Chapter Twelve

Shadow Play

 

 

 

For the twentieth time, Miranda checked out her reflection. She had done some shopping over the past week, and tonight she was wearing some of her purchases. Did she look too sluttish, she wondered, in the slinky purple skirt with its thigh-high slit, the strappy high-heels, and the shiny metallic top that looked as though it was painted over her breasts? Then she laughed out loud. Mark wouldn’t understand the concept of ‘too sluttish’. He would adore this outfit, the way it hugged her willowy frame and emphasized her curves. He would love the dramatic contrast of her black locks rippling over her silver-clad shoulders.

She tossed her hair behind her and went to open the wine that was chilling. He should be here any moment. Familiar excitement hummed through her body. They planned to go out dancing. Her face was flushed, her limbs energized, her heart light. She felt as if the dance had already begun.

Not even two weeks ago, she thought, I went dancing with Lucy. That was the night it had all begun. How things had changed in that brief time. Nearly a week had passed since the unveiling at Carla’s, possibly the most wonderful week in Miranda’s life. Because of Mark, of course.

They had not spent every night together—Mark insisted that she needed space—but the nights that they had shared would burn forever in her memory. Mark’s imagination, stamina, and tenderness all amazed her. He could be rough, gentle, subtle, seductive, silly, or sincere. He could hold her fast with the force of his will, or submit himself gracefully for her use and abuse. He seemed not one but many lovers.

Some things never changed, though—the quiet respect and care he always gave her, even when he was playing the dominant, and her own intensely physical reaction to his presence.

She set the wine bottle and two goblets on the coffee table. Heathcliff, comfortably ensconced on the couch, lazily opened his eyes and gave her and the wine a speculative look. “Don’t you dare!” Miranda told him. “I recall quite distinctly what happened the last time you got interested in wine glasses.” She scratched behind his ear and was rewarded by his throaty purr. “Of course, I might never have discovered Beatrice’s secret without your little accident. So I suppose that I should be grateful.”

Miranda planned to tell Mark about the journal tonight. She needed his advice as to how to best present it to the academic world. Even though the diary provided decisive evidence for her thesis, she somehow felt uncomfortable exposing Beatrice to the scrutiny of the literary community. It felt as though she would be violating the Victorian woman’s privacy.

The sound of the doorbell raised the pitch of Miranda’s excitement from a hum to a roar. She raced down the stairs as well as she could in her spindly heels, swung open the door, and threw herself into Mark’s arms. He did not resist. For long moments, her awareness was totally occupied by his spicy taste, his comfortable and yet intoxicating smell, the muscular thrust of his tongue in her mouth, the wiry strength of his body enfolding her.

Mark was laughing when she finally released him. “Whew, Miranda! I guess you’re happy to see me.”

Miranda felt that she was glowing, inside and out. “You guess right, Dr. Anderson. Come on upstairs and I’ll demonstrate just how happy I am…” She led the way back up to the second floor, acutely aware of the way her slithery skirt clung to her buttocks. She half-expected the man behind her to reach out and touch her. She was not prepared, though, for the hard pinch he gave her just as they reached the landing.

“Ouch! Careful, I’m not that stable in these shoes!”

“Sorry, but I just couldn’t resist. You look absolutely spectacular in that outfit. Not to mention eminently pinch-able.”

Miranda just laughed and led him into the apartment. The door had hardly closed before he swept her into his arms again, kissing her slowly, deeply, seriously.

“I missed you, Randi,” he said finally.

“It’s only been two days. Actually less than that, about forty hours.”

“Well, it felt like forty years. I just can’t seem to stop thinking about you.”

“I have exactly the same problem with regard to you,” said Miranda. They both fell silent as he released her. Suddenly uncomfortable, Miranda busied herself serving the wine.

They clicked glasses.

“To us,” said Mark quietly.

“Whatever that means,” answered Miranda. She desperately wanted to believe that he was the one, that this relationship was more than just an astonishingly intense attraction. That this was Love with the capital L, the genuine article. But her doubts and fears almost buried that hope.

As if reading her thoughts, Mark gave her a reassuring smile. “We don’t need to figure anything out just yet. Let’s just enjoy ourselves and see what happens. See whether this passion burns itself out, or reshapes itself into something more permanent—not to mention more socially acceptable.”

Their laughter cleared the air.

