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The Blonde Samurai
Jina Bacarr


Spring 1873:I arrived in Japan a virgin bride, heartsick and anxious beyond measure. Yet I embraced this perplexing world with my soul laid bare after uncovering an erotic, intoxicating power I hardly knew that I, Katie O'Roarke, possessed. Japan was a world away from my tedious Western existence, a welcome distraction from my recent marriage to a cold and cruel husband. But when James attacked me in a drunken rage, I could tolerate it no longer…. I had no choice but to escape into the surrounding hills.I awoke in the arms of Akira, a young Samurai, and it was he who took me to Shintaro, the head of the powerful Samurai clan. At first distrustful, Shintaro came to me every day for a fortnight until my need for him made my heart race at the very sound of his feet upon the wooden floor. He taught me the way of the Samurai—loyalty, honor, self-respect—and the erotic possibilities of inner beauty unleashed.It is his touch that shatters my virginal reserve, evoking danger and physical pleasures that linger beyond our fervent encounters. But James means to find me, to make me pay for his humiliation. I can no longer hide amongst the orange blossoms as rebellions rage, and as my own secret continues to grow….







Praise for Jina Bacarr’s the BlondeGeisha

“The Blonde Geisha far surpasses Memoirs of a Geisha, bringing to life the scents, sights and sensual sensations that are uniquely ‘geisha.’ You will swear you saw cherry blossoms, tasted sake from a tiny, porcelain cup and felt the touch of a lover’s body on your own. Jina Bacarr does not merely tell a sensual tale, she invites you to partake in a pleasure that is exquisitely erotic and utterly unforgettable.”

—Aysel Arwen



“Ms. Bacarr is well on her way to being an extraordinary writer.”

—Erotic Romance Writers

“The wordplay is extraordinary…Ms. Bacarr’s voice is like a songbird; many will fall under its sensuous currents. [A] remarkable book.”

—A Romance Review

“Erotic romance fans should be prepared for lots of teasing!”

—Publishers Weekly

“An astounding, wonderful debut novel from Jina Bacarr, an author not to be missed!”

—The Mystic Castle

“Bacarr’s debut novel is a rich reading experience, especially for those interested in Japanese history and culture. Its language is lovely, even poetic, and the atmosphere has a rare and pervasive sensuality.”

—RT Book Reviews




The Blonde Samurai

Jina Bacarr











www.spice-books.co.uk (http://www.spice-books.co.uk/)


To my husband, Len LaBrae, whose steadfast loyalty

and belief in me makes him my perfect samurai.




ACKNOWLEDGMENTS


I have always believed Japan is a land of contrasts. Reserved, quiet and silky on the one hand. On the other, erotic, adventurous and mysterious in the sensual ways of the Far East.

It is also the land of samurai. Bold, dedicated fighters who followed the way of the warrior known as Bushidō: loyalty, duty, self-respect, honor. The samurai are well-known in the West and recently we have seen female samurai celebrated in pop culture. I applaud this retelling of historical fact in a modern context since samurai women were also schooled in the way of the warrior and often fought alongside their men in battle.

To my knowledge, no female gaijin, foreigner, has ever become samurai. The word itself is gender specific and refers to trained male warriors. The idea of a western woman entering this world may be off-putting to some, but the thought has always intrigued me. Would she have the strength and fortitude, both physical and mental, to undergo the rigorous training required to become samurai? Could she peel away the outer layer of samurai life so often portrayed in books and films as strife and rebellion and see the inner beauty and passion that it takes to become a warrior? I have tried to answer this question in The Blonde Samurai.

As is the way of the Japanese, this story came about as a group effort. I wish to thank my wonderful editor, Susan Swinwood, for believing in me and encouraging me to take a bold step forward and tell the story of the blonde samurai.

And thank you to my dearest friend and agent, Roberta Brown, who sparked the idea of this book with her keen sense of story and her undying faith in me.




PREFACE


San Francisco

15 September, 1876

’Tis not an easy task I have, dear lady reader, to respond to the vicious gossip spread about me through Mayfair drawing rooms since I returned to England. Whispers of euphoric nights with not one but two men pleasuring me; mysterious items to soothe a woman’s burning need for clitoral touch and fill her with orgasmic bliss; the erotic game of domination with girls strapped down and flogged upon their bare buttocks. Did I take part in these wild imaginings? Or are they merely tales fabricated by a besotted male scribbler to sell his stories and make his fortune?

You be the judge as you continue to read, and I hope you will, for pages and pages of erotic delights await you. What is undisputed is that I ran away from my husband and disappeared. Some say I went mad and was confined to an asylum. Others insist I entered a convent. Neither is true, but the scandal I provoked shook the standards of bland respectability and sobriety that govern the upper class and started nonstop discussions about what they deemed to be my outrageous behavior and what should be done about it.

Done about it? As if they alone exist on a lofty plane and rule all those below. I subscribed to no such rules and they shunned me for it. I will shock you further, for I shall begin my story with a confession, one that will titillate you and give you another reason to speculate whether what you’ve heard whispered about me is true. ’Tis a fact that I, a spirited daughter of Erin by way of America, came to London in the summer of 1872 seeking a titled match. Be it known my looks were plain and my opinions brash, sending my marital prospects into discord among my suitors, though for reasons I shall make clear in these pages, I married well. Yet the first man I took to my bed after my wedding night was not my husband—or yours—but one of the most mysterious, elusive and enigmatic men in all Japan. A samurai.

His name was Shintaro.

I shall never forget the moment the tall, muscular samurai swept into the room, his heavy walk making the wooden floor tremble, his presence commanding, electrifying, his melodic, deep voice speaking to me in his native tongue about waterfalls and flowers and the gods as if he was a poet and could produce an alchemy of words to create harmony between us. I burned with such desire I could not catch my breath. All I wanted was him. Bold, handsome he was, and as persuasive as the wind nudging a morning glory up the vine with his heated breath, exposing her to the sun, then seducing her to open up to him and live her vivid, unspoken dreams in his arms.

I knew Shintaro as a man with a deep passion for everything artistic and refined, including the grace and repose of the erotic “spring drawings.” He took great joy in demonstrating to me the sexual acts depicted upon these woodblock prints, down to the most exquisite, savory detail. Yet as a member of the warrior class, he harbored an intensity for warfare and honor and adhered to their strict sense of personal loyalty with a readiness to fight and die without hesitation; he also possessed a readiness to make love to me with the same vigor, his need for me burned indelibly into his soul. When I was with him, my spirit was as light as a cherry blossom floating slowly to earth, its pure fragrance scenting the passion of our union with a fresh innocence, yet hiding no thorns under its petals like the English rose.

Then a great tragedy came upon us and I was forced to leave Japan and return to London. Not an easy venture for me, dear lady reader. I harbored a profound uncertainty that I had assimilated so deeply into my life there that coming back to England would be unsettling and difficult. Had I known what scorn and ridicule faced me, I would have changed nothing, for I am destined to write this memoir and be faithful to the tale as I have lived it. I admit I have crafted my story in an enchanted world owing much to feminine perception and fancy, but ’tis my belief my memoir will evoke a response in you that will have far-reaching consequences beyond the telling of this tale. My hope is you will discover another side of your intimate self as I have, a side which will tempt you to deviate from the prevailing standards and expectations in your romantic life and allow you to enjoy the sexual act with his lordship to its fullest—or with any gentlemen you take to your bed.

To allow you to do so, I have chosen to write the story of my adventure as an Erotic Tome for Young Ladies. I came upon this idea because of a certain incident known to many readers of this book that occurred on the twenty-fifth of April 1876 at the London town house of the Viscount Aubrey. An evening of fun and gaiety was in play until I entered the room and all heads turned. Curious, questioning, some envious, for arousing tales about my powerful and masterful samurai lover had preceded me. Word passed quickly among the sanctimonious ladies of Mayfair. “That Carlton woman has arrived,” they whispered. They couldn’t take their eyes off me, scrutinizing my gown, my figure, my jewels, for I had dared to leave my husband and seek my own life among the samurai. In the eyes of the British aristocracy there was no greater sin.

I shall not spoil the story if you are unfamiliar with the newspaper accounts of the scandal, but suffice it to say I’ve left unnamed those of you living in London who are innocent of any wrongdoing. And though the exclusive upper class is well represented in my story, be advised their names have been changed. ’Tis a spicy tale, dear lady reader, replete with the words and phrases known to and used by the male sex. Before we begin, you may wish to open your reticule and remove your smelling powders. You will need them. I warn you, you may be shocked by my story, but never bored.

Tomorrow I sail for Yokohama from the port of San Francisco aboard the SS Oceanic. By the time you read this, I will be home, for that is what Japan is to me now. Hearth and home. There I have known the joy of a passionate love, the pain of suffering a great loss and the importance of duty if one is to survive. I count the heartbeats until I arrive back in Japan, but first I shall send off these final pages by post to my solicitor in London, Mr. Robert A. Brown, to give to my publisher. I wish to thank him for his unending support during these long months of writing and deliberating over whether or not I should pen this memoir. He has given me the courage to do so and made it possible for me to secure a contract with the best publishing house in London. In many months hence, this book will be in your hands. Then it will be up to you, dear lady reader, to decide its fate. I realize your fascination with reading my memoir lies in making your heart beat faster by recalling with me my romantic interludes with my handsome samurai. Fear not, in due course, I shall set into motion the frightening incident in Japan, which thrust me into his arms. But first I shall sketch the previous acts of the drama that make up the fabric of my story, beginning with my wedding night and what followed so you shall understand all the events that transpired, be they sensual, provocative or tragic.

If when you come to the end of my story you accept my words as truth, then I have succeeded. Shintaro will live not only in these pages, but in your heart, as he does in mine.

Lady Carlton née Katie O’Roarke




1


Mayfair, London

26 August, 1872

My extraordinary journey to embrace the way of the warrior began in a posh town house in Mayfair.

On my wedding night.

It was a London society affair replete with the trappings of engraved wedding invitations, cascades of floral abundance adorning the church pews and lavish gifts whose glitter dared not be anything but gold. And me with a diamond tiara atop my head ornamented with so many pear-shaped stones I creaked my neck trying to sit like a swan, though I was more the Yankee ugly duckling. Did I mention we had a bishop among the clergy presiding?

I can hear you groaning at my description, ready to toss the book aside before we land upon the silken earth of the Orient, fearing you have chanced upon the prim meanderings of a young matron lost in romantic illusions before she takes to her bed while her husband visits his mistress. I assure you this is no such missive. ’Tis fire and passion I reaped when I dared to abandon a life of privilege and taste for the way of the warrior. Riding the wind to meet the gods, slashing through the rain, my arms bending from the weight of the heavy steel sword in my grasp, a dirk nestled between my breasts near my heart. But I’m allowing my passion for this life to raise a fever in me and deliver me from the memory of what happened on my wedding night. It was a different instrument of pain that made me twitch and moan. An item worn and smooth and without the sharp point of the sword but just as accurate to reach its mark.

A black riding crop.

I shall never forget what should have been a night woven with satin threads and romance, wanton kisses and honeyed sighs. Instead, I was shocked to see my new husband racing up the stairs after a saucy redhead and whipping her plump backside. I ran and hid in a teak garderobe that smelled of whiskey and snuff and mold. A strange desire awakened in me, making me want to know more about this suggestive, mysterious world that disturbed me, stimulated me.

Are you shocked? Insulted? You’re a young woman of good breeding, I hear you say, modest, shy. I’m Irish-American and proud of it, though too often my fiery race is dismissed with a cutting glance meant to be a public snubbing by stony-faced termagants suffering from the social disease of snobbery. I ignore them. I don’t care about their political citadel with its perfunctory restrictions and bloodless debutantes in their swinging crinolines keeping their suitors at arm’s length. I grew up riding bareback, my hands and face often gritty from digging into the wet, soggy bowels of the earth to feed our empty bellies before my father made his fortune.

I come from a hardworking, God-fearing family and never had it in my mind that I’d live in a posh house. But here I am, Thomas O’Roarke’s daughter, Katie, hiding and holding her breath as she watches the intoxicating scene played out before her in this Mayfair town house. Not what I expected married life to be when I attended Miss Brown’s School for Young Ladies, where I was bred to become a grand lady by the headmistress herself, Miss Herminone Tuttle. I wanted to please my mother (who so desperately wanted one of her daughters to make a successful marriage), so I dabbled in the folly of silks and corsets, gossip and scented notes, singing and drawing lessons, all necessities coveted by a girl of my nouveau riche status to furnish her female arsenal. Day after day Miss Tuttle lamented about my chatty nature, spurred on by my insatiable curiosity to question everything. Not wise, I discovered, for a girl born in a white frame house in the Pennsylvania woods, a plain girl with more brain than bosom who linked her dreams with her emotions and sensibilities. No wonder I was rejected by every eligible bachelor approved by the Knickerbocker Society matrons.

