Frayed Bonds (4 page)

“Amy,” he said, lifting his mouth from hers, “tell me again
what you want.”

“I want you inside me, Peter.”

She used his name again, and it almost unmanned him.

“There is a way,” he said, sliding his fingers down past her
cunny, over the sensitive flesh of her perineum, to spread moisture over her
pert rosebud. It was already slick with her juices, and when he pressed a
single digit to the puckered hole, he discovered she was too innocent to tense
with fear.

“Oh.” Her lips formed an opening as ripe as the one he was
exploring.

He kissed her again, pressing his finger a little further,
turning, exploring, taking care not to destroy the precious gift of her
fearlessness. Most likely she had no idea what he intended.

“Do you like that?” he asked, moving his fingertip gently in
and out, sliding a little further each time.

“Oh yes!”

He savored the dreamy look on her face.

“Tell me you want it. Tell me to fuck your ass.”

She groaned, pulling her knees up to her chest, allowing him
complete access to her last vestige of virginity. “Please, Peter, fuck my ass.”

She still didn’t know what she was asking. He knew that some
women liked a finger in their tightest hole but nothing else. Still, it
thrilled him to hear her say the words. “Tell me, Amy. Tell me to put my cock
in your ass,” he urged.

“Please, Peter, put your cock in my ass.”

He kissed her deeply, withdrew his hands from her trembling
body and untied her wrists. He helped her rise, naked, flushed, glorious, from
the bench and drew her gently to the foot of the bed where he took his mask
off. She reached up to touch his face and he thought his heart would break as
she murmured, “Peter, please. I need you.”

She had heard that it would hurt, the way that men, soldiers
and sailors and schoolboys, often penetrated other men, and sometimes women.
She had always longed for it, from her first awareness of her budding
sexuality. While she would have preferred Peter Mainwaring to join with her in
the way she was more used to, she understood why he would not. If he took her
in the more conventional way, it would be the first time she had enjoyed the
act with a man, and that belonged rightly to John who she loved.

But she cared for Peter deeply, could have married him if
she had never known John—loved him in a different fashion.

When he removed the mask it filled her heart with a strange
joy, like a reunion with a long absent friend, and she reached up to twine her
hands in his soft hair and lavish kisses over his high cheekbones and strong
jaw.

He held her gently, almost reverently, and when his voice
broke through her reverie it was commanding but strained with emotion. “Bend
over the bed, Amy.”

He guided her to stand at the foot of the four-poster,
pushed her belly flush with the mattress, then bent her over and pressed her
face to the soft, quilted counterpane. Instinctively she reached out and closed
her hands around the smoothly turned wood of the bedposts. She watched him
fasten delicate silver manacles on slender chains around the fluted columns
then test the weight of the metal in his hands.

“Please,” she begged. She longed for him to restrain her,
while at the same time she was flattered that he trusted her to obey him while
he carried out his designs.

“I’ve changed my mind,” he said, letting the manacles drop
with a musical, silvery clang to dangle empty from the bedposts.

She groaned in disappointment and he slapped the upturned
cheek of her ass.

“No whining, my love. You’re too delicate for shackles.”

He disappeared briefly from view, and she heard him moving
in the room behind her, but she dared not stir to turn and look. Instead, she
concentrated on how satisfying it was to offer her body like this. She slid her
feet apart, wider and wider, so the cool air of the room caressed the cleft
between her buttocks, where her deep need pulsed steadily with anticipation.

He took in the sight of her bent face down over the foot of
the bed. The manacles would never do. Her soft wrists would chafe inside them,
and he wanted nothing to distract her from what he was about to do. He selected
instead two lengths of black silk, much better suited for his purpose, and
perused the bottles lining her dressing table. He wanted oil or lotion,
something without strong scent or astringent qualities. After opening and
sniffing a half dozen jars and pots he discovered a porcelain crock filled with
sweet almond oil and set it on the bed in front of Amy.

She looked at it without comprehension, and he enjoyed her
baffled anticipation while he tied her left wrist securely to the bedpost, and
she sighed in constricted contentment. Her right hand he treated differently,
binding it loosely to the post with a slipknot and tucking the free end where
she could not reach it.

