Authors: Diana Thorn
Peter Mainwaring, Viscount Herridon, fell in love with Amy
in the Assembly Room at Bath. When he waylaid her in a moonlit garden and
introduced her to erotic bondage and submission, he thought he’d found his
bride. But Amy, frightened of her response, fled and married Peter’s best
friend John instead.
Amy loves John, but his gentle caresses leave her cold. When
John confesses his unhappiness, Peter offers to help. He comes to Amy as a
masked stranger and teaches her to embrace her desires. But when it’s time to
return to her husband, Amy realizes the masked man is Peter, and that she
cannot give her heart—or her body—to John alone.
An Ellora’s Cave Romantica
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Frayed Bonds Copyright © 2010 Diana Thorn
Edited by Jaynie Ritchie
Cover art by Syneca
Electronic book publication August 2010
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“I haven’t the slightest idea what to do about it, Peter.
She just lies there staring up at the ceiling while I fuck her. I’m at my wit’s
end,” said John Tregarth, pouring out his frustration and a double brandy at
the same time. He took a seat beside the fire and drank in morose silence.
Peter Mainwaring, Viscount Herridon, looked out the window
at the young woman in question, frolicking in the garden with a floppy-eared
puppy, her sprigged muslin gown fetchingly disheveled, her chignon coming
seductively undone. “She’s nineteen,” he replied at last to his oldest and
closest friend. “She just needs warming up.”
“She turned twenty last week,” said Tregarth. “I’ve spent
hours warming her with every trick in the book. Fingered her ‘til my skin
pruned, licked her ‘til my tongue was worn out. I’m afraid she’s frigid.”
Peter turned his attention from the young woman outside to
the unhappy man beside the fire. John Tregarth had been his schoolmate, his
brother in arms in the Peninsular War, and most recently, his rival for the
affections of the lovely young woman in the garden, Miss Amy Graham, now Mrs.
Peter hesitated to offer advice. He suspected he had played
a part in the unhappiness of his friend’s marriage. They’d both spotted Amy at
the same time, in the Bath Assembly Rooms, a sparkling jewel in a perfect
setting. Her classical proportions, ripe breasts, wide hips and gently curved
belly made her look like some Greek sculpture of Aphrodite. Her presence
transformed the pillared hall in to an ancient temple to carnal delights.
Both men had known, from the second they laid eyes on her
lavish, untried curves, that the other must be a rival for her affections.
With most women, the outcome would have been a foregone
conclusion. Tregarth had a fine farm and a comfortable house, with a
respectable fortune. But Peter had a title, an estate, political office, more
money than he knew what to do with and an unlimited choice in women. A sensible
woman, asked to choose between two equally handsome suitors, would always take
the wealthier one.
Everyone believed she would choose Peter Mainwaring.
The conventions of the
, or course, dictated that
Peter select a wife with rank equal to, or only slightly beneath, that of his
But the same money that ensured his place in society gave him
license to do as he pleased. And it would please him, he had thought in Bath,
to do Amy in as many ways as she might stand before exhaustion took her.
Particularly with her skin flushed, her pretty mouth gagged and her wrists
bound tight in leather traces. Tregarth, no doubt, felt the same. As young men
before the army, and then during the war, they had discovered a shared taste
for helplessness, a wicked delight in inflicting pleasure, and in the sweetest
way possible, pain, on the only nominally unwilling. The truly unwilling were a
different matter. Neither Peter nor John had any taste for rape. They had
shared a great deal together, including some decidedly unconventional women.
Amy was different. They could not share Amy.
That night in Bath the contest was joined.
John Tregarth pursued Amy as the rules of society dictated,
calling on her in daylight, properly chaperoned, with the approval of her
family and friends. He wooed her with tales of country life, of the quiet
pleasures of the field and dairy, of long rambling walks and soft, moonlit
nights. He told Peter that he was determined to treat Amy differently, to put
aside forever his crooked proclivities and worship her as the goddess she was.
Pure, tender, innocent, the mother he hoped of his children and a matriarch
someday to his sprawling family.
