Portia Da Costa (25 page)

Yes! Oh, yes!
She wiggled faster, trying to work that hardness to the apex of her thighs, so she could massage herself on it, as a fulcrum, to pleasure her sex. For a few moments, Wilson seemed to allow it, even facilitating with movements of his own. Then he made a low, rough sound in his throat and stilled her with his whole weight upon her.

“Not so fast, wanton! Behave yourself.” The grip on her wrists tightened, and his tongue went in deep, almost making her jaw ache. His sex was like a rock against her, but she could not move, held more by the force of his will than by his not inconsiderable strength.

“Will you be still and quiet and do as you’re bidden?” he demanded against her lips as he broke the kiss. “Will you obey your husband and accept his dominion?”

It was a game of pleasure, but still she shuddered wildly. “I don’t know if I can. You know my nature—I’m too sensual, and too willful, to be passive.”

His grunt of triumph told her it was the answer he wanted.

“In that case, I’ll have to bind you, and make you submit to my whims.”

The sense of slight fear, and amusement, was intoxicating. She knew that if he’d had a mustache, he’d be twirling it now, playing Bluebeard for her. As it was, his silvery-blue eyes were glittering, and when he lifted his body away from her, he unfastened the sash of his robe and whipped it through the loops. With barely the breath to protest, and too riveted by the sight of Wilson’s swinging erection to bother, anyway, Adela found herself secured to the brass rails at the head of the bed in a flash.

He’d fastened her quickly, but with complex knots, and the idea that he’d played games like these all the time with Coraline flashed through Adela’s mind. The Parisienne was a sophisticate who made Adela’s own sensual forays seem amateurish; the woman probably knew every carnal trick in the book and more besides.

But Adela banished her predecessor, as she sensed Wilson had managed to banish his for the moment. What did those others matter? What was past was past. Whether it was her amours or his, they meant nothing now.

The binding had plenty of give, and was comfortable, but firm. Each wrist was secured by an end of the sash, but the length was just passed behind two rails. She could easily turn over if she wanted to. Or Wilson could turn her. To get at her bottom, or her sex from the rear.

Her husband loomed over her, his member hugely erect between the silk panels of his dressing gown. Adela’s mouth watered as he fondled himself in a slow, lascivious action. She licked her lips, hoping he’d allow her to suck him.

“Oh, no, not yet, Mrs. Ruffington. Perhaps I’ll let you have a lick of the lollipop later. For the moment it’s my turn to play with you. Your body is my toy...mine to do with what I want, now that you can’t push me away.”

Adela gasped when he moved forward and let the tip of his sex rest against her belly. When he drew it across her skin, it was hot as flame, moist and silky. She churned her hips and rubbed her thighs together, roused to distraction and craving his length between her legs.

“Oh, no, no, no...” His hands settled on her thighs, one on each, exerting pressure. “Spread your legs, Della...and keep them spread, or I’ll fasten your ankles, too, as wide apart as they’ll go, and then leave you like that while I read a book.”

With difficulty, Adela fell still. The thought of what he described was a far greater torment than having her bottom spanked. It would be unbearable, although she sincerely doubted that Wilson would be able to concentrate on a book, tumescent as he was. But then, he
was
Wilson, supremely clever and perverse and a master of self-control. He could put parts of his mind and intellect into completely separate boxes...most of the time.

Their eyes met and he gave her a little smile that told her, without speaking, that his bold claims about book reading were without substance.

Adela spread her legs, just as he’d instructed.

“There, that’s better. Your puss is delightful, Della, too pretty by far to hide.”

In a move that was almost leisurely, he cupped his hand over her sex and gave it a slow squeeze. Adela bit her lip, fighting not to buck and writhe and drag her heels against the bedcovers. A second later he released her, and slid the flat of his hand over her inner thigh. “So smooth, so tender... Shall I smack you here and stoke the fires in your cunt?”

“If you’re going to do so, kindly proceed and stop dawdling.” She held his gaze, flaunting her hips at him. Why should she hide her desire? Wilson hadn’t married her for her prim modesty. It was her sensual appetite for which he seemed to like her best, despite everything.

