My Lady's Pleasure (14 page)

She turned on the electric light that had been installed only the year before, and made her way carefully down the steep stone stairs, breathing in the familiar smells of must and dust and age. She walked slowly in the narrow aisles between the racks and racks of Lord Loughlin’s wines until she heard the creak of the door at the top of the stairs and the muffled click of footsteps on stone.

And then he stood in front of her, Robert Loughlin himself.

“Hello, Jean.”

“My lord.”

“You’ve been dismissed for the night?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good,” he said, and took a bunch of keys from his pocket. He walked toward the back of the wine cellar, with Jean following. When he reached the end of the aisle, he turned right. In the far corner of the cellar was a narrow, iron-barred door. Lord Loughlin unlocked it and held it open for Jean. He followed her in, and closed it behind him.

They were in a small, dark space, a kind of a cage not more than eight feet by ten. It was lined with wine racks, which were filled with the very best wines the cellar contained, wines Lord Loughlin wouldn’t entrust even to Dodson, his butler of many years. On the floor, incongruously, was a thick, lush Persian carpet. In the middle of the rug, on a small stand, was a cask of Chateau Laballe Armagnac, which Lord Loughlin shared only with his most favored friends.

Without a word, Lord Loughlin bent Jean over the cask and flipped up her skirts. He stood between her legs and kneaded her buttocks through the thin cotton of her drawers, hard. She took a deep, quick inhale to steel herself against what was almost, but not quite, pain. She always found a strange satisfaction in this, the inevitable prelude to their sessions in the wine cellar. It made her feel flushed and excited, and ready for whatever her master had his mind set on that day.

For Lord Loughlin, the sight of his wife’s maid’s firm young ass, and its succulence in his hands, did more than arouse him. It took him to the point where he could get past his discomfort with having an affair behind his wife’s back, and primed him to indulge proclivities that he almost thought shameful. The sight, the feel of that ass in his hands, and all was put behind him.

His cock was standing at attention when he stepped away and half sat, half leaned on a tall stool in the corner.

“Get undressed,” he said to Jean, almost gruffly.

Jean got up from the cask, and then leaned against it to unlace her boots. Lord Loughlin, she knew, liked her to take her time.

He leaned on the stool, one hand caressing his cock through his trousers, as he watched Jean carefully and deliberately roll down her stockings. The sight of her hands against her legs mesmerized him.

She felt the cool air of the cellar as a balance to the heat she was generating from within. She had learned to love this part of their ritual, to feel the pleasure of her own touch. She folded her stockings inside her boots and began to undo the buttons on her dress.

She stepped out of the dress and stood before him in bodice and drawers. She stepped closer to him, her breasts at his eye level, and reached her hands around to her back to untie the laces that kept her white muslin bodice bound. The motion of moving her shoulders back thrust her breasts forward, and they were only inches from his face. He looked, he closed his eyes for a moment, and the motion of his hand on his penis quickened.

None of this was lost on Jean, and his arousal contributed to hers. As she untied the laces on her own bodice, her eyes were on his hand, and his cock, and she was attuned to his pleasure.

When she loosened her bodice and pulled it off over her head, Lord Loughlin stopped touching himself so he could touch her. He took one breast in each hand and buried his head between them, breathing in the combination of Jean’s spice and the must of the cellar. He held her breasts tight to his cheeks and filled his lungs.

Abruptly, he stood up and stripped without ceremony. Naked, he turned away from Jean and walked to the end of one of the racks, where there was a large wooden cabinet. He opened it and surveyed its contents. From the array of toys, tricks, and leather he took out one of his favorites, an ancient Chinese cock ring carved in ivory. It was in the form of a dragon, curled around so its tail met the base of its neck.

He knew he couldn’t get it on when he was in a state of full tumescence, so he used the trick he always used to calm his erection: He thought about fishing. One mental picture of the trout he stocked his pond with, and he felt his attention straying and his penis softening.

When it had lost enough strength that he could fit the ring on, he didn’t put it on himself, but handed it to Jean. She knew to act quickly, and she slid his balls through it—first one, then the other—and then maneuvered his cock in. She adjusted it, holding his entire apparatus in one hand, and moving the ring into just the right spot with the other.

Once it was in position, she gently stroked the underside of his cock, using only her fingertips. He got steely hard under her touch, and gave her a meaningful look. He went back to the cabinet, and returned with a tangle of leather straps, horsehair, and brass fittings, along with a whip.

He handed it all to Jean.

She took it, and the expression on her face underwent a startling transformation. Her mouth hardened, her eyes narrowed, and she seemed to grow an inch or two taller. She took the whip and cracked it on the cellar floor. In a heartbeat,
she
became
his
master.

“Turn around!” she demanded in a harsh voice.

Lord Loughlin did as he was told, and felt the intense mix of excitement and trepidation that came of relinquishing control.

Jean separated some of the straps until she was holding a harness in her hand, ready for him to slip into it, which he did.

The harness had originally been made for a mastiff Lord Loughlin had gotten when his two sons were young. The dog had been big enough for the small boys to ride, and the riding apparatus was all of a size to fit Lord Loughlin, if not perfectly, then well enough.

Jean buckled the straps across his chest, and attached the reins to the back of the harness. She was left holding the whip, a riding crop, and what looked like a horse’s tail—which it had been, at one point. Now strands from that tail were attached to a small cylinder of black rubber.

