The Blonde Samurai. Jina Bacarr
with the force of an avenging angel. It barely made a sound.
“Would milady prefer to be on the receiving end of the whip?” he ventured, a curiosity creeping into his voice that unnerved me.
“How dare you speak to me in such a manner,” I shouted, a strange fever gripping me. “I’m not a cheap girl off the streets—”
“If I may be so rude as to interrupt your ladyship,” the redhead said, indignant. “Me and Sally don’t come cheap. We was recommended by the best gentleman’s house on York Street.”
“That’s right, milady,” chimed in the brunette. “We can take the crop all night long without smudging our lip rouge. Ain’t that the truth, milord?”
“I’m more interested in seeing what Lady Carlton will do when she tastes the sting of the whip.” Lord Carlton narrowed his eyes. “Will she scream and beg for more?”
I inhaled deeply when my husband picked up the flogger and swept its smooth leather tails across my breasts swathed in silk, tantalizing me with its sweet promise and making me squirm.
“You’ll never find out!” I said, aware of an offensive scent as he waved the flogger under my nose. Black shoe polish came to mind.
“Won’t I?” he asked, tossing the flogger aside and grabbing me around the waist, then pushing me down on the rough wooden table, startling me. My backside hurt, bruised by his rough treatment, and the soles of my bare feet stung when I scrapped them on the chipped wood.
Determined as I was to fight like hell, I was outnumbered when he ordered the two girls, squealing and giggling, to shackle me. ’Tis a pitiful plight for any bride on her wedding night to find herself shivering in the midst of confusion and disarray, waiting to consummate her marriage with her eager husband, but not like this. Two prostitutes pulling on my arms and holding me tight in their grip, fastening leather restraints around my wrists and drawing them through the iron rings embedded in the wood, making them so taut I could hear the leather crunch in my ears.
“You can’t do this, James,” I cried out, tossing my head back and forth, pulling on the restraints, chaffing my skin until it was raw, but I couldn’t free myself. “I’m your wife, dammit. Stop!”
“All the more reason to explore your lovely body,” he said, my actions inflaming his desire. I looked down and knew why. My arms were pulled up, forcing my shoulders back and inducing my breasts to stand up in a most provocative manner.
Taking advantage of the opportunity, James ran his hand up and down my neck, my face, then slid his hands down over my breasts, my midriff, setting off a slithering wave of anticipation within me and a sensual warmth that swept over me, making me ashamed that although I detested his deviant games, I couldn’t stop the white heat pulsating in my lower region.
Before I dared to take another breath, he ripped my wrapper down the front, exposing me to his view. I gasped. Loudly. Round and bouncy, my breasts spilled out over my corset. I gritted my teeth when he squeezed them, pulling on them, rubbing them against each other, then pinching my nipples and flicking them back and forth between his thumbs and forefingers. I protested his assault upon my person, but he merely laughed then picked up the crop and drew the instrument of pleasure across my bare breasts, flicking it over my taut nipples, stinging them with a sensation that both aroused and frightened me.
I shudder as I write this passage, remembering that night. I was in the most awkward and alarming predicament. Imagine yourself in my position, dear lady reader. I was about to be whipped by my new husband and I couldn’t do anything about it. I ask you, what would you do? I’ve no doubt several of you ladies are licking your lips and wiggling about in your chairs, thinking, wondering, anticipating this delicious treat about to be rendered upon your bare bottom. I, too, would have found such an idea interesting and provocative, not to mention naughty, had I been with a man I trusted.
Lord Carlton inspired no such emotions within me with his brusque manner and sharp orders.
Why not induce a fainting spell? you ask. It worked for me when that old lecher, Lord—leaned over and put his nose down my cleavage last week.
That wouldn’t stop James, though I was grateful I wasn’t wearing my new cuirasse corset, the silk ribbons laced up so tightly you can barely breathe. I surely would have succumbed to unconsciousness, then his lordship could have done whatever he wished with me and—
Enough about the damn corset, you insist, fretting about, twisting the fringe border on your overskirt until you pull it off. Get on with the scene.
I shall, but first I must explain to you that should I have not come up with a grand scheme to extradite myself from his lordship’s domination game, I never would have gone to Japan and you would have no story to titillate you, so please allow me this moment to catch my breath. Putting words down on the page is not easy, decidedly so when the memory is not a pleasant one.
It didn’t help my thinking process when he rubbed my nipples back and forth, then took them between his teeth and bit them, not hard, just enough to make me cry out with more pleasure than pain.
Was his hand wielding the whip just as provocative? Enticing me to take pleasure in such a deed instead of being repulsed? What other roguish certitudes would he undertake to engage my emotions?
I had no intention of finding out. No matter how my body betrayed me with delicious sensations slithering up and down my spine, a flogging was not my idea of romantic love. Many of you would have no doubt fainted, then opted for the cathartic effect of Seidlitz powders to purge his evil deed from your body and purify your soul. I searched my mind for another alternative.
Divorce?
I mention it here should the curious idea have crossed your mind, albeit ’twas not a practical one for a girl in my situation. British law dictated that I could only obtain a divorce from James by proving he performed some bestial act such as cruelty upon my person (calling the two prostitutes as witnesses was not an option since their livelihood would shrink considerably if they testified against his lordship in an open court). He, on the other hand, could divorce me simply for the act of adultery. I had to think of something else, but what?
“I demand you stop this display of power, James,” I said, stalling him with a steady but weakening voice that threatened to betray me. God, now he was teasing me with gentle stroking between my thighs. When would he stop? “Or I shall scream for help.”
“And who do you think will come to your assistance, milady?” he said in a mocking tone. He leaned closer, the smell of a fragrant liqueur on his breath scenting his words with a menace I dared not ignore. “The room is soundproof and the servants are used to such goings-on.”
I ignored his remark. “I imagine that is Lord Penmore’s best cognac I smell on your breath.”
He laughed at my impudence. “And this is his favorite crop.” He raised his arm in a long arc, his handsome face gleaming with sweat, his dark hair matted and wet and sticking to his forehead and cheekbones. “The moment is at hand, my dear wife. Before I take you to my bed, I shall tantalize you with a most erotic stimulant upon your beautiful breasts—”
“Release me, James—” I demanded. No matter how aroused I was by the crop, I refused to allow him to dominate me in a situation where I had no say in the matter.
“And end our little game?” he taunted me. “I intend to enjoy myself as I watch you squirm—”
The hiss of the flogger cutting through the air chilled me as the implement struck the wooden table with such force splinters of wood bounced upward and landed on my breasts, stinging my bare flesh and making me jump. Seeing my reaction, he threw his head back and laughed, then raised his arm again, taking aim at my nipples, hard and taut and quivering.
“I won’t miss this time,” he vowed.
“You wouldn’t dare,” I yelled, my breath becoming erratic.