What the Mistress Did Read online

  Long have I known on the nights he comes to me and submits to punishment it is really as a test of his strength against mine. In so doing, he reassures himself of his ultimate control. For him it is a game, and when I give in, as I usually do, he knows he has won.

  Tonight I do not play but have entered into my role in earnest.

  Slowly setting my book aside, I rise and walk over to my wardrobe, collecting from it three silk scarves. When I approach him, David quickly lowers his eyes, but I know he has seen what I am bringing. As though in response, his cock pulses, a bead of clear liquid gathering in the hollow of his slit.

  “You cannot be trusted.” I drape the scarves over his shoulder and reach down to collect the evidence of his lust on the tip of my finger. “You are an animal in rut, not a man. A real man knows how to control himself.”

  “I am sorry, mistress.”

  Yet he does not sound contrite. Not at all.

  “Look at me.” His gaze lifts to mine, and I am convinced amusement lurks in the depths of his light blue eyes. How long it will remain is yet to be seen. I hold out my finger. “Lick this disgusting fluid off of me.”

  Again I think he will refuse, or at least voice an objection. There is a flash of emotion in his eyes, a tightening of the skin around his mouth.

  “You espouse no complaints when you expect others to swallow your seed, so lick it off. Now.”

  Leaning forward, he extends his tongue. The heat of it, its softness and strength, sends a shock of passion into my blood. Before I can pull away, he sucks my finger into his mouth, caressing and laving it.

  Oh, the carnal knowledge that tongue possesses. For an instant, I close my eyes, feeling it not just around my finger but on my nipples and cunt, between the cheeks of my buttocks—everywhere at once.

  Pulling my hand away, I slap him across the face.

  “I did not give you permission to be so bold.”

  Again his eyes flash, but then he bows his head, muttering a fitting apology.

  Taking one of the scarves, I instruct him to extend his hands in front of his body and swiftly secure them at the wrist. With a sharp tug that almost causes him to fall over again, I command him to rise.

  Facing him I say, “Undress me, slave, but do not forget yourself to so much as touch my skin.”

  It is an impossible task I have set, and we both know it. Even without his hands bound together, it is doubtful he could achieve the chore. He manages my gown without incident, but his hand brushes my flesh again and again as my stays, petticoats and panniers are removed. It helps not one whit that I chivvy and harry him at the job. By the time my shift is drawn over my head, my body tingles at each point he has touched and I have counted twenty-three separate times he has disobeyed.

  Clad only in my mules, delicate stockings and ribband garters, I walk away from him. Coming to a halt beside the post of my bed, I gesture David to my side. Directing him to face the bed and raise his hands, I tie the tails of the silk around the post which, because of its taper, will ensure his arms remain uplifted. Swiftly I use the other two lengths of silk to secure his ankles to the leg of the bed. He can widen his stance and turn slightly to one side or the other but otherwise is tethered where he stands.

  Turning away, I catch sight of his reflection in the cheval glass. Even bound, his arms stretched high above his head in a position of vulnerability, David is magnificent, glorious—and soon to be Miss Frasier’s husband. My chest tightens with grief; my stomach clenches in agony.

  David risks a glance over his shoulder, which I see in the mirror, and the movement brings me back to the now. Back to the rage.

  That makes twenty-four.

  “You need to be tied like the animal you are. Since you have no control of your own, I must supply it for you.” As I speak, I collect all the items I need and carry them to the bed, where I carefully arrange them where he can see. Hearing the indrawn hiss of his breath, I pause, tilting my head to wonder which causes him such concern. Is it the supple cane or the flogger, the leather dildos and attendant straps or tub of goose grease? Or, since we have used each one of these things separately in the past, is it the entire collection, laid out all at once?

  Or, perhaps, it is the sudden knowledge that something has changed without his realisation, and tonight I no longer play at dominating him but intend to do so entirely.

  “Marianne—”

  The look I send him halts his words, and he wisely lapses into silence.

