Raising the Devil Read online

  Then there were only Cartwright and Bolton left, and they demurred to fuck her until after supper. She’d almost forgotten Cartwright was there. He hadn’t recognized her, obviously, or he would have said something, but she was grateful for the respite all the same.

  They filed out to dinner, leaving her splayed and tied, and she panicked briefly, but then the door opened a few moments later and Stephen came in. He untied her ankles and wrists and rubbed life into them first. Then he removed the gag, soaked and swollen from the way she had drooled in the throes of her climaxes.

  And then, for the first time all night, she was afraid. Terrified of what he must think. “Stephen?” she asked hoarsely, wondering if she’d lost his love at the same time she’d lost control of her body.

  “You were magnificent,” he said, pulling her into his arms. They stood like that, clinging to each other for some time, until he pulled away and leaned back to examine her. “Can you go on? Cartwright wasn’t invited, so he can’t exactly complain. And Bolton held back earlier. I can turn their attention in other directions during dinner.”

  She shook her head. She’d had four of them, but six increased the odds so greatly, she would be a fool to give up now. And she wasn’t sure she could do this again. It was tonight or not at all. She said as much, adding, “I want a child so much, Stephen.”

  He nodded. “I love you,” he said, leading her back to the bench and helping her to mount once more. “I’ll tie you for now, in case they decide to come directly back. That will leave only the gag to put in place. But if they linger over port, I’ll come back to release you for a spell.”

  Then he was gone.

  It was only when she was alone that the room’s satanic décor disturbed her and she found herself wishing he would hurry back. The gargoyles grinned down at her and the black crepe began to cast a sinister pall.

  Then one of the shadows moved.

  “Stephen?” she asked.

  “No,” said a voice she had not heard in seven years. James Cartwright emerged from the shadows like the ghost he very nearly was. “If you would prefer his presence, call for him now, Catherine. Otherwise this will be between you and me.”

  “My name isn’t Catherine. I’m Madame—”

  “Please credit with me the intelligence to be able to tell my former fiancée from a notorious whore.”

  She swallowed hard. “How did you know?”

  “I guessed when I heard about this little debauch. It seemed too great a coincidence, your resemblance to Madame R. I assumed you would be an unwilling participant, and came rushing down here to save you, but it seems I was wrong.”

  He was close enough to touch her now but he didn’t. He was examining the bench and her bonds. She took in the guinea-gold hair of the man she had once loved.

  He fingered the bell that dangled beside her left wrist. “Why didn’t you wait for me, Catherine?”

  “Why didn’t you come back?”

  He shrugged, reached beneath the bench and began to lower the padded surface. “I was hurt. Near dead from my wounds. Too ill to tell anyone my name or rank for close to a year. By the time I was sufficiently recovered, the news reached me that you were married. I had no reason to come home.”

  “I thought you were dead.” The bench kept dropping until she was lying flat on her back, her knees in the air. More vulnerable than when she was sitting up. But she would not ring the bell. If she called for Stephen and he found her alone with Cartwright, he would believe she still had feelings for the man. And on this of all nights, it would drive a wedge between them.

  Her head was at the level of his groin and he threaded his fingers in her hair and turned her to face him. “Allow me to demonstrate that I am very much alive.”

  She watched him unfasten the buttons on the fall of his breeches, only inches from her face. The sight of his cock, swollen and weeping, made her cunny clench, but she knew as he rubbed the tip over her cheeks, her chin, her mouth, that he had something else in mind.

  She opened her mouth to beg him to fuck her, to make his contribution to the night’s event, but he pushed his cock between her lips before she could speak. It tasted saltier than Stephen’s. She ran her tongue around the head, the way Stephen liked, and looked up at her lost love’s face for approval.

  She saw only coldness. She had a moment’s warning when his hand fisted in her hair before he used his thumb to jamb her jaw open and drove his cock to the back of her throat.

