Frayed Bonds by Diana Thorn Page A

He had no pedestal on
which to put her, unless of course he could turn her over it, paddle her until
she begged for his cock and swallow it to the root before accepting the swiving
she deserved.
    That was how he wanted Amy. All that remained was to
determine if she would want him the same way. He enlisted an accomplice in this
matter, a distant cousin for whom he had done a great service for in the past,
Deborah Chambers, now the Marchioness of Brinley. His service had been of a
decidedly carnal nature, as the naïve Deborah had been engaged to one of the
most debauched men in England. Peter had seen what others had missed, that it
might be a happy one if the correct steps were taken. Deborah, he knew, could
be happy with her rich lord if someone broke her in first. Peter had been kind
enough to oblige.
    And Deborah was willing to abet him in returning the favor.
She’d invited young Amy and her family to a house party at Brinley. Though the
Marquis was known for his questionable morals, his invitation was too exalted
to refuse. The house would be full of exalted guests, and most importantly,
exalted suitors for young Amy. And there would be a ball.
    The Grahams had been only too happy to attend. The ball was
a glittering affair, and the dancing and drinking went on late into the night.
Deborah had made certain that Amy “accidentally” observed an erotic tableau on
the other side of the massive, winged house, far away from the decorous
ballroom, namely Deborah taking cock from her husband the Marquis and another
lover at once.
    It had been a rousing spectacle, even to someone as jaded as
Peter. Deborah lay on her back across a piano bench in her conservatory, naked,
wrists bound to the legs of the bench with lavender ribbons, sucking her
husband’s cock with wet, slurping sounds of joy, while a stable boy powered
into her pussy, encouraged in the most explicit terms by her happy husband.
Yes, it was a decidedly successful marriage. The expression of joy on Deborah’s
lovely face was proof enough of that.
    And Amy, sent on an errand to the moonlit garden to retrieve
the shawl of an elderly aunt, had seen them. Not just seen them but watched
them. She’d taken Peter’s breath away. Here was no delicate miss, gasping in
fright and running for the safety of the house. Amy, though she didn’t know it
yet, was a born sensualist.
    She’d been bound to stop of course. The glass doors to the
garden had been thrown wide open in invitation, and light spilled from the
pretty purple room, the color of the walls mimicking the hue of Deborah’s
aroused flesh. Amy had paused just outside the crescent of light, arrested by
the scene before her, the shawl fluttering to the stones of the terrace.
    Peter watched her from his hiding place in the deep embrace
of a winged leather armchair.
    As she took in the scene, Amy’s pupils dilated, her
breathing became shallow, her lips parted and her tongue darted out to moisten
her parched lips. Peter wished he could lick them for her. He caressed his cock
through his breeches, his only regret that he could not reveal his presence,
draw her into the room and sink into her at once.
    Unconsciously she touched herself, her fingers coming to
rest lightly on her breasts, circling her nipples then gripping more firmly
until a sigh escaped her pink mouth.
    The stable boy turned and saw her, his face a mask of
straining triumph, an exhibitionist as bold as his master and mistress.
    Amy turned white as her gown, gave a startled cry, and fled.
    Peter didn’t hurry. He knew that every door on that side of
the house was locked, because he had locked them himself, knew that he had
plenty of time to intercept her on the lawn, which she must cross, descending
into the ha-ha, the trench that afforded the house an unparalleled view of the
famous Brinley Gardens. He would catch her there, amidst the ancient statuary
that failed to rival her own classical beauty.
    She was running blind down the long hedged aisle,