From Teen Bride To Hot Wife 3: The Lord And His Servants free porn video

While they make their way to the manor house, Joe begins to wonder why the fuck has he agreed to let Lord Dammartin spank his wife. Surely such a man will want more from a gorgeous woman like Caroline than to merely slap her arse a few times. Maybe he will want her the Etonian way— you know: perfect and back-door. Isn't that what they prefer— the old-school tie crowd? At the very least he'll want to see Caroline on her knees, his cock between her lips. Surely he will? Joe decides as long as he doesn't have to watch her suck cock he can live with knowing another man has used his wife. It seems money does open doors.

He says to Caroline, "If he asks for extras..."

"What kind of extras?"

"You know— proper sex stuff."

"You said he just wanted to spank me."

"Yeah, he did. But even if he's a lord, he's still a man. When the time comes, I bet he'll not be able to help himself. He'll want you—  any man would."

"Oh, Joe. Don't say that. I had it all sorted in my head until now."

"If he does ask for...you know? I'm just saying, I'm okay with it. Just make sure he pays you enough."

"You really are becoming my pimp, aren't you? It's against the law, you know."

"What is?"

"Living off a girl's immoral earnings."

"So you're a working girl now?"

"Seems I am."

"As I said: make sure you get a good price for your sweet tight pussy."

Caroline punches Joe hard on the shoulder.

When they reach the summit of Snowtop, the couple turn for one last look at the route recently walked. A breeze has sprung up, the air is cooling, and in the distance, dark clouds unburden themselves.   

"A storm," Joe says.

"Lord what's-his-name said that the weather would change," Caroline says.

 A flash of lightning and she counts out loud, "One. Two. Three..." just like her father taught her when she was a girl  She gets to ten before the rumble of thunder arrives. "Ten miles," she confirms to herself and Joe.

"We'd better hurry," Joe says.

On the far side of a valley, they see the manor house set high on the opposite ridge. Neither Caroline or Joe know architecture, but Joe thinks the house is Elizabethan. As a child his parents had taken Sunday afternoon strolls along the river valley that the house overlooks to its far side. His father might have mentioned its Elizabethan origin. He's not sure, though. Equally, it could be something heard on the telly in some historical drama or documentary. The house is finished in brick and has gables, many leaded windows and tall chimneys. He remembers looking up at it from the riverside and wondering who could live in such a house.

They descend the hill, weaving a course between drystone walls and hawthorn until they reach the fabulous Italian gardens whose ornamental flower beds are a patchwork of symmetry and colour. There are small stone statues at each corner, nymphs, and fauns. As a centrepiece, a gigantic bronze figure looks down from its stone plinth. It is a naked man who holds aloft something Caroline cannot yet make out. Her grip on Joe's hand grows tighter the closer they get. And then comes the realisation that it is a severed head the figure proudly presents to the world.  

"It's ghastly," Caroline says.

"No. It's beautiful," Joe says. "Perseus and Medusa," History and legends are the only subjects that will tempt him to open a book.

The naked hero draws her eye. She scans exquisitely rendered arms and chest, abdomen and thigh, all lean muscle and little else. The garden is losing light to the approaching storm and the metal figure appears almost black. But then there is his diminished penis, and she wonders why the Greeks made them so small. Perseus' sword now sated, it hangs from his hand guardedly, rested but ever ready at his hip, while underfoot lies the gorgon's vanquished corpse, her head excised by guile and mirrors. Perseus' face is serene in triumph.

"Are those snakes she has for hair?"

"They all had snakes for hair; it was the only look in town if you were a gorgon."

"Why is it here?"

"Fucked if I know."

Somehow, seeing this statue brings home to Joe the extent of Lord Dammartin's wealth. The two hundred pounds he has offered to use his wife now appears a paltry amount. He thinks perhaps they are out of their depth, that maybe they should go home. They will still be twenty pounds up. But she tugs at his hand; Perseus and Medusa are unsettling her.

Another rumble of thunder rolls down the hillside. Caroline does not count, she knows how close the storm is. "We might get struck by lightning if we stay out here," she says. "We really should get indoors."

