Erotic fiction by Michele London
Ashwood slapped his gloves down on the table, let his hat clatter to the floor, and made to drop his walking cane into the stand, but paused, thought better of it, and hurled the offending instrument across the room instead. It crashed into the chess board he’d left out after dinner earlier that day, sending ivory chess pieces raining down on the wooden floors and even into the cold stones of the fireplace. No doubt several of them had broken. As they rolled into their final resting places, he stormed over to the sideboard and poured himself a full glass of brandy, swallowed half of it, and refilled.
By the time Jane came rushing into the room to see about the commotion, Ashwood was nearly to the bottom of the glass again, and had braced himself against the sideboard, his temples pressed between his free hand.
She stopped short in the doorway. “Is everything all right, my Lord?”
“Yes,” Ashwood said, not lifting his head from his hand. “Thank you, Jane.”
“Is there anything I can bring you, sir?”
He looked up at that, as if searching her face for meaning.
“Tea?” she supplied, when he did not answer.
“Tea,” he said, an odd sort of smile bringing up the corners of his mouth. “Yes, I think tea would be just the thing right now.”
Jane dipped a curtsey and retreated in silence to the kitchen. Cook and Dobson were sharing a cigarette and a pot of Darjeeling of their own. They fixed her with keen stares as she hurried into the pantry, pulling out a tin of scones that had been baked earlier that day, and putting a fresh pot on to boil. She ignored them, working as though their eyes weren’t boring into her back, and hurried down the stair to the cold cellar for some of the sweet cream that would accompany the scones.
She arranged the tea, scones, and dishes on a silver tray and went for a jar of the preserves that she knew the Master liked.
“Only tea this time?” Cook called to her, the hint of mockery unmistakable in her voice.
“I don’t know what you mean. The Master has asked for tea, yes.”
Cook and Dobson chuckled to one another. Jane held her chin high and brushed past them with her tray, pretending not to hear what they whispered at her back.
When she returned to the parlour, Lord Ashwood was sitting in his chair by the fire, staring into the low flames. His long, slender fingers were steepled beneath his chin, strong hands pressed together in the only gesture of concern he ever betrayed.
She set the tray on the side board.
She poured out for him. When he took the cup and saucer from her, his fingers brushed against her own. She sucked in a breath and looked up at him, but he was fixated still on the fire. She took a step back and held her hands behind her back, and waited.
“Bring me a scone, will you Jane?”
She spread cream and jam on one of the buttery pastries, and presented it to him.
“Thank you,” he murmured. She turned to go back to her post, but he caught her wrist.
“You’ve made a mess,” he said. “You have jam on your fingers.”
She started an excuse, but before she could finish, the Master had taken her fingers in his mouth and pulled back again, slowly, curling his tongue around each one until the jam was gone. Jane worked to control her breathing. When he had finished, he continued to hold her wrist.
“Jane. You’ve not been misbehaving, have you?”
“No, my Lord.”
His grip tightened. He smiled.
“You’re lying. I’ve just come from my club. Lord Mortimer was there. Do you know what he told me?”
He looked up at her, but Jane could only shake her head. Words had suddenly failed her.
“He paid a visit here yesterday. To see me. Only I was not in, and yet you showed him into the library all the same.”
“But my Lord, you said that I should…”
He stood then, his tall, lean figure towering over her own.
“That you should show my guests hospitality, yes. But when I am out, no man can be my guest, can he, my little wanton? No, it was your own hospitality you shared, was it not? Lord Mortimer spared no detail in his telling of it. What’s wrong? Did you think it would be a secret? Did you not think that your every moan would be catalogued for me later? That I would not hear of how you wrapped your thighs around him with such abandon, of how he tasted you and made you ride astride him on my sofa? He was particularly pleased with the way your breasts bounced as you straddled his cock, a pleasure I cannot say I blame him for taking, as they are exquisite. But the fact remains, dear Jane, that you have been very naughty indeed. And the thought of it has vexed me all evening.”
Jane had lowered her head beneath the weight of his anger, and now tears began to roll down her cheeks. She made a pretty sight, indeed.
“Turn around,” he said.
His long, graceful fingers made short work of the buttons along the back of her dress, and the stays of her undergarments. He let them each fall to the floor at her feet in turn, then removed the pins that held her cap in her hair and made the loose curls fall around her shoulders. Then, when she was naked, he stepped back, and moved about the room in silence.
“Go and stand in front of the fire,” he said.
She obeyed, not daring to look up as she went to the hearth and stopped in the middle of the rug there. She held her hands clasped behind her back as she had been taught, letting the low fire warm her legs and backside.