Peter, in complete confidence of his own success, chose a
different road. He had no desire to call on her family, make small talk with
her mother or discuss religion with her father. He wanted no partner in life
who would not taste its sweetest pleasures with him. He had no pedestal on
which to put her, unless of course he could turn her over it, paddle her until
she begged for his cock and swallow it to the root before accepting the swiving
That was how he wanted Amy. All that remained was to
determine if she would want him the same way. He enlisted an accomplice in this
matter, a distant cousin for whom he had done a great service for in the past,
Deborah Chambers, now the Marchioness of Brinley. His service had been of a
decidedly carnal nature, as the naïve Deborah had been engaged to one of the
most debauched men in England. Peter had seen what others had missed, that it
might be a happy one if the correct steps were taken. Deborah, he knew, could
be happy with her rich lord if someone broke her in first. Peter had been kind
enough to oblige.
And Deborah was willing to abet him in returning the favor.
She’d invited young Amy and her family to a house party at Brinley. Though the
Marquis was known for his questionable morals, his invitation was too exalted
to refuse. The house would be full of exalted guests, and most importantly,
exalted suitors for young Amy. And there would be a ball.
The Grahams had been only too happy to attend. The ball was
a glittering affair, and the dancing and drinking went on late into the night.
Deborah had made certain that Amy “accidentally” observed an erotic tableau on
the other side of the massive, winged house, far away from the decorous
ballroom, namely Deborah taking cock from her husband the Marquis and another
lover at once.
It had been a rousing spectacle, even to someone as jaded as
Peter. Deborah lay on her back across a piano bench in her conservatory, naked,
wrists bound to the legs of the bench with lavender ribbons, sucking her
husband’s cock with wet, slurping sounds of joy, while a stable boy powered
into her pussy, encouraged in the most explicit terms by her happy husband.
Yes, it was a decidedly successful marriage. The expression of joy on Deborah’s
lovely face was proof enough of that.
And Amy, sent on an errand to the moonlit garden to retrieve
the shawl of an elderly aunt, had seen them. Not just seen them but watched
them. She’d taken Peter’s breath away. Here was no delicate miss, gasping in
fright and running for the safety of the house. Amy, though she didn’t know it
yet, was a born sensualist.
She’d been bound to stop of course. The glass doors to the
garden had been thrown wide open in invitation, and light spilled from the
pretty purple room, the color of the walls mimicking the hue of Deborah’s
aroused flesh. Amy had paused just outside the crescent of light, arrested by
the scene before her, the shawl fluttering to the stones of the terrace.
Peter watched her from his hiding place in the deep embrace
of a winged leather armchair.
As she took in the scene, Amy’s pupils dilated, her
breathing became shallow, her lips parted and her tongue darted out to moisten
her parched lips. Peter wished he could lick them for her. He caressed his cock
through his breeches, his only regret that he could not reveal his presence,
draw her into the room and sink into her at once.
Unconsciously she touched herself, her fingers coming to
rest lightly on her breasts, circling her nipples then gripping more firmly
until a sigh escaped her pink mouth.
The stable boy turned and saw her, his face a mask of
straining triumph, an exhibitionist as bold as his master and mistress.
Amy turned white as her gown, gave a startled cry, and fled.
Peter didn’t hurry. He knew that every door on that side of
the house was locked, because he had locked them himself, knew that he had
plenty of time to intercept her on the lawn, which she must cross, descending
into the ha-ha, the trench that afforded the house an unparalleled view of the
famous Brinley Gardens. He would catch her there, amidst the ancient statuary
that failed to rival her own classical beauty.
She was running blind down the long hedged aisle, her
slippers dancing lightly over the gravel, when he stepped from the arched bower
housing a copy of Bernini’s Daphne and Apollo. The statue was entirely
appropriate, because Peter planned to catch Amy and ravish her—but there would
be no divine intervention to save her from his embrace.
She made no sound when he caught her, only sighed softly in
surprise when he slipped an arm around her waist, captured her flailing wrists
and drew into her the shadows of the grotto.
“Lord Herridon,” she said, trying to get her breath back.
“I was just returning to the house.”
“I know what you saw.”
“I saw nothing. Really. Nothing.” She writhed in his grasp,
and it delighted him that even in her confused state, her body knew what it
wanted. She thought she was trying to escape him, but there was no mistaking
the sinuous grind of her hips, her desperate need for the hard planes of a male
“You saw Brinley and his wife and the stable boy. It made
you pant. It made your eyes dilate. It made your nipples hard and your pussy
slick. It made you ready, in short, for me.” He hooked a thumb in the bodice of
her gown and rolled down the filmy cotton evening dress, freighted with thick
glass and pearl beading, until her breast popped free.
