The Blonde Samurai (2 page)

Would he lay the crop upon my bare backside?

No, he wouldn’t
dare
take such a liberty. I was his bride, not a woman of the streets or a spritely maid with a taste for domination, a pawn in the game known as the English vice.

Flagellation.

Was this what the two maids chirped about whenever I hovered near this room, this den of decadence? Dressed in shiny black polished cotton and white lace collars, cuffs and caps, the younger miss, Lucie, and Campbell, her older counterpart, made no secret of their curiosity of me. My American ways, my wardrobe from Paris, my light-colored hair bleached a pale gold from sun-drenched days astride my mare. They stared and stared, their sturdy low-heeled boots banging on the wooden floors as they scurried back and forth all day to make our rooms ready for this night….

Though I wasn’t involved in the daily ministrations of this London town house, earlier I had overheard the two maids chattering about a night dark and decadent where his lordship might “fancy a lick or two with the belt on a mott’s pretty haunches before he found the keyhole to her ladyship’s door.”

When I confronted them and asked what a
mott
was, Lucie
blurted out that such a person was a prostitute from a low-class neighborhood. She was quickly rebuked by the older woman, a portly soul who wore her white lace cap on her head as straight as a ruler, and sent away, leaving the rest to my imagination. Campbell apologized for the girl’s insolence and insisted she was fresh from the country and knew nothing about what she spoke, then attended to my toilette, offering me no further explanation. I pretended to dismiss the incident, since I was certain the maid believed I had aligned my expectations about marriage with the puritan ideal that the wedding night was a dreamlike state consisting of whispers and rustlings in the dark. Nothing more. I dared not change that in her eyes lest she discover
my
secret.

What I had found in the town house library.

While Mother spent her time fretting about my white satin wedding gown from the House of Worth, the arrangements for my marriage at St. Peter’s Eaton Square, and the newspaper coverage following my every move, I yearned for something else to read besides the
English Lady
fashion magazines or domestic guides she deigned I should acquaint myself with before my marriage. I was hungry for heartier literature, though I had no reason to suspect what I’d find in the library would be of a salacious nature.

Upon entering the room, I was pleased to observe that the top-floor study had a clublike atmosphere: wood paneling, oil paintings, leather armchairs and chandeliers made from Venetian glass. Its sensual energy overwhelmed me when, and to my delight, I discovered the owner of the town house entertained a most interesting collection of rare books.
Very
rare. And quite scandalous.

Hiding several slim tomes under my skirts, I secreted them to my rooms, where I devoured the reprint of
The Decameron
of Pleasure,
along with
Lascivious Gems
and
A Night in St. John’s Wood.
Dog-eared copies showered with brandy stains and cigar burns. A gentleman’s retreat that I have no doubt had never seen the delicate step of a lady’s fine leather boot. Until mine. And stamp my footprints upon its polished floor I did. Many times. I inhaled the erotic literature as if it were an overpowering perfume that opened the door to the secret life of this British nobleman.

Lord Penmore.

It was his house where we resided and
his
library.

After our engagement was announced, James had insisted Mother and I enjoy the privacy and comfort of the elegant West End residence owned by his friend and associate away on business in Japan. Poking about the library, I also discovered a cache of letters of a most dubious nature written by Lord Penmore to my husband. Accounts of his visits to a disreputable quarter in Tokio known as Yoshiwara with brilliantly lit streets, people eating and laughing, bony fingers plucking a tune with no beginning, no end, the discord of life forgotten in the dark corners where young girls beckoned him with sweet smiles and slender bodies wrapped in white silk kimonos. He also wrote of turmoil and dissent among the military men he called samurai. Burly, hard-drinking soldiers who, according to Lord Penmore, wielded their swords at whoever insulted them. I shall neither confirm nor deny his reports, for I fear revealing too much will raise such disbelief in you that you will return this book to the shop where you purchased it and demand your funds returned.

