Chapter 6
As the daughter of a draper, Ann noticed the floor in the Forest first. Yards of luxurious green fabric covered the ground, the crushed velvet further crushing under her bare feet most pleasurably.
“Welcome, madam,” said a tall, entirely nude man who advanced on her wearing a stag mask with elaborate antlers.
Ann wore nothing but a simple half-mask and she was new to London, so this man had no way of knowing that she was no mere madam, but was, in fact, the Marchioness of Montfort.
Unless Edmund told his secret society brothers that he brought his own wife to their inner sanctum?
But no husband would admit to such a thing, surely?
Admit to being so repulsed by his wife that his cock couldn’t stand at attention long enough to get her with child?
“That harp…” the Buck said under his breath while looking towards a tapestry, behind which spectral music poured forth. “It haunts my dreams.”
“This place seems designed for dreams,” she said, gesturing to the naked trees anchored to the floor beneath that expanse of green fabric and reaching their spindly tops into the vaulted ceiling. Or nightmares, she thought to herself as they approached a place with one large chair. A throne.
From elsewhere in the ballroom, three stag-masked men walked toward them, their cocks heavy and in various states of hardness.
Ann spotted Edmund immediately. His broad chest and flaccid cock gave him away.
Once she saw him, Ann didn’t bother to study the two men with him.
She didn’t need to look closer to know he was the most commanding of them all.
“The Rutlord will take the throne,” said the Buck who had greeted her.
Edmund stepped forward. Of course he had an elevated title. Rutlord indeed, she thought.
When he settled into the carved chair, Ann’s escort took her by the hand. “Such soft paws, my little squirrel. Are you this soft all over?” he asked, trailing a thumb over her knuckles.
Her breathing quickened. Ann had little real experience of flirtation or sex aside from that almost forgotten romance with Lord Crispin Wake all those years ago and her forgettable tryst with Clarence from the train.
How was she supposed to play the sophisticated London woman when she was, in fact, not sophisticated at all and the vast majority of her sexual knowledge came from books?
“All will be right in the end,” the man said to her under his breath. Ann wished she could run to that reflecting pool beside a cluster of trees and void the contents of her stomach. She was so nervous and confused about this ritual. This ritual intended to leave her pregnant.
“The Rutlord will see to your comfort,” said her escort, and they drew nearer to where Edmund sat. “Take a seat upon his thighs, and he will help you through the ordeal.”
Ann stopped walking, and her stomach truly dropped for the first time that night. She’d been anxious before, but that was nothing to this. She was about to sit upon her husband? Presumably as other men took his place between her legs?
She should have been horrified, mortally offended, and stormed from that townhouse in disgust. Instead, she felt her breathing quicken and her quim grow wet as she thought of him witnessing her hard use. Seeing other men fill her and take his place.
No wonder Edmund hadn’t been coming home to the estate; Shropshire had nothing like this.
Despite limited experience with her husband’s nude body, she knew it was him, knew those strips of muscle that ran up his sides and that firm chest. The stag mask — its expression unchanging no matter what she said or did — helped her separate the man who had married and left her from this Buck seated on the throne.
“Seat yourself upon his thighs,” repeated her escort.
Ann stood before Edmund, unsure of how to proceed. Suddenly, they possessed too many limbs between them, and this entire night seemed like a farce.
Then Edmund took her hand.
As she settled herself on his legs, Ann tried to remain sitting upright so as not to make her husband uncomfortable.
“This won’t do,” he said, then slid an arm about her waist to draw her back against that enormous chest she so admired.
All the air in Ann’s lungs exited in a huff.
The feeling of being held by Edmund, skin to skin, for the first time was shocking.
No, more than shocking: it was delicious to feel his hot skin pressed against her own, his cock nestled against her arse, his arm banded about her waist. She must be imagining his manhood had swollen slightly.
Despite herself, Ann closed her eyes and savored the sensation she’d been longing for since sometime in the last decade.
She jolted when she felt a hand touch her thigh.
“If you’ll permit me, Madam. I must assess your readiness for the ritual,” said her escort as the other two men looked on.
“See now, we’ve never done that before,” said Edmund behind her, the rumble of his deep voice transferring to her body and making her nipples hard.
Ann’s joints seemed to melt in her husband’s hold, leaving her a collection of assorted bones within skin.
