Frayed Bonds (3 page)

This man’s cock curved monstrously from the thick shaft to
the pointed, purple glans. He pressed it against her closed mouth.

“I’m going to fuck your mouth first. Resist the urge to gag,
and keep your teeth out of the way.”

He thrust. She almost choked when the tip hit the back of
her throat, and his balls smacked her chin. She felt wonderfully abased,
gloriously humiliated and desperate to please him. It was deliriously exciting
to feel his smooth shaft sliding in and out of her mouth. She tried her best to
keep her throat open and reveled in applying varying degrees of pressure with
her lips. Once she was used to the motion of his cock, she started to explore
it with her tongue.

He encouraged her, murmuring the increasingly frantic
endearments she didn’t know before now that she craved. Good slut, pretty
whore, dirty girl, my sweet cunt. When she began moaning, he said, “Tell me how
much you like it, Amy, how much you want your mouth filled.”

She placed her hands on his hips to brace herself, squeezing
his muscled thighs. “Good girl. Cup my balls. Cradle them.”

His hips pumped faster and his cock jerked. She began to
pull her head back, knowing he was about to spurt, but he wound his hands in
her hair and gagged her with his cock. “Swallow,” he ordered.

She choked at first but then felt oddly soothed as his cum
slid down her throat.

He stepped away and she felt bereft. She missed his cock,
wanted it back in her mouth again, but he fastened his breeches and walked to
the other side of the room. He pulled a low bench out from its place beneath
the window. It was old, dark wood, petrified with age, nearly five foot long
and adorned with an iron ring above each of its ten legs. “This will do
nicely,” he said, patting the bench.

She wanted to crawl across the room, to be near him, but she
had to resist. “Please let me go,” she said, afraid she would disgrace herself
further.

“I can’t do that, Amy. But perhaps we can get a few things
settled before we continue. Do you understand the game we are playing?”

She wasn’t sure she understood anything anymore. John loved
her, but he had sent a stranger to humiliate her, and she was enjoying it. She
said nothing.

“Have you played a game like this before?” he prompted
patiently.

The memory stabbed through her of Peter Mainwaring’s hands
on her, so firm, so assured, so demanding, in the garden at Brinley. She
shuddered with recalled pleasure, did her best to focus on the man before her,
to summon some reply.

She couldn’t find the words. He strolled across the room and
tipped her chin up to gaze deep into her eyes. “I can see you have. There’s no
need to be ashamed. We’ll play the same way. You may say ‘no’ all you like, but
you must choose a word that really means ‘no’. Say it, and I will stop.”
Something in his manner changed for a moment, became incongruously tender and a
wave of déjà vu swept over Amy. “I’ve no desire to hurt you, my sweet.”

“Alistair,” she sighed.

He stiffened, his grip on her chin becoming sharp and hard.
“What did you say?” he asked her slowly through clenched teeth.

“Alistair. That is the word I choose.”

“Why? Why that word? It’s a name. Why that name?” he asked
with strange urgency.

“Because it makes me feel safe.”

Peter Mainwaring felt the world spin for a moment. He was in
control of an intoxicating erotic tableau, had the woman he most desired
entirely in his power, with the permission of her husband, and she was enjoying
it. It was illicit, arousing, heady. Then it all stopped when she uttered those
three syllables.

When he had first seen her at Bath, he’d desired her as a
plaything. When she’d responded so ardently to his decidedly unconventional
wooing, he’d determined that she would make an ideal wife. She was the
sweetness of day and the wickedness of night all in one unselfconscious
package.

He’d felt loss when she married Tregarth, jealousy when he’d
seen them together and burning lust when she’d knelt before him less than an hour
ago. But his heart had never been fully engaged. He’d loved her after his own
fashion, in the way that he loved horses and paintings and good claret and a
brisk hunt. But he hadn’t felt the desire to protect and cherish that had
awakened in him when she spoke his middle name.

He’d thought for a fraught second after the word left her
lips that she was calling his bluff. That she knew it was him. And that was a
terrifying thought, because he knew how she would react, how she had protected
herself ever since that night at Brinley, from the truth about her own nature.
She would become the cold, passionless creature that she had become with
Tregarth. She could not, he knew, reconcile her two selves yet, could not be as
free as she had just been on her knees with a man she might address across the
breakfast table in the morning.

But she had not been calling his bluff. She’d chosen the
name because it made her feel safe, because he’d made her feel safe. For a few
short hours, in a moonlit garden, she’d been free to be herself, and trusted
entirely in the man who had guided her to passion. Then the morning had come.

