Taming Maria

Taming Maria
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ISBN:  9781780804606
Author:  Rhea Silva
Word Count:  69,897
Format:  eBook

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For All TimeFor All Time
Rite of PassageRite of Passage
The Darkest MasterThe Darkest Master

  

He grabbed her, taking her completely off-guard. Before she knew it she was stretched out over his knees, face down, hair dangling towards the carpet. She yelled, kicked and struggled but to no avail. He was far stronger than her and equally determined. She knew she must present a lewd spectacle with her bare bottom in the air. Helplessness swept over her.
   She lay there, wriggling and spluttering, then shot forward as his first blow hit her with resounding force. Her buttocks went numb, followed by a rush of fire as the flesh came to life...

Young Lady Maria Granger stands ready to enter the social scene of Georgian England. As an orphan she is the ward of the enigmatic Viscount Strafford, whom she has never met. But once she enters into the tumultuous life of Regency London under the tutelage of her mother's scandalously debauched sister, Maria's good looks and fiery temperament thrust her into the limelight. Then her guardian appears and her life is never the same again.

Suddenly she is subject to sexual discipline and domination and although she tries to fight back, she finds part of her welcomes his arrogance and cruelty. But just as she is grappling with the problems of having two lovers, she learns that her guardian may be a much worse villain than even she believes.

Rhea Silva provides a rip-roaring tale of crime, passion and debauchery set against the glittering backdrop of an elegant but decadent epoch.