Then within her line of sight, he stripped. Amy, he realized
by her awed expression, had never seen a nude male body.

Her eyes raked the length of him hungrily then settled on
his jutting cock, which he proceeded to stroke, smoothing the sweet almond oil
up the shaft. “No,” she groaned. “That’s for me.”

He reclined on the bed to stroke his shaft some more,
reveling in her hunger. “Of course it’s for you, my wanton little slut, but
good girls wait.”

He was enjoying the anticipation, enjoying exhibiting his
lean, hard body, and if he thought about his audience on the other side of the
wall, he had to admit that he was enjoying that as well. Let John look. He
could have had Amy like this months ago if he’d been brave enough.

When he could wait no longer he took the jar and came to
stand behind her. He anointed her rosebud liberally with the oil and slid one
slick finger in to the knuckle. She drove hungrily back on him to swallow his
entire finger. “Good girl,” he praised, and added another finger. She tensed,
and he stilled his digits until she became used to the invasion.

Then it started. She twitched her hips, moving in a frantic
rhythm against his hand, mewling in desperation. She pulled on her bonds, and
he reached lazily, entranced by her display, to where the slipknot dangled its
pennant on her right wrist. He pulled, and her jerking arm came free. Then she
stilled for a moment, uncertain, until he spoke. “Touch yourself, Amy.”

She couldn’t do it. The desire to be taken like this was her
deepest, most secret shame. That she pleasured herself, that she masturbated,
was almost equally shameful. That she would pleasure herself while he drove his
fingers into her ass—that her husband would see…she couldn’t do it.

He bent his strong body over her, two fingers of his left
hand still moving exquisitely in her ass. His right hand covered hers, and he
spoke in her ear so softly that only she could hear. “I love you, Amy. There is
nothing you could desire that would disgust or repel or me.”

He rubbed his hard cock against one cheek of her ass and
groaned. “Feel how hard I am, how hard you are making me. John is hard too.”

She tensed at the thought of her husband watching. Peter
planted reassuring kisses along her back and shoulder, then took her hand in
his and brought it to her folds. “He can see us. If he didn’t want this to
happen, he could walk through that door and stop me. He’s not disgusted by you,
Amy, he’s aroused, stroking himself, waiting until the sweetest moment when you
surrender.”

He pressed her hand to her aching pussy, caressed her,
guided her, allowed her to find her own rhythm. The withdrawal of his fingers
from her ass, almost as sweet as his first penetration, nearly carried her over
the edge, but when she would have stroked herself faster, he took over again,
slowed her hand, pulled her back from the edge.

“Not yet,” he whispered in her ear.

She felt the slick head of his cock poised at her puckered
entrance. “Please,” she whined softly. “Please.”

He’d taken his hand off hers, was allowing her to go at her
own pace. She found that she had slowed, didn’t want to come before he entered
her. She pushed back tentatively against his cock, felt the silky head slip
effortlessly in and fill her. She gasped.

“Good girl,” he soothed. “Amy, my love, my sweet, I’m not
going to fuck your ass. You’re going to push back and take me, all of me. I
won’t thrust into you. You’ll set our pace.”

It was intoxicating. He was ordering her to take control,
dominating her and being dominated at the same time. She pushed back a little
and felt her sphincter begin to burn. Instinctively, she stroked her clit
harder, forced herself to relax and open to him.

He groaned in her ear. “Amy, my Amy, so sweet, my love. I’m
your slave, my angel, utterly at your mercy now.”

She slid back further, engulfing what she thought must be his
entire length. She felt stuffed to bursting, impaled, filled, owned. But still
there was more. She was close, so close, and with the last inch of him she felt
her body tightening around his cock, squeezing so hard she feared her body
would drive him out.

He felt it too. His cries became louder, his endearments
more searing. She called his name in answer. “Peter. Yes, Peter. Please. Yes. I
want it. I love you.”