It was daylight now, a conscious decision on Peter’s part,
to put as much distance as possible between the stranger he masqueraded as
today and the man she had known that night. And because he wanted her to
understand there weren’t two Amys. There wasn’t a part of her she must be
ashamed of, which could only come out at night. The freedom she craved in bed
did not diminish her in any way in the eyes of the man—the men—he realized—who
loved her, and it should not diminish her in her own eyes. He would see to
that.

She was trembling now. He wanted to gather her in his arms,
kiss away her fears, draw her gently onto the bed, bind her wrists as he wished
he could bind their lives, and make love to her. But he could not. She was not
his.

Instead, he drew her to the long bench, bade her lie upon
her back, and tied her wrists to the iron rings with supple leather traces.
Then he unrolled the velvet case in which his most exotic possessions were
housed, held up an exquisitely rendered carving in marble for her inspection
and smiled with anticipation when she gasped.

John Tregarth had intended to send Peter Mainwaring away.
He’d waited in the parlor on the appointed day determined to meet the carriage
when it approached the house and tell his oldest friend to drive on. Amy, he
had decided, would come around on her own. Tregarth could wait for her. Peter
Mainwaring had it all wrong. Amy didn’t want a taste of the whip. She was
sweetness and light, innocence and purity, and her coldness in the bedroom
would thaw with time and patience.

He’d been daydreaming about her in the parlor, lulled by the
quiet of the house with all the servants gone and didn’t hear the carriage
approach. Then Peter was there, in the drive.

Tregarth had made Peter promise to respect his boundaries.
Amy’s virginity was gone, of course, but Tregarth still couldn’t stand the idea
of his best friend sliding his cock into her narrow, still almost innocent
sheath. It trespassed somehow, in a way that sliding flesh into her mouth did
not.

Peter gathered the bags he’d brought with him. “We have a
great deal to do. Show me Amy’s room,” he commanded, and Tregarth obeyed.

He watched in dazed silence while Peter Mainwaring swept
Amy’s cupboards empty, depositing her dresses and stockings and stays in an
unused room below the stairs and locking the door. He hammered nails into her
windows—small and easy enough to remove but forming an effective prison for the
time being. He demanded to be shown the rooms on either side of the bedchamber,
and after a careful examination of both, he selected Amy’s workroom, with its
neatly organized sewing and embroidery piles, and drilled a small hole at eye
level in the wall between the two rooms.

And there Tregarth had remained. He’d resisted the impulse
to look into the adjoining room until Amy’s startled cry had drawn him to the
peephole.

It had been all he could do to stop himself from rushing to
her rescue. The horror etched on her face had made his heart constrict. Then
he’d watched her bolt for the door, and Mainwaring hurl her back into the room.
If she’d been hurt, he would have stopped it then and there, but she was
unscathed, and then Peter had begun speaking to her in the commanding voice
he’d used on the men they’d led in the war and on women in the bedroom for as
long as Tregarth had known him. Tregarth had watched a dreamy look come over
his wife’s delicate features, felt lust stir his cock as she’d peeled her
chemise off, and felt his member spring to full attention when she dropped to
her knees and opened her mouth to engulf Peter’s shaft.

Tregarth had been standing a little away from the wall, his
eye pressed to the peephole, feet apart. Without conscious thought he freed his
own stiff cock from his trousers, and began to stroke it.

He slowed when Peter slowed, tried with all his might to
imagine that it was Amy’s mouth pleasuring him. But he found himself spilling
long before Peter, forced to watch his wife pleasuring another man while his
own cock softened.

He would have stopped it then, broken through the locked
door to claim her, to save her, to save himself, but for the wanton, desperate
way Amy’s legs fell open when, tied face-up on the wicked bench, she saw the
jutting marble cock in Peter’s hand.

* * * * *

“No,” she said it even as she realized her legs were falling
open and her hips were tilting up in invitation.

The masked man smiled his crooked, bittersweet smile and
said, “Yes.”

“What is it?” she asked, unable to take her eyes off the
veined marble shaft, so delicately carved it seemed to pulse with life.

“I’m surprised you need to ask considering the pretty show
you made with your mouth a few minutes ago, but I’m feeling indulgent. It’s a
dildo, a marble cock, a pleasure toy. The idea is as old as recorded history,
the materials as varied as imagination can make them, but few are more lifelike
than this example. I chose it carefully. The artist is a genius. His less
amorous creations adorn some of the finest homes and public buildings, and he
can make marble breathe.”