I retreated back to my books, lost in the lurid details of French courtesans and lords engaged in a pleasing act known as
soixante-neuf
. I had hoped to engage in this robust position with my new husband, head to tail, his cock within reach of
my lips, his tongue busy at my pussy, licking and sucking, exploring the sweet juices oozing from my folds. As I read, each word dripped from the pages and into my psyche as easily as the morning dew settled onto a thirsty flower petal. I failed to acknowledge that I had not yet blossomed under a man’s touch. Such hopes I had, since this elegant town house was also where I was to spend my first week of married life before embarking on a honeymoon to Paris.

So you can understand why I smiled when, after the lavish wedding reception, my mother kissed me on both cheeks and whispered in my ear I could loosen my night corset but
not
remove it. And if I lay very still, she assured me in an even voice, it would all be over quickly.

My father glanced toward me but said nothing, though I saw a grim look on his face that troubled me, as if he hadn’t accepted the idea his daughter was a married woman and subject to the erotic whims of her new husband. What would he say, I wondered, if he knew Lord Carlton had a penchant for riding crops and plump bottoms?

I turned my attention back to the scene playing out before me, knowing I was trapped inside the garderobe, dust up my nose, the scent of snuff adding to the precarious teetering of my psyche. A bride living out her fantasies and creating a world where she was merely a voyeur instead of a player. A little voice reminding me
we’re trapped by our deeds only if we choose to be.
I couldn’t deny I was curious to see what happened next, as I believe you are, too. You wouldn’t be reading this far if you weren’t. I assure you, by the time you arrive in the land of the samurai with its scattered pine woods, crimson foliage and the floorboard that sings when the head of the samurai clan approaches, you will be perspiring (yes, ladies
do
perspire), your chemise unbuttoned, the lacings on your corset loosened. So pray, do not lecture me, telling me I should have leaned back in the closet, fallen asleep and waited for them to leave, since curiosity has been known to skin the pubic hairs of even the most careful pussy. I
should
have. But I didn’t. And I would pay the price for my folly.

“Please, my lord, more,
more…
” the girl yelped.

“I shan’t disappoint you, wench, though I can’t wait much longer to fuck you.”

To my horror, though jealousy was a more descriptive
mot
for what I was feeling, I could see James kissing her buttocks; then he drew the riding crop through his fingers, caressing it and making it shine with the sweat of his palms.

“I’m ready for you, milord,” the girl said, cooing.

An unseen female voice laughed, then said, “His lordship won’t have enough energy to fuck his new bride if he takes us
both.
”

Who else watched the intrigue being played out here?

“Mind your mouth, Sally,” the other girl said, her voice breathless. “Lord Carlton has enough rod to please both of us
and
his new bride.”

“Who said I intended to bed the American?” said Lord Carlton, rubbing the back of the girl’s bare thighs. “I dare say I imagine the twit is asleep, though I should wake her. Observing a good whipping might open her eyes to what’s expected of my wife, eh, Bridget?”

How dare he speak about me in such a manner!

“Begging your lordship’s pardon, but who needs
her?
” Bridget laughed. “You can whip me arse for as long as you like.” She wiggled her buttocks, then parted her fleshy cheeks with her small hands, exposing the puckered hole for his lordship’s visual delight. “
And
make use of me back stairs for your pleasure.”

I couldn’t close my mouth. Did James intend to do the same to me?

“Not before you slide into
me,
milord,” said the girl called Sally when she moved into my view. I could see a tall brunette wearing a scarlet corset with white laces, her pubic hair blacker than jet and glistening with her juices as she expertly drew a rubber phallus from inside her. (Such an item was known to me by way of a novel I found in the library about a young Parisian’s foray into self-gratification with what she labeled a “dildo.” I don’t recall the name of the story.) I drew in my breath, excited by its length as well as its breadth.

Could his lordship compete with such a wonder?

I couldn’t wait to find out.