They hurry across the gravel space that is the end of the tree-lined avenue that runs from the main road a mile away.  Quickly up broad stone steps, they arrive at the main entrance to the house. The double doors are fortress-like; dark with age, braced by iron. There are elaborately ornamented hinges, and a single, enormous metal-ringed knocker. Standing before them, Caroline feels herself diminishing.

"Are you sure you still want to do this?" Joe asks as he lifts the heavy door knocker.

Caroline thinks that perhaps Joe has lost heart and that he should get a grip. "Of course I still want to— even more now I've seen all this. Why? Don't you?" Caroline asks.

"Sure. I'm still good if you are?"

"I'm good. Let's do it."

Joe lifts the knocker and slams it against the age-darkened wood. They hear the retort echo through an unknown hollowness beyond the door.

They stand and wait. Joe is about to lift the knocker again when the door laboriously opens to much creaking of hinges.  A man appears. He is dressed in an immaculate white shirt, black tie and waistcoat. At first, he says nothing,  stands and studies the pair curiously for a moment. Caroline thinks the man despises her already.

"You must be Lord Dammartin's guest. Joe and Caroline, I assume?"

"The very ones," Caroline says as if she is here to take afternoon tea.

"Lord Dammartin is waiting for you. Now, if you would both be so kind as to follow me."

As they enter the house a squall bringing the promised rain sweeps over the grounds they have just passed through. Massive drops driven by wind thrash flowerbeds and bushes. The tall pines of the park bend before it.

They follow the man into the oak-panelled hall. Old family portraits fill the walls: ruffs and wigs, men as hussars and dragoons striking a leisurely pose, all plumes and swords; voluptuous bosoms held captive in dresses that squeeze waists tight, all rich with crewel embroidery. Staves and whalebone give way to regency ease, waft and grace. As she looks around, Caroline wonders about these lives of long ago, what the dead might think of the present lord who continues their line so disgracefully. She images they turn in their vaults.

The couple stands in the centre of the hall, and the man goes to a sideboard and picks up a large metal bell, like the one the teachers used at playtime when Caroline was a young girl at school.  A clanging racket fills the hall, and two female servants appear as if waitresses ready to show them to a seat in some snotty bistro. Both girls are dressed the same: short black skirts, white aprons, sheer black tights, sensible laced shoes. Their hair, though long, is permed high on their heads like sixties Bond babes. Each is heavily made up to affect the vibe of sixty-six, though when they are closer, Caroline sees they are only a little older than herself.

A moment later, two male servants enter the room. Caroline thinks of four-star hotel lobbies, bellboys and luggage. Both men are over six feet tall, handsome and self-assured. There is something about the blond one. He has a twinkle in his eye and has not stopped staring at Caroline since he entered the hall.

The four servants form up in a line, stand smartly, expectantly.

The male servant who rang the bell informs Joe and Caroline that he is Harrington, Lord Dammartin's butler. The girls are Tillycoat and Nibley, a brunette and redhead, respectively. He does not state their role. The two male servants are Old James and Young James. Caroline cannot see any difference in age, they both look to be about twenty-five. Perhaps it is because Old James has worked for Lord Dammartin the longer. He is the one who has a sparkle in his eye for Caroline.

"Now pay attention," Harrington says to Caroline and Joe. He has a military air, and they are his new platoon who need knocking into shape. "His Lordship likes his games to proceed smoothly," Harrington says, "so it is essential for you to know exactly how you are to behave while in his presence." He looks Caroline directly in the eyes, emphasises his words: "Lord Dammartin will expect contrition. You are so sorry to have trespassed on his land. You will do anything to avoid his wrath." He looks at her searchingly. "Do you understand, girl?"

Caroline nods.

"I asked you if you understand. If you do, say it!"

"Yes, I understand," she says, but she has gone all stroppy teenage daughter. It is her one self-defeating flaw, a wired-in childish recalcitrance when confronted by figures of authority. It was the reason why at fifteen she was asked politely to desist from attending school. Her careers teacher suggested the knicker factory, but a rebel to the last, she had gone to work in Woolworths.

"Say it like this: 'Yes, Mr Harrington. I understand, Mr Harrington'."  And he demonstrates, says it as he wants to hear her say it back to him— like a Marine confirming an order to attack the enemy.

