CamillasConsequences

Helena Harker

Camilla is a sexual blackmailer. After a betrayal from her fiancé, she spends her days exacting revenge against men who are unfaithful. Armed with an iron resolve, her Panoptoscope and a handbag filled with instruments of castigation, she becomes a formidable adversary. Her quest for revenge has hardened her heart, but a small part of her still thirsts for passion and the heat of a man’s touch.

Hephaestus is a skilled metallurgist who hammers iron into any shape. When Camilla walks into his forge asking him to repair a pendant, flames of passion ignite between them. After Camilla receives letters that threaten to expose her, she seeks his protection as well as his love. However, in order to melt her heart, Hephaestus must resort to extreme measures to make her see that pardon, not punishment, is needed for love to grow and lust to be fulfilled.

Inside Scoop:
Camilla witnesses all manner of erotic behavior, including male/male and fem-dom encounters. Her approach is very unique, even to this steampunk world!

A Romantica®
historical erotic romance
from Ellora’s Cave

London, 1895

Hunting men is a most lucrative occupation, one I enjoy with an ardent passion. As I wait for Lord Aldridge to exit his tent, I silently curse him for choosing to pitch his camp in this godforsaken bog. Although we are barely an hour outside London, it seems I have been transported to the jungles of Borneo. The dank, moist air wreaks havoc with my curls, my riding boots slip through the mud and my walking skirt reeks of rotting leaves and mallard droppings.

Silent, shielded by darkness, I rest my body against the trunk of a tree that leans precariously over the pond and adjust the lens of the Panoptoscope against my eye. Motionless against the elm’s rough bark, I blend into my environment. Although my hiding place is barely ten yards away from Aldridge’s simple canvas tent, he will never see me.

I aim the ’Scope at my quarry and peer through the lens. How magical. My newest, truly ingenious modification far exceeds my expectations. My contraption allows me to see in the dark, and for a few moments I imagine myself to be a panther lurking in the undergrowth, waiting for the perfect moment to ambush my prey.

The leafless trees appear in various shades of gray, their limbs hanging low, resembling eerie fingers that reach for the tent. Lantern light glows inside, and shadowy figures stir within the canvas walls. Lord Aldridge has brought company. It is not unexpected. After all, Aldridge has many suitors.

All of whom are male.

Come out, Aldridge. Your judgment awaits.
Often, I choose to confront men and punish them for their sins. It is a good thing that I do, for who else would pass judgment over them and sentence them for their transgressions? Surely not another man. No, it is a woman’s duty to judge men and determine whether they should be condemned for their actions.

Shadows shift. I catch sight of an arm, a knee, a head. An embrace? I believe so.

Does Aldridge’s wife know about his philandering? How can she not? After tracking his whereabouts for weeks, I know how little time he spends at home. How does she feel when she lies next to him at night, knowing he has carnal knowledge of men’s bodies? Or perhaps she thinks he is bedding women. How does she cope with his betrayal? When a man promises to stand by the woman he loves ’til death do them part, he should be forever bound by that promise or be prepared to suffer the consequences.

Camilla Covington’s consequences.

For I understand how betrayal can change a woman. It sculpted me, hardened me, twisted me into the cold, unforgiving soul I am today. Betrayal erased the purity and innocence from my heart.

As a result, I have made it my duty to protect other women from the same fate. In our patriarchal society, a woman is at a man’s mercy, so I have vowed to avenge as many as I am able, even at the expense of my own happiness. Besides, after all my suffering and humiliation, it is probably best I never marry. Everyone in Upper London considers me a spinster at the age of twenty-five, and no one will ask for my hand.

Is it truly better to remain alone? A small part of me still hopes to find a man worthy of love. Not all men are treacherous and disloyal. Some hold their wives in the highest esteem. There must be a kind, loving soul who will open his heart to me and help my own heart to blossom once more. Our love would be pure, based on honesty and respect. No falsehoods. No deceit. No infidelity. Perhaps my hope is but a fantasy, and it is best to put such thoughts out of my head. It would be better if this part of my heart, which still thirsts for passion and the heat of a man’s touch, died forever. After all, in order to devote myself fully to my cause, I should carry on alone.

Finally, as the ’Scope threatens to become too heavy for my weary arms, Lord Aldridge opens the flap of his tent. He is tall, imposing, the kind of man accustomed to giving orders and having others obey them without question. The lens allows me to see the details of his hair as it curls against his neck. His unbuttoned shirt hangs loosely about his waist until a breath of wind flutters it aside. At the sight of his muscular chest, my breath flutters as well. He is indeed a fine specimen of masculinity.

