More Victorian kink! #AnonymousSex #SecretDiary #Tea

For today’s promo post, I thought I’d continue the Victorian theme from my post earlier in the month by sharing a bit from Miranda’s Masks. Although technically contemporary erotica, this novel includes a parallel historical sub-plot detailed in the secret diary discovered by Miranda, the heroine, who happens to be writing a doctoral dissertation on Victorian erotica.

Here’s a kinky bit from that diary, for your reading pleasure!

Now is my degradation complete, my shame unfathomable. Now I know how deeply corrupt, how irredeemable, I truly am. I should be wearing coarse stuff, on my knees in the church, weeping and praying for forgiveness.

Instead, I sit here at my dressing table, compounding my sins by setting them down in writing. Sinning again, in fact, as I relive them, describe them, rolling the dark flavors around in my mind like sweetmeats on my tongue. In the mirror before me, I see my face is flushed, my eyes sparkle, the pulse is quick where the lace of my dressing gown reveals my throat. Oh, the shame makes me more beautiful, the shame and the tender pain of silk caressing my stripes.

I had completed a productive afternoon of errands and sent Pauline home with the packages, while I stopped at my favorite tea room on Newbury Street for some refreshment. My thoughts focused solely on domestic issues as I sipped my oolong. New shoes for Daniel, refitting the parlor drapes, the pearl earrings I had chosen for Margaret Booth’s daughter, to be married next month. The attractions of the flesh had never been further from my mind.

Something tickled the edge of my consciousness, distracting me from my mundane reverie. I looked up, slightly startled, and there he was, staring at me rudely from his table in the corner. When our eyes met, I felt that shock, familiar and yet always new. Recognition in the eyes of a stranger, secret knowledge. I might as well have been naked.

He was richly dressed in a fine costume of maroon wool, of the latest cut. A gold watch and chain were prominently displayed across his brocade waistcoat. Still, my immediate thought was that this was no gentleman. His complexion was swarthy and his features rather uneven. His brow bespoke intelligence, but his narrow lips had a cruel cast. His thick black hair, though well-groomed, was a bit too long to be proper.

A mental voice urged me to rise and leave the place, but I could not move. His gaze held me transfixed. Thus snakes are said to render their prey immobile and vulnerable. Before I could think or take action, he had approached my table, and was kissing my hand.

“Madame,” he said, his voice deep and resonant, with the hint of a foreign accent. “Will you accompany me? I feel that we have some common interests to discuss.”

“Sir, I do not know to what interests you refer,” I replied demurely, though of course I had some idea.

In response, he brought his walking stick up between my legs, raising my skirts almost to my knees.

I looked around in panic. All the other customers seemed to be occupied with their own conversations. “My dear, do not play the innocent with me. I know who you are. I know what you want.”

He let my petticoats drop back into place and offered me his arm. “Shall we?”

I fumbled in my purse for money to pay the tariff, but he waved it aside. “I have already settled that matter. Come, my coach is waiting.”

My escort’s carriage was in keeping with his clothing, richly ornamented and expensive. The driver gave me an odd look as we climbed in, simultaneously lustful and resentful. He wore lavish maroon livery, but he was unshaven and rough-looking. Like his master, he seemed to be acting a part.

I settled myself on the velvet upholstery, feeling more and more nervous. My companion leaned out the window, signaling the coachman to proceed. Then he reached into his coat pocket and retrieved a white silk handkerchief.

“For reasons that I am sure you will understand, my dear, I must blindfold you. I cannot have my partners seeking me out after we have concluded our little diversions.” I did not resist as he bound the cool silk around my brow. I could sympathize with his concerns.

The coach galloped on for perhaps three-quarters of an hour. I tried to judge by sound where we were or at least what direction we had taken. Very soon, it seemed, we left the bustle of the city behind. We must have been in one of the fashionable suburbs, Brookline, or Newton. The warmth of the late afternoon sun, slanting in through the window, suggested we were travelling southwest.

My companion neither spoke nor touched me during the trip. However, I was acutely aware of his presence beside me, radiating a kind of magnetic attraction that made me perspire under my layers of clothing. I kept my hands tightly clasped in my lap, resisting the urge to touch him. Indeed, I had the sense that he was tempting me, testing me, with his physical closeness and psychic distance.

At last we slowed our pace and turned into a drive. I heard gravel crunching under the wheels. My companion removed the blindfold, and I saw that we had stopped before a gracious residence, surrounded by gardens. He handed me down from the carriage, and I naturally turned toward the main entrance, with its fanlight and leaded panes.

“No,” he said sharply, reaching out to grab my hand. I looked at him, puzzled. He gave a little laugh. “No, I think it is the stables for you. Go on now, follow Montrose.”

The coachman leered at me. I was about to object, full of righteous disdain, when I realized several things. First, I was alone and unprotected here, in some unknown house, far from the help of any friend. Second, despite both fear and indignation, I was mightily aroused. The trip in the carriage had taken its toll on my senses. I desperately wanted to be touched by the mysterious, dark gentleman with the suspicious accent.

Still, I hesitated. My abductor frowned. “You do not want to cross me, Madame. Do you?”

I felt suddenly meek and pliant. “No, sir. Of course not.”

