Papa's Prey Page 4

  “Very good. She will hold it for a full twenty minutes.”

  “Please. I can’t. Please, I need to…I need to…” Corinne was too mortified to express what her body needed.

  “Open your mouth,” Lucian commanded.

  Thinking he meant to replace the mouth gag because of her begging, Corinne’s face crumpled as she reluctantly parted her lips.

  Lucian stroked her full bottom lip with the tips of his fingers before forcing them inside her mouth. “Suck on my fingers.”

  Corinne swirled her tongue around his two thick fingers, tasting the salty tang of his skin.

  Lucian pulled them back before forcing a third finger in, stretching her lips. He began to thrust his fingers in and out of her mouth, the tips pushing deep. Corinne gagged as her empty stomach heaved. She choked and cried as the motion caused her abdomen muscles to cramp even more violently. She tried to pull her head back. He grabbed a fistful of her flaxen curls and held her head in place. Ruthlessly, he forced her small mouth open as he stretched out his fingers pushing against the sides of her lips. In desperation, she tried to bite down. Her teeth barely scraped the top of his fingers before she felt a sharp sting as her hair was pulled, forcing her head back. Corinne sucked in a harsh breath through her nose before letting out a weak scream from deep in her throat. The effort caused her to cough and gag. Desperately, Corinne stared into his unfeeling eyes.

  Finally, he pulled his hand free. Corinne choked as she tried to draw a much needed full breath. Her lips felt bruised and swollen. The taste of him was still on her tongue.

  “I am pleased, little one. We will have you swallowing the full length of my cock in no time. You may let her release, Mrs. Canon.”

  With that, Lucian departed.

  Corinne was permitted to climb down from the table and release in the water closet. She had to suffer through two more cleansing rinses before Nanny would finally let her sink into the comforting warmth of a hot bath.

  Chapter 4

  The flickering golden flame from Mrs. Canon’s oil lamp sent a small halo of light down the dark corridor. Corinne obediently followed behind the older woman, staring in mute horror at the disapproving scowls glaring down at her from thick baroque frames. Each painted face fiercer than the last.

  “These portraits represent his grace’s ancestors, the previous Dukes of Ebonhurst. His grace can trace back his family line to William the Conqueror,” boasted Mrs. Canon proudly as if it were her own family’s accomplishment.

  As they continued down the corridor, the light illuminated flashes of opulence like nothing Corinne had ever seen. Heavy tapestries depicted medieval battles. Massive silver bowls filled with fresh flowers sat on top of ornate, claw-footed tables with tiny gold lion heads with rings clasped in their jaws for handles. Each closed door entrance was flanked by tall, emerald green marble columns. Even the patterned carpet beneath her slippered feet spoke to the duke’s wealth and prestige. After the simple austerity of the abbey with its bare walls and stone floors, the overt display of such riches intimidated Corinne. She fancied the castle was a living object with every gilded cornice, every scrap of brocade serving a sinister purpose. Each shiny surface reflected the dark soul of its master.

  Corinne could be forgiven for her fantastical thoughts. From the moment she had been carried over the threshold, only the pain had felt real. Everything else, from the woman she was supposed to address as Nanny, to the childish room she had been placed in, to the humiliation of being cleaned and groomed had felt as if it were from some strange forgotten nightmare. After her bath, she had been forced to sit still while her long, flaxen locks were shorn just below her shoulders.

  “Only women wear their hair long, twisted into high chignons,” said Nanny. “Little girls wear their hair down in ringlets.”

  Corinne had swallowed her tears as Nanny used long hot pokers from the fire to bend her hair into thick curls. After adorning each one with a light pink ribbon, she was then dressed in a pair of ruffled bottom pantalettes and a rose silk, long-waisted gown trimmed in white lace with a pleated skirt that barely reached her mid-thigh. A pair of white stockings to the knee and black kid slippers completed the ensemble. All protest over the scandalous length of the skirt and completely unsuitable dress fell on deaf ears. Nanny’s only response had been to push one shiny black bead across the silver bar to the right.

  Four black beads. Corinne remembered Nanny’s warning about the more black beads, the more severe the punishment.

