Bitten: Dark Erotic Stories (17 page)

Barmaids are his preference. Cleaner than streetwalkers, barmaids can afford to be pickier but are still greedy enough to serve his more outrageous demands, if it means more coin.

He smiles to himself in anticipation as he takes his supper in the corner booth at the Crown, a noisy public house in a dank lane close by the Tower. Tall and stout, a gentleman to his manicured fingertips, he watches the buxom, dark-haired Nancy pull his pint.

When she plunks the foaming flagon on the board, he touches her forearm and speaks
sotto voce
.

“Care to make a little extra silver tonight, my pet?”

She giggles nervously but doesn’t pull away. He rubs the underside of her wrist with his thumb and watches the blush suffuse her cheeks.

“Yes, that would be nice, sir. Thank you, sir.”

Is there anything sweeter than a grateful young whore? She can’t be more than twenty. Courteous even in his affairs
du nuit,
he broaches terms.

“Half a crown, sir … All night, sir, yes, dusk to dawn … Anything you wants … Yes, sir, anything.”

He draws the riding crop from under his arm. “This, angel?” The sudden spark of fear in her gray eyes amuses him. She sets her jaw so prettily. He can’t wait to hear her beg.

“That don’t scare me—what girl ain’t been thrashed, sir?”

What a delight. He can hardly bear to conjure up the prospects. She listens to his instructions, nodding. Not only compliant, she attends carefully. A quick study. She is perfection.

“Yes, sir, half ten we close up … Yes, I will, sir … “

He folds a coin into her palm, downs his ale, and leaves, his mind swimming with soft creamy thighs and red-nippled tits, his cock already stiff in his tailored trousers.

* * *

Nancy hands the coin he’d given her to the cabbie, who smirks when she names her destination: “The Phoenix, back entrance.”

As the horse clip-clops smartly down the gaslit Strand, up to the Circus, and along Oxford Street, she remembers what Meg said about the Phoenix. Secret club in Mayfair where the top toffs kept their fancy-women. Meg claimed she saw the Prince of Wales himself there. Bloody big deal! What did that matter?

Here’s what mattered: double pay if she stayed the night and obeyed his commands. But not a farthing if she refused him anything.

He knew girls. He knew she couldn’t turn down a bet.

The cab winds through the mansion’d maze of Mayfair streets and squares, then halts in a lane. There is the red door. She knocks, is admitted, given directions. His door is ajar, meaning: Enter.

She shuts it with a click behind her. Scent of steam, lavender water. Her nostrils flare.

The room—a bedroom—is luxuriously carpeted and furnished. He himself, robed in navy silk, is sitting on a couch near the foot of the bed, with his slippered feet extended toward a small but merry fire.

Beside him on a low table is a lacquered box, trimmed in gold. Open. She cannot see its contents.

He glances up at her.

“Come in, Nancy. Hang up your cloak and come here. You remember the terms? You agree to them?”

She nods.

“Good. Undress and bathe yourself.”

The washbasin, steaming in a corner, is situated so that he can watch her from behind. She pays particular attention to her cunt and crack. She wants him to know she’s a clean girl.

When she turns, he is standing, his robe well-tented. He motions her to kneel and lets his robe slide, a silken puddle on the floor. His furred belly speaks of appetites indulged with gusto. He is thick, upcurved like a scimitar, a lordly purple head in a ruched collar of foreskin.

She doesn’t have to wait for instructions.

She sucks her cheeks to gather a pool of spit that flows out on her tongue as she laps and flicks. After a few minutes, he says, “Lie on your back on the bed. Head over the side. Open your mouth.”

The bed is high, brass-railed, dressed in white linens.

When he fills her throat, she gags for a moment until she remembers how to relax her jaw and breathe in concert with his thrusts. It’s like a dance. Still, it’s punishing. The back of her neck cramps with every shove. Her scalp aches where his fingers are knotted in her hair. She moans, a strangled wordless song, and every swing and flop of his pouch fills her nostrils with his musk.

She feels him spurt, hot, deep in her chest. Grateful for his proffered handkerchief, she wipes her tears and accepts the small tumbler of whisky he pours for her.

She replaces the tumbler and remounts the bed. Sitting back on her heels, she reaches out to stroke his beard. Once sable, now badger. On his elbow, he studies her.

“I am an old man.”

“No, sir, you’re not. You’re right handsome, sir.”