When he emerged again from the cupboards behind the screen, he was pulling on the black gloves, flexing each finger in turn, the soft, supple leather stretching over his hands like a second skin. Tucked under his arm was a long, thin reed of bamboo, a gift from his friend Major Pendleton, who had served in the Orient. Jane swallowed the fear that was rising in her throat.
“Head up, Jane. Let me look at those breasts you were so keen to show to Lord Mortimer. Arch your back, that’s it. Don’t make me ask you to do these things, you know much better than that.”
Jane arched her neck back and looked towards the ceiling, thrusting her breasts outward as she did so. The cool air of the room away from the fire raised her nipples to hardened points, and made her shiver. She heard him drawing closer, could feel the heat of his gaze as it dragged from one end of her body to the other. Then, as light as a feather, the rod whispered down her skin, grazing along the valley of her breasts and down around her stomach until it tickled the insides of her thighs.
“Now then,” he said. “I’m going to ask you for the truth of what you did. If your answers please me, I shall be kind. If they do not…”
The rod came stinging down across her breasts and Jane could not bite back a cry of pain and surprise.
“Tell me, Jane. What did Lord Mortimer ask you to do?”
“He, he asked me to disrobe.”
“He did not wish to do this for you himself?”
“No, my Lord.”
“Go on. What else?”
“He asked me to kneel before him. To, to take him in my mouth.”
“And did you?”
A lie sprang to Jane’s tongue, but she knew he wouldn’t be fooled by it. He had demanded the truth, and she knew he would not spare her the rod if he thought she was lying.
“Yes, my Lord. Ah!”
The rod bit into her thighs, leaving a fire in its wake.
“You see, Jane? Even the truth can displease me. What more did he bid you to do?”
Jane found it hard to speak around the tears, but she dared not hesitate too long.
“To lay on my stomach on the sofa.”
“To spread your legs for him?” the Master asked.
“Yes, my Lord.”
“To open your sex for him, mm? To arch your back as I command you to do now, so that he might enter you with ease?”
“Yes, my Lord.”
“And did you,” he asked, wrapping a hand around her cheek and jaw and pressing his face close to hers.
“Did you moan your pretty little moan as Lord Mortimer’s fat cock impaled your dripping, begging, wanton little mouth?”
He brought the rod down on the back of her legs, harder than before, then again, and again, until Jane was wriggling against his grasp, pressing herself against his chest as she tried desperately to pull away from the blows.
“I know you did, darling. You can’t not. Not with temptation such as Mortimer in front of you, commanding you. You do obey so well. And then he bade you sit astride him, yes? We’ve already established that fact.”
He slid his hand down from her cheek to her breasts, taking one of her nipples between his fingers and pinching and pulling at it until she moaned into his ear. He lowered his mouth to the little bud and sucked it between his teeth. His other hand moved even lower, slinking down her belly until it reached the patch of curls at the top of her legs. When his fingers parted the delicate folds of flesh there, Jane gasped, and she felt his smile against her breast.
“Open your legs for me, darling,” he said.
Jane slid her feet wider apart on the carpet, and moaned again as he entered her. The leather over his fingers was smooth and soft, and gave them a thickness that startled her. His thumb pressed against the tiny hooded mound of her sex as his long, perfect fingers worked against the walls of her body, massaging the place he knew so well, until she was whimpering with each breath.
“Was it like this, Jane?” he asked. The low hum of his voice drifted through the fog of her rising desire, his breath tickling her neck.
“When Mortimer plunged himself into you, did it feel like this? Did he know to rub you here, hm? To hold you like I do, to caress all your soft places and drive you to the edge of madness before showing you any mercy?”
“No, my Lord,” she panted.
“He could never equal you… you, you are… oh, my Lord!”
Ashwood withdrew his hand from her in a rush, denying with one swift, cruel movement the climax she was so near to reaching. He straightened, tucked the rod under his arm, and began peeling off his gloves.
“On your knees, Jane.” She obeyed, kneeling to face him in front of the fire.
“All the way, please. That’s it.”
On all fours, now, Jane could only watch the tops of his boots as he strode slowly around behind her. The rod trailed along her backside, swatting at her buttocks with a delicacy she knew better than to trust. Her cunt was slick with the moisture he had raised in her, swollen and pulsing with the desire he had brought there and then abandoned. When the soft leather of the glove he had removed slapped her there, Jane flinched and bit back a cry, feeling a wave of promised fulfillment course through her along with a terror that she should do so before he had allowed it.
He laughed to see her jump so, and brought the glove down on her sex again, a quick little succession of taps against those tight red lips until Jane was shameless in her moaning for him to show mercy. He only laughed again in reply, a low, rolling rumble that made her heart pound.