  Twenty-five.

  I have never been a merciful person. It is not in my nature. Life has shown me little gentleness, and I have responded in kind. The time with David has been among my happiest, and in one day, that joy has been irreparably shattered. No longer can he be woven into the fabric of my future, and my bereavement needs a physical outlet.

  The smooth ivory handle of the flogger was designed to fit my hand. A gift from him, I have used it sparingly in the past, but tonight there will be no such restraint. As I move to stand behind him, I run the thin soft leather strips through my fingers, enjoying their slithering slide.

  The first blow, between the strong shoulder blades, makes him stiffen but is gentle enough not to leave a mark. The second, falling a little lower and slightly harder, makes him draw in his breath through his teeth. I work my way down to his muscular arse, concentrating the sixth, seventh and eighth lashes there. When I shift my aim to his thighs, allowing the tips of the flogger to slip between them, he cannot hold back his moan of pain.

  I pause, give him a moment to catch his breath and to wonder whether I am finished or not, before landing another quick series of blows on his arse. The cheeks are red when I count to fourteen and pause again.

  David’s legs shift as he widens his stance as much as he can. His fingers clutch tightly to the bedpost, and in this lull, I can see waves of shudders coursing through his body. I go closer, lightly brushing my breasts against the flushed skin of his back. I am trembling too, power and the need to break him filling me. Before he can respond to my approach, I flick the whip around his hip. Even with the interference of the bedpost, I know my aim is true, for David arches and writhes, a cry issuing from his lips before he can stop it.

  “That is for using my name without leave,” I whisper before stepping back to admire my handiwork.

  Placing my palm on his arse, I revel in the heat of his flesh and lightly trace the slight welts rising there. Although he tries not to react, his muscles quiver under my hand.

  “I remember every moment we have spent together,” I hear myself whisper. “Every carnal act, every instance of joy and pain.”

  “There will be more, mistress. Whenever you command.”

  The hurt his words engender is so sharp I cannot breathe. He stiffens against me, and I realise I have curled my nails into his flesh. When I pull away, the redness is augmented by a series of crescent-shaped marks.

  That is the moment I realise, without doubt, there will never be another night like this and decide if it is to end, it will have to be thoroughly, irrevocably.

  I fetch the cane.

  Swishing it through the air as I return to my position behind him seems to set each whistling pass of it echoing into my bones.

  He is rigid, head bowed, cheek resting against the bedpost. Even his toes are curled into the soft rug under his feet. David knows what is to come, and I don’t know if he relishes the approaching storm or fears it.

  There is no hesitation in me. Cutting away at him, concentrating on his buttocks, I hear my voice counting aloud as I bring the cane down on his tender flesh again and again. David bows away from each blow, but by the time I can swing my hand back, his arse seems to rise to meet the next lash.

  Stopping at twenty-four takes all my self-control. I am breathless, drenched in perspiration, filled with indescribable lust. There has always been a part of me which comes alive only during the times I exerted control over David, and that part now possesses me, body and soul. Throwing the cane aside, I move bes
ide him to see his face. Although his head is bent, his cheek still pressed against the wood holding him in place, he is stoic, expressionless.

  And his cock is harder than I have ever seen it before. It stands straight up, turgid, the head almost purple and slick with his juices.

  “You beast,” I cry in genuine amazement. “You loved it, did you not?”

  His eyes open slowly, a languid motion that increases my passion almost beyond bearing.

  “Every moment, mistress,” he murmurs. “Every hellish moment.”

  My mind whirls, shock keeping me rooted to the spot, gazing into his slumberous eyes.

  “I will have to try harder to find a fitting punishment, then.”

  At my unthinking words, he smiles and whispers, “Yes, please, mistress.”

  Climbing onto the bed, I crawl toward the rest of my tools. It is only when I hear him groan that I realise the view I have presented him with. Pausing, I spread my knees farther apart so he can stare at my cunt as he will. Looking over my shoulder at him, I smile.

