Visitations

He waited. Outside his darkened chamber the sounds of the household subsided. In the hall far below the butler barred the great oak doors with a muffled thud. Stairs creaked as the housekeeper climbed slowly to her dormer, keys clicking faintly. Floorboards sighed as the chambermaids walked wearily to their rooms.

He was taut as a strung bow, he thought. The ivory witch had ensorcelled him. The scent of her musk lingered on his bedsheets and haunted his dreams. He could taste the silk of her skin upon his tongue. Greeting her with respectful diffidence across the breakfast table as tutor to her young brothers was a torment when he longed to pin her hips against the table, flip her skirt over her head, and sheathe himself in her.

He shifted restlessly on the hard pallet. Tonight he would not succumb to sleep, to wake dazed as the siren sashayed into his room. Tonight he would demand an explanation, or at least strip her dress from her. This time she would not maintain inviolate her fortress of whalebone and brocade whilst he lay naked to her gaze.

He threw off the rough the linen sheets. He was clad in a rough tunic and breeches, bare feet silent on wooden planks. His dress was vilely en déshabillé, he thought cynically, but well enough for an evening with milady. Through the lone window the moon shone on bare walls and hard wooden pallet, a single wooden chair, and a floor length mirror, legacy of a long ago governess. The mirror would abet his plans for the evening, he thought with satisfaction. He crossed the room in a three lanky strides to place the chair in the shadows behind the door.

When hours later the faint whisper of skirts brushed the planks outside his door, he snapped to attention. The ivory witch could answer for the crick in his neck, he thought. From his chair in the shadows he watched broodingly as she stepped lightly across the threshold, clad as ever in voluminous skirts, a slender creature in full mourning. She had been married for six years, he knew, and widowed for as many months, but she was so slim she might hardly have left the schoolroom.

Her candle rendered his enchantress an island of light, blinding her to the tall form slouching menacingly on a chair in the shadows. She stepped lightly across the room to the night stand, her skirts whispering across the floorboards, and set her candle on its surface. He stood, unfolding languidly from his chair, and turned the key in its lock with an audible snick. She whirled on a gasp, her hand rising to her heart, shock upon her lovely face. From the shadows he smiled. "Good e'en, milady."

She watched him warily as he approached. Raising large hands to her slight shoulders, he turned her to face the mirror. The candlelight illuminated the perfect ivory oval of her face, high cheekbones and fine brows arched in eternal surprise, eyes the color of coffee under lush lashes; the taut curve of her neck, the shadows etched beneath her collarbones, the silken skin and smooth slope of her breasts, the tiny waist; the fine lace that lined her bodice, the corset that was her cage and her castle, the absurd bell of her skirts. The island of golden light began and ended with her: he was a tall shadow, faceless in darkness. He bent and traced with his lips a single curl fled from her chignon to trail down her neck. She shivered. "It's time we got those widow's weeds off you, my dear."

Relishing his rôle as milady's maid, he languidly unlaced her bodice, pulling the laces one by one through each eyelet, holding her gaze in the mirror. As he dropped the lace to the floor he peeled the brocaded whalebone cage from her slim frame. He flipped the stiff brocade to the floor and slid strong hands across her ribcage. Underneath the corset her chemise was a whisper of linen edged with lace. His hands splayed possessively across the flaming silken skin of her midriff. Under his sturdy hands she seemed tiny, slim as a reed. He cupped her breasts in his hands, brushed his thumbs upwards across her puckered nipples, gratified by her gasp. The buds of her nipples hardened under his teasing thumbs. He bent his head to her neck and nipped at the collarbone that had once tormented with its inaccessibility.