“I have something for you,” Mark said after taking a sip of his wine. “Something pretty special.” He reached into his shoulder bag and pulled out a gaily-wrapped rectangular package, which he handed to Miranda.

“You shouldn’t have,” she said, feeling a little guilty. He always treated her so well.

“I couldn’t help myself,” he said archly. “You know how it is with these uncontrollable urges…”

Laughing again, Miranda accepted the proffered gift. “Should I open it now?”

“Of course. I’ve never put much stock in that delayed gratification stuff.”

She tore off the paper to expose a chunky, battered volume bound in fraying black cloth. The gilt letters on the spine were so worn that they were unreadable. A faint musty odor filled the room. With care, she opened the book to the title page. She could hardly believe what she saw.

 

Great Expectations

by Charles Dickens

T.B. Peterson, Philadelphia, 1861

 

“Eighteen sixty-one!” she exclaimed. “This must be a first edition. Even in this sad condition, it’s worth a fortune!”

Mark nodded happily. “I know that, and so do you. But the guy in the sweaty T-shirt running the tag sale was glad to let me have it for ten dollars.”

“What? That’s unbelievable!” Miranda gently rifled through the pages. The paper was yellowed and brittle, but the text was plainly complete and readable. She held the book out to Mark. “I can’t accept this, Mark. It’s too valuable. Besides, it should be in your library. You’re the Dickens scholar.”

“That’s why it’s special, why I want you to have it. To remember me by, if you will.” He took her hand. “Please, keep it.”

“Well, if you insist, I’ll hold onto it for now. Though I am hardly likely to forget you, Mark! And if you ever change your mind and want it back, just ask.” Suddenly Miranda remembered the diary. “Actually, I have something special to show you, too. A bargain of my own.” She retrieved Beatrice’s journal from her bedroom and without further comment, passed it to Mark.

He turned it over in his hands, admiring the leather covers. “This looks old, but it’s in great condition.” He opened to the first page and began to read the precise, old-fashioned script. After a few paragraphs he looked up at her, his eyes shining.

“I don’t know what to say. This tops even a Dickens first edition. A genuine Victorian erotic memoir.”

Miranda nodded, pleased that he immediately recognized the significance of her find.

“And what a memoir! Is it all this hot?”

“Hotter. It’s the most intense, and most literate, erotic writing that I’ve ever encountered.” Miranda spent a few minutes summarizing the entries that she had read so far. The encounter with ‘Charlie’, the affair with the black handyman, the beating and violation in the stables, the lesbian interlude with gorgeous and licentious Madeleine.

“Sounds extremely interesting.” Mark was wearing his signature grin. He handed the journal back to Miranda, poured them both more wine and relaxed back on the couch. His hand traveled lazily up her calf, following the opening in her skirt. “Why don’t you read some of it aloud?”

His suggestive tone and casual touch made Miranda tingle all over. Without further discussion, she settled her body against his, and began to read the next entry in the diary.

 

August 4, 1886

I fear that I am unmasked, undone. Someone has plundered my secrets. Yesterday evening I found this journal lying on my dressing table, the lock forced, the pages spread blankly before me. Normally, I keep it at the bottom of my large jewel case. I am quite certain that I replaced it in its hiding place after penning my last entry. Yet there it lay open among my combs and ointments, as if silently accusing me of wantonness and infidelity.

My disappearing ink should keep me safe. The blank pages should tell no tales. Yet I am hardly confident of this. There might, perhaps, be methods that would force this volume to yield up its contents to its ravisher. The fact that it was locked and hidden would suggest that it held things valuable and private. To breach its defenses and find only bare parchment would surely excite suspicion.

The most likely agent of this invasion is my husband. He would have the motivation, the opportunity, and indeed the right to penetrate my secrets. At least, this is how he would perceive the matter. All day today I scrutinized his demeanor, searched his face or his voice for some indication that he has discovered my corruption. I found no such evidence, however. Thomas behaved toward me as he always does, courteous, considerate, respectful and a little distant. When he left for his club this evening, he kissed my forehead as usual, and bade me not wait up for him.

But if not Thomas, who is responsible for this trespass? I exonerate Pauline; she already knows much of my adventures and has made it plain that she does not wish to know any more. Bridget, the downstairs maid, is hardly a more likely candidate. To be honest, she lacks the imagination to even consider such an act. I have never seen her read anything other than her Bible.