  Any further protest died on her lips.

  At length, Nanny had declared Corinne ready for her papa, ushering her out of the brightly lit nursery into the gloom of the castle halls.

  “Here we are, dearie.”

  Corinne looked with trepidation at the imposing entrance. Unlike the other closed doors they had passed along the corridor, this entrance had two massive, wood-paneled doors. It was also flanked by polished black marble columns, not green.

  Nanny grasped the long, brass handle and pushed the heavy door open. Corinne had almost expected a rush of hot flame, as if the door to hell had just been breached.

  Nanny crossed the threshold into the room but had to turn and grasp Corinne’s wrist, pulling her forward.

  Corinne stood stiffly in the center of the room. Her back and shoulders were rigid with fear. Keeping her head still and her small hands fisted in the short pleats of her dress, Corinne’s eyes shifted about her with helpless curiosity. A fire had already been lit, yet seemed to provide no warmth. It was surrounded by a mantle of black marble, carved into the twisting, sinewy shape of two, fighting dragons. Two, high-backed, black leather chairs with brass buttons were placed in front of the fire. To the right was a small table, topped with crystal decanters filled with amber and burgundy liquors. Straight ahead was a deep alcove. Cobalt blue damask curtains hung from brass hooks close to the high ceiling to pool in rich folds on the floor. Four candelabra stands with at least ten candles each formed a half circle along the edge of the alcove. In the center was a small platform of polished wood. Out of the corner of her eye, to the far right, she could just see the edge of what had to be a massive four-poster bed. She refused to look further.

  Pulling her by the wrist, Nanny led a heavy-footed Corinne to the platform.

  “Up you go, dearie. Now I want to you to stand there nice and still like a good girl till your papa arrives,” Nanny instructed, as she gave a ribbon in Corinne’s hair one last tug and fluffed the pleats of the skirt.

  Without another word, Nanny departed, abandoning Corinne in the dark silence of the empty chamber. Still refusing to look upon the bed…his bed…Corinne directed her furtive gaze to the painting over the mantelpiece. It was of a naked maiden tied to a large outcropping of rock as the black sea roared and foamed about her. The shadow of a monster rising from the sea’s turbulent depths could be seen in the background. The sacrifice of Andromeda. Corinne stared at the fair maiden’s face. It was lit with hope as she stared straight ahead. Looking for her hero, Perseus, no doubt.

  Did the painting foreshadow her own fate? Would the man she was to call Papa be the monster or the hero?

  Corinne so very much feared she already knew the answer.

  The sound of a door opening came from the darkened upper corner of the chamber. The man himself stepped slowly into the light. He had removed his dressing gown and white linen shirt, appearing before her in only his black trousers.

  Corinne’s only knowledge of the male form came from etchings in books and the sculptures of saints which decorated the abbey’s chapel. In each, the man’s chest was pale and smooth, his shoulders slight, his arms narrow and delicately formed. Not so the man who now stood before her. He seemed more beast than man. Deeply tanned skin bulged over sinewed muscle. The scattering of dark hair only emphasized each chiseled groove. His arms were thickly corded with muscle as well. Uncomfortable with the powerful display, Corinne shifted her gaze to his hands. His long fingers were curled into two brawny fists at hi
s side. Everything about him screamed power, aggression, and dominance. There was no hint of a gentleman. The trappings of his title were stripped away, laying bare only the man beneath. Her stomach fluttered at the thought.

  Corinne swallowed as he stalked towards her. Still he did not speak. She could only imagine how she must look on this pedestal, surrounded by candlelight. On display, in her childish dress and stockings.

  He crossed the room to the crystal decanters, and she watched as he poured himself a drink. The splash of the amber liquid as it fell into his glass was the only muted sound in the room excepting the hissing hum of the fire. She lowered her gaze the moment he turned his regard back to her. She could feel his cold eyes watching her. Assessing her.

  Finally, he spoke. His voice dark and rich. “Are you afraid of me?”

  The question startled her and she raised her eyes. Small white teeth pierced her lower lip, as she struggled to grasp his intent.