"Yes, Mr Harrington!" Caroline chants.

The four servants stand in line behind Harrington and Caroline sees the redhead girl. Nibley, Caroline thinks is her name, is trying hard not to giggle. Tillycoat gives her a nudge, a warning to behave.

"Good girl, Caroline," Harrington says. "You're getting the hang of this already. And now you must choose someone to watch over you while you are Lord Dammarton's guest," his emphasis on the word 'guest' unnerves Caroline. "Take your time and then decide who it will be?"

Harrington takes Caroline's arm and gently leads her to stand in front of the four servants. Four sets of bemused eyes stare back, and Caroline feels herself blushing. She has to force herself not turn and go to Joe for support.

"When you have decided," Harrington says. "Touch the person on the right shoulder."

She knows she shouldn't speak out of place, but she cannot help but ask Harrington, "What do I need an attendant for?"

"The person you choose will be there to make sure you do not get lost. It is such a big house, you see."
 
Joe thinks it's just like when he's with her out shopping for clothes, how she frets about every purchase. He tells her, "Just frigging choose someone, will you, Caz?" He watches her look from person to person, still unable to make up her mind. He groans in exasperation under his breath, "Oh, for-fuck's-sake!"

She has made up her mind. But before she reaches out for Old James' shoulder, she looks into his eyes. Yes, she thinks, definitely the right choice.

"Step forward, Old James," Harrington orders, and then turning to Caroline, he says, "Now don't be alarmed, but James is going to restrain you."

Before she knows it, James is behind her, and with one seamless manoeuvre secures her in an armlock. Instinctively Caroline resists, tells him to fuck off, wriggles wildly until a searing pain shoots through her arm. Only then does she stop squirming, become silent.

Harrington speaks to her again, his tone consoling, reasonable: "Things will be more comfortable for you if you play your part like you agreed. Lord Dammartin likes his girls brought to him as captives only recently apprehended and suitably restrained. He is very strict about the manner in which they are delivered to his person. He always insists they arrive under duress. Now, Caroline, Old James will not hurt you if you play along nicely. You will only hurt yourself if you struggle."

It goes against everything she has always believed to be right about herself— to passively let another person have control of her like this. She has always considered herself a modern girl, not some man's little wife— certainly not any man's plaything. She tells herself it is not a flaw of in her character that has brought her to this but economic expediency. The money will go part way toward bringing them closer to the life she and Joe envision sharing with each other.

From beyond the stout front doors, she hears the sound of car tyres on gravel. Immediately Tillycoat goes to welcome the new arrivals. She opens the door, stands aside and says, "Good evening, Lady Dammartin. Good evening, Miss Dammartin." Two females enter, but they remain in the entrance way for a moment while they shake the rain from their umbrellas.

 Both women are tall, elegant. Mother and daughter, Caroline thinks. There is definitely a likeness, or maybe an older and younger sister. The older one hands her umbrella to Tillycoat, who takes it and pops it into the hat stand base and then returns to take their coats and the other umbrella.

"Thank you, Tillycoat," each says curtly.

When she is free of her wet things and has checked her reflection in the giant mirror, the older woman briskly heads towards Caroline, and the younger woman follows. They both eye Caroline as if she has been caught trying to steal the family silver.

Lady Dammartin turns to Harrington and says "Lord Dammartin didn't mention he intended to hunt today, Harrington."

"No, my lady. The urge came upon him after lunch."

The younger girl says "You didn't pass on my message to Daddy, did you, Ma-ma?"

"Tell him what, sweetheart?"

"That Maurice will be visiting this evening. Why does Daddy always have to  spoil things with these ridiculous charades of his?"

"You know very well how much your father enjoys his little expeditions out on the hill of a Sunday afternoon. His business interests are causing him much stress at the moment, and he needs all the recreational release he can get. He's flying back to Moscow on Tuesday— and you know how he gets when he has to face those people again. So, sweetheart, if you could try your very best not to be difficult, it would be sincerely appreciated."

The young Miss Damartin now turns her full attention to Caroline, though as she inspects their new house guest, she speaks to only Harrington:

"Harrington. You never mentioned the gipsies had returned."