  She should have hated his rough handling. He meant to demean her, to punish her for not waiting for him, for loving Stephen, for enjoying this. She heard herself gagging, gasping for breath, felt him grow harder as she struggled, and experienced a wave of pleasure so intense she was awed by it. The humiliation was intoxicating. She had never suspected this about herself, and though her love for James Cartwright had burned down to a dull coal over the years, and died entirely the moment he thrust his cock down her throat, a small part of her thanked him for this revelation.

  Then he was spurting salty jets over her breasts and face and she was glad that it was over, because while she’d reveled in the humiliation, she’d had quite enough of the man. He was gaping down at her like a fish after his climax, and his face twisted in disgust when she licked her lips and smiled like a contented cat.

  “Perhaps I was wrong after all,” he said, wiping his cum from her face with a handkerchief. “It is exceedingly difficult to tell you apart from a whore.” He was not gentle at all when he propped the bench back up to its original position. She sighed when her ass touched the upholstered ledge once more. Her cunny was slick from his attentions to her mouth, and she longed for more friction than the leather would grant her.

  “Goodbye, James,” she said languidly, her mind already on the pleasures the remainder of the night would bring. “Show yourself out, won’t you?”

  She enjoyed his astonishment. But only for a moment. Then his eyes were shuttered and something cold settled into his expression. And she was afraid.

  She snatched at the bell but his hand was there before hers. He muffled the clapper and yanked the bell free, snapping its cord. She opened her mouth to scream but he jammed the gag in before sound could emerge.

  “Hush now, Catherine. I’m not going to hurt you. I have no desire to touch you ever again. Alas, you won’t be able to call for Stephen,” he said, pocketing her bell and buckling the gag in place. “But I don’t think you’ll be alone for long. Bolton has unfinished business with Madame R.”

  And then he was gone.

  The door slammed behind him, creating a current of air that tickled her spread pussy. She struggled against the ties but couldn’t move. She screamed through the gag, but the sound that emerged was pitiful and muffled.

  And more horrifying than anything else, than the knowledge that she was vulnerable and alone and without any way to summon Stephen, was how excited she was by her helplessness. She felt the slickness of the seat beneath her bottom, the juices flowing from her slit, running down her crack and pooling on the soft leather. Felt her nipples tingle and lengthen in the chill air of the room, with the fire burned down low and her filmy dress spread wide to bare her body in its entirety.

  To any man who entered.

  She’d never been one for prayer, but she’d heard of religious trances, had read about the meditation practices of the East. The state she entered now was akin to it. She floated, her body tied but her mind free as it had never been before.

  When the door opened this time, she welcomed with beseeching eyes the man who stood on the threshold. She quite liked Bolton. Stephen had hesitated before adding his name to the list, having heard some rumor that he’d pursued—and failed to win—Madame R. The truth Catherine read on this man’s face was that more had passed between him and the notorious courtesan. He surveyed her body with a lover’s eyes.

  But he did not recognize her. He must have known every inch of Madame R, but in the dark room, spread and wanting, she must indeed look just
like the famous whore. And she was glad of it. He was tall and muscular with a wide and mobile mouth and wore his black hair a shade too long for fashion. He had something savage about him, and an air of determination that none of the others had brought with them that night.

  He was a man, she realized, with something to prove.

  “Fessingdon refused to say what he paid you,” he said, shutting the door softly behind him, “but it was never about the money, was it?”

  Since she wasn’t Madame R, she had no idea what it had been about, but she was in no position to contradict the man so she shook her head.

  “No. Of course it wasn’t. Not if you agreed to this for him. I didn’t understand why you refused me at the time, but I do now. I could see it in the way you looked at him while the others were fucking you. You trust him.”

  Her heart constricted. She did trust Stephen. Loved him unconditionally.

  Bolton crossed the room to one of the black-draped chests and picked up a small jar she did not recognize. It was pale porcelain, painted with grinning skulls and clearly not one of her own ornaments. Another of Stephen’s props.

  “I’m sorry for how I acted then. I was hurt and I was angry,” he was saying as he unscrewed the cap. “I should not have broken with you. I should have shown you that you could trust me. Should have demonstrated how careful I would be before suggesting such a thing.”

