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Her shudder makes me quake inside. I know how that feeling is attached to her cunt, how that will ache with readiness, and then too, how much she’ll be disappointed that it won’t be her cunt that takes the brunt of this beating.
She obeys dropping to her knees on the stone, and draping herself over the leather hassock, with her hands reaching forward to steady herself. Her thighs part just slightly, the position serving to bare most of her ass. The rest Bernard uncovers with his hand, giving his guests complete access to my slave’s behind, and the portal between her cheeks.
Bernard spanks her briskly with a fat kitchen spoon, the spanking followed by three others—I’ll reserve mine for later. She takes punishment on her thighs from Malcom’s doubled belt, George’s tooled leather paddle, and Everett Duncan’s fierce right hand. The round-robin continues until Delia’s ass is cherry red and looking raw. Noting her suffering and her need, Bernard begins the rape, first prodding her unyielding hole. She eventually relaxes and takes the whole of his dark prick deep within. She shrieks, but the shrieking subsides as his tender hands work her flesh and ease her fear. Though he makes this breach a simple one, she’s welcoming the rest by the time he’s finished. Four cocks drive inside her, four spew, four pairs of rough hands add to her misery, squeezing her ass cheeks when the climax hits.
I see her expression change, her fear, her pleasure, and her remarkable willingness to surrender display itself one more time. My heart gets tangled up inside her, as though she’s pried me open. Places in me come alive, I’ve not felt since… since Anna and I were a good deal younger than we are now.
Chapter Ten
I see that your bookstore is for sale. In the event that you’re serious about leaving the city, I can recommend you to Lowell Lockhart. He lives near Welliston. The town should suit you, and considering your dilemma, I’d suggest you get in touch with him. He will be rough on you, but I think that’s what you need, sweet one. What Heinrich could never do, and I won’t, he can. Call me, Bernard.
The note arrives by private messenger, which seems like just another sign of Bernard’s scrupulous character. He scrawls the message in his bold handwriting and I finger the crisp paper for some minutes before letting it fall on my desk.
Lowell Lockhart. The name sounds forbidding. I haven’t seen Bernard since the morning after my night with Heinrich and his new lover’s delicate fist. It’s been nearly three weeks. Though everything about my body aches, I live dispassionately, hardening myself against the kind of tactics Bernard used in that last scene. I’ve refused to meet him; not that he’s actually pursued me. I turned down the one meeting he suggested, and have regretted it ever since. Would he have apologized? Promised not to bring Heinrich into another session so we could go on as we had before? I doubt that. I never get everything I want the way I want it. Why should I expect that now? And why should I expect that this Lockhart would satisfy me?
I leave the note loose on my desk so that it flutters to the floor when a gust of air through the window sends it sailing. It lands at my feet while I’m trying to stock a shelf with new arrivals. I smile, thinking it’s Bernard’s gentle way of telling me to heed his message.
***
It feels good to escape the city. The breeze through the window, the light streaming through the sunroof, the air crisp and alive, I’m almost feeling horny. Actually, I’m very horny, but scared. I wrote, rather than called, Lowell Lockhart. I needed time to think, not wanting to make this another of my many impulsive moves, which have only put me in situations I can’t easily back out of. Heinrich was an impulsive move—which alone should suggest caution.
Lockhart lives a hundred miles north of the city, this the perfect time of year to travel with the changing colors of the trees at their peak. It’s rapturous—the scent of burning leaves hitting my nose, and the wood smoke trailing from tall chimneys. There’s the aroma of things left on vines decaying in the fields along the drive, of unpicked fruit from an abundant harvest. Little witches and goblins will be out shortly, scouring the towns and villages, dressed for parties and disasters. This is a spooky climate I’m enjoying, and my mission seems as spooky as all the rest on this October day.
I see the signpost Bernard indicated in his directions—a carved piece of wood set in a landmark of stones to signal Lockhart’s driveway. From the road I can’t see the house. There’s a forest of trees between where I start down this path and whatever is on the other side. I see no sign of any structure. Oddly, the landscape reminds me of the house in the woods that belonged to Heinrich and me. I loved that house. So much energy, so much time spent there loving what we made together. Where is all that now? Auctioned off, paying the mortgage on my bookstore, which a scant six months later I decide to sell. Nothing’s left but the better memories and the painful ending.
I’m told there’s a shop for sale in Welliston—perhaps another place to begin. I wanted to tour the town first, but I misjudged the distance, and have to hurry to Lockhart’s house if I plan to be on time.
This meeting arranged though our handwritten letters feels like some romantic story from the past: arranged over time—my note to him, his in return, and then my acceptance of his invitation to meet.
Lockhart’s driveway winds through the woods for nearly a half-mile, then breaks out into a clearing where the house sits.
I’m initially warmed seeing a ponderous old brown shingle—a house that seems more fitting for a city neighborhood. Though, except for the fact that it’s so massive, the style is like some cottages I remember at Brandywine Lake when I stayed there as a kid. This one, however, is two and half stories tall and very handsome. There’s a great front porch and a staunch turret on the right hand side of the second floor—the turret’s peak topped with an elegant spire. I get so lost in my admiration of it that I neglect to see the man sauntering down the front steps to greet me.
“Mrs. Keller,” a tall, broad-shouldered man with wire-rim glasses moves adroitly to my side to shake my hand.
“You have a beautiful home,” I say as I turn to stare at him, suddenly as awed by who he is as I am by his house.
“Come with me,” his arm goes around my waist as he leads me inside.
We sit together in his parlor. It’s a long room that stretches across the front of the house, two walls paneled in oak; the rest papered with a dark and age-stained floral print. The room is filled with furniture, bookshelves packed with scores of paperbacks and leather-bound volumes. There’s a cluttered desk, landscapes painted in oils, and so much warmth by the fireplace, I wish I could curl up with a book and snuggle in for the day.
It’s easy to forget why I’m here and simply reli
sh the surroundings. I’m immediately drawn to this place, and sure I’ll see much more of Lockhart’s house.
The man himself is handsome, but not pretty in the way that Heinrich is, or elegant like Bernard. He is quite subtle for his size, a little wistful, with grayish hair that’s a little long and slightly mussed. His face is compassionate. The way he looks at me instantly makes my crotch tingle—an enveloping sort of attitude climbs right inside my limbs. You’d think he’d been mastering me for years.
“Brandy?”
There’s a decanter beside him, and after I nod, he pours a glass in the sifter next to his.
Once he hands the brandy to me, I take a sip and settle waiting for him to speak. “Perhaps, you could tell me more clearly your reasons for needing me.”
“Certainly.” I hesitate, then jump right in though there’s an anxious quaver in my voice, “your letter was brief, Mr. Lockhart, perhaps as brief as mine. You already know I’m a submissive…” I pause, “And I need a new man… a new master in my life.”
“You’re in need of a training master,” he says quite bluntly, much more to the point than I am.
“Bernard thinks so, despite the fact that I’ve been living this lifestyle for most of my adult life.”