“Then do my bidding. To the stables.” He lifted his stick and gave me a solid whack on the buttocks. My bustle absorbed most of the force, but the act was so surprising, I could only stare. He raised the stick again. “Now!”

I needed no more persuasion. I followed the surly driver across the gravel to the barn. He slid the door open, and my nostrils twitched at the rich blend of smells: leather, hay, manure. The interior was dim; the only window was a grimy square of glass high up on the wall. Several fine horses glanced at me as I stumbled across the threshold, but they soon lost interest.

I stood in the middle of the room, my boots buried to the ankles in the straw, at a complete loss. Montrose lit a kerosene lantern, adding to the pungent combination of smells. His master sauntered into the building and looked me over. My confusion must have been apparent, for he smiled, came over and cupped my chin in his hand.

“Now, little angel, it is time for you to prove yourself. Do you want to please me?”

I nodded, spellbound by his dark gaze.

“I can see your soul, little one. It is dark. You need discipline, punishment. You need a strong hand, like mine.”

I need a strong cock, my mind screamed, but outwardly I remained silent and demure.

“Remove your clothing,” he said. I was about to resist, on principle, but his eyes cowed me. “Do it yourself, or if you prefer, I will have Montrose do it for you.”

My skin crawled at the thought of that degenerate touching me. As quickly and gracefully as I could, I shed my overskirt, bustle, underskirt, petticoats, and waist. Now I wore only my drawers, stockings, corset and chemise. I went to undo the corset, but no matter how I tried, I could not reach the lacings.

“Please, Sir,” I said, turning my back to him, embarrassed and excited. “I cannot manage my stays by myself. Would you assist me?”

“With pleasure,” he said. Finally, his hands were on me, surprisingly competent as they released the cords and loosened the confining garment. Please, I thought, let him touch my breasts, and he did, reaching around to cup them in his palms. Only for a moment, though, then he turned me around to face him.

“You are very lovely, Madame. You would tempt the devil. Off with the chemise and the drawers. Montrose, bring the bonds.”

Buy Links

Amazon US - https://www.amazon.com/dp/B077J37RW6

Amazon UK – https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B077J37RW6

Barnes & Noble - https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/mirandas-masks-lisabet-sarai/1127499525?ean=2940158774584

Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/760225

Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/th/en/ebook/miranda-s-masks

Excessica: http://www.excessica.com/books/index.php?main_page=product_info&cPath=25&products_id=1339

Add to your Goodreads TBR list! https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/36622764-miranda-s-masks

High Tea -- #Victorian #Dominance #FlashFiction

 Image by gate74 from Pixabay

By Lisabet Sarai

“Will you have more tea, Lady Wallingford?”

My elegant guest nods, a bit distracted. “Thank you, Beatrice, that would be lovely.” Her attention is focused on my master, seated across from her, next to me. “Lord Randall, pray continue. You were recounting your latest adventures in the Far East?”

My master chuckles. “I’m not certain my tales of the Hong Kong fleshpots are appropriate for someone of Beatrice’s years.”

I rise to fill her delicate porcelain cup, grateful for the chance to stand. Last night my dear master used me hard. My scratchy petticoats are agony against the lacerated flesh of my bum, and my quim is tender and raw. Sitting still is torture, as he knows very well. In fact, I suspect he insisted I host this tea in order to test my discipline.

Every instant — every movement — is a thrilling reminder of how completely he possesses me. My cunny moistens despite the discomfort —maybe even because of it. I know that my endurance pleases him.

Maribel Wallingford arches her perfect brows while her lush mouth curves into a smile. “Well, then, Geoffrey, perhaps I can prevail upon you to share the colorful details some other time.” The heat in her gaze and the flush on her cheeks make me suspect she has some intimate history with my virile master. She nibbles at her cake. Her tongue flicks a crumb from her lips, a surprisingly unladylike gesture.

“Perhaps.” He shifts in his chair and holds out his tea cup to me. “If you wouldn’t mind, my dear, I’d like more as well.”

The uninitiated might mistake his tone for avuncular indulgence. Indeed, my master is nearly my father’s age. He was Papa’s close associate before the carriage accident that made me a wealthy orphan. His close supervision and public concern for my welfare is one reason why I’m allowed to live on my own, though I’m barely twenty. Aunt Ellen, ensconced on her estate in Dover, is more than willing to relinquish responsibility for me to the respected and well-to-do Lord Randall.

No one suspects the true nature of our relationship — intensely carnal and shamefully perverse. I have given myself to him completely, and reaped the rewards, love and joy so acute that I’m breathless merely thinking about him. About us.

I step closer to his lean, powerful body, certain I can feel the heat of him even through his fashionable clothing. My skirts swish around my ankles. I tilt the teapot and pour with extreme care, trying for the grace and control he expects. A stream of tawny liquid arcs from the spout.

His cup is half full when he makes his move, snaking out his hand to surreptitiously squeeze my buttocks through my dress. Four layers of cloth separate me from his touch, but the force is enough to wake powerful echoes from last night’s whipping. The flash of pain startles me.

“Oh my!” I don’t drop the heirloom teapot, but my grip wavers. Tea splashes out of my master’s cup, spattering his woolen trousers and brocade waistcoat.

