Beyond Romance: Saturday Spanks: Victorian Kinkiness - #SaturdaySpanks #MirandasMasks #BDSM

My Saturday Spanks excerpt today comes from Miranda’s Masks. This is one of the more ambitious novels I’ve written, from a structural perspective. It chronicles the sexual awakening of an initially inhibited young graduate student, Miranda Cahill. At the same time, a subplot reveals the desires of a woman who lived a century earlier, but whose erotic adventures eerily parallel Miranda’s own. Today’s post is part of an entry from Beatrice’s secret diary, which Miranda discovers in a dusty antiquities shop in Boston’s historic Beacon Hill.

Here’s a kinky scene in which Beatrice is forced to confront her craving for submission.

Enjoy!

I settled myself on the velvet upholstery, feeling more and more nervous. My companion leaned out the window, signaling the coachman to proceed. Then he reached into his coat pocket and retrieved a white silk handkerchief.

“For reasons that I am sure you will understand, my dear, I must blindfold you. I cannot have my partners seeking me out after we have concluded our little diversions.” I did not resist as he bound the cool silk around my brow. I could sympathize with his concerns.

The coach galloped on for perhaps three-quarters of an hour. I tried to judge by sound where we were or at least what direction we had taken. Very soon, it seemed, we left the bustle of the city behind. We must have been in one of the fashionable suburbs, Brookline, or Newton. The warmth of the late afternoon sun, slanting in through the window, suggested we were travelling southwest.

My companion neither spoke nor touched me during the trip. However, I was acutely aware of his presence beside me, radiating a kind of magnetic attraction that made me perspire under my layers of clothing. I kept my hands tightly clasped in my lap, resisting the urge to touch him. Indeed, I had the sense that he was tempting me, testing me, with his physical closeness and psychic distance.

At last we slowed our pace and turned into a drive. I heard gravel crunching under the wheels. My companion removed the blindfold, and I saw that we had stopped before a gracious residence, surrounded by gardens. He handed me down from the carriage, and I naturally turned toward the main entrance, with its fanlight and leaded panes.

“No,” he said sharply, reaching out to grab my hand. I looked at him, puzzled. He gave a little laugh. “No, I think it is the stables for you. Go on now, follow Montrose.”

The coachman leered at me. I was about to object, full of righteous disdain, when I realized several things. First, I was alone and unprotected here, in some unknown house, far from the help of any friend. Second, despite both fear and indignation, I was mightily aroused. The trip in the carriage had taken its toll on my senses. I desperately wanted to be touched by the mysterious, dark gentleman with the suspicious accent.

Still, I hesitated. My abductor frowned. “You do not want to cross me, Madame. Do you?”

I felt suddenly meek and pliant. “No, sir. Of course not.”

“Then do my bidding. To the stables.” He lifted his stick and gave me a solid whack on the buttocks. My bustle absorbed most of the force, but the act was so surprising, I could only stare. He raised the stick again. “Now!”

I needed no more persuasion. I followed the surly driver across the gravel to the barn. He slid the door open, and my nostrils twitched at the rich blend of smells: leather, hay, manure. The interior was dim; the only window was a grimy square of glass high up on the wall. Several fine horses glanced at me as I stumbled across the threshold, but they soon lost interest.

I stood in the middle of the room, my boots buried to the ankles in the straw, at a complete loss. Montrose lit a kerosene lantern, adding to the pungent combination of smells. His master sauntered into the building and looked me over. My confusion must have been apparent, for he smiled, came over and cupped my chin in his hand.

“Now, little angel, it is time for you to prove yourself. Do you want to please me?”

I nodded, spellbound by his dark gaze.

“I can see your soul, little one. It is dark. You need discipline, punishment. You need a strong hand, like mine.”

I need a strong cock, my mind screamed, but outwardly I remained silent and demure.

“Remove your clothing,” he said. I was about to resist, on principle, but his eyes cowed me. “Do it yourself, or if you prefer, I will have Montrose do it for you.”