“Oh, you’re such a delicious slut, Della...so randy. I should have known you’d turn out to be a supreme bed partner. If only—”

He stopped short, almost seemed to shake himself, yet made no move. Adela silently screamed for him to continue his sentence, but she knew he wouldn’t. And indeed, the moment was gone as suddenly as it had appeared, lost in Wilson’s narrow, lascivious grin.

Do you feel as I do? Do you wish that life might have taken that other path?

She smiled back at him. What was done was done...and they were married now.

“So, slap your thighs until they’re pink? Or stick my cock in you? Which is it to be?” He ran his hand up and down her thigh, fingers curving on the upstroke, moving inward, flirting with her curls, tickling the underslope of her bottom.

“Both!” she challenged. “But not even you could manage both at the same time...no matter how flexible you are.”

Wilson’s eyes narrowed. “There might be a way...with a small substitution. Well, perhaps not that small.”

Whatever did he mean? And then she comprehended it. At the same moment that Wilson leaned over and drew open a drawer in the chest beside the bed.

A
godemiché.
Not all that dissimilar to the one she possessed herself, a select item procured by Sofia for several of the more liberal-minded ladies of the Sewing Circle. But how did Wilson come to own one? Unless it wasn’t his?

Her suspicions must have been written across her face, because he gave her an old-fashioned look. “Credit me with not being as crass as all that, Della.” He twirled the ivory cylinder between his fingers, caressing it as if it were his own cock—which stood just as stiff and proud, barely inches away. “I purchased this especially for you as a private wedding gift, dear wife, knowing your adventurous and somewhat voracious nature. I was concerned that you should have something to satisfy you while I was recovering my powers.”

“How thoughtful.” Adela swallowed. It really was a rather sizable example. Certainly bigger than the one secreted away in the bottom of her trousseau trunk. She flicked her glance from the toy to Wilson’s living equivalent, and back again. Bigger than him? Maybe a little, but not by much.

“Is it bigger than all the ones you’re familiar with?”

This time he was testing her. Adela looked him in the eye. Better to face than to evade. “There have not been that many, Wilson, believe me. And none of them were as big as
that—
” She nodded at the
godemiché.
“Or
that.
” She nodded at his cock.

It was the truth, but men were so concerned with their organs. Sometimes it was politic to exaggerate out of concern for their self-belief.

Wilson laughed. “There could well be a place for you in the diplomatic service, Della.” He moved close beside her, his uncovered thigh pressing against hers, his cock almost touching her. Setting the
godemiché
on her belly, he slid his fingers into her sex, testing her readiness, and the intense sensations made her gasp, and the toy roll precariously.

“Mmm, very juicy...” He smiled in approval and raised his fingers to his lips to taste her. “I thought you might require a little oil in order to accommodate your new toy. But you’re lush and flowing. I don’t think you’ll need it.”

Snatching up the ivory phallus, he set it lightly between the lips of her sex and rubbed it up and down against her clitoris. The little organ was so sensitive that Adela tossed her head, her hair flying about. She clamped her teeth together to stop herself from moaning.

“Good?”

She nodded, her whole body tight with tension.

He rubbed some more and a ripple of reaction made her grunt, almost on the very point of spending.

“Oh, no, no, not yet!” Wilson whisked the phallus away and held it before her eyes. “See how wet it is, my luscious, wanton wife? It’s big, but it will slip in nicely. Are you ready?”

Adela nodded again, not trusting her voice.

With a slight nod of his own, Wilson set about his task, businesslike now. Adela compressed her lips again to keep in all sound as he presented the solid tip at the entrance to her channel.

It was huge as he pushed it in. Far larger in perception than appearance. Even as wet as she was, it tasked her as if she was the tightest of untouched maidens. Yet her urge was to bear down on it, down on it, wanting its bulk.

“Too big?” Wilson’s voice was low, not quite steady, almost as if he, too, were experiencing the pressure.

“Never!” she growled, pushing against the cool intrusion.

“A little oil, perhaps?”

“Yes...just a little. I think so...yes.”