I gasped when I saw my new husband put his arms around both girls and squeeze their breasts, twisting their nipples between his thumbs and forefingers and making them moan. He said, “Lord Penmore was correct in his assessment of the talents of you two charmers—”

Lord Penmore.
The mention of his name startled me. I should have known by the tone of his letters he was behind this gala interlude. Yet he was also a shrewd businessman. I remember him detailing to my husband a nefarious commercial enterprise surrounding the expansion of the empire into Japan,
whispered about then hushed up,
he said. I dismissed the item then, though I detail it here to note its significance in my journey, a marker on the game board that lingers under your eye but has not yet been put into play, yet is important to the outcome of the adventure.

Then I was more interested in watching Lord Carlton wiggle his fingers into the brunette, probing and making her sigh with anticipation. I also emitted a sigh, wistful, needy, heat making me want to contract my pubic muscles in a delightful series of spasms. I forced myself to hold back. I didn’t
wish to miss a moment of their prelude. For that’s what I told myself it was, a prelude to the moment when my husband would come to my rooms, his body still bathed in sweat, his cock primed for a night of passion with his bride. Naive, yes, as I’m certain you were on your wedding night, but I shaded my view of what I was seeing as if I looked at it through the ornate, opaque lace of my bridal veil. Not to do so would have evoked not only anger in me but disappointment, a far stronger emotion for a young girl to absorb and one I was not ready to deal with on my wedding night, cramped and brooding in a closet.

His lordship finished with, “—though I prefer a virgin to satisfy my needs.”

“I’ve played a virgin on the boards, milord,” said the redhead, turning over and caressing her lower lips, then opening them wide, inserting a finger inside her and wiggling it back and forth and pleasuring herself in a secret spot familiar to her. A myriad of tiny tremors worked their way up and down my spine. I’d never seen such boldness, though I dare say I had found my way to the same spot between my legs on numerous occasions. Don’t gasp and mutter, then pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. You do and that’s that. Let’s continue.

“I prefer spending my wedding night here with you, my pretty pink maids,” Lord Carlton was saying, his eyes remaining on the girl’s lower pubic region while he cupped her pussy and held her, pushing his fingers into her while unbuttoning his breeches with the other hand.

To my amazement, out popped his prominent erection, the head shiny and large. I had seen anatomical drawings of the male organ in the books in Lord Penmore’s library, but none like this. Thick, bobbing up and down, he grabbed his cock and pulled on it once, then again, pointing the eye directly at
the girl’s pulsating pussy. I was so enamored of the size of him, I leaned forward, failing to illuminate in my mind the dropping of a large dustball onto the tip of my nose. It tickled, but I didn’t brush it away. I couldn’t stop watching them as the girl lay down on a wooden table, then raised her head and shoulders to look at him.
Smiling, waiting.
He lifted her legs, running his hands up and down the backs of her black stockings as if he were paying homage to her slender calves before pulling them apart to expose her, forcing her pussy to open wider than the expanse of her dainty fingers had dared reveal to him.

Before I could catch my breath, Lord Carlton plunged his swollen cock into her, sliding it up easily against her velvet walls, finding his rhythm, even and smooth, making me sit up and shift my weight off my legs, numb as they were. I dared to inch forward, opening the closet door a little wider, my nose peeking through, my body squirming, the seat of my pleasure full and throbbing as I watched the girl wrap her legs around his hips, pulling him to her and embracing him with an urgency
I
had dreamed of knowing. Her thighs tightened around him, thumping his buttocks with her heels and sending my husband into a tirade of passionate words, his voice demanding, shouting, his body pounding deep, thrusting into her again and again—

I sneezed.

Loud.

And out I tumbled from the closet, landing at my new husband’s feet.

Staring straight up at his nude buttocks.

C
haos followed. Cursing, Lord Carlton stopped pumping the redhead, she screamed, he pulled out of her and the brunette dropped the dildo. No one paid attention to the hard rubber object landing on the plush carpeting at his lordship’s feet. They were too busy staring down at me.

