The Blonde Samurai

I retreated back to my books, lost in the lurid details of French courtesans and lords engaged in a pleasing act known as soixante-neuf. I had hoped to engage in this robust position with my new husband, head to tail, his cock within reach of my lips, his tongue busy at my pussy, licking and sucking, exploring the sweet juices oozing from my folds. As I read, each word dripped from the pages and into my psyche as easily as the morning dew settled onto a thirsty flower petal. I failed to acknowledge that I had not yet blossomed under a man’s touch. Such hopes I had, since this elegant town house was also where I was to spend my first week of married life before embarking on a honeymoon to Paris.

So you can understand why I smiled when, after the lavish wedding reception, my mother kissed me on both cheeks and whispered in my ear I could loosen my night corset but not remove it. And if I lay very still, she assured me in an even voice, it would all be over quickly.

My father glanced toward me but said nothing, though I saw a grim look on his face that troubled me, as if he hadn’t accepted the idea his daughter was a married woman and subject to the erotic whims of her new husband. What would he say, I wondered, if he knew Lord Carlton had a penchant for riding crops and plump bottoms?

I turned my attention back to the scene playing out before me, knowing I was trapped inside the garderobe, dust up my nose, the scent of snuff adding to the precarious teetering of my psyche. A bride living out her fantasies and creating a world where she was merely a voyeur instead of a player. A little voice reminding me we’re trapped by our deeds only if we choose to be. I couldn’t deny I was curious to see what happened next, as I believe you are, too. You wouldn’t be reading this far if you weren’t. I assure you, by the time you arrive in the land of the samurai with its scattered pine woods, crimson foliage and the floorboard that sings when the head of the samurai clan approaches, you will be perspiring (yes, ladies do perspire), your chemise unbuttoned, the lacings on your corset loosened. So pray, do not lecture me, telling me I should have leaned back in the closet, fallen asleep and waited for them to leave, since curiosity has been known to skin the pubic hairs of even the most careful pussy. I should have. But I didn’t. And I would pay the price for my folly.

“Please, my lord, more, more…” the girl yelped.

“I shan’t disappoint you, wench, though I can’t wait much longer to fuck you.”

To my horror, though jealousy was a more descriptive mot for what I was feeling, I could see James kissing her buttocks; then he drew the riding crop through his fingers, caressing it and making it shine with the sweat of his palms.

“I’m ready for you, milord,” the girl said, cooing.

An unseen female voice laughed, then said, “His lordship won’t have enough energy to fuck his new bride if he takes us both.”

Who else watched the intrigue being played out here?

“Mind your mouth, Sally,” the other girl said, her voice breathless. “Lord Carlton has enough rod to please both of us and his new bride.”

“Who said I intended to bed the American?” said Lord Carlton, rubbing the back of the girl’s bare thighs. “I dare say I imagine the twit is asleep, though I should wake her. Observing a good whipping might open her eyes to what’s expected of my wife, eh, Bridget?”

How dare he speak about me in such a manner!

“Begging your lordship’s pardon, but who needs her?” Bridget laughed. “You can whip me arse for as long as you like.” She wiggled her buttocks, then parted her fleshy cheeks with her small hands, exposing the puckered hole for his lordship’s visual delight. “And make use of me back stairs for your pleasure.”

I couldn’t close my mouth. Did James intend to do the same to me?

“Not before you slide into me, milord,” said the girl called Sally when she moved into my view. I could see a tall brunette wearing a scarlet corset with white laces, her pubic hair blacker than jet and glistening with her juices as she expertly drew a rubber phallus from inside her. (Such an item was known to me by way of a novel I found in the library about a young Parisian’s foray into self-gratification with what she labeled a “dildo.” I don’t recall the name of the story.) I drew in my breath, excited by its length as well as its breadth.

Could his lordship compete with such a wonder?

I couldn’t wait to find out.

I gasped when I saw my new husband put his arms around both girls and squeeze their breasts, twisting their nipples between his thumbs and forefingers and making them moan. He said, “Lord Penmore was correct in his assessment of the talents of you two charmers—”

Lord Penmore. The mention of his name startled me. I should have known by the tone of his letters he was behind this gala interlude. Yet he was also a shrewd businessman. I remember him detailing to my husband a nefarious commercial enterprise surrounding the expansion of the empire into Japan, whispered about then hushed up, he said. I dismissed the item then, though I detail it here to note its significance in my journey, a marker on the game board that lingers under your eye but has not yet been put into play, yet is important to the outcome of the adventure.