The last was shouted at the moment of her climax. The first
spasm rocked through her and she felt him spurt deep inside. She was deaf and
dumb to the world as it continued, and she sagged against the foot of the bed,
her left wrist still tied, Peter’s weight falling on her, pinning her there in
the haze of the aftermath.

She heard the door crash open, though she didn’t recognize
it as such; the violence in her own body had seemed louder. But she felt the
cool air from the hall pucker her breasts. It was a stark contrast to the
warmth of her back where Peter’s heated body was pressed to hers.

“You selfish bastard,” John spat out.

She turned her head as much as her predicament would allow.
She felt a last tremor of orgasm as Peter’s cock softened and slipped from her.

John stood in the doorway, livid with anger as she had never
seen him.

Peter raised his head. “John,” he said. “She didn’t mean it.
It’s not her fault.”

“Of course it’s not her fault.”

Amy’s skin prickled in fear. “Peter,” she said. He was still
languid, still pinning her to the bed. He didn’t seem to realize the danger he
was in.

“I should serve you,” John Tregarth said, with frightening
coldness, “the same way you just served my wife.”

“No,” Amy moaned, frightened and aroused at the same time.

Peter tensed, his muscles rigid against her, but he wasn’t
fast enough. Tregarth grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, held him hard in
place and manacled his left hand to the bedpost with the chain Peter had left
hanging there. Now Amy and Peter were both bound to the foot of the bed.

“Do whatever you like with me, John, but don’t hurt Amy. She
loves you, not me. She wanted this so she could walk away from me forever.”
Peter spoke calmly, soothingly, and Amy wondered how he could remain so steady
in the face of John’s anger.

Then she looked from her husband to her lover and realized
that she had been wrong. This wasn’t the end between her and Peter. She wanted
Peter in her life, in her bed. And she still loved John. She wanted both of
them.

She watched, transfixed, as her husband wound his hand in
his oldest friend’s hair, pulled his head back, and asked, “Do you love her?”

“Yes. Yes, I love her. But she’s yours, and as soon as you
unchain me, I promise I’ll walk out of both your lives forever if that’s what
you want.”

“No,” she sobbed. “I love you both. I want you both. Don’t
make him go.”

The room was deadly still and silent for a moment, and Amy
feared she had condemned them both. Then Tregarth released Peter, took Amy’s
chin gently in his hand and tipped her head so he could see into her eyes. “You
belong to me. You’re mine. No one else touches you
without my permission
.”

Without his permission? But other men might touch her, if he
ordered it. The thought was shamefully arousing. Peter might touch her if her
husband ordered it. “Yes,” she said, her voice breaking in gratitude and wonder
and love. “Yes, John. I’m yours. First and always, yours.”

He smiled approvingly at her, but he was still distant,
cold, commanding.

“I’m glad we understand one another. But Peter still
deserves to suffer. If you love her,” he pitched his voice to Peter now, “then
there won’t be a mark on her.”

Amy shuddered. She wasn’t certain what he intended, but she
was frightened—and excited—by this new side of her husband.

Peter slid his free arm around her. “You’re frightening her,
John. Let her go. Untie her. Take her somewhere alone and make love to her. We
can settle our differences later.”

“No.”

She hadn’t noticed the delicate whip lying among Peter’s
discarded toys. John picked it up, cracked it expertly in the air and brought
it down without warning on Peter’s back.

Peter grunted into her ear and gathered her closer. She
screamed with terror, “Please, John. Don’t hurt him.”

The whip sang out again, and she felt the man chained behind
her shift to take the blow where it would have stung her tender flesh.

“You almost struck her,” he cried.

“No,” Tregarth replied coldly, “you almost failed to protect
her. If we’re to share her, you must show me that you are willing to cherish
her as I do.”

It was almost too much for her to bear, the heady eroticism,
the tangled emotions. The man she loved most in the world, her husband, had
taken command of her and her lover. And the man who had introduced her to
pleasure, terrified her with her own nature, then shown it to her again today
in startling and wondrous joy, was accepting a whipping from her husband,
shielding her with his body so the lash would not fall on her back.