The Wife #5
His cock was large, thick. Thicker than Robert’s, with a flared head that seemed almost bright pink against the dark hair at its base.
The veins stood out along the shaft, and I could see the way his hand moved, slow and deliberate, as he cleaned himself.
The muscles in his forearm flexed with each stroke.
I had never wanted to touch a man other than my husband. Not once, in all the months of our courtship, had I looked at another man and felt that pull of desire. But now, watching Bramstock wash his cock, I felt it. A deep, aching hunger that made my core clench and my breath catch.
He dropped the cloth into the basin—a languid movement that seemed more like something a lord would do than a servant—and walked back to the bed. He stood over us, his gaze sweeping over our prone forms.
Robert’s hand stilled on my hip, his breath hitching.
I should have felt shame. I was spread out on the mattress like meat at market, my body still bare and flushed with the evidence of my pleasure. My husband lay beside me, his own release drying on his stomach.
And this man, this servant, was examining us as if we were specimens to be used.
Instead of shame, I felt a shiver of excitement. Of anticipation. My thighs parted slightly, an unconscious invitation.
Bramstock’s cock was still hard. He had not come. It jutted out from his body, thick and proud, the head slick with a bead of moisture. He reached down, his fingers wrapping around the shaft, and began to stroke it. Absentmindedly. As if he were considering a purchase.
A whimper escaped my lips before I could stop it. My hungry gaze was fixed on his hand, on the way his fist moved along his length, the way his breath hitched slightly with each stroke.
His dark eyes flicked to mine, and he must have recognized the desire there, because a slow, wicked smile spread across his lips. He chuckled, a low, dark sound that made my toes curl.
“Very well, milady,” he said, his voice a velvet purr. “It can be your turn next. Move to the edge of the bed.”
I scrambled to the edge of the bed, my body moving before my mind could catch up. The sheets were cool beneath my palms, the air against my damp skin making me shiver.
Robert’s fingers trailed down my arm as I pulled away from him, but I barely noticed. My entire focus was on Bramstock—on the way his cock twitched in his grip, on the dark promise in his eyes.
This is happening. I am going to let my husband’s valet fuck me.
The thought should have horrified me. Instead, it sent a fresh wave of liquid desire through my core, my thighs already trembling in anticipation.
I positioned myself carefully, my legs dangling over the edge of the mattress, my knees falling open. The position left me exposed, vulnerable to his gaze. My cunny pulsed, still sensitive from my husband’s tongue, and I had to resist the urge to touch myself again.
Bramstock’s gaze raked over me, slow and deliberate, as if he were memorizing every inch of my body.
Then he stepped between my legs.
He bent, and for the first time since I’d stepped into this room, since I’d turned myself over to his command, Bramstock touched me.
His hands were rough as they slid up my calves, his calluses catching on my skin. I gasped at the contact—finally—my back arching slightly. His thumbs brushed the inside of my thighs, so close to where I ached, but not close enough. I whimpered, my fingers curling into the sheets.
“Very, very nice, Countess,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble as his touch slid up my body.
His palms cupped my breasts, his thumbs circling my nipples until they tightened into stiff peaks.
I bit my lip to keep from crying out, my hips lifting involuntarily.
“Your gowns and corsetry are exquisite, of course, but I hadn’t realized what they were hiding. ”
His words sent a thrill through me, even as guilt prickled at the edges of my mind.
I should not crave his approval.
But I did. Desperately.
Robert’s fingers found my shoulder, his touch hesitant now, as if he sensed my attention shifting. I turned my head just enough to see him propped on one elbow, his expression unreadable. Was he jealous? Angry? Or simply lost in the same haze of lust that had claimed me?
Bramstock’s chuckle was dark, knowing. “Milord, I’m going to fuck your wife now.”
Robert’s breath hitched, but he didn’t protest. Instead, his hand slid down my arm, his fingers tangling with mine. He’s giving me to his valet. The realization should have shocked me. Instead, it made my cunny clench with need.
“Good,” Bramstock murmured, his hands leaving my breasts to stroke down my sides. Robert’s touch replaced his immediately, his palms cupping my flesh, his thumbs brushing my nipples. Two men’s hands on me—two men touching me at once—and I moaned, my head falling back as I arched into their grip.
But then Bramstock stepped back, and for the first time I watched him lift the dark case from Robert’s dressing table and carry it to the foot of the bed.