Then I was more interested in watching Lord Carlton wiggle his fingers into the brunette, probing and making her sigh with anticipation. I also emitted a sigh, wistful, needy, heat making me want to contract my pubic muscles in a delightful series of spasms. I forced myself to hold back. I didn’t wish to miss a moment of their prelude. For that’s what I told myself it was, a prelude to the moment when my husband would come to my rooms, his body still bathed in sweat, his cock primed for a night of passion with his bride. Naive, yes, as I’m certain you were on your wedding night, but I shaded my view of what I was seeing as if I looked at it through the ornate, opaque lace of my bridal veil. Not to do so would have evoked not only anger in me but disappointment, a far stronger emotion for a young girl to absorb and one I was not ready to deal with on my wedding night, cramped and brooding in a closet.

His lordship finished with, “—though I prefer a virgin to satisfy my needs.”

“I’ve played a virgin on the boards, milord,” said the redhead, turning over and caressing her lower lips, then opening them wide, inserting a finger inside her and wiggling it back and forth and pleasuring herself in a secret spot familiar to her. A myriad of tiny tremors worked their way up and down my spine. I’d never seen such boldness, though I dare say I had found my way to the same spot between my legs on numerous occasions. Don’t gasp and mutter, then pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. You do and that’s that. Let’s continue.

“I prefer spending my wedding night here with you, my pretty pink maids,” Lord Carlton was saying, his eyes remaining on the girl’s lower pubic region while he cupped her pussy and held her, pushing his fingers into her while unbuttoning his breeches with the other hand.

To my amazement, out popped his prominent erection, the head shiny and large. I had seen anatomical drawings of the male organ in the books in Lord Penmore’s library, but none like this. Thick, bobbing up and down, he grabbed his cock and pulled on it once, then again, pointing the eye directly at the girl’s pulsating pussy. I was so enamored of the size of him, I leaned forward, failing to illuminate in my mind the dropping of a large dustball onto the tip of my nose. It tickled, but I didn’t brush it away. I couldn’t stop watching them as the girl lay down on a wooden table, then raised her head and shoulders to look at him. Smiling, waiting. He lifted her legs, running his hands up and down the backs of her black stockings as if he were paying homage to her slender calves before pulling them apart to expose her, forcing her pussy to open wider than the expanse of her dainty fingers had dared reveal to him.

Before I could catch my breath, Lord Carlton plunged his swollen cock into her, sliding it up easily against her velvet walls, finding his rhythm, even and smooth, making me sit up and shift my weight off my legs, numb as they were. I dared to inch forward, opening the closet door a little wider, my nose peeking through, my body squirming, the seat of my pleasure full and throbbing as I watched the girl wrap her legs around his hips, pulling him to her and embracing him with an urgency I had dreamed of knowing. Her thighs tightened around him, thumping his buttocks with her heels and sending my husband into a tirade of passionate words, his voice demanding, shouting, his body pounding deep, thrusting into her again and again—

I sneezed.

Loud.

And out I tumbled from the closet, landing at my new husband’s feet.

Staring straight up at his nude buttocks.

2

Chaos followed. Cursing, Lord Carlton stopped pumping the redhead, she screamed, he pulled out of her and the brunette dropped the dildo. No one paid attention to the hard rubber object landing on the plush carpeting at his lordship’s feet. They were too busy staring down at me.

Steadying myself, I brushed the dust and mold off my silk wrapper and stood in front of the unholy trio, all three completely baffled by my sudden appearance. I imagined they believed me to be an apparition. I couldn’t believe the power of a sneeze had unmasked me. I wiped my nose with a delicate swipe of my fingers, and a whiff of my own sweet scent reminded me I was just as guilty as they in my pursuit of delights. Still, I refused to be humiliated by my new husband in front of these two motts. I was determined to act as the lady of the manor and not a female libertine pursuing her own pleasures.

