Darker Passions: Dracula Page 6

  "As I bounced the night away across her lap, I cannot say that my first session was entirely enjoyable. I was terrified, and my tears knew no limit. My bottom was shocked by such rude and direct training. Still, by the time the cock crowed and Miss Whippet sent me to bed, I was looking forward to my next lesson. And Miss Whippet, true to her word, administered all the ones that followed in the same no-nonsense manner, every night for the next fourteen. My bottom glowed like a ripe red apple. For two weeks I could not sit and being at a school desk was agony, causing me to squirm, thus earning me further licking. The brief sleep I was permitted, I could only lie on my stomach, suffering as my ass raged like a roaring inferno. But through it all, I experienced delicious new sensations that I knew her training was awakening."

  Lucy paused for a drink of sherry. All this had been going on under my nose, as it were. During the years I'd pitied Lucy, I should have been pitying myself. To never feel a wooden paddle against my bare skin. To never meet a striking hand that would not be halted by my cries. To never endure pain, exquisite pain, that would drive me down paths I had not explored.

  Her throat once more lubricated, Lucy concluded. "At the end of my initial private instruction with Miss Whippet, I had learned respect for our head mistress. I also knew by then that she demanded a great many things from me, including an insistence that I employ her expertise often so as not to waste my time at the school. At least once a week I found occasion for a private session with Miss Whippet, who never failed me. Of course, our head mistress, being a true educator, employed a variety of training methods and I discovered them equally effective under her firm hand. What I learned from her has proven invaluable; she made me the woman I am today."

  As Lucy finished, I became aware of her fingers deep inside me—how had they gotten in so far? I felt like a puppy, warm and fuzzy, waiting to be stroked.

  "This will be our little secret, won't it Mina?"

  I nodded languorously. The heat coursing through my body had built to the point where I knew if I moved even an inch that delicious pulsing fire would engulf me. My dilemma was: how to stoke the flames until they rose higher and yet delay the inevitable crumbing to ashes.

  But my problem suddenly vanished. Lucy withdrew her fingers quickly. She stood. Outside rain pounded on the eaves.

  I lay sprawled like a cast-away doll, aware of my near nakedness and my awkward position. My mouth gaped in utter disbelief.

  She walked across the room and turned the knob on the lamp until the room faded to darkness. "I trust you are warm enough, Mina," she said. I could hear the humor in her voice. "Sleep well, if you can."

  Chapter Eight

  The following day Lucy was not to be seen. Verna, who served the first meal, answered my inquiry that, "Miss Lucy is volunteering at the sanatorium and will be away all day." I breakfasted alone, after which Verna suggested a ride.

  I mounted Rosebud sidesaddle, a skittish chestnut mare that took off immediately, although I struggled to rein her in. She galloped along quite rapidly, I bouncing hard against the saddle, until I gained control of the beast. From then on we trotted at a reasonable pace. The brilliant sunshine of the English countryside combined with cooling breezes from the sea and the large animal beneath my legs lulled me into a kind of erotic stupor. I found myself daydreaming.

  The events of the night before had fired my imagination as well as my body. I felt a strange confusion, not unpleasant, as I conceived myself in both roles. Rather than Lucy, it was me who stood behind my absent husband with the long paddle in hand. Oddly, I could feel the vibration as the wood struck home and the ever sorer flesh submitting to it. And then the next moment it was me receiving the paddle across my backside, the stinging increasing and my control chipping at the edges. An hour of the continuous bouncing of my womanhood against the saddle coupled with my vivid fantasies caused a great wet spot at the crotch of my riding breeches. When I returned to the house and dismounted, the servant Verna noticed.

  I hid my face in embarrassment and became harsh with her.

  "Has Miss Westenra returned?"

  "No, Mrs. Harker, she has not."

  "Fine. I will lunch on the veranda. You may serve me there, and you will do so within the next half hour."

  "Very good, madam."

  Frankly, I was annoyed with Lucy. I was her guest; she should have told me she would be away. More to the point, I felt toyed with. Used in some way that was as yet a mystery to me. Brought to a pitch and then left dangling. As the day passed and most of the evening, my frustration grew and I resolved that Lucy would hear of it directly.

