Historical Romance

Lanie looked down, mortified. Having graduated from the oversized diaper stage, she was totally naked under the gown. She instinctively covered herself and Maddy chuckled.

“You don’t got nothing I don’t have, only it’s lots smaller and you don’t got nothing Carrie don’t have neither. So don’t be hiding, friendly girl, we got work to do.” Then she smiled smugly. “See, I can use those strange words, too. Hee hee hee.”

Lanie had never heard anyone actually laugh like that and it almost threw her over into a fit of giggles. Darting a quick look, she wondered if Maddy had seen Carrie under the bed, but she was nowhere in sight.

“I think you mean girlfriend, don’t you, Maddy?”

“Just you hush up, child, and let old Maddy dress you up nice.” Maddy scowled as she mumbled. “It’s just like white folk. I don’t know what they would do without old Maddy here to take care of ‘em.”

Getting dressed was a tedious process. Lanie didn’t think she’d ever seen the amount of underwear she was supposed to wear all at once. Under her dress, she wore a garment that resembled a long low-necked sleeveless shirt that reached to mid-thigh. She held up her hands as Maddy started walking toward her with a corset. “I don’t care what argument you give me over this, Maddy. I am not wearing that thing.”

“You’ll wear this here corset, missy, or you won’t set foot outta this room.” Maddy’s scowl was fierce. It was obvious she meant every word she said.

Lanie put her hands on her hips and tapped her toes. “I don’t see you wearing one. Why do I have to?” She hoped they didn’t really expect her to wear that torture device. Just watching Scarlett get trussed up in one of those things in Gone With The Wind was enough to take her breath away. She was sure she could never wear one.

“You have to wear one because you are a lady. I am not a lady, I am a housekeeper. No one expects me to wear a corset.” She looked down at herself and laughed. “Not that I could get one of these tiny things around me anyway.” She held it up to herself and chuckled.

“Well, no one better expect me to wear one either, I’m not stepping one foot into that torture device.” Lanie waved her hand toward the conglomeration of cotton, bone and lace Maddy had slung over her arm.

Maddy put her hand on her hips. “If you want to leave this room, you will put this on or else I’m not going to help you dress.”

Lanie sighed, stuck. Maddy flat-out refused to go any further until she was allowed to lace the thing around her waist. It didn’t take long to realize why women of this age were always fainting. Their laces were probably drawn so tight they suffocated or starved to death. Surely they didn’t expect her to eat in this get-up?

Well, hell. I have to wear the damned thing or spend the rest of my stay in this room. Since the four walls of the room were already driving her loopy, Lanie gave in…probably too easily, but such is life.

After the corset, came what looked like a pair of bloomers. Then stockings, that conveniently enough, were tied very snugly just above her knees.

The bell-hoop and the slip came next. The pure white slip was a work of art itself, with half sleeves trimmed in frilly lace. Finally, Maddy held up the dress. She slipped the sky blue dress over Lanie’s head and smiled approvingly.

“I told Miss Elisabeth this dress wasn’t her color. It makes her look all green in the face.”

This was the second time Maddy said that name. Was she Daniel’s wife? A peculiar feeling shot through Lanie’s chest at the thought. Good grief! I’ve been lusting after a married man. “Miss Elisabeth? Is that Master Daniel’s wife?” She couldn’t keep herself from asking. She had to know.

Maddy whooped with laughter. “Oh, no! Miss Elisabeth is his mama. She is the kindest woman in this world. There isn’t anything any one of us on this plantation wouldn’t do for that lady.”

Lanie slipped her feet into the shoes Maddy held out for her. “They’re a little too big.”

Maddy took them back off and pulled a sheet of paper out of her pocket. “I thought her shoes might be too big for you. I never saw a woman with feet as big as Miss Elisabeth’s.” She ripped the paper in two and wadded the pieces. She crammed them into the toes of the shoes. “Try that until we can get you to the cobbler and get some made for you.”

They were still a bit too big and slid around on her feet when she walked, but Lanie figured she was lucky to have them.

Holy cow! These clothes have to weigh at least ten pounds.

