Table of Contents
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Epub ISBN: 9780753531013
This book is a work of fiction.
In real life, make sure you practise safe sex.
First published in 2000 by
Thames Wharf Studios
London W6 9HA
Copyright Â© Stephanie Calvin 2000
The right of Stephanie Calvin to be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
The Nexus website can be found at
Typeset by TW Typesetting, Plymouth, Devon
Printed and bound by
Cox & Wyman Ltd, Reading, Berks
ISBN 0 352 33502 5
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
âLike I said, I could tell she was a bit scared of what he was going to do, but I didn't care any more. I wanted him to do it to her. To punish her for not wanting me, and I wanted to see her arse opened by this bastard who had made her suck his big, hot cock. Her face was turned towards me, and pressed against the mat, so I could see the apprehension growing when he gripped her tight little cheeks and pulled them apart. He grunted in some sort of approval at the sight of her little hole. I could see why. Her arse was so shoved up at him that, when he spread the cheeks, I could see everything too. Her anus was stretched by his fingers, but it still bulged out a little bit, and it glistened where her spit had gathered in the crinkling around it. He slapped her, hard, on one of her cheeks, and she cried out, into the rough fabric of the mat.
âSo he did it again, and I was glad, because she cried out even louder that time. Then he started to hiss filth at her, while she squirmed her open arse, the slutty bitch. “Look at you, you dirty bitch. You love this. You want me to fuck your little arsehole, don't you?” he sneered, and she groaned a shaky yes into the mat.'
By the same author.
DISCIPLES OF SHAME
Innocence was my undoing, and it was also my saving grace. But it was innocence that made me fall for Leo in the first place, and almost ruined my life before it had properly begun.
I'm getting ahead of myself. Let me start at the beginning, with my name. I am called Jessica most of the time, and sometimes Jessie. At the time I first met Leo, I was a week past my eighteenth birthday, and still, apart from a few desperate fumblings with the boys at my school, totally free of any sexual experience. For the early part of my life I had been just a simple girl, living at home with my parents and leading a thoroughly blameless existence. I had a head full of romantic dreams, like most teenage girls, and my mother encouraged that, for she guessed, correctly as it turned out, that it would keep me away from rough boys, who would only want to have a quick grope, and would then run off to tell their friends all about it. They could never have lived up to my high ideals. All that kissing and groping. The thought made me sick.
No, I had visions of lords, in riding boots and velvet top-coats, sweeping me off my feet. Of dinners by candlelight in high-ceilinged dining rooms. I dreamed of rich boudoirs swathed in thick, embroidered hangings, and ornate, gilded picture frames with portraits of mysterious ancestors brooding down on me as I slept. I had read too much historical fiction, and it had warped my sense of reality.
When Leo entered the picture, I had just started work as a shop assistant for a small dressmaker's, which was situated in one of the small, cobbled lanes that give our town its picture-postcard appeal. I had been there about three weeks, and the manager, Anne Simpson, seemed to be quite pleased with me. The atmosphere in the shop suited my view of life. It was all silk and lace, wedding dresses and brocade. Far removed from the real world, which was exactly the way I liked it.
Then, one Saturday morning, a man walked in, catching me in the middle of a daydream. I looked up at the sound of the bell, and saw a handsome man of fifty or so standing in the sunlight at the door of the shop. I couldn't see him clearly at first, as the light was so strong that he was silhouetted, framed in the white-painted frame of the doorway. Then he entered fully, and smiled as he said hello. His teeth were exceptionally white and strong, and the tan of his face set them off to perfection. He had sky-blue eyes, and a full head of silver hair, which he wore long, in a neat ponytail at the back of his well-shaped head. He spoke, and his voice held the barest traces of a northern accent. I started to fall for him then, I think: or at least for the idea of him. He seemed, to me, to be the ideal man. Mature, well-groomed, and with a voice that would, as the old saying goes, âcharm the birds from the trees'. The truth is, I only fell for the idea I had of him.
I learned very little about him that time, as he was only popping in, he said, to see what sort of things we had on show. He browsed for a bit, all the time keeping up the sort of light chat that strangers do in the confined atmosphere of small shops. After a while, he asked me if I had a catalogue, and I handed him a glossy booklet we had just had printed. I said that his wife might find it helpful to ring us if she had anything special she wanted made. It was a clumsy enquiry, but it produced the desired result. He explained that he had never had a wife, and that he was thinking of his niece when he entered the shop. He told me that he had only recently moved in to the area. He mentioned the hall that stood about a half mile out of town as being his new home, and my mind swirled with hazy imaginings. I really was a silly girl.