  “I will not allow you to touch me, you know.”

  “But will you touch yourself instead?”

  The languorous expression has left his eyes. Now his gaze is hot, avid, as it flicks from my exposed body to the dildos close to my hand.

  “I will,” I reply, selecting the larger of the two leather cocks and rolling onto my back to run it along my cheek. “But since tonight is not about your pleasure but mine, you will not be allowed to watch.”

  It takes him a moment to understand my meaning, and he groans.

  “However, if you obey me implicitly, I will allow you to suck my cunt.”

  His smile returns, and he nods. “Of course I will do whatever you command.”

  I laugh, unable to help myself. David still hasn’t realised the change in the rules we once played by. He truly has no idea what I could possibly demand. Slipping off the bed, I take the second, smaller dildo in hand. It is only about five inches long, with two circular ridges around the base, about a half an inch apart, for attaching the harness. Dipping my fingers in the goose grease, I slather the artificial cock with it, all the while watching David from under my lashes. I know the exact instant he discerns my intent by the way his face pales.

  Taking my time, running my palm over the hard leather tool, I wait for him to ask, to object, but he says nothing. Picking up the harness, I meet his gaze finally, hold it as I walk toward him. When he can no longer see me, I rest my slippery hand on his arse, slide it to the crack and stop with it there.

  “Do you remember the first night you fucked my arse, slave?”

  “Yes,” he replies, his voice strong, bold. “Yes, mistress, I do.”

  “I have never returned the favour. Why is that, you suppose?”

  He makes no answer, and I laugh. Insinuating my forefinger between the cheeks, I find his puckered hole and circle it. It is nothing I haven’t done before, but he jerks once and then stills. Aided by the grease, and I suspect David himself, I slip my finger in, up to the first knuckle. His breathing deepens as he tries to control his reactions, but it is in vain. Withdrawing my finger, I add another, thrusting them in, fucking deeper with each pass. When I add a third finger, his body tries to expel them, and I withdraw so as to slap him on his welted buttock.

  “Don’t you dare fight me.” I never knew my voice could be so cold, so vicious. “I will do as I please with you tonight.”

  Spreading his cheeks with one hand, I introduce the tapered end of the dildo to his arsehole. Slowly, inexorably, I insert it until the first ring at the base disappears and only a fingerhold remains outside. David is shuddering, making a strange, almost sobbing sound in his throat. As I watch, the dildo starts to slip back out, and I halt its outward journey.

  “Hold it in there, slave, until I allow you to remove it.”

  I return it to the original position and watch for a moment, only to see it begin its outward slide again. I take hold of it, keeping it partially inserted.

  “I will have to use the harness, since you have such little control.”

  His entire body tenses, and I chuckle. Removing the dildo, I slide the strap’s clasp into position between the rings before forcibly reintroducing it to his arsehole. One strap buckles around his waist, while the others are fed between his legs and up to attach to it. The dildo is kept firmly inside his body, whether he wills it or no.

  With leisurely movements that belie my excitement, I walk away to rinse my hands, watching him in the mirror the entire time. He is shuddering, buttocks convulsively clenching and relaxing, low hoarse sounds breaking from his lips with each tightening of his body around the intrusion.

  Lying on the floor behind him gives me the perfect view. There I can see his punished arse, the straps running up from between the cheeks. I can admire every strained muscle of his body, see every shiver and tremor that courses through it. As I begin to fuck myself with the larger dildo, circling my clitoris with the fingers of my other hand, I watch a bead of perspiration trickle from his neck and down his back.

  And I spend and spend again, crying out, making sure he hears every moment of my lascivious pleasure.

  Chapter Three

  There is a devil inside me, and it will not be exorcised.

  Standing on the bed, I let him lick my cunt, but, as I inform him, will not remove the dildo from his arse until I find release three more times. My clitoris is so overworked, almost impervious to his ministrations, it takes forever to spend that final time. If not for the cheval glass, which allows me to see the entire performance, to continue to admire the tableau we create, we might still have been there come dawn.