Lanie looked down at the dress and thanked her lucky stars it wasn’t too busy. There was one large bow in the back, which she could see by twisting herself around. And the lace on the slip peeked out from under the sleeves, hem, and around the neckline. If it could be called a neckline since it didn’t even come close to her neck. She blushed. “Aren’t I showing a bit too much?” she asked, tugging at the bodice. Well, apparently corsets did wonders for the figure, even if they did make it impossible to breathe. Her thirty-six C-cup never looked so big, nor her waist so small.

“Is there a shawl or a scarf that goes with this?” She still tugged at the Bodice. It wasn’t budging and she was uncomfortable showing such a tremendous amount of cleavage. “It doesn’t appear to be finished.” Tug. “I think it’s missing some material.” Tug, tug. “I won’t pop out of this, will I?” Tug. Giving up the fight, she sighed. “I think I’m a little too big for this dress.” She placed her hand over her chest, panting from her efforts.

Maddy was scandalized. “Why do you want to cover up the nice attributes God done gave you? Mr. Simonson in town just got himself a brand new stove to sell. Has it sitting right in the front window of his store.” She swatted at Lanie’s hands still covering the exposed area of her chest. “That’s just what you have to do. Put your goods right up there in the front window. How are people going to know what’s at the market, if you keep all of your vegetables in the root cellar?”

Lily Regis could not get enough of her own beauty.

Justin Prince watched her face, a perfect oval, ivory, skin as smooth as if a girl of twenty, only the shadow of a line here and there to show the passage of years.

And even those lines only graced the perfection of her features, eyes wide and blue as mountain skies, the delicate turn of her nose and lips that framed a mouth inviting ecstasy and ruin. Lily's face hung in the mirror and reflected a hundred times in the faceted walls and ceilings of her boudoir.

Those perfect, crimson lips parted in a wild scream as Justin Prince thrust deep inside her. He mounted her from behind, his finger on her clit acted like the trigger of love's own pistol.

Lily's scream echoed and danced endlessly in the glass.

Justin thought of a white bird in a cage of reflective crystal, cascading around the walls and across a shining, depthless ceiling. She closed her eyes and moved with him, clenching her pussy to milk the last of his restraint, undeniable in the sweet pull and pulse. He clutched her breast and came, long and wet and deep inside the cunt of the most powerful woman in Colorado.

Fucking her was the kind of thing a man might lose his license over, Justin thought, or at least the contract with her husband, if old man Regis wasn't way past caring.

"I'm gaining her confidence," Justin told himself, even while he remembered that lying to a liar is even harder when you're lying to yourself.

His spent dick shrank out of her and he gave her clit a last touch then stroked the ivory curve of her hip with deferential tenderness. She made a noise like a panther and collapsed onto the bed. The pale paradise of her back and bottom mesmerized him like a land where a man might live forever, a white island in the sea of red silk sheets.

Justin straddled her, his cock hanging in the cleft of her butt and she shifted beneath him, propping herself on her arms, staring into the depthless silver mirror beside the bed. He reached down between her legs and massaged the open lips of her cunt, smearing her, rousing her clit to slow stiffness.

Lily ground against his hand and tightened her ass around his lengthening cock. She spoke, but so softly he hardly heard her.

Then he realized she had not been talking to him at all.

"Tell me," she whispered. "Am I still the most beautiful woman in the world?"

In a flash, his mouth fused with Ciaran’s. His kiss was brutal in its quest for flesh, devouring everything in its wake. As it threw Ciaran backward, his arms captured and bound his prey. His hands tore at his friend’s shirt, ripping it out of his pants. He thrust his hand underneath and up to ravage the soft skin. His hips shoved forward, pressing his erection hard into Ciaran’s hips. Hearing a moan escape Ciaran, he joined him with a sharp gasp. His heart pounded. He craved more this time, as much as he would give him.

His attention shifted to Ciaran’s neck. His mouth sucked and licked impatiently at sensitive skin in a track from Ciaran’s jaw to his shoulder, reddening it. The hardness of Ciaran’s cock thrust against him, through their trousers, while he walked them both to the bed. “Oh, God, I want you, Ciaran,” he said in a husky voice through the war he raged on Ciaran’s body.

“You have me,” Ciaran said between ragged breaths. He shoved his hand up between them, making a frantic attempt to unbutton Shannon’s shirt.