Jean cracked the whip again. “Down!” she barked, and Lord Loughlin got down on his hands and knees. Jean went over to the cabinet and took out a jar of Carston’s Complexion Cream. She opened it, rubbed a large dab of the cream on the rubber cylinder, and went back to Lord Loughlin. “Lean down!” she ordered.

Lord Loughlin put his head to the floor and presented his ass to Jean. She inserted the rubber plug far into his anus, and the horsehair made it look for all the world like a tail.

Jean yanked on the straps. “Up!”

He came back up to all fours, and groaned as his ass closed around the butt plug. Jean cracked the whip again. “Quiet!”

Then she put the whip down and straddled his back, holding the riding crop. She slapped the crop on his ass. “Forward!” she ordered.

At this, Lord Loughlin started forth on all fours, with Jean riding him.

Although Jean still found her master’s proclivities peculiar, she loved the sensation that he needed her. She understood that he showed her a side of himself that no one else knew, and that it was the deepest secret of his soul. It made her feel singled out, special, and that sense contributed to the pleasure she got from their games in the wine cellar.

The power also contributed. She spent most of her life doing the bidding of others, but down here, once she held that whip in her hand, she was in control. Exercising that control heightened all her other sensations, including the feel of her clitoris on her lord’s back, pulsing against it with his motion across the cold stone floor.

“Faster,” she said, and hit his ass again with the riding crop. She could feel him strain with the exertion and the excitement. She reached around and took the horsehair tail in her hand and twisted it until it was taut enough so that her twisting motion turned the plug itself.

He groaned again, and she stopped twisting immediately. “Be quiet!”

He fell silent and continued his cycle around the cask of Armagnac, and she started twisting again. Whenever he slowed down or made a noise she stopped twisting and made him speed up or stay quiet. As long as he continued at a pace she deemed acceptable, and made not a murmur, she twisted.

All this time, Lord Loughlin felt his persistent erection pulsing against the cock ring. Jean felt the same rhythm radiating from her pussy—now so wet that she was slipping on his back—up her spine and down the backs of her legs.

They reached the point where they both knew the climax was coming.

“Stop!” Jean said, and hit him again with the crop. He stopped. She put her feet on the floor and made him lie down on the carpet between her legs, and then turn over on his back. He lay on the floor looking up her body to her glistening cunt and then farther up to her full breasts and erect nipples.

Jean dropped to her knees and impaled herself on him. The dragon’s head on the cock ring hit her in just the right spot, and the sensation of the shaft of him inside her, and the hard surface of the cock ring outside, took her right to the brink.

But she didn’t want to be at the brink—not quite yet—and she stopped her motion midstroke. He kept moving under her, and she reached behind her with the riding crop, still in her hand, and gave him a sharp rap on the thigh. “When I stop, you stop!” she demanded.

He stopped, with a visible effort. If he hadn’t had the cock ring to help him control his hard-on, it would have been all over right then.

She waited a few beats, and began again. This time, he was attuned to her motion, and when she stopped again he stopped with her.

“Very good.” She rewarded him with a sly smile.

She started again, for what she knew would be the last time. She was too close to the edge to keep this up. She started to come and, at that moment, he knew he was released and came right in time with her. Their game had been going on long enough that each had built up tremendous excitement, and the release was volcanic. Together, but separate, they rode the wave of it—toys and games forgotten.

As it waned, they both came back to the here and now, and they disentangled themselves and their accoutrements as the last flush faded.

Lord Loughlin hastily dressed and put everything back in the cabinet in a heap—he would come back the next day to clean and rearrange it—as Jean put her dress on over her naked body. She quickly laced her boots and stood with her drawers, bodice, and stockings in her hand, knowing that her master didn’t like to linger after their interludes.

He opened the door to the cage and gave her a genuine, warm smile. She knew he was grateful to have an outlet for his desires, and felt a real affection for her. She, in turn, had been introduced to pleasures she hadn’t known existed, and the arrangement worked for both of them.

She smiled back.

They left the cage, and he locked the door behind them. Then, as was their habit, he left the wine cellar first, alone. A few minutes later she followed, and went up to bed and to sleep.

T
he next day broke clear, warm, and fine. Looking out over the morning light on the manicured grounds, Georgiana made an effort to shake off the residual bad feelings from the poison ivy bouquet, dressed, and went down to breakfast.

The house was buzzing with guests and their servants. The masquerade was just three days away, and the festive spirit was beginning to infect the company. As Lady Georgiana walked down to breakfast she heard laughter and good cheer coming from every corner where guests sat with their plates on their knees and their teacups on the tables. All this helped her put the events of the previous day behind her and face this new day with bright optimism.

She hadn’t forgotten her engagement to go punting with Miss Niven and Alphonse Gerard, and she looked for those familiar faces as she walked through the rooms. She didn’t see Gerry at all, and Miss Niven was sitting with the severe Miss Mumford and a couple Georgiana didn’t recognize. Since she didn’t want a reenactment of yesterday’s uncomfortable scene with Alexandra’s companion, Georgiana chose to join the Sheffields and O’Maras instead.

It was an inauspicious choice. Mrs. Sheffield, whose manner to Georgiana had seemed to thaw a degree or two after her tennis match with Miss Niven, had now turned icy cold. When Georgiana sat down between Mr. Sheffield and Mrs. O’Mara, the nod she got from Mrs. Sheffield was curt, the face unsmiling. She had gotten her reenactment after all, she mused, but she thought too little of Mrs. Sheffield to let the incident dampen her mood. She ate her breakfast and made her escape as quickly as she could.

As she stood up, she saw Miss Niven making her way across the room toward her.