26. St. Erth
Seeing my wife pregnant was now a constant need for me. I craved it all day when I looked at her trim, lithe little body consulting with Mrs. Jeremiah, in the evening when she played and sung for me, and at night when I fucked her mercilessly, filled her until my release dripped down her thighs and I had to scoop it up and shove it back inside her.
When the latest fertility treatment from London arrived in a carriage, I ordered Catherine to put on a nightgown and lie down in bed. I was determined not to see another monthly flow until after she had given birth to my first child.
Kitten looked nervous in the bed, smoothing the white nightgown down nervously over her body.
“Behave yourself,” I said, gripping her nightgown and giving her cunt a warning slap.
She yelped just as the doctor came in with his equipment, placing the big pewter jar full of leeches at the foot of the bed.
I saw Kit’s brown eyes open even wider and she clutched the bedsheets.
“Please don’t,” she whispered.
“You will let the doctor treat you without fuss,” I told her sternly.
“Please don’t,” she whimpered again, looking at me imploringly. “I hate them. I had to have them once as a child and I fainted away. They didn’t make me do it again.”
It pleased me to hear her beg, but I said, “You were a spoiled child, but you will not be a spoiled wife. You will obey your husband and follow the doctor’s orders.”
She said nothing then, but I saw her pink lips begin to tremble.
Dr. Bertram was a busy, round little man in his 50s with a fringe.
“What is the treatment for?” he asked.
“My wife,” I said. “I want to ensure she gets pregnant soon.”
“I have just the treatment for that,” he said cheerfully. “Viscountess St. Erth,” he continued. “If you would, please move the shoulder of your gown down so I can place the leeches.”
I felt a sudden flash of anger as Dr. Bertram put his hands on her arm, turning her body this way and that, his hand reaching for the leeches.
When he pulled down the sleeve of her gown, exposing her creamy shoulder even further, I didn’t recognize the low, feral noise that ripped from my throat.
“Stop!” I snapped, coming up and grabbing him roughly, shoving Dr. Bertram away from her.
He had one squirming gray leech in his hand already and he looked at me, startled.
“My Lord, you did say you wanted me to use the leeches, did you not?”
“I did,” I snarled. “I didn’t say you could touch her.”
“But—” he protested, looking between us, clearly baffled.
“Give me that,” I said, grabbing the jar. “I will put them on my wife myself.”
“But—” he protested again, and I silenced him with a look.
“Just tell me where they go.”
Catherine set her lips together as I placed the wet, slimy creatures on her, and they nuzzled around, attaching quickly onto her pale skin, hanging down the fine curve between her white throat and her creamy breasts.
I stood beside the bed as she lay there, the leeches like dark marks on her skin, reminding me of the marks I made on her hips and ass when I took her. The leeches were swelling now, sucking her blood, their bellies getting fat on her blood.
I felt another flush of angry rage, and I had to tighten my fist in my pocket, my eyes glued on the leeches.
Jealous of a godsdamn leech.
But I was.
The way they sucked, got fat off her blood.
I saw my wife swallow convulsively, her small hands clutching the sheets. There was a line of sweat all along her neck, the beads standing out like crystalline drops.
I felt my cock hardening in my pants, sudden fierce need for her raging at me.
The leech on the top curve of her breast was getting fat and engorged with her blood.
Fuck. That’s my godsdamn wife, which means her blood is mine, too.
Suddenly I pounced on top of her, bending close and I ripped into the leech, crushing the body in my mouth so the corpse would fall easily off her. The blood the leech had stolen from my wife spurted across her in a vivid scarlet splash, and she shrieked. Her pounding heartbeat only made me more ravenous, and I spat the leech’s body out, moving to the next one, and then the next, chewing up each one, rending its body apart in my mouth and spitting out the creatures onto the floor.
When I was done I cleaned my mouth out with some whiskey and watched her fair skin, the pink marks flush and bright where the leeches had been.
“My lord, that is not how the treatment is supposed to go,” Dr. Bertram said disapprovingly.