"As far as I am away, Miss Dammartin, there have been no gipsies on the grounds since you were a child."

"So how do we account for this...? At this point, she gives an ostentatious wave of her arm in Caroline's direction.

"I am sorry, Mis Dammartin, but that is a matter you would have to address to Lord Dammartin."

"But thank god, at least he's found one," Lady Dammartin says. "Your father can be so disagreeable when he returns from one of his expeditions empty-handed." She reaches out and lifts a strand of Caroline's hair away from her face and tucks it behind her ear. "She has an artless charm I find endearing."     

"Oh, Ma-ma, You find them all endearing— but look at her dress; what was she thinking when she handed good money over for . . . that!"  Penelope Dammartin rests her hand in the small of Caroline's back and gathers some loose material from the dress and runs it through her fingers before sliding her hand all the way over Caroline's backside, momentarily cups her right buttock. "So typical of her kind," she concludes. "The girl isn't even wearing underwear."

Caroline is itching to speak up for herself, but Old James senses her growing vexation and increases the pressure on her arm to keep her compliant.

"Don't be so mean, sweetheart, Lady Dammartin says. "I know perfectly well how you enjoy your time with the town girls after your father has done with them."

"Yes, Mother. That's the point! Maurice is coming over later this evening, so I won't have time for her."

Penelope Dammartin leans into Caroline and sniffs her hair, runs her nailed finger along her jawline. "I suppose she's fresh enough." She turns to Old James. "James!  When you deliver her to Lord Dammartin, tell him that I will try my best to arrange my time so I can fit her in. Perhaps, if just this once, he could hurry things along?"

"I'll pass on the message, Miss Dammartin."

After the two women leave, Nibley takes Joe off to make his telephone call while Tillycoat leads Caroline and Old James in the opposite direction. Soon, they are moving into the labyrinth of passages that twist and turn throughout the house. When they are out of Harrington's earshot, Old James becomes talkative:

"How much is the old goat paying you, then?"

"Who says I'm being paid?"

"Oooh! Get her," Old James says to Tillycoat, "A girl with a calling."

"Of course you're being paid," Tillycoat says. We all get paid."

"Come on then, girl. How much?"

"Two hundred."

"You're mad. You could have got double. Two hundred is nothing. No one has ever turned him down. That tells you something."

"Would you mind slackening you grip a little?" Caroline says. "Thank you. So what does it tell me, then?"

"It tells you everyone has a price— and if the old perv wants you enough, he will pay whatever it takes."

The servants become silent as the small party rounds corners and traipses up and down short flights of stairs. By the time they reach their destination — a set of stout double doors at the end of a passage — Caroline has become disorientated and does not think she will be able to find her way back to the main entrance unaided.

They stand quiet and still as Old James knocks on the door. It is only now that Caroline's nerves begin to play up. An army of ants has built a nest in her belly, and soon they will spill from her, devour her from both inside and out.

A male voice calls for them to enter. Caroline takes a deep breath and then James, with a gentle twist to Caroline's arm, urges her to step over the threshold.

They enter a large room lined with bookshelves that rise from floor to high ceiling, all neatly lined with elaborately bound leather volumes, elephantine tomes to pocket-sized miniatures. On each wall are ladders to facilitate retrieving volumes from the upper shelves. At the far end of the room, directly opposite the door through which they have just entered, a leaded-light mullioned window that encompasses almost the entire wall frames the thrashing rain and awful sky. The rain pelts and rattles against the hundreds of leaded panes, a harsh discord that fills the room with its clamour. There is darkness beyond the glass.

Lord Dammartin is sitting at an enormous desk to the right of the room. When Caroline turns her head to face him, he stands up, as if about to come and greet her as an old friend. But he doesn't. He remains where he is, and she sees that he is kitted out in fox-hunt red, pale breeches, but because of the desk she cannot see the tall riding boots he wears. In one hand, he holds a leather riding crop, the end of which rests flat in his open palm. From time to time, he taps it on his cupped palm, making a point she cannot ignore.

"Ah, the trespassing hippy...What is the word? Oh, yes! A hippy chick. Now we are complete; we have our very own hippy chick."  There is a flash followed by a grumble of thunder beyond the panes.

