Frayed Bonds Page 4

  She looked at it without comprehension, and he enjoyed her baffled anticipation while he tied her left wrist securely to the bedpost, and she sighed in constricted contentment. Her right hand he treated differently, binding it loosely to the post with a slipknot and tucking the free end where she could not reach it.

  Then within her line of sight, he stripped. Amy, he realized by her awed expression, had never seen a nude male body.

  Her eyes raked the length of him hungrily then settled on his jutting cock, which he proceeded to stroke, smoothing the sweet almond oil up the shaft. “No,” she groaned. “That’s for me.”

  He reclined on the bed to stroke his shaft some more, reveling in her hunger. “Of course it’s for you, my wanton little slut, but good girls wait.”

  He was enjoying the anticipation, enjoying exhibiting his lean, hard body, and if he thought about his audience on the other side of the wall, he had to admit that he was enjoying that as well. Let John look. He could have had Amy like this months ago if he’d been brave enough.

  When he could wait no longer he took the jar and came to stand behind her. He anointed her rosebud liberally with the oil and slid one slick finger in to the knuckle. She drove hungrily back on him to swallow his entire finger. “Good girl,” he praised, and added another finger. She tensed, and he stilled his digits until she became used to the invasion.

  Then it started. She twitched her hips, moving in a frantic rhythm against his hand, mewling in desperation. She pulled on her bonds, and he reached lazily, entranced by her display, to where the slipknot dangled its pennant on her right wrist. He pulled, and her jerking arm came free. Then she stilled for a moment, uncertain, until he spoke. “Touch yourself, Amy.”

  She couldn’t do it. The desire to be taken like this was her deepest, most secret shame. That she pleasured herself, that she masturbated, was almost equally shameful. That she would pleasure herself while he drove his fingers into her ass—that her husband would see…she couldn’t do it.

  He bent his strong body over her, two fingers of his left hand still moving exquisitely in her ass. His right hand covered hers, and he spoke in her ear so softly that only she could hear. “I love you, Amy. There is nothing you could desire that would disgust or repel or me.”

  He rubbed his hard cock against one cheek of her ass and groaned. “Feel how hard I am, how hard you are making me. John is hard too.”

  She tensed at the thought of her husband watching. Peter planted reassuring kisses along her back and shoulder, then took her hand in his and brought it to her folds. “He can see us. If he didn’t want this to happen, he could walk through that door and stop me. He’s not disgusted by you, Amy, he’s aroused, stroking himself, waiting until the sweetest moment when you surrender.”

  He pressed her hand to her aching pussy, caressed her, guided her, allowed her to find her own rhythm. The withdrawal of his fingers from her ass, almost as sweet as his first penetration, nearly carried her over the edge, but when she would have stroked herself faster, he took over again, slowed her hand, pulled her back from the edge.

  “Not yet,” he whispered in her ear.

  She felt the slick head of his cock poised at her puckered entrance. “Please,” she whined softly. “Please.”

  He’d taken his hand off hers, was allowing her to go at her own pace. She found that she had slowed, didn’t want to come before he entered her. She pushed back tentatively against his cock, felt the silky head slip effortlessly in and fill her. She gasped.

  “Good girl,” he soothed. “Amy, my love, my sweet, I’m not going to fuck your ass. You’re going to push back and take me, all of me. I won’t thrust into you. You’ll set our pace.”

  It was intoxicating. He was ordering her to take control, dominating her and being dominated at the same time. She pushed back a little and felt her sphincter begin to burn. Instinctively, she stroked her clit harder, forced herself to relax and open to him.

  He groaned in her ear. “Amy, my Amy, so sweet, my love. I’m your slave, my angel, utterly at your mercy now.”

  She slid back further, engulfing what she thought must be his entire length. She felt stuffed to bursting, impaled, filled, owned. But still there was more. She was close, so close, and with the last inch of him she felt her body tightening around his cock, squeezing so hard she feared her body would drive him out.

  He felt it too. His cries became louder, his endearments more searing. She called his name in answer. “Peter. Yes, Peter. Please. Yes. I want it. I love you.”

  The last was shouted at the moment of her climax. The first spasm rocked through her and she felt him spurt deep inside. She was deaf and dumb to the world as it continued, and she sagged against the foot of the bed, her left wrist still tied, Peter’s weight falling on her, pinning her there in the haze of the aftermath.