Hard tapping darted from one button to the next, down his chest to his groin. The feel of Ciaran’s hands finally doing something to him, even this, made him shiver with desire. A loud moan escaped him. “Keep going.” A raw urgency threaded through his voice.

Ciaran dashed his hands to his friend’s belt, hastily unbuckling it while Shannon continued to lick and suck with insistence on his neck. His body shuddered from the attention, eyes closing, for a second. He yanked Shannon’s belt free. Finding his zipper, he plunged it down and hesitated. “I-I’m not sure, what do I do?”

Lost in desire, he drove them both down onto the bed. Ciaran landed on his back and he fell on top of him. While inflicting a steady stream of persistent kisses and supple bites on Ciaran’s neck, he tilted his body enough to reach down and unfasten Ciaran’s trousers. His mouth ran down over his friend’s undershirt, stopping at a nipple, coaxing and biting until the nub hardened through the thin fabric. He shoved his hand into Ciaran’s pants.

Moans of building need escaped Ciaran while Shannon dove his hand into the moist depths of his groin.

His hand found Ciaran’s erection. He pumped precise and steady on his solid cock. Slowing his assault, he found himself wanting to savor every second of their encounter this time.

Ciaran bucked. “F-faster, p-please,” he whined.

“Shh…” He halted his actions all together, having other things in mind. Sitting up on his knees, he peeled his shirt away, flinging it to the floor. He looked down at Ciaran.

Hunger flared in Ciaran’s eyes while they roamed his friend’s bare chest.

It surprised him to think Ciaran would want him, even with his eyes open, seeing full well he was male. Turning his attention to his trousers, he slipped them down with his boxers to his knees, sat on the bed and removed them. He threw them to the floor with his shirt and gazed at Ciaran.

Ciaran’s eyes clearly focused on Shannon’s erection.

He grinned with sinful intent. “Do you want to touch it?”

Ciaran nodded and licked his lips.

He lay down on his side, next to his friend.

Reaching a timid hand out, Ciaran surrounded Shannon’s cock with a light touch. As if fascinated by it, he moved his palm softly, elegantly, up and down his shaft.

Moaning, he tilted his head back. Ciaran’s touch was delicious, so soft it almost tickled. A shiver shook him and he lowered his head to crush Ciaran’s lips beneath his own.

Ciaran’s mouth opened and their tongues engaged, probing each other.

Bringing his hand up to Ciaran’s face, he caressed his cheek. He pulled away. “Ciaran, I uh, is this okay? I mean—you want this?”

“God, Shannon, do you have to ask?” Impatience and irritation flooded his voice and washed over his face.

Another grin spread across his lips as he repositioned himself over Ciaran’s waist. Reaching across, he pulled his friend’s shirt up over his chest, lowering his head into the soft skin of his taut stomach. He licked and teased the sensitive area, causing Ciaran’s muscles to flex.

Ciaran placed his hands on the back of Shannon’s head. He pressed on it, pushing him further down.

When he reached the top of Ciaran’s pants, he pushed his slick tongue just under the waistband of his boxers. A deep groan from Ciaran sent a pulse of desire through his body.

It was unbelievable, how much Ciaran affected him. He set his palm on the thin covering of Ciaran’s undergarment, over his erection, and with just enough pressure, slid it sensually up and down. His hand stopped to let his fingers feel the lip under the head of his friend’s shaft. Running small circles with his thumb in just the right spot, he elicited another drawn out moan and thrusting from Ciaran.

Reaching up, he tugged at the top of Ciaran’s trousers and boxers. Ciaran’s hips rose to allow him to pull both garments down and off. He sat on bent legs between Ciaran’s, letting his gaze roam upward to his friend’s exposed groin. He definitely liked what he saw. Ciaran’s thick cock made a delicious curve upward to rest at the bottom of his navel.

Taking one quick glance into Ciaran’s face, he glimpsed an urgent craving he’d only imagined in his fantasies. His attention refocused on his friend’s groin. He surrounded the base of his cock with his palm and lowered his mouth between Ciaran’s thighs. He licked slow and sensual up Ciaran’s shaft. He wouldn’t give him too much, not yet.

Gasping, Ciaran’s cock pulsed under Shannon’s tongue. His hands pressed the back of Shannon’s head once again.