A fearful thought flashes through my mind. Could it possibly be my son Daniel? He is approaching an age where the flesh begins to fascinate. How horrible if he were to discover his mother’s lascivious nature and lustful behavior! A child, though, would not have left the violated diary in the open. The implied accusation is far too subtle for his mind. He would be furtive, returning the volume to its hiding place, or perhaps bearing it away with him.

My head aches from considering the puzzle, and I am no closer to a solution than I was in that first moment of shock. I am nervous, expecting consequences, fearing reprisals from an unknown source. One might think that in this state of consternation, carnal interests would be far from my mind. But alas, this near-exposure appears to have inflamed me to new extremes.

I find myself imagining punishments appropriate to my crimes. My husband orders Pauline to strip me of my garments, then he binds me between the posts in the summer house. He invites our friends and neighbors for tea in the garden. As they amble along the paths or sit conversing, he flogs me fiercely, painting my creamy skin with angry stripes. He is calm and methodical as always. The guests watch in polite interest as I writhe obscenely under his lash. I beg for mercy, yet what I really want is his stout member, deep in my cunny, beating me inside as well as out.

As these images parade through my mind, I drive the handle of my hairbrush into my depths, pretending that it is my husband’s swollen rod. Each time the fantasy recurs, I embellish it with additional detail. My blonde curls tumble down over my scored back, damp with sweat. My husband offers the whip to our guests, requesting their assistance in chastising me. The men in the crowd expose themselves and before long I am bathed in their spunk. My deserved punishment endures for so long that I wet myself, while the audience jeers.

The lurid, perverse images fuel my lust further. Four times today, I retreated to my room to relieve myself. Four times I had to don new drawers, replacing ones sopping with my arousal.

My fingers are inside my cunny even as I write this.

My imagined punishment is not the only source of my excitement. Pauline has brought me word of an establishment that caters to men and women such as I, people who crave anonymous erotic thrills. It is known as the House of Shadows. One can enter the House as either an Offering or a Seeker. Those who act as Offerings are displayed, in silhouette, to the assembled Seekers. Each Seeker may choose an Offering, but must do so without seeing his or her face. The Offering must accept the choice. Once the Seeker and the Offering are paired, they retire together to a private room to indulge in whatever carnal acts they mutually desire. Even in private, however, darkness and shadows prevail, to preserve the anonymity even in the midst of intimacy.

My heart beat faster at this description. The possibilities were dizzying. I could seek another woman, to explore further the delights I had glimpsed with Madeleine. I could choose a virile man, someone who would not be shocked to feel me writhe under him and hear me scream obscenities. Perhaps most tantalizing of all, I could offer myself, and let fate determine who would take and use me.

I questioned Pauline closely, but she could provide no further details. She had heard this tale from someone else’s maid, she told me. For all she knew, it might be total fabrication. However, her informant had mentioned an address in the South End. If I wished, she would make further inquiries.

The clock is striking two. Moonlight streams through the lace curtains, making intricate patterns on the floor. Thomas will be arriving home soon. I should hide this volume away and take to my bed.

I am sleepless with this fever, though, this fleshly heat that I cannot assuage no matter how many times I plunge the brush handle into my sex. If I do not find relief soon, I shall go mad with lust. I shall be discovered running naked through the street, grabbing strangers and begging them to take my body. I will be bound so that I cannot touch myself, confined in a solitary asylum where I see no flesh, only the eyes of my keepers.

Lost as I am, even that image excites me, pulling me deeper into this maelstrom of lust.

 

Miranda paused in her reading. Mark was watching her intently, his lips half-open and his eyes shining. She became aware, suddenly, of his hand resting lightly on her naked thigh. Heat spread from that point of contact. Her cheeks burned and her sex melted. She took a deep breath, inhaling his scent of soap and sweat.

“Should I continue?” she asked, her voice a little shaky with lust.

“Oh, definitely! We’re just getting to the good part.”

 

August 5, 1886

Everything has changed. The world has been turned upon its head, and all that I thought I knew I now question. I am overflowing with confusion and joy.

At midday today, Pauline sought me out in the downstairs parlor, where I was at my desk attending to correspondence. She had completed her researches on the House of Shadows. Such a place did indeed exist, at the rumored address. Gentlemen and ladies wishing to gain entrance must present themselves at the entrance, masked or veiled, after ten in the evening, and supply a secret code phrase to the doorman.