“Beatrice! How can you be so clumsy? Look at what you’ve done!” The sparkle in his dark eyes belies the stern tone of his voice, but tears gather in mine all the same. Hastily, I set the pot on a side table, before I do further damage.

“I’m so sorry, Mast—I mean, Lord Randall.”

“Your regret does not alter the fact that I may need to discard this expensive suit. Indeed, had the tea been hotter, you might have scalded me.” His eyebrows knot and his lips press together in a convincing facsimile of anger.

He’s playing with me, I know, but that doesn’t matter. His criticism cuts me to the soul. I sink to my knees before him, totally forgetting our guest. “Please, Sir. I’ll pay for the replacement. And it shan’t happen again, I swear. I was momentarily off balance....”

“Excuses won’t help you, girl.” He snags me by the elbow. “On your feet and over my knee.”

“What? Sir!” I suddenly recollect the presence of Lady Wallingford. A fierce blush turns my cheeks to flame. “You can’t be serious.”

“You’ll soon discover how serious I am, wench. Assume the position. Every instant you delay will make your punishment more severe.”

There’s no help for it. I’ve sworn to obey him in every particular. If I’m honest, I must admit that the thought of this public chastisement kindles a guilty thrill.

My voluminous skirts rustle as I drape my body over his tea-damp lap. A few blond ringlets escape from my meticulously coiffed hair and fall over my eyes, partly hiding my face. I want to disappear, to vanish into thin air. At the same time, I’m eager for him to begin.

“I’d heard that you were scrupulous and thorough in your guardianship of young Beatrice,” Lady Wallingford comments. “I hadn’t expected that to extend to corporal punishment.

“I do what’s necessary, Madam, to ensure her good behavior.” Without further discussion, he pulls up my apron, overskirt, underskirt and petticoat to bare my buttocks. I know the scarlet traces of last night’s birching crisscross my white flesh. The welts seem to burn anew, simply from being exposed.

Lady Wallingford releases her breath in a sigh full of emotion. “Oh my, Geoffrey! I thought you’d reformed...” I shoot a glance in her direction. Her ample breasts rise and fall as she struggles to contain her excitement.

“I am too old a dog to learn new tricks, Maribel.” He strokes my naked bum, gentle enough that my stripes barely hurt. “Though this exquisite creature inspires me to expand my repertoire.” Without warning he pinches my rear.

“Ow! Sorry, Sir.” I settle myself more comfortably on his firm knees. I know I can’t escape. I don’t want to escape.

“I think two dozen strokes should be sufficient. Do you agree, Beatrice?”

“That’s—ouch!—up to you, Master.”

The honorific slips out, without my thinking. My mind whirls. What will Lady Wallingford think? I wonder, then realize she understands the situation perfectly.

“Will you count for us, Maribel?”

“With pleasure,” she purrs. She has unbuttoned her her tight bodice, exposing the lace-trimmed top of her chemise. Her fingertips skim the pearl-white skin below her collarbone. Her other hand burrows into the fabric in her lap.

She’s as wanton as I am, I think. Then my master’s big hand slams down on my poor bum, driving out every thought except the pain.

“One!”

The sensations are many-layered. There’s the fierce sting where his palm has connected with my rear cheeks. A sharp tingling radiates from the point of contact, prickling across my skin, along the backs of my thighs and down between my legs. Underneath, there’s a hot ache from last night’s marks, pain reawakening lascivious memory.

Wham! The next stroke hurts more, adding to the building pain, multiplying my excitement.

“Two.” Lady Wallingford’s voice has grown husky, almost hoarse. I can hear her panting.

Slam! I wail in distress, unable to keep silent any longer, and squirm on my master’s lap, but his grip is like iron.

“Three.”

“Be still, girl, or I’ll give you a dozen more!”

“Four!”

Oh, God! How can I bear this? How can I want this?

“Five. Six.”

Like an automaton, my master continues to spank me and our guest continues to count. He’s fallen into a rhythm now. I know when to expect each blow. I relax into the pain, revel in the ache, surrender to my master’s will.

A particularly vicious slap lands on my left bum cheek. I automatically listen for Lady Wallingford’s voice. Silence.

“Maribel?”

“Oh—oh—I—oooh!”

At this point, my hairdo has disintegrated. I can’t see anything through the thick, honey-colored locks hanging over my face, but I know only too well what’s going on.

He finishes quickly, without a count, one spank following the next. I scarcely have time to breathe in between. My bottom’s ablaze. Tears swim in my eyes. Still, when he raises me from his lap and cradles me in his arms, that makes it all worthwhile.

“Well done, Beatrice,” he murmurs in my ear. “I believe you deserve a reward.”

His hand roots under my twisted skirts. His fingers find the magic button guarding my quim. A single firm touch is all it takes to trigger a whirlwind of ecstasy.

When I return to my senses, I find myself crumpled on the carpet near my master’s boots. With gentle fingers he combs the tangles away from my face. “Are you well, Beatrice?” he asks. I hear satisfaction in his voice. I see love in his eyes.

“Yes, Sir. Very well.” I glance over at Lady Wallingford. She has refastened her bodice. Still, she exudes a familiar, post-orgasmic glow. Her smile recalls the family tomcat after he’s devoured some poor sparrow.