“It is so very hard for you Jane, isn’t it, this forced denial, when you are so used to giving yourself up so immediately.” He swatted her backside again with the rod, harder this time, eliciting a squeal of surprised agony from her.
“But you also enjoy it, do you not? Servitude is in your nature. You show it every time you bring me tea, or shine my boots, or lift your skirts in my bedchamber, that you relish every opportunity you are given to serve me. Don’t you?”
“Yes,” she said.
The rod came down hard on the back of her thighs, then her calves, and finally across the bottoms of her feet.
“Yes, what?” he demanded.
“Yes, sir, my Lord,” Jane cried, tears blurring her vision.
His still gloved hand snaked through the tangled tresses of her hair and twisted them around his fist, bringing her chin up until she could look into his face. She beheld his crystal blue eyes, sparkling with intent; the golden curls, usually so perfectly coiffed, now falling over his forehead; and his mouth, wide and firm, the lips that could do such wicked things to her and cause her to do such things in return.
“You want to please me, don’t you, Jane?” he asked her now.
“Yes, my Lord.”
He put two of his fingers in her mouth. She sucked on them dutifully, caressing the slim digits with her tongue with all the same attention and care that she would have shown his cock. Though she worked so hard to earn some sound of approval or enjoyment from him, he gave none, only let her continue, wrenching on her hair when he wanted to hear another moan from her. When finally he bade her stop, he pushed her head down towards the floor, until her lips touched the toe of his boot. She kissed it.
“You do please me, Jane,” Ashwood said, undoing the buttons of his trousers. “Very much so. Which is why I cannot suffer you to spend your energies entertaining pompous fools like Mortimer. Do you understand? You are not to do it again. Unless I am personally there to command you to attend to one of my guests, you are under no circumstances to offer. I’ll not have you making a whore of yourself for the whole of the peerage.”
“Yes, my Lord.”
“Good. Now, over here, please. On your knees.”
She crawled to where he sat on the couch, the rod dangling between his bare legs. His cock, too, though it was hard and thick and flush with the red of the blood that was rushing there, and Jane trembled at the thought of what it would soon do to her. He pet her face with his gloved hand and brushed her hair back over her neck. He stroked himself with his other hand, running his thumb over the head of his cock, already glistening with moisture, and guided her mouth down onto him.
Jane took all of him in at once, running her tongue down his full length until the wiry curls of his hair brushed her nose. Ashwood let out a groan at last and collapsed back against the couch, his legs splaying out wider. When she came up again, Jane took his head between her lips, swirling the salty moisture off with her tongue and lapping at the sensitive skin she knew lay on the other side. He pushed his hands into her hair once again, urging her closer, deeper, and she obeyed him, drawing in her cheeks to take him as hard as he liked.
He kept her at her work for long minutes, bringing the rod down on her backside if he thought she was getting lazy or if he simply wanted to hear her whimper and cry around his cock. Now and then, a grunt of approval would escape his throat, his breath hissing through his teeth when she dared to take the heavy sack of his balls in her mouth and suck them each in turn. He pulled her hair tighter at that, but not away, not for a long time yet.
Soon, she felt him growing harder, his scrotum pulling tighter up against his shaft, and Jane wondered if tonight he would spare the rest of her and spend himself in her mouth. But no, she would not be so lucky. With the same swiftness and cruelty that he had removed his hand from her earlier, Ashwood yanked her head back and away from his cock.
“Enough,” he said. “Don’t think you can avoid the full measure of your punishment.”
He stood, bringing his rod under her to swat at her hanging breasts and hard nipples. Jane couldn’t help crying out, though she knew it would only drive him to torture her further. Indeed, he took his time lashing her from one end of her body to the other, bringing down the stinging little rod on her back and stomach, her buttocks and thighs, behind her knees and along her calves to her feet. Before he was done, Jane was crying, trembling in her position on the floor and desperate for some release.
“What is it, Jane?” he purred, pinching her nipples between his fingers and pulling them taut before letting them snap back against her chest. “What do you want? Tell me.”
“Your cock, my Lord,” she cried.
“And why should I give it to you? When you’ve been so disobedient today? I should leave you writhing here without any recourse, your pretty little sex hot and dripping and ready for me, so that you will recall this disobedience the next time you think to whore yourself for my friends. And is that what you deserve, Jane? Do you deserve any punishment which I should choose to give you?”
“Yes…yes, my Lord.”
“Any why is that?” He seized one of her nipples and squeezed it until he forced a cry from her mouth.
“Because you belong to me.”
“Because I belong to you, my Lord.”
“Precisely. So that you don’t forget it, you will remain in this position until I come back for you, you will not dare to touch yourself or give yourself any kind of satisfaction. Perhaps this will teach you a modicum of respect for your station in this house.”
