A Gentlewoman's Ravishment Page 0,3
deny. “This is for my husband, sir. No man but he should touch me there…and make me feel these feelings.”
“And yet you respond to my touch, madam,” my captor points out huskily, while my flesh betrays me, fresh silkiness flowing to smooth the path of his ever-circling fingertip.
“Please, no! I can’t help myself… If you touch me anymore I shall spend, and only my dear husband should witness that, sir.”
Mercilessly, he jostles my clitoris. Ignoring my pleas, he rolls my nipple between his finger and thumb.
“I think, perhaps, that you should learn to be generous with your pleasure, madam…and to exhibit yourself to men. To many men…” A stiff finger enters me, sliding in easily, and I moan out loud, appalled at the way I automatically start to ride it. “Who knows…your husband may well savor your wantonness and find his own pleasure in the thought, and sight, of you being fiddled with, and fingered and brought to climax by the hands of a whole multitude of strangers.”
I sob as his finger slides in and out, in and out, tugging on the richly sensitive bud of my clitoris. In the darkness behind my blindfold, I’m suddenly presented, on show, laid bare to the eyes of many men. I’m an object. An experiment. Hands rove over me. Many fingers, not just one, take possession of me, exploring my every inch of skin, my every nook and cranny.
Without any warning, the rocking carriage slows to a halt, and struggling with myself and with my bonds, I finally attempt to shake free my tormentor. The driver leaps down, his boots clattering on the pavement, and a second later, the carriage door rattles as he attempts to open it and allow us to alight.
No! Oh, no! The finger stays where it is, inside me, and a firm thumb settles on my clitoris, rubbing and pressing.
“Please! Oh, no, sir…let me be! Not now!”
He ignores me, he continues to work me, with slow precision. “We’ll be but a few moments,” he calls out to the coachman in a harsh, sharp voice, then presses me harder. “Surrender it to me, madam,” he hisses in my ear. “Imagine your husband watching me do this to you…seeing you so wanton and so easy and so lubricious.”
His mouth comes down on mine, tongue pushing in, silencing my protests and allowing me only moans.
My resolution comes upon me like a great, hard, sweet, shameful wave. I sob into his kiss and my body clenches on his finger. Pleasure washes through my sex and melts my limbs. I almost swoon.
But not quite.
As I gasp, trying to catch my breath and regain some semblance of control over my senses, I’m acutely conscious of the stationary carriage. The horses stomp and huff outside, and I fancy I can hear the impatient breathing of the coachman, and perhaps others, as they wait upon me and my unseen ravisher. I focus on all this because I’m in awe of the man still touching my body.
Why have I allowed myself to be dominated in this way? Fondled and handled? There is a considerable difference between a woman’s secret fantasies and the real danger of being kidnapped and whisked away off the street like this. Perhaps he wishes to sell me into white slavery, and has simply toyed with me to ensure that the goods he has to offer are desirable? That when I become the plaything of some jaded debauchee in a far-flung land, I’ll be satisfactory…and diverting.
If I had my wits about me, I’d fight. Kick out. Struggle. Attempt to escape. Surely I could work the key in the lock with my hands behind my back, if I disabled my companion with a sturdy booted foot applied to his sensitive, gentleman’s regions?
But I attempt none of this. I succumb like a debauchee myself, like a willing sensualist.
I’m still glowing with pleasure when his hands slide off me, only to turn the lock himself and open the carriage door while I’m still half in dishabille.
Who is this wicked, ruthless man? Why can’t I resist him?
Before I know it, I’m jostled out of the carriage and half manhandled across a stretch of pavement and up a set of steps. Somewhere in the erotic rumpus, my blindfold has become a little dislodged, and I can see just a sliver of my surroundings.
There’s the lower part of a black-painted door, very well maintained, and as that door opens, I see polished shoes that immediately step back to admit me and