But it was my mother, dear soul that she is, who established my power base of teachers and dressmakers and embarked with me to London with one goal in mind: husband hunting. She emphasized to my suitors I had money and plenty of it. (My father is a railroad tycoon, a self-made man with more guts than schooling. He’s a grand da, always encouraging me to be the inquisitive lass that I am. “Katie, me girl—” my father is fond of saying when we spar over a political issue “—you have more fighting spirit in you than any man I’ve met.” How I love him.) But I had no real path, no realm laid out to pursue my dreams. I often asked myself, What is to become of me? We Irish often find ourselves taking up the more unsavory professions, such as following the life of an actor, or worse yet, a writer. ’Tis the gift of words bestowed upon us by the rulers of the heavens, and I be no exception. I find myself more oft than not in trouble because of it, but I can’t keep my thoughts to myself. I speak before thinking, making my observations with a keen, dry wit and at times without tact, which is why I kept neither beau nor my mother’s faith I’d ever make a match. No amount of primping and lavender water could take the smell of horses and hay out of this girl who crossed the Atlantic to find a husband among the British aristocracy.

To my mother’s dismay, more than one London suitor complained I was too quick with the sassy remarks and too eager to express my opinion. She chided me for my boldness, emphasizing that eligible males were more interested in the sway of a girl’s body than the wit of her words. Here again, I failed the test. I was taller than the fragile English girls paraded around the circuit for three months out of the year. Thin as paper doilies they were and each one cut from the same curlicue pattern. I was fair-haired and blue-eyed and cut a good figure with a small waist, though I had boyish hips.

Then the forces of nature took it upon themselves to present a delicate rearrangement of destiny (also known as the exchange of a great deal of money), and I received a proposal of marriage. As was more the custom than not in these hasty marriages, I went to the altar knowing little about my husband, save he had a title and a manner of looking at me that made my pussy burn with longing.

My hunger for romance proved to be my undoing when I allowed myself to be wooed by this deviant aristocrat with wild black hair and a slight limp. His chest and shoulders were broad and strong, his head held high as was his ego. I noticed the wide dimple in his chin deepened when he set his mouth in a grim line. Lord James Carlton was as handsome as a prince of the realm and he knew it. He exuded charm, though I would later discover this show of assuredness and sybaritic demeanor concealed a different side of him that when challenged erupted into a dark, decaying soul.

I knew none of this when I accepted his hasty proposal of marriage. Trying to hide my surprise as well as my girlish pleasure, I fancied myself in love with him and could not admit that what I felt was mere infatuation. What did I know about love? Nothing. What I didn’t know I concocted into stories, romantic tales too often centering around an idealized heroine created out of an alchemist’s bottle.

And now this display of bare skin and beautiful breasts and round buttocks askew before my eyes, what God himself had designed to covet the devil’s lust, made my mouth drop. How can I explain to you the emotions racing through me? I was a young girl, barely nineteen, and though I rarely admitted it, I was rather naive about the ways of the world save for what enticing books I’d read in this house, their salacious descriptions never matching the rise of anticipation playing out before me. I couldn’t take my eyes off the girl’s buttocks. Red streaks crisscrossing her cheeks. Long, straight marks. A wild craving hungered deep within me, something I never expected, as if my dark alter ego was enjoying the pleasurable lashing. I never dreamed so innocent an item could induce such a look of pleasure on a young woman’s face. Eyes closed, plum lips parted, jaw slackened, head back, glorious red hair tossed to and fro over her pale nude shoulders, her expression could only be described as saintly, as if the blows from the crop erased her sins from her soul and she floated toward the heavens in a state of spiritual ecstasy.

Hail Mary, full of grace…

I envied the freedom she possessed to accept the shadow of her other side, something I dared not do. Though I prided myself on my independence and my modern view of a woman’s place in society I was, through no accomplishment of my own, Lady Carlton, wife of Lord James Carlton, his lordship born to Braystone House, a fifteenth-century limestone goliath situated somewhere in the Midlands and unknown to me.

As was this side of my husband.

A mischievous giggle escaped my lips. Who ever dreamed his lordship fancied a taste of the whip for his pleasure?

Settling in, I’d had little time to accustom myself to his persona since I was a stranger to this new reality, but this display of flesh and depravity took my breath away and evoked a different feeling within me. A feeling that both puzzled and delighted me. Sniffing the sweet, odorous scent between my legs off my fingers, I smiled and accepted it as a sign of my readiness to abandon my virginity for pleasures promised. I pulled the thin wrapper closer around me and in doing so, awakened a family of dustballs from their slumber. I couldn’t deny my ego was as fragile as the ball of dust I crushed beneath my bare foot. It was obvious my husband took no interest in the fact that his bride yearned for his embrace and had performed a succulent toilette for his benefit. Hours ago I had wiggled into a cocoon of peach silk and fancy ribbons, insisting the maid loosen the lacings on my night corset, then peeled down my white stockings and attempted to do the same with the constrictions of my staid upbringing. I was determined to enjoy this night, asking him to “Touch me here, milord, and there. Yes, I like it. Do it again.”

I was at this moment without words. Dry lips parched, I could only stare at the scene being played out in the dimly lit room in the five-story house in London’s Mayfair district near Berkeley Square. Flanked on either side by equally elegant facades, I had been impressed by the crest of arms upon the gate piers nearly obscured from view by the rich foliage surrounding the mansion. No doubt so was the ribald behavior of its occupants.

Cramped, I continued to watch my new husband wield a riding crop with a dexterity that not only slapped the pink rump of the willing girl with inviting sounds, but clearly indicated his familiarity with both the pretty subject and the leather instrument. Calculated, solid blows. Each perfectly aligned and making the girl cry out. Breathy whimpers at first, then rising sounds both shrill and anxious, accompanied by the fast, constant cracking of what I perceived to be a very ordinary-looking riding crop.

Ordinary? I shook my head. Nothing here was ordinary, I protested inwardly, knowing far more than skin and flesh was revealed here. I saw a man who craved power, who must conquer, dominate. Such a man intrigued me, but I was too innocent to see the treachery inside him that would eject me from my ordinary world and into a place where temple bells sounded to announce the changing of the winds, monks uttered incantations to keep demons away and the echo of a man’s voice reverberating in a hidden valley urged me homeward. As you can see, I find it difficult to pull myself away from what has become so familiar to me in Japan, but I must because it is important you understand the unique happenings on this night that sent me upon that journey. Curious thoughts pricking at my mind. Odd murmurings nudging me not to turn away, but watch, listen. Sigh.

I couldn’t look away.

Strange stirrings awakened deep within me, the same sensual, wiggly feelings I’d experienced only when I rode through the woods on my mare, my pubic mound pounding hard into her flanks. I didn’t resist the stream of pleasure overtaking me. I imagined should anyone gaze upon my shocked face, they’d see me wide-eyed and incredulous, then a slight smile, my lower lip quivering, turning into a look of amazement then awe that such a thing could make me wet.

Very wet. Yes, I detected a stickiness between my legs similar to what I’d noticed on more than one occasion when I was near Lord Carlton. James, he insisted I call him. When we first met, my mother doted on him when she discovered his father was a duke, then shooed him away when he revealed he was a second son. It wasn’t until his lordship made his business connections known to her that she convinced my da he was a proper match and our marriage banns announced. I had no idea then the marriage would set the course for a great adventure that tugged at the transparency of my youth and made me realize the life I led was as fruitless as rich, fertile earth without a plow to penetrate her, nurture her.

But at that moment, hiding in a closet like a rag doll teetering on a shelf, I could think only of what my new husband was doing to the redhead and how much she enjoyed it.

’Tis not a sight for a girl of your station, I could hear my mother saying. Look away, Katie, before the devil himself claims your soul.

But he already had. And what games he played in what I perceived to be a spanking room by the looks of the nefarious items I saw tossed about on the floor, strewn on the table, thrown across padded chairs. Wooden paddles, thorny evergreen brushes, a cat-o’-nine-tails, leather straps and restraints, manacles attached to wooden beams, a black hood, a high-back wing chair, even birch canes standing in a china vase filled with water to keep them pliant and green. I had read about such items, but I had never been privy to seeing them.

I perceived here a woman desirous of a spanking, whipping, birching, scourging or prickly brushing could get her bellyful. The thought was scandalous to me. My eyes, wide with curiosity, stared and stared. I tried to swallow, but my struggle against what I was seeing and what thoughts it provoked in me tightened my throat muscles, nearly choking me. The idea of my new husband as master of such items altered my perception of married life and changed it from a light romantic flight of fancy and awkward physical coupling to a sensual, highly erotic, naughty union of flesh.

Would he lay the crop upon my bare backside?

No, he wouldn’t dare take such a liberty. I was his bride, not a woman of the streets or a spritely maid with a taste for domination, a pawn in the game known as the English vice.

Flagellation.

Was this what the two maids chirped about whenever I hovered near this room, this den of decadence? Dressed in shiny black polished cotton and white lace collars, cuffs and caps, the younger miss, Lucie, and Campbell, her older counterpart, made no secret of their curiosity of me. My American ways, my wardrobe from Paris, my light-colored hair bleached a pale gold from sun-drenched days astride my mare. They stared and stared, their sturdy low-heeled boots banging on the wooden floors as they scurried back and forth all day to make our rooms ready for this night…

Though I wasn’t involved in the daily ministrations of this London town house, earlier I had overheard the two maids chattering about a night dark and decadent where his lordship might “fancy a lick or two with the belt on a mott’s pretty haunches before he found the keyhole to her ladyship’s door.”

When I confronted them and asked what a mott was, Lucie blurted out that such a person was a prostitute from a lowclass neighborhood. She was quickly rebuked by the older woman, a portly soul who wore her white lace cap on her head as straight as a ruler, and sent away, leaving the rest to my imagination. Campbell apologized for the girl’s insolence and insisted she was fresh from the country and knew nothing about what she spoke, then attended to my toilette, offering me no further explanation. I pretended to dismiss the incident, since I was certain the maid believed I had aligned my expectations about marriage with the puritan ideal that the wedding night was a dreamlike state consisting of whispers and rustlings in the dark. Nothing more. I dared not change that in her eyes lest she discover my secret.

What I had found in the town house library.

While Mother spent her time fretting about my white satin wedding gown from the House of Worth, the arrangements for my marriage at St. Peter’s Eaton Square, and the newspaper coverage following my every move, I yearned for something else to read besides the English Lady fashion magazines or domestic guides she deigned I should acquaint myself with before my marriage. I was hungry for heartier literature, though I had no reason to suspect what I’d find in the library would be of a salacious nature.

Upon entering the room, I was pleased to observe that the top-floor study had a clublike atmosphere: wood paneling, oil paintings, leather armchairs and chandeliers made from Venetian glass. Its sensual energy overwhelmed me when, and to my delight, I discovered the owner of the town house entertained a most interesting collection of rare books. Very rare. And quite scandalous.

Hiding several slim tomes under my skirts, I secreted them to my rooms, where I devoured the reprint of The Decameron of Pleasure, along with Lascivious Gems and A Night in St. John’s Wood. Dog-eared copies showered with brandy stains and cigar burns. A gentleman’s retreat that I have no doubt had never seen the delicate step of a lady’s fine leather boot. Until mine. And stamp my footprints upon its polished floor I did. Many times. I inhaled the erotic literature as if it were an overpowering perfume that opened the door to the secret life of this British nobleman.

Lord Penmore.

It was his house where we resided and his library.

After our engagement was announced, James had insisted Mother and I enjoy the privacy and comfort of the elegant West End residence owned by his friend and associate away on business in Japan. Poking about the library, I also discovered a cache of letters of a most dubious nature written by Lord Penmore to my husband. Accounts of his visits to a disreputable quarter in Tokio known as Yoshiwara with brilliantly lit streets, people eating and laughing, bony fingers plucking a tune with no beginning, no end, the discord of life forgotten in the dark corners where young girls beckoned him with sweet smiles and slender bodies wrapped in white silk kimonos. He also wrote of turmoil and dissent among the military men he called samurai. Burly, hard-drinking soldiers who, according to Lord Penmore, wielded their swords at whoever insulted them. I shall neither confirm nor deny his reports, for I fear revealing too much will raise such disbelief in you that you will return this book to the shop where you purchased it and demand your funds returned.

I retreated back to my books, lost in the lurid details of French courtesans and lords engaged in a pleasing act known as soixante-neuf. I had hoped to engage in this robust position with my new husband, head to tail, his cock within reach of my lips, his tongue busy at my pussy, licking and sucking, exploring the sweet juices oozing from my folds. As I read, each word dripped from the pages and into my psyche as easily as the morning dew settled onto a thirsty flower petal. I failed to acknowledge that I had not yet blossomed under a man’s touch. Such hopes I had, since this elegant town house was also where I was to spend my first week of married life before embarking on a honeymoon to Paris.

So you can understand why I smiled when, after the lavish wedding reception, my mother kissed me on both cheeks and whispered in my ear I could loosen my night corset but not remove it. And if I lay very still, she assured me in an even voice, it would all be over quickly.

My father glanced toward me but said nothing, though I saw a grim look on his face that troubled me, as if he hadn’t accepted the idea his daughter was a married woman and subject to the erotic whims of her new husband. What would he say, I wondered, if he knew Lord Carlton had a penchant for riding crops and plump bottoms?