  “I asked you a question, my little doll.” He took a sip of his drink as he waited for her response.

  “Yes,” she replied, her voice raspy and low as she strained to talk past the lump in her throat.

  “Good. You should be. I will bring you only pain. In time, you may learn to derive some pleasure from it. Whether you do or not is of no concern to me. Do you understand what I am telling you?”

  Was it a trick of the candlelight or did she see a flash of guilt cross his dark eyes? As if he were trying to scare her…to warn her. Of what?

  Corinne stared at his signet ring. The warm gold glinting in the light of the fire. A crushed rose. Fierce talons.

  She didn’t understand any of this. Yet she nodded her head yes, a deep need to please him stirring within her.

  Setting down his glass, Lucian picked up a small black box. Turning a circular object affixed to the front, he kept his attention on the black box as he asked her. “Do you know what a photograph is?”

  “No, Your Grace.”

  Lucian’s head snapped up sharply, his lip curled slightly, showing long, sharp teeth. “How did you just address me?”

  Corinne began to shake. Her palms sweaty as she crumpled the delicate material of her dress in her small fists. “Your pardon. I…I…meant Papa.”

  “That is better. A photograph is like a painting that is captured in a moment on a piece of paper. This box is called a camera. It is used to create the photograph.”

  He must think she was truly an ignorant girl with no knowledge of the real world because of her convent upbringing if he thought she would fall for such witchcraft. A painting created in a moment inside a little box indeed! Next he will be saying there are little fairies in there with tiny paintbrushes.

  Lucian approached her. Even with the height of the pedestal, he still had to look down to see into her eyes. “I want you to stand very still. I want to capture how you look in this moment. The fear and uncertainty in your eyes. The beautiful innocence of your demeanor. By the time you leave this chamber, your innocence will be gone, but the fear will remain.”

  Corinne had read once that some predators mesmerize their prey, charming them into submission with the power of their gaze. She felt a similar pull now. The crystalline coldness of his eyes held hers. His brute, masculine strength on display as surely as she was. The deep soothing tone of his voice belied the sharpness of his words. He stood before her, holding the magical black box.

  “Lick your lips,” he commanded.

  The pink tip of her tongue flicked over the seam of her lips.

  “Good girl.”

  There was a long, still pause. Then a click.

  He set the black box aside.

  Corinne was confused. Was that all? No flashes of light or sparks? No whirring sound of grinding wheels? She became even more convinced he was seeking his own amusement at the expense of her ignorance. A photopainting indeed!

  Lucian’s long fingers gripped the leather back of one of the chairs before the fire. He turned it to face her. Once more grasping his drink, he sat, leaning back into its soft depths. His knees spread flagrantly open before her. It was unseemly. It was overt. It was mesmerizing.

  She caught a glimpse of a long bulge on the inside of his thigh. Her cheeks burned at the memory of their carriage ride to his castle. The scent, taste and feel of him still fresh in her mind.

  “Unbutton your dress.”

  Corinne could only make an inarticulate sound of protest.

  Lucian sighed. “I am not known for my patience, Corinne. You will need to endure a great deal of training before you learn how to please me. I would hate to add to that burden by punishing this disagreeable habit you have of not immediately responding to my questions and commands.”

  Corinne clutched the small pearl button at her throat. Her shaking fingers began to tear at the fastening.

  Lucian raised his glass to the fire, his gaze on the play of golden light through the amber liquid. Without looking at her, he said, “Did you forget something, my pet?”

  Corinne froze in indecision. She couldn’t think straight in front of him. With a gasp, she remembered. “Papa, may I unbutton my dress for you?”

  “You may.”

  She tried to still her fingers as her mind whirled. He was her husband now. It was his right. He had already seen her exposed. None of those thoughts seemed to calm her nerves. Trying to focus just on the task at hand, she slowly undid one button after the other till the dress fell open. Nanny had not permitted her to wear any underthings. She was completely exposed. The warmth of the chamber kept her from feeling cold, still she shivered.

  “Let the dress fall.”