  It was early and I was not yet tired, but decided to retire to my room and write that letter to Jonathan. I'd just begun the salutation when suddenly I heard a commotion through the wall. I hurried to the portrait and eased it aside. What I saw through the peep hole shocked me.

  Lucy stood in a powder blue silk corset and matching shoes and stockings. Her hair flew about every which way as she swung her arm back and forth. A God-awful swishing resounded, the effect of the thin bamboo cane she held cutting the air. The cane was not, however, only cutting air, but lacerating the flesh of a dark-haired bottom. A man—and it was definitely not Doctor Steward—lay across the side of the bed, his torso on the mattress, his knees on the floor. The bottom being cut to ribbons was hairless except at the crack where the cheeks met, where the sable brown hairs led down to his rather large testicles. He howled as the cruel reed whipped back and forth across his flesh with wild abandon.

  Lucy was having a wonderful time, by the looks of her. The corset exposed her triangle of blond hair at the front and her plump little buttocks at the back. It also held up her pert breasts, the rosy nipples riding the cusp. Those nipples were hard and pointed and glistened from the most unladylike sweat she had worked up. My mouth felt dry; I imagined sucking on them and the delight that might bring. The room suddenly felt steamy.

  A large smile had spread across Lucy's face. As she swung the cane, her body twisted girlishly from side to side as if she were showing off a new dress. Her sweet breasts bounced in their cups like two Vanilla puddings. Her creamy bottom cheeks quivered.

  Suddenly she paused and turned her head sharply to stare straight at me, or so I thought. She smiled again, and pursed her lips as if sending a kiss, obviously for my benefit. I was annoyed and angry and yet I could feel that my bloomers were wet in the crotch again, and the liquid refused to quit flowing.

  Lucy turned her attention back to her victim. "Into the middle of the room, Arthur!"

  The poor fellow, obviously in pain, fell to the floor and crawled along it on hands and knees, Lucy using the cane to guide him. "Stop!" she yelled. She prodded him to turn so that I could see his behind, which was fearfully red. She inserted the tip of the cane into his anus, then slid it in farther than must have been comfortable.

  The man named Arthur threw his head back and wailed like a dog as she pumped him with the bamboo, although I had the distinct impression the sound mingled pain with pleasure.

  I watched his bottom cheeks tremble and his diaphragm suck in and out faster as she increased the thrusting pace of the natural rod. From where I stood, I could not get a clear view of his penis, yet what little I did see told me it stood erect. Something in that shadowy view excited me.

  Without being aware of it, my fingers had gone to my nipples some time before because I realized I was twisting and pinching them through my cotton blouse in time to the cane's thrustings.

  The man was on the verge of some sort of conclusion when all of a sudden Lucy withdrew the pale rod. The groan that he emitted sounded pathetic, and it was one I understood well. Lucy had escorted him to a door but would not open it that he might go through.

  She swung the cane briskly again, whipping his bottom anew, increasing the number of flaming streaks across the once white skin until they could not possibly have been counted.

  Indeed, it was a dreadful sight, the man writhing in agony, and yet I found myself
pressed to the wall, rubbing myself against the flowered wallpaper, trying in vein to find relief. Tonight another storm rode in off the water, this one greater than the night before. The air pressuring my body felt unbearable.

  She made him squidge around on the carpet so that his head came close to the wall I hid behind. "Turn over!"

  Arthur did as she commanded. Now that he was on his back, I could see his handsome, cultured face, the long dark brown sideburns that spread across his jaw, the clear blue eyes, the rims as red as his bottom. I also saw his enormous manhood.

  Never had I seen the like. Of course, I had not seen many.

  Dr. Steward's member may have been as long but was certainly slimmer. Jonathan's I'd never seen, although I had felt its half-hearted attempts to greet the woman in me.

  This man, however, showed what manhood could aspire to. The shaft was not just long, but thick, the tip a dignified polished head, proud, arrogant, masculine in every way. Beneath the shaft his testicles stood on duty, large and bright colored and tight. The sight took my breath away and sent a new surge of wetness sliding down between my legs. Outside the window, lightning flashed.