I turned my attention back to the scene playing out before me, knowing I was trapped inside the garderobe, dust up my nose, the scent of snuff adding to the precarious teetering of my psyche. A bride living out her fantasies and creating a world where she was merely a voyeur instead of a player. A little voice reminding me we’re trapped by our deeds only if we choose to be. I couldn’t deny I was curious to see what happened next, as I believe you are, too. You wouldn’t be reading this far if you weren’t. I assure you, by the time you arrive in the land of the samurai with its scattered pine woods, crimson foliage and the floorboard that sings when the head of the samurai clan approaches, you will be perspiring (yes, ladies do perspire), your chemise unbuttoned, the lacings on your corset loosened. So pray, do not lecture me, telling me I should have leaned back in the closet, fallen asleep and waited for them to leave, since curiosity has been known to skin the pubic hairs of even the most careful pussy. I should have. But I didn’t. And I would pay the price for my folly.

“Please, my lord, more, more…” the girl yelped.

“I shan’t disappoint you, wench, though I can’t wait much longer to fuck you.”

To my horror, though jealousy was a more descriptive mot for what I was feeling, I could see James kissing her buttocks; then he drew the riding crop through his fingers, caressing it and making it shine with the sweat of his palms.

“I’m ready for you, milord,” the girl said, cooing.

An unseen female voice laughed, then said, “His lordship won’t have enough energy to fuck his new bride if he takes us both.”

Who else watched the intrigue being played out here?

“Mind your mouth, Sally,” the other girl said, her voice breathless. “Lord Carlton has enough rod to please both of us and his new bride.”

“Who said I intended to bed the American?” said Lord Carlton, rubbing the back of the girl’s bare thighs. “I dare say I imagine the twit is asleep, though I should wake her. Observing a good whipping might open her eyes to what’s expected of my wife, eh, Bridget?”

How dare he speak about me in such a manner!

“Begging your lordship’s pardon, but who needs her?” Bridget laughed. “You can whip me arse for as long as you like.” She wiggled her buttocks, then parted her fleshy cheeks with her small hands, exposing the puckered hole for his lordship’s visual delight. “And make use of me back stairs for your pleasure.”

I couldn’t close my mouth. Did James intend to do the same to me?

“Not before you slide into me, milord,” said the girl called Sally when she moved into my view. I could see a tall brunette wearing a scarlet corset with white laces, her pubic hair blacker than jet and glistening with her juices as she expertly drew a rubber phallus from inside her. (Such an item was known to me by way of a novel I found in the library about a young Parisian’s foray into self-gratification with what she labeled a “dildo.” I don’t recall the name of the story.) I drew in my breath, excited by its length as well as its breadth.

Could his lordship compete with such a wonder?

I couldn’t wait to find out.

I gasped when I saw my new husband put his arms around both girls and squeeze their breasts, twisting their nipples between his thumbs and forefingers and making them moan. He said, “Lord Penmore was correct in his assessment of the talents of you two charmers—”

Lord Penmore. The mention of his name startled me. I should have known by the tone of his letters he was behind this gala interlude. Yet he was also a shrewd businessman. I remember him detailing to my husband a nefarious commercial enterprise surrounding the expansion of the empire into Japan, whispered about then hushed up, he said. I dismissed the item then, though I detail it here to note its significance in my journey, a marker on the game board that lingers under your eye but has not yet been put into play, yet is important to the outcome of the adventure.

Then I was more interested in watching Lord Carlton wiggle his fingers into the brunette, probing and making her sigh with anticipation. I also emitted a sigh, wistful, needy, heat making me want to contract my pubic muscles in a delightful series of spasms. I forced myself to hold back. I didn’t wish to miss a moment of their prelude. For that’s what I told myself it was, a prelude to the moment when my husband would come to my rooms, his body still bathed in sweat, his cock primed for a night of passion with his bride. Naive, yes, as I’m certain you were on your wedding night, but I shaded my view of what I was seeing as if I looked at it through the ornate, opaque lace of my bridal veil. Not to do so would have evoked not only anger in me but disappointment, a far stronger emotion for a young girl to absorb and one I was not ready to deal with on my wedding night, cramped and brooding in a closet.

His lordship finished with, “—though I prefer a virgin to satisfy my needs.”

“I’ve played a virgin on the boards, milord,” said the redhead, turning over and caressing her lower lips, then opening them wide, inserting a finger inside her and wiggling it back and forth and pleasuring herself in a secret spot familiar to her. A myriad of tiny tremors worked their way up and down my spine. I’d never seen such boldness, though I dare say I had found my way to the same spot between my legs on numerous occasions. Don’t gasp and mutter, then pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. You do and that’s that. Let’s continue.

“I prefer spending my wedding night here with you, my pretty pink maids,” Lord Carlton was saying, his eyes remaining on the girl’s lower pubic region while he cupped her pussy and held her, pushing his fingers into her while unbuttoning his breeches with the other hand.

To my amazement, out popped his prominent erection, the head shiny and large. I had seen anatomical drawings of the male organ in the books in Lord Penmore’s library, but none like this. Thick, bobbing up and down, he grabbed his cock and pulled on it once, then again, pointing the eye directly at the girl’s pulsating pussy. I was so enamored of the size of him, I leaned forward, failing to illuminate in my mind the dropping of a large dustball onto the tip of my nose. It tickled, but I didn’t brush it away. I couldn’t stop watching them as the girl lay down on a wooden table, then raised her head and shoulders to look at him. Smiling, waiting. He lifted her legs, running his hands up and down the backs of her black stockings as if he were paying homage to her slender calves before pulling them apart to expose her, forcing her pussy to open wider than the expanse of her dainty fingers had dared reveal to him.

Before I could catch my breath, Lord Carlton plunged his swollen cock into her, sliding it up easily against her velvet walls, finding his rhythm, even and smooth, making me sit up and shift my weight off my legs, numb as they were. I dared to inch forward, opening the closet door a little wider, my nose peeking through, my body squirming, the seat of my pleasure full and throbbing as I watched the girl wrap her legs around his hips, pulling him to her and embracing him with an urgency I had dreamed of knowing. Her thighs tightened around him, thumping his buttocks with her heels and sending my husband into a tirade of passionate words, his voice demanding, shouting, his body pounding deep, thrusting into her again and again—

I sneezed.

Loud.

And out I tumbled from the closet, landing at my new husband’s feet.

Staring straight up at his nude buttocks.




2


Chaos followed. Cursing, Lord Carlton stopped pumping the redhead, she screamed, he pulled out of her and the brunette dropped the dildo. No one paid attention to the hard rubber object landing on the plush carpeting at his lordship’s feet. They were too busy staring down at me.

Steadying myself, I brushed the dust and mold off my silk wrapper and stood in front of the unholy trio, all three completely baffled by my sudden appearance. I imagined they believed me to be an apparition. I couldn’t believe the power of a sneeze had unmasked me. I wiped my nose with a delicate swipe of my fingers, and a whiff of my own sweet scent reminded me I was just as guilty as they in my pursuit of delights. Still, I refused to be humiliated by my new husband in front of these two motts. I was determined to act as the lady of the manor and not a female libertine pursuing her own pleasures.

I got to my feet, careful to avert his lordship’s cock slick with juices and dangling close to my lips. He made no attempt to push it away. The sod. My confidence shaken, I quaked inside with an insecurity at assuming my new role as Lady Carlton under such circumstances. But, being the girl I am with the sassy mouth, I blurted out the first thing that came to mind without weighing the consequences.

“I’ve no doubt you possess the stamina to pleasure two women in the due course of an evening, my dear husband,” I began, wrapping the silk tighter around me. “But I doubt if your capabilities include three, so I shall leave you to play out your sordid games.”

I don’t know why I dared to speak to him in such a manner, except to say I’m an O’Roarke, a proud breed more oft than not given to brandishing a fierce will that puts us in a strange state of persistence. We don’t give up, no matter what. What I didn’t know was that James had a game of his own in mind. A game that included bedding his new wife in a very public manner.

“So my bride has fire in her veins after all,” Lord Carlton said with a note of pride as he stepped in front of me, blocking my exit, his tall, nude muscular body leaning slightly to one side, his raw masculinity holding me hostage with a power I vowed to resist.

“Let me pass,” I demanded, chin up. I ignored a trickle of sweat making a slow journey down the length of my neck and into the valley between my breasts. My husband did notice and traced its path with his finger. His touch mesmerized me. I couldn’t move.

“No,” he said coldly. “You shall stay.”

Panic washed over me, telling me to flee, but his voice stirred a magic within me that yet resided in my romantic soul. When his hand moved down to cup my breast, in spite of my resolve not to let him pleasure me, I moaned. Loudly. His touch sparked a reaction in me that made my knees buckle. Damn, I hated showing weakness in front of him.

Knowing he’d made his point, he said, “I shall prove you wrong, milady, about my capabilities. This is my wedding night and I intend to make the most of it.”

“I won’t allow you to touch me again in front of these women,” I cried out, regaining my courage. “Debasing what should be pure and godly between us.” I grabbed a flogger off the wooden table and threw it against the padded wall 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. He wouldn’t stripe my nude flesh pink then rip my maidenhead from me with such cold audacity, would he? “If you do, I swear I shall faint—”

Yes, I said it. After all my preaching about the silly, inane things aristocratic ladies do to keep their noses out of undesirable, odorous places, I had succumbed to the same devices and uttered a weak, feigned excuse. What choice did I have? I’d married a man devoid of any sense of propriety.

“You give me cause to think, milady,” he said, smirking. “You should be primed with a whipping to stimulate your sexual juices, but I wouldn’t wish my bride to have a case of the vapors before I can pleasure her with my cock.”

“It’s about time you came to your senses,” I muttered, relieved. “And stopped playing this deviant game.”

“Who said the game was over?” He put down the flogger, allowing me to slow down my breathing for a precious few seconds before he slid his hand down my belly, covering my pubic region with a protective caress, then rubbing me with a sensual touch. I groaned. I couldn’t stop myself. “You will find I am a man who covets his bridegroom privileges with great ardor,” he continued, then he grabbed the soft flesh of my pubic mound and squeezed it, ripping the buttons off my pantaloons and finding his way inside me, his fingers probing me, looking for what I imagined was proof of my virgo intacta, that fold of mucus membrane yet unbroken by a man’s cock. Or had my robust riding upon a steed already done the job?

I’ve no doubt there are those among you who have sworn to your husband that vigorous exercise was the culprit when he thrust into you on your wedding night and found no obstacle on his path to marital joy. Was it the handsome young lord with no yearly stipend? Or your groom with the strong, muscular body, or the foreign gentleman with the charming accent? I make no judgment upon you. Whoever he was, I’ve no doubt you were young and in love. I have since learned the uncontrollable power of such a physical love, the driving need for touch, smell, taste and penetration with a beloved, how impossible it is to stop it, thinking about how much you crave it, the gnawing inside you that hurts so much you can’t control yourself when his fingertips touch your cheek or brush your lips.

But I was, at this moment, still a virgin and untouched by any man. I have nothing to gain here by delivering an untruth to you. Still, I prayed my virginity was intact, for a wild idea was forming in my brain, a way to save my virtue and my pride. But without proof of my purity, I had nothing to bargain with, for his lordship had made a contract for a virgin and I feared more wrath from him if he didn’t believe me untouched.

“Release me, James, now,” I said with more insistence than before. “Or there shall be hell to pay.” I struggled to force apart the leather restraints that fastened me to the table, turning my body from side to side while each prostitute held an ankle, spewing lewd expletives at me and keeping my legs spread apart.

“Keep still,” he ordered, paying no attention to my plea and pushing deeper inside me with his two fingers, exploring me, making me gasp, then he smiled. “So you are a virgin.” Was he playing a game or did he really know? He withdrew his fingers and sniffed the honeyed smell off the fleshy pads, then waved his fingers under my nose. The strong scent of my desire hit my nostrils, making me gasp. “But not for long,” he finished.

I have no doubt my cheeks flushed as red as the girl’s corset, creeping down the side of my face to my jaw then down my neck, not with embarrassment but shame. My husband intended to rape me and he believed me helpless to stop him. Damn if I’d allow him to perform such an odious act upon me. I must put forth my proposition now.

“If you violate me, James,” I said quickly, “I shall go to my father and tell him everything.”

He laughed. “What ridiculous plan is hatching in that small female brain of yours?” he said, the curiosity in his voice pressing me to speak further.

“I shall tell him about the prostitutes,” I said, ignoring his insult. He would pay for that dearly. “As well as the whippings and floggers and other instruments of domination, everything that takes place in this room. I’ve no doubt my father will break our marriage contract and withdraw any funds he’s already given you then cut off your line of credit at the banks.” I spoke in a rapid pace without taking a breath, my flippant remarks a way for me to cover up my embarrassment and bruised ego. Even as I said the words, I harbored a deep hope that my husband retained feelings for me, feelings that he would show me in a time of duress. I was hungry for his affection. A tender stroke on the cheek, a lingering look into my eyes, a brush of his lips with mine. Simple things, but so important to me.