  But as he licks and sucks my cunt, his moans vibrating into my flesh, the knowledge that I have mastered him completely propels me, crying out, into pleasure.

  Easing away from his still-lashing tongue, I look down at him. David is panting, leaning on the bedpost, his face flushed, tight with lust and pain. He has reached his limit, and I rejoice to see it.

  I have reached mine too, although I will not stop until this night of horror and desire has reached its final conclusion.

  My legs no longer wish to hold me, but I descend from the bed to release him from the straps and allow the dildo to slide free. For a long moment I stay there, pressed against his flank, allowing the scent and heat and familiar texture of his skin to enfold me. This will be our final time together, and I want one sweet memory of it in my heart.

  One last thread of David woven into my soul.

  “Miss Frasier came to see me today.”

  David stills, seems to stop breathing. Turning his head slightly, he meets my gaze, and whatever he sees there makes him shake his head.

  “Marianne, whatever she said to you, whatever she implied—”

  I stop him with an uplifted hand. “What she said is of no import. I simply wanted you to know before some old chin-wagger can tell you. I bear her no ill will. You know I wish you happy.”

  “Marianne—”

  I smile and stroke my hand over his cock, silencing him more effectively than any words could. He closes his eyes, arching his head back, pressing into my caress.

  “Untie me, Marianne. Let me…”

  His voice fades to a moan. I have denied him so long he cannot control his impulses anymore. But this is not how things will end. Bringing him to completion with my hand is not the right note on which to finish. Instead I penetrate him with two fingers once more, just as I release his cock. He cries out in protest, until I find the spot deep inside his arse and press and rub.

  “No, no, stop,” he cries, even as his hips are jerking and he is pushing back in a silent, involuntary plea for more. I am relentless. David stiffens, shouts an obscenity and spills his seed.

  Reaching up, I untie his hands and leave the room.

  In the days that follow, I sometimes imagine I hear him whisper my name as I close the door but convince myself I am mistaken.

  The threads have been cut, t
he cloth discarded. It is impossible to replace it on the loom.

  One must begin afresh.

  “I cannot believe he ended your association, just because he is to marry.” The Dowager Countess of Bledsoe clicks open her fan and waves it slowly before her face, even as her gaze follows David and Miss Frasier’s path around the edge of the ballroom. “I know Lord Harrington is a man of honour, but isn’t that rather…well…rash?”

  I shrug one shoulder and laugh lightly but make no further reply. Imogene Ogilvie is my oldest and dearest friend, but not even to her will I admit I was the one to end the affaire. Better for all concerned the ton believe otherwise. It no longer even matters that Miss Frasier probably thinks she has ousted me in fine fashion.

  “She is so very young,” Imogene continues, once she realises I will make no contribution to the discussion. “However will she manage to keep him satisfied?”

  “She will either learn or not. I, for one, have no further interest in the matter.”

  Try as I might, there is still a touch of bitterness in my tone, and Imogene pats my hand in sympathy.

  I want to tell her I don’t need it—that all is well. What have I to complain about? Society is littered with poor widows, unable to support the lifestyle they desire, dependent on the largess of relatives and friends. Few, unless still young and exceptionally beautiful or with superior connections, will ever have the chance to marry again. This is known, accepted. Every season a new flock of chits flood the marriage mart. What use has a man for a widow when he can have a fresh, young girl to bear his heirs?

  I, at least, had a fairly happy marriage and was well provided for, both by my father and my husband. There are no children to bind me and cast a strain on my finances. I can come and go as I please. Having David in my life was a boon from Providence, and I am well aware of my good fortune.

  All this hovers on the edge of my tongue, but I do not say it. Instead I turn my head toward the nearby window to hide the silly prickle of tears. Besides, the words sound false even in my thoughts.