Chapter Nine

Japanese Whispers

HAS SHE UNDERSTOOD me? thought André, arranging his star-strewn cloak around him as he lay down among the books and parchments tumbled across his bed. It was close to dawn, and soon he would be compelled to go to sleep again, but until that happened he could nurture his hopes and dreams.

To his great relief, Belinda Seward had expressed no horror at his unusual longevity and shown very little fear of him, but he did sense that she harboured many questions. Questions, and an instinctive awareness of her own importance in the scheme of things; an importance that transcended simple dalliance.

Not that the love they had made had been insignificant, he realised. Far from it. Abandoning himself to memory, he lay back and hugged his silken cloak around him, thinking of the pleasure he had experienced just hours ago.

Touching and caressing Belinda Seward had been frighteningly like his recurring dreams of Arabelle. Their bodies and faces were so similar, or at least alike in the fact that Belinda was his Arabelle matured to womanhood. If Belle had not been taken from him before she had even achieved her twentieth birthday, she would have looked very much as Belinda looked now. He smiled, wondering if Belle would ever have considered cutting off her lustrous titian hair and sporting the short, elfin crop that Belinda favoured. He would have to ask her. What he was sure of though, was that she would certainly have had the same sensual nature; the same sweet blend of naïveté and daring. A rich amalgam of the pure and the profane.

As his penis began to rise again, stirred both by recent acts and by long-lost dreams, André sat up, squared his shoulders, and reached for a book. It had always seemed odd to him, but he had discovered that he did his best and clearest thinking while he was aroused. Whenever he cast an enchantment, he incited a state of desire for the process – either by stimulating thoughts or by touching himself – and he ascribed much of his magic prowess to the powers of lust.

And he would need every last scrap of that prowess if he were to achieve the difficult goal that lay ahead of him. Opening the grimoire, he turned quickly to the relevant pages, to a ritual that he already knew by heart yet which was so hazardous it had never been given a name.

Would it work? he wondered, wrinkling his nose as a familiar but hated perfume rose up from the age-darkened paper. This grimoire might be the only means by which he could achieve what he wanted for himself and Arabelle, but its origins inspired a deep revulsion. It seemed like only yesterday that he had snatched it up from among the clutter on Isidora’s work table, then fled into the night, taking only it and Arabelle’s crystal vial.

The book of enchantments had not come to Isidora by fair means though, he knew that. She had probably stolen it, most likely from the esoteric collection of one of her previous victims; it was a treasure that had already been antique two hundred years ago. Within its weathered pages was the lore of more than a dozen revered mages – alchemist wizards who had sought eternal life and the secret of creating gold – and even to them the knowledge had been a received wisdom. It contained lore from the Orient, from the Middle East and from Ancient Egypt; where death and rebirth and allegorical erotic ritual had been central to their complex pharaonic cult.

Where would he and Arabelle go if the rite described in the grimoire was successful? he wondered. To the stellar heavens – as the Egyptian kings had believed – or to another world entirely? To nothingness even? There was no way to tell in advance exactly what would happen, but he knew that in some form at least they would be together, freed at last from their state of separation.

There were many hazards though. The ritual might fail and condemn him to live on even longer, his mind affected, his body weakened. He might even lose the spirit of Arabelle, setting her adrift in some dark and unknown void. The greatest danger was that Belinda, as his beloved’s mortal host, might be extinguished too; many ingredients of the elixir were deadly poison when taken under normal circumstances. Belladonna; mercury; azarnet, or arsenic as it was more commonly known. All these were fatal in their unenchanted forms.

Did he have the right to risk Belinda’s life? And if he explained the dangers to her, could she still care for him as the ritual also demanded?

There was no way he could avoid telling her. He already felt a particular fondness for her after just one day’s acquaintance, and besides which, any deception would void the magic. The host had to be aware and completely willing.

Putting aside his qualms for the moment, André considered what other elements he must assemble for his endeavour. Sacred ground was easily found – the priory’s ruined chapel was the perfect site. Candles; incense; bindings? Yes, he had all those in abundance. They had been prepared for decades, in anticipation of a suitable host’s arrival. The one facet he did not have to hand was an attendant sorceress to preside over the final stages of the spell.