  She heard the door crash open, though she didn’t recognize it as such; the violence in her own body had seemed louder. But she felt the cool air from the hall pucker her breasts. It was a stark contrast to the warmth of her back where Peter’s heated body was pressed to hers.

  “You selfish bastard,” John spat out.

  She turned her head as much as her predicament would allow. She felt a last tremor of orgasm as Peter’s cock softened and slipped from her.

  John stood in the doorway, livid with anger as she had never seen him.

  Peter raised his head. “John,” he said. “She didn’t mean it. It’s not her fault.”

  “Of course it’s not her fault.”

  Amy’s skin prickled in fear. “Peter,” she said. He was still languid, still pinning her to the bed. He didn’t seem to realize the danger he was in.

  “I should serve you,” John Tregarth said, with frightening coldness, “the same way you just served my wife.”

  “No,” Amy moaned, frightened and aroused at the same time.

  Peter tensed, his muscles rigid against her, but he wasn’t fast enough. Tregarth grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, held him hard in place and manacled his left hand to the bedpost with the chain Peter had left hanging there. Now Amy and Peter were both bound to the foot of the bed.

  “Do whatever you like with me, John, but don’t hurt Amy. She loves you, not me. She wanted this so she could walk away from me forever.” Peter spoke calmly, soothingly, and Amy wondered how he could remain so steady in the face of John’s anger.

  Then she looked from her husband to her lover and realized that she had been wrong. This wasn’t the end between her and Peter. She wanted Peter in her life, in her bed. And she still loved John. She wanted both of them.

  She watched, transfixed, as her husband wound his hand in his oldest friend’s hair, pulled his head back, and asked, “Do you love her?”

  “Yes. Yes, I love her. But she’s yours, and as soon as you unchain me, I promise I’ll walk out of both your lives forever if that’s what you want.”

  “No,” she sobbed. “I love you both. I want you both. Don’t make him go.”

  The room was deadly still and silent for a moment, and Amy feared she had condemned them both. Then Tregarth released Peter, took Amy’s chin gently in his hand and tipped her head so he could see into her eyes. “You belong to me. You’re mine. No one else touches you without my permission.”

  Without his permission? But other men might touch her, if he ordered it. The thought was shamefully arousing. Peter might touch her if her husband ordered it. “Yes,” she said, her voice breaking in gratitude and wonder and love. “Yes, John. I’m yours. First and always, yours.”

  He smiled approvingly at her, but he was still distant, cold, commanding.

  “I’m glad we understand one another. But Peter still deserves to suffer. If you love her,” he pitched his voice to Peter now, “then there won’t be a mark on her.”

  Amy shuddered. She wasn’t certain what he intended, but she was frightened—and excited—by this new side of her husband.

  Peter slid his free arm around her. “You’re frig
htening her, John. Let her go. Untie her. Take her somewhere alone and make love to her. We can settle our differences later.”

  “No.”

  She hadn’t noticed the delicate whip lying among Peter’s discarded toys. John picked it up, cracked it expertly in the air and brought it down without warning on Peter’s back.

  Peter grunted into her ear and gathered her closer. She screamed with terror, “Please, John. Don’t hurt him.”

  The whip sang out again, and she felt the man chained behind her shift to take the blow where it would have stung her tender flesh.

  “You almost struck her,” he cried.

  “No,” Tregarth replied coldly, “you almost failed to protect her. If we’re to share her, you must show me that you are willing to cherish her as I do.”

  It was almost too much for her to bear, the heady eroticism, the tangled emotions. The man she loved most in the world, her husband, had taken command of her and her lover. And the man who had introduced her to pleasure, terrified her with her own nature, then shown it to her again today in startling and wondrous joy, was accepting a whipping from her husband, shielding her with his body so the lash would not fall on her back.

  The whip came down again, and this time Peter moaned. His anguish sounded somehow different, but she couldn’t interpret the tenor of his cries. He held her tight, tucked her body in close to his. “Amy,” he moaned. “Don’t be afraid.”

  The whip sang out once more and she felt something hard jab the small of her back. Peter’s cock was erect, aroused by the whipping.

  She gasped, and her husband chuckled. “Always so dominant, always the one in charge, always the whip hand, Peter. Even at school. You never bent over for the older boys. You were always the one on top. Well look at you now.”

  “Please, John,” she begged. “Let him go.”