  "Lift yourself up by your hands and feet."

  Arthur pushed from the floor with his hands and feet until his body became convex. His head hung down between his arms—I now saw that Oxford face upside down—and his glorious manhood stood proudly on call, jutting from his groin into the air. He looked like a gymnast about to perform an amazing feat.

  Lucy went to the desk and returned with a round brass ring. She slid it over his member and pushed his testicles up through it as well so that the ring seemed to lift his marvelous tool higher. She appeared to be tightening it, which only lifted him higher. Whatever, I wondered, could that be for? But Lucy answered my unspoken question.

  "You will keep your ejaculations to yourself, Mr. Holmwood, so that I may enjoy you without worry and you will enjoy only what I permit."

  Lucy straddled that enormous creature. She lowered herself onto it until the fleshy rod disappeared inside her. The smile on her face spread and Mr. Holmwood moaned.

  I could barely stand. The craving within me, the emptiness longing to be filled and filled again and again made me shake uncontrollably. The heat was tremendous. Frantically, hardly knowing what I was doing, I untied my skirts and let them and my bloomers drop to the floor. My fingers intuitively found my dark forest, a thicket I had never entered.

  Lucy pushed herself up and then slid down onto him again, over and over. Arthur's face became crimson, his breathing strained in the control that was demanded of him.

  My fingers became sticky as they slid along a tender hump in that secret jungle. Rubbing it caused me to jump and squirm. Thunder clapped and my legs parted. I bent forward so that access was easier; my rump stuck out into the air.

  Lucy lifted and lowered herself, bouncing, writhing on top of him; my heart pounded in time with her movements and my fingers danced inside me. The fierce storm was approaching, I felt that throughout my trembling body.

  Finally I found the source of my wetness and entered that moist hidden cave. My eyes closed and my head fell back. My knees bent as I slid most of my hand inside the wet grotto, exploring.

  I opened my eyes for a moment. Lucy moved faster and she pumped him harder. Arthur's face turned purple. With each entrance, Lucy's nipples thrust higher and her back arched. My breath came in ragged pants. My hand was soaked with my own juices. I felt the ripples of flesh within me and brushed and tickled them up and back, up and back. It was divine, this sensation! My inner flesh tighten as my hand worked faster in and out.

  Swish-Whap!

  I nearly jumped out of my skin.

  Swish-Whap! Swish-Whap! The sharp searing across my bottom stunned me so that I could not even cry out. Pain burst through my flesh like a tinder catching a spark.

  I spun around. Verna stood behind me gripping a dread cane similar to the one Lucy held. She swung it again and the rod landed smartly across my thigh. I screamed.

  "Into bed with you, Mrs! I have my orders from the Mistress."

  I could not even think about how absurd that sounded for the pain made me compliant. In my haste to obey, I tripped over the clothing caught at my ankles and for my clumsiness felt the bamboo cut my bottom again.

  Despite the tangle of clothing, I stumbled to the bed and fell across the duvet, face down.

  Helplessly I lay there as Verna applied the rod. The cane criss-crossed my derriere from both directions. I howled as I'd heard Mr. Holmwood howling just moments before. And yet I now completely understood that strange mingled sound ripped from his throat. With each whip of the cane, I wanted another, needed another. I cried uncontrollably, lust for the cane spreading through my secret forest like a wildfire. As my cheeks fried, the liquid within me bubbled, threatening to boil over any second.

  All of a sudden Verna stopped. "Miss Westenra ordered a baker's dozen, no more, and that's what I've delivered."

  I lay sobbing. My bottom throbbed. My insides throbbed. Violent rain crashed against the window. My agony begged release. But there was to be no deliverance tonight.

  Verna turned out the lamp and closed the door as she left.

  Hours raged by, the swelling heat leaving my entire body pulsing. I was terrified to try to fulfill my longing, afraid the rod would magically appear again and renew our acquaintance. And yet the fear was greater that I might end this delicious torment which I suffered, and that I could not bear either.