Amy wished she could breathe, but she could only draw air in
ragged, panting sobs. “I don’t want that,” she said.

He laid a hand on her thrusting hip. “I beg to differ.
You’re offering yourself like a cat in heat, my lovely slut.”

The filthy endearment made her feel warm inside, drove her
lust higher, but she didn’t want the marble imposter. “I want you,” she said,
the anguish clear in her voice.

The masked man froze for a moment, tension cording the
muscles of his arms and thighs visible beneath his tight trousers and rolled
shirtsleeves. “You husband has forbidden it, otherwise I would oblige you
without a moment’s delay. Instead, I am going to prove to him that you are not
frigid and make you come prettily on this exquisite toy.”

He ran the marble phallus over her tummy, her breasts.
“Please no. It’s cold and dry. You’ll hurt me. Please just touch me.”

Again, the half smile. “I could diddle you all day and it
would prove nothing. I could make almost any woman come screaming by playing
her clit long enough.”

To demonstrate, he slid his fingers once over her mons and
she sobbed. It was almost, but not quite enough, to carry her over the
threshold. “But that’s not what your husband is interested in. He’s interested
in fucking you properly, with your pretty wrists trussed, while you respond as
I know you can.”

He stroked the marble cock thoughtfully. “It is, as you say,
cold and dry. Perhaps you would like to warm it before it enters your little
cunny?”

She stared up at him blankly. “Warm it? How?”

“You’re a quick witted creature. You tell me how. You could
stroke it, of course, but your hands aren’t free.”

He couldn’t mean…the thought brought further warmth to her
heated flesh…

“Put it in my mouth,” she whispered, aghast at what she was
saying.

He smirked. “That sounds awfully like an order, and you
don’t give the orders today, my sweet. Ask again.”

“Put it in my mouth, please?”

He didn’t move.

“Please, Sir?”

He cocked his head and watched her. She wracked her brain.
What did he want to hear?

“Put it in my mouth please, Sir,” she begged.

“Good girl.”

The praise went straight to her aching, empty pussy, and she
opened her mouth obediently when he pressed the marble cock to her lips.

“This may teach you to keep your sharp little teeth out of
the way,” he said.

She was afraid he would thrust it in and chip her tooth just
to make his point, but he only nudged at her lips until they opened and held
the thing at an angle where she could suck and lave it with her tongue.

He stroked her hair tenderly while she fellated the marble
cock, and when the shaft was slick with her saliva, he drew it away and poised
it at the entrance to her weeping slit.

Peter had considered giving in to her for a fraction of a
second. The door was locked, after all, and Tregarth might not even be
watching. And this, clearly, would be his last chance to fuck Amy.

He’d mastered the impulse and become quickly caught up in
the game he’d planned. Watching her suck the marble dildo had been almost as
enjoyable as watching her suck his cock. And seeing her come on it would be
even better.

He didn’t impale her right away. He was too entranced by the
contrast of her flushed, wet pink labia against the pale marble. The rigidity
of the marble emphasized the softness of her flesh, and when he pushed the head
inside and the carved glans disappeared in her folds, he knew he’d never seen
anything more arousing in all his life. He hoped to hell Tregarth was watching
because no one could call Amy Tregarth frigid after this.

She sighed with gratification when it entered her then
moaned and bucked in desperation, greedy for the rest of the marble intruder.
He’d selected the wicked toy carefully, conscious of her near innocence and
having no desire to injure her. It was slightly more slender than a man would
be, and although rigid, unlikely to hurt her tender flesh if used gently.

“Please,” she pleaded with him. “I want you. Not that thing.
You.” She sobbed with frustration.

Then he gave her another inch, and she convulsed. Not quite
an orgasm, but a signal of impending climax. It was almost too easy. He angled
the phallus down, pointing the head away from the sensitive front wall of her
vagina, withholding sensation and release.

She mewled like a kitten, writhed on the bench, tried to
change the angle of his penetration. “Good girl,” he praised her. “Find where
it feels good, Amy. Fuck yourself on the cock. Show me how prettily you come.”

“Please,” she begged.

“Work for it,” he urged her.

“Please,” she said again, “please, I want you to kiss me.”

He had been hard since the moment she’d opened her legs, but
this was something else entirely. Lust was one thing, but longing was another,
and this was longing. He longed to kiss her, longed to slip his tongue into her
mouth.