Steadying myself, I brushed the dust and mold off my silk wrapper and stood in front of the unholy trio, all three completely baffled by my sudden appearance. I imagined they believed me to be an apparition.
I
couldn’t believe the power of a sneeze had unmasked me. I wiped my nose with a delicate swipe of my fingers, and a whiff of my own sweet scent reminded me I was just as guilty as they in my pursuit of delights. Still, I refused to be humiliated by my new husband in front of these two
motts.
I was determined to act as the lady of the manor and not a female libertine pursuing her own pleasures.

I got to my feet, careful to avert his lordship’s cock slick with juices and dangling close to my lips. He made no attempt
to push it away. The sod. My confidence shaken, I quaked inside with an insecurity at assuming my new role as Lady Carlton under such circumstances. But, being the girl I am with the sassy mouth, I blurted out the first thing that came to mind without weighing the consequences.

“I’ve no doubt you possess the stamina to pleasure two women in the due course of an evening, my dear husband,” I began, wrapping the silk tighter around me. “But I doubt if your capabilities include
three,
so I shall leave you to play out your sordid games.”

I don’t know why I dared to speak to him in such a manner, except to say I’m an O’Roarke, a proud breed more oft than not given to brandishing a fierce will that puts us in a strange state of persistence. We don’t give up, no matter what. What I
didn’t
know was that James had a game of his own in mind. A game that included bedding his new wife in a very public manner.

“So my bride has fire in her veins after all,” Lord Carlton said with a note of pride as he stepped in front of me, blocking my exit, his tall, nude muscular body leaning slightly to one side, his raw masculinity holding me hostage with a power I vowed to resist.

“Let me pass,” I demanded, chin up. I ignored a trickle of sweat making a slow journey down the length of my neck and into the valley between my breasts. My husband
did
notice and traced its path with his finger. His touch mesmerized me. I couldn’t move.

“No,” he said coldly. “You shall stay.”

Panic washed over me, telling me to flee, but his voice stirred a magic within me that yet resided in my romantic soul. When his hand moved down to cup my breast, in spite of my resolve not to let him pleasure me, I moaned. Loudly. His
touch sparked a reaction in me that made my knees buckle. Damn, I
hated
showing weakness in front of him.

Knowing he’d made his point, he said, “I shall prove you wrong, milady, about my capabilities. This is my wedding night and I intend to make the most of it.”

“I won’t allow you to touch me again in front of these women,” I cried out, regaining my courage. “Debasing what should be pure and godly between us.” I grabbed a flogger off the wooden table and threw it against the padded wall with the force of an avenging angel. It barely made a sound.

“Would milady prefer to be on the
receiving
end of the whip?” he ventured, a curiosity creeping into his voice that unnerved me.

“How
dare
you speak to me in such a manner,” I shouted, a strange fever gripping me. “I’m not a cheap girl off the streets—”

“If I may be so rude as to interrupt your ladyship,” the redhead said, indignant. “Me and Sally don’t come cheap. We was recommended by the best gentleman’s house on York Street.”

“That’s right, milady,” chimed in the brunette. “We can take the crop all night long without smudging our lip rouge. Ain’t that the truth, milord?”

“I’m more interested in seeing what Lady Carlton will do when
she
tastes the sting of the whip.” Lord Carlton narrowed his eyes. “Will she scream and beg for more?”

I inhaled deeply when my husband picked up the flogger and swept its smooth leather tails across my breasts swathed in silk, tantalizing me with its sweet promise and making me squirm.

“You’ll never find out!” I said, aware of an offensive scent as he waved the flogger under my nose. Black shoe polish came to mind.

“Won’t I?” he asked, tossing the flogger aside and grabbing me around the waist, then pushing me down on the rough wooden table, startling me. My backside hurt, bruised by his rough treatment, and the soles of my bare feet stung when I scrapped them on the chipped wood.