My skin crawled at the thought of that degenerate touching me. As quickly and gracefully as I could, I shed my overskirt, bustle, underskirt, petticoats, and waist. Now I wore only my drawers, stockings, corset and chemise. I went to undo the corset, but no matter how I tried, I could not reach the lacings.

“Please, Sir,” I said, turning my back to him, embarrassed and excited. “I cannot manage my stays by myself. Would you assist me?”

“With pleasure,” he said. Finally, his hands were on me, surprisingly competent as they released the cords and loosened the confining garment. Please, I thought, let him touch my breasts, and he did, reaching around to cup them in his palms. Only for a moment, though, then he turned me around to face him.

“You are very lovely, Madame. You would tempt the devil. Off with the chemise and the drawers. Montrose, bring the bonds.”

No, I thought, but my nipples ached, my sex throbbed from his brief touch. I would do anything he asked, I realized, and got a strange thrill from this thought. I removed the articles of clothing, as he ordered.

“Bind her,” said my master briefly. Montrose knew exactly what he wanted.

They used leather, reins and other items of tack that I cannot accurately name. My wrists were roped together and the thong was laced through an iron hoop affixed to the ceiling. They hauled me up until I was on tiptoe. I could feel my juices trickling down my thighs.

They wrapped strips of leather around my waist, and affixed them to the stalls along either wall. I am not sure why they did this; perhaps simply to see the leather biting into my flesh. They ran a leather strap between my legs, so that it rubbed against my center, in the front, and chafed my rear opening. Finally, Montrose took a complicated harness and fitted it over my head. There was something like a bit, which he placed in my mouth, but surely, this was designed on a human, not an equine scale.

I could no longer speak. I could not move to any significant extent. I admit, though, I was more excited than frightened, bizarre as the scenario was.

Finally, I was done, trussed up like some odd piece of game. The dark man circled me, obviously pleased. “Sweet, very sweet. I knew when I saw you that you wanted what I had to offer, and this…” He wiggled a finger under the strap, dipped a finger into my sopping cunny then held it to his lips, “This tells me that I was not wrong.

“Now, my filly, you must be brave. Montrose, bring me the crop.”

I panicked, twisted in my bonds, but to no avail. I was totally at the swarthy stranger’s mercy.

His first blows were directed to the fleshy parts of my bum. They burned like acid, and yet, every time I twisted, trying to evade his strokes, the leather between my legs inflamed me further. Soon he was whipping the backs of my thighs, my shoulders, even my breasts. But my senses were overwhelmed, the smell of my own excitement blending with the animal scents, the sharp pain merging with and transforming the exquisite stimulation in my lower parts, till I could not distinguish agony from ecstasy.

Hanging in my harness, I jerked through climax, once, twice, helpless in the face of my own debauched sensibilities.

Finally, the master stopped beating me. He released the gag that held me speechless. Then he gently stroked my scored nether cheeks. His touch was cool and soothing. “There, there, my sweet. You did well.”

The approval in his voice gave me more pleasure than all the sensual stimulation I had endured. I rubbed my cheek against his jacket, delighted that I had satisfied him.

“However, we are not quite finished yet.” He pulled himself to his full height, looking me in the eye. Once again I remarked the cruel twist of his mouth. “You have not yet been fucked, and I understand that this is what you really want.” He unfastened and removed the thong between my legs. The leather was dark and slick with my moisture.

“Only if it pleases you, master,” I whispered.

“Oh, it does,” he said softly. “Montrose, come here.”

I cannot bear to tell what happened next, my degradation and my filthy pleasure. He would not take me himself. No, he required that his servant take me instead. And I allowed it, though I kicked and screamed. Ultimately I rejoiced at having that thick, smelly rod embedded in my depths, churning, reaming me, using me more roughly than I would have ever imagined. I rejoiced because I knew my Master was watching, knew that the more debased and debauched I was, the more he loved me.

However, after it all, I will not see him again. He made that clear, as he kissed me, refitted the blindfold, and sent me home in his carriage.

“Now you know who you really are,” he said, and he spoke truly. “My work is done.”