I got to my feet, careful to avert his lordship’s cock slick with juices and dangling close to my lips. He made no attempt to push it away. The sod. My confidence shaken, I quaked inside with an insecurity at assuming my new role as Lady Carlton under such circumstances. But, being the girl I am with the sassy mouth, I blurted out the first thing that came to mind without weighing the consequences.

“I’ve no doubt you possess the stamina to pleasure two women in the due course of an evening, my dear husband,” I began, wrapping the silk tighter around me. “But I doubt if your capabilities include three, so I shall leave you to play out your sordid games.”

I don’t know why I dared to speak to him in such a manner, except to say I’m an O’Roarke, a proud breed more oft than not given to brandishing a fierce will that puts us in a strange state of persistence. We don’t give up, no matter what. What I didn’t know was that James had a game of his own in mind. A game that included bedding his new wife in a very public manner.

“So my bride has fire in her veins after all,” Lord Carlton said with a note of pride as he stepped in front of me, blocking my exit, his tall, nude muscular body leaning slightly to one side, his raw masculinity holding me hostage with a power I vowed to resist.

“Let me pass,” I demanded, chin up. I ignored a trickle of sweat making a slow journey down the length of my neck and into the valley between my breasts. My husband did notice and traced its path with his finger. His touch mesmerized me. I couldn’t move.

“No,” he said coldly. “You shall stay.”

Panic washed over me, telling me to flee, but his voice stirred a magic within me that yet resided in my romantic soul. When his hand moved down to cup my breast, in spite of my resolve not to let him pleasure me, I moaned. Loudly. His touch sparked a reaction in me that made my knees buckle. Damn, I hated showing weakness in front of him.

Knowing he’d made his point, he said, “I shall prove you wrong, milady, about my capabilities. This is my wedding night and I intend to make the most of it.”

“I won’t allow you to touch me again in front of these women,” I cried out, regaining my courage. “Debasing what should be pure and godly between us.” I grabbed a flogger off the wooden table and threw it against the padded wall with the force of an avenging angel. It barely made a sound.

“Would milady prefer to be on the receiving end of the whip?” he ventured, a curiosity creeping into his voice that unnerved me.

“How dare you speak to me in such a manner,” I shouted, a strange fever gripping me. “I’m not a cheap girl off the streets—”

“If I may be so rude as to interrupt your ladyship,” the redhead said, indignant. “Me and Sally don’t come cheap. We was recommended by the best gentleman’s house on York Street.”

“That’s right, milady,” chimed in the brunette. “We can take the crop all night long without smudging our lip rouge. Ain’t that the truth, milord?”

“I’m more interested in seeing what Lady Carlton will do when she tastes the sting of the whip.” Lord Carlton narrowed his eyes. “Will she scream and beg for more?”

I inhaled deeply when my husband picked up the flogger and swept its smooth leather tails across my breasts swathed in silk, tantalizing me with its sweet promise and making me squirm.

“You’ll never find out!” I said, aware of an offensive scent as he waved the flogger under my nose. Black shoe polish came to mind.

“Won’t I?” he asked, tossing the flogger aside and grabbing me around the waist, then pushing me down on the rough wooden table, startling me. My backside hurt, bruised by his rough treatment, and the soles of my bare feet stung when I scrapped them on the chipped wood.

Determined as I was to fight like hell, I was outnumbered when he ordered the two girls, squealing and giggling, to shackle me. ’Tis a pitiful plight for any bride on her wedding night to find herself shivering in the midst of confusion and disarray, waiting to consummate her marriage with her eager husband, but not like this. Two prostitutes pulling on my arms and holding me tight in their grip, fastening leather restraints around my wrists and drawing them through the iron rings embedded in the wood, making them so taut I could hear the leather crunch in my ears.

“You can’t do this, James,” I cried out, tossing my head back and forth, pulling on the restraints, chaffing my skin until it was raw, but I couldn’t free myself. “I’m your wife, dammit. Stop!”

“All the more reason to explore your lovely body,” he said, my actions inflaming his desire. I looked down and knew why. My arms were pulled up, forcing my shoulders back and inducing my breasts to stand up in a most provocative manner.

Taking advantage of the opportunity, James ran his hand up and down my neck, my face, then slid his hands down over my breasts, my midriff, setting off a slithering wave of anticipation within me and a sensual warmth that swept over me, making me ashamed that although I detested his deviant games, I couldn’t stop the white heat pulsating in my lower region.