“In that case,” he continues, helping me to my feet, “would you please ring Betty for another pot of tea?”

 

Almost Lost

By Lisabet Sarai

When I checked our topic for the next two weeks – Erotica Revisited – I knew immediately what book I wanted to discuss. I went to the bookshelves, confident I'd seen the volume there, remembering the many times I'd pulled it out to read a favorite passage or two and set my pulse racing. However, the slim paperback with the powder-blue spine (I remembered the blue, quite distinctly) was nowhere to be found.

Momentarily disturbed, I then recalled that we'd stripped most of the salacious volumes off our shelves when we'd moved to our current apartment, concerned that they might cause us trouble in this morally conservative country. There were boxes, locked in the storage room – I hastened to exhume the two most likely containers and searched for the warmly remembered Victorian (or perhaps pseudo-Victorian) work.

Nothing.

A sort of panic engulfed me. Periodically we go through purges in an attempt to lighten our material load. Had I recklessly discarded my copy of Laura during one of these orgies of self-discipline? If so, could I find another copy? I searched Amazon and Wikipedia for any reference to the title, without success. I was almost ready to accept that this treasure from the period of my awakening as a submissive was forever lost.

Perhaps I should write about some other title, I mused, but my somewhat foggy recollections of Laura continued to nag at my mind. I mentally reviewed the other naughty books I'd seen in the boxes, some of them no more than curiosities, few as close to my heart. Would I really have rid myself of Laura while keeping those other volumes? When I returned for a second, dusty search, my diligence was rewarded. I found the book hidden under some erotic comics at the very bottom of the box, along with my equally ancient and well-thumbed copy of The Story of O.

I felt as though I'd been reunited a long-lost friend.

So why did this book have such a hold on me? I can't remember when or where I acquired it. The publication date is 1983, the publisher Grove Press – ancestor of Blue Moon Books who released a number of my own works. The book purports to be an unpublished erotic memoir from the Victorian period, according to the (likely fictional) preface by one Claire Matthieson, D. Litt. Edinburgh. (who, at least according to Google, does not seem to exist). Two reviews on Amazon suggests that the book was actually written by someone named Patrick Hendon. However, Amazon lists the author as Professor James Jennings.

Anyway, this hardly matters. Although penned in archaic style and sharing a vocabulary of bonnets, drawers and garters, Laura has little in common with other Victorian erotica I've read – The Pearl, Secret Talents, My Secret Life and the ilk. Instead of the bawdy physicality typical of the period, Laura offers a surrealistic, interior-focused journey through the excesses of the flesh. The young heroine of the title drifts from one disjointed carnal experience to another, at the hands of individuals whom she may or may not know, in strange houses of which she has fleeting memories. She has been trained to submit – indeed, it seems that her entire family has conspired to make her a willing whore. Despite the indignities to which she is subjected, Laura walks proudly among those who use and abuse her. She knows that she is special, gifted with the profound ability to arouse and then to accept the consequences.

“Do not sway your hips, girl,” I am told. What a nonsense is this. I am the lure, the catch, the key, the lock. My arms bind as seaweed binds, as grass curls around the cutter after rain. Come now, here now, kiss.

Laura may or may not be imagining the events in which she participates. She may well be mad. I love that suggestion – in some sense this would be more transgressive, if it were true that her fevered brain has spun such lush and lustful scenes.

I think, though, that the core of this book's appeal for me lies in Laura's awareness of how her submissive nature sets her apart. I've known this weird, twisted pride myself – the sense that I can and will endure whatever my Master inflicts and the knowledge of how this makes him value me.

This is a book about secrets and revelations. In the first chapter, Laura's father calls her to his study, shuts the curtains, reveals her role.

“You understand.”

The question mark had slipped, slipped from his voice. It had hidden at our feet, a small black twist of sound between my toes. My silence was a tunnel in which secrets flowed. I knew the dryness and the summer heat, the far faint sounds beyond, voices floating, passing the house like small clouds urgent in their going.

“Yes.”

I knew. I felt the cold, the warmth. The shadows deepened and the door was closed. Could I be saved? The people would be hushed, the eyes would watch, the woods be searched. Iron railings rusting in the grass would be turned over for the footprints that might lie beneath.

“In the second left hand drawer of the desk, Laura, there is a strap. You will hand it to me.”

Through a mountain of stillness moving I moved. The drawer squeaked faintly as if surprised that it was I. Only a strap lay within, brown-coiled and smooth, a serpent in its waiting. Its surface was subtle, smooth. My hand trembled not. In my handing it to his hand my hand was steady.

Upon his word the desk received me. The leather stung, burnished my burning. In Perdition there is only the receiving. I yielded, fell far faint, received. Forlorn, the furniture would not look. The inkstand stood busy in its inkness, uncaring of my cries in my undoing.

On the other hand, this might not be the beginning of the tale. The narrative shifts like summer clouds, coalesces into islands of clarity and then scatters into confusion. This is a tale about time and memory as much as about desire – about the malleability of all three.

How long has it been since I've sampled a bit from Laura? At least three years, since that was when we moved in here, but perhaps longer. No matter. The passage above still has the power to arouse and move me.