This was a most critical requirement indeed. Michiko, his dear friend and comforter, had told him once that she was always awaiting his call, but was he yet sufficiently strong enough to summon her? Their mind-link was tenuous across great distance. And if he could contact her, how quickly would she be able to reach him?

‘Michiko,’ he murmured, closing the grimoire and putting it aside. ‘Michiko-chan … Where are you? I need you … Come to me …’

Almost immediately, a vivid image appeared to him, not of the present but of many decades past. It was Michiko clad in the gorgeous formal kimono she had been wearing when he had first met her, back in Japan, in a period when he had been relatively strong, and travelling extensively to escape detection by Isidora.

In need of his particular kind of ‘sustenance’, he had arranged to be introduced to a famous courtesan, Madame Michiko, a great lady from the elite of her profession. When she had ushered him into her boudoir and they were sitting cross-legged, facing each other across the tatami mat, it had taken him only a second to discover what she really was; a Miko, or white sorceress, who was blessed – or cursed – with the same long life as he.

‘I perceive your dilemma, my lord,’ she had said to him from behind her fluttering fan, in his native tongue. André had been impressed by her superb command of language, although her mental gift meant she had little need to speak. ‘Please accept my humble assistance in this matter. I will do everything within my power to aid your success.’ And with that she had snapped shut her fan, risen to her feet and shuffled gracefully towards him, then begun, with fastidious fingers, to unfasten his clothes.

‘Michiko,’ he whispered now, remembering her imagination and her gentle, arcane skill. Her poise, above all things, was a wonder to experience, and she created art in the realm of sensual dealings.

Each garment she had removed from him she had meticulously folded and placed on a low cedarwood table. Each accessory she had arranged with reverent flair. His stiff collar had encircled his silver collar studs, and his cufflinks had been positioned one on either side. It had seemed, at first, that she was taking more care of his clothing than she was prepared to lavish on his body, but André soon realised that that was not the case at all.

‘Be at your ease, my lord,’ she had murmured, when at last he stood naked before her. ‘I am here to serve you and to bring relief to your hungering flesh.’

Though he had a hundred years of dealing with women behind him, André felt nervous with this bright exotic creature. That she was a sorceress, possessing the same longevity that he did and most probably far greater powers, put him at a disadvantage in her presence; something he had not experienced since his seduction by Isidora. Michiko’s beauty, too, condemned him as her slave.

Her oval face was painted chalk-white in the traditional geisha style, but the heavy make-up wasn’t in the slightest mask-like; on the contrary, it seemed to enhance the exquisite bone structure that lay beneath it, much in the way that a glaze increased the loveliness of precious porcelain. A vivid, blood-red lip paint outlined a mouth of glorious symmetry, and her long dark eyes were boldly outlined by jet-black kohl. Her hair was hidden by an elaborate traditional wig, adorned with carved ivory combs and paper flowers, but André knew instinctively that it would be long and black and glossy. Similarly, though her body was concealed beneath her ornate many-layered kimono and its huge folded obi, he was certain she would be the very acme of slender shapeliness.

As he watched her, his penis already erect, she took a thin padded futon from a cupboard, then unrolled it on to the mat, bidding him to lie on it.

‘You are very vigorous, my lord,’ she said softly, sinking down in a cloud of silk beside him, her painted gaze settling intently on his penis.

‘My name is André,’ he told her, conscious of his own flesh swaying as she studied it, ‘and you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.’

‘I think not,’ Michiko observed, her smile oblique but her eyes full of sympathy. ‘There is another … You love her, yet she resides in a place that is neither earth nor heaven. I believe that she is the true beauty that you treasure.’

Unmanned for a moment, André turned away, conscious – as he often was at times like these – that he had never been fully naked for Arabelle; never given her the gift of his rampant body. She was aware of his unclothed appearance, of course, and was present in his chamber each night while he undressed, but she had never looked upon his nakedness with corporeal eyes; only ‘seen’ him with her strangely powerful psyche.