I saw nothing but a cold look in his clear blue eyes. I shivered.

“You’ll get nothing from me,” I said, attempting to keep up my act without my voice cracking, “do you hear, nothing.”

Lord Carlton pulled back, thinking about what I’d said, then motioned for the two prostitutes to exit the room and leave us alone. Snickering and complaining, the two girls did as they were told, giving me a moment to contemplate where the situation would lead. Hard to believe that before tonight I had made the mistake of imagining my life with him down to the last detail, describing him to my female self in the most glowing terms, giving him attributes no man could possibly attain. In doing so, my fabricated lover overshadowed the man, swallowing him up in my subconscious. Signs of his infidelity were always there—his wayward glances at other women (perhaps even you, dear lady reader), his lips brushing the skin of my soft gloves but not the heated skin of my palm, never asking my father if he could be alone with me. I didn’t see him as he was until now.

I prayed his love of women and drink and the life of a bon vivant were more important to him than fucking his bride. Yes, I said f—Wait, don’t close the book, then pout because I spoke so freely. It’s women like you who perpetrate the whole idea of sex as something indecent. Open your eyes and understand that I use the vulgar word with no excuse, for that’s what his lordship had in mind. Fucking. Any girlhood illusion I had about the debonair lord I had married vanished. The man I had perceived to have a great wit had proven he had no honor, was debauched but so charming he could tempt a sister of the cloth to denounce her savior. All my romantic ideas were gone. Shattered like a beveled-glass mirror and broken into so many pieces no illusion remained. I was a fool to believe our marriage was different, that I could change the behavior of a man from the upper class, a class that thrived on infidelity in an aristocratic society. I had been warned that in my new position it was expected that I would ignore James’s indiscretions, as I’m certain you do those of your husband. I couldn’t. I was in a state of excitement on my wedding night and believed I could make him become the man I thought I’d married by threatening to leave him. Foolish on my part, but that’s how it was. I threw myself into a panic, knowing this was my moment to bargain with his lordship regarding the intimate details of our marriage contract, a contract that allowed no pleasure for a wife. I hadn’t wanted to believe my life would follow such due course. I became aware that I would proceed at my own peril.

“If I permit you to return to your rooms without being pleasured by my cock,” Lord Carlton said finally, his voice even, “I shall have your word we will continue to live as man and wife?”

“Yes, milord. In all matters except in the bedroom.” I hated making a pact with him, a dirty, vile agreement based on his lust and my temerity, but I had no choice. The scandal of an annulment would cause my mother such grief I couldn’t bear it. My marriage to Lord Carlton and entrée into British society meant everything to her. Though I didn’t approve of my mother’s brashness, I understood her hunger for the finer things in life. Reared in poverty, Ida O’Roarke didn’t have a pair of shoes to wear on her scarred feet until she was seven. Now she owned a hundred pairs made of the finest Italian leather.

No wonder my mother put an end to the heated whispers and snickers when she took her seat in the bridal pew at my wedding. Head held high, she stared them down until they turned away, shamed by her strength and fortitude. No doubt the rumors of an O’Roarke indiscretion had followed us across the Atlantic after my younger sister, Elva, found herself with child after lessons of another sort from her French fencing master. I knew it bothered my mother even if she didn’t show it. She couldn’t bear up under more aspersions cast upon us.

Such a scandal célèbre would also have far-reaching repercussions on my father. He had such great hopes for his business ventures in the Orient with the opening up of Japan to the West. It was no secret that companies from the United States hadn’t been able to catch up to the British in forging their part of the Yokohama trade. Many nights I’d listen to Da lamenting to his cronies about how American merchants eked out a tenth of the Japanese imports compared to the British. My marriage to a titled Englishman had assured him of the entrée he needed to compete in this exciting new commercial venture.

A surge of hope raced through me. His lordship had also done me a great service. I was now Lady Carlton and as such, I was included in the dalliances and nuances of British society. I sensed a new arena would open up to me as an intimate member of the royal set, where I could speak my mind without being rebuffed, where I could meet famed personages and learn from them, where I could delve into politics and the arts and explore them without fear of reprisal. Something I couldn’t do in New York because we were considered nouveau riche and were not invited to society soirees.

Tense, I prayed my line of reasoning would keep my husband from violating me. Whatever his choice, I must remain strong. It wouldn’t be easy to recover from such a sexual betrayal of my innocence, but I must if I were to survive. If I couldn’t give completely of myself to a man, my heart, my soul, I wanted no man—

Until I met Shintaro. Then I couldn’t get enough of his masculine sexual energy, him stroking me, licking me, touching the back of my neck with his strong hands, coddling my breasts, rubbing my nipples, nuzzling my belly, slapping my buttocks, thrusting into me…his heavy breathing, his sensual grunting expressing his pleasure, though it took many months for him to reveal his spirit to me, his hopes, his dreams. For the way of the warrior demanded he keep those feelings hidden, though at times I’d see them flicker in his brooding black eyes when he looked at me, like an elusive wind blowing restlessly in the dark recesses of his samurai soul.

I couldn’t stop breathing hard, panting. But that part of my story must wait until that enchanted time when the samurai and a maiden chanced to find each other in a hidden valley in the land of the shoguns. First, being a part of this world was something I wanted, wanted it dearly, and it all hung on the next few words tripping off the tongue of my husband, Lord Carlton.

I shivered, though the heat from our bodies dripping with sweat from arousal and need warmed the room with intensity. He raised his eyebrows and snorted, as if spewing fire from his nose announced he was in control of my fate. Finally he loosened the bindings holding me down.

“You’ve won, my dear wife,” he said coldly. “For now.”

Then he left me to revel in my triumph. Alone.

I lay back as the leather restraints fell from my wrists, the sudden relief coursing through me and making me lose control of my pubic muscles and bringing me the pleasure I had fought so hard to repress. I didn’t try to stop it when the tension in my lower body reached a crescendo, experiencing spasmodic contortions. I thrust out my belly, rocking my hips and buttocks as I writhed from the probing of phantom fingers pleasuring me…

Arms aching, chills making me shiver, I pulled myself to my feet, fighting back nausea and the light-headedness that seemed to overwhelm me as I dragged myself back to my rooms. I opened the door and was nearly inside when I heard my husband’s voice beckoning the two prostitutes to rejoin him. Giggling, squealing and the sound of the flogger hitting its fleshy mark echoed in the hallway. I turned and to my relief, no one followed me.

My emotions spent, I collapsed atop the pure white eiderdown and sank into its virginal folds, then wiped the sweat from between my breasts with the torn silk of my wrapper, the fine threads unraveling between my fingers. I had seen a new side of my husband tonight, one that disturbed me. James was impetuous, disquieting, illusive, and I sensed a desperate need within him to assert himself upon women.

Yes, I had won, but how long would he keep his end of the bargain?

I didn’t trust him, but one thing I knew for certain: I wouldn’t allow him to dominate me, mentally or physically. From this moment on, whatever unpleasantness I might experience with my husband, whatever actions he might take to rouse my emotions or disturb my sense of reasoning, I would fight back.

I would endure.




3


Mayfair, London

Six months later…

Since assuming my role as Lady Carlton, I have developed an intense dislike of the smell of freshly polished leather, the tangy odor rutting up my nostrils like tiny maggots eating away at my brain with their sorriest secrets.

His secrets. Women. Floggings. Tempestuous howls. As if the cheeky maid who caught his lordship’s eye relished the sensation of being skinned alive, a practice best served by a skilled master, according to a slim tome I found in the library called The Misadventures of Molly Pearlbottom.

Quite a bawdy read and one I recommend highly, a story that will instruct you in the delights of spankings and whippings, where Molly uses her role as a submissive to dominate her master to pleasure her. Confused? Read it and you’ll see what I mean. I can’t bring a book of that nature into my home, you insist. You bought my book, didn’t you? But that’s different, you say, you’re a member of the peerage, albeit tarnished around the edges with the venial sin of being Irish. I understand your concerns, dear lady reader, so I shall exercise my writing skills in hopes of re-creating a scene for you from the novel that will please you and make you swoon. You’re not a novelist, you sputter, smirking. What is a novel but a memoir with the names changed? I believe I’ve reached the point in my writing where you toss the rules out the window and follow your instinct (and your nose, if you’re writing a sex scene) and let it happen. So, in accordance with the memory of what I read on that stormy afternoon in Lord Penmore’s library with the steady sound of rain beating on the roof and moisture seeping between my thighs, and what I’ve since learned about the delicate art of bondage from a true master, I will re-create a chapter in the life of Molly Pearlbottom.

The licentious goings-on still make me sigh…

Molly Pearlbottom, daughter of the town vicar, had one aspiration in her young life: to be flogged by the dashing Lord of Malworth Hall. He was taller than any man she’d ever seen, and his world was one of aristocrats and power, strappings and aggression, strength and domination. Every time she walked by the great manor house, she daydreamed about being bound and nude before his approving eye, then wrote about it in her curly handwriting in her copybook. All the other girls in the village had received their share of whippings and spankings by the roguish lord, who dutifully followed the family tradition of all the lairds before him. Every third Wednesday of the month, precisely at noon, he chose a willing recipient of his silver-handled, blue riding crop from all the girls who lined up under the great oak tree on top of the hill. Dropping their drawers and turning their bare backsides toward him, they all wondered, Who would be the lucky lass today? Her ivory-smooth bottom smarting from delicate pink welts rising up on her skin like fresh blossoms, her flesh quivering with delight, her squeals and whimpers signaling a secret code of pleasure?

Not Molly. Her father kept her so busy on Wednesday afternoons washing down the rectory with soap, a brush and a pail of water, she never had the chance to find out. Fervent, irrational, her father allowed her no leeway, overwhelming her with chores. She had no opportunity to assuage her hunger for whippings and the pursuit of her secret pleasure.

Until today.

The Honorable Horace Pearlbottom had been called away from his vicarage to London in light of a fiscal emergency (funds liberated from the church bank account for a new organ that never materialized had not struck the right chord with the church elders) and he had not yet returned, sending Molly into a gleeful tizzy. Today was the third Wednesday of the month…

…and so it was this innocent found herself bound and tied to iron rings embedded in the hard belly of the towering oak, nude except for her Sunday blue bonnet, white stockings and garters, the Lord of Malworth Hall about to take a crop to her virginal arse.

Molly shivered, the riding crop making a sharp sound when it cut through the air, tantalizing her with its whispered promise of pleasure, her nervous expectation heightening the experience. She stood waiting, waiting, hot juices flowing from her sex and down her thighs and dribbling onto her best stockings. She gave it no further thought, for a girl couldn’t wear anything but her best to be pleasured by his lordship. She licked her lips, dry and cracked, her mouth parched and tasting like rotting peaches, sweet and sour at the same time. Her wrists hurt from the tight bindings and she was losing sensation in her arms pulled straight above her head, as if the nerves in her armpits were so taut they experienced a numbing effect.

Closing her eyes, shuddering with an emotion she could only describe as blissful anticipation, her sensual need blurring with a taste of fear, she heard the crop find its mark, strike with full force it did, the sound filling her ears, but where? When she wiggled her arse, she experienced no pleasure, no excitement, no dubious badge of honor stamped upon her buttocks. Nothing.

“Here,girl, stick out your arse more so I can reach you,” his lordship bellowed, his tremulous voice exciting her. “Without delay!”

“Y-y-yes, milord.” Molly poked her backside outward in a most ungainly manner, releasing gas as she did so, her embarrassment at letting go like that in an unladylike pose replaced by her pent-up need for deviant pleasure. What was he waiting for? She’d longed for this moment, dreamed of it, the heat of her excitement filling her neck and face when she doodled in her book, drawing a female stick figure bent over and receiving the ultimate kiss of fire over and over again…

She couldn’t stop a sudden shiver announcing her imminent expectation of the crop finding its mark this time.

His next stroke landed before she could swallow, making her choke on her saliva. But it was a sublime pleasure, she had to admit, panting, her need building to a higher peak. Her loud, guttural sounds inflamed the lord’s passion for his work. A rawness in her produced a flow of sweat on her body that made her naked buttocks shine with an illumination as if a regal white halo circled her arse. She heard his lordship uttering with amazement the number of strokes falling on her behind with an even regularity.

“…eight, nine, ten, eleven…” he counted as she settled into the rhythm of the whipping, the white heat emitting from the crop branding her pearl-white bottom with the pleasure she craved.

It was no wonder she let go with a loud, frustrated groan when he stopped before her twitching pussy had found its release, the wildly burning sensations making her belly full and heavy and bringing her back to the edge. She clenched her teeth, trying to hold on to the pleasurable sensations, begging him for more. Silence. What was happening? It was as quiet as an empty pew on a church holiday. She opened her eyes and turned her head, praying he hadn’t deserted her, when the next stroke found her hungry arse and sent her back up the spiral, laughing and gushing with joy.

“Yes, yes,” she groaned without shame. “More…more.”