Sweet, shameless tart. Look at her, sturdy white thighs spread wide, her soft belly deep-dimpled with her navel and rounding into the delicious shadow of her black bush. Her melon-sized tits make his mouth water.

On her lip glimmers the last of the whisky. He pulls her mouth down to his. She opens like a baby bird, her little tongue gallantly fencing his thrusts.

Groping glorious handfuls of her, he pinches her nipples until she breaks off the kiss with a cry. He reaches behind and grabs a cheek, squeezing and raking with his cruel nails.

“Oh sir, please don’t! That hurts!”

He chuckles and repeats for the other cheek. Her playful slap misses his hand.

He plunges his two middle fingers into her mouth, then into her crevice, pumping his palm against her plump mound.

“Oh my glory, sir!” Her eyes roll back as she clenches hard around him. Damn, but she’s good for the blood: he’s stiff as a board again.

Pulled onto his lap, she surges downward to take his shaft and he includes a surprise: his middle finger, up her behind, so tight, so silken he grates his teeth. She gasps and gyrates, her arms flailing, her teeth gnawing his shoulders.

He bears her backwards, plowing into her until his seed spews and his coulter jars, shuddering, to a halt between her enveloping thighs.

* * *

“What’s in the box, sir?” Between kisses. Looking down at him. Fingering his limp cock with a wicked grin.

“Treasures. For you, little doxy.”

Her eyes widen. “Oh please may I see, sir?”

He fetches it, lifts off the lid to reveal drawers and compartments, intricately layered and arrayed.

From one, he takes out black leather straps, padded and studded with rings and clips. He buckles one around her neck. Her face falls. There’s the tug in the groin.

“Give me your wrists … Your ankles … The belt goes … here.”

He clips the wristbands to loops at the sides of the belt, rendering her hands useless. Her shoulders are forced back, her lovely tits forward.

“I have just the crowning touch for these two beauties.”

“Sir—?”

Nipple clamps of forged iron, shaped like dragon’s heads and sprung with a forbidding pinch.

“No, sir, please!”

He tweaks each nipple viciously to erect it, then applies the tiny jaws. For each one, she wails but she doesn’t twist away. She knows what’s good for her.

He rummages for the chains: short chains from anklets to belt to keep her legs bent frog-like. Prevent her from kicking out. Keep her docile and accessible if she rolls away. And last of all—

“Look.” From a bottom compartment, he extricates a dry segmented tuber. “Tell me what this is.”

“It’s ginger, sir.”

He cuts off a thick finger, pares it, shapes it. Like a long fat finger. Her jaw drops in horror.

“Oh please, sir. Not that. Oh sir, it hurts! Please don’t, sir. I beg you.” She begs so prettily: her tortured breasts heaving, her wide gray eyes glittering with tears.

Damn if she hasn’t got him rock-hard again. Well, let her see what a Priapus she’s made of him, the juicy little cockwhore!

“Kneel. With your face in the pillows.” She obeys, moaning and whimpering. Uplifting her gorgeous arse. He breathes a prayer of thanks: these are the Elysian fields.

He chains her neck to the bed rail. Spreads her pink cheeks and chuckles at her rosebud, pursed so tight. Time to open up, precious sweetness.

He slips the ginger finger in to the hilt and rubs his hands together to heat up his palms. It won’t be long before the fun begins.

* * *

She writhes in agony as the ginger works its fiery magic. He’s been told its effect is aphrodisiac.

It certainly is so for him.

Her terrified whimpers—”Sweet Jesus. Sir, help me, please!”—build to a wail that hums over his scalp like an electric shock and makes his teeth clench.

He begins the spanking with a calculated rhythm and punitive force, relishing the full swing of his arm, the blaze of her flesh against his palm, her panic. Her naked defenselessness.

Racked with sobs, she sags into the pillow. Her cheeks are livid with his fingerprints. Proud proof of his hand over her! He grabs the crop and swoops it against the bed. Just to let her know what’s next.

“Please, sir, no!” she pleads. He is obdurate. At moments like this, he rejoices in his hardness, his adamantine heart and rigid cock. He marks her with thick welts of ownership, his lip lifting in a snarl with every stripe the crop raises on her flesh.

She is moaning, incoherent. “No, no, no.” Beautiful bitch. How valiantly she struggles under his arm. How she fights the lash!

Then, how she sinks and falls.

