Enamored: The Submissive Mistress (Special Double-Length Episode) (The Erotic Adventures of Jane in the Jungle) (7 page)

Jane sagged into him, weak and confused, her body still pulsing with pent-up desire and arousal. She felt her juices in and around her quim and arse, slick and thick. Her overripe clit pounded with frustration, and the rest of her felt too full, too thick and hot and needy. Darkdale released her then stepped away. She sobbed softly, leaning against the bed. She needed release. She needed—

“Keep those naughty little fingers away from your pussy,” he ordered. His voice was cold and a little breathless. “I believe you’ve had enough pleasure for today.”

Jane submerged a soft moan and closed her eyes, fighting to ignore the pounding between her legs.

“Now, you shall clean up your mess, darling Jane. Remember: no hands.” Darkdale sounded almost gleeful as he knocked a piece of the hourglass toward her with his foot.

Taking care not to kneel on the pieces, Jane used her nose, chin, and cheeks to carefully scoot the shards of glass across the wooden floor and into a corner. The hourglass frame was a brass affair, and she was able to pick it up with her teeth and, scurrying on her hands and knees, bring it to rest upon the hearth. The sand, however, was a wholly different matter. At first she had no idea how to attend to the scatter of tiny grains until she realized she could gently blow them into a pile—or under the high-mounted bed.

As Jane set to work, Darkdale pulled on a dressing gown and sat in an armchair in front of the fireplace. She heard the soft clink of glass and the soft swirling sounds of brandy or whiskey being poured, followed by a quiet humming from the back of his throat. His contentment was obvious.

Jane felt his attention on her as she worked, but even more than that, she was uncomfortably aware of the need pounding at the apex of her thighs. Even as she exerted herself in this awkward, tedious task, Jane couldn’t escape from the constant throb of lust simmering in her body. And every time she turned to present her arse to Darkdale, she knew what he saw: a swollen, slick quim—red and pulsing and ready.

Needy.

And every movement, every time she shifted or crawled or scooted, her legs rubbed together and put the slightest bit of pressure on her sex. There was pressure…oh, but it wasn’t nearly enough.

The fleeting brush of sensation was nothing more than another constant tease—a reminder of how much she wanted and needed, and of how she was unable to get it. Her clit was hard and full, swollen and, she imagined, shiny as a ripe berry, ready to explode at the slightest touch. Jane’s breasts swayed, brushing constantly against the cold, hard floor as she used her face and mouth to nudge the broken hourglass pieces into a pile. Her hard, sensitive nipples dragged lightly over the wooden slats, and the sensation only added to her discomfort.

She was carefully nosing aside a pile of tiny glass shards when he bolted to his feet behind her. The air stirred with his sudden movement, and before she could prepare herself, Darkdale grabbed her by the hips and buried himself deep inside her.

Jane cried out with shock and pleasure, and hot, prickling, relieved sensations trundled through her body. She shifted backward, hard and sharp, meeting his next thrust, desperate for release.

“Ah!” Darkdale cried as he came. His cock pulsed inside as he held Jane immobile, keeping her in position even as she twitched and wriggled and writhed against his rod. Then, “Be still!” he ordered.

“Please,” she moaned, her cheek against the floor. “Oh, please…” The prickle of tiny glass shards biting into her face did nothing to detract from the angry pulsing between her legs, the painful, unsatisfied throbbing.

He pulled out and released her with an abrupt shove that nearly sent her sprawling on her belly. But Jane caught herself in time and struggled back onto her hands and knees. Tears fell from her eyes, and she trembled and panted as she attempted to gather her wits.

His bare feet appeared in front of her, but she dared not look up at him. “Finish your work, Jane darling. And then you may sit on my lap and I will feed you.”

Blinking back tears and sniffling, she returned to her task. Some time during her exertions, Darkdale rang the bell for a servant, and shortly thereafter, Trevor came into the chamber with a platter of food. The smells were delicious, and Jane felt a very different sort of pang, this time in her belly, reminding her she hadn’t eaten since leaving the ship this morning.