Dear, sweet Molly, the vicar’s daughter, got her wish. His lordship laid one, two, three quick strokes upon her red-streaked buttocks, hot and fiery, the tip of his crop striking the crack between her cheeks and sending her into wild abandon, her sweet juices oozing down her stockinged legs. She never heard the sweat-soaked lord pause for a breath as he continued his strokes, her cries of want turning into a crashing cacophony of wails and screams as she reached the height of an orgasm that never seemed to dissipate. And why should it? she asked herself as the laird’s strokes continued until he pulled every quiver, every spasm from her hungry pussy. No matter what happened, she must find a way to take her place under the old oak tree as often as possible. But how?

“I’ve never seen a lass take to the crop with so much enthusiasm,” his lordship said, soothing her red bottom with soft caresses after he’d released her, then he surprised her by taking off her bonnet and stroking her hair as if it were soft velvet, running his fingers through it with a careful and loving touch. “Why have you not come to me before?”

“My father, the vicar, keeps me busy on Wednesday afternoons.” She mewled softly, snuggling her body closer to him. She wanted to hold on to this moment and never let it go.

“A pity, my fair Molly, for I’d like to see you quiver again under the stroke of my crop.” He sighed. “But I cannot go against the vicar’s wishes.”

“If I may be so bold, milord,” she began, thinking.

“What is on your mind, Molly?” he asked, turning her face to his and studying her eyes beaming with excitement.

“Since you’re the laird of the land, why not start a new tradition?” she asked, giving him but a moment to think it over before she pressed onward. “Shall we say, every Thursday at three in the afternoon?” She twisted her body to show him her lovely bottom crisscrossed with red welts, then wiggled, making him take in his breath. “I’m finished with my chores then.”

He smiled. “Thursday it is, Molly, just for you, and don’t be late, for I’ll be bringing a surprise for you. Now, spread your buttock cheeks, girl, and show me your arse hole.” He unbuttoned his silk breeches the color of a ripe plum and out popped the biggest cock she’d ever seen, not that she’d seen many, but she was sure his was the biggest. “I’ve got something here I know you’ll like.”

Molly did as he asked, a smile on her lips and a new feeling of independence surging in her soul as he mixed her juices with a rose-scented oil, his fingers gently massaging her puckered entrance before he slid his cock into her, stretching her anal hole with a deliberate slowness. She groaned, but she didn’t complain. How could she? She, Molly Pearlbottom, the vicar’s daughter, was as happy as a nectar-filled flower being sipped by a hummingbird, her bottom dewy and tinted pink, her eyes glowing and a naughty, curious voice inside her wondering what that surprise could be…

I can’t reveal the rest of the tale without spoiling it for you, but I assure you I found books like this and others in Lord Penmore’s library. I admit I embellished the scene with a new ending, giving Molly the upper hand with his lordship. I predict that someday you, yes, you, dear lady reader, will have the opportunity to read such stories about empowered females.

Until then, you shall have to make do with your imagination as I did, evoking speculation as to what went on in that padded room in the London town house. A girl tied to a cross, struggling with feigned distress and teasing his lordship with her tongue circling her lips. Or James strutting around the room cracking a single-tail whip, his willing victim bent over, her arse quivering with anticipation. Not to mention my husband orchestrating the regal decadence of a hot wax scene, the gummy residue trailing an elaborate pattern around the girl’s nude breasts and hardening on her taut brown nipples. I prayed it was not the melted wax of votive candles, such unholy thoughts grabbing me and not letting go.

Were these scenes conjured up by my starved libido? Or demon nightmares of flesh and blood? That is for you to decide, dear lady reader. I spin these tales not merely to tantalize you, but to give you heed as to what may be going on under the confines of your own roof. I beg you to confront your husband if you believe ’tis so. Then again, you may wish to participate…

Though I was not acquainted with what other depravities went on in the upstairs back room, his lordship devised a clever method to let me know when his private hell was in session. The smell of turpentine, beeswax and charcoal powder, along with other smells I couldn’t identify, permeated the air. I couldn’t help but inhale the arousing odor when I went searching for a new book to read in the library, the fancy of my imagination overpowering my need for literature when I rustled my silk skirt and pearl-embroidered petticoats up the stairs. I would grab a book without more than a glance at its title then pretend to look through it, while inside I discarded the idea of reading as a way to soothe my hunger and focused instead on the illuminating power of smell to satisfy my lust. I would inhale the pungent odor and imagine a bundle of twigs tied together with crisp blue ribbons taken from my hair and wielded by a tall man with shoulders the breadth of an ancient Spartan and dressed in black from head to toe. In my daydream, I lifted up my skirts and turned my bare backside to him, my white stockings held up by blue garters, my quivering flesh covered in quick succession with crimson stripes from the striking of the rods, blow following blow, and groaning gave in to more groans.

I grew so accustomed to the scent of fresh black polish, quite distinct it was, that my capacity to ignore it barely diminished. On the contrary, the vitriolic odor awakened a dark side of my personality I had previously left hovering in that limbo part of my mind that existed between dreaming and doing.

Would I enjoy the reality of a whipping as much as the fantasy? I often wondered. I couldn’t answer. I was either going mad or I was a fool to deny my husband access to my bed. Or my bottom.

Much to my surprise, Lord Carlton kept to his promise to keep his hands off me, but he fancied tormenting me with a constant fluctuation of upstairs maids with more than a willing backside to please him. Chaste with their speech and their manners when I was within earshot, giggling and flirty, they skirted past me, keeping their eyes down, reminding me of aberrant schoolgirls begging the headmaster for a strapping.

Distraught as I was by this uncomfortable situation, I was also curious. To relieve the itch in my mind as well as on my behind, I sought the confidence of the maid, Lucie, inquiring as to why the household help changed so frequently. I wondered if she would open up to me, but I needn’t have worried. The young woman was eager to expound at length on the indiscretions in this house, including the wicked games played by its inhabitants (such as Blind Man in the Buff and French Licking), and making me promise not to say anything to Campbell, the housekeeper.

I assured her I wouldn’t, and oh what tales she told me! About canings alternating with whippings, nipples pierced with gold rings, pony games astride nude girls. And masked evenings when the master of the house, Lord Penmore, drizzled his most expensive cognac over the bare buttocks of a girl tied to a post, then dipped his fingers in the liqueur and lit them on fire. The alcohol on his skin burned off quickly, she told me, when he ran his fingers over the girl’s naked backside, the flames skimming over her skin and disappearing faster than a maiden’s sigh.

Take a moment, dear lady reader, to compose yourself as I must do.

Feel better now? Did you…? Of course you didn’t. Ladies don’t do such things, you’ve been taught, but if you dare to question your physician about a common thread woven into the fabric of our femininity, I daresay he’ll tell you it’s not uncommon for him to find milady’s hairpin stuck in her vulva. Yes, I’m talking about masturbation. Will you continue reading if I tell you I discovered my own vices to seek pleasure? I am aware ’tis a sin by the holy sisters, but the church and I have been on shaky ground since the night I denied my husband his connubial rights. So you can imagine how delighted I was to find illicit tomes in the library that alluded to mysterious items known as olisbos depicted on vase paintings in ancient Greece. These drawings of dildos left nothing to a woman’s imagination. Further investigation revealed these charming toys came from the magic of a shoemaker’s hand, his skill molding the wood then covering it with finely stitched padded leather.

Since I knew of no shoemaker in London who possessed such talent, I relied upon my own culinary skills with the vegetable variety. Unfortunately I found them messy, ill fitting and difficult to procure out of season (unless I was able to locate a greenhouse that cultivated various Mesopotamian delights). I must admit, that with the help of a natural implement, I reached orgasm in less time than it took to brew a proper cup of tea, something I’ve learned to appreciate on cold English mornings. It was the cold English nights that left me fretting about on my bedsheets, a rising heat making me perspire despite the chill, a need to capture intimacy in my life even if it wasn’t with a man (taking a female lover wasn’t practical since I could trust no one in my social circle. Not even you, dear lady reader).

I amused myself by adapting the principles of a children’s game and devising a word square with the various Latin words for clitoris: virga (twig), mania (madness), dulcedo amoris (sweetness of love), tentigo (lust) and more. When I ran out of Latin words, I went in search of another dictionary and, to my delight, I found a discarded dildo in the spanking room. (I admit, the door was open and I peeked inside.) After making sure the snoopy housekeeper wasn’t watching me, I hid it under my skirts and took it back to my rooms. I was tempted to make use of it in the privacy of my boudoir, burying my loneliness under layers of silken sheets while allowing my unabated curiosity free rein to insert it inside me and feel its heat radiating through me. I’m sorry to say that after inspecting the dildo at a closer range, I returned it. It became apparent to me no amount of washing or scrubbing could purify away the lingering scent of its previous owner.

I didn’t let that stop me from continuing my search for self-gratification and from imagining what delights such an implement could bring to me. A pleasure so exquisite that a secret longing deep in my belly made me shiver with anticipation. That indefinable hunger drove me to explore other means to find satisfaction, though I hesitate to share it with you if you’ve turned pale and are experiencing indigestion because of the indelicate subject matter. Skip over these next few pages if you must, but I’ll not deny these enticing thoughts ran through my mind on many a lonely day.

Such as today. Desiring not to be disturbed, I closed the curtains and locked the door to my rooms before I opened the polished wooden box lined with red velvet. Sitting next to my china ring stand shaped like a tiny tree with willowy branches, the dark walnut box held the jewels James had given me on our wedding day, as propriety dictated. Family heirlooms including a garnet necklace surrounded by stars, a diamond brooch with a large ruby in the center and a turquoise bracelet set off with diamonds. Cold stones given with a cold heart.

The box contained another jewel. One I enjoyed wearing above all others. Sleek, round and bulbous. The energy oozing from it when I slipped it inside me awakened my soul with a gentle vibration I could only describe as magic.

My dildo.

Tempering my need for physical release with practicality, a fortnight ago I decided to forgo my embarrassment regarding my predicament and embarked on a secret shopping trip. Armed with an address I found scribbled in the back of a gentleman’s magazine I removed from the town house library, I sought out a certain shop on Holywell Street not far from Waterloo Bridge. A seedy establishment selling pornographic pamphlets as well as male enhancements and sexual aids. There I found the perfect item to assuage my hunger.

A dildo made of rubber with the wistful moniker the Widow’s Comforter.

Taking it home wrapped in plain brown paper, I made quick use of it, its shape and size becoming as familiar to me as a lover’s touch. So it was no surprise I found need of its heated comfort on this cold February morning. I caressed its tip nestled among the jewels, warming it with my fingertips. Then I sucked in my breath, begging my body not to betray me with a sudden rush of heat to my pubic region. Tightly laced and sweating, I couldn’t hold back my need any longer. I gave in to temptation, seeking the solace of the secret shadowy space behind the pearl-inlayed dressing screen in my bedroom. Hiking up my skirts, the rustling whispers of silk filling my ears with enchantment, I found the slit in my pantaloons and slid the love instrument inside me, my body closing around its rubbery thickness. With familiar dexterity, I guided the shaft in and out of me in time to a silent rhythm in my head. I groaned, pressing the dildo against the walls of my throbbing flesh hot with my juices again and again. Moving my hips, my musings became so strong I couldn’t stop myself. My breath quickened, my muscles deep inside me contracted, holding tight around the illusion of a hard penis inside me, begging for that delicious instant of release. If you’ve indulged in such an activity then you were rewarded as I was with powerful, gut-wrenching orgasms. Lingering for what seemed like hours, days, my pubic muscles experiencing the most delicious spasms…

But the satisfaction I found was not to last. After two weeks of errant use, the lack of an emotional connection became so unappealing to me I considered taking a lover. I immediately tossed the idea into the rubbish. No doubt such an affair would be discovered, since the household staff here and at Braystone House amuse themselves by spying at us through holes bored through the wainscoting on walls and solid mahogany doors. (If you don’t believe me, check your walls and doors before you indulge in a tryst when your husband is out of town.) I’ve heard many servants line their pockets with guineas by becoming “witnesses” in adultery trials, acting out what they’ve seen for the judge, complete with moans and compromising positions. Within days, the whole sordid mess is published in scandal sheets and licentious gentleman’s magazines.

I shivered at the thought. I relished my privacy, not to mention how distasteful the idea was of shaming my family with so thoroughly a bourgeois faux pas. Social mores notwithstanding, I harbored a deep-seated resentment that while my husband indulged in appeasing his salacious sexual appetite, I remained sensually starved. It was disconcerting at best to believe I would spend the rest of my life writhing under the probing of my own fingers and nothing more. Sometimes my craving for the connection of flesh on flesh was so daunting, I pulled up my chemise and cupped the firmness of my breasts in my hands, rubbed my nipples and stroked the tender skin on the insides of my thighs. I wanted so to be touched, caressed, anything over the cold deadness of the rubber phallus.

I sought an outlet for my loneliness and found it in the world of society, where I exuded a flaunting of ego I found so satisfying. At home, I was the girl with the empty dance card, my views scoffed at, my mind ignored. Here in London I was Lady Carlton, a member of the peerage, albeit through marriage, who could trace their lineage back to the first duke of Braystone. He was a brave ancestor of my husband who distinguished himself in battle with King Charles II, then fought alongside his sovereign on an expedition to Scotland, where he sacrificed his own life so Charles could escape.

