The Wife #6
The curve did its job. Oh, God, it did! Each slow drag lit that place inside me until the pleasure ran together, no longer waves but one rising tide, and the wet sounds of ivory in my cunny mingled with my own moans and Robert’s ragged breathing.
His cock strained against his stomach, flushed dark, weeping freely now, and his hips rutted small and helpless at the air.
One of his hands left my thigh and drifted toward himself.
“Hands on your work, milord.” Bramstock did not raise his voice. He did not even look. “You have spent twice tonight. You’ll not spend again until I permit it.”
Robert whined.
My husband—the Earl of Marchon, the envy of every girl I’d ever known—whined, and put his hand back on my thigh, and somewhere beneath the tide rising in me I felt a flush of power so heady I tasted it.
They were both of them in service tonight.
One of us was going to be pleasured within an inch of her life, and it was me, not him.
“She’s close,” Bramstock observed. “Look at her color. The Ambassador has concluded his negotiations.” He bent, at last, over Robert’s shoulder for a better view of me, and his voice dropped to velvet. “Your thumb, milord. Lightly. Now.”
Robert’s thumb touched my clitoris.
Lightly, as instructed—one soft circle over the swollen peak of me while the ivory curved deep and dragged—and the tide broke.
I came with a cry I made no attempt to smother, my back bowing, my cunny seizing around the Ambassador in long, hard pulses—and the ivory gave nothing back, would not soften, would not yield, only held its shape inside me while my body wrung itself against the unyielding curve of it, and that made the waves go on and on.
“Hold it still,” Bramstock said quietly. “Let her take what she needs.”
Robert held it still while I took what I needed…which lasted for some time.
When at last I sagged back against the mattress, damp and boneless and ringing like a bell struck in a distant room, Bramstock reached down and drew the Ambassador from me with a slow, careful twist that made me shudder one final time. He held it up to the candlelight. It glistened, root to crown.
“The embassy,” he observed, “appears to have been well received.”
A laugh burst out of me—scandalized, breathless, genuine.
My husband’s valet had made a diplomatic jest over a dripping ivory cock, and I, Countess of Marchon, lay ruined and giggling on my husband’s bed. Neither man minded in the least.
Bramstock did not clean the Ambassador with a cloth.
He offered it to my husband.
“Your wife’s taste, milord. See that you remember it.”
And Robert—my poet, my gentle, gallant Robert—took the ivory into his mouth and cleaned it slowly, eyes closed, savoring, and the sight put a fresh coil of heat low in my belly where I would have sworn nothing remained to burn.
Bramstock returned the Ambassador to its velvet hollow and considered the case’s remaining occupants as a man might consult a menu.
“Now, milady,” he said. “Something rather more lasting.”
My breath caught as he withdrew a small glass bulb, its shape unfamiliar. It was flat on one side and came to a gentle point on the other. It looked like the top to a perfume bottle, but larger.
“When I fuck you, Countess,” Bramstock vowed, “you’ll know whose cock is in you. Come here, milord.”
Robert didn’t hesitate. He scrambled off the bed, his movements eager, almost desperate. Bramstock held the bulb out, the glass catching the candlelight. My stomach twisted with a mix of fear and something darker, something hungry.
“This is a plug, milady,” Bramstock said, his free hand stroking up my thigh again, his thumb brushing dangerously close to my core. “It’s for your arsehole. Your husband is going to insert it.”
My breath stuttered. My arsehole? No one had ever—Robert had never—Oh Heavens.
Bramstock turned to Robert, and without hesitation, dragged the plug through the seed drying on his stomach. My eyes widened.
When he’d inserted himself into Robert’s arse, Bramstock had used oils as lubricants, just as A Harlot’s Guide had described. On me, however, he would use my husband’s cum?
The realization sent a shameful pulse of arousal through me.
He turned the plug, offering it to my husband, who seemed to understand immediately. My pulse roared in my ears as Bramstock lifted my legs, spreading me open the way he had held Robert. The cool air hit my damp folds, and I shivered, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps.
Robert knelt between my legs, the plug glinting between his lips. His eyes met mine, dark with something I couldn’t name—apology? Hunger?—before he bent forward.
The first touch of the plug against my arsehole made me jolt. It was cold, slick with Robert’s spend, and wrong; surely nothing should go there, should press inside me like this? But then Robert’s tongue flicked against the tight ring of muscle, and I gasped, my fingers clawing at the sheets.
“Relax, milady,” Bramstock murmured, his hands firm on my thighs. “Breathe.”