Poor weak flesh. Oh, poor sweet child!

His arm drops. This is the moment he craves: the moment his heart softens. When she transforms him from a monster of cruelty to a champion of mercy.

The moment he saves her.

He flings the crop aside, crawls between her trembling thighs, and draws her dripping cunt down over his face. He laps and sucks noisily, thirsty as a baby on the tit, smacking his lips, soothing and pleasuring her until her groans turn to growls.

“Oh sir, oh fuck yes. Fuck.”

Oh darling, yes. Fuck. Come. Sweet filthy whore. Come, slut.

He frees her hands, plucks off the clamps, and holds on. With his head in the vise of her thighs, he but feels her screams through her body—through the rosy meat roiling in his open jaws. Oh, bliss, to be so buffeted at the eye of such a storm! And her hot little pearl pump-pump-pumping on his tongue.

* * *

He folds his pretty battered thing to his chest, kisses her tears away, croons to her, and rocks her while her sobs trail out to wrenching gasps.

Yes, it’s power.

Not worldly power. By virtue of his position, he commands power. In his world, he is king with servants and lackeys to do his bidding without question. Where’s the challenge in that? In extracting submission from those whose role is to submit? Bah!

He wants elemental power. The power that goes back to Genesis: man shall have dominion. Man, not woman. He assays this theorem with lash and cock. His proof is indisputable.

He turns her upon her knees and bulls her deep and hard, while she spends helplessly, again and again, beneath him.

Quod. Erat. Demonstrandum.

* * *

She wakes in his bearish embrace, bursting to piss and too sore to move. Straddled over the chamber pot, she winces at the scald.

She crawls back in under his arm. Drowsy, he pulls her hips close and rubs his nose in her hair. “Look what you do to me, you bitch.”

She knows what he’s sniffing for, but with her raw flesh and the lingering sting of ginger, she can’t bear to think of it. Then again, it’s good to hold back something for future considerations. He is a gentleman after all: she will appeal forthrightly to his gentlemanliness. She turns to him apologetically.

“Oh sir, your vigor has undone me. May I pleasure you with my mouth, sir?”

He chuckles. “Fucked you senseless, have I, my lascivious pet? Now how will you have me?”

She mounds and pats the pillows. He reclines like an Oriental potentate.

“Draw your knees up, please, sir. Hold them wide.”

He obeys with a quizzical smile.

The sight of his long sword, rampant, and his generous purse stirs the ache of lust in her cunt. But the object of her quest is a far more outrageous treasure: a deluge of half-crowns.

She bends and inhales his scent: a gamy blend of spunk and cunt. She works his cock first to bring him to the point of no return, when he will refuse nothing in his drive for release.

After substantial sucking and stroking, she coaxes his pouch into her mouth, tumbling the slack freight tenderly on her tongue, first one side, then the other.

“Have a care, mistress!” he whispers.

“Shh, sir.” She laps, soft-tongued. He sighs. Loosens. She anoints his shaft again, builds his rhythm with her hand and mouth. Lost in his bliss, he doesn’t protest when she presses a spit-slicked finger to his grundle, or when she slips it lower, then deeper.

But he moans when she eases it into his silken tunnel: oscillation, rotation. His face contorts and his hips respond. She’s got him gasping on the hook now.

“Whore,” he whispers. “Would you fuck my arse!”

“Yes, sir, I would. Raise your hips higher, sir.”

He obeys and she delves deeper. “Filthy whore!” A prayer of petition, groaned.

She knows he’s close when his shaft flesh surges in her grip: time to reel him in.

In a fluid move, she withdraws her finger and presses her mouth to his fundament. Her tongue, curled into a tube, thrusts boldly in and out through the little flesh-door, slurping. She doesn’t mind the taste, like acrid cider. Meg says, what don’t kill you makes you stronger.

He writhes and grinds down into her face, his fingers snarled in her hair. “Bitch, oh filthy brazen shameless bitch!” It’s a hallelujah. He spends in thick gouts up his lovely great belly.

He blinks at her in astonishment. She swipes her wrist across her mouth and gives him a faux innocent smile.

“What a wild little wanton you are!” He pulls her close. “I shall rain down half-crowns on you, my pretty treasure.”

She wraps her arms around his bulk and breathes a little prayer of thanks to God, for giving her tits and a cunt and the brains to use them profitably in the service of generous gentlemen!