Determined as I was to fight like hell, I was outnumbered when he ordered the two girls, squealing and giggling, to shackle me. ’Tis a pitiful plight for any bride on her wedding night to find herself shivering in the midst of confusion and disarray, waiting to consummate her marriage with her eager husband, but not like
this.
Two prostitutes pulling on my arms and holding me tight in their grip, fastening leather restraints around my wrists and drawing them through the iron rings embedded in the wood, making them so taut I could hear the leather crunch in my ears.

“You can’t do this, James,” I cried out, tossing my head back and forth, pulling on the restraints, chaffing my skin until it was raw, but I couldn’t free myself. “I’m your wife, dammit.
Stop!
”

“All the more reason to explore your lovely body,” he said, my actions inflaming his desire. I looked down and knew why. My arms were pulled up, forcing my shoulders back and inducing my breasts to stand up in a most provocative manner.

Taking advantage of the opportunity, James ran his hand up and down my neck, my face, then slid his hands down over my breasts, my midriff, setting off a slithering wave of anticipation within me and a sensual warmth that swept over me, making me ashamed that although I detested his deviant games, I couldn’t stop the white heat pulsating in my lower region.

Before I dared to take another breath, he ripped my wrapper down the front, exposing me to his view. I gasped.

Loudly. Round and bouncy, my breasts spilled out over my corset. I gritted my teeth when he squeezed them, pulling on them, rubbing them against each other, then pinching my nipples and flicking them back and forth between his thumbs and forefingers. I protested his assault upon my person, but he merely laughed then picked up the crop and drew the instrument of pleasure across my bare breasts, flicking it over my taut nipples, stinging them with a sensation that both aroused and frightened me.

I shudder as I write this passage, remembering that night. I was in the most awkward and alarming predicament. Imagine yourself in my position, dear lady reader. I was about to be whipped by my new husband and I couldn’t do anything about it. I ask you, what would you do? I’ve no doubt several of you ladies are licking your lips and wiggling about in your chairs, thinking, wondering, anticipating this delicious treat about to be rendered upon your bare bottom. I, too, would have found such an idea interesting and provocative, not to mention naughty, had I been with a man I trusted.

Lord Carlton inspired no such emotions within me with his brusque manner and sharp orders.

Why not induce a fainting spell?
you ask.
It worked for me when that old lecher, Lord
——
leaned over and put his nose down my cleavage last week.

That wouldn’t stop James, though I was grateful I wasn’t wearing my new
cuirasse
corset, the silk ribbons laced up so tightly you can barely breathe. I surely would have succumbed to unconsciousness, then his lordship could have done whatever he wished with me and—

Enough about the damn corset,
you insist, fretting about, twisting the fringe border on your overskirt until you pull it off.
Get on with the scene.

I shall, but first I must explain to you that should I have not come up with a grand scheme to extradite myself from his lordship’s domination game, I never would have gone to Japan and you would have no story to titillate you, so please allow me this moment to catch my breath. Putting words down on the page is not easy, decidedly so when the memory is not a pleasant one.

It didn’t help my thinking process when he rubbed my nipples back and forth, then took them between his teeth and bit them, not hard, just enough to make me cry out with more pleasure than pain.

Was his hand wielding the whip just as provocative? Enticing me to take pleasure in such a deed instead of being repulsed? What other roguish certitudes would he undertake to engage my emotions?

I had no intention of finding out. No matter how my body betrayed me with delicious sensations slithering up and down my spine, a flogging was
not
my idea of romantic love. Many of you would have no doubt fainted, then opted for the cathartic effect of Seidlitz powders to purge his evil deed from your body and purify your soul. I searched my mind for another alternative.

Divorce?

I mention it here should the curious idea have crossed your mind, albeit ’twas not a practical one for a girl in my situation. British law dictated that I could only obtain a divorce from James by proving he performed some bestial act such as cruelty upon my person (calling the two prostitutes as witnesses was not an option since their livelihood would shrink considerably if they testified against his lordship in an open court).
He,
on the other hand, could divorce
me
simply for the act of adultery. I had to think of something else, but what?