The ’Scope’s cellulose reel is sensitive to light, and even under a crescent moon, I will be able to record whatever takes place before me. To think the public at large considers this device a mere source of entertainment designed to project images on a screen. I use my miniaturized version for more sinister purposes, all focused on one goal, entrapping my prey.

Another man exits the tent. Who is he? At the edge of the marsh, they must believe they are shielded from everyone’s prying eyes. They are gravely mistaken. I peer through the ’Scope. Slightly shorter than Aldridge, the man has a thickset frame, bulging biceps and a square jaw. Viscount Tewkesbury. He is somewhat of a rebel among the aristocracy, living off the wealth accrued by his late father’s extensive farmlands and spending his days training as a pugilist. He is England’s grand champion, and as a result he is as powerful as a Cape buffalo. Tewkesbury is also London’s most eligible bachelor.

Now I know why you will never marry.

For a while the two men chat and puff on cigars, the foul-smelling smoke irritating my nose. Swamp water seeps into my fine leather boots, and I wonder how much longer I will have to wait before they give me the evidence I need. Quietly, I reposition my right leg, which is overcome by a numbing, needling sensation. No matter. I am made of stronger mettle than any man. If need be, I will wait until dawn. My finger rests patiently on the knob that will trigger the recording process.

Aldridge reclines against the trunk of a massive, misshapen tree, his shirt open. He drops his cigar and crushes it with the heel of his boot. As if this is a signal, Tewkesbury marches toward him in long, hungry strides. I depress the knob, and the ’Scope makes a whirring noise. The men are too absorbed in each other to notice. Tewkesbury places his large hands on either side of Aldridge’s head, his fingers digging into the tree bark, and both men stand very still, as if dueling with their eyes.

What are they thinking? Will I witness an act of sodomy? The thought quickens the pulse of my heart, and for a moment I am at once revolted and excited. I should not be thrilled at the prospect, however, since the law forbids carnal acts between men. This behavior is immoral, and many have gone to prison for indulging in it.

Yet I find myself aroused by the idea of watching them engage in this forbidden act. Tewkesbury grabs Aldridge roughly by the hair, and his other hand reaches behind Aldridge to seize his buttock. Their lips collide in an all-consuming embrace. They are wild and fierce, resembling gladiators in the arena. Their arms wrap around each other’s waists. Their hands grope and grab, moving swiftly and hungrily. Are they in love? In lust? What drives two men to develop a passion for each other? It is beyond my comprehension.

Aldridge tears at his partner’s shirt, and a ravenous smile appears on his face. Tewkesbury yanks at Aldridge’s cotton chemise—the sound of tearing fabric fills the air—and flings the tattered garment aside. What brutes! Perspiration coats their bare chests, gleaming through the lens of my ’Scope. I cannot look away. I am fascinated, and my nubbin tingles in excitement. Barely aware of my own actions, I rub my mound against the trunk of the tree.

In the still night air, Tewkesbury’s husky voice rings out. “Let me remove your trousers.” He drops to his knees among the fallen leaves.

Aldridge stands as tall and sturdy as a mighty oak, his feet apart, hands twined in Tewkesbury’s hair. The boxer pulls at the buttons on Aldridge’s trousers, tugging and yanking until the garment is down around his ankles. He does the same for Aldridge’s drawers, pulling them down in one rough movement. From this angle, I have a marvelous view of Aldridge’s member, shamelessly erect, a breath away from Tewkesbury’s eager mouth.

This is a spectacle I have witnessed many times, albeit between men and women, and each time my pleasure intensifies. Later, I will sit in my private viewing room and replay their actions over and over again.

Keeping one hand in Tewkesbury’s hair, Aldridge uses the other to guide his cock closer to the boxer’s mouth. “Open,” he commands.

Tewkesbury’s lips part. Wider. Wider still. The head of Aldridge’s thick cock enters one inch at a time. Greedily, Tewkesbury takes more of it.

“Show me how much you can swallow.” Aldridge grips Tewkesbury’s head firmly so he cannot back away.

How rough they are with each other, and yet they seem to want it to be so. Surely a man with Tewkesbury’s strength could knock Aldridge to the ground with a single blow if he wished. But he does not. He craves this. He wants Aldridge’s member to be shoved into his mouth, wants to feel it prod the back of his throat. I imagine myself in Tewkesbury’s place. What does it feel like when a man’s cock slides over your tongue and into your warm, wet mouth? I do not know.

Only a few more inches and Tewkesbury will take Aldridge’s entire length, and his length is substantial. Tewkesbury raises his hands to grasp the cock, but Aldridge stops him.

“Keep your hands by your side.”