Unfortunately, my husband, James, possessed none of the valor of his forebear nor the nihilistic intolerance for the wrongs done to humankind. He had no principles I was aware of and swayed so far from the model of moral rectitude, I dared not challenge him for fear of reprisal of a salacious nature. Yet in spite of or because of his failings—I’m not sure which—he entertained a lively and fashionable existence in London drawing rooms and clubs.

Which meant I was also included in the invitations.

What can I say? I reveled in the glitter and elegance, the youthful splendor, the gaiety, the daring subterfuge, the arts and the opera. I forged my path with aristocratic arrogance and made a place for myself in British society. And that included fashion. I’ve always loved color and developed a sense of how to use its pure, uncomplicated beauty to enhance what I saw as my shortcomings: my tall body and long face. I used simple diagonal lines in the clothes I wore to create an illusion of prettiness, draping myself in hues of rose, apricot and blue to create the illusion of a creature beautiful and mysterious.

I nurtured my instinctual attraction to lace and silk with frequent trips to the House of Worth in Paris, as well as art galleries and museums, to achieve a new level of refined smartness. My unique sense of taste and fashion matured like a ripening fruit, my raw talent at the core sweetening my outer skin with a prettiness I’d never felt before, whether I was tipping my ivory lace parasol at a cocky angle while flirting with Lord—at a garden party or slipping on my third pair of lamb-white kid gloves since morning before sitting down to afternoon tea at Brown’s with the duchess of—.

This new courage I found meant I could assert myself, flaunt my skill at repartee, show off my knowledge of world politics and play the game as the men did. I was a notable player in this milieu of the high-society hostess.

And I had no intention of giving it up.




4


I replaced the dildo among the red velvet folds hungry to hug its hardness, then wiped the stickiness off my fingers with a cotton handkerchief monogrammed with my initials. The perfume of my folly lingered to tempt me, but I snapped the box shut. I had no time to linger. Tonight I would entertain visitors.

Important visitors.

At James’s request, I had invited the Viscount and Lady Aubrey to join us for a light supper along with my parents (my mother was eager to make the acquaintance of Lady Aubrey, a lady-in-waiting to the queen). The viscount was a family friend of his lordship and quite an interesting gentleman. No doubt you will have guessed his identity before you turn the page. He has the ear of the queen on foreign affairs and reputedly has been invited to Windsor Castle by Her Majesty to see her personal collection of miniatures. I was impressed with his keen sense of politics and I was certain he had no idea James was a scoundrel. His lordship was very adept at keeping his father’s friends unaware of the dark side of his personality.

I planned a simple menu starting with a clear soup and two entrées instead of the usual four, followed by a dish of duck and ending with creamy pudding and light airy confections smothered with cream. Nothing to tax the digestion, since I knew the viscount suffered with gout.

Dissention set in when my husband informed me he wished to speak to my father alone after dinner about something important. I should have known James never did anything without wanting something in return. What was it this time? I wanted to know. He ignored my outburst and disappeared upstairs “to polish his leather toys.” I wasn’t fooled by his diversionary tactics to take my mind off the situation. I had no doubt the entire visit was a thinly disguised plot for James to elicit more funds from my father for his costly lifestyle.

What I couldn’t have foreseen was a chance remark from the Viscount Aubrey that enchanted me and planted a seed in my mind that grew so quickly I couldn’t stop it, as surely as I couldn’t stop the shadows of night from descending upon us.

“I don’t know what’s gotten into the British government, James,” I overheard my father saying after dinner when I entered the room filled with smoke, “opening the railway in Japan before fixing the damn roads.”

James agreed, his easy compliance making me certain my suspicions about his motives were correct. He added that the roads were muddy and unruly and nearly impossible to travel in wet weather. Neither he nor my father noticed my entrance, so involved were they in their conversation, but the Viscount Aubrey stole a glance in my direction, his bushy eyebrows moving up and down in a curious twist. I imagined he wasn’t accustomed to a lady joining the gentlemen in their frog-trimmed, padded smoking jackets after dinner in the gun room, but I insisted upon it. I had no desire to accompany my mother and Lady Aubrey upstairs with their fluttering fans, bottles of scent, filmy scarves and innocuous talk about croquet, archery and the latest divorce gossip. Nothing that would raise an eyebrow or illicit a nervous cough.

“There was little the British government could do, sir,” James insisted, offering my father a cigar, “since the Japanese government demanded the railroad between Tokio and Yokohama open on time.”

“That project was started more than two and a half years ago,” my father said, leaning back in the padded wingback chair, enjoying its comfort as well as its girth. It did my heart good to see my da enjoy himself, knowing how much turmoil he’d faced these past few years. “Since then, the funds to build more railway lines in Japan have either dried up or been withdrawn.”

“It’s no secret, Mr. O’Roarke, that the situation is at an impasse,” added the viscount, his smoking cap slightly askew on his head. He reminded me of an overgrown elf. “The cost to build more railways in Japan is prohibitive, especially with the financial state of European banks.”

“With all due respect, Viscount Aubrey,” said my father, sticking his thumbs under his plaid suspenders as he always did when he was certain he was right, “I’d bet a barnful of hay the cost could be kept down if you Brits paid more attention to your suppliers. I hear these fellows use twisted rails and build weak bridges.”

“What you say is true,” James added, his manner somewhat condescending, which made me even more suspicious, “but the biggest mistake was that the European director of the railway didn’t know how to handle the Japanese.”

“And I suppose you do, milord?” my father inquired, biting down on his cigar.

“To put it bluntly, sir, yes,” James said with a confidence that surprised me. “I’ve become acquainted with their way of thinking, how they move together as one unit, not individuals. How they use a subtle form of communication when dealing with westerners and never answer a question in a direct manner.”

My father laughed. “Back home we call that hedging.”

“The Japanese call it business as usual,” James answered in a glib manner. He smiled like a little boy trying to fool his governess. I looked away, refusing to be drawn into his game.

“Then you’ve been to Japan?” my father asked, surprised.

“No,” James said, “but I’ve been escorting the Japanese emissary around London. He’s a likable chap with a solid knowledge of English and a good head on his shoulders.”

Escorting him to the brothels on York Street and the newly fashionable Bayswater district, I imagined, easing myself down on a plush divan after pouring an after-dinner drink from the row of decanters of claret, port and sherry sitting on the sideboard.

I leaned forward, eager to jump into the conversation. I thrived on lively discussion, from a rousing round of politics, discussing the iniquities of the parties—whether they were Tory or Whig or Labor—to current books and plays. This evening I was eager to discuss the latest filibustering in the House of Commons. I had no desire to listen to their mindless prattle about Japan, a barbaric country where, according to what I’d read in Lord Penmore’s letters, packhorses were the choice of transportation, carrying items for trade from city to city by means of narrow footpaths cut into fields of farmland.

“The Japanese will beat us at our own game if we don’t beat them first,” my father bellowed, his stiff celluloid collar choking him and turning his face red. I had to smile. I knew he’d rather be lifting a pint with his cronies in a pub. He hated the formalities required of an English drawing room, while my mother reveled in it.

“What are you saying, Mr. O’Roarke?” the viscount asked, his eyes stealing a glance at me when he thought I wasn’t looking. I tipped my glass to him and smiled. His features softened and he returned the smile.

“The Great Western Railway from here to Swindon barely tops fifty-three miles an hour and it took you British years to build it.” He looked at my husband and grinned. “I’m certain we can build a railway from ōzaka to Kobé in half the time. And my son-in-law has convinced me he’s the man to handle the deal.”

So that was the reason James invited my father for this get-together.

Angry with my husband’s subterfuge, I fiddled with my fan, bending it until it cracked. James had convinced my father there was a fortune to be made by working with the mikado’s government to finance a string of railways across Japan with Thomas O’Roarke investing in the rails, tank engines, wood for bridges and carriages needed. All financial arrangements, his lordship added, would be handled through the Oriental Bank of London.

He didn’t count on his frustrated young wife playing a game of her own. Bored, restless and sex starved, I remained defiant in my approach to this marriage. I refused to be treated like an aftereffect of his greed and often baited him with subtle, sexual innuendos regarding his secret life.

As in this instance, when Viscount Aubrey dropped a casual remark that the British government held fast to its goal in bringing Occidental values to Japan. Curious, I asked him how they proposed to change a pagan country cut off from civilization for nearly two hundred fifty years (Lord Penmore’s letters contained material of an informational nature as well as salacious). He answered in his wry manner that the British Legation had already engaged a governess and a seamstress to teach the female gentry of Japan about English household customs.

“I imagine visiting the mysterious Orient tempts the adventurer in all of us,” I said, envisioning myself floating in a world of silk, flowers and fans. And bare breasted with numerous combs and needles decorating my hair, as I had seen in the tinted photographs of the geisha included in Lord Penmore’s letters. “Including me.”

“I had no idea you were so interested in Japan, my dear wife,” James said, laying his hand on the back of my neck and rubbing it, making me stiffen. “I see I was mistaken.”

He kissed my hand, expecting me to quiver. I didn’t withdraw it, signaling to him that I alone controlled my emotions. Instead, I said, “There are many things you don’t know about me, my dear husband.”

“That’s my Katie,” my father said, smiling at me. “A girl with spirit. I see no reason why you couldn’t accompany your husband to Japan.”

“Splendid idea, Mr. O’Roarke,” the viscount added, as if the thought were his own. “Your daughter would be a most excellent addition to the British delegation at the mikado’s court.”

“That’s impossible, milord,” James blurted out, startling me.

And making me angry. How dare he speak for me?

He continued, “My wife has no intention of leaving London during the Season.”

Ignoring his outburst, I replied, “You flatter me, Viscount Aubrey, but tell me, how could I be of assistance to the legation? I know nothing about the Japanese, though I admit I’ve been reading about their fascinating country in Lord Penmore’s letters to my husband.”

The look of fury on James’s face was instant. Cold, fierce. I swear if he could have, he would have taken the whip to me at that moment so intense was his anger toward me.

I pretended not to notice and continued discussing the British alliance with the Japanese with the viscount, though I was more interested in contrasting the volatile state of my relationship with my husband with my seemingly innocent remark about the romance of travel.

“I’m certain the mikado’s court would be honored to receive you and be graced by your wit, Lady Carlton,” said the viscount, ignorant of the drama being played out between my husband and me, “as well as your charm and intelligence.”

I smiled. I was beginning to enjoy the game. I curled my fingers around my broken fan and tapped it against my cheek in a coy manner. “In that case, how can I resist such a delightful invitation?”

“What are you saying, my dear wife?” My husband’s voice held an edge only I recognized.

I lowered my lashes to veil my naughty thoughts from him. “Isn’t it a wife’s duty to accompany her husband to his new post?”

“Not if he wishes her to stay home,” he countered. “A wife must obey her husband’s wishes in all matters.”

“All matters, James?” I flipped open my cracked fan and fluttered it about me wildly. “This wouldn’t be the first time I’ve gotten my way, would it, my dear husband?”

I could see his eyes flashing with contempt, knowing I had baited him and he couldn’t bow out gracefully in front of Viscount Aubrey.

I laid my fan down on the divan, fingering the broken spine. I wouldn’t break as easily. I’d made my point, shown him he couldn’t make me surrender to his will. I’d let him simmer for a few days, feed his sexual temperament with provocative thoughts of me watching his every move in the Orient, then I’d invoke a woman’s prerogative.

I’d change my mind.

You see, dear lady reader, I had no intention of going to Japan. The idea disturbed me, images of intense strangeness and violence making an indelible mark upon my mind. Besides, I’d made my place here in London and occupied it with a surety and confidence I’d never experienced at home. The viscount would understand my position when I explained my trepidation and withdraw his offer gracefully. After all, what sane woman would wish to travel halfway around the world to such a barbaric country?

“Katie, me girl, you saved the old man a heap of anguish tonight.”

“What are you talking about, Da?” I asked, curious. I poured myself another glass of claret, still gloating over how I had perturbed my husband about accompanying him to Japan. I also knew the power of an eloquent silence and didn’t protest when James excused himself and left the gun room in haste with a feeble excuse about finding his manservant to bring more liquor. Most likely he ventured off in search of a plump bottom to vent his frustration upon with his favorite crop. The viscount finished his port then rang for his driver, citing his gout as the reason for his early departure.

Leaving my father and I alone.

“I don’t know how to say this, Katie, but I’m worried.”

“About what, Da? Is Mother overdrawn on her account at Fortnum & Mason again?” I was well aware of my mother’s appetite for fine pickle relishes and peach preserves.

He smiled. He never denied his adored Ida anything, but it wasn’t my mother’s spending habits that made him peel off the wrapper of another cigar and hold it tightly in his palm before crushing it. “I overheard something about that husband of yours that set the old man’s ears atwittering.”

“You did?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady. Did he know about James’s sexual indiscretions? This upset me more than I would admit. After all the times I spoke with my father in blunt terms about the world of politics and life’s frailties, I felt embarrassment at the thought of my da knowing about my husband’s sordid liaisons with prostitutes. Rare to blush, I put my hand to my cheek and the burn meeting my fingertips surprised me.

