Enamored: The Submissive Mistress (Special Double-Length Episode) (The Erotic Adventures of Jane in the Jungle) (16 page)

Darkdale grabbed her by a hank of hair and covered her lips with his, rough and strong. He thrust into her mouth, devouring and taking as he reached beyond to touch Marcine behind her. The phallus slipped free and Jane felt Marcine undulating behind her, writhing against her spine, her hands everywhere as Darkdale punished her with a deep, breath-stealing kiss.

When he released her, Jane gasped for air, terrified as to what was going to happen next. He pulled Marcine off the bed and she came to stand in front of Jane as Darkdale climbed up behind her. She had no time to prepare before he shoved himself inside her, impaling her on his massive cock.

Three strokes and he was finished, arching into her and shuddering against her in the same position Marcine had been only moments before.

She had taken his place in the chair and watched with glowing blue cat eyes, licking her lips with pleasure and anticipation.

“There is a punishment to be meted out,” he said as he climbed off the bed. He was speaking to Marcine, but Jane trembled in fear when his attention went to the cabinet where Bruce had withdrawn the whip the night before.

She remembered seeing the cat-o’-nine-tails there, and all the other weapons that would surely peel the skin from her buttocks.

“I look forward to assisting you,” Marcine said. “May I choose?”

“Be my guest.”

Jane closed her eyes and allowed herself to sag from her wrists. She fought back tears, somehow knowing whatever the woman intended to inflict upon her would be worse than anything she’d thus far experienced.

When Marcine turned, she was holding a riding crop. It was longer, and, as she demonstrated by bending it threateningly as she approached Jane, it was harder and firmer than the one Darkdale had used on her.

Jane couldn’t control a whimper as the woman drew near, a hot gleam in her eyes. Marcine made certain Jane saw the single tip on the end—a slender, flat rectangle Jane suspected would be sharp and hard against her flesh.

“Turn around,” Marcine ordered, smacking the crop against her palm.

At first Jane didn’t understand, but then she realized what was required. It was difficult—nearly impossible—for her to obey, but she managed to shift herself so that her back was to Darkdale. She was still on her knees, of course, and her legs hung slightly off the bed.

She’d hardly finished her adjustments when the crop struck.
Smack! Thwack! Smack! Crack!

There was no hesitation, no rhythm, no more than the briefest of reprieves between lashes. Jane cried and shook, fighting her bonds, jolting with every strike. Her buttocks burned and swelled, and her well-trained body also responded by growing hot and wet and swollen.

Thwack! Crack! Crack! Smack!

It went on and on…until finally, just as quickly as it had begun, it stopped.

She hung there, sobbing, her body pulsing and pounding with pain and frustration. Her feet had slid off the bed during the onslaught, and now she stood, leaning against the edge of the mattress.

Suddenly, someone kicked her legs apart and she lost her balance, swaying backward helplessly. She was caught by her bound arms and a pair of hands, which grasped her by the waist.

Jane cried out again, this time with relief and desperation, as Darkdale impaled her from behind. He pounded into her, his hands reaching around to play with her clit from the front, and Jane needed nothing more…she came, with a hard, deep shudder and the fear of even more punishments.

Before Jane had recovered from her release, Marcine was there in front of her, mercifully untying her hands. Jane fell forward as soon as she was released, and Marcine took her onto the bed over her.

Darkdale followed, and Jane found herself sandwiched between the two as he fucked her until she cried again…and then pulled himself out and shoved inside Marcine. She was trapped between them, a victim of hands and mouths everywhere, of slick strokes, and pinching, biting, sucking…and a rhythm that went on and on and on…

Finally, Darkdale gave a last heave and he and Marcine groaned their release. Jane lay gasping between them, suddenly fearful of what would happen next.

They rolled away, all sticky and hot and flushed.

“She came again,” Marcine said.

“She is quite disobedient. Frankly, I don’t know what to do with her. She doesn’t seem to learn.” Darkdale seemed to relish this about Jane, a fact that made her even more terrified.

“I believe she might be a hopeless case. However, there is the masquerade tomorrow night. DuVal will be there. He is a master at such problems.”

Jane felt their eyes score over her, but she remained in a heap on the bed, silent and sniffling, still pulsing and needy.

“What a brilliant idea. If I turn her over to DuVal, he’ll have the bitch trained in no time. Have I mentioned lately how much I adore you, Marcine?”

“Indeed you have. Now, Kellan, I do believe it’s time you gave me some pleasure.”

— XIII—

The new Viscount Hampstead
couldn’t help but feel slightly foolish.

Why on earth were people suddenly bowing to him all the time, calling him by the name of a place where—apparently—he now owned a large plot of land and a huge home, and acting as if he had the power to do something for them?

His name was Zaren, or if not that, then at least John, which had sounded familiar as soon as Everett began to explain things to him. If his mother had given him the name John, he would use it, but being called Hampstead felt very odd.

What was even more odd and unsettling was the number of people who’d begun sending little white cards with their names printed on them, or other information, called “invitations.” Apparently, he was an important person—and in a world he hardly knew how to navigate.

Zaren missed his jungle. He missed his home: the blue sky, the lush greenery, the variety of creatures, the colors. London was drab and cold and dark.

But he thought that perhaps he could accept even London if he only had Jane with him—and that was why, feeling even more foolish than he’d ever felt in his life, he was climbing out of a carriage and striding up the path to a large house…while wearing a mask.

Apparently that was what it was called, this strange covering over his head and the top of his face. It left his eyes unshielded so he could see (although Zaren had extremely acute hearing and knew how to move through the jungle in utter darkness), and his mouth and the top of his nose unencumbered.