I guess my tastes are pretty idiosyncratic. The two reviews of Laura on Amazon both gave the book a single star, the reviewers decrying the very mystery that I find so alluring. Ah well. Different strokes, as the saying goes.

Anyway, I think I've spent too long away from this old treasure. Now that I've rediscovered Laura, it's going onto my TBR pile, to be savored once more from beginning to end.

Chapter One: Cupid's Cruel Aim

Here is part of the first chapter of The Flight of the Black Swan, my novella-in-progress.

After young Emily is betrayed in love (in Chapter One) and still suffering from heartsickness, she meets one of the Green Men (refugees from Her Majesty's Navy who want to avoid being hanged for their sexual inclinations)and agrees to run away with them in an old sailing ship renamed The Black Swan. They cross the Atlantic to intercept a blockade-runner in the American Civil War, and appropriate a precious cargo of cotton and tobacco. Along the way, Emily gets married and falls in love (not with the same person) and everything works out to her advantage.

This tale is a kind of sequel to an earlier pirate novel set in the nineteenth century, and published in 1939.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Almost the worst thing that can happen to a young lady is to be loved by her parents.
Consider it: attentive mothers and fathers do all in their power to protect their daughters from risk and notoriety--in short, from every experience which gives savor to life. Fortunately, I approached the age of majority with my most exciting memories of childhood intact. They kept me from dying of ennui, especially after I lost my dearest friend.

I am Emily ---, born on the island of Jamaica to English parents who placed me with my brothers and sisters on a ship bound for England when we were young. At length we arrived, of course, but not before being kidnapped (as the newspapers termed it - "waylaid" would be more accurate) by pirates.

If you have no knowledge of my history before the beginning of this narrative, please forgive me for closing the door on that chapter of my life. I prefer to begin a new acquaintance with no preconceptions on either side.

Suffice it to say that when I was restored to my Mama and Papa at age eleven, no effort was spared to give me a "normal" upbringing. My mother even tried to arrange for my presentation at Court when I would be of age. She went into contortions to show me the proper way to curtsey to the Queen, and I was to be outfitted with three feathers for my head like a horse in a procession.

Pity the fate of a well-bred daughter! I would as soon be sold at an actual slave auction in America than to be displayed to all of Society.

What of marriage? I hear you ask. Dear Reader, it was never my goal. As things turned out, however – well, read on and you shall see.

My Mama was always exclaiming over my silken brown hair, my eyes as blue as the sky, my rosy coloring and the gentle curves of my figure. She seemed intent on assuring me that my physical beauty, at least, had not been spoilt by anything which might have happened to me earlier. I was no more capable of explaining myself to my parents than if they had been ancient Picts with no knowledge of English.

Lucy, my dearest friend at school, was a lively girl who understood me better. Yet even she believed that I carried unspeakable knowledge like hidden treasure under my clothes.

I learnt this one day when we were both fourteen, as I watched her aim an arrow at a target. She had been rehearsing for a school play, and she still wore her costume, which consisted of stockings, a man’s white shirt and feathered wings attached to her back with straps. Her flair for drama was never confined to the stage. As she drew one strong, flexible arm back to give the arrow speed, I felt as if she were aiming it at my heart.

The school archery range was deserted except for us. After looking around quickly to make sure she wouldn't be overhead, Lucy spoke to me. "Emily," she told me in a low voice. "I don't care what those dreadful men did to you. They didn't steal your spirit. I hope you never marry because you’re too good for a man, and I want you all to myself. Am I horribly selfish?”

“Yes,” I whispered back. "You're not a proper lady, and I'm glad." She let her arrow fly, but turned her head to throw me a quick glance, and it pulled her trajectory to the left.

I felt absurdly proud that I could distract her so much. “Focus on what you’re doing, Lucy,” I told her, trying to sound like a schoolmistress. “We must go away together after graduation. We might have to become hunters and trappers in the wilderness, beyond the laws of civilization.”

She laughed loudly. “I doubt that, dearest! I only need to wait patiently until I’m twenty-one, when I get my inheritance.” She switched her attention to her target, released another arrow, and watched it land quivering in the center. “Whoo-oop!” she shouted.

That night, I crept into her bed when all the lights were out, and eased myself under the bedclothes. She pretended to be asleep until I wrapped her in my arms and kissed her on the lips. She couldn’t maintain her facade, and burst into giggles. Her hips moved beneath me.

“Ssh!” I told her, fearing discovery.

“Our nightgowns are in the way,” she whispered. “Move a little so we can take them off.”

When we were both naked, we admired each other as best we could in the dim light from the nearest window. Lucy grabbed both my hands and brought them to her exuberant, womanly breasts. “Emily, I want you to have me,” she whispered as urgently as she could, holding the counterpane over us to muffle the sound. “I want you to do whatever you like. We can both be fallen women together. We’ll have our own code of honor, no matter who scorns us.”

She reached beneath the mattress to bring out the candle she had hidden there. I had no doubt that she had already experimented with it alone. I was equally sure that she believed a real loss of virginity must be a two-person undertaking.

Dear Reader, the pleasures of Venus are too thrilling to be covered by a blanket of silence. Surely you knew when you embarked on my story that it would prove thoroughly candid.