“Yes,” he continued. “Some braggart from Parliament mentioned a stock deal James got himself involved with that had shady overtones.” He paused, tossing down the cigar, then said, “Though he couldn’t prove it when I challenged him.”

“I never heard anything about it, Da.” I bit my lip the second I said the words. Why was I defending my husband?

“I hope you’re right, Katie. I was leery about sending that husband of yours off to Japan with a letter of credit worth thousands of pounds sterling honored by my bank here in London,” my father said, laying his hand on my shoulder, “but with you going with him—”

“Me? Go to Japan?” I turned around so quickly I spilled the wine, the deep burgundy staining my fingers red. I grabbed a cloth from the table and wiped up the mess, my victory over James dissolving as quickly as the cloth soaking up the liquid. “I—I can’t go, Da.”

“But you seemed so eager—”

“I was. I mean…it sounded so romantic…” I shuddered, my breath ragged. What had I done?

I couldn’t tell my father about the dangerous game I played with my husband, the sexual innuendos, unfulfilled lust, his blatant adultery. Thomas O’Roarke already harbored a prejudice against the Englishman because of James’s high financial demands for our marriage settlement. My father had paid the exorbitant amount to make my mother happy and to secure my future. Or so he believed.

“A sea voyage will do wonders for you both,” my father answered in that glib manner of his I knew so well when he wanted something. “Think of it as a holiday.”

I tried to smile, but couldn’t. It didn’t matter what I said or did. My father would see only what he wanted to see, the range of his vision clouded by his personal motives.

“A trip to Japan would be most illuminating,” I lied, “but Mother needs me here in London to help her, especially since Elva and the baby are coming to visit.”

Though we had our differences, I was looking forward to my younger sister’s visit. Elva was the pretty one, dark and dainty, the daughter my mother groomed to marry a duke or a prince. Instead she’d gotten pregnant at seventeen and had her baby in a Paris hospital. I was eager to see her.

I continued, making excuses. “I spoke without thinking, Da.”

“I’m mighty glad you did.” He lowered his voice. The glibness was gone. That surprised me, made me uneasy. So unlike the rogue Irishman who could talk a gang of rail busters into working extra hours for no pay. “I need this deal with the Japanese, Katie. Need it bad.”

No fragmentation of thought, just straightforward talk. I stared at him, something about the edge in his voice frightening me. “What are you saying?”

“We’re heading for bad times with the railroad boom in the States coming to an end. Banks are overextending themselves and President Grant invoked the gold standard for the money supply.” He paused, chewed on his cigar. “I’m dead certain we’re going into an economic crisis before the end of the year.” He thought about what was on his mind, then finished with, “I fear I could lose everything if I don’t diversify my holdings.”

“I had no idea it was that serious.”

“It’s worse, Katie.” Thomas O’Roarke shook his head, his jowls drooped, the toll of many years of track walking for the railroad in his younger days showing on his face. Success had its price, I knew, though my father would never admit it. He’d come up the hard way, working with his hands till they bled, but it was his quick, mathematical mind and keen business sense that had put him at the top of the railroad game.

“If what you’re saying is true, Da, wouldn’t it make more sense if you went to Japan with James?”

I rattled my brain for an excuse, any excuse not to go on a long, tiresome journey halfway around the world with a man I feared and hated. No warmth existed between us, any attraction I may have felt toward him disfigured by his deviant games of domination, and if I stripped away the pretense we had forged with each other, it revealed only emptiness.

“I wish I could, Katie, but I can’t.” He spoke harshly. “You must go to Japan and keep an eye on my business interests.”

“But Japan is a pagan country,” I reminded him, “run by barbarians and samurai.”

My father ignored my plea. “You’re a strong girl, Katie, not letting anyone get the best of you and speaking your mind.” He smiled, pleased. “You remind me of meself when I was starting out, all fired up with ambition, a wild temper and always breaking rules.”

I grinned, remembering the photo I’d seen of my father back in his youth, a tall, thin young man with pants too short for him, a lantern in his hand and a whistle between his lips. I saw that young man come alive again when he said, “There’s nothing more beautiful in the world than miles of railroad track, all straight and shiny, calling to you.” He laughed. “Except your mother, of course.”

I poked him in the ribs. “You always did know how to turn a phrase, Da.”

He didn’t give up his cajoling, now that he had my attention. “Railroading is in your blood, Katie. When you were a wee girl, I’d take you along with me down to the tracks and we’d watch the big trains roaring into the station. Side by side they came, the crew heaving coal into the engines, the iron horses puffing, straining every bit of steel and muscle, passengers hanging out the windows and waving handkerchiefs, the rolling black smoke turning the sky dark overhead, the great iron steeds rounding the sharp curve and arriving at their destination, brakes screeching, tracks sparking.” He let go with a heavy sigh. “’Tis a sight to behold, but railroading is a young man’s game and the old man is running out of steam.” He patted his belly protruding over his trousers.

“Not you, Da. You can do anything.” I remembered those days with my small hand clasped in his, hanging on to my soft blue bonnet whipped by the wind. I hugged him with warmth in my heart, but I couldn’t stop a cold fear growing in my bones.

“Not this time, Katie. Your husband may be what we call an upstart back home, but he’s shrewd and can get the job done.” He leaned forward and looked me square in the eye. “I’m counting on you to see that he does.”

I found the courage to return my father’s hard stare, though turmoil raged inside me, a smooth sheen of sweat moistening my upper lip. I remained silent for several minutes, my insides churning with something I didn’t understand, an anticipation of the unknown knocking my inner compass off course. I’d been so sure of myself, filled with self-direction, capable of making my way unaided, asserting my freedom as Lady Carlton, but all that ended if I followed my father’s wishes and journeyed to Japan.

I looked away, guilt flooding me. How could I explain to him my husband was a madman who reveled in floggings, whippings and spankings? My father believed I was a happily married woman, though sexually I moved in the shadows, darkness cloaking my secret, my cries of ecstasy mingling with silence, my solitary game bringing me release but little joy.

How I longed to crush my nude breasts against the muscular bare chest of an imaginary lover, rubbing my hard nipples against him, the heat of my need stirring his desire. Moving his body on mine, then thrusting his cock into me until the loneliness I lived with day after day ceased and my body hummed with a comforting rhythm I had yet to experience.

When we did meet, my samurai relit my soul with acts so profound and passionate, so brilliantly intense I existed in a floating world. Every gesture, nuance and caress teasing me with the finest blue silk pulled taut over my breasts so my nipples peaked through the sheer fabric, inviting my samurai to linger at the task before stripping it off me and exploring me further, capturing my spirit and giving me pleasure with consummate skill. My nude body glimmering with such translucence it was as if I were bathed in mica dust.

Yet at that moment I believed that would never happen with this new set of circumstances entering my life. Strange, I had gotten myself into this situation because I wished to strike back at my husband, make him see me as an equal, not as a sexually repressed woman. Agonizing, meandering thoughts consumed me. Questions haunted me, but the answer didn’t change. I had no choice but to embark on this journey.

Reluctantly, over the next few weeks I assisted James with making the necessary arrangements regarding our identity papers, letters of credit from the bank along with a signature book and visiting cards, as well as securing passage to America, then Japan. I owed my father that much, but I couldn’t shake the uneasiness overtaking me as his lordship and I undertook our long journey to the Orient, a land of myth, pagan rituals and strange customs. I prayed I would survive nameless dangers I had yet to contemplate.

What I didn’t know, dear lady reader, was that I would face a clear-cut danger the night we were to board the steamer to Yokohama from San Francisco.

I shiver still, remembering the frightening incident that nearly cost me my life. Read on, if you have the courage. You won’t be disappointed. I have worked hard to re-create that night with witty dialogue and pertinent details as I remember them; but I must warn you to keep your smelling powders close at hand since I have also included a most explicit scene with my samurai that will—

No, I will let you see for yourself, but I beg you to read the chapter in its entirety so as not to lose sight of the story line.

That is why you’re reading this book, isn’t it?




5


Cliff House, San Francisco, California

Six weeks later…

We made the journey from London to New York, then across the continent by railway, and I must say I was flattered by the endearing personal service afforded to me as Lady Carlton. It mattered not that I was Thomas O’Roarke’s daughter, more that I commandeered the title of aristocrat with a handsome husband at my side. James cajoled the wives of business associates we met along the way, impressing their husbands with my father’s money, paying for lavish parties and handing out Cuban cigars. He was on his best behavior.

Until tonight.

We were dining in a private room at Cliff House, marveling at its lofty view overlooking the coast and the bellowing seals romping about on the rocks below, when James made an off-putting remark about the fashionably low décolleté of my gown. In a not-too-subtle manner, he insinuated I was intent on seducing every man I came in contact with, including our sober-faced waiter.

Me? A seductress? The idea amused me since the art was unknown to me, though I had travailed in my reading about infamous mistresses, their style, repartee, even the popularity of their scent. (The next time you smell a musky odor upon his lordship’s handkerchief, be advised it could be the natural perfume of a certain courtesan residing on Lupus Street known for imparting her body aroma on a gentleman’s handkerchief.)

I knew the daring gown was stunning, too dazzling for an early dinner, but I ventured to wear it anyway. Shoulders straight, bosom high, hips buoying the twenty or more flounces on my overskirt, I walked with a sensual flair to make every man dream about what was underneath. (I learned to affect a certain disinterest in what I wore from watching ladies of the British aristocracy, as if the nature of wearing garments was a plebian aptitude one merely adopted on a divine whim.)

Aside, I must tell you I loved the feel of the satin swishing between my legs, the velvet caressing my breasts, the lace pricking my nipples and making them taut. I wore such frilly, pretty clothes to evoke a mood and create a world of my own, a world where I played the role of a woman beautiful and mythical, a woman desirous to men, a woman so legendary no man could resist her. I cared not if that world collapsed when I stood nude before a full-length oval mirror and examined my features, plain as they were. When I swathed myself in glittering finery, I embarked on a deep and satisfying adventure that allowed me to indulge in my romantic wanderings, to race forward into the mirage I had created and walk through the fire of criticism unscathed.

Which was why I chose the color red. A defiant color, bold and perfect. I relished how the velvet gown in crushed strawberry hugged my body, the small cap sleeves sliding down my bare shoulders while the tiered soft bustle swayed behind me, the long train sweeping over the muted Oriental carpets. A long row of pearl buttons gave off an opaline luster, racing down my back like a game of dominoes.

I also enjoyed the effect this gown had on the ladies who gossiped about me at the Viscount Aubrey’s soiree when I returned to London. (You remember what I wore that night, of course you do.) I also relished the attention of the gentlemen who couldn’t take their eyes off me. Especially my husband. He hated the idea of another man looking at me, even a servant, when he couldn’t bed me.

“What do you think about my husband’s remark?” I asked the black-tailed server as he poured me another glass of claret. My fourth. I needed no excuse to indulge in spirits. My nerves were frayed from fatigue, my mind listless. I admit the wine as well as his comment brought up my Irish dander, knowing as I do my susceptibility to lose my tongue when imbibing spirits, so I tossed aside any reserve I held in abeyance.

“I beg your pardon, your ladyship?” the server answered quickly.

“Am I trying to seduce you?” I drank the wine quickly lest I spill it on my gown and sour the rich red color with a dark stain. The wine teased my tongue with its tartness as I swallowed it, the choker of diamonds around my neck bouncing up and down when I tightened my throat muscles. I held my glass up and the waiter poured me another with hesitation.

“Whatever your ladyship wishes,” he answered automatically, without moving a muscle in his drawn face, then realized too late the consequences of maintaining his cool exterior.

I smiled at my husband, showing my teeth as I answered him. “You see, my dear husband, you’re not the only man I’ve charmed with my…wit.”

James threw his head back and laughed. “I may have agreed to your terms, my dear wife, but the game between us isn’t finished.” He glared at my cleavage, smacked his lips, then took another bite of his half-eaten salmon, pink and moist. He rolled his tongue over his lips, teasing me. “Seeing how I’ve yet to taste your American…wit.”

I ignored his sexual innuendo, preferring instead to stir up naughty mischief of my own, something, anything to assuage the emptiness in my soul. I refused to allow his remarks to hurt me, though I suffered from an illness of the mind brought on by the infusion of indulgence when a loving touch would have meant so much.

“Then I shall order dessert to tempt your palate.” I waved at the waiter who hadn’t moved a muscle, though I detected a persistent twitch under his right eye. “Bring us a tart.”

He cleared his throat. “What kind, milady?”

“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “Blond or brunette will do.”

“Your ladyship, what you ask for is…indecent,” the waiter sputtered. “We are a reputable establishment.”

I pushed my empty plate away from me. “The man refuses to serve me, James. What are you going to do about it?”

“Shall I shoot him?” he asked, the intent in his voice not serious, but the waiter didn’t know that. The poor man’s shoulders slumped and his eyebrows flew upward. He bowed and excused himself without delay, leaving us alone to play out our depraved game in private.