“And did you discover this phrase that will allow me passage, Pauline?”

“Yes, Madame. It is in Latin. ‘Quod mens sibi proponere, caro efficere potest’.” She stumbled a bit over the unfamiliar syllables.

‘All that the mind can imagine, the flesh can accomplish’. I thought this extremely apt given the reported nature of the place.

I had no choice but to put aside my letters after she left. My thoughts were too full of sensual images. I was determined to enter the House of Shadows. This evening, however, would be impossible. Thomas was at home and as far as I knew, did not intend to go out later. I felt a strange mingling of frustration and relief. Eager as I was to explore what the House offered, I had a premonition of change that left me uneasy.

During the rest of the long day, I tried to busy myself with useful activities. The children and I went out walking. We encountered my friend and neighbor Marie Fairchild, who was strolling with her twin girls. She invited us for tea, and she and I passed several pleasant hours in conversation while the children romped upstairs in the nursery. Thus it was late afternoon when we returned to the house.

Thomas met us at the door, a strange look in his eyes. He was wearing his travel clothes. “Beatrice, my dear, I am glad that you are finally home. I just received word that a boiler has exploded at the Lowell mill. No one has been hurt, it appears, but I must go up there tonight to survey the damage. I did not want to leave without seeing you.”

I smiled at him, thinking how kind and considerate he always was to me. “Thank you, Thomas. Do not concern yourself with us. We will manage as we always do. When do you expect to return?”

“Not before tomorrow midday,” he said. “I have retained a coach, rather than travel by train. It should be here shortly.”

Even as the words left his lips, we heard the clatter of hooves on the cobbles outside our door. Thomas moved to pick up his leather portmanteau, then stopped. Instead, he pulled me into his arms, crushing my breasts to his chest and kissing me deeply on the mouth.

His unaccustomed passion left me breathless. I felt his hands roaming over my torso, tracing the lines of my stays and lightly brushing my nipples, which pushed themselves out boldly even through the many layers of my clothing. For a moment, I forgot myself and writhed in his embrace like some cheap strumpet. Then I became more composed, adopting a manner more seemly for someone of my position. When he released me, however, the throbbing hunger between my thighs did not abate.

He looked at me with eyes full of affection. “Take care of yourself and the children, my dear. I will see you tomorrow.” Retrieving his bag, he swung open the door and was gone.

I stood bemused in the foyer, wondering at his odd behavior. My earlier suspicions regarding the rape of my diary roused themselves again. However, I could not imagine that a man as upright and proper as Thomas would condone the activities that I have chronicled here. He would react with sad condemnation, not affection. He would repudiate me, forcing me to live away from my children. He might sully my name by publicly airing my misdeeds. He would not, despite my fantasies, punish me physically. The emotional pain that he could inflict would last far longer than the effects of any beating.

As I stood there in my walking costume pondering these questions, a new realization dawned, hot as the summer sun. With Thomas away, I was now free to visit the House of Shadows. If I dared.

The cab left me off in front of the building at ten exactly. This area had been fashionable a decade before. Now the substantial houses looked somewhat worn; the fine stone was stained with moisture, the gardens a bit overgrown. Gaslight shone through the curtains of most of the homes, but the building before me was totally dark. A wave of fear swept over me. I resolutely ignored it, drowned it out by focusing on the hungry ache between my thighs. I rang the bell.

The door was opened by a figure clad in a hooded black robe. I could see nothing of his face; his hands were starkly white. “Who wishes to enter the House of Shadows?”

“An Offering on the altars of flesh,” I repeated the words of the formula Pauline had imparted to me.

“The password?”

“Quod mens sibi proponere, caro efficere potest.”

He opened the door wide. I entered a spacious foyer lit by a single candle, in the hands of another robed figure. Although I could not see the face of this entity any more than the other, I sensed that it was a woman. Silently, she beckoned for me to follow her down a dark corridor. Behind me I heard the bell ring again, and male voices.

“Who wishes to enter the House of Shadows?”

“A Seeker of the truth in flesh.”

My guide led me up a flight of stairs to a second corridor lined along one side with closed doors. She gestured at one of the doors. I entered a room, simply but luxuriously furnished, with silk brocade upholstery and matching draperies along one wall and on the canopied bed in the corner. I blinked, for the room was brightly lit by several electric sconces.