He gave her bottom a swat again with the rod and turned to walk out of the room. Jane felt her control slipping at the thought of being left so unfulfilled, of having to stay in that room with his scent and the memory of his touch tormenting her without even the balm of her own hands to sooth her. It was too much, she could not bear it.
“Please, my Lord!” she said.
She heard him stop, and turn, and she bit her lip, regretting her rash words immediately even as a heady rush of anticipation flushed her skin.
“What did you say?” he said, the slow baritone of his words belying the anger beneath them.
“Please. Please don’t leave me. I beg you! Please, allow me to be punished, my Lord.”
Jane shut her eyes and waited, certain he would take her impudence out of her with his rod. Instead, a moment later his palm, cool and firm, curved along her bottom, his fingertips grazing the swollen opening of her sex. He laughed again in his chest.
“My needy little wench,” he murmured, lowering his lips to her ear.
“And yet I cannot withstand your charms when you beg me so prettily. Very well. If that is what you want, your punishment, then you shall have it. On your feet, please.”
Jane stood, her eyes downcast, and let him guide her. Ashwood lay back on the sofa and brought her up to sit astride him. He rubbed the head of his cock against her straining cunt, smirking to see her jump and twitch when he brushed the core of her sex. He nudged her with his hips to indicate that she should rise up, and when she did, he fitted himself into her and pushed his cock inside her to its hilt. Jane gasped to be filled so full and all at once, and he held her by the hips as she steadied herself on his chest.
“Mortimer was right,” he said. “The view is rather nice from here.”
He pumped his hips again, eliciting another gasp from her, and this time a moan as well. He took her breasts in his hands and massaged the plump mounds of flesh as he rocked himself in and out of her, abusing the nipples that were already so sore and pulling her down to take them in his mouth to suck and bite at them.
Jane, bent forward and laying on his chest, panted her rising desire against his neck, moaning and whimpering with no thought to anything else, abandoning herself to his skilled hands and mouth and cock. He pushed her forward again to let her breasts hang unencumbered, and doubled his efforts, bouncing her up and down on his pelvis until her breasts swung wildly, skin slapping against skin, and Jane had to clutch at the back of the couch to keep her balance. Immediately, he had snatched up both of her hands in one of his, not allowing her even an inch of freedom and putting her completely at his mercy.
“Yes,” he growled, squeezing her breasts again.
“Ride my cock, you disobedient wench! Take the punishment you deserve.”
He was breathing faster now, her earlier work with her tongue having left him little room for further play. He dropped his hand down from her breasts and pressed his thumb into her throbbing sex, working it in hard, rapid circles as he pumped into her again and again, and it wasn’t long before the heat became unbearable, before she was begging him to let her come.
“Yes, yes, come for me, my girl. Now, do it now!”
His thumb pressed against her harder, and Jane’s climax burst over her, her entire body shaking on top of him as he continued to stab his cock into her, bringing himself hard to his own release and clutching at her hips as wave upon wave of pent up tension shuddered through him into her. Ashwood cried out and rose up from his back to take one of her breasts in his mouth again, suckling her as the last of his sex spent itself in her. He wrapped his arms around her back, holding her into him, pressing his head into her breasts.
Jane tried to steady her breath, each last, lingering pulse of his cock sending another shock through her. Her hair fell over her shoulders to cover them both, and he turn his head to rest his cheek on her chest.
“Jane,” he panted, working his fingers in lazy strokes over the welts his rod had left on her back and bottom.
“Yes,” she replied.
“You…you are so very good at being bad.”
“For you, my Lord. Only for you.”
She felt his smile on her skin. “And for Mortimer?”
“Mortimer was your doing, my Lord. I did but follow your orders.”
He lifted her from his lap and laid her back on the couch, pressing a soft, slow kiss onto her lips.
“So it was,” he said. “And so you did. Though I do think you might have enjoyed it a little less.”
Ashwood rose and went to fetch his trousers from where he had left them on the floor. Reaching into the pocket, he retrieved a small bit of gold and brought it to her. Sitting beside her on the sofa, he slipped the ring back onto her finger and placed a kiss on her hand.
“Perhaps,” she conceded. “But had I not, you would never have been as angry with me, would you?”
A grin spread across his face, and he bent to kiss her again. This time, she took his lower lip between her teeth and pulled on it until he groaned aloud.
“What must Cook think of us?” he murmured.
“Very little, I should think.”
Michele London is an author, editor, and romance consultant with Scarlet Girl. She is a regular contributor to Scarlet’s Letter and the archive of articles at ScarletGirl.com. She writes dark fiction and erotic fantasy, and dips into real-life tales of sexy for the lovely ladies as a Scarlet Girl pleasure party consultant in the San Francisco Bay Area.
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