The capricious English weather had changed by the time Maria and Damien went riding. When they reached open ground a wind had sprung up, huge clouds throwing their swift-moving shadows over an expanse of brown, gold and purple gorse. Occasional sunshine broke through, its radiance made even more dazzling in contrast.
   He turned in his saddle, jammed his hat down on his head and shouted, 'I'll race you, Maria, staking a hundred guineas on the outcome. It will be like the phaeton race. Are you game?'
   Now what's he up to? she wondered, as distrustful as ever. But never able to refuse a challenge she replied, 'Where's the finishing line?' Her mare was nervous, pawing the ground, straining to be off.
   'Scratch Tump. The burial mound you can see in the distance.'
   She jerked the reins and they exploded into action, two colourful streaks, one chestnut, one black. His horse was larger, but the mare was spirited and lively. Maria, absorbed, forgot all else, even the soreness of her butt for, although she sat side-saddle, her anus still caused her discomfort but not enough to detract from the enjoyment. She loved horses, respecting their moods, their great hearts and their bravery. She never used the spur or a cruelly tight bit that sawed at tender mouths, or the whip constantly. Having tasted it herself she had sworn not to inflict it on animals. Men perhaps, but that was different.
   She loosened the rein and drummed her heel into the mare's side. The animal's neck was tense, her nostrils flared and her ears laid back. Maria glanced over her shoulder. Damien's pace was less of a gallop and more that of flight itself. Whatever his faults he was a superb horseman. The mare kept up with him, touching the ground only to leave it again with a single strike of her hooves.
   Maria's hair was confined in a snood beneath a hard hat, but her face was whipped by the mare's flowing mane. She felt as if her body was weightless and that she had become one with her mount, wanting nothing but to gallop over the moor for ever, the earth, the grass and the mare mingling with her own soul.
   Damien was gaining. His whip cracked down repeatedly and she remembered how it had slashed her during the phaeton race, and punished her since. This sent a thrill through her, and the pressure of the saddle's high pommel stimulated her clitoris with every movement. She had the absurd desire to rein in, throw herself on the grass and implore him to take her.
   He was giving wild cries that were flung by the wind, tossed and echoed. His mount neighed in response, ebony hide flecked with foam. Maria cried encouragement and the mare responded. The barrow was coming nearer, huge on the skyline and, with a final supreme effort, she reached there first.
   She slowed to a walk, leaning over and patting her mare's steaming neck, murmuring, 'Well done, girl.'
   Damien drew up alongside. 'Congratulations! This makes us even. One all.' He was breathing fast, sweat running down his face. 'I'll give you the money when we reach the house, unless you want another race?'
   'No, thanks. I'll take the cash.'
   'Why do you need it? I supply you with everything.'
   'Believe it or not I like to have some measure of independence, and whatever you give me comes from my estate, does it not?'
   'Your father trusted me to manage your affairs.'
   More fool him, she thought as she dismounted, petting her animal who was recovering her wind. The warmth of her breath wafted over Maria's skin. Her head, hot and moist, nuzzled into her shoulder. 'This is a fine beast,' she said, glancing up at Damien and then looking away. There was something in his eyes that she did not like. 'We must find water for them, they have both done well.'
   'Not yet.' He cocked a foot out of the stirrup and swung down. 'I want to talk to you.'
   The barrow loomed above them and the sun had gone. The clouds were piling up, black and threatening. 'We should go back,' she said. 'It's going to rain.'
   He seemed not to hear her, coming so close that she could see the texture of his skin and the long lashes shading his eyes. His arm snaked out, winding around her waist. She could feel his heat, engendered by the gallop and his own pulse. It was as if his gaze was hypnotic, making her forget everything except him. His lips descended on hers and once again wove their magic. He had not approached her for days after her introduction to the butt-plug. She had spent them attempting to act normally, accompanying Arabella on a round of social visits in the parish, taking tea or playing cards.
   Arabella's aplomb astonished her. She was well respected for being the wife of an earl, and played on this. Though Maria recognised a few of the ladies as being among those who had attended the hunt and the orgy that followed, on the whole they were of the old school, engaged in 'good works' about the village. Damien was a master of dissembling, too, when it suited him. What had once seemed a joyous escape from school and restrictions, had become clouded with doubt about her aunt and guardian.
   The wind had an edge to it, and rain started to strike across from the sea. 'Stay there,' Damien commanded, and tethered the horses near Scratch Tump. He returned to Maria and took her hand, leading her into the shelter of the stones supporting the entrance where a Stone Age builder had inserted the fossil of an ammonite as decoration.
   'Inside,' Damien said abruptly. It was pitch dark, the uneven ground sloping downwards. He seemed to know his way, as sure-footed as a cat. Maria stumbled after him, more terrified of being left alone than of what he might do to her.
   He stopped and she nearly cannoned into him, chilled to the marrow, her riding habit offering little protection against the dankness. She heard the scrape of a tinderbox, followed by the glow from a lantern. Damien was no stranger to this ancient tomb.
   'What a gloomy spot,' she said, trying to lighten the mood. 'Of interest only to those who study ancient monuments.'
   'You think so?' His smile was demonic in the lantern-light. 'I'll admit that I have professors of archaeology begging permission to view it, and have permitted a few of the skulls and bones and artefacts to be taken to the nearest museum. It has been suggested that some of the dead may have been human sacrifices. Whatever it was, it belongs to me, situated on my land. No one comes here unless I allow them. The locals avoid it anyway, saying it is haunted. That's where it got its name. Old Scratch means the devil in these remote parts.'
   Maria shivered. 'I'm cold. I want to go.'
   'So soon?' He set the lantern on a ledge. 'Aren't you curious? There are still human remains in some of the alcoves. Wouldn't you like to meet your ancestors?'
   He was amused by the situation and she determined not to be the victim of his macabre sense of humour. 'Another time, perhaps. I would rather return to Raven Towers,' she replied lightly.
