Teena Thyme (14 page)

'A sweet little fruit,' he said. I resisted the urge to hide my nakedness behind my hands and simply stood there, letting him stare at my pouting little pussy. He licked his lips and I felt myself starting to tremble. 'A pretty little peach, just ready for the pipping,' he continued. Very poetic - I was almost impressed.

I'm not going to pretend I really enjoyed what happened next and neither am I going to lie and say it was a fate worse than death. After all, as I said, it wasn't something I hadn't done before and neither was I a shrinking violet of a virgin, even if my body belonged to one.

That was the main problem of course. After that, the old Teena survival instinct cut in, together with that competitive edge that's eventually produced a hatful of country representative honours, albeit in somewhat different sports, of course.

I laid myself back across the bed and spread my legs as far as those damned chains permitted, which wasn't very much, in truth. I started to suggest that it might be easier for both of us if he removed them first, but he wasn't in the mood for listening. His breeches were down and off before I had time to realise it and I didn't even see the going of his shoes first.

'Now, my sapphic little virgin,' he breathed, lowering himself over me. The brandy fumes were overpowering, but I managed to hide my distaste. Besides, it was far preferable to halitosis. I felt him fumbling and I bent my knees to allow me to open my thighs wider. Even so, I knew it was going to be a painful start.

After a couple of false starts I felt the heat of his knob settle between my outer lips and I tried to conjure up a picture of someone I really fancied, desperate to produce some degree of lubrication. It seemed to work, at least partially. Gregory pressed his assault again and I felt my flesh distend around the head of his weapon, gritting my teeth against the moment when that tender inner membrane would start to tear.

I let out a suitably ear-piercing shriek when it happened and believe me, it wasn't all playacting for his benefit. God, but the man was big! I gasped and clawed uselessly at the bedding as his full length penetrated me, no slow entry this, but a savage thrust filling me in a second so that I thought I must surely burst. I closed my eyes and prayed he would come quickly, but a man who could produce that standard of attack weapon in the face of so much alcohol wasn't about to finish his charge in a prematurely discharged volley.

He settled into a vigorous pistoning action and, to my surprise and not inconsiderable horror, I felt my treacherous body starting to respond. Sapphic little whore, he'd called me, which meant he must know something about Indira, but now he seemed intent on either making a convert, or else exacting some sort of male chauvinistic retribution for my perceived sins.

Very soon I was past questioning his motivation. Ye gods, but did Angelina ever know what she had been denying her trim little body? Trapped inside my accursed corset, I panted and groaned and by this time none of it was artificially created. I reached my arms about him, clawing madly at his back, but the combination of his shirt and my damned gloves rendered my actions totally ineffectual. I tried to throw my legs about him, forgetting in the heat of the moment that my ankles were still chained together and succeeded only in raking the flesh of his shins.

Gregory Hacklebury took not the slightest notice of such a feeble inconvenience, though. He drove into me time and again, and now I could feel my clitoris throbbing urgently and that peculiarly ice-hot feeling beginning to spread out from it, a sensation I knew well enough.

I came in a frenzy of balled fists, kicking heels and banshee-like screeching and the orgasms went on and on, merging into each other until they became one long physical surrender. Somewhere along the way Hacklebury reached his own climax and I felt his hot semen spurting deep inside me, which seemed to serve only to heighten my incredible passion.

It couldn't go on indefinitely, of course. Finally sated, he slumped with his weight pinning me uncomfortably and slowly my own state of abandon subsided to a warm, dull throb. Summoning up what little remained of my body's non-too impressive physical strength, I managed to move him sideways slightly and eventually, as his cock started to go limp, it slipped from inside me and he lay there, gazing at me through eyes that I could tell weren't seeing anything much. I stared back at him and smiled, wanly.

'There, Gregory,' I whispered sweetly. 'Wasn't that much better than whipping me?' He groaned, closed his eyes and fell into a drunken slumber. After a considerable struggle and the expenditure of almost all my remaining reserves, I managed to extricate myself, but I decided against making a move for the door. Even if it was still unlocked - and I presumed it was - there was the small matter of flights of stairs, ankle chains, near nudity and at least one very unpleasant maidservant still standing between me and any realistic chance of freedom.

Besides, until I could find a way of proving otherwise, I was legally married to the beast that now lay snoring next to me and in this society that gave me few, if any rights. As near as dammit I belonged to him and, as near as dammit also, he could now do almost anything he wanted with me, short of murder.

And even that wasn't totally beyond Gregory Hacklebury, I suspected. Not if he thought he could get away with it, and a man who was capable of pulling off a fake marriage was probably capable of getting away with just about anything!

9
.

I wandered across the room and parked myself carefully into one of the high-backed chairs. My derrière was still smarting, of course, but at least I now didn't feel like jumping for the chandelier when I put some pressure on it and, in fact, as long as I didn't wriggle about too much, after a while it felt more comfortable, if you can believe that. Either way, I didn't want to stay on the same bed as that man.

The truth was, now the old flames of instant passion and lust had died down, I was feeling very guilty. No, not guilty for having egged the bastard on, but for the fact that my intended pretext of passion had been superseded by an uncontrollable outburst of the real thing.

It's very difficult to explain to someone else just what thoughts were going through my throbbing head at that moment. I wanted to kill Hacklebury and, if I'd had a knife handy right then and there I'd have done for the bastard while he slept and sod the consequences for either of us. Angelina and me, that is; after all, the consequences for Hacklebury would be pretty limited if I'd slit his throat.