I tried. My lungs burned as I forced air in, then out.
Robert’s tongue worked in slow circles, his breath hot against my skin.
The plug pressed again, firmer this time, and I whimpered as the tip breached me.
It was strange, foreign, but not painful—not yet.
Robert’s tongue soothed the stretch, his lips pressing kisses to my skin as the plug slid deeper.
“Good girl,” Bramstock praised, his thumbs brushing my inner thighs. The plug seated fully with a soft pop I felt more than heard, and I exhaled shakily, my body adjusting to the intrusion. It was oddly full, a constant pressure that made my cunny throb in response.
Robert sat back on his heels, his lips glistening, his gaze locked on me. There was something almost reverent in his expression, as if he’d just performed a sacred rite. Bramstock’s hands slid higher, his fingers tracing the curve of my hips.
Eagerly, I reached for my husband as Bramstock pulled him away from me, his command sharp: “Go to your wife.”
Robert obeyed instantly, scrambling up beside me on the bed. His fingers found my shoulder, then my cheek, turning my face toward his as he stretched out beside me. But my attention was stolen by the valet’s hands—rough, calloused—dragging up my thighs, claiming me.
The plug in my arse was a constant, insistent pressure, filling me in a way I’d never imagined. It was strange, foreign, but not unpleasant—stretching me, making me hyper-aware of every shift of my body. I could barely breathe around the sensation, my mind fogged by its focus.
Bramstock stepped between my legs, his cock thick and heavy in his grip. My gaze locked onto it as he stroked himself, the head glistening with my wetness. He dragged it through my folds, spreading my arousal across his length, and I whimpered at the teasing contact.
Then—oh my—he positioned himself at my entrance.
I was ready. I needed this, needed to be filled by his thick cock the way his plug filled my arse. But when he paused, his cock barely parting my folds, I couldn’t stand the delay. Desperate, I pushed down, pulling the first few inches into me.
Bramstock’s grin was wicked. “Yes, milady.”
And then he slid the rest of the way in.
I gasped, my back arching off the bed. He was huge.
The Ambassador, it turned out, had been a courtesy; the sovereign was another matter entirely.
But the plug in my arse made it more, the dual fullness overwhelming.
My vision darkened at the edges, my breath coming in ragged bursts as my body struggled to adjust.
Bramstock hadn’t moved.
“This, Countess,” he murmured, his voice smooth, almost gentle, “is page sixty-three of A Harlot’s Guide. It’s called The Falconer and the Oyster.”
I could barely process his words. My entire world had narrowed to feeling—the way he filled me, the way the plug pressed against something deep inside, the way my body clenched around both intrusions.
“The woman rests with her back against a surface while her lover stands between her legs,” he continued, his hips still unmoving, giving me time. “It’s similar to what I was doing to your husband.”
The reminder sent a spike of arousal through me. I moaned, my fingers clawing at the sheets.
Bramstock’s dark eyes flicked to Robert. “Tell your wife how magnificent she is.”
Robert didn’t hesitate. He leaned over me, his lips brushing my temple, my cheek, my jaw. “You’re perfect, Louisa,” he whispered, his voice rough with need. “So beautiful like this, taking him so well. Look at you—so full, so wet for us.”
His hands roamed my body, cupping my breasts, teasing my nipples, sliding down to my hips where Bramstock’s fingers still gripped me. Every touch sent sparks across my skin, my nerves alight with sensation.
Bramstock began to move.
Slowly, at first—just a shallow roll of his hips, dragging his cock in and out of me. The plug shifted with each thrust, pressing against that sensitive spot inside me, and I gasped, my fingers tangling in Robert’s hair.
“That’s it,” Robert murmured, his lips trailing down my neck. “Let him fuck you, love. You’re doing so well.”
His praise sent a thrill through me. I arched into his touch, my body trembling as Bramstock’s pace increased. The valet’s cock filled me completely, the plug making every movement somehow more—deeper, tighter…better.
Robert’s fingers found my clit, circling it in slow, deliberate strokes over the place where his valet’s cock slid in and out of me.
“I know you’re so tight,” he groaned against my ear. “So hot around him. I can see how much you love it—how wet you are, how your body clenches when he fucks you.”
I whimpered, my hips lifting to meet Bramstock’s thrusts. The valet’s grip on my thighs tightened, his rhythm steady, relentless.
“Such a good girl,” Robert breathed, his lips brushing mine. “Taking his cock like this, letting us use you. You’re ours, Louisa. Ours to pleasure, ours to fill.”