The robed woman extinguished her candle. Without a word, she began to undress me. Her pale hands were quick and skillful, but completely impersonal. She unbuttoned my cuirass waist, untied my petticoats and unlaced my corset. I found myself aching, in vain, for a touch from her. As she unfastened my drawers, I grabbed her fingers and placed them suggestively upon my furry mound. Without a sound, she calmly extricated herself from my grasp and continued her tasks. She might have been a clockwork automaton.

I was burning with frustrated desire, but I could do nothing to sway her. Soon, her work was complete. I stood naked save for my stockings and slippers. She pointed to a chair near the draped window. When I had seated myself there, she pulled back the curtains to reveal, not a window, but a partition of oiled paper that stretched nearly from floor to ceiling. Then, without ever speaking a word, she left me alone.

Recalling Pauline’s description of the ways of this place, I suddenly understood the use of the paper and the bright light. Together, they would create an image of my seated form, a silhouette that could be viewed from the other side. I remembered the stairs we had climbed, and guessed that there was a gallery of such rooms as mine along the second floor. The Seekers could gather at ground level, surveying and comparing the Offerings displayed above.

For a long while I sat quietly in the chair, resting my hands on the armrests, wondering what would happen next. My body hummed with lust, yet I felt completely passive, willing to wait. Somehow I was simultaneously relaxed and aroused.

The ticking of the clock on the table and the beating of my heart seemed equally loud. Moisture trickled from between my thighs, staining the fine brocade. I became aware of my breathing, slow and even like the flow of the tides. I wondered at myself, at this strange suspension of will in the midst of desire.

Idle thoughts momentarily disturbed my peace. Perhaps no one would choose me. How could anyone judge my beauty from my silent, seated form? I contemplated the possibility of standing, of dancing and writhing in front of the partition, trying to attract the attention of the one who would take me. I dismissed these thoughts. Nothing was necessary but to wait, still, patient and open. To offer myself to him, or to her. That was enough.

The lurid imaginings that had haunted me for the last few days had vanished. My mind was empty of everything but the sensations of the immediate present. The silk against my buttocks felt delightfully cool and smooth. The curves of the carved mahogany under my hand seemed unutterably sensuous. The blonde curls spilling over my shoulders glittered like spun gold in the electric brightness.

I remained in this trance-like state, motionless but for the rise and fall of my breath, for what seemed like hours. Then, suddenly, the lights were extinguished. The moment had come.

Darkness and silence enclosed me for several minutes. My heart hammered against my ribs. My former peaceful equilibrium dissolved into fearful anticipation. As my eyes adjusted to the dark, I saw that some faint light filtered in through the translucent paper. The room became gray as opposed to black. Then the door creaked, and a tall figure entered the room.

I would have risen and gone to meet him, but his low, melodious voice transfixed me in my place. “Stay where you are, Lady. I will come to you.” He glided over to the chair and sank onto his knees before me. I could see little of him. He was powerfully but gracefully built, that I could sense from his movements. From his brow to just above his lips, his face was hidden behind a mask of black fabric. Those lips attracted me. They were firm and full, the lips of a man accustomed to command, but willing to bend to enjoy life’s pleasures.

I was seized with a fierce desire to feel those lips upon my own. However, I was not in control here, and he had other intentions. I felt his hands on my thighs, hands encased in supple leather gloves. He opened me wide and without preamble, applied his mouth to my sex.

The first sweep of his tongue along my slippery cleft was enough to wring screams from my throat. Stimulated by days of feverish fantasy and self-abuse, my cunny was sensitized and sore. He licked up my juices and nibbled at the hard little button buried in my folds, each touch waking pleasures so intense that they were almost pain. My womb throbbed in rhythm with his tongue thrusts. My nipples contracted into aching centers of hunger. I thrashed around on the smooth silk, moaning and begging him for more. Though ravaged by pleasure, I noted that he was exquisitely skilled at the art of oral service. Like all coherent thoughts, this one was quickly consumed in the rising fires of my arousal.

I buried my fingers in his soft, thick hair and tried to pull his head deeper between my thighs. At my touch, he froze and pulled back, abandoning my aching sex. “Do not touch me, Lady, unless I give you permission,” he said quietly. “Do you understand?” I nodded, ready to agree to anything if only he would return his lips to my quim. I gripped the arms of the chair as he bent once again to his ministrations.