Before I dared to take another breath, he ripped my wrapper down the front, exposing me to his view. I gasped. Loudly. Round and bouncy, my breasts spilled out over my corset. I gritted my teeth when he squeezed them, pulling on them, rubbing them against each other, then pinching my nipples and flicking them back and forth between his thumbs and forefingers. I protested his assault upon my person, but he merely laughed then picked up the crop and drew the instrument of pleasure across my bare breasts, flicking it over my taut nipples, stinging them with a sensation that both aroused and frightened me.

I shudder as I write this passage, remembering that night. I was in the most awkward and alarming predicament. Imagine yourself in my position, dear lady reader. I was about to be whipped by my new husband and I couldn’t do anything about it. I ask you, what would you do? I’ve no doubt several of you ladies are licking your lips and wiggling about in your chairs, thinking, wondering, anticipating this delicious treat about to be rendered upon your bare bottom. I, too, would have found such an idea interesting and provocative, not to mention naughty, had I been with a man I trusted.

Lord Carlton inspired no such emotions within me with his brusque manner and sharp orders.

Why not induce a fainting spell? you ask. It worked for me when that old lecher, Lord—leaned over and put his nose down my cleavage last week.

That wouldn’t stop James, though I was grateful I wasn’t wearing my new cuirasse corset, the silk ribbons laced up so tightly you can barely breathe. I surely would have succumbed to unconsciousness, then his lordship could have done whatever he wished with me and—

Enough about the damn corset, you insist, fretting about, twisting the fringe border on your overskirt until you pull it off. Get on with the scene.

I shall, but first I must explain to you that should I have not come up with a grand scheme to extradite myself from his lordship’s domination game, I never would have gone to Japan and you would have no story to titillate you, so please allow me this moment to catch my breath. Putting words down on the page is not easy, decidedly so when the memory is not a pleasant one.

It didn’t help my thinking process when he rubbed my nipples back and forth, then took them between his teeth and bit them, not hard, just enough to make me cry out with more pleasure than pain.

Was his hand wielding the whip just as provocative? Enticing me to take pleasure in such a deed instead of being repulsed? What other roguish certitudes would he undertake to engage my emotions?

I had no intention of finding out. No matter how my body betrayed me with delicious sensations slithering up and down my spine, a flogging was not my idea of romantic love. Many of you would have no doubt fainted, then opted for the cathartic effect of Seidlitz powders to purge his evil deed from your body and purify your soul. I searched my mind for another alternative.

Divorce?

I mention it here should the curious idea have crossed your mind, albeit ’twas not a practical one for a girl in my situation. British law dictated that I could only obtain a divorce from James by proving he performed some bestial act such as cruelty upon my person (calling the two prostitutes as witnesses was not an option since their livelihood would shrink considerably if they testified against his lordship in an open court). He, on the other hand, could divorce me simply for the act of adultery. I had to think of something else, but what?

“I demand you stop this display of power, James,” I said, stalling him with a steady but weakening voice that threatened to betray me. God, now he was teasing me with gentle stroking between my thighs. When would he stop? “Or I shall scream for help.”

“And who do you think will come to your assistance, milady?” he said in a mocking tone. He leaned closer, the smell of a fragrant liqueur on his breath scenting his words with a menace I dared not ignore. “The room is soundproof and the servants are used to such goings-on.”

I ignored his remark. “I imagine that is Lord Penmore’s best cognac I smell on your breath.”

He laughed at my impudence. “And this is his favorite crop.” He raised his arm in a long arc, his handsome face gleaming with sweat, his dark hair matted and wet and sticking to his forehead and cheekbones. “The moment is at hand, my dear wife. Before I take you to my bed, I shall tantalize you with a most erotic stimulant upon your beautiful breasts—”

“Release me, James—” I demanded. No matter how aroused I was by the crop, I refused to allow him to dominate me in a situation where I had no say in the matter.

“And end our little game?” he taunted me. “I intend to enjoy myself as I watch you squirm—”

The hiss of the flogger cutting through the air chilled me as the implement struck the wooden table with such force splinters of wood bounced upward and landed on my breasts, stinging my bare flesh and making me jump. Seeing my reaction, he threw his head back and laughed, then raised his arm again, taking aim at my nipples, hard and taut and quivering.