Setting the
godemiché
between her thighs, still touching her, Wilson reached into the drawer, bringing out a little vial of pale, almost colorless fluid and a piece of folded linen cloth. Taking away the toy for a moment, he folded the linen and placed it beneath her buttocks, obviously to avoid a nasty oily spot in the bed, afterward.

Next, he uncapped the vial and, placing the
godemiché
against her body again, poured a thin stream of it between her labia as he pushed in, in, in.

Adela grunted. The sensation of the dribbling oil was so lewd and so alien, flowing over her clitoris and her inner folds and pooling where the bulbous head of the device stretched her. Still keeping up the pressure, Wilson set the oil aside, then rolled his thumb in circles over her clitoris, as if it were a crystal bead or a pearl, as precious in its own way as one of the diamonds around her throat.

It was too much. Adela shouted, her body rippling and yielding to the intruder as she spent. The
godemiché
rode home on the fluttering wave of her feminine pleasure.

“Good girl...my precious girl...my clever girl,” crooned Wilson, still circling his thumb. He was gentle yet relentless with the erotic toy, compelling her to take as much of its length as she could, while also compelling her to endure a release so intense she could barely think or breathe. Then he kissed her hard on the lips, flicking her tongue with his own.

When he broke the kiss, Adela was gasping for breath, her head light, her senses befuddled by pleasure. It was a state both sublime and perplexing. He could control her so easily.

“Were you not going to slap my thighs, Mr. Ruffington?” she panted, moving her legs uneasily, intensely aware of the pale cylinder protruding from her sex.

Wilson’s eyes were aflame. It was hard not to look away, but she held firm.

“You’re a perverse one, Della.... You still want pain?”

“Yes, you devil! Give me a few hard whacks...anything to restore my wits to me.”

He frowned back at her, and yet still smiled. In admiration.

“You are the most truly astonishing woman.”

Adela stared back at him. Was he really so impressed? Was she really such a sensualist to him? He, who’d sampled the skills of the legendary Coraline, who was not quite, but almost, a courtesan?

“Yes, obviously I am. Now are you going to entertain me with your skills as a disciplinarian?”

“By George I am, you hoyden! You’re a lewd and wicked madam with no decorum. You deserve everything that’s coming to you.”

With that he laid a stinging slap on the inside of her thigh.

Heat flared, as intense as the diamonds’ luster, flowing through her skin and muscle, instantly gathering in her puss. She strained not to cry out.

Another slap landed, on her other thigh, the sensations complementing, cresting like waves that met at the very center of her pleasure where the
godemiché
stretched her. This time she did cry out, wriggling against her bonds, churning her hips. Wilson smacked her again, quick and fierce, two in fast succession, one on each thigh. The flames built, her need to spend gathered again. She moaned, long and brokenly.

As if heated himself by the exertion, Wilson flung off his robe, revealing his splendid body, another goad to her arousal. His smooth, pale skin gleamed in the lamplight; his muscles flexed as he raised his arm and slapped, raised his arm and slapped. His cock was so rigid and so rosy that surely that was a source of pain, too, as it swung in an agony of tumescence.

“Look what you do to me!” He paused in his efforts and folded his hand around his flesh, baring his teeth as he punished his own flesh with the heat in his skin. “It’s always like this when I think of you...and these days I can’t stop thinking of you. I need to have you near me, wife, so I can fuck you whenever I need to.... If I don’t, I’ll never be able to work.”

“You could use your own hand,” she gasped, watching the way his fingers gripped and moved, wishing that living length would soon replace the inert ivory inside her. She flexed herself around the
godemiché,
and gasped, almost climaxing.

“It’s not the same...not the same at all.” He leaned over her, kissing her throat, right next to the diamond necklace, while pressing the tip of his cock against the burning heat in her thigh. “I want to fuck you now, Della. I need to fuck you. Are you willing?”

What a bizarre request! Surely he knew she was dying for him? He seemed to be able to read her every thought and desire, so he must be aware of her condition?

Perhaps some strange chivalric urge still compelled him to seek her leave to push himself into her?

“Yes. Please. I want you desperately, Wilson.... Please fuck me. Now.”

In a swift, ruthless action, he wrenched the ivory toy out of her. Adela pumped her hips, wanting, wanting....