I could not touch him, but I could not help arching my back, forcing my hips toward his busy mouth, seeking release and relief. In response, he removed his face from my sex, but replaced it with his leather-clad fingers. They danced nimbly over my slick, swollen tissues, probing my depths, pinching the pleasure nodule at the apex, conveying me with the grace of an expert to the edge of the precipice.

Finally, I hovered there, my eyes closed, while he worked at my sex with both hands. Any moment, I felt, I would plunge forward into the sweet abyss. He gave me the final push when he unexpectedly slid a well-greased finger into my rear orifice. Perverse images flooded my mind as my body convulsed in his hands, flooding them with my spend.

When I recovered slightly and opened my eyes, I could see that those inviting lips of his were curved in a slight smile. He held his gloved hand under my nose. The leather was saturated with my essence. I breathed deeply. “The Lady seems to enjoy entry via her back passage,” he observed dryly. “Perhaps I shall take you that way, later.” A hot blush suffused my face at the realization that I should like this very much indeed. Of course, in the dimness he could not see my reaction.

Nevertheless, he had an uncanny sense of my desires. Although I had just been rent by an incredible climax, I found that I was more aroused than ever. I desperately craved the sight, and even more, the taste, of his manhood. As if reading my mind, he began to unbutton his trousers. Soon his erect member jutted toward me, shining pale in the faint light. It bobbed with his pulse, obscene and inviting.

“You may take me with your mouth, Lady,” he said, “but do not touch me with your hands. In fact, I will make it easier for you to control your impulses.” Before I understood his intent, he gathered my hands behind my back and bound them with a length of grosgrain ribbon he pulled from his waistcoat pocket.

I recalled being trussed up in the stables. This had something of the same delicious quality, the sense of being powerless and vulnerable to any license. Here, though, there was no fear. I found that I trusted this stranger, without reservation. Gratitude and devotion surged through me as I knelt at his feet. “Thank you, Sir, for choosing me,” I murmured. “Thank you for allowing me to serve you.”

“Suck me now,” he commanded, and I did.

His cock was glorious, the skin tender as a baby’s, the flesh beneath like a bar of iron. I used all the skill I could summon to bring him pleasure, alternating deep strokes that nearly choked me with delicate tongue-teasing along the length of him. I felt him stiffen further in my mouth, and in response I sucked harder, abandoning all presence of lightness. He thrust himself into me, again and again, so deeply that the knobby end of his rod grazed the back of my throat. My sex contracted sympathetically each time he pushed into me. I opened myself to him, willed him to spend himself in my worshiping mouth.

My Seeker was perilously close to climax, as was I, when he laid a hand on my head, silently bidding me to stop. I did so immediately, disappointed at not tasting his spend, but anxious to satisfy his demands in any way that I could. He was breathing heavily, but his voice was steady when he addressed me. I was astonished by his self-control.

“Now that I am quite solid, Lady, let us pursue the question of your buggery.” I blushed again, more deeply than before, for I suddenly realized I had an urgent need to urinate. If he entered me by either door, surely I would disgrace myself.

There was no help for it. I would have to tell him. “Sir,” I said shyly, “I must answer the call of nature before we can proceed.”

He looked at me with interest. “You have a need to piss, Lady?” I nodded silently, overcome with embarrassment. He gave a soft laugh. “If I were a cruel master, I would require you to continue, even so, and await the consequences.” Shame and lust flamed in me at these words. Was he truly so perverse?

“However, I am far kinder than you might believe. You may relieve yourself before we continue.”

I glanced around and discovered a chamber pot, ewer and basin on the bedside table. I waited for him to untie my hands and turn his back to allow me some decency. Instead, he retrieved the porcelain tub, brought it over to where I stood, and positioned it between my legs.

“Here you are, my Lady. Go on and piss.”

I was aghast. Did he really expect me to make water in this manner, standing bound in the middle of the room, under his amused scrutiny? Nevertheless, the discomfort in my bladder brooked no argument. I bent my knees, squatting slightly, and tried to release my flow.

It was impossible for me. With him watching in this way, I could not expel a single drop. I was frantic, wondering what to do, discomfort quickly becoming actual pain.

“Do not fret, my sweet Lady. You need have no secrets from me. No shame. Let go.”