  They had made a dangerous error indeed. Bolton had been Madame R’s lover. A jilted lover, it seemed. If they had known, they would not have invited Bolton. But, oh, she was glad they had. Much of what had occurred tonight had been pleasurable but not impassioned. Bolton would be different. It did not matter to her that the passion was meant for another woman. She would drink it in anyway.

  He dipped his fingers into the jar and they came out coated with some slick unguent. If she hadn’t been gagged, she’d have told him she didn’t need it. She was wet and needy now, and ready to grant him the understanding Madame R had been so stingy with if he would only fuck her.

  But in the next moment, when he opened the fall on his breeches and anointed his cock, she forgot all about Madame R. He was bent. His cock was bent. It did not shoot straight out from his groin, but curved gracefully from root to tip.

  She felt her own drool spatter her nipples. She squirmed in anticipation. Whimpered with longing.

  He stepped up to the bench, caressed her face, her breasts, her belly almost reverently. “You would have enjoyed it, taking two men at once, if only you would have trusted me.”

  Yes. Yes, she thought. I would have enjoyed being Madame R, receiving the attentions of the magnificently bent Bolton and his friend, whoever he was. She felt languid, receptive, open to him and to pleasure. Her eyes drifted shut and her mind centered on the emptiness between her legs waiting to be filled, waiting for his touch.

  It didn’t come. Instead, his greased cock slid straight up her ass. Her eyes flew open. Her mouth, already stretched wide on the gag, opened wider, but no sound came out.

  He smiled beatifically down at her. “Good girl. I told you that you would like it. See how good it can feel?” Then he moved. Not a thrust, but a gentle flexing of his hips that rubbed the head of his curved cock back and forth over a maddeningly sensitive spot in her back passage that seemed somehow connected to the deep dangerous spot in her cunny that made her clench and come.

  As she was about to do now. Come. With a cock in her ass that had taken her so entirely by surprise that she had not had time to tense against the invasion, had felt no pain, had simply been utterly and completely buggered in one go.

  Her climax was starting, as it often did, in slow waves. All she had to do was give in to it and she would be clenching, pussy and ass, with no control whatsoever of her body.

  Yes. The first wave passed over her. Not long now. Another flex. Perhaps two. Please. Good. More.

  Creak.

  The door opened. Stephen stood gaping on the threshold, watching Bolton fuck her in the ass. His eyes roamed from her gagged mouth to the broken bell cord.

  “My love?” asked her husband softly from the door, “would you like him to stop?”

  Chapter Four

  For a moment, she considered being a coward and nodding. Hiding her enjoyment. But she trusted Stephen. Trusted him to love her. Trusted in the purity of his soul that rejected hypocrisy in pleasure.

  She shook her head. And watched a wicked smile overtake his handsome face. “Then would you like me to stay?”

  She nodded and watched Bolton’s expression grow determined. He wanted to bring her to completion in this way, and having his rival there only doubled his resolve.

  Bolton slid a hand to her mound but Stephen crossed the room and stopped him. “Not yet,” he advised. “Save that for when she thinks she can’t come again.”

  She groaned around the gag. Bolton’s gentle flexing was driving her mad, his gyrations rubbing deep in her ass, the sensations reaching through her empty sheath.

  She watched her husband watching her. Watched him reach behind the bench and spring the mechanism. She began chanting nonsense through the gag when he started to lower the bench. He was changing the angle of her body so that Bolton’s curving cock was pressing even harder against the wall between her cunny and ass.

  She came the second the bench bottomed out. Her toes curled, her cunt spasmed and her ass clamped down hard on Bolton’s invader. But Stephen gave her no time to come down from the peak. He clamped both her nipples at once, this time with two wicked weighted clips that bit and burned and tightened as she struggled. She convulsed again, salivating around the gag, certain that it must be over, that she had nothing left to give.