   He ignored this, lifting a skull from a stone shelf. '"Alas, poor Yorick",' he quoted. 'The Bard of Avon had something apt to say about almost every situation. Don't you agree?'
   'You didn't bring me here to discuss antiquities or Shakespeare. Get to the point, Damien.'
   'Hasty one! I always find anticipation hones the edge of appetite. But if you insist... take off your clothes.'
   'You must be jesting! I shall freeze to death.'
   He raised his crop and trailed it down the side of her face. 'Strip.'
   'And if I refuse?'
   'I would hate to mark that pretty face, but you know that I insist on obedience.'
   Her hands trembled as she removed her gloves, then the hat, jacket, blouse and chemise. He rested against the wall, legs crossed at the ankles, watching her every movement. When she was bare to the waist he reached out and tickled her nipples with the tip of the crop. They puckered and she turned away, ashamed that he should see how much he excited her.
   Unbuttoning the waistband of her skirt she let it fall, then laid it with the rest of her clothes on a slab that might once have contained a corpse. Breeches, hose and riding boots came next and at last she stood there, shivering with cold, as naked as the day she was born.
   'That's more like it,' he remarked, stalking round her, absorbing her from every angle. 'No need for pretence here. There is no one to see us, only the dead. You enjoy the fear you feel when I'm near you. Before meeting me you never confessed, even to your dearest friend, that you wanted to be dominated. Isn't this true?' He spoke with an intensity that riveted her, and made her feel she was being interrogated by a judge. He raised the crop and brought it down across her bare thighs. 'Answer, damn you!'
   Shocks rippled through her, her skin stinging where the whip had struck. 'I don't know,' she whimpered. 'I can't remember.'
   'Liar!'
   He taunted her with the crop, circling her breasts then letting it strike her skin, leaving red marks. He tapped her belly and thighs, and though she squirmed and tried to avoid that fast-moving whip, each stroke made her vagina wetter, slippery with love-juice.
   'Stop!' she cried.
   'Really?' he sneered. 'Surely not? I've only just begun.' He pushed her back. A few steps and she felt uneven stone. He prodded her but she could go no further. 'Face the wall.'
   He poked her with the crop, forcing her to obey. The stone was cold and damp, chilling her breasts, belly and thighs. She kept remembering that for centuries the tomb had been untouched, sealed and filled with cadavers. The atmosphere was rank with the smell of decay.
   'Don't make me do this,' she begged, though hating herself for whimpering.
   'Spread your legs wide,' he ordered. 'And lift your arms over your head. That's right. Can you feel the rings? Stay like that while I bind you.'
   Her fingers found the metal and hung on. He wrapped ropes round her wrists and tied them to the rings, then did the same to her ankles, attaching them to lower ones. 'Are these ancient trappings?' she asked sarcastically, still finding the courage to defy him.
   He chuckled. 'My own additions. Friends enjoy coming here as a diversion. There's nothing like a touch of fear and horror to enliven one's lovemaking.'
   She found this disgusting. 'How can you call it that, debasing a noble emotion?'
   'Sentimental nonsense! We are all animals under the facade of respectability. And you, my dear, are no better than the rest. You like this, don't you? You look so lovely, strung up there.'
   'Let me go. Free me, please. You are wrong to say I enjoy it. Give me the chance to love you in the normal way... romantic, if you like, mock it though you may.'
   She could not see his expression, but caught a hint of regret in his reply. 'I renounced love many years ago. I gave my heart to someone who betrayed me, and I swore that never again would I allow myself to weaken. This is my way of loving now.'
   The crop came down with full force, catching her lower back. Maria jerked in her restraints, steeling herself to endure the savage attack. He struck again and again, varying the spots on which the crop landed. She wept, feeling utterly worthless, a slave of no use but to bring pleasure to her cruel master. She was no longer conscious of the cold, her whole body suffused with a heat that concentrated in her loins. Every involuntary spasm when the crop stuck chaffed her nipples and caused her pubis to rub the stone. Her wrists were sore, her ankles too, but now she was sinking into a state where all she could think about was the next blow, and the next agony and the next thrilling stimulation.
   Damien came close to her, pressing against her spine, grinding his prick into her open crack. She could feel it, that hard, engorged tool. It was bare, solid, the helm leaking fluid. Was the ordeal over? Could he be about to take her? Desire ripped through her and she moaned her longing.
   'Damien, set me free. Do with me as you will, but don't beat me any more.'
   'You want me, don't you, my poor little slave-slut? Say it.' His voice was a purr close to her ear, his arms around her, one hand clasping her mound, the other squeezing her breasts.
   'Yes, yes... I want you.' She was willing to confess to anything if he would stop punishing her and give her what she craved.
   He withdrew his hands, leaving her bereft. The air rustled as the crop cracked through it. Damien focused on her buttocks. Her emotions were engulfed by pain, her thighs quivering, her backside clenching and her sex wet with arousal. It was as if she was someone else observing this enslaved woman, seeing how her anger was dissipating. She was absorbing the pain, going beyond it, filled with desire for intimate contact with Damien.
   Then, with almost cruel finality, her ordeal was over. He freed her wrists and ankles and supported her as she fell into his arms, weakened and disoriented. He held her cleft in his broad hand and frigged her clitoris. She was so close that she came within a few strokes, rubbing against his fingers. Convulsing and writhing she gasped out foolish phrases. Thinking about it later in the clear light of day, she feared she had told him she loved him.
   He turned her, held her punished bottom in his hands and entered her vagina from the rear. He pumped frantically. A few strokes and he spurted, and she was completely satisfied, though wishing it could go on for eternity. He rested against her for a moment, then broke away.
   'May I dress now?' she whispered.
   'Of course, and hurry, we shall be late for luncheon.'

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Taming Maria
Tuesday, 2 February 2016  | 

I enjoyed this book very much thank you.


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