“I’m surprised you didn’t flog him,” I mocked, picking up my napkin and twisting it around my fingers. “Isn’t that more your style?”

James leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table in a laissez-faire attitude. “I prefer a plump, feminine bottom to satisfy my need.”

“Any female, James?” I probed, pricking his mind with my verbal needle. “Or must they be young and saucy?”

“I prefer virgins.” He pulled the cork from the wine bottle the server had left on the tray and stuck his forefinger inside. “They’re tight and so willing.”

I ignored his blatant exhibition of erotic double entendre and drove home my point. “Like the poor girl you ruined in London?”

“Which one?” he dared to ask, making a popping sound as he withdrew his finger from the bottle. He licked his finger clean, his eyes never leaving mine. I couldn’t suppress a shiver at the thought of him probing inside me with his fingers, then licking my juices. I preferred my dildo.

“The girl’s name was Lucie,” I said. “I stopped her from jumping out of the library window on the top floor.”

I remember that afternoon before tea, scrambling as I was to procure a new story to titillate me, when I heard sobbing coming from the library. I opened the door to see the young maid teetering on the window ledge, her cap missing, her apron and shoes tossed onto the floor, her body poised and ready to jump. Only by the grace of God and a quick Hail Mary—and with my promise to find her another position in a Mayfair residence was I able to talk her out of jumping.

“The poor girl was desperate,” I continued, “when Lord Penmore’s housekeeper found out she fell victim to your charms and sacked her.”

“Lucie fancied herself in love with me.” James ran his finger up and down my cheek in an intimate manner, making me squirm. I hated him for it. “It happens with women, you know. I’m powerless to stop it.”

“You can’t have every woman you wish, James.”

“Can’t I?”

“No.”

“You won’t admit it, my dear wife, but you want me to flog you. Yet you’re afraid of what you’ll feel when I do.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I insisted.

He leaned in closer to me, his voice heavy with anticipation as he whispered, “The ecstasy, the thrill, the joy when my whip finds the curve of your lovely arse, that curious romantic dichotomy of pain and pleasure, the inescapable emotional confusion racing through you that seems at once both wicked and frightening. I guarantee, you’ll beg me for more.”

I tried to turn away but he grabbed my wrist and squeezed it hard, hurting me. “Let me go, James.”

“No, I want to see your legs spread, your buttocks up in the air,” he continued, “your lower lips opening and closing, aching for my cock while I strike your arse with my flogger—”

“You’ll never touch me,” I said, pulling away from him and bolting from the table to rid myself of his reckless threat. Throwing on my wrap, I raced out of the restaurant, not looking, not seeing, my emotions overtaking my reason until I heard the barking of the seals on the rocks below. I stood on the edge of the cliff, my blinding anger making me oblivious to the wet, violent winds tearing at my marron-colored satin cloak, the deep red silk lining becoming soaked and making it difficult for me to walk along the soggy earth on the edge.

As I put one foot in front of the other, I became aware of a simmering fear of this man. It was a revelation that came from my deepest inner self, a cry from my unconscious not to be seduced by his words and threats, to retreat, though I wondered if there was any possibility of escape from my husband’s arrogance and hunger for debauchery.

Fearing he’d find me, I searched the shadows for his distinctive figure, his body sloped to one side, but I saw nothing. Instead, a cold, callous wind slapped me in the face, making its presence known to me. I shivered then turned back toward the sea, dragging the train of my opulent gown in the soggy dirt behind me. Where had the sudden storm come from? The carriage ride along the Point Lomas toll road had been pleasant enough, followed by an early dinner at Cliff House. No clouds in sight. I pulled my cloak around me. The oncoming storm didn’t bode well for our journey to Yokohama. What would happen to me when we arrived? I had been briefed by the Viscount Aubrey and the Foreign Office to be prepared for a society where no one said what they meant, to do anything required of me by the mikado’s government, to keep my opinions to myself (in Japan, James was quick to tell me, a wife could be divorced for talking too much) and not to ask about geisha.

I had to smile at that last request. I already knew about these sensuous women from Lord Penmore’s letters and the floating world of sexual arts where they plied their trade. No, it was more than apprehension about my trip to Japan causing me discomfort. I rubbed my forehead, but to no avail. I couldn’t explain it, but a feeling of anxiety took hold of me and wouldn’t let go. My good humor and impish sense of play had dissipated, something I’d noticed happening more often. My mother would say it was because I was growing up and taking my place in society. I suppose that meant I would turn into a gossipy, sour-faced matron tugging at her corset garters and trying to hide her protruding stomach. Where was the excitement, the thrills, the adventure? Though I was barely twenty years, I had been bestowed the prestige and power of someone far older in experience, someone able to flow with the expansion of their world, knowing they were powerless to stop it but accepting it. I, on the other hand, was sorely lacking in confidence about representing western womanhood in the mikado’s court when I was yet a virgin.

I remained standing along the edge of the cliff, the incessant noise of the seals adding to my throbbing headache, the hinges holding my psyche together lopsided, threatening to come loose and reveal a different reality beneath the surface of my carefully costumed self. I took deep breaths as waves dashed against the rocks below, while howling seals rushed about in a maddening frenzy to escape the wild breakers covering them in spray and foam. I reveled in the rush and excitement, wanting to stay here, live only for this moment with the wind whipping my cloak around me. So intent was I in relishing the solitude, I didn’t hear the sound of familiar footsteps behind me.

“You can never escape me, my dear wife.” James.

“Can’t I?” I refused to turn around and face him, though I’d no doubt my dismissal of him fueled his passion.

“No. You denied me my spousal rights on our wedding night, but I promise you it shan’t happen again. You’re mine.” He enunciated each word, tightly controlling his voice so I could hear him against the pounding surf, his hot breath on my neck, burning my skin with his intent.

“We made a bargain, James, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“I can make you change your mind,” he said.

“You can’t bend me to do your bidding.”

He laughed. “Your defiance amuses me since I alone can tame you, pleasure you,” he said, his voice low and hypnotic, believing it would have a charismatic effect on me.

It did not. In a firm voice, I said, “I wish to be left alone. Please.”

He shook his head. “What husband would leave his wife on the edge of a cliff with a storm coming?” He grabbed my arms, pinning them to the sides of my body.

“You’re hurting me.” I shuddered, his possessive grip setting off unwelcome sparks inside me. He hadn’t touched me since our wedding night.

He said, “I’m here to protect you.”

“I don’t need your protection,” I said, trying to keep the fear out of my voice. The wind ceased and all I could hear was the rapidly beating pulse in my ears. “Take your hands off me. I’m your wife and I wish to be treated with respect.”

“Respect?” he mocked. “I’m only taking what’s mine.” His lips brushed my cheek, then he slid his hands up and down my wet cloak, rubbing my shoulders, my arms, as if he engaged in the pleasant task of peeling off my clothes, intensifying his emotional contact with me to get what he wanted.

“I shall never belong to you or any man,” I dared to speak. Brave words. I meant them, but then I had no idea I would fall under the spell of a master with a mystical flair, a sword-wielding samurai who introduced me to the art of lovemaking with an unbearable expectation of pleasure at the sight of his sharp blade. It was I who impaled myself upon his cock, yet it possessed me, sending me into a deep thrusting ecstasy, losing myself in wild, burning sensations, my body closing tight around him, holding him inside me, squeezing him until his hot semen burst into me and he was spent. Then I closed my eyes and curled my nude body at his feet, satiated.

My husband, James, was not a man to bring me to such heights. He focused on sex as an obsession, on reducing a woman to a physical receptacle for his lust. Yet he surprised me on that night with a perception I didn’t see coming, though my state of mind was such I don’t recall his entire speech.

“You interest me, my dear wife, though your plain looks repelled me at first.” He continued his exploration of me, his words as well as his actions no doubt designed to make me uneasy. “I’ve since discovered your face reflects a distinct exterior which contradicts the passion and excitement raging inside you.”

“James, please—”

I tried to push him away, but he possessed a strength I never imagined, keeping me tight in his grip while he lifted my wet cloak and ran his hands up and down my midriff, then, with a boldness that surprised me, he cupped my breasts, lingering on the twin mounds outlined in red velvet. I cried out when he squeezed them before circling his hands around my small waist, setting off a rather unsettling contraction in my pubic region.

“And your figure is magnificent,” he said.

“Why waste your time trying to seduce me?” I asked, finding my courage. “I’m immune to your charms. Or lack of them.”

My words angered him. He pulled up my overskirt and pushed his hand into my crotch, squeezing it. Hard. I fought back a scream and tried to pull away from him. I couldn’t. “You had best watch your step, my dear wife,” he said, “or I shall bed what is mine without delay.”

“You have nothing to gain by such a foolish move,” I said, composing myself, the realization that the more he taunted me to feel the kiss of fire from his whip, the more compelling my disdain for him became. Which made him desire me more. “You need my fortune to maintain the habits of your bachelorhood.”

“You leave me no choice but to seek other women since you see fit to deny me my marital rights.”

“Why should I allow you into my bed when you resort to debauched games to stimulate and tease poor defenseless girls and paid whores?” I challenged him with a directness he’d never faced before, though a chill of fear made my shoulders shake, my fingers stiff, my limbs waver.

“Man is a hunter,” he said casually, “and I find the pursuit of my prey most enjoyable, whether it be a pretty maid bending over and pulling down her drawers for a caning or the saucy young wife of Sir—exposing her breasts for my pleasure.” (I leave it to you to speculate the identity of the gentlewoman I’ve left unnamed. It will make a delightful afternoon parlor game before tea.)

“You can’t fool me, James. You fuel your physical needs by unholy acts because you see yourself as only half a man,” I shouted back at him, so angry I was I abandoned the sensitivity I was careful to maintain around him, creating drama where I shouldn’t have, the question of his manhood never before uttered under my breath.

“Don’t you ever say that to me again. Ever.” His mocking tone was gone, his anger fueled by my rash statement.

Before I could stop him, he grabbed me by the throat, choking me so I could do nothing but sputter guttural sounds. I panicked, flailing my arms about, light-headedness taking over my power of reasoning. I had touched on something peculiarly vulnerable in him that made him even more dangerous, as if I’d wakened something hostile and vicious in him and intent on hurting me.

“How I’ve longed to put my hands on you, my dear wife,” he continued, his eyes glowing with a purpose I didn’t understand, “Stroke you, touch you, tease you with maddening caresses until you begged me to strip you naked, then lay the whip upon your quivering buttocks before I fucked you.” He paused, his breathing hard and fast. “Yet I never dreamed how much more I would enjoy holding your life in my hands—”

He made the statement with an undeniable confidence aligning itself with his malignant behavior. I realized then I was experiencing an intimate moment with my husband, more intimate than the coupling of our nude flesh, his cock probing me, thrusting into me, filling me. He had put away his mask and transformed into a madman in front of me. A frightening, dangerous, pathological man obsessed with controlling me.

Why, why?

Would I ever know?

“You’re…a…fool, James,” I sputtered, knowing I had to make him stop. I choked, spit up phlegm, my chest heaving. To my surprise, he released the pressure on my throat enough for me to gasp a breath.

“I, a fool?” he said.

“Yes. If you kill me, you’ll lose everything.”

“Who said anything about killing you?” he scoffed, his tone arrogant and manipulative. “The night is dark, the winds fierce. My distraught young wife drinks too much wine, loses her footing on the crumbling cliff, crashes below on the jagged rocks.” I looked hard into the night, trying to see his face, but the blackness of his words hid it from me. “Who will dispute the word of Lord Carlton?”

“You wouldn’t dare…”

He didn’t answer me, but instead grabbed me again around the neck, his fingers tightening around my throat, then he laughed, a cruel, echoing laugh. Before I could resist, he swept me up into his strong arms, his footing steady, firm. I pummeled his chest with my fists, fearful and scared but not giving in to him.

“Put me down, James. Now.”

“Why should I?”

“You can’t fulfill your lust if I’m dead.”

He hesitated, then to my relief he set me down, but he continued to hold me tightly around the waist, crushing my face, my breasts against his hard chest. I could smell the sea spray wetting the fine wool of his lapels and hear the beating of his heart. I couldn’t stop a perverse rush of fear taking hold of me when I heard him say, “Our bargain holds, but I promise you this, my dear wife, before this journey concludes, I will bed you.”

On the carriage ride back to San Francisco, James prattled on about the upcoming sea voyage and how he resolved to ease the boredom by gambling and drinking with his fellow passengers, no doubt losing a goodly sum since he was a poor cardplayer. This time I made no wry comment about his remissness with my father’s money and remained silent, my Irish wit abandoning me as fear gripped me as surely as if I faced the devil himself, so absorbed was I in assimilating his threat into my psyche. I had never been so frightened as when he threatened to throw me over the cliff and onto the rocks below.

Get ahold of yourself, Katie, me girl, I need you, I could hear Da saying to me as surely as if he rode next to me in the grand carriage, giving me renewed confidence in myself. I vowed I would protect my family’s interests in a strange Oriental culture, but I would never let my guard down around James again. Never. My life depended on it.




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