After she scooted every bit of sand and glass to a corner, Jane was nearly finished. She held a dustpan in her teeth and carefully prodded the pieces against the wall so they tipped into the pan.

Finally, exhausted, hungry, and still painfully aroused, Jane completed her task and approached Darkdale’s chair on her hands and knees. He reached down to stroke her head, then murmured, “Onto my lap, then, my dear Jane.”

She climbed up as bid, the silken dressing gown he’d donned slipping sensually against her bare skin. She brushed his muscular thighs and then eased against the opening of the robe, her palm against his dark-haired chest. Darkdale was warm and he seemed almost affectionate when he curved an arm around her waist. Jane settled into place, realizing how much warmer the area by the fireplace was, and leaned her head against his shoulder as he idly cupped one of her breasts.

“Here, my darling. You may drink this.” With his free hand, he offered her a small glass filled with a sparkling pink liquid, and Jane took it gratefully. She sipped and felt the sherry’s warmth flood her limbs and veins, even as Darkdale’s smooth fingers stroked the sensitive underside of her breast.

When he offered her a piece of cheese, she lifted her hand to take it, but Darkdale tsked. “No, my love. I shall feed you.”

She accepted the food when he slipped it between her lips, his fingers lingering there longer than necessary. Jane didn’t think she’d ever tasted anything so delicious as that piece of cheese, and she eagerly opened her mouth when he presented her with another piece atop a small square of bread.

“My lovely little bird,” he murmured, nuzzling her throat as she ate. “My delicious little pet.” He continued to fondle her breast with one hand while feeding her with the other, and Jane slipped into a world of pleasure: delicious food combined with the soft allure of the sherry’s intoxicant, plus gentle, skillful titillation.

Darkdale offered her grapes and dates, cheese, bread, slices of apple, and tiny little squares of fig cakes. He kissed her neck and throat, using his strong tongue to stroke her along the sensitive tendons beneath her earlobes, and his teeth to nibble at her skin. He’d teased her nipple into a rock-hard state, swirling his thumb over the tip of it as a constant reminder of her unsated lust.

The more her hunger for food was vanquished, the hotter and more aroused she became once again. When Darkdale eased his hand between her legs, sliding up along the inside of her trembling thighs, Jane couldn’t hold back a surge of hope and desperation.

Please
. She dared not speak the word aloud, but her entire body tensed and burned as every bit of her awareness shot to the swollen folds of her sex. His fingers moved wetly through her juices, the sounds of slick stroking arousing her just as much as the firm, teasing touch. Jane trembled in his arms, her body gathering tight and hard as the pleasure built. His cock rose beneath the dressing gown, bumping against her hip—hot and hard and ready.
Oh, yes…please…

“Remember the rule,” he murmured in her ear, then darted his tongue deeply inside, wet and strong. “The fifth rule, darling Jane.”

She moaned aloud, biting her lip, unable to keep from twitching and shifting beneath his insistent fingers. Her own digits curled into the satiny collar of his dressing gown, and she buried her face in his shoulder, pressing his hard cock between her hip and his belly while fighting to keep herself from tipping into the hot volcano of pleasure.

“Please,” she whispered, hardly able to form the word. “Oh, please…may I…please…?” She was panting and tight, dripping wet and swollen to burst. At any moment, she would explode—whether he gave her leave or not.

“Oh, my lovely Jane,” he whispered against her ear. “You are so delicious. But I must yet withhold my permission.”

She moaned in desperation as he fingered her quim with one hand while using the other to turn her face firmly toward him. As he covered her mouth with his, he thrust his fingers deep inside her pussy and began to stroke, long and slow.