I could tell he found me interesting by the way his gaze lingered in mine, and I tried, in my own girlish way, to flirt with him. After that, he seemed to make it his business to pop in and buy a little frippery every Saturday, and our conversation grew more relaxed and warmer on each occasion. Then he asked me out to lunch, and I nearly swooned with gratitude and excitement.
We met, and ate alfresco, in the only French restaurant in the locality, and he romanced me quite thoroughly, but with no hint of anything other than old-fashioned sentiment. If he had tried anything on that first date, or any other for that matter, it would have been the end of things as far as I was concerned. I was a virgin, both mentally and physically, and I hated to even think about the other side of love. He must have sensed this, and never, not even once, did anything other than kiss my cheek in greeting. The courtship, for that is what it was, went on through the long months of summer, until, one starry August night, he proposed to me on bended knee. It was so romantic that I felt like weeping. God, when I think back now, I realise what a stupid cow I was.
He invited me home to meet his family, and I was too dense to see that they hated me on sight. I was so wrapped up in the idea of being in love that I couldn't see what they thought they saw. That is, a foolish old man, whose head had been turned by the beauty of a young girl and her scheming ways.
It wasn't like that. I had paid little attention to Leo's obvious wealth. To me, it was just another part of the fairy tale. The groom was always rich, and handsome, and the bride was young and fair. Years of conditioning had made me believe in the existence of true love and, other than the fact that the groom-to-be wasn't particularly young, which in my opinion was something that didn't matter in the face of Love, everything was perfect. So I ignored all the warning signals when they didn't fit my world view, and concentrated my mind on the planning of the wedding.
My mother thought it was wonderful, as she was just as silly as myself, and my father saw only the glitter of Leo's money, and the obvious care that Leo lavished on me. So, no objections there, and no hint of reservation either. At no point in the long lead-up to our marriage did it occur to me to wonder what it was that Leo would get out of this union.
The glorious day arrived, and our local church was packed with the local great and good, along with the glittering contingent of âEurotrash' that had travelled to see Leo wed. I knew that Leo was distantly related to Hungarian nobility, even though he claimed no title himself, and I caught the curious glimpses of a dozen notables as I walked up the aisle. My father, who was puffing out his chest like a peacock, handed me over to Leo, who looked incredibly dashing in his wedding finery, even to my biased eye.
The vows flashed by in a twinkling, and before long, I was saying the words I had been longing to say since I was nine years old.
We sailed through the reception, all smiles and fine speeches, and I never noticed Leo's relatives hiding their jealousy behind veiled comments, or the looks that several of the European girls gave me when they thought I wasn't looking. We danced a last waltz before the time came for us to retire, and I still hadn't given a thought to what lay ahead, in the long hours of the night. We were to spend the first evening at Leo's house, then fly out to his yacht, which was moored somewhere in the Caribbean. That was all that occupied my mind, for I had long before decided to get the unpleasant bedding over in the most businesslike of fashions, and it didn't occur to me that Leo would have any different ideas. How wrong I was, I shortly discovered.
There was a long staircase leading up to the landing with the bedrooms, and I swept up it in a rustling of silk, while Leo held the hem of my wedding dress behind me. He took the opportunity to remark upon my beauty, and I smiled at him in shy recognition of his compliments. I am not a vain person, and at that time I had only the vaguest idea of how attractive I am. The bedroom approached, and we paused outside it while Leo fumbled for a key. He unlocked the door, then stood back to scoop me up, and carried me into the room as if I weighed nothing at all. There was champagne, in a cooler on a little cabinet by the bed, and two crystal glasses tied with ribbons on their stems. The bed was clothed in perfect white linen, and draped with muslin in the most artful way. The room was warm and dimly lit, making it seem the perfect setting for what inevitably was to come. If a girl had to be deflowered, this was the room that would make it seem bearable.
Then the first of what was to be many uncomfortable moments happened. I became aware that Leo was expecting a first kiss as man and wife, and I guessed that he intended it to be less chaste than we had shared up to that point, when he pulled me into him, then forced my lips to his with the pressure of a hand behind my head. I suffered the first contact of his lips with mine, but was horrified to feel his tongue attempting to intrude into my mouth. I turned my face away, and he busied himself in kissing, and licking my neck. I was unnerved by the sudden display of passion, and cried out.