She’d just wanted a baby to fill her lonely days, not to react so strongly to a man who clearly wanted nothing to do with her!
“That was under your watch, Rutlord. I’m in command of the Forest tonight.”
Ann thought she heard some muttering about something called the High Buckthorn behind Edmund’s mask, but she couldn’t be sure because she was adjusting to the feeling of being sat upon his legs.
She felt gangly as a colt, her body so much smaller than that of her husband. Ann didn’t know where to put her hands, how to balance. At the feel of the hand on her leg, she tried to open for him, but she just slipped on Edmund’s lap.
“Lean back against me,” Edmund said from within that papier-maché mask. Somehow, the muffling of his voice by that mask allowed her to forget that it was her husband who held her.
Finally surrendering to his powerful arms, Ann slumped back against that broad chest and her center of gravity shifted. Edmund’s arm was like a sash across her body, as if a sash could also be a beam holding up an entire house. His other hand came to her knee.
“Open for my brother.”
Ann jerked in his hold, somehow thinking Edmund referred to Crispin, dead these many years. She felt suddenly cold, all erotic longing shoved into some root cellar.
“Not him,” said Edmund, stroking the skin on her thigh ever so softly. “You’re mine.”
Her body suddenly ran from cold to hot. What did he mean by that statement? He’d not bothered to claim her in the course of their long marriage. Ann was puzzling over his words when he spoke again.
“Open these pretty legs,” he said, helping her balance as she brought her legs to the outside of his. He thought her legs pretty?
She was naked and spread on her husband’s lap, in full view of three other men. One stood before her, his cock longer than before. Two watching from the side had their thick pieces in hand, slowly stroking as they stared between her legs.
Looking down, Ann saw her auburn bush and the shadow of her most private parts exposed. She moved her hand down to cover herself on instinct.
“There, now,” said Edmund as he slid his hand over hers and drew it up to rest on her lower belly. His big hand caged it, and the sight of him so close to her quim made her breaths come quicker.
“Are you well?”
“Yes,” she rasped, watching their hands move together as she took in and expelled air. His thumb shifted almost imperceptibly, stroking her skin just below the navel. Her lids grew heavy as she surrendered to his control.
“We’re going to put a baby in you tonight. Would you like that?”
Blood rushed to her nub at his crude words, and far from being offended, she wanted him to keep talking, keep narrating. His voice got her hotter than the sight of those naked cocks, hard and ready for her.
“Yes, I want a baby,” she said, trying to disguise the lust in her voice. Your baby, she thought before shaking her head and focusing on what she could reasonably hope for.
“We’ll put him right here,” said Edmund, stroking that thumb over the place that complained so painfully each month she did not fall pregnant. Was his voice breathy, or was that just the mask?
“Do you promise?” she asked softly, fearful that this night of debauchery alone wouldn’t make her a mother. What if Edmund considered this night enough to discharge his duty to her and sent her back with empty arms and an empty womb, never to fulfil the greatest wish of her heart?
It couldn’t be true, but she felt as though he pulled her closer. “I promise.”
“Shall I examine the lady to make sure she’s prepared for the Bucks?” asked the man before her that Edmund had called the High Buckthorn.
Ann felt Edmund’s papier-maché snout against her cheek, and a sense of support filled her. He was beside her, even if he couldn’t bring himself to be within her.
“Yes,” she said, spreading her legs further apart to expose herself to the man’s gaze.
At first, he merely let his hand trail up her thigh. Ann watched as his hand dipped below hers and Edmund’s, joined on her belly.
And then she felt him, felt a light touch on her inner lips that had her shuddering in Edmund’s firm hold.
“Are you well?” he asked.
“It feels so good,” she murmured back.
The High Buckthorn brought a finger to her straining nub, and Ann moaned while Edmund’s powerful arms contained her jolt at the sensation.
“Do you like him touching you?” asked Edmund. His voice was strained, as if he, too, was aroused.
His voice combined with the other man’s careful touches to allow Ann to imagine that it was Edmund stroking between her thighs, pleasuring her so quickly she thought she might explode at any moment.
“Yes,” said Ann in a high voice.
“She’s not ready,” said the High Buckthorn, withdrawing from her quim. Ann wanted to scream.
“Not ready?” asked Ann faintly, tears rushing to her eyes.