She shuddered against him, accepting the thrusts and stroking of fingers and tongue alike, kissing him back and writhing against and on his hand even as she knew she courted danger. She must hold back, she had to keep herself from going over; she must think of something else, anything other than this insistent, titillating torture…

Her eyes were closed, and she could hardly breathe other than desperate little gasps. Her entire world was centered on his fingers, on the overripe little pearl he slipped by and around, teasing and stroking and sliding against. She fought it, fought what she needed with everything she had, gasping and panting and yet writhing and grinding against him. Tears slipped from her eyes as he kissed her, eating her tongue and lips, swiping his own tongue as deep and long as his fingers.

Just as she was about to lose the battle, he pulled his hand away. With a swift, shocking movement, he lifted her by the hips and slid her
slooooowly
down onto his ready cock.

Jane nearly screamed. Her eyes flew open as her body began to constrict around him, uncontrollable and ready. Pleasure traveled through her, mixed with fear and pain. He filled her, deep and thick and hard…so hard.

No, no, noooo…

“You may take your pleasure, my darling Jane,” he said. His voice was a caress, but she hardly noticed, for at his words, she let herself go, ready to explode.

And then he thrust up, sharp and hard inside her.

Now she did scream, but it was a sound of triumph and release. The orgasm rocked through her, strong and hot and hard—painful in its intensity, yet delicious and long, like a glossy liquid river of pleasure.

She came, and she came, and she came. Her world was red and warm and wet, and she trembled and shuddered and moaned. Her toes curled, her belly dropped, and at last she heaved against him one last time, exhausted, sated, wrung out like a cotton rag.

He stroked her hair, his hand running down the entire length of her curling red tresses, and he pressed a kiss onto the top of her head. “You are magnificent,” he said into her forehead. “Jane, you are beyond compare. I shall never let you go.”

Somehow, his words and their meaning penetrated the hazy fog of exhaustion and pleasure. A shock of worry trundled through her, but she was too weary and weak to attend to it now.

Tomorrow.

For now…she was content.

— VI—

Zaren had never been
on such a massive vessel before. A “ship,” it was called, and it sailed through the ocean day after day after interminable day.

When he wasn’t busy with his “studies,” he paced the long expanse of ground—“deck”—day and night, hardly taking time to sleep or eat. With the ease of a monkey, he climbed the branchless trees called masts, up to the very tips, peering out over the horizon. There was nothing to see but water…forever and ever.

The world was so much larger than he’d ever realized. Would he ever see Jane again? How could he ever find her in such a world?

He knew he must have come to the jungle on a ship like this, but of course he couldn’t remember it. He didn’t know how old he’d been at the time, but he must have been very young. Five summers, perhaps, or even four?

It mattered not. Nothing mattered—how he came to the jungle, why, or from where. All that mattered was finding Jane.

His last glimpse of the woman he’d come to think of as his mate was of her standing on a ship like this. Her fire-gold hair billowed around her, blazing in the sun like an aura of flame.

I love you! I’ll come back for you!

Her words had carried over the splash of waves, over the rhythm of his own limbs sliding smoothly through the ocean. Zaren swam as fast and as hard as he could, but as fast as he was, the ship had outmatched him. It sped off into the distance, as unreachable as a cloud moving across the sky.

“We should see land late today or early tomorrow, Zaren.”

He turned from his pensive contemplation from the railing. A short, round, balding man stood there, the wisps of his gray and white hair fluttering in the breeze. The sunlight glinted off his round eyeglasses. Everett was his name—although it had taken Zaren some time to realize he was called “Everett” and not “Darling”—and he was Jane’s father.

If it hadn’t been for him, Zaren would still be in the jungle, still dressed in animal skins, devastated by Jane’s unexpected and abrupt departure, and helpless to do anything to find her. Now, he wore clothing more like that donned by Everett and the men on the ship—sailors, they were called.

And because of Everett, Zaren was traveling to the far-off place called London where they—along with the warm, motherly (but very loud) woman named Effie—would find Jane.

They must find her.