I didn't know what to say, so I wrapped my arms about Lucy and gently pressed my lips to hers. For a long while, we kissed like bosom friends. Then she pushed her tongue in between my lips and my teeth, and the intrusion gave me the strangest feeling between my legs, as though she were tickling me there.

She withdrew from me to see my expression. "That's a French lover's kiss," she whispered. "It's in Mademoiselle Rosier's French book about the arts of love."

"Did she lend it to you?" I could hardly believe it.

Lucy laughed. "No, silly," she answered. "I can unlock doors without a key. I'll show you later. Do it to me now, Emmy."

She wanted to be unlocked, invaded, burgled and read from her head to her toes. I wanted to do every intimate thing described in the filthiest of French books, but I didn't want her to think I lacked finesse. I decided to proceed cautiously, by degrees.

I caressed her breasts and felt the weight of them in my two hands. I nuzzled my face between them, enjoying the sound of her sighs. The tender buds that crowned her bubbies grew hard beneath my fingers. Feeling her beneath me was the sweetest experience imaginable.

Like a flower, she had her own distinct fragrance, which grew stronger as I nuzzled her neck with my lips and left a trail of kisses ffrom her collarbone to her breasts to her waist and the soft skin of her belly. I could hear her breathing as I nudged her thighs apart and enjoyed the aroma of the dark curly hair between them. On impulse, I kissed her hairy cleft. When she squirmed, I imagined that her cunny was an animal with a mind of its own.

"Emily darling," she whispered. "Use your fingers. I want you to."

I slid an index finger into the sucking wet heat of her, and stroked her inner folds. She was like an oyster inside. I had touched myself there when I was sure no one would discover me, but discovering Lucy's inner sanctum was like exploring a new continent.

"Em!" she urged me. "Don't be afraid." She seized my hand and showed me how she wanted to be ravished. "I'll tell you if it hurts."

And so I sneaked a second finger in beside the first, and played her like a violin while she moved her hips in response.
I found a little button of flesh inside her lower lips that grew hard when I touched it, so I teased it unmercifully.
Lucy shivered violently, but didn't ask me to stop.

"Use the candle, darling," she told me, sotto voce. "You can pretend you're a pirate and I'm your captive."

"Pirates don't-" I began, but I had only had a very particular experience with them, and was hardly an expert on the whole salty tribe. I supposed that real defilement by criminals would be altogether less enchanting than Lucy seemed to imagine, but I wanted to fulfill her utmost fantasy.

"Don't scream," I threatened, making sure to growl as quietly as possible. "No one will save you, my girl. I have you now." And so I pushed the bigger end of the candle into her very wet opening, watching her closely to decide how to proceed. She clasped me with her arms and legs, urging me on with the most delicious of bounces and shimmies. I marveled at how much of the candle she could accommodate.

I lay on her belly, wrapped in her heat, feeling the rhythm of her beating heart as the increasing force of her breath stirred my hair. Knowing her this way made me realize how much more I wanted to learn about her.

"Oh!" she moaned when her crisis came. "I -- love -- you!" I withdrew my waxy love-spear one inch at a time, and felt it slippery with her juice. I had no way to tell whether I had made her bleed, but if I had, I hoped she was glad of it. What was done could not be undone.

"My love," she whispered, her breath tickling my ear, "that was the best! You'll see." She reached between my legs, but I seized her hand and held it.

"What're you doing?" demanded an accusing voice from another bed. There were shiftings and heavings in the beds around us, like the beginnings of an earthquake. I was afraid of a full-scale eruption that would leave us as shelterless as a real cataclysm.

“Nothing," I answered the accuser. I pulled Lucy back down under the bedclothes. "I’ll come back tomorrow,” I whispered in her ear. I pulled on my nightgown as well as possible, and slid out of bed as silently as I could.

(to be continued)

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For me, sex and breath combine in a single word: SUCCUBUS. The legend of Lilith fascinates me. It is mysogynism at its most accomplished. I have been looking for ways to turn this myth upon the kind of men who created it. The Sisters in this story are my attempt at retribution on behalf of wronged women everywhere.

I may have over-reached myself this week. I have barely had time to edit this story. Please forgive any minor errors.

Beware: this is a dark and violent tale. Enjoy.

The Sisters

© Mike Kimera 2011

Bear Creek, Missouri 1884

My name is Jonas Kale. I am fortysix years old. I was married two days ago. By dawn the Sisters will have taken the last of my breath from me and I will be dead. Most of my strength has already been drained away. The face I see in the mirror is that of an old man, hollowed out by life.

I have determined to spend my last hours recording what has happened to me. I know it will be difficult to believe. I ask you to remember that I am a dieing man with nothing to gain from lies and nothing left to lose from the truth. I do not intend to rail against my fate. I am the architect of my own demise. I hope that by exposing the Sisters for what they are I may save some other soul from their clutches

The Sisters are the maggots curled in sleep at the center of our darkest desires. They are all the things our blood calls for and that our conscience cannot accept. They live in our dreams and our heart. They are the succubi of which legend speaks and they steal our lives one willing breath at a time.