  Biting her lip, she pushed the material off her narrow shoulders. It fell to her feet with a soft whoosh. Her pale skin seemed to glow in the candlelight. The nuns had always said her large breasts and slim hips were sinful. She wondered if Papa would feel the same way.

  Lucian rose and slowly approached her. Reaching out his hand, he trailed the tips of two fingers over her collar bone. Then methodically, he trailed them lower. Over the crest of one full breast before circling the pert nipple.

  “Have you ever touched yourself, Corinne?”

  She inhaled the darkly sweet scent of brandy on his breath. “Self-abuse? No, Papa. I would never!” she protested.

  Lucian chuckled. “We will soon relieve you of whatever prudish nonsense you have been taught, little one.”

  He flattened his warm hand over her stomach.

  Corinne held her breath.

  Lucian moved his hand downward till the heel of his palm pressed against the juncture of her thighs. The area felt all the more sensitive and exposed since Nanny shaved it earlier. He pressed inward as he moved his hand in slight circles.

  She closed her eyes as a groan escaped her lips. The feeling was hard to describe. It was if she had thrown her arms wide and just twirled and twirled till the world tilted and spun beneath her feet.

  He continued to press his palm in those languid circles. His fingers curling so she could feel the slight scrape of his nails against her soft skin.

  The world tilted faster.

  And faster.

  Corinne threw her head back as she let out a low keen. Without thinking, she reached down and wrapped her small hand around his thick wrist, pushing his hand against her body as she tilted her hips forward.

  “I am pleased to see you are so responsive to my touch.”

  Corinne released his wrist and covered her mouth, giving a mortified gasp. She tried to take a step back, away from him…away from all of it. His hand slid to grip her waist.

  “Don’t move,” he said darkly.

  “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me.” Tears pricked her eyes as the words tumbled from her mouth.

  Lucian gripped her chin. Looking down into her bright eyes, he said, “I know.”

  She wasn’t experienced enough with men to read his expression. It looked like a mixture of possessive pride, but she couldn’t be sure.

  “You
have taken your pleasure. Now it is time for your punishment.”

  “Is it because of what I just did?” she whimpered.

  “No, little one. I have been informed by your nanny that you have earned four black beads in your short time under my care. You must be disciplined.”

  Corinne felt a wave of shame that surpassed even standing before him exposed. Despite not willfully disobeying Nanny, Corinne still felt as if she had disappointed him.

  “Go to the bed. Lie on your back. Knees up and open.”

  Corinne walked on shaky limbs to the large, four-poster bed. Not wishing to soil his coverlet, she kicked off her kid slippers before crawling up onto the bed. The silk covering felt cool against her warm skin. Gingerly she turned onto her back, her legs tightly closed.

  “Your knees up and open, Corinne. Do not make this punishment worse than it will already be.”

  Reluctantly, she pulled her knees up, spreading them open slightly.

  “Wider,” he barked.

  With a start, Corinne spread her legs painfully wide and waited.

  Unlatching the brass lock on a polished chest at the foot of the bed, Lucian raised the lid. Nestled on a bed of burgundy, rose-patterned, devore velvet was his collection of disciplinary tools. Tawses, wooden paddles, braided silk cords, a horse whip and crop were some of the many. The riding crop was designed for his personal use. It was shorter than the usual length for more control since it would never touch a horse’s flank but have a much softer target. Comprised of a blackened Malacca wood shaft topped with a polished stag’s horn handle, it was a beautiful piece. Beautiful but painful.

  Testing the weight of the handle in his hand, he looked over the lid to his trembling bride.

  He didn’t think of her as a bride. Didn’t even think of her as his little one, not in the traditional way of his forefathers, despite his decision to keep and train her in a nursery. No. She was like a delicate bird he had hunted and finally trapped. Captured for her plumage and song.

  Traveling on the moors of Wales, two years ago, he had captured the hint of a melody on the wind. Seeking out the songbird, he saw a maiden dressed in crude, homespun linen. Her fairness transcended her simple attire. Hair the color of honey tumbled in tangled waves down her back. Porcelain skin appeared almost translucent in the fading purple light of dusk. The sprite glowed with beauty and innocence.