This week’s Sizzling Sunday excerpt comes from my transgressive erotic romance Miranda’s Masks. This novel has two parallel plots. In contemporary times, literature graduate student Miranda Cahill conducts her dissertation research on Victorian erotica, while she struggles to understand her contradictory sexual desires. Meanwhile, the secret diary she has discovered relates the adventures of the mysterious Beatrice, a upper-class woman who had lived in the same Beacon Hill neighborhood as Miranda, more than a century before.
This
bit is from one of the diary entries.
I
stood in the middle of the stable, 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.”
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