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Taming Maria by Rhea Silva
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Chapter 1
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She was in the vault of Strafford Hall, a magnificent gloomy pile in Hampstead, on
London's outskirts. It belonged to her master, Viscount Damien Strafford. Manacled to a wooden crosspiece, her arms were outstretched and her legs, too, a brace holding her knees apart, her ankles in metal cuffs chained to the lower struts. She was naked apart from straps that passed round her neck and hoisted her breasts high. The nipples were pierced with gold rings from which dangled little bells that tinkled whenever she moved. Her ribs were arched, her belly flat as a
lad's, the navel embellished with a further ring supporting chains that disappeared into her delta. This was hairless, a handsome barber ordered to shave her daily.
'I'm glad to hear that. It is high time I met my old friend's daughter. We were close, you know. He saved my
father's life in battle and I owed him a debt I could never repay,' Damien replied, running the leather thongs of a flogger through his long, aristocratic fingers.
'How noble, and I expect you've not forgotten that she's an heiress. Whoever marries her will come into a
fortune,' Arabella reminded, as she feasted her eyes on him through the veil of honey-gold ringlets that straggled over her face. The vault was lit by braziers set at intervals along the grey stone walls.
He was worth looking at, his black hair curling around his neck and over his brow. His broad shoulders were covered by a fine linen shirt with full, belled sleeves. Open at the throat, it displayed a tanned, darkly furred chest. He strode over to stand directly in front of her, his long legs apart, covered in black leather breeches that fitted flawlessly, outlining the bulk of his penis at the apex of his thighs, and ending in highly polished riding boots.
Arabella had taken her fill of good-looking men, but no one thrilled her like Damien. They had been lovers for ages, or rather she had been his submissive. Love did not fit into the equation. Both milked life of its bounteous pleasures, and neither gave a damn about anyone else.
'Would I forget such a detail?' he answered, a cynical smile lifting his finely chiselled mouth.
'No one else shall have her dowry, lands and possessions. We'll see to that, won't we, my sweet little
slave-slut?' He emphasised this remark with a flick of the whip.
Arabella squirmed and pouted. 'More, master… give me more. You know I'll support you whatever you decide to do. Maria is an innocent, a pawn in our game. Let me help you tame her for I gather that she is wilful and likes her own way. Sir Piers spoilt the girl, I
fear.'
'Leave it to me,' Damien assured her, standing closer and running the pliable, many-thronged implement between her legs.
'I shall enjoy breaking-in this wild creature. You know that nothing pleases me more than subduing a hell-cat. Take yourself, for example.
Didn't you fight me, once upon a time?'
'I did, master, I admit it,' Arabella murmured, while he moved the tails backwards and forwards over her love-lips and nubbin, the leather darkened by her emissions.
'Her initiation should prove to be enjoyable.' He replaced the thongs with his fingers, tugging at the labial chains, frigging her till she yelped.
'When is she arriving? I can't wait to begin her education.'
He removed his hand, threw the flogger aside and picked up a whip. She rested against him for a second, and then he turned her on the crosspiece. This was cleverly designed to give access to its victim, back and front, according to the
master's desires. Her shapely shoulders, spine and buttocks were now displayed for his amusement. She guessed that the curve of her thighs and calves, the slender ankles and high-arched feet would satisfy his aesthetic taste. He was a connoisseur of art and lovely women. He moved closer and she knew he was breathing in her scent, a combination of heady French perfume, sweat induced by passion and the female juices that betrayed her arousal.
She shuddered as he trailed his lips over the nape of her neck, and then ran his tongue around the rim of her ear. She gasped. He withdrew and was silent for a long moment. She grew restless, trying to turn her head and glimpse him, but he kept out of sight. She was in a ferment of anticipation. He had excited her, then left her frustrated. He knew so well how to do this. She hated him for it, cursed him, lusted after him, completely out of control where he was concerned. Despite her restraints, she tried to rub her clitoris against a knot in the wood, her aching breasts and pierced nipples, too, the tiny bells jingling.
Concentrating on seeking satisfaction, she was taken completely off guard by the fire that shot through her backside as the whip struck. She yelled and it fell again, not on the same spot, but a little higher. No sooner had she started to assimilate the agony when that wicked strip of leather writhed like a serpent as it flew high, then became a bar of pain as it landed, controlled by
Damien's hand.