"Thank you both for detaining this vagrant," Dammartin says, addressing Tillycoat and Old James. "If one of you could remove her gipsy rags while I consider what her punishment will be."

He stands and walks to the front of the desk and examines Caroline for a moment before going to the Georgian antique mahogany sofa situated in front of the big window. Briefly, his back is to Caroline as he looks out on the storm's growing violence. His hands are clasped behind his back, and his riding crop twitches from between the fingers of his joined palms. He turns and watches as Tillycoat lifts Caroline's dress and pulls it up over her head. Caroline feels vulnerable being naked in the presence of these three strangers.

"Come to me, girl," Lord Dammartin says to Caroline.

Caroline cannot move. She stands stupidly, unable to go forward. A desire to run out of the room overwhelms her.  Old James gives her a gentle shove, and Caroline finds her feet do not need a brain to send them on their way.

"That's right, girl Just there." He points to the spot directly in front of him.

Caroline stands with her legs together, hands as fig leaves, upper arms attempting to hide her breasts but pushing them together only to emphasise her cleavage. She does not meet Lord Dammartin's eyes, instead looks down at her still-sandaled feet.

"No! No! That will never do. Move your blessed hands, girl! I want to examine you. For god's sake, you pair, keep her bloody hands out of the way."

The two servants flank Caroline, each taking one of her hands, clutching a wrist apiece. Caroline wonders if she will be strong enough to break free if she needs to; maybe Tillycoat; no way Old James.

Lord Dammartin towers over Caroline— she had forgotten how tall he is. For a moment, she is genuinely in awe of him. How could she fail to be when scrutinised by a face like his; that snarled and angular conceit, his Victorian gentleman explorer air.  She is studying 'A' level psychology but has never read some Freud and Jung, has picked up only cliches from self-help trashy paperbacks. And so she tells herself it is all psychological projection on her part, elicited by her knowledge of his wealth, his title— he's a lord, for fuck's sake, has chosen you for God-knows-what. You're naked and inches away from a piggin lord who wants to thrash your arse, she tells herself.

She decides to hold his gaze; dares herself to. And when she does, she is astonished by the depth of the self-righteous arrogance she sees there, a thing cultivated generation after generation. But behind it all, she sees he is someone playing as much part as she is, and it reassures her. She tells herself that whatever happens in the coming hours, he will see she comes to no real harm. Her certainty gives her the strength to endure whatever he has planned for her.

He places both his hands on her shoulders and squeezes hard, and then his fingers are around her neck. It is only for a second, but she has sensed the power his hands contain. She feels he is appraising her as if livestock, assessing breeding potential, her pedigree to be determined. His hand grazes her flesh, travels down the length of her back, only stops when he reaches the point where her flesh becomes fuller. A little further down and he fills his palm with a half moon of her rump.

"Mmmm. You are a fine young animal," Lord Dammartin says.

She is starting to understand how her naked presence has brought him to a pitch of desire, how his anticipation of the culmination of all their playacting has sent him to the edge of self-restraint.

He uses his crop to lift the strands of long hair that conceal her breasts from his gaze. He eases the streams of hair that fall over her chest back behind her shoulders. There is no hiding his delight on seeing what he finds hidden there. "So I saw right out in the woods," he says. "I thought I had imagined it was so." His crop rides her flesh from chest to nipple point, tracing each breast's concavity, and as the leather crop nears their tips, her perky nipples shout out: here we are!

The slide of his crop over her breasts sends a sweet and thrilling shudder through Caroline's body, causing the swell of desire to ferment in her cunt. Soon her need will trickle down her inner thigh and expose her to him.

It was never Lord Dammartin's plan to touch her in such a way, but on seeing the girlishness of her breasts, he stoops swiftly to lick each in turn. It is a fleeting visit, and then he is back up straight, once again his oh-so-proper lordship.

He taps her thighs with his crop. "Legs apart, if you please!"

Mechanically she parts her legs, and from behind he stoops to examine her buttocks. He takes each rump half and parts the colliding flesh to view the darkness they conceal.

"Ah, such tightness. I like that. And what's this?" Lord Dammartin is not sure what he sees. Tentatively he slides a finger over her closed labia and verifies something he hardly dares believe.