“I
demand
you stop this display of power, James,” I said,
stalling him with a steady but weakening voice that threatened to betray me. God, now he was teasing me with gentle stroking between my thighs.
When would he stop?
“Or I shall scream for help.”

“And who do you think will come to your assistance, milady?” he said in a mocking tone. He leaned closer, the smell of a fragrant liqueur on his breath scenting his words with a menace I dared not ignore. “The room is soundproof and the servants are used to such goings-on.”

I ignored his remark. “I imagine that is Lord Penmore’s best cognac I smell on your breath.”

He laughed at my impudence. “And
this
is his favorite crop.” He raised his arm in a long arc, his handsome face gleaming with sweat, his dark hair matted and wet and sticking to his forehead and cheekbones. “The moment is at hand, my dear wife. Before I take you to my bed, I shall tantalize you with a most erotic stimulant upon your beautiful breasts—”

“Release me, James—” I demanded. No matter how aroused I was by the crop, I refused to allow him to dominate me in a situation where I had no say in the matter.

“And end our little game?” he taunted me. “I intend to enjoy myself as I watch you squirm—”

The hiss of the flogger cutting through the air chilled me as the implement struck the wooden table with such force splinters of wood bounced upward and landed on my breasts, stinging my bare flesh and making me jump. Seeing my reaction, he threw his head back and laughed, then raised his arm again, taking aim at my nipples, hard and taut and quivering.

“I won’t miss this time,” he vowed.

“You wouldn’t dare,”
I yelled, my breath becoming erratic. He wouldn’t stripe my nude flesh pink then rip my maiden-
head from me with such cold audacity, would he? “If you do, I swear I shall faint—”

Yes, I said it. After all my preaching about the silly, inane things aristocratic ladies do to keep their noses out of undesirable, odorous places, I had succumbed to the same devices and uttered a weak, feigned excuse. What choice did I have? I’d married a man devoid of any sense of propriety.

“You give me cause to think, milady,” he said, smirking. “You
should
be primed with a whipping to stimulate your sexual juices, but I wouldn’t wish my bride to have a case of the vapors before I can pleasure her with my cock.”

“It’s about time you came to your senses,” I muttered, relieved. “And stopped playing this deviant game.”

“Who said the game was over?” He put down the flogger, allowing me to slow down my breathing for a precious few seconds before he slid his hand down my belly, covering my pubic region with a protective caress, then rubbing me with a sensual touch. I groaned. I couldn’t stop myself. “You will find I am a man who covets his bridegroom privileges with great ardor,” he continued, then he grabbed the soft flesh of my pubic mound and squeezed it, ripping the buttons off my pantaloons and finding his way inside me, his fingers probing me, looking for what I imagined was proof of my
virgo intacta,
that fold of mucus membrane yet unbroken by a man’s cock. Or had my robust riding upon a steed already done the job?

I’ve no doubt there are those among you who have sworn to your husband that vigorous exercise was the culprit when he thrust into you on your wedding night and found no obstacle on his path to marital joy. Was it the handsome young lord with no yearly stipend? Or your groom with the strong, muscular body, or the foreign gentleman with the charming accent? I make no judgment upon you. Whoever
he was, I’ve no doubt you were young and in love. I have since learned the uncontrollable power of such a physical love, the driving need for touch, smell, taste and penetration with a beloved, how impossible it is to stop it, thinking about how much you crave it, the gnawing inside you that hurts so much you can’t control yourself when his fingertips touch your cheek or brush your lips.

But I was, at this moment, still a virgin and untouched by any man. I have nothing to gain here by delivering an untruth to you. Still, I prayed my virginity was intact, for a wild idea was forming in my brain, a way to save my virtue
and
my pride. But without proof of my purity, I had nothing to bargain with, for his lordship had made a contract for a virgin and I feared more wrath from him if he didn’t believe me untouched.