He took the head of Ciaran’s erection into his mouth and swirled his tongue around it, tasting the pearl of seed gathered there.

 Ciaran pressed harder on his friend’s head as if striving to push him lower. “Damn, Shannon, keep doing that.”

He wasn’t sure if he could hold out. His own erection ached for attention—something, anything to lessen the persistent tension mounting inside him. He reached down quickly and stroked himself, relieving some of his frustration. Driving his mouth down hard onto Ciaran, he took all of him inside.

"Dammit, Molly, you're always spoiling the pretty lords," growled the huge highwayman from amongst the night dark trees. He was practically invisible on his massive black horse. A second black charger tugged on the reins knotted to his saddle. The six powerful coach horses chomped at their bits and stamped in impatience as they stood sweating and blowing from the failed escape attempt.

"Christ's cock, girl, " he continued to snarl. His pistol was primed and pointed at the coachman as Molly dealt with the passenger of the imposing conveyance.

"Is there something you wanted to say?" Molly asked. She smiled, showing her perfect white teeth. With one hand, she swept her feathered cavalier's hat from her head. Her red-gold curls tumbled across her shoulders and down her back in wild disarray.

The young man they referred to replied with a muffled "Mmfftt!"

"Well, I do suppose it is rather difficult to say anything in your position." He was face first in her ample bosom. Molly's arm was locked around the back of his neck with her gloved hand knotted in his long, neatly bowed queue to keep him in place. The silky tail of his over-long golden mane looked so pretty against the black leather of her riding gauntlets. She had tied his wrists together behind him, so he really had no way of coming up for air.

"So, now will you surrender your valuables, or do I need to get rough?" She pulled back on the fine silk of his tail, lifting his face from the deep valley of her bosom.

"That was unfair," he wheezed as he gasped noisily for breath. The moon silvered the fine perfection of his face, the cupid's bow of his delicious lips.

Molly pouted prettily "Well, I did say stand and deliver, milord." She tightened the grip on his hair then bent lower until her full lips were almost brushing his cheek. "Oh, come on, give it up so I can be nice to you," she purred. "I can be very, very nice," she breathed, then brushed her lips against the fine shell of his ear.

A million ideas raced through her mind on how to avoid going into Mr. Turnbull’s bedroom—her bedroom—but nothing useful came to her. If she put off going to her wedding bed too long, she would anger her new husband.

Steps slow and hesitant, she left her dressing room and the safety of solitude it offered and went to the bedroom. She knocked tentatively, hoping against hope that Mr. Turnbull had already gone to bed and fallen asleep.

“Come in, my dear. Come in and be quick about it!”

Gloria opened the door and went in. The gaslights were turned low, but she saw Abraham Turnbull as if he was bathed in dazzling sunlight. He was entirely naked, but her eyes refused to leave the man’s boner. He had a hard-on as large as Ethan’s.

Ethan’s, she thought. She could keep her eyes closed and pretend that it was Ethan fucking her and not this withered old man.

“Come to me and suck on my cock. I want to feel the warmth of your lips as you suck on me. Suck hard and then we will fuck!”

Gloria herself to cross the room. Surprisingly strong hands rested on her shoulders and forced her to her knees. His erection bobbed inches in front of her lips.

“Go on, wife. Suck my dick.”

Gloria reached out and fumbled about, keeping her eyes tightly closed. Then resolve caused her to hurry along. The sooner she got him off the sooner she could simply lie in the bed and sleep, as if sleep would ever come to her this night. She took his cock into her hands and stroked up and down. He moaned softly and stepped a little closer. She worked her hand up and down faster. Then she put her lips to the very tip of his cock.

The fire heating his back was beginning to grow too warm, while the front of him was still cold. Slowly standing, he faced the fire. “I would have you painted nude. I would watch to make certain the artist didn’t do anything improper or offensive.”

She chuckled. “You don’t think it’s improper to want me to sit nude before two men, while one paints my likeness for all the world to see?”

“Real art is often nude.” He shifted to the opposite end of the hearth to warm his cold side.

“I suppose you know that for certain. Or are you basing your knowledge on the nudes over the saloon bars?”