However, there were no suitably sharp objects to hand and I didn't fancy my chances of being able to strangle the sod - even if I'd had a suitable ligature, the odds were that he'd come round enough and probably still be able to throw me off and then the gods alone knew what he might do to me. So, it was back to Plan A, what there was of it.

My biggest worry now, however, was that despite my having given him something he'd like as not remember for quite a long time to come, there was still the matter of his other little predilection. My sphincter muscles contracted and quivered merely at the thought of it; Hacklebury might have been a bit short in the manners and considerate approaches department, but he hadn't been hiding behind the door when his creator was distributing the tackle allocation. Maybe he wasn't first in the queue, but I tell you this, he wasn't far from the front!

So that was one problem, but there wasn't much I could do about solving it, so I put it on the backburner and considered the things I maybe could do something about. There weren't a whole lot of them.

The most obvious thing to work on was how to get back to my own time, always supposing that was actually possible. For a few minutes I fell into a very black mood at the prospect of being stuck here and with
that!
I stared across at the slumbering form and if looks could kill I wouldn't have needed a weapon. After a while, however, I managed to cheer myself up and started thinking positively again.

The locket was the key, I was convinced of that. Somehow or other - and I had no idea how, but that didn't matter - the locket had been responsible for transporting me back into my present predicament and so the locket must surely possess the power to send me back to my own time again. So far so good, I thought, but now we came to a couple of fresh problems.

Number one; I no longer had the locket - correction, Angelina no longer had the locket, always assuming she'd ever had it to begin with, which I was fairly sure she had. And number two; even if and when I got the locket back again, I hadn't the faintest idea of what made it work. Two problems, but no point in worrying about the second until I'd solved the riddle of the first.

Where was the locket now?

Well, there was one obvious answer and he was stretched across the bed doing a fair impression of a lawnmower filled with rather dodgy fuel, while his breeches lay several feet away from him, wrapped around his discarded shoes. From where I was sitting I could see one pocket, and where there was one pocket, I guessed there would be another on the opposite side.

Good guess, Teena, but no lockets in the pockets. With my peculiarly gloved fingers handicapping my every move, I nevertheless succeeded in extracting one rather grubby silk handkerchief, three gold coins and...

...a small key.

It took me a few seconds to understand the significance of that little discovery, for my initial reaction was disappointment at the lack of locket, but even in my blondest moments I always manage to hang on to a tiny thread of reality.

A key! I looked from the key to my ankle cuffs and from my ankle cuffs back to the key. It certainly looked the right sort of size and it made sense that Hacklebury would carry a duplicate with him, in case the formerly ubiquitous Meg was having a non-ubiquitous sabbatical. But could I really be that lucky?

Oh yes - I most definitely could! Click, went the first lock and the left shackle came undone as sweetly as you like. Puffing and panting - bending over in that corset was no picnic, I can tell you - I inserted the key into the lock on the other cuff and then stopped.

What was I doing? Nothing much had changed, when all was said and done. Yes, I could free myself of the hobble, and yes, maybe I could find a new and unripped pair of drawers, and there might even be a dress or two to be found somewhere on this floor, but then what? For a start, these damned fingers weren't going to get me fastened into any dress, probably not even if they were free of the finger-stitched haberdashery.

Then there was the corset and the small matter of a pair of shoes that would have tried Pavlova on a good day. Then, knowing the way these things have a habit of turning out, there was every likelihood that Meg would choose to become ubiquitous again, just at the moment I attempted to make good my escape and then everything would be down the drain once and for all.

No, Teena. Think again.

I removed the key and used it to relock the first cuff back around my ankle and then sat back, turning the shiny little sliver of metal over and over in my hands, all manner of silly ideas crowding into my head and fighting for room. I thought of soap - that's what they did in all the spy films, wasn't it; made impressions of keys in bars of soap?

Only I didn't happen to have a bar of soap handy, did I? Which, as it happens, probably didn't make any difference at all, because I also seemed to be short of two other requisites for carrying out that plan, to wit: one blank or piece of metal from which to cut a duplicate key and one tool kit appropriate to cutting and filing said metal blank. I opened my mouth to curse and then stopped. After all, I thought, looking down again, I
did
have the key itself and there was no immediate reason for returning it from whence I had found it, was there?

Judging by Hacklebury's state when he had first staggered into the room, he'd been having a single-handed bash at supporting the local vintners and he hadn't got himself in that state in a hurry. Ergo, he had been bashing the bottles for some little while during the day and had probably been
non-compos
to some extent for quite a while prior to our sweet little tryst.

The hankie looked well used, so the key could have fallen out of his pocket at almost any time, couldn't it? All I had to do was make sure it was somewhere I could retrieve it from and somewhere that would also, if a search was made, not point the finger of suspicion at sweet, innocent little Angelina. And that was simple.

Creeping back across towards the bed I managed to kneel down again, reach under the material that formed a sort of valence and place the key carefully against the leg at the foot of the bed on that side. Straightening up again, I used my foot to kick his shoes and breeches a bit closer to my chosen hiding place, so that if the key was discovered it would seem more likely that it had fallen from his pocket in his moment of impatient lust.

I shuffled back across to the window once more, smiling to myself at my little victory. Okay, it was only a very little victory and the key would still only be stage one in any escape plan, but if it stayed where I'd hidden it and I could buy enough time, at least I'd maybe get the opportunity to find ways around the shoes, corset and manic maid side of things. She who thinks and hides away, lives to sneak out another day.

Or something like that.

10
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