His words set me free. Sweet relief swept through me as I gave in to the demands of nature. His keen eyes held me captive during the act, but when I had finished, he brought me a basin full of water and a napkin. Gently, he washed my thighs and my sex. I noticed that he had removed his gloves. He had strong, well-groomed hands, with long, blunt-tipped fingers. Every touch of those fingers made me sing inside.

“Is that better?” he asked when I was clean and dry.

“Oh, yes,” I said. “Thank you for your kindness.”

“Well, you may wish to save your gratitude for later. I am far from finished with you yet.”

The slight menace in his tone sent delicious shivers down my spine.

He untied my wrists and led me to the bed. His organ was still rampant, harder, if possible, than before. I realized that watching my voiding had stimulated him further. Or perhaps he was merely aroused by my willingness to offer my most intimate self to his gaze.

The stranger extricated a pillow from underneath the coverlet and placed it on the edge of the bed. “Lie down on your belly,” he instructed, “with your hips against the cushion, your feet on the floor, and your legs spread wide.” I followed his instructions as quickly as I could. The position made me feel exquisitely exposed. My hindquarters were elevated. My sex and my puckered rear entrance must have been clearly visible, even in the dimness. Meanwhile, the cushion pressed against my pubis, so that every movement sent shocks through my body.

I lay in this vulnerable pose for a long time. I craved his touch, or his voice, but he was silent. I heard rustling noises, and conjectured that he was disrobing. I rejoiced at this thought; I desperately longed to see him naked.

Finally, I felt his fingers, playing around the gateway to my bowels. He stroked lightly over the sensitive spot, circling closer, then moving away. I felt myself loosening, twitching, inviting him closer. Next I felt him reach into my sex. I could not help but writhe in response. I was rewarded with a sharp slap on my buttock. “Be still, Lady! One would think that you are a wanton!”

There was humor in his voice, but nevertheless I tried to obey him. The skin on my hind cheek glowed pleasantly warm where his palm had struck me. I considered whether, if I wriggled some more, he might spank me again.

He was dabbling his fingers in my wettest parts. I understood that he was gathering lubrication to smooth his entrance. He smeared wet fingers back and forth over my sphincter, then, at last, inserted a digit into that tight ring of muscle. A shock ran through my spine. I arched my back, forcing him deeper.

“You seem to be quite ready, Lady,” he whispered. Without further play, he positioned his knob at my rear gate and, with a jerk of his hips, plunged himself inside.

Oh, it was perfect, pleasure so extreme that all my other adventures seemed pale in comparison. He pushed deep into my bowels, and I pushed in return, wanting to be filled completely. He pulled back until the bulb at his tip just grazed the entrance, and I mourned, empty and lost. Then he came crashing in again, impaling me, penetrating my body and my soul. He began to spank me in time with his thrusts, until my whole bottom burned bright with the lovely sting of his bare flesh on mine.

We did not speak. He voiced only grunts. I could manage only moans and whimpers. Yet I felt a connection with this stranger, wordless communication that transcended our physical coupling. His power, my trust, his tenderness, my shame, these flowed between us, a river of sensation and emotion. As his excitement grew, he thrust harder, so that the pleasure was tinged with pain. I welcomed his force, completely open to him. I offered myself to him, in a new and pure way, and he accepted my offering.

We climbed together toward the pinnacle of lust. In the midst of my frenzied pleasure, I was strangely lucid. Somehow, my clarity did not diminish the ecstasy. When he exploded within me, searing my entrails with his burning seed, my own climax answered his with waves of fire. Still, even as my entire self dissolved into his, I heard him crying out my name, “Beatrice!”

At that moment, I admitted to myself what some part of me had known since the moment he had first spoken. This stranger, this seeker after the truth in flesh, was my restrained, upright, proper husband, Thomas.

 

Miranda’s heart was beating wildly as she reached the end of the page. Gradually, she realized that Mark’s hand was buried inside her panties, doing delicious little dances in her cunt.

“Whew!” she sighed. “That was intense.” She gave a little moan as Mark’s finger spiraled around her clit. She could feel the resistance of her stretchy top against her aching nipples. She longed to remove it, to feel the evening breeze against her naked skin.

“And strangely familiar, don’t you agree?” said Mark. Without removing his hand from between her legs, he leaned over and kissed her long and deeply. Afterwards, he smiled his wicked mid-western boy smile. “Why don’t we forget about going dancing tonight, Randi? I think that it will be more fun if we just stay in.”