From her sweet small breasts his hands roamed downwards, exploring her curves languidly, tracing the pert slope of her derrière under her skirts. He tugged at the laces of the skirt. His voice was husky with desire. "Lift your arms, milady." Her eyes met his in the mirror as she complied, and he grasped the voluminous skirt in both hands and drew it upwards, over her head. Under the skirt a farthingale of whalebone and linen encircled the slim waist. He unlaced it, and her cage slid to her ankles in a cascade of hoops. She stood now in a chemise so fine it was translucent, long legs clad in slippers, and silk stockings held by a scrap of lace at the thigh. Under the chemise she wore nothing at all. The chemise was the merest wisp of linen: he slid blunt fingers under the exquisite lace at her neck, caressing the shrinking silken flesh, and tore it from her body.

His lady gasped and covered herself with her hands. "Stand still, sweetheart." In a swift stride he crossed the room, returning with the chair. He placed it gently behind her and bowed. "Sit, milady." She sat, watching him warily, her ivory face and rosy aureoles illuminated by the flickering flame. "Spread your legs, milady." Her rosebud mouth dropped open.

He stepped closer to the chair, and the coarse linen of his tunic rasped the bare skin of her shoulder. He let his voice deepen menacingly. "Spread your legs, milady." Achingly slowly, she spread her legs. In the mirror they could both see her long slim legs, the ivory skin of her thighs, the curled dark hair between. His mouth brushed her earlobe, and she gasped. "Touch yourself, milady. Spread your lips for me." Her slim hand crept down between her legs, spread her labia. She was wet, her lips glistening.

"Touch yourself, lady." A slim finger circled her clitoris, and she gasped again. Pupils dilated, her gaze glassy in the mirror, she circled her clitoris with a pale finger, flicked the tiny nub, circled again, traced the moist clefts and valleys between her labia. Helplessly her knees spread wider, her breath came in gasps. "Fuck yourself with your finger." She slid a long slim finger into her cunt and moaned at the feel of it as he watched from the shadows. He stretched out a broad hand and pinched a nipple between strong fingers. She arched her back and shoved pert breasts into his hand. She slid her finger into her cunt and withdrew it, pressing upwards as her hips tilted. She slid a second finger into her cunt, pushed both fingers deeper, ground her thumb against her clitoris. She slumped in the chair as she fucked herself with two fingers, then three, bruising her clit with her thumb, knees wide open to the mirror, exposed to his gaze, the candle guttering, his eyes aflame. She screamed and humped her hand as she came, then slumped boneless in the chair.

Duncan grabbed her wrists and forced her to her feet. With ruthless strength he brought her wrists behind her back and tipped her to her knees in front of the chair. He dropped his breeches and stepped in front of her. "Suck my cock, 'cause I'm going to fuck you in the ass, and you'll need it wet." Her eyes under the honey lashes shot open in shock. He slid his thumb into her mouth and pried it open to thrust the whole length of his cock down her throat. She tilted her head back, her eyes wide, his fingers tangled in the glossy black tresses as her elegant chignon tumbled down. He flexed merciless fingers against the delicate bones of her skull and thrust again as she gagged. She sucked hard. He pulled his cock from her mouth and stood, folding her torso across the wooden chair and pushing her hips against the chair. He leaned forward to kiss her delicate, silken shoulders. As he clenched her beautiful hair in rough hands he whispered tenderly, "I'm going to fuck you in the ass."

He guided his engorged cock between her flawless ivory cheeks to the puckered mouth of her asshole. She whimpered as her sphincter began to stretch. She pushed away from him, but he pulled the chair hard against his hips, pinning her hips to his. Relentlessly he sheathed the whole length of his engorged cock in her ass as she moaned. He grasped the silken skin of her neck with his teeth and reached around to press her clit against her pelvic bone, and she came hard, arching and keening against the chair, hips bucking. He plunged his cock into the tender depths of her ass and shot his cum deep inside.

Slowly he regained enough motor control to raise her limp form in his arms and tumble them both onto the narrow bed. He arranged her limbs beside him and pulled the woolen blankets across them both, wrapping her in his arms. His last thought before sliding into unconsciousness was that this encounter would not help him greet her decorously across the breakfast table in the morn under the curious eyes of the household staff and two lively young lads.