"Oh, my darling girl! How easily stirred you are. What a dirty mind you must possess." He removes his finger from between her legs and licks it clean.

He sits down on the sofa while he continues to appraise Caroline with the air of someone amazed and delighted by a fortuitous turn of events. He reaches out with his crop and gently teases her nipples again, one and then the other. They jump to attention, are ready for orders.

Addressing Tillycoat and Old James, he says. "Thank you both; you can both leave now. I'll ring if I need either of you."

He waits until the two servants have left the room, their exit marked by the stout doors' concluding thud.

"Oh, Caroline, Caroline, you and that husband of yours. What am I going to do with the pair of you? Trespassing on my land, tut, tut.  And there I imagined how kind I was when I warned you it was all private property near the top. I wanted to save you from all this. Didn't I say how you mustn't stray?  The last thing I wanted was to have to bring you here like this and strip you naked, dearest girl— naked in front of the servants. Such blatant disregard of a landowner's privacy demands a fitting punishment, don't you think?

"Yes Lord Dammartin, we're so sorry," Caroline says. She tries her best to sound contrite but is sure he thinks she is taking the piss.

"And come to think of it, where is that vagabond husband of yours?"

"He's gone to phone his brother...to let him know..."

" —Yes, yes. Alright. You're a suspicious pair, aren't you? But I can't blame you. You hear such things these days. All those tales of assault and murder the gutter press feed you people."

While Lord Dammartin speaks, his riding crop continues to familiarise itself with Caroline's flesh. Lightly it traces a course down from her nipples to circle her bellybutton, and then lower still, to her mons, and then the length of it begins to slide softly back and forth between her parted legs. It has found its groove, becomes a maestro's bow that passes over those enfolded lips like horsehair over catgut. As he fiddles a merry tune her body responds, begins a dance of all of its own, tells how it is a good tune, a beautiful melody to which one may dance all night. Older drives are ignited deep within Caroline, urges over which evolution's neocortex newcomer has no sway.

She gasps with delight.

 "I think it's time. Are you ready, girl?

"Yes, m'lord." She feels pleased with her 'm'lord' improvisation.

"What are you ready for, girl? Tell me what you're ready for."

"My punishment, m'lord."

"Why are you being punished, girl?"

"For trespass, m'lord."

"Good."

He lays aside the riding crop and pats his knee for her to come to him. So this is it. Her time has come. The reality hits home. She knows it will hurt. God, let it be quick. She wants to get it over, and yet she wants to get it right for him, be what he wants her to be. She positions herself this way and that, steps from here to there, but is still not sure how she should prostrate herself. Her hands go to his knees for support as she lowers herself across his lap.

" —No, you stupid child. Not like that, like this."

He grabs both her wrists and positions her just so, and then lifting her with brutish arms he lays her out across his lap so that her belly is soft against his upper thighs. Her smooth, rotund buttocks become a sundered hillock on which his lordship looks down like newly acquired lands. Caroline's head dangles from her neck, her long dark hair trails down to pool by his booted feet,  and her fingertips brush the parquet floor. The tall boot is cold against her cheeks, and she smells the leather and fresh polish. It is overpowering, fills her nostrils like a solvent's sweet promise. Her legs have become redundant, her feet useless things.

His palm descends. The pain is like a gorgon's stare; it sends her rigid in an instant.

"Oh, God!"

It robs her of breath. A second and a third, in frenzied succession. She will not be able to endure this, is sure of it. The misery the rise and fall of his hand deliver is cumulative. From pale as butter to scarlet rash, her flesh ignites as if flames from tinder. It is a sensation like wrist-twists —  snakebites, they called them — those spiteful mangles of wrist-flesh her brother Lewis would peevishly inflict on her when they were just kids. But a Lewis wrist-twist was a singularity, while this is an incessant drum beat, a rhythm laid down by an insane, one-handed percussionist. She sees no end to it. The clap of impact grates her nerves, and the entire length of her body has set firm in the apprehension of each new stroke. Her arms and legs that at first did dangle are stretched out as if by the rack, her tiny toes curl in a prehensile cramp, and her hands have become two tight fists. Yes, little by little, her body becomes calcified until she is the beautiful magician's assistant laid out as planking about to undergo the illusion of levitation. But there will be no hoop of proof tonight.

