Devi's Paradise (26 page)

The ship’s hold had been uncomfortable enough, a damp, smelly home for rats, and she was kept without food or water. But when they arrived at Devil’s Paradise she was hauled forth and marched into the fortress. Sabrina had been there, scoffing and hitting out at her, blaming her for the beating she’d received. In a condemnatory silence she was frogmarched into the dungeon and the heavy bars and bolts rammed into place. She was left in almost total darkness, mitigated by the flicker of a small lamp. All that was there was a bucket for bodily functions.

She was hungry, thirsty and miserable, chained and unable go far from the pool of light, but the place was familiar. Armand had taken her there the first time he chastised her. It was the night when she lost her virginity and, she now confessed to herself, became his slave. Willing or unwilling, it didn’t matter: the end result was the same. Why was she fighting it?

As the hours dragged by she became desperate, shouting and begging to be released. No one answered, and she collapsed on the heap of dirty straw that formed a bed, leaned her head on her upraised knees, and cried. It was then that the grille in the door slid back and someone peered through.

‘Johnson here, Lady Romilly,’ he said, his harsh voice music to her ears. ‘You’re to come out now.’ She jumped up, tiredness gone, as the fastenings slid back. She had never been more pleased to see anything than his bearded, weather-beaten face.

‘Where am I going?’ she asked.

‘I’ve orders to take you to him.’ Johnson inserted a key into the manacles attached to a ring in the wall and she flexed her released arms.

‘Is there any news from Captain Willard?’ she said as he gripped her elbow in his knobbly fist and they started up the winding stone steps to where blessed daylight streamed through an arched window.

‘Not that I’ve heard,’ he replied, and her heart sank.

The stillness was broken by sounds issuing from the Great Hall, men’s voices, the clank of swords dangling in scabbards and the scuffing of feet. These ceased as Romilly appeared under the massive arch of the doorway and every eye turned to her. They were intimidating, but the most fearsome person of all was Armand. She caught a quick glimpse of Jamie and George, and an anxious looking Alvina, but couldn’t stop staring at her captor.

‘How pale you are, Lady Romilly. Is it confinement underground or fear, I wonder?’ Armand said in a sneering tone. ‘But so slender, just like the boy you pretend to be. Those clothes become you, showing your arse to perfection. Such a shame to remove them, but this must be done.’

Sabrina came forward, and although Romilly fought her like a she-cat, she succeeded in subduing and stripping her with the help of Marcus and Aponi. Despite their wariness of their leader, the watching men wolf-whistled when she was rendered stark naked. She was too proud to cringe under this crude regard, so stiffened her spine, held her head high and lifted her ribcage to thrust her breasts forward. Let them look and lust, the damned bastards. None of them were worthy of her, and that included Armand!

‘Is this what you what?’ she shouted at him. ‘Is this how a gentleman behaves?’

His face hardened and he snapped his fingers. At once curtains were pulled open at the back of the hall revealing a gaunt, menacing crosspiece. Excitement ripped through the crowd and Armand watched them cynically. He had given them free rein. Men grabbed at the subservient girls and some fingered the boys. Cocks were bared, ready to plunge into whichever orifice presented itself. Sabrina led the orgy, while Johnson, Armand and Peter kept an eye on the situation lest it became too violent. Fights were always breaking out among the quarrelsome men, each of whom considered himself to be the strongest and most virile.

Alvina and Jamie stood close, supporting one another. George was becoming aroused as he saw the young male slaves bending over with no option but to offer their arses to hirsute pirates who sought gratification with someone of their own gender. Peter was protecting Jessica; hand on his sword hilt, daring anyone to even think of touching her.

And Romilly was to provide the entertainment.

‘Why did you do it?’ Alvina cried as Romilly was dragged towards the crosspiece by a couple of hefty servants.

‘I had to try,’ she answered, but could say no more, the breath knocked out of her as she was fastened to the post, her arms stretched high and her legs spread and tied tightly. A roar came from the throat of every man there, even those reaching their zenith like rutting beasts.