“I won’t miss this time,” he vowed.

“You wouldn’t dare,” I yelled, my breath becoming erratic. He wouldn’t stripe my nude flesh pink then rip my maidenhead from me with such cold audacity, would he? “If you do, I swear I shall faint—”

Yes, I said it. After all my preaching about the silly, inane things aristocratic ladies do to keep their noses out of undesirable, odorous places, I had succumbed to the same devices and uttered a weak, feigned excuse. What choice did I have? I’d married a man devoid of any sense of propriety.

“You give me cause to think, milady,” he said, smirking. “You should be primed with a whipping to stimulate your sexual juices, but I wouldn’t wish my bride to have a case of the vapors before I can pleasure her with my cock.”

“It’s about time you came to your senses,” I muttered, relieved. “And stopped playing this deviant game.”

“Who said the game was over?” He put down the flogger, allowing me to slow down my breathing for a precious few seconds before he slid his hand down my belly, covering my pubic region with a protective caress, then rubbing me with a sensual touch. I groaned. I couldn’t stop myself. “You will find I am a man who covets his bridegroom privileges with great ardor,” he continued, then he grabbed the soft flesh of my pubic mound and squeezed it, ripping the buttons off my pantaloons and finding his way inside me, his fingers probing me, looking for what I imagined was proof of my virgo intacta, that fold of mucus membrane yet unbroken by a man’s cock. Or had my robust riding upon a steed already done the job?

I’ve no doubt there are those among you who have sworn to your husband that vigorous exercise was the culprit when he thrust into you on your wedding night and found no obstacle on his path to marital joy. Was it the handsome young lord with no yearly stipend? Or your groom with the strong, muscular body, or the foreign gentleman with the charming accent? I make no judgment upon you. Whoever he was, I’ve no doubt you were young and in love. I have since learned the uncontrollable power of such a physical love, the driving need for touch, smell, taste and penetration with a beloved, how impossible it is to stop it, thinking about how much you crave it, the gnawing inside you that hurts so much you can’t control yourself when his fingertips touch your cheek or brush your lips.

But I was, at this moment, still a virgin and untouched by any man. I have nothing to gain here by delivering an untruth to you. Still, I prayed my virginity was intact, for a wild idea was forming in my brain, a way to save my virtue and my pride. But without proof of my purity, I had nothing to bargain with, for his lordship had made a contract for a virgin and I feared more wrath from him if he didn’t believe me untouched.

“Release me, James, now,” I said with more insistence than before. “Or there shall be hell to pay.” I struggled to force apart the leather restraints that fastened me to the table, turning my body from side to side while each prostitute held an ankle, spewing lewd expletives at me and keeping my legs spread apart.

“Keep still,” he ordered, paying no attention to my plea and pushing deeper inside me with his two fingers, exploring me, making me gasp, then he smiled. “So you are a virgin.” Was he playing a game or did he really know? He withdrew his fingers and sniffed the honeyed smell off the fleshy pads, then waved his fingers under my nose. The strong scent of my desire hit my nostrils, making me gasp. “But not for long,” he finished.

I have no doubt my cheeks flushed as red as the girl’s corset, creeping down the side of my face to my jaw then down my neck, not with embarrassment but shame. My husband intended to rape me and he believed me helpless to stop him. Damn if I’d allow him to perform such an odious act upon me. I must put forth my proposition now.

“If you violate me, James,” I said quickly, “I shall go to my father and tell him everything.”

He laughed. “What ridiculous plan is hatching in that small female brain of yours?” he said, the curiosity in his voice pressing me to speak further.

“I shall tell him about the prostitutes,” I said, ignoring his insult. He would pay for that dearly. “As well as the whippings and floggers and other instruments of domination, everything that takes place in this room. I’ve no doubt my father will break our marriage contract and withdraw any funds he’s already given you then cut off your line of credit at the banks.” I spoke in a rapid pace without taking a breath, my flippant remarks a way for me to cover up my embarrassment and bruised ego. Even as I said the words, I harbored a deep hope that my husband retained feelings for me, feelings that he would show me in a time of duress. I was hungry for his affection. A tender stroke on the cheek, a lingering look into my eyes, a brush of his lips with mine. Simple things, but so important to me.