The pain sends her floating above herself. She becomes dissociated from her own flesh. But as the strikes repeat themselves, she senses something changing deep within her mind and body. A germinating; a seed husk breached from the inside, a nascent shoot of pleasure emerges, watered by her pain. Each new stroke feeds it. This moment will stay with Caroline for the rest of her life. It is a revelation, an instant of self-knowledge; the new wonder that of all things it is this simple act of surrender and humiliation that completes her. But to accept is not the same as to understand. She will never understand. But she will remember — just like she remembers her very first orgasm. With each fresh strike, it becomes wired into her body.

Against the window, a machine-gun rattle of hail thrown by ferocioous wind. The storm and Dammartin's hand compete with each other to send Caroline out of her mind. Lightning for an instant illuminates the room, catches his hand mid-fall as if by a camera's flash. The depth charge rumble of thunder is instantaneous.

"Aye, the gods want to see our play," Lord Dammartin says.

She cannot help the cries that escape her mouth, sounds that bring down an answering hand. She knows that he knows what magick he works. He is the maestro who has found his perfect instrument. For now, he is completed by the knowledge that this exquisite creature is his to bring out whenever he deems a performance necessary. He has possessed her like no man's cock ever could, and by so doing, has made her his own.

She senses his completion is near at hand, feels the unravelling of his intense need. He might be done— she hopes. Finally, he eases off, has her sit up, nestles her in his lap. She is a wayward child forgiven.

"Now my, darling girl, do you think you have learned your lessons?"

She cannot speak, and so she wraps her arms around his shoulders— she cannot help herself, so grateful is she that the pleasure-in-pain has ceased. She hopes for his kiss, his embrace, some tenderness. But he rises from his seat, bringing her with him to stand. No longer the tension of anticipation, the bittersweet pain has dissipated, leaving only a devilish afterglow that warms her core as neat cognac might when sipped slowly. He sees how she can hardly stand, and he has her sit again while he goes to the bell cord and summons his girls. But her backside hurts like hell, so she lies side-on, her arm on the armrest to support herself. He returns to her and hands her a drink. She swallows and coughs. It is whiskey, which she hates. She takes it down without a thought and drains the glass.

Tillycoat and Old James arrive.

"Help her to dress and then take her to Miss Dammartin," Lord Dammartin tells them.

Old James says: "I'm sorry, sir, but Lady Dammartin would like to see the girl first."

"Damnation she does! Well, what are you waiting for? Take her away— at once!"

Caroline quickly puts on her dress. She does not need their help. Her arse feels as raw as a skinned hare. She follows the two servants out of the library and down more halls and corridors. She needs to pee, and so asks for the loo. They take her to the place, and she stoops over antique porcelain. She cleans away her own cum that still seeps from her.

Soon they are on the upper floor and standing outside another door. Tillycoat knocks and a voice calls for them to enter. The bedroom is large, full of antique furniture. Paintings and tapestries hang from the wall. Two giant sash windows bring the late evening light into the room.

"You asked to see the girl again," Tillycoat says to Lady Dammartin.

"Yes. Bring her to me."

Caroline stands in front of Lady Dammartin, feeling like she's back at school and stood in front of the headmistress for being caught smoking behind the bikesheds.

"Thank you, Tillycoat," Lady Dammartin says. "You can leave us now. I'll call when we are done" The two servants turn to leave. "Not you, James. I want you to stay with us a while."

 Old James turns around and says, "Yes, my lady." He stands and waits.

"Now, child. I hope Lord Dammartin was not too hard on you. This is your first visit, I believe?"

"Yes, m'lady— I mean no, m'lady."

"Well, which is it, girl? I don't have all night.

"Sorry, m'lady. Yes, it is my first visit, and no, Lord Dammartin wasn't too hard on me."

"I'm pleased to hear it. Now take off your dress. I want to see what all the fuss is about."

*********************************************

Authors note.

Sorry guys! I have no idea how the story has morphed to this! I don't what came over me. I'll try to cram a bit more juice in the next part.