“You have got to be freezing over there. Come over to the fires. You are wasting your time watching out the window. “Oh, by the way, my name is Justus Cole,” he added.

* * * *

“My name is Toney Remy. I’ll call you, Justus, if I may? It doesn’t appear we are going to have much need of formality.”

He flashed a smile. “I’d like that, ma’am. No reason we cannot be friendly.” Moving to the opposite side of the hearth, he tore off a piece of meat with strong white teeth. Chewing as though starved, he opened his coat and slid it from his broad shoulders.

She couldn’t help notice that his clinging clothing revealed a narrow waist and tight rounded buttocks. A wide belt of his gun holster held the material tight across his pelvis, revealing the erection beneath his leather pants. Damn, he has a good-looking body. As for his face, the whiskers made him look grubby and in need of a good scrubbing, still it appeared to be a strong, masculine face. He had dark green eyes that reminded her of jewels and light brown hair similar to the little girl that used to live down the lane from her childhood home.

“I could suggest going to your town.” She didn’t want to be rude.

"Oh, Sasha," Justine cooed as fingers tickled their way up her inner thigh. She bent her knee and spread her legs, inviting and tempting in one shift of her body. "You are so gentle."

"There are precious few things a man needs to know to get through life," Sasha muttered softly. He was intent on his fingers, drinking in the sight of her smooth skin and in his peripheral vision, the mound of her sex tempting him closer. "One of them is how to please a woman. Without this skill, life would forever remain hollow."

"I love your outlook," Justine reached up and pressed the back of her wrist to her forehead, biting her lip. Blonde hair cascaded about the makeshift bedding. "I want you in ways that I'm quite certain would be frowned upon."

"By whom?" Sasha asked, leaning down so that his lips could brush his way up against the opposite leg that he was tickling. "Surely no one we're concerned about."

"Perhaps," Justine gasped and trembled. "What…what're you doing?"

"You'll see," Sasha whispered, adjusting so that he could let his tongue cast a quick and teasing glance over her most intimate parts. That one act made the breath catch in her throat, and she went still as she struggled to keep herself from crying out.

The time for words had ended. Sasha licked once more, then threw himself into pleasuring her with abandon. Fingers had found their mark, massaging her lips while making brief forays inside of her.

It was all more than the young lady could bear. She pulled the blanket that was near her over her face and bit down on it hard as if it were a bit. Her entire body was on fire as pleasure danced along her nerves down to the tips of her fingers and toes. The caravan around her was little more than dark blurs without definition even with wide eyes.

Sasha's routine was relentless and perfectly timed. The rhythm was practiced and patient. Every circular motion was like having rapture driven deep into Justine's abdomen. Her mind drifted to what she wanted him to do. The passion was mounting within her and all of her desires focused on taking his member deep within her.

The fact that she had never experienced sex before didn't even enter her thoughts. The instinctual side of her had taken over. She wanted to be filled and taken, to feel his weight on top of her, and clasp at his back with stiff fingers and nails.

And that's when it happened all at once.

The fiery pleasure that had been teasing her entire body was cast over the edge. She cried out as wave after wave of orgasm made every inch of her skin catch fire. Trembling and gasping, her hand found the top of his head and nudged him away, the experience had become too much to handle.

* * * *

Sasha drew back and gazed down on Justine's heaving breasts. Her expression was placid, eyes lidded and cheeks flushed. They exchanged smiles and Sasha reached for his pants, preparing to fulfill the hunger that gnawed at his heart. He had wanted her from the moment he saw her in Versailles. The chance to fulfill that desire was almost more than he could bear.

"Bolasko!"

Anne blushed at her heated memories of London. All she wanted now was to look down on the moon-touched waters of her special pool hidden amidst tall cedar trees and fed by the waters of a sparkling waterfall. Climbing a small rise, Anne sat down to rest on a fallen log, hidden in shadows. She gazed at the seething water falling into the round pool below.

The waterfall itself was a relatively small one, falling down over jagged rocks perhaps ten or twelve feet into the sandy-bottomed pool. Preoccupied by memories, Anne at first only stared vacantly into the foaming waters of the pool, not watching the curtain of falling water. But she soon noticed a flicker deep within the sparkling cascade. At first it seemed to be merely a trick of the moonlight. Then it seemed as if there was a marble statue of surpassing beauty trapped inside the falls.