He remembered their audience, his eyes darting to the hole
he had drilled in the wall. Tregarth hadn’t forbidden him to kiss her, but it
wasn’t exactly part of his usual dominant play. It was intimate in a way that
fucking was not, that plunging a dildo into her tiny body was not, that gagging
her with his cock was not. It was a violation of the spirit, if not the letter,
of his agreement.

And still he couldn’t resist her. He bent over her and
pressed his lips to her open mouth, captured her sobs, quieted her, teased her
tongue with his own. “Yes,” she was murmuring now between kisses, “yes, please.
Please. I want you. Take the thing out. Please, I want you.”

It was too quiet for her husband to hear, but it snapped
Peter back to reality. He lifted his head and watched her. She was wanton,
drunk with passion, desperate for a warm, live cock, any cock. Not his, he told
himself. To her, he was a masked stranger, not Peter Mainwaring.

He placed a hand on her pubic bone to still her frantic
movements, then said cruelly, “Show your husband how prettily you come.”

Her eyes snapped open. She looked frantically around the
room.

He gave her another inch, to remind her what they were here
for. She groaned. “Where is he?”

“Your husband? He’s watching us.”

He angled the cock up and she sobbed. “No!”

“Yes, Amy. He’s watching you give to a piece of cold stone
what you would not give to him. And after today all that will change, won’t it?
You’re going to show him your real self.” He slid the dildo in to the hilt and
watched her.

The tide that would carry her over into release was building
and there was no stopping it. She tried to resist, tried to still her hips and
her jiggling breasts, tried to close her splayed legs, but she couldn’t. “Yes!”
she shouted, and exploded, her fluids drenching his wrist and pooling on the
wooden bench beneath the quivering cheeks of her ass.

He might have wrung another climax from her, but his point
was made. Tregarth must know now what his wife needed, and Amy herself was deep
in a receptive state. He slipped the marble phallus from her limp body. It only
remained for him to call John into the room and leave them to it. She would
accept her husband, accept this part of herself, if Tregarth insinuated himself
quickly enough into Peter’s shoes.

And Peter needed relief after Amy’s performance. The thought
of a welcoming body was little consolation however, though it was better than
relying on his hand.

He could not stop himself from brushing the hair from her
face, pulling the sweat-soaked tendrils off her cheeks and tucking them behind
her ears.

“I’m going to summon your husband now. You’re his,” he
ground out, hating the truth of it.

He started for the door.

“Don’t go,” she begged.

He stopped. “Do you love him?” he asked. He sounded like a
lovesick schoolboy and hated himself for it.

“Yes,” she said softly.

“Then show him the part of yourself you have just shown me,
and you will both be happy.”

“Only if you fuck me first, Peter.”

She’d suspected it was Peter when he’d instructed her to
choose a word, and he’d stiffened at the sound of his middle name. Then he’d
kissed her, and she’d been certain.

He was poised to leave now, and she could not let him. “I’m
not sorry I ran from you at Brinley,” she went on, trying desperately to keep
him in the room. “I love John. I was always going to choose John.”

He wasn’t moving a muscle. The mask hid his expression, but
she knew she was hurting him. She knew she had to get past the part that was
cruel and hurtful to what was true and important right now. “But I need you
now,” she said, “I need you inside me.”

“You need your husband.” He sounded hoarse, whether with
lust or with anger she wasn’t certain.

“No. I need you. You showed me what I need, and if you leave
now, if I never know what it is to have you inside me, I’ll never be able to
give myself fully to John.”

“I made a promise,” he said, but he’d already retreated from
the door, begun to run his hands up and down her prone body. “Amy, Amy, I want
to be inside you but I promised him that this,” he said, sliding his fingers
into her still fluttering quim, “was for him alone.”

He’d been ready to leave. It was the perfect moment. She was
languid, receptive but not entirely sated. One climax would barely take the
edge off the lust he had carefully built in her, built for John to pluck the
fruit of. What he ought to do was walk out now, leaving her like that for her
husband. After the show they had just put on, no doubt John Tregarth was ready
for the rutting of his life, and at last he would have a willing,
self-accepting wife to ride to completion with.

Instead he found himself kneeling beside the bench,
breathing in the scent of her arousal, lowering his mouth to hers to kiss her
deeply, playing his fingers through the moisture drenching her quim, her
thighs, the crack of her ass.