I am not a fanciful man and, unitl recently, I was not a particularly evil one. I am a man of business of the kind you might meet in any small town in Missouri. I came west to Bear Creek fifteen years ago to make my fortune. Those first years were hard, lawless and sometimes violent. It is perhaps an indication of my character that I thrived upon the diet of struggle and pain that was fed to me. I built a tidy business selling necessaries to farmers. I worked hard and bargained harder and I did not squander what I earned on liquor or gambling as some many around me did. I was a sober, frugal man and proud of it.

My only vice was the money I spent on whores two or three times a year when I went on business to Sedalia. I had lived my life without the comfort of a woman in my bed. On those trips to Sedelia I allowed myself the luxury of buying the services of women who were skilled and willing and wanted nothing more from me than the coin in my pocket.

My fall toward the clutches of the Sisters began two years ago, when the new railroad arrived and Kale Food and Grain began to make more money than I had ever imagined possible. Iwas left with time on my hands and money in my pocket and like many a man before me, I allowed myself to be pulled into sin.

My visits to Sedalia became a monthly event, yet the increased frequency did nothing to sate my appetites. Instead I plumbed into what seemed to be a bottomless well of lust and desire. I discovered that for enough coin, there was nothing these women would not do to me, to themselves or to each other.

I was aided in my downfall by two whores: Maude and Muriel; substantial women, well into their thirties, who compensated for their expanding flesh and diminshing charms with a lubricious imagination and a complete absence of inhibition. They knew my tastes and propsed to me a form of entertainment for which I developed an insatiable craving. I would hire the youngest, freshest whore available and have Maude and Muriel bind her and use her for their pleasure and mine for a couple of days at a time. I never used the same young whore twice but Maude and Muriel became constants in my life.

By the end of a year, my whole attention was focused on the time I spent in Sedalia. Even when I was back in Bear Creek, my mind was still there. I hugged my experiences to myself, reliving them with the same lust a miser feels when counting his gold pieces. I used my memories like a whetstone, honing the edge of my appetite for the things that Maude and Muriel provided.

It was in Sedalia that I encountered the Sisters for the first time. I had only a glimse of them but it was enough to make it clear to me that my actions in Sedalia were going to cost me more than coin. I awoke that morning with a beam of sunlight falling across my face. Motionless beneath me lay the bound, bruised, and bloody form of the small-breasted, narrow-hipped young whore who was our current plaything. Maude and Muriel sprawled across the bed, limbs tangled and mouths slack. The morning sunlight did not flatter them and for a moment they revolted me.

As I made to get out of the bed to find the po, the young girl woke. She discovered she was still bound and struggled most prettily to release herself. Then her gaze fell upon me and I saw fear fill her eyes. My flesh instantly hardened in response. I shifted towards her, her straining flesh calling to mine, and would have taken her with the cruel vigor of the morning, except that I caught sight of myself in the mirror that was postioned to reflect our frolics. What I saw there killed my desire.

My shape in the mirror was that of a ravenous demon, bent over its prey. I did not wish to see myself this way but that is not what deterred me from entering the girl. Behind my reflection, I saw two shadowy female forms watching me with night-dark eyes. I snapped my head around, snarling, but found nothing but air. I stared into the mirror once more and found that the forms had started to solidify and were not just female but comely. They smiled at me the way a wolf smiles at a lamb. I fled from the room, dressing as I went, filled with dread that the shapes would step from the mirror fully formed and hungry. I swore never to return to Sedalia.

I kept my word to stay in Bear Creak but it no longer felt like home; solitude had turned into loneliness and celibacy had turned into enforced abstinence. I was pleased when I hit upon what I thought was the perfect solution to my problem, I would take myself a wife. The Sisters must have been smiling at my foolishness that day. It was, in the end, the decision that sealed my fate.

I chose Faith Harper to be my bride. I had watched her grow from a long limbed girl into a blossoming woman whom I found deeply arousing. Faith had just reached marriageable age, she was strong enough to work, healthy enough to bear children and shy enough to be bidable. I was not the only man to express an interest in her, but I was the only one to whom her father owed money and so a deal was struck in which Faith was given up to my avarice by her father's weakness

We were married two days ago. On the wedding night I was in a state of high arousal, fueled the thought of Faith's fair flesh and fanned into flames by months of unaccustomed abstinence. As soon as we were alone in the bedroom, I fell upon her like a starving man at a banquet. Her maidenhead added something new to the experience but did not long delay me. Too much time had passed since I had sampled the delights a young body has to offer. My mouth and hands could not settle upon a single place but wanted to sample everything at once. I ploughed Faith long and deep and still it was not enough. I had been at her for an hour before I was still enough to notice her tears.

I wish I could say that I was struck down with remorse, that I fell at her feet and asked for her forgiveness, that I held her and comforted her and taught her to be my lover, but I did not.

Faith would neither speak to me nor look at me. When I forced her face towards mine her brown eyes were wide as saucers and there seemed to be no one at all behind them.

A dark wave of anger rose up in me and I brought it crashing down upon my bride, spreading her wide and pounding against her until my seed flowed hot and deep.

Only when the last of my anger had seeped out of me did I let myself see what I had done. My anger blossomed as bruises on Faith's skin, my rage was written in ribbons of her blood and my lust seeped out upon the crimson-stained sheet between her thighs.