Suddenly, Anne realized that she was watching a tall, strong man emerge from the falls. He turned his back to her, allowing the water to wash over him once again. Her pulse accelerating, Anne studied the splendid male body before her. He truly was the living embodiment of all her fantasies. First she took in the rich, honey-colored hair, long and plastered to his back, dark against his glistening white skin. The hair seemed to emphasize the sheer width of his broad shoulders. Anne marveled at the flex and play of the intricate muscles in his back as the man bathed under the falling water. When he tossed his hair to one side, she even enjoyed seeing his ramrod straight spine, another reminder of the way his body tapered so delightfully from broad shoulders to narrow waist.

Was he a pirate? Anne tried to think clearly, but heat spread through her, making it hard to concentrate. In a trance, she found herself drinking in the tight perfection of his hard buttocks and his muscular thighs. Even from the rear, the mere sight of this unexpected and possibly dangerous intruder made all of her sexual parts come alive. Her nipples were pebble hard, her palms moist, her mouth dry. Most distracting of all, her nether parts felt hot and wet and steamy. All this, and she hadn’t even seen his face yet.

When the man turned around, the moonlight made his upturned face glow with light.  In this light it was impossible to see clearly, but Anne was struck by a youthful innocence in his face. He had the body of a god and the face of an angel. Sensing that this man might be less experienced than herself, Anne speculated that his apparent vulnerability might be the key to her continued independence and dominance on this part of the island. This splendid giant might be the answer to her prayers.

His words shocked her. What a callous rogue he was! She pushed at his chest with her free hand but he didn’t budge. Lord, he was built like a rock! Her heart beat madly and she felt her legs weaken again. “How forward of you! You have no manners--no respect at all!” she finally managed to blurt out.

“Apologize!” he insisted, pulling her close. “Look at me, Miss Marquez,” he ordered, pronouncing her family name with mocking dislike.

She unwillingly looked at him, meeting his furious glare while tears pricked at her eyes. Once again he had managed to frustrate and humiliate her.

Alina regretted her recklessness. She should have known better than to poke at the beast. Or had she goaded him on purpose--hoping to get some sort of passionate reaction from him? She closed her eyes at the thought. Impossible. She wasn’t like that. Didn’t even like the man. She swallowed with difficulty because her throat had gone dry. “I--I apologize for what I said…I just want my family to know I’m alive.”

His expression softened a fraction and his grip slackened. “Yes, well, like I explained from the start, that will happen soon enough. You must learn not to be so stubborn.”

She raised her chin defensively but chose to remain silent.

Ramon stared thoughtfully into her eyes for a moment and then his gaze moved over her tense face, stopping at her mouth which was just as inviting now as it had been last night.

Caitlyn leaned forward and kissed the tip of Henry's rod. It was soft and warm beneath her lips, and Henry moaned. Taking a deep breath, she ran her tongue around the tip of the shaft, tasting a drop of moisture against her lips. She opened her mouth and slid the rigid cock deeper into her throat.

She had never seen a cock so huge. Her tongue slipped back and forth against its hole, eagerly trying to probe it. Her lips clenched tight and her head bobbed. She felt the cock's pulse throb against her tongue.

Caitlyn was oblivious to Henry's moans of pleasure as her fingers teased and tugged at his large, soft balls. To touch and suckle such a cock was a sensation she had never felt before, and as she concentrated all her powers towards making the mighty tool spurt its juices into her throat, all thoughts of Henry's ugliness vanished from her mind.

“You dare to defy me,” Jase declared in a low voice.

Myla didn’t dare reply, only held her body rigid in his grasp. Indeed, despite the warmth of his body pressing into hers, she knew his powerful strength. He could end her life so easily. The thought raced through her, adding fearful intensity to her all ready volatile emotions.

Jase grasped Myla’s nape, forcing her head back so he could gaze down into her face. A slanted grin spanned his mouth.

“You smile at me.”

“It is not because I am amused at your resistance to my command.”

“Then why…pray tell?” Her voice was a tiny whisper. The dark covering of hair on his chest had teased her nipples into tight little rose buds already and she was aroused at the possibility of his toying further with them.