I saw nothing but a cold look in his clear blue eyes. I shivered.

“You’ll get nothing from me,” I said, attempting to keep up my act without my voice cracking, “do you hear, nothing.”

Lord Carlton pulled back, thinking about what I’d said, then motioned for the two prostitutes to exit the room and leave us alone. Snickering and complaining, the two girls did as they were told, giving me a moment to contemplate where the situation would lead. Hard to believe that before tonight I had made the mistake of imagining my life with him down to the last detail, describing him to my female self in the most glowing terms, giving him attributes no man could possibly attain. In doing so, my fabricated lover overshadowed the man, swallowing him up in my subconscious. Signs of his infidelity were always there—his wayward glances at other women (perhaps even you, dear lady reader), his lips brushing the skin of my soft gloves but not the heated skin of my palm, never asking my father if he could be alone with me. I didn’t see him as he was until now.

I prayed his love of women and drink and the life of a bon vivant were more important to him than fucking his bride. Yes, I said f—Wait, don’t close the book, then pout because I spoke so freely. It’s women like you who perpetrate the whole idea of sex as something indecent. Open your eyes and understand that I use the vulgar word with no excuse, for that’s what his lordship had in mind. Fucking. Any girlhood illusion I had about the debonair lord I had married vanished. The man I had perceived to have a great wit had proven he had no honor, was debauched but so charming he could tempt a sister of the cloth to denounce her savior. All my romantic ideas were gone. Shattered like a beveled-glass mirror and broken into so many pieces no illusion remained. I was a fool to believe our marriage was different, that I could change the behavior of a man from the upper class, a class that thrived on infidelity in an aristocratic society. I had been warned that in my new position it was expected that I would ignore James’s indiscretions, as I’m certain you do those of your husband. I couldn’t. I was in a state of excitement on my wedding night and believed I could make him become the man I thought I’d married by threatening to leave him. Foolish on my part, but that’s how it was. I threw myself into a panic, knowing this was my moment to bargain with his lordship regarding the intimate details of our marriage contract, a contract that allowed no pleasure for a wife. I hadn’t wanted to believe my life would follow such due course. I became aware that I would proceed at my own peril.

“If I permit you to return to your rooms without being pleasured by my cock,” Lord Carlton said finally, his voice even, “I shall have your word we will continue to live as man and wife?”

“Yes, milord. In all matters except in the bedroom.” I hated making a pact with him, a dirty, vile agreement based on his lust and my temerity, but I had no choice. The scandal of an annulment would cause my mother such grief I couldn’t bear it. My marriage to Lord Carlton and entrée into British society meant everything to her. Though I didn’t approve of my mother’s brashness, I understood her hunger for the finer things in life. Reared in poverty, Ida O’Roarke didn’t have a pair of shoes to wear on her scarred feet until she was seven. Now she owned a hundred pairs made of the finest Italian leather.

No wonder my mother put an end to the heated whispers and snickers when she took her seat in the bridal pew at my wedding. Head held high, she stared them down until they turned away, shamed by her strength and fortitude. No doubt the rumors of an O’Roarke indiscretion had followed us across the Atlantic after my younger sister, Elva, found herself with child after lessons of another sort from her French fencing master. I knew it bothered my mother even if she didn’t show it. She couldn’t bear up under more aspersions cast upon us.

Such a scandal célèbre would also have far-reaching repercussions on my father. He had such great hopes for his business ventures in the Orient with the opening up of Japan to the West. It was no secret that companies from the United States hadn’t been able to catch up to the British in forging their part of the Yokohama trade. Many nights I’d listen to Da lamenting to his cronies about how American merchants eked out a tenth of the Japanese imports compared to the British. My marriage to a titled Englishman had assured him of the entrée he needed to compete in this exciting new commercial venture.

A surge of hope raced through me. His lordship had also done me a great service. I was now Lady Carlton and as such, I was included in the dalliances and nuances of British society. I sensed a new arena would open up to me as an intimate member of the royal set, where I could speak my mind without being rebuffed, where I could meet famed personages and learn from them, where I could delve into politics and the arts and explore them without fear of reprisal. Something I couldn’t do in New York because we were considered nouveau riche and were not invited to society soirees.