Obediently, Tewkesbury drops his hands. Aldridge’s hips thrust forward, causing the boxer to gag, cough and struggle to pull back. Aldridge prevents him by holding his head firmly in place.

“More,” he orders.

Tewkesbury ceases struggling, and he attempts to take the cock deeper into his throat. He gags again, but this time Aldridge relents, allowing him time to recover and breathe.

“Very good,” says Aldridge, as if tutoring a reluctant pupil. “But you can do better.”

With slave-like devotion, the boxer takes the cock in his mouth and Aldridge slides it in and out with deft thrusts of his hips, deeper than before, almost to the root.

How does a man’s cock taste? Never have I touched a man’s member with my bare hand, much less lapped at one with my tongue. Nor do I wish to.

Yes, you do
, my heart whispers. No matter how I try to quell my baser urges, they pervade my thoughts and quicken my blood. I long for the press of a man’s body against mine and thirst for the heat of his lips on my neck. Even more than his physical presence, I yearn for a man’s understanding and compassion.

“Use your hands,” Aldridge says, his tone abrasive and demanding.

Tewkesbury follows the instructions, stimulating the head of the cock by swirling his tongue over it, while his palms massage the shaft in smooth, practiced motions. He is most certainly not a novice.

Aldridge is masterful, in control. He will be a formidable adversary. It will be my pleasure to confront him and wrest control from his grasp.
I will bring you to your knees.

“Rise.” Aldridge kicks off the trousers that are puddled around his ankles.

Completely nude, Aldridge’s figure is magnificent, even in the limited gray tones offered by the ’Scope. Tewkesbury, on the other hand, is still wearing his trousers.

Aldridge grabs Tewkesbury roughly by the shoulders and turns him around so the boxer faces away from him. He seizes the fighter’s wrists, raises his muscular arms over his head, and holds them against the trunk of a tree.

“Don’t move.”

Oh the savage passions that exude from Aldridge! Consumed by lust, he takes a handful of Tewkesbury’s hair and yanks. He buries his face in the crook of Tewkesbury’s neck, covers it in brutal kisses and bites down hard on the taut, sinewy shoulder. Tewkesbury cries out, and his voice echoes through the trees. Yet he does not move away. He tolerates the pain, submits to it.

Hungry for more, Aldridge tears at the strings that fasten his lover’s trousers. Within seconds, Tewkesbury’s remaining clothing has been discarded, and his rounded buttocks and burly thighs are a sight to behold. I lick my lips and press my nubbin harder against the tree. I move in rapid circular motions until I pant with exertion, but I refuse to allow myself to orgasm. My eyes remain fixed on the two beasts before me.

Using firm strokes, Aldridge kneads his partner’s buttocks, and then he parts them, fingering the small, puckered hole. Tewkesbury moans in pleasure.

“I’m going to slide my cock into your arse,” Aldridge says.

“Yes! Do it! Now!” Tewkesbury sounds desperate for his partner to penetrate him. His hands are still over his head, his legs parted. Until now, he has been content to let Aldridge make all the decisions.

Will it continue to be so? Why? Why would a man as physically powerful as England’s grand champion let someone else take control of his body in this manner?

Because all he has to do is enjoy his lover’s attention. His only task is to revel in ecstasy and appreciate every blissful sensation.

Perhaps. My own experience with love is limited, so I cannot say for certain. By some accounts, yes, my knowledge is vast, but it comes from my dark, voyeuristic pleasures. Witnessing the sexual acts of others is not the same as taking part.

Aldridge spits on his fingers. I know what he is about to do, and I refocus the ’Scope, for all my efforts have culminated in this moment. If I do not capture it, I fail.

I grit my teeth. Failure is not an option I choose to consider. Ever.

After spitting again, he slips his slick fingers into his lover’s arsehole, and after sliding them in and out a few times, he presses his cock against the opening. “Do you still want it?” he teases.

“Yes, Aldridge, please!”

His cock slowly enters Tewkesbury’s orifice and disappears from view. Sodomite! At last I have the evidence I require to pursue my hunt. The men are coupled, Tewkesbury impaled on Aldridge’s shaft. As Aldridge’s hips pick up an intense rhythm, Tewkesbury shifts to regain his balance, offering me a far better view of his erect member. Aldridge reaches forward, milking the boxer’s cock with both fists.

“Faster!” Tewkesbury begs.

“Don’t tell me what to do.” Aldridge releases Tewkesbury’s cock and grabs his hair instead, pulling his head back. “I make the decisions. Always.”

He thrusts his cock fully into Tewkesbury, and the boxer groans in a mixture of pleasure and pain. Aldridge sighs in contentment.