Armand strolled over to her, lifting her breasts familiarly, then bending to take one in his mouth, licking the nipple and causing a furore in her loins. She groaned, easing her back against the wooden struts, straining on her toes to relieve the drag on her manacled arms. He stood to his full height and looked at her with those cold grey eyes that yet held a fiery glow in their depths.

‘You are too beautiful,
ma belle
. A man could lose his soul in your embrace,’ he murmured, and she ached with longing for him.

‘Release me. Take me to your bed and I will show you how much I love you,’ she pleaded, losing the last remnants of self-respect. Love him? Could she really mean that? She was very much afraid that she did.

‘You hope to soften me, perhaps?’ he replied sardonically. ‘Not even you can escape punishment. You caused me a great deal of trouble and must learn that I will not be defied. As for love? That is only for poets and fools.’

‘Not so,’ she insisted, remembering Nathan and the timbre of his voice when he stood on stage and spoke Shakespeare’s words.
Romeo and Juliet
had been magical and she refused to believe that true love didn’t exist.

He turned away, gesturing to Johnson who handed him a tawse. Romilly caught a fleeting glimpse of the leather instrument that was cut into strips at the end. She clenched her fists, closed her eyes and waited. The crowd were silent. Time seemed to have stopped. Then the tawse sent a rush of agony through her. She yelled and bucked against the wooden cross, but there was no escape. Armand raised his arm again and subjected her to another blow, higher this time, streaking across her belly and leaving a trail of red marks.

‘No more!’ she pleaded. ‘Have mercy… master!’

He changed the tawse to his injured left arm, then slid a hand under her crotch and flicked her clitoris with his middle finger. ‘You’re wet,’ he muttered. ‘Your body betrays your arousal.’

‘Don’t add to my humiliation,’ she sobbed.

‘You did that by copulating with Awan, though I suppose he could be called a noble savage, but then you debased yourself with that scum Lafette. You merit little consideration.’

The spectators roared their agreement, but Alvina was loud in her condemnation. ‘Let her go, you rogue!’ she cried. ‘By God, sir, you’re expecting a large sum of money for her… for all of us. What more d’you want?’

He gave her a cold, level stare, then deliberately raised the tawse and brought it down across Romilly’s legs with extra force. She hung there, head bowed to her chest, arms nearly wrenched from their sockets, every inch of her seeming to have its own particular sting. There was no use in pleading. All she could do was suffer and hope he’d grow tired of this cruel sport.

Then he suddenly stepped back and allowed his followers to touch her, but added a stern warning. ‘No one is to stick his cock in her cunt or arse or mouth. That’s my prerogative and she is my property.’

She felt fingers on her breasts and cleft, old men and young, faces almost idiot with lust, exclaiming as they handled her. Strangers’ hands, dirty hands, some gentle, some harsh, all wanting to poke her, open her labia wide, play with the slick-wet folds, rub her nubbin and tickle her anus. Not only men. There were women, too, debased sluts who, through choice or coercion, gave themselves to anyone. Romilly was too far gone to care. Why add to Armand’s satisfaction by complaining? She remained motionless, showing no reaction, and they soon moved away.

His tall shadow fell across her and she was released. She could barely stand but shook off his hand and dragged the cloak he offered about her abused and battered body. ‘I suppose you’ll expect to fuck me now,’ she grated.

‘You are more than ready for it,’ he replied coolly, and she realised she was.

He gathered her close, then swept her up in her arms, supporting her effortlessly. She choked back a cry of pain as he walked towards a couch and ordered its occupants to leave. He laid her on a heap of cushions and whipped away the cloak. A growl rose from the audience and some of them pressed closer.

‘You can’t… not here, in front of all these people,’ Romilly gasped, horrified.

‘No? Just watch me,’ Armand said, lowering his breeches and kneeling over her. He kissed her and parted her thighs, and his hair fell over her like a black curtain and she felt the hardness of the ring that penetrated his flange.