“I smile because I am lord and master here at Claymoor and you are under my command.”

He scooped her into his arms and carried her to his bed. Roughly, he released her, causing her to yelp out in surprise.

Myla landed in the middle of the straw mattress, her legs splaying open and her long red hair flying across her breasts. Jase levered himself atop her, his hands catching her wrists and pushing her arms above her head.

“Beg me to rape you,” he commanded. “Beg me!”

So when she took me into the little examining room to wait for the doctor, I naturally thought she wanted to pick up where we had left off. And believe me, even at age forty-five she left me more than willing.

In that stylish plaid taffeta dress with her hair pulled back neatly into a black string snood, she looked just like those fine ladies who volunteered for nursing, rather than a runaway slave who was paid by the Medical Bureau.

But this fine lady, in her rustling gown, was also my former favorite slave girl. From the perfect hourglass contours of her figure, I knew that the frock she had purchased was hiding the red corset I had given her.

So as soon as we were alone in that room, I wrapped my arms around her and pulled her tight against me, rubbing my unshaven jaw with its wiry whiskers against that soft skin. She now smelled faintly of scented powder and lip rouge, as a concession to the passing years, but that scent was a heavenly perfume after the weeks I had spent smelling the harsh hospital lye soap, which was fighting a losing battle against the stench of infections and dysentery.

 "Call me 'Master' again, Cassy," I whispered. "I'm fighting a war for that."

For the moment, I must have forgotten that she was soldiering on the other side. I remembered it soon enough, when she pulled back and raked her nails across my face. I responded by slapping her with my good arm, so hard that she fell against the examining table.

At some point, I must have left my hat on a bed, because my luck started turning bad. That was the moment when the doctor chose to walk in.

O'Neill was still sound asleep late the next morning, lying face down on the narrow bed with his boots dangling over the end. With distaste, she decided that he must have passed out after that bout of drunken singing. Had he already been drunk when he'd joked with that crippled Highlander? Was it the whiskey that made him so jovial?

Still, she could not let him lie there until his legs swelled within his boots. Setting her tray of bread, cheese and beer down on the wooden chest, she knelt beside him. Ignoring the guards' curious stares, she tugged hard at his boots.

Her cry of disgust awakened him. The second boot had fallen against her white lace apron, soiling it with the dried Highland mud that even spattered her blue silk dress. Ever on the alert to danger, he sprang to a sitting position, forcing her to pull back in alarm. She was left sprawling on her bottom in a most undignified position until she quickly rose. Even though she was now gazing down at him, she still had to fight the discomfort caused by his cold, appraising stare.

"Bless you, me darlin'," he told her.

 That Irish way he spoke made his words sound like an intimate caress. He leaped to his feet so quickly, she had to jump out of the way.

"My legs ache badly enough as it is, and aren't you the angel to be taking my boots off?"

"Your head aches too, I should imagine," she answered.

 "Other things ache as well," he said. "I have to use the necessary. Could you leave me alone for a moment?"

His smile did not deceive her. His eyes still measured her coolly as they glittered against his warm brown skin, like ice on a midnight pond. She could feel her pink-and-white complexion, which always blushed with such embarrassing ease, warming to a crimson rose under his bold stare. She strode out of the room so quickly that the guards had to jump out of her way. When she returned, the chamber pot was hidden under the bed again and he was sprawled on the hard, narrow chair, with his legs thrust out before him.

"And now, if you will hand that tray to me?"

Shocked by his insolence, she could barely bring herself to grant his request. When he gobbled the food down ravenously, she was just as offended by his rudeness. Why, it was as though his captors had not fed him at all, officer though he was. Then she was struck by a startling thought: Could it be that, in fact, they had not?

Her own dilemma soon drove that question away. Realizing that she would have to sit on the bed facing him, she did it as demurely as possible. Crossing her ankles delicately, she sat up as straight as she could.

"You must know who I am, or you would not be here," he said, as soon as he could tear himself away from the chunks of cheese he kept piling onto his bread and the beer that kept washing both down. "That gives you the advantage of me, me darlin'."

"I am Lady Mary Buchanan," she said. As he enclosed her slim white hand in a powerful brown fist, and drew it to his lips, she forced herself not to pull it away.