  “He doesn’t want to be let go, my love. Those flimsy chains were meant for you. They’re too slender to hold him if he wants to get free.”

  Peter groaned in her ear and rubbed his cock against her.

  Tregarth cast the whip aside, grabbed Peter’s free hand, released the end of the manacle attached to the bed post and chained both his hands behind his back.

  Amy, her left wrist still tied to the bed post, drank in the sight of the man who had just dominated and pleasured her, his hard, lean body kissed by the whip, kneeling submissively at the feet of her husband.

  “John,” she gasped in wonder. Oh how she loved him, how she loved this. “John, please,” she said, “I want you.”

  “Peter’s training has clearly left much to be desired. You speak when spoken to.”

  She thrilled to her part. “Yes, John.”

  He untied her wrist, kissed her with punishing force and ordered onto the center of the bed. She complied eagerly, climbing up on the counterpane, scooting to the center of the bed and lying down on her back.

  “Spread your legs,” he commanded.

  She felt wanton and luxurious, lying on her back in the middle of the bed, but it wasn’t enough. Responding to some inner instinct, she raised her hands above her head and brought her wrists together, to bind if he desired.

  “Amy.” She could hear his breath catch in his throat. But he didn’t join her on the bed. Instead, he dragged Peter, still manacled, from his place on the floor. “Kneel on the bed beside her,” he ordered.

  Amy resisted the urge to reach out to Peter, to comfort him. She marveled at how quickly the power in the room had shifted, how John had come to dominate them both and thrilled to it.

  Her husband climbed onto the bed, took a fistful of his best friend’s hair and forced his head down between Amy’s legs. “She’s not to come,” he warned.

  John had used his mouth on her before, but she’d felt nothing, driven by her fear into a hard cold place where she could feel no pleasure. Now it was different. When Peter’s tongue touched her, the sensation was like an explosion. She’d thought she was wrung out, that her passion must be spent after the pleasuring Peter had delivered earlier with the dildo and the frighteningly intense penetration she had just endured. She’d known he had tempered his desires with her, foregone thrusting into her ass in order not to frighten or injure her, but it had been terrifically intense all the same. She’d never have dreamed she could be roused again and certainly not so quickly.

  But Peter’s tongue was skilled. He flicked her bud with short sharp licks then laved her with long strokes then stabbed at her achingly empty passage with his tongue.

  John was not idle. He offered direction, encouragement, criticism. Then he ordered Peter to stop. “I want you to watch me with her, as I had to watch you.”

  John opened his britches, took his cock in his hand and speared Amy before she had a chance to think or speak. Then she lost the capacity for thought and speech and gave herself up wholly to John’s mastery. He fucked her in long, slow strokes, taking his time, asking her what she liked, how she wanted it, encouraging her to writhe beneath him until she found her sweet spot.

  Then she was spiraling up and up toward something deeper and more satisfying than the other climaxes she had experienced that day, and when it came, it was blinding in its intensity. She fell almost immediately into a sated and blissful sleep with her husband’s head pillowed on her breast and Peter’s head resting on her thigh. She knew, as she slipped into dreamy unconsciousness, that everything would be right amongst them now, amongst all three of them.

  * * * * *

  When he was certain his wife slept, John Tregarth slipped silently from the bed and released Peter Mainwaring’s manacles. He helped him to dress and walked him down to his carriage.

  Peter did not speak until he was climbing into the carriage. Then, he reached out and gripped John’s shoulder. “Did you mean it, what you said? About being together, the three of us?”

  Tregarth looked up at the window of the room where his wife slept. “Yes. If she wants it. But not right now, not for a month at least. I want time alone with her.”

  “Of course. Come to Herridon, in a month. Or two. She’ll like it there. Whenever you are ready.” Peter could not contain his eagerness.

  “Peter,” Tregarth warned, “I won’t bring her to Herridon. Things have to be different. You have to accept this. When you are with Amy and me, I’m in control.”

  The other man hesitated. “It’s not in my nature,” he said at last.

  “Agree, or you’ll never touch her again.”

  Peter wavered for a second, looked up at the window where Amy lay sleeping, then lowered his eyes, conquered. “I agree.”

  About the Author

  Diana Thorn loves to read and write erotic romance, particularly with a historical or fantasy setting. In the past Diana worked in the art world, but now she’s putting her Ivy League education and MFA to use creating spicy Regencies.

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