It no longer mattered that every movement hurt, that friends and enemies alike were watching her; nothing was of significance save that Armand was caressing her bud. His cock was poised for action, but he controlled it, bringing her to full bloom so that her orgasm burst, showering her with pleasure. He tore off his shirt and plunged into her, the cock-ring sliding over her cervix. He moved faster, supporting his weight on his hands placed flat on the mattress beneath them. She lifted her legs and clasped them round his waist, raising her pelvis to take more and more of him. She wound her arms round his neck and his pace increased, his dominance exciting her so that she could feel herself rising towards ecstasy again.

She clawed his back, wanting to hurt him as he had hurt her, leaving bloody scratches while he rode her wildly, spurred on by the cheering crowd. Romilly wanted to come again most desperately, driving her clitoris against his penis root, but she couldn’t quite achieve the right motion. She felt the tension mounting in him and lowered a hand, giving her bud the friction it needed to bring her off. No longer concerned about him she cried out as she came again, and he too gave a sharp bark, pumping her full of his semen.

He slumped on her and there was a second’s silence before the hall resounded with a burst of applause.

Joshua relaxed in a brocaded armchair in the main bedchamber of Seven Oaks House. He had a slender glass of punch in one hand and a cheroot in the other. Life had never been so easy, and he liked it.

Always conscientious and hard working, he had discovered a completely different side to him – the good-looking, virile stud of a middle-aged woman. There was nothing required of him save that he was on hand to attend to her sexual requirements and act as her escort if she travelled to town. He could be as lazy and idle and non-productive as he pleased; in fact Lady Fenby preferred him that way.

He had been introduced to Lord Fenby, a stout, red-faced individual who was almost permanently drunk. On the rare occasions when he was sober his loud, hectoring voice could be heard upbraiding the servants and, a genial host, he treated his guests to lengthy, complicated and mostly fictitious tales of his exploits. As his wife had told Joshua, he didn’t sleep in her bed but chose to be with his coloured mistresses who took advantage of him, queening it over the slave quarters. There was little love lost between the couple.

‘You wouldn’t neglect me like that, would you, Joshua?’ Lady Fenby said, gliding over to wind her arms around his neck. She was wearing a lacy-trimmed, diaphanous robe that flattered her thickening waist and heavy thighs.

‘I shan’t be here much longer,’ he reminded, his face muffled in her flounces as she cocooned him between her large breasts. ‘Have you talked to your bankers? Will they provide the money for the release of the hostages?’

‘Oh, yes, don’t fret. It’s all arranged,’ she said, sitting on his knee and worming her fingers into his shirt. ‘Are you so eager to leave me?’ Her painted lips pouted.

‘Of course not,’ he answered, and this was partly true. He knew that he stood little chance of making Romilly his wife. The social gulf was too wide. His future as a seaman would be an insecure one. Oh, he’d be master of merchant ships, but the pay wasn’t much and the work hard and dangerous. He might well end up in Davey Jones’s locker, food for the fish.

She held his face between her hands and looked deep into his eyes, and his arms tightened about the still attractive woman. ‘I’ve a proposition to put to you,’ she began, her voice warm and sincere. ‘Why don’t you stay here? No, don’t stop me. Hear me out. I’ve been happier with you over the past precious days than I have been for a long, long time. We get along well, don’t we?’

‘We do,’ he replied, resting a hand on her breast, and it was true; she was like an indulgent mother that he could fuck.

‘Well then, go to Cayona with the money, return with Romilly and her friends and, when they sail for England, remain here with me. You can have your own ship and be her captain. We do much trading between the islands and the coast and I need a reliable man like you. My husband is killing himself with drink and when he finally dies I shall be an exceedingly wealthy widow. After a decent time of mourning we could be married. When I finally leave this world you would inherit everything. What d’you say?’

Joshua was dumbstruck. His first reaction was to refuse. She was too old. He’d be a laughing-stock, but as he thought about it the advantages outweighed the disadvantages. He was fond of her and she knew many sexual tricks that intrigued and excited him. Like now, for example. She was sitting across his lap with her thighs stretched on either side and her pubis rubbing against the burgeoning erection in his breeches. They could play together at any time. There was no likelihood of her becoming pregnant. He might want children later, but when she died he’d be able to marry a young, fertile wife.