I rocked back upon my heels, trying to take in the enormity of my actions. A man may of course chastise his wife, but I had treated my new bride like a whore on her wedding night, leaving her torn, bleeding and broken. If I were discovered I would become a periah. That of course was not the worst. The worst was that I had enjoyed it. That I had needed it. That I knew that I would do it again. I had become a monster.

I cast back my head, opened my throat and howled.

No sound came. A hand, delicated but strong was across my mouth. An arm slid across my belly, pulling me backwards until I was leaning against the cool softness of a naked woman. I struggled to turn my head but was prevented by a second naked woman, sleek and glorious, who appeared before me out of a dark mist. She grabbed me by the hair and turned my head towards Faith.

“Look at what you have done, Jonas and understand what you are.”

Her voice was like an icicle pushing into my brain. I saw not just my broken Faith but all the young whores I had used, all the damage that I had done, all the pain that I had caused and then all of it coursed into me like lava flowing through my veins. I arched my back and struggled with all my might but I could not free myself.

The woman in front of me watched with a soft smile on her face. She traced her finger down my chest and my agony ceased.

“I am Meridiana. My sister, Naamah holds you in her tender caress. We are the succubi you have summoned.”

“I did not sum...”

Meridiana place her finger on my lips and I found I could no longer speak.

“Do you need to be reminded of how you summoned us, Jonas?”

I shook my head, fearing a return to agony.

“Prepare him, sister,” Meridiana said, “while I see what may be done for our sister, Faith.”

I gave no thought to how I was to be prepared or what I was being prepared for. My mind snagged on the title Meridiana had given to Faith.

“Is Faith also a sucubbus?” I asked, filled with fear.

“All women are our sisters, Jonas,” Naamah said, her voice as soft as velvet. She clamped one hand around my throat, keeping my gaze on Faith, and stroked her other hand down my belly.

“If all women were sucubbi...” she said, wrapping her long fingers around my soft sex and making it immediately erect. “...men like you would be extinct.”

Meridiana was running her hands over every inch of Faith's body, caressing her softly. Faith did not wake but she murmured wordless happiness like a babe in its crib. I found the sight deeply arousing.

“Even now he lusts, sister,” Naamah said, working her fingers slowly along my shaft.

“It is all he has left.” Meridiana replied. “he has rubbed himself against his desire for so long that he has worn away everything else he might have been.”

She stalked across the bed towards me on her hands and knees with all the ferocity of a puma and still my arousal did not slacken. Meridiana mounted me as casually as I might climb into a saddle. Her sex held mine like a fist. I was filled with dread yet I could not help but sigh with pleasure.

“Faith bleeds inside,” she said, pressing harder at the point of our union. “She will die and the spark of life you have just planted in her will also be snuffed out.”

Naamah snarled and raked her nails down my back, rending my flesh.

I cried, not from the pain, not from regret for Faith but for what I knew must be the consequence; I would be hanged for this.

Meridiana licked away my tears and said, “Yes, Jonas. You are going to die.” She kissed me softly on the cheek. “We can make your death useful and pleasurable.”

Her sex pulsed around mine and pure joy shot up my spine.

“Give us your life's breath, Jonas tonight and tomorrow night and we will use it to heal Faith. Do you agree to our bargain, Jonas.”

I am still not certain whether I agreed to save Faith or to redeem myself or simply to experience more of the joy the Sisters had to offer. Nevertheless, I gave my consent.

As soon as I agreed, Meridiana began to transform. Her mouth widened, her tongue lengthened and huge flesh covered wings sprang from her shoulders. Her sister moved backwards, lowering me onto the bed.

Meridiana rode me fiercely, It was a joy beyond all measure. At the point of climax, Meridiana rose off me, clamping her mouth over mine, and forced her long tongue into my throat. As my seed sprayed impotently across my belly, Meridiana began to suck the breath from my lungs.There was pain, excruitating, endless pain, as if I were being seperated from my limbs slowly on a wrack.

Then it stopped.

I had time to turn my head and see Meridiana lie over Faith, kiss her gently and expell my breath into her lungs, before Naamah mounted me.

By the magic of the Sisters I was already painfully hard again. Naamah was slower than her sister, using her obscene wings to control her rise and fall on me, keeping an even rhythm that held me constantly on the edge of release. With each rise she pushed one of her talons into my skin. With each fall she sliced a shallow channel into my chest. The pain was exquisite. When I reached the point of climax, Naamah dismounted and clamped her mouth over mine. While she sucked out my breath, she worked my sex with her hand, once more spraying my belly but this time rubbing my seed into the shallow cuts she had made.

While Naamah caressed Faith and breathed my life into her, Meridiana, squatted on my chest, wings extended, the talons on her feat anchored in my skin.

“Do not leave this room, Jonas. Do not touch Faith. We will return tomorrow at dusk, to finish giving your sorry life to Faith.”

As the sun rose the Sisters vanished. I fell into an exhausted sleep, not rising until the afternoon.

Faith was still not conscious but her skin was flush with health. I on the other hand had grown old and weary. I set about writing my last will and testament, leaving all that I have to Faith and her child. Then I commenced this document.

It will be dusk soon and the Sisters shall return. Already my flesh craves them and my flesh has always proved stronger than my spirit.

I swear on my eternal life that the above statement is true

Jonas Kale