What, he wondered, was the purpose of such a thing? He understood animals using their surroundings to blend in, but why would a man wish to do this when attending a…party. That was the word. A party.

A masquerade party.

Effie had tried to explain it, but Zaren still thought the entire concept was ridiculous. However, when he learned that Kellan Darkdale meant to attend this party, Zaren decided nothing would keep him away—including not having the foggiest notion what one did at a party, and how to comport himself.

All he needed to do was find Kellan Darkdale. Once he had the man, he would find Jane.

His nostrils flared a bit as he stepped into the house, the door having been opened by a man called a butler. A number of smells assaulted him—some familiar, some not, some pleasant, and others not at all.

But an underlying scent that immediately penetrated Zaren’s consciousness was that of mating. Of intimacy and bodies and mating.

It was odd that the smell was so strong in a location where he’d learned something called Polite Society would be attending. The realization made him even more acutely aware of his surroundings, and had his instincts sharpening.

This entree into a party—to which he’d nevertheless been invited—was just as dangerous as hunting a mad lion. Or attempting to free oneself from the attention of one of the massive snakes that could crush one to death. Despite the fact that he was unfamiliar with this sort of environment, Zaren was fearless.

He would find Darkdale.

He would find Jane.

They would leave.

He pushed his way past a cluster of people, finally glad for the mask that hid his features—and the fact that he was a stranger. The scent of mating and coitus was stronger now, and over the constant buzz of conversation, laughter, and music, he could hear different sounds…ones that didn’t seem to belong.

Following his animal instincts, Zaren made his way through the house. There was another scent, something familiar, that led him through a chamber and then into a corridor, and to a closed door. His heart was pounding, for that scent was stronger—and it was a scent he recognized.

A man stood in front of the door, clearly meant to keep unwanted visitors out. “Private party inside,” he said. “There is no admittance without a special invitation.”

Zaren didn’t hesitate. “I am Hampstead.” He wasn’t about to let this puny man keep him from finding out what was beyond that door.

“You are Hampstead? By God, how fortunate can we be?” A woman’s voice behind had him turning.

She was tall and had pale hair. She wore a mask, of course, but her lips were unnaturally red and she also wore scarlet gloves and boots.

Zaren bowed. “My pleasure. I wish to go in there.”

Her red lips curved. “Mistress Marcine,” she said, extending her hand, which he had learned meant he should take it and press his lips to the top of her glove.

He did so, but his attention was already at the door. If they didn’t let him in, he would force his way in.

“Kellan will be pleased you chose to attend tonight. But I must say, his pleasure won’t be even near what mine is, walking in on your arm. Come with me.”

The man stepped aside and Marcine led him through the doorway.

Zaren took two steps inside and was assaulted by her scent. There was no mistaking it.

Jane.

Jane is here.

He froze, his nostrils quivering, and every muscle in his body went taut and tense.

“What is it, my lord?” his companion asked, but he had pulled his arm from her grip and was stalking across the chamber.

***

Jane could hardly see from behind her mask. She was hot and flushed, and her eyeholes had been knocked askew during one of the “sessions,” as Darkdale called them.

She and other “submissives”—as they’d been called in fond, affectionate tones—had been commanded to act out certain erotic scenes for the pleasure of their masters and, apparently, some mistresses. The latest one had involved them managing a threesome on a table.

She was exhausted and nervous about what might happen next, but at the same time, she knew this was her best opportunity to escape. It was the first time she’d left Darkdale’s home since arriving there, and although he’d introduced her to an odious man named DuVal, he had been distracted by a game that included betting on how long a man could hold off from orgasm when he was being sucked by a woman. There were three men in contention, and they’d been going for more than twenty minutes.

Jane knew it was only a matter of time before she was dragged into such an activity—or worse—and she thought this would be her single chance to escape. She looked around, beginning to ease through the crowd, much of which had descended into an orgy-like atmosphere. People were fucking everywhere she looked—some with whips and some without.

Just then, she saw Marcine walk into the chamber. She was on the arm of a tall, broad-shouldered man who immediately drew Jane’s attention. Her insides shifted and her mouth went dry, and she turned away as a sharp, agonizing pain stabbed her belly.

Now she was imagining Zaren everywhere. Desperation was causing her to hallucinate…or, at least, to wish for the impossible.

Still, her attention went back to the man and she saw him scanning the chamber from behind his mask. He was so like Zaren, she couldn’t hold back the tears. They welled in her eyes as she imagined what he must be doing, far away in Madagascar, wondering if she would ever return.

Suddenly there was a shout, and heads turned. Jane looked over to see that the cock-sucking competition had ended, and Darkdale was the winner. No surprise there.

But that meant he’d be looking for her. She turned, trying to duck behind a pillar, and all at once she slammed into a tall, muscular body.

Muffling an excuse—for she was a submissive, and shouldn’t even be on her feet, let alone doing anything she wasn’t commanded to do—Jane started to turn away.

But then she looked up, and when she saw the blue eyes behind the mask, she clapped her hand to her mouth.
No. Impossible.
She started to cry as she turned away, shaking and trembling with grief and confusion.

“Jane.”

Her heart stopped as a hand reached to touch her tentatively. She slowly turned, her heart now pounding as if it were about to burst from her ribcage. “Zaren?” she whispered.

“Jane.” His mask was gone, and there, impossibly—
completely,
utterly
impossibly
—he stood there. In front of her. Dressed like any other man in the room. His hair cut shorter, but not too short, and clubbed at the nape. His eyes…oh, God, his eyes…

“Zaren.” She could only stand there, suddenly, utterly aware of her nakedness, of the decadent lasciviousness that surrounded them, that had been part of her—that likely clung to her in scent as well as aura.