“No.” She said it without conviction.
His other hand pressed lightly into the small of her back,
rubbing warm, soothing circles over her coccyx. She looked down at her own
breast, eyes widening as the nipple puckered in the night air. Then she looked
back up at him like a child discovered in some transgression.
“No,” she said, but this time it was breathy with awe.
“Good,” he said. “The sight of your own flesh arouses you.”
He rolled the nipple between his thumb and forefinger. Her head fell back, her
mouth opened and she let out an anguished moan. Then he lowered his mouth to
the pouting areola and began to suck.
He knew he had her when her fingers twined in his hair,
pressing his head to her swollen breast. He withdrew his mouth, cupped her
pussy through her gown, pressed her to the low stone bench that circled the
grotto and whispered, “This is a game lovers like to play. You’ll like it. Just
like Deborah. You want to be mastered, to give yourself up to a man entirely.”
He kissed her then, letting her up for air only when she
responded, to probe him tentatively with her tongue.
“No,” she lied once more, tilting her hips up in offering
and opening her legs as he slid her skirts up to her waist.
“I see you understand me completely. When you really mean
no, you must call me by my middle name, Alistair.”
He took her anguished moan as compliance in the same moment
he took the pads of his fingers to her slick opening. He avoided her clitoris,
instead circling the hood, the soft lips on either side and the thin membrane
above her perineum that was all that now separated her from womanhood. It was
his for the taking, he was certain of it, but that was for another time.
“Have you touched yourself like this before?” he asked,
drawing her fingers down to her folds, tracing her contours as if he was
teaching a child to form letters.
She didn’t answer. He stilled their joined hands and she
cried out, “Please!”
“Good girl.” He returned their joined fingers to her sex.
She sighed in contentment. “Then you know what happens next. Show me how
prettily you come.”
“No, what?” he asked giving her the opportunity to stop him
with that single word. Alistair.
“No,” she moaned, but it was more a syllable than sentience,
and he realized that he was no longer guiding her fingers through her own
folds, but that she was guiding his, circling closer to her engorged clit.
“Do you ever put your fingers inside, Amy?”
She shook her head.
“Don’t stop touching yourself,” he commanded. He was pleased
to see how quickly she complied. He rewarded her with a single digit, which he
curled upward to stroke the sweet spot on her front wall. A fresh gush of fluid
answered his exploration, and her cries came faster, more urgently.
He withdrew his finger. She cried out. “No.” But it was a
very different no than her earlier responses. He pulled her hand away from her
weeping pussy, grasped both her wrists and yanked her over his knees.
“You are everything I desire in a wife, Amy, and I think we
shall get along splendidly together.” He tied her wrists together with a
handkerchief and pulled her gown up over her waist. She made no protest. He
drew his belt off and caressed her mouth with the leather, then brought it down
across her luscious upturned ass.
“Yes!” she cried out, all pretense at resistance forgotten.
He encouraged her cries, knowing that one of his servants
was standing within earshot to ensure their privacy and warn off any wandering
guests. He alternately frigged her and flogged her until he had her lying naked
on the grass, hands tied above her head, legs open, begging him to use the belt
on her pussy.
He clutched the very tip of the belt and administered the
soft caresses and the light stinging blows, stroking her engorged flesh with
the soaked leather, until she screamed out her climax.
Afterward he helped her on with her gown, brushed the grass
and dirt from her back and directed her to go straight to her room and expect
him to call upon her parents in the morning. He promised to show her every
delight that lurked in the recesses of her submissive soul and never to take
her further than she dared venture.
With his fortune, his title and her enthusiastic response,
he was certain she would accept him.
In the morning, she and her family were gone.
That had been eight months ago. Returning to the present, he
looked at John Tregarth, the man she had chosen instead. “She isn’t frigid,” he
said at last. “This is my fault. I frightened her with a little love play at
Brinley, that’s all. She found out that she likes a taste of the whip, John,
and it scared her silly. She’s been running away from herself ever since. Tie
her up and make her suck you and she’ll be wet and willing in no time.”