It was the sort of case a gentleman’s gentleman might keep razors in—black leather, brass at the corners, a lid that opened on a fitted interior of velvet hollows.
Except no razors filled those hollows. I glimpsed glass, ivory, a coil of silk cord, and a stoppered amber bottle that caught the candlelight and held it.
And you thought his only art was the cravats.
What he lifted out was ivory.
I did not understand it at first. A smooth white column, longer than my hand, carved with a gentle upward curve and crowned—Oh Heavens!—crowned as a man is crowned.
The valet turned it in his fingers and the candlelight slid along its length, and there was no mistaking it. Someone had carved a cock. Someone had carved a cock from ivory, with evident care, and my husband’s valet kept it in a fitted velvet hollow beside the razor strops.
The Guide had mentioned implements, but I had taken it for a jest.
“Is—” My voice failed. I tried again, gripping the sheets. “Is that in the book?”
“The Guide is regrettably silent on the subject of instruments, milady.” Bramstock weighed the thing in his palm, a merchant assessing his own stock. “I call this one the Ivory Ambassador.”
“An…ambassador.”
“An ambassador is dispatched ahead of his sovereign,” he said in an utterly bored tone, “to prepare the ground and open negotiations.” His dark eyes traveled down my body to where I lay open at the edge of the bed, wet and trembling and past all pretense.
“You will receive him before you receive me.”
Beside me, Robert made a sound low in his throat.
Bramstock heard it too. He turned, and held the Ambassador out to my husband—handle first, like a sword being surrendered, or awarded.
“Milord. Your wife requires preparation for the rest of the evening. You will provide it.” A pause, soft and terrible. “Consider it a portion of your amends.”
Robert took it. My husband—an earl, a peer of the realm, a man who had written me poetry—took a carved ivory cock from his valet’s hand and knelt on the floor between my thighs with the eagerness of a boy called up for a prize.
A month of silence, I thought. A month of cold sheets and empty halls, and now he knelt there looking at my cunny as though it were scripture.
“Warm it first,” Bramstock instructed, moving to stand at Robert’s shoulder, ignoring his own jutting erection as if it were of no consequence. “Ivory takes the chill of the room, and we are not barbarians.”
Robert rolled it between his palms. Then—at a small gesture from the valet—he lowered it and dragged the smooth crown through my folds, once, twice, gathering my slickness along its length, and I gasped at the glide of it, cool and hard, nothing at all like a hand.
“Slowly, milord. An ambassador presents his credentials before he enters the court.”
I laughed—one shocked, breathless note that dissolved into a moan as the crown circled my entrance. Bramstock’s mouth curved. He did not look away from his pupil’s work.
“Now. Slowly.”
Robert pressed the Ambassador into me.
Cool, despite the warming. Harder than flesh—that was what my body understood first, before anything else. A man’s cock yielded, however slightly; it was alive, it moved with you.
The ivory did not yield. It was polished and relentless and it opened me on a single unhurried slide that arched my back off the mattress, and it stayed exactly where it was put, and Heaven help me, that was its own dark pleasure.
“Oh,” I said. Eloquence had left me entirely.
“There is a place, milord.” Bramstock’s voice was the low, patient one, the schoolroom one. “A scant few inches in, on the forward wall. The curve is carved to find it. Her body will tell you when you have.”
Robert tilted his wrist. The curve pressed upward, dragging along the front of my channel, and found something that turned my whole body to lit gunpowder.
I cried out and clenched around the ivory, my heels slipping on the bed frame.
“There,” said Bramstock, with satisfaction. “You see, milord? Watch her face, not your work.” A pause. “Her face is your work.”
And my husband looked up.
He had touched me on our wedding night and a dozen nights after, kind and gentle in the dark, and never once had he watched my face while he did it.
Not so now. He watched me as he worked the Ambassador in slow, curving strokes, and his gaze moved over my face like a man studying for his own salvation—focusing on every gasp, every bitten lip, every helpless jerk of my hips, learning me…under another man’s instruction.
Perhaps a proper lady would find it humiliating, being played upon like an instrument while a servant conducted.
You are past shame, Countess.
I was. I hooked my hands beneath my own knees and held myself open for them, and Robert groaned as though I’d given him a gift.
“Less wrist, milord,” Bramstock murmured. “She is not a lock to be picked. Long strokes. Let the curve do its job.”