling the plume between her fingers. As his body sinks once more into the mattress, she leans forward and in a slow, determined movement, repeats the caress on the opposite side of his body.

  My frame jerks as though in sympathy with the sight of David’s immediate agony, and I grip the edge of the bed so tightly my fingers ache. Annabelle smiles, a strangely beautiful and cruel smile, and my desire for her expands, fills me.

  I want to be the object of that expression, to be her prisoner of passion. Longing for the touch of the plume, her hands and lips and tongue on my breasts and thighs and cunt flares deep within, stealing my breath and almost my control.

  But she spares me not a glance, enamoured as she is with her husband and his straining body. />
  Now she flicks the feather over his cock, lashing him lightly at first and then increasing the power of each light blow. David is groaning, his hips rising with each impact, the evidence of his enjoyment seeping and running down the hard, thick length. Lower she goes, stimulating his ballocks for a few long moments. With glowing eyes, she watches the reaction of his body, learning the nuances. Her face is flushed, her nipples tight pink buttons. How wet is her cunt? Is she as close to release as I am—as David is?

  Reaching down with her other hand, it appears she is parting the cheeks of his arse, insinuating the feather’s tip there. David cries out again, his thighs flexing as he thrusts into the air.

  It happens so quickly I am unprepared.

  Annabelle lowers her head and, as she works the feather against his arsehole, engulfs David’s cock with her mouth.

  Every muscle in his body locks with his release, and Annabelle doesn’t move either, so I see them thus, frozen in a momentary carnal tableau. Then his hips convulsively pump, and she releases the feather to grasp his hips and pull him deeper between her lips.

  He is still in the midst of climax when I reach over and pull the blindfold from his tightly closed eyes.

  Slowly, with jerky, uncoordinated movements, David’s body relaxes, and Annabelle follows him down, still sucking and licking his cock. Finally it slips free and she sits up, looking not at her husband, but at me.

  A dribble of ejaculate trails from her lips, and without conscious thought, I fly up onto the bed and lick it from her chin. Her fingers twist into my hair, are used to align me fully with her lips, and she kisses me with the fiercest of passion.

  There is no thought of resistance. Melting into her arms to return ardour for ardour is instinctive—a natural extension of life itself. Cupping one breast, I pinch the tight nipple and she arches into the caress, demanding more. Devouring her mouth, I swallow her moan of pleasure, and we rise up onto our knees, lower bodies coming together as though two halves of a whole.

  I am insatiable, desperate.