Just a French courtesy, she told herself, as those firm, dry lips and the harsh stubble around them touched her fingers.

Britta was now fifth in line for Ragnar, who had already driven his first ten women to gasping, wailing, screaming orgasm after hurling them onto the snowy ground, tearing off their gowns and plunging his immense male member into their very depths.

From here, that mighty organ seemed as hard, thick and tall as the prow of a Viking ship--the accursed vessel she had seen on the horizon, carrying the raiders that had stormed her father's castle.

She did not know why her lower body now seemed as wet as the ocean that had borne the cruel invaders. Her womanly opening was pouring forth wave after wave of moisture, until she felt sure that the puddle would soon reach her knees.

But I feel nothing but hatred for him, the Irish princess assured herself. And I will not submit to him, she swore, as she stood silently waiting her turn behind her two weeping waiting-maids. I will not be another victory in the horrible competition he is holding against his cousin Torvald.

Neither she nor any other woman would change the outcome of this wenching contest, and all the cheering spectators knew it. Torvald was only on his second woman and was obviously finding it hard to finish the job.

* * * *

This final rival had worn himself out the previous evening, Ragnar remembered with contempt. He and Torvald had each had another competitor then, and Torvald had barely won the day--or, rather, the evening--against an opponent with graying hair.

"What ho, Cousin?" Ragnar cried to his sweating, straining rival. "Are you tiring already? Why, ten women are barely enough to arouse me for the next dozen. Is it too hard for you to enjoy a mere two?"

Tossing back the lion's mane of golden hair that reached beyond his shoulders, Ragnar laughed uproariously. "Or, mayhap, it is not hard enough."

“You may have just completed your last performance for the crowd,” I announced. “I intend to buy you for my own pleasure…dancing and otherwise.”

I waited for her to cry out with gratitude and fling herself to my knees. Instead, I suddenly realized, with a shock, that instead she was fighting her laughter. Her generous bow-shaped lips were pressed together to suppress it, while her arched bronze brows were squeezed together over the eyes that almost matched their shade.

“I am honored,” she told me. “I had thought that you Argives would capture your women, in the same little towns where you took your meat and wine and grain.”

“I have seen the woman I want right here, and I can afford to pay for her. What’s more,” I assured her, “I can also afford to keep you for my pleasure alone, without giving you any hard work to do. You will live in greater luxury than you could have ever known, even in Pharaoh’s house. So you have nothing to fear.”

“I am not afraid,” she assured me, gazing straight up me again…even though she had to bend her head back to do it.

“Then tell me who your master is, and I will double any price he asks. I assure you, he will be as pleased as we are with the trade.”

“Moses commands me,” she said.

Gazing out of her apartment window, Lady Mary Buchanan could barely believe her eyes. The Irish rebel prisoner was smiling. Even more remarkably, he was coaxing a faint smile from the wounded Highlander limping to prison beside him.

Neither had the faintest cause for merriment.

The people here in Edinburgh had cheered themselves hoarse for the Pretender's Son less than a year before, when he had ridden down this same High Street at the head of his Highland men, with their bagpipes blaring the ancient Scottish tunes like 'Hail to the Chief'. The citizens had called him Bonnie Prince Charlie then, as they had shouted together, again and again,

"You are welcome, Charlie Stuart,

There is none as fine as you are."

Now they were cheering just as loudly for the red-coated English soldiers, dragging the same kilted Highlanders, chained and wounded, from the prison ship in Leith Harbor to the dungeons below Edinburgh Castle, taking this Irish officer along with them. The lucky ones, like the notorious seven Glenmoriston Men, had taken to the mountains to live as bandits there.

Clumps of children were running after the wounded men, cruelly mimicking their halting walks, throwing rotten vegetables and clumps of mud. Even the adults, who should have known better, were standing on the street corners or leaning out their windows, shouting insults.

The five hundred captives tried hard to ignore their tormenters. Some looked down, some stared straight ahead, a few gazed around in utter confusion as though they had no idea how they had gotten so far from their mountain home.

She looked on in icy disapproval. Even having no love for these wild Highlanders, she felt that the spectacle was vulgar. The soldiers should have moved the prisoners privately, by night. They should not have subjected them to this senseless abuse.

Belatedly, she realized