  The pussy clamp shattered her completely as it closed with finality over her engorged clit. She felt Bolton give way, pumping into her ass with a rush of warm fluid, and heard him groan in amazed completion.

  Slowly, her vision cleared. Bolton was still lodged in her ass and the invasion was becoming painful. She was still clamped, pussy and nipples, and Stephen was watching her carefully, alert to signs of distress.

  “Stay still,” he advised her. “Give him a minute. You don’t want him to pull out while he’s still hard.”

  She didn’t. It would burn, she knew it. She willed her trembling body to calm, felt the cock in her ass shrink then slip from her body with mercifully little pain.

  “Magnificent woman,” said Bolton, wiping his cock on a handkerchief and tucking his remarkable member into his pants.

  Stephen remained standing over her. “I think that rather concludes the evening for Madame R,” he said to Bolton. “Shepherd the others out, won’t you?”

  Bolton smirked. “Haven’t had your go yet, have you, Fessingdon?” The man had the nerve to chuckle. “Enjoy yourself. The silly slut will be so sensitive when you unclamp her, she’ll take you in every hole before she’s done.”

  She shivered at his words. She wasn’t looking forward to the clamps coming off.

  The door closed behind Bolton. Stephen locked it and returned to her side. “Try to relax,” he advised.

  He hadn’t removed the gag, she realized. She could hear the sounds of their guests leaving, their carriages pulling up to the drive. He wouldn’t take the clamps off while they were still out there—

  He did. Her breasts first. She screamed through the gag. Long and wordless. But Bolton had been right. She trusted him. Loved him. Loved this.

  He unfastened her wrists and ankles, drew her up to a sitting positing, then took the gag off. “Stephen,” she gasped.

  “Did he hurt you, my love? I knew you were enjoying it, but it’s likely to leave you sore.”

  “It feels…” She searched for a description. The soreness was a pleasant reminder of the decadent penetration. One she would never have been bold enough to ask for. Before now. She grinned at him. She knew exactly what it felt like. “It feels empty.”

  He pulled her hard against him and kissed her. Her feet dangled off the bench, her s
ore nipples grated against the wool of his coat. And the weight hanging from the clamp on her pussy dragged and tightened the device.

  She moaned. It hurt. It throbbed. It felt too good.

  He stepped back and pulled the soaked remains of the filmy gown over her head. “Come with me.” He took her hand and led her, naked, from the room, pausing only to pick up a black silk roll from among the props on the mantel.

  When he opened the door to the hall she hung back, but the house was thoroughly empty now. He tugged her more insistently and she followed. Up the stairs. Down the hall. To their bedroom.

  Every step had been agony mixed with pleasure. The weight dangling from the clamp had teased her pussy mercilessly. The clamp had tightened relentlessly. She didn’t wait for Stephen to direct her, but climbed up on the bed and curled on her side to relieve the pleasure-pain.

  He placed the black silk roll on the bed beside her and lifted her leg. He flicked the weight. She groaned. “Please, take it off,” she begged.

  “A little longer, I think,” he chided. Then he was unrolling the black silk and the sight made her throat suddenly dry. Lined up by size in carefully sewn silk pockets was an array of cocks. Phalluses. “Dildos.” Her husband supplied the word. She’d never heard it before.

  And some of them were wicked indeed. Like no man ever created. Patterned and textured. Beyond the limits of her body to accept tonight. And it went on. He continued to unroll the silk and more implements appeared. Porcelain and glass and leather and gleaming metal in shapes and sizes she could only guess at the purpose of.

  He selected a small metal object shaped like the finial on a bedpost, no more than two inches long and an inch in diameter, tapered to a rounded point. It had a flared base decorated with a glittering amethyst. “Kneel,” he said softly.

  She guessed what he meant to do with it. She’d said she felt empty. He was going to fill her.

  She got onto her hands and knees and laid her cheek against the soft quilted counterpane. Her anticipation only increased as he slicked the object with that same unguent Bolton had used. Then he was pressing the cold metal tip, smooth and soothing, to her asshole.