She had received it many times before, and had used it, too, well versed in the dichotomy of pain/pleasure. She sobbed, tears running down her face and was not sure if she was crying with happiness, fear or sheer agony. She smiled as he caressed her skin gently, around her arse, between her legs, a finger dabbling in her dew and massaging her clit, but she was wary enough not to sink into joyful anticipation. And she did not forget the instrument of torture he held in his other hand.
It touched her, gliding along her body. She started as he pressed the tip into her crack. Wet with her dew, he inserted the tip further, and then flicked the sensitive clit head. She wriggled in an attempt to control her rising pleasure. As soon as she believed that she was finding the rhythm that would lead her to bliss, he took it away. He moved, and she no longer breathed in his smell.
She felt the whip tickle between her toes, up her legs, behind her knees. He was taunting her with it, goading her into breaking down and begging. She stayed silent.
Biting pain stung her back. 'Tell me what you want,' he crooned above the hiss of the lash. It became gentle, drifting around her upper thighs.
'Shall I whip your arse? Your crack? Spin you and lash your belly, your breasts, and your mound?
It's no use answering for I shall use you as I fancy. And at the moment I fancy seeing your hinds change from blush pink to hellish red. Like
this!'
She heard the sound of the whip rushing through the air. She felt his power and the force of the lash raining down on her flesh again and again. Her breasts seem to become one with the wooden cross, her whole being as nothing compared to his will. This was not new, yet whenever Damien mastered her, it was as if for the first time.
He made her seem worthless, as if she was the most debased of slaves being punished. Each blow quivered through her flesh to her loins, rousing her towards orgasm yet never quite achieving it. He was like a creature possessed, blow after blow falling on her while she entered that state where pain could hardly be distinguished from sexual pleasure. Then he stopped. She heard the clunk as the whip hit the stone flags. His hand folded round her delta, the middle digit rubbing her clit until she forgot the pain and was swept up in a mighty orgasm that broke into rainbow shards around her.
He chuckled, undid his belt and let his breeches gape. He held her bruised buttocks apart and thrust his erection into her cunt. He fucked her hard for a few strokes and then pulled out. Her battered body responded, wanting more and more of him.
He set her free, each manacle removed before he forced her down in front of him. The folds of his shirt partly concealed his upraised cock. Arabella greeted it rapturously, an acolyte kneeling before this unusual altar. Her mouth opened wide and her tongue licked the length of it, finding the weeping slit and tasting the rich salty dew of his pre-come coupled with her own wetness. She rocked there, forgetting the pain that flooded her, taking him deeper until the mushroom-shaped tip butted the back of her throat.
She choked on it, gasping, 'God, you're so big!'
This pleased him, and he used her hair as a halter to draw her closer, her face buried in linen and skin and the hairy mat coating his lower belly. She breathed in the musky odour of aroused male, mingled with the eau de Cologne with which he always doused himself. He began to ride her face and she worked to bring him to the peak, cheeks caving in as she sucked vigorously.
At that moment she loved Damien, in so far as Arabella could be said to love anyone save herself. She was proud to be the one to bring him bliss. Usually she had to share him, for he was always up for it. But just for that minute fraction of time, he was hers and hers alone, that marvellous, complex, cruel yet strangely sensitive and aware man It was supremely satisfying, making her feel like a queen, an empress, a goddess.
He groaned as she enveloped his length and girth, and she felt his knees tremble. His penis swelled to its full extent. It surged and then her mouth was filled with the warmth of the semen that flooded from him. She took it all, coughing but swallowing, greedily licking up the drops that escaped to bedew her lips.
He pulled away from her, wiped his cock in her hair and adjusted his clothing, once more in perfect control of himself. Filling two goblets with wine, he handed her one and allowed her to put on her clothes.. This took a matter of moments, for she had been wearing a semi-transparent gown that offered no more concealment than a nightdress. This was the height of fashion and Arabella was always in the forefront.
They moved to a divan covered in a lavishly embroidered Oriental quilt. Damien clapped his hands and a magnificently muscled Nubian servant wearing nothing but a loin-cloth, brought in an exquisitely chased Turkish hookah. Rose water bubbled in its bowl as Damien and Arabella drew deeply of the fragrant smoke, and then blew it upwards towards the silk tenting that draped this luxurious couch.
'Our young ward has no idea of the delights in store for her,' Arabella murmured dreamily and relaxed within the circle of
Damien's arm, forgetting the stripes he had inflicted, or rather rejoicing in them, an adjunct to the sensual pleasure that he always lavished on her.
End of Chapter One
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