When Michiko’s narrow hand settled on his thigh, André flinched.

‘I know your pain, André-chan,’ she said, her voice like a bell lilting in the breeze, ‘and I know too, what it is that soothes it.’ Her fingers drifted upward. ‘Fear not for the sensibilities of your beloved. My mind has touched hers. I sense her, and she urges me to minister to your needs.’

With a great, relieved sigh, André rolled over on to his back, knowing that his clever, exotic companion spoke the truth. He too could feel Arabelle’s approval, her tender urging that he empower himself through sex.

Expecting Michiko to disrobe, as he had, André was surprised when she continued to caress him, her fingers fluttering across his skin with nimble purpose. She did not touch his penis straight away, although it was standing up proudly to tempt her, but instead stroked the tender creases of his groin. Her touch was so light yet so effective, and the contact was so near to the seat of his arousal that he experienced it almost as pain instead of pleasure. He groaned, wanting her long, slender fingers to strum his aching hardness and their dainty tips to titillate his glans.

But still Michiko denied him, exploring his belly and his flanks with a studied thoroughness. André tried to reach for her, but with a strength and swiftness that astounded him, she dashed his hands away then deftly snared them in her own. In a rare feat of legerdemain, she took both his wrists in a single-handed, long-fingered grip and pressed them down against the futon at his side, leaving him helplessly pinned and at her mercy.

‘Remember what I am, my lord,’ she said quietly, her near-black eyes narrowing inscrutably as she surveyed him. ‘I have all the power that you possess, and much more that is different and unknown to you. I am your equal, and I will have my way in this.’

Her determination suddenly reminded him of Isidora, and he shuddered.

‘I am not like she, either,’ said Michiko immediately, demonstrating again her undeniable mental gift. ‘I wish to control you for a time, André. To play with you and give pleasure to us both.’ She touched his cheek with her free hand. ‘But when that is over, you are sovereign. And I serve you.’

Relieved, André relaxed against the futon, expecting Michiko to instantly release him. She did not however, and set about fondling as much of his body as she could reach with her one roving hand. André was constricted, his torso twisted awkwardly to one side, but the feeling of being bound was insidiously delicious. In the past, he had always had supremacy in such matters, and the sensation of being controlled was a piquant thrill.

As she touched him, Michiko stared deeply into his eyes, making a lie of the Japanese woman’s reputation for submissiveness. She had pledged to serve him but there was nothing soft or pliant about her nature. Her fierce dark eyes were filled with an almost warrior-like zeal, and André felt a great relief that she had taken to him. With powers like hers, and her indomitable personality, she would be an enemy who made even Isidora seem weak.

‘You are quite right, my lord gaijin,’ she murmured, her crimson mouth an inch from his throat. ‘I could destroy you … or make your constant anguish a thousand times more frightful.’ Her lips came within a hair’s breadth of the line of his jaw, and at the same time her fingernails skimmed his twitching penis. ‘But I like you … and I offer you my help.’

André moaned, his body in thrall to his slender Nippon goddess, while his intellect, riding above it, blessed her name. She would be as awesome an ally in his cause.

Thrashing ineffectually, he tried to brush himself against her silk kimono. The pressure building in his sex was almost agonising now, and he was at the point of begging for her touch; pleading for it, crying out for any kind of friction.

‘Oh no, my lord!’ cried Michiko gaily, flirting her brightly-clad body away from him. The solemn herons on her kimono seemed to mock his captivity, the shimmer of silk creating the impression that they were taking flight. From out of nowhere, Michiko produced a length of woven white cord, and before André could really absorb the fact that his hands were free, they were restrained again, caught behind his back this time, the cord wound around his wrists. Jerking against his captivity, André found the simple bonds unyielding, and taking a ragged breath, he subsided sideways on to the futon. Michiko inclined over him and trussed his ankles with the same uncompromising cord.

‘What are you going to do to me?’ he asked, as she knelt beside him, a speculative expression on her regal, pearl-white face.