  And so I suffered, floating in and out of dreams that had me caning Arthur and Dr. Steward and, most delightfully, Jonathan, and being caned in the worse way by Lucy and Verna, all as the storm raged.

  The night had been scrumptiously tormenting and I was grateful that when I awoke near noon the next day, my bottom still bore the angry red stripes, assuring me that everything had not been a dream.

  At breakfast I was relieved to find that I must sit gingerly, for my cheeks were sensitive to the hard chair seat. The rawness of my fleshy seat sent little quivers through me and I found myself fantasizing about another licking, and how I could prolong it.

  Lucy entered the room bursting with energy, her face full of color. She pecked me on the cheek and sat beside me, flicking open her napkin.

  "Oh, Mina, I had such a wonderful time with Arthur! You haven't met him, of course, but he's a dear old friend of the family. He's proposed."

  "What, another?" I blurted.

  Lucy giggled. "Mina, don't be so silly. I have more men than I can shake a stick at."

  "Well, which one are you going to accept?" I asked.

  She gave me a sly smile. "Perhaps you should meet the third before you ask me that."

  Now I was shocked. "You have three gentlemen asking for your hand? Is that decent?"

  "Decent?" She jumped up to hug me, inadvertently pressing me harder against the chair. A little gasp came out of my mouth, a comment from my sore bottom.

  "I sent Verna to see to you last night, as I was not available. I hope she did as she was ordered. Did you sleep well, or were you uncomfortable?"

  My cheeks colored. "I slept...enough."

  Lucy had but a nibble of toast and a gulp of orange juice and then she was out the door, calling, "Mina, dearest, I must attend to some boring legal business about the estate. Be on hand, won't you, for a late supper tonight with Quincey. You two must meet. He's exactly the type you should get to know intimately."

  My day was spent nursing my wounds, which titillated me no end, although by late afternoon I wished them freshened rather than on the mend.

  Verna appeared at regular intervals to offer me tea and then lunch. Her eyes stared into mine, not the way a servant looks at a mistress, more the way a maid carefully examines a carpet in order to ascertain how severely it needs be beaten in order to remedy its imperfect condition.

  I decided on a late afternoon ride. Mounting Rosebud reawakened the worries of my bottom and the bouncing reminded me of the rhythm o
f the cane in all its myriad uses. Today the nub beneath me was red hot, sending ripples of pleasure throughout my body as it rode the living flesh beneath me. I only wished I could be free and ride bareback.

  I travelled to the East Cliffs and dismounted for a break. Below a crowd of men—workers by their muscles—unloaded all that remained of a ship that had run aground during the night. Large boxes were being carried to the shore. Even as they bent and lifted the crates over the sides, waves slammed the bow of the ship against the rocks. Everywhere today, the rhythm of the cane repeated itself. Life ebbing and flowing, lifting and rising, pain and pleasure.

  Rosebud was anxious to return. Secretly I removed my bloomers and stuffed them into my jacket pocket. I mounted the mare by straddling her, and spread my riding skirt in a way that permitted me to ride home bare-assed if not bareback. I galloped her, taking the long route, dreading that anyone would witness my impropriety and yet the sensations were delicious. The hard polished leather slapped steadily against the crack between my spread legs and, at the same time, paddled my bottom. By the time we returned to the house, I felt well spanked, thanks to Rosebud's steady rhythm. Quickly I slid to side-saddle, not yet brave enough to withstand disapproval.

  Verna held the reins while I, breathless, dismounted. From the look in her eyes, I suspected she caught a glimpse of the nakedness beneath my skirts. The tan saddle was wet and a sweet tart odor came from it.

  "The ride has brought needed color to your sweet cheeks," Verna declared, and walked away.

  Chapter Nine

  I dressed carefully for dinner, borrowing one of Lucy's beautiful dresses for the occasion. It was a pale green brocade with a low neck—far lower than was decent, to be truthful—with tulle trim. Jonathan would be scandalized, but Jonathan was not here.

  I felt distress at the thought of my husband. He had failed in his duty to me. Recently I had tasted of the erotic and I wanted more. But Jonathan was a moralist. A realtor by trade, a stamp collector by hobby. I felt certain he could not comprehend such desires.