“I don’t care,” I said. “No slug is going to get fat off my wife. What other treatments do you have?”
The older man looked disgruntled. “Those are leeches, not slugs, my lord,” he said. “The next treatment is bloodletting. Simple and effective. It will stabilize your wife’s humors so she’ll be prepared to receive your seed.”
Dr. Bertram then rustled around in his bag and came to stand beside me with his knives out, the sharp implements pointed toward Catherine’s frightened face. I snatched the equipment from him.
“I’ll do that, too.”
“My—my lord, but you don’t know how to do it.”
I ignored him and impatiently moved to pass my own knife through the fire.
“You old sawbones always think you know everything. Just give me the basin and run along to Cook. She’ll give you something to eat.”
He perked up and left, shutting the door behind him.
My Kitten was looking at me, her eyes even wider.
“I d-don’t believe you know the first thing about it,” she said.
“Silence,” I replied sternly.
I placed the slim knife at her shoulder, feeling her tense, a muscle in her throat working.
“Stay still,” I ordered.
Then I took the knife and sliced across her shoulder and down her arm, my eyes riveted to the thin line of blood that sprung to the surface, how it contrasted with her pale skin and the pristine white sheets on her bed.
I put the basin under her arm, watching with fascination as the little drops rolled down her arm, gathering in the crook of her elbow, dropping into the pan with tiny little pings.
Her eyes were wide, and I turned her arm over so the blood would flow directly into the pan.
My insides clenched again at each rivulet. The room was silent except for the little pings.
I stared at the basin, watching the scarlet pool at the bottom, the basin filling with my wife’s blood.
And it was starting to piss me off.
Everything about Catherine was mine. Her entire body was mine, to do what I wanted with. Her mouth was mine to fill with my cock, her cunt was mine to fill with my seed. Her blood was mine, too, so why should I give my wife’s blood to some fleabitten surgeon who was just going to dump it in the garden?
My cock was aching at the sight of her flesh, the scarlet marks where the leeches had been, the rivulets of red down her arm, her chest heaving up and down. I could see the outline of her nipples against her nightgown.
I suddenly flipped her arm back over, bending over it, watching the progression of her blood. Then I bent my head and reached my tongue out for the first scarlet drop.
“St. Erth!” she squeaked. “What are you doing?”
“Your blood will not be going back to the doctor,” I said harshly, scooping the shallow puddle up and letting it drip off my fingers back into the cut I had made.
She shrieked again, trying to wiggle away, and I gripped her face tightly with my bloody fingers, my handprint stark against her chin.
“Understand this, Viscountess,” I said. “I will control everything about you. What goes into your body. What goes out of your body. Who you talk to. Who talks to you. When and how you get fucked.”
My little wife began to scream and kick, and I climbed on the bed over top of her.
She can shriek all she likes. But I take what I want.
I moved over her on the bed, caging her in with my legs, feeling her heart pounding in her chest. My tongue hit her skin, and she tasted like sweet and iron, delicate sunshine on her skin mixing with the coppery tang of her blood on my lips.
My own heart was pounding as I pulled up her nightgown and plunged my cock inside her. Catherine arched her back and whimpered and I bent down to her lips, forcing the blood on her lips, in her mouth, so she can taste my obsession.
Then I put my hand down to her slippery wet cunt.
“Give it to me, Catherine,” I warned, reveling in the fact that each stroke of my cock raised her small body from the bed, arched her body into mine so her breasts were pressed against me. “I’ve got your body, your blood, your cunt, and now I’m going to get your release, too.”
I crave her release, need it like I need air, that exquisite sensation of her cunt tightening around my cock or my fingers, and I’m fucking insatiable. I’ll do anything to get it. She cried and tried to push me away, but my fingers don’t stop, rubbing the slippery place where our bodies connect until she gives up and submits to me, her hands tightening on my shoulders until she’s crying out with pleasure and turning to liquid under me, and only then do I let myself release in her, envisioning my seed buried fucking deep in her and swelling her with my heir.