‘What if I do not do anything at all?’ she said, her eyes glittering and her red mouth curving wryly. ‘What if I ignore you now … and go about my toilette?’ She slid her hand into the layered folds of her kimono’s bodice and quite clearly cupped the curve of one pert breast. A tiny gasp escaped her lips and her head tipped back gracefully on her slender neck, as if weighed down by her heavy, formal wig. Her narrow eyes closed and crumpled as if she were enduring some intense sensation, and André saw little movements beneath the thick brocaded silk.

The pure sensuality of her action made his own state of arousal increase alarmingly. She was blatantly pleasuring herself, manipulating the sensitive tip of her breast, and he was left immobile and unable to ease his growing torment.

‘What if I bring myself to orgasm, my lord? Finger my own body, coax it slowly to the pinnacle of pleasure? Could you endure that, and expect nothing for yourself?’ Michiko’s low, soft voice was slurred, and the movements within her kimono grew faster, more frenzied, as if some small animal was trapped against her bosom and struggling to get free. The rest of her body was quiescent, a placid statue clad in robes of coloured silk.

‘I … I do not know.’ André’s teeth were gritted as he imagined what he might have to go through. The idea of seeing Michiko masturbate, again and again, while he grew increasingly engorged, was horrific, not to be dwelt upon. And yet he did dwell on it, savouring the build-up of denial, the ever-increasing stiffness of his flesh, the slow throb of blood gathering in his shaft. The condition of his groin was taxing him to his limits; he felt dizzy with need. It was pure torture, but something dark in him exulted.

‘Perhaps we sh-should try to discover what your limits are?’ Although her telepathy was obviously unimpaired, Michiko was having trouble with her voice now. The words seemed to catch in her throat, as if clogged by sensation, and beneath her kimono her action was small but rhythmic. Against his will, André imagined her pinching her nipple; squashing the nub of flesh time after time, using acute pain to trigger her rise to joy.

‘Amida … Amida …’ she murmured, her free hand fluttering in a gesture that appeared peculiarly liturgical. It stilled for a moment, then she clenched it into a fist, her whole body stiffening. A second later, she relaxed and breathed a sigh.

‘That was most delightful,’ she said, withdrawing her fingers from the depths of her kimono. ‘I feel refreshed … and I am ready to begin binding you in earnest.’ Performing another exquisite sleight of hand, she produced a further length of the finely-plaited cord, which she twirled evocatively in tight coils around her fingers.

As she shuffled towards him, her sharp eyes were focused upon his penis –

Returning suddenly to the present, André groaned, ejaculating heavily between his fingers, his cool essence splattering the bed and the gathered books and papers. As always, his recollection had been so real that he had become totally absorbed in it, and he felt a vague disappointment that his orgasm had brought matters to a halt.

Back in Japan, in the previous century, he had not come nearly so quickly. Michiko had almost covered his body in her infernal white ropes, then used a finer cord to firmly bind his penis. After that she had ridden him. With his hips raised by a hard cylindrical cushion, and his tethered arms wedged uncomfortably beneath him, she had ridden him for what had seemed like the whole night, forcing him to suffer while she had countless orgasms.

When, finally, to the accompaniment of his tears and wails of blissful agony, she had released him and rubbed his member briskly, the resulting climax had rendered him unconscious, so concentrated was the surge of his deliverance.

‘Michiko,’ he whispered, sending his thoughts across the aether to try and find her.

To his astonishment, within just seconds he heard her mind-voice. It seemed incredible but she was nearby somewhere, within the watery frontier, on this same English soil –

‘My lord gaijin,’ came the soft, exotic tones of her sensuous spirit, ‘I am close by. In what manner may I serve you?’

‘Oh, Michiko,’ he answered thankfully, then told her quickly of his dreams, and of his hope.

He’s not telling me everything, thought Belinda as she opened her eyes the next morning. She felt as if she had been dreaming of her near-immortal lover since the moment she had gone to sleep, and he was still in her mind now she was awake.

He had ‘fed’ on her again, if that was what one called it. Exciting her with his fingers and his lips, and the weight and force of his body, he had brought her effortlessly to several more orgasms, then held her in his arms until an exhausted sleep had claimed her. He had not come again himself throughout all this, and whether he had pleasured himself afterwards was something she had no way of knowing.

She had so many questions in her brain it seemed to buzz.

Principal among them was: how had André come to be the way he was? It must have taken quite a trauma to change him so thoroughly.

Furthermore, why was it that he considered himself unfortunate? Long or never-ending life wasn’t something Belinda had ever given much serious thought to. She had read about it often enough, in horror stories and fantasies, but now, with the perfumed presence of a 200-year-old man all around her, the impact of his longevity really hit her.

All those years! Did he remember it all? Every place he had ever lived, every person he had ever met? Every woman or girl he had made love to? There must have been plenty of them over the decades, she deduced, if sexual pleasure was the prime source of his nourishment.

Stretching, Belinda became aware that she was now wearing a nightgown: an exquisite, pin-tucked Victorian affair that covered her chastely from throat to ankle, and had long sleeves that ended in ruffled cuffs.

‘Did you put this on me?’ she asked, turning to the portrait above the bed – the painting of André in eighteenth-century dress, at the time of his mysterious and undefined changing. ‘I suppose you must have … but I swear I don’t remember you doing it.’

The idea of him handling her inert body made her quiver. It was one thing to participate consensually in love-making and permit him to touch her and fondle; but to be unconscious and have him do exactly what he wished without her knowledge? That was scary, but it was also exciting.

Running her finger over the fine smocking and embroidery at the nightgown’s yoke, Belinda wondered if it had belonged to a former lover of his. Perhaps even the one he had loved and lost.

That was something else she would have liked to have asked him about. The woman she looked like, the one he was obviously still devoted to; had he known her before his ‘changing’ or after?

The biggest puzzle of all was his peculiar reluctance to penetrate her. Once he had brought all her senses to life and primed her desire, there had seemed to Belinda nothing more fulfilling than to finally join their bodies. It seemed unnatural not to.

But that, she supposed, was the kernel of the matter. Nothing about André von Kastel was natural. Or normal. Or commonplace. There had been a definite reason for him not entering her, something critically important. But whether to him or to her, she couldn’t tell.

What a shame, she thought, remembering the erect majesty of his penis as he pressed against her. There had clearly been nothing wrong with his sexual anatomy, no physical impediment to the penetration she had so wanted. And still wanted, she admitted ruefully. If André were to come to her this moment, she was ready.

Suddenly, as if thought could summon deed, there was a knock at the door.

‘Come in!’ Belinda called, her heart racing, her body reacting.

Her visitor was Jonathan, however, and her rush of disappointment brought guilt in its wake. Jonathan looked handsome and well rested and she should have been glad to see him so, not irritated because he wasn’t someone else.

‘Hey, you! How are you feeling?’ To make amends, she sprang out of bed and hurried towards him to give him a hug. ‘You were out like a light last night. I came to your room to see you and you were sleeping like a baby.’ She slid her arms round him, enjoying the sure, familiar feel of him and his warm body beneath his T-shirt and shorts. ‘I was just going to get up and come and see whether you were awake yet.’

Jonathan reciprocated with an embrace of his own, a strangely heartfelt one, then a quick, hard kiss. ‘I’m fine now,’ he said, giving her a quirky smile. ‘But I feel such a fool. I must have been more tired than I realised. I keep thinking of how it must have looked. I sort of flaked out, and that great big bloke just picked me up like a doll –’ He shuddered in her arms, an odd expression on his pleasant, open face.

‘So the mighty Oren put you to bed, did he?’ Belinda enquired lightly. The image that Jonathan had just conjured had a strange effect on her. Without thinking, she suddenly saw a picture of the two men together: Oren masterful and silent, and Jonathan in his arms, naked and pliant.

‘Yes,’ Jonathan continued, as together they walked over to the bed and sat down, side by side. ‘And I think I’ve met the guy in charge here too … The owner or whatever he is. It must be him, because he’s a dead ringer for that guy over there.’ He paused and nodded towards André’s portrait. ‘He must be his descendant or something –’

‘André?’

‘Is that what his name is?’ Jonathan looked at her with a hint of suspicion, and Belinda immediately blushed, realising as it happened that she was giving herself away.

‘Yes … He’s Count André von Kastel, to give him his full title. He owns the priory, and Oren, and Elisa and Feltris, your two girls, they’re all his servants.’ She took Jonathan’s hand and began to stroke his palm with her thumb, the way he liked her to, hoping to distract him from asking awkward questions. ‘When did you meet him?’

‘It was sometime after our big blond friend put me to bed.’ It was Jonathan’s turn to blush, as if he too was experiencing ambiguous thoughts. ‘I felt very weird, sort of spaced out. I closed my eyes, then the next time I opened them, there was this other guy there. Long hair, sort of aristocratic looking, bright blue eyes. He said, “Here, drink this. It will make you feel better”, and he gave me this herbal drink in a fancy china goblet. Funny-tasting stuff, but quite pleasant really, after the first sip or two.’

‘And did it make you feel better?’

‘Yeah, I think it did,’ replied Jonathan thoughtfully, studying their clasped hands. ‘I felt a sort of instant sense of well-being … and then I went straight to sleep. A really good deep sleep, not the sort of dozy feeling I had before.’ He brought her hand up to his lips and gave it a shy little kiss. ‘I slept right through … I only woke up about quarter of an hour ago, and the first thing I wanted to do was find you.’ His grey eyes brightened as he kissed her hand again.

I want him, thought Belinda, experiencing a weird sense of detachment. After all I’ve done and felt since I got here – I’ve had more sex in the last forty-eight hours than I’ve had for months, but I still want more.

It’s you, isn’t it? she accused André in her mind. You’ve done this. You’ve increased my libido to make me of more use to you. She would have looked up at the portrait, but it seemed important right now to lavish her whole attention on Jonathan. He was a good man, a sweet, sexy man; and she owed him for her recent infidelities – the ones she was certain beyond all doubt that he suspected.

‘You look lovely in this,’ said Jonathan suddenly, touching her shoulder through the fine cotton of her nightgown. ‘It’s sort of … innocent. You look like a Victorian maiden, all untouched and naïve.’ He trailed his fingers downward, across the smocking and the lace trim, until they were resting very lightly on her breast. He turned his hand and cupped the firm curve through the delicately-woven fabric. ‘As pure as a nun, but inside simply dying for it!’

How true, thought Belinda, her nipple tensing beneath his touch. Because of André and the magic he seemed to weave around her, she was dying for it – dying for anything. She had roused in a matter of seconds at the first hint of impending eroticism. Her particular need was for penetration – for straightforward, unelaborate sex – with the familiar body of a man she was fond of. Moaning softly, she twisted towards Jonathan, hoping he would caress her other breast too.

‘You’re a naughty girl, aren’t you?’ said Jonathan, entering into the spirit of the thing as he held both her breasts and flicked at her hardened nipples with his thumbs. ‘You’re thinking about rude things, I can tell. That’s what makes this happen –’ He pinched each teat, pulling them out slightly, creating a small but delicious jolt of pain.

Her eyes closing, Belinda gasped, sensing the presence of a new facet to Jonathan’s sexual persona. Was André at work on him too? she thought, wriggling her bottom against the mattress. She could feel her vulva responding to the tugging sensation on her nipples; she was flowing wantonly, wetting her nightgown where it was bunched up beneath her.

‘And I’ll bet you’re not wearing any panties either, you little slut.’ Jonathan continued his pinching, giving a little jerk which made Belinda’s eyes snap open. In the eyes of her partner, she saw no malice or cruelty, but just a teasing streak of humour. He was only paying her back for her own actions earlier, but his masquerade severity was a goad to her senses. She thought back to being with André last night on the terrace, and how, for a moment, she had wanted him to hit her, to spank her bare bottom and infuse her with shame. Was this a new twist to her own sexual persona? she wondered, unable to keep still as her thighs scissored and her sex pulsed. Was she a secret masochist? Would she get off on pain? Real pain; not just her breasts being nipped?

‘Come on, I think we’d better have a look, hadn’t we?’ Abandoning her breasts, Jonathan placed his palm on her midriff and tipped her back on to the bed. With one hand, and a dexterity she had not realised he possessed, he snagged both of her wrists and held them tightly, while with the other hand he swiftly raised her skirt.

‘Just as I thought,’ he crowed, when the soft white cotton was bunched at her waist and her belly, and thighs and pubis were exposed. ‘You’re a wicked little thing, Belinda Seward, going to bed without your panties … I bet that was so you could diddle yourself in the night, wasn’t it?’

Belinda nodded, sinking happily into the fantasy of being a ‘naughty little girl’. ‘Yes, that is why I did it,’ she whispered. ‘I’m very sorry.’

‘I should think so,’ replied Jonathan, clearly relishing the shadowplay too, ‘and you know how I feel about that, don’t you? I’m going to have to inspect you now. To see how far this wickedness has gone.’ He hesitated, and Belinda guessed he was either working out where to go next or trying to suppress his laughter. ‘Assume the position, please.’

Belinda had no idea what the position was, but she improvised, her body shaking as she shifted on the bed. Hitching her bottom to the edge of the mattress, she slid her hands beneath her thighs, then hauled them up, at the same parting her legs. With her knees squashed against her breasts, she was in the most revealing position she could imagine for ‘inspection’ purposes, and Jonathan’s low, delighted growl confirmed her instincts. Giddy with arousal, she lifted herself higher.

‘So eager to show off, aren’t we?’ commented Jonathan, his voice revealingly husky as he leant over to get a better view. ‘That’s it, open right up. Let’s see everything.’

Belinda pulled harder on her thighs, straining every muscle to expose herself completely and lifting her bottom up from the bed so he could see the dark crinkled portal of her anus. For an instant she imagined André seeing the same view, but from a different perspective, and the image made her weeping sex contract.

‘This is an inspection,’ said Jonathan gruffly, his breathing uneven. ‘You’re not supposed to be enjoying it. Come on – open wider!’

Belinda did her best, but she was beginning to climb now, to ascend towards pleasure, and her mind filled with rude, inflaming images.

Behind her closed eyes, she pictured the whole household assembled in the room, all watching the proceedings with great interest; all observing her vulgar struggles to display her sex.

She seemed to see André, sitting in one of the beautiful gilded chairs, his eyes languorous, his cool penis clasped loosely in his fingers. Before him knelt Elisa and Feltris, their golden bodies naked, their bare nipples hard and dark and rosy, while in the foreground, imposing Oren advanced towards her. He too was nude, and his huge erection pointed straight towards her vulva. She seemed to feel it touch her, and the imagined impact made her squeal.

In reality, the contact was with Jonathan’s fingers, two of them, which curved slightly as they entered her vagina.

‘Hmmm … Just as I thought,’ he muttered, waggling the intruding digits inside her. ‘Extremely wet.’ He pressed determinedly, finding her G-spot and making her cry out again as she felt the phantom urge to urinate. Her inner muscles grabbed greedily at her assailant.

‘I think this calls for the special treatment,’ Jonathan observed thoughtfully, his fingers still exerting the teasing pressure. ‘Don’t you?’

‘Yes! Oh yes!’ Belinda croaked, not knowing what he meant but wanting it anyway.

Jonathan quickly slid his fingers from her body, and with a speed and assurance that she blessed high heaven for, he took her by one thigh and lowered the tilt of her body with one hand, while the other rummaged urgently in his clothing. Within seconds, the head of his penis was nudging at her entrance, and a heartbeat later he was pushing it inside her.

‘Oh God, yes!’ Belinda’s cry was strangled but joyous. How many hours now had she been longing for penetration? It seemed like a lifetime … no, much longer … an eternity.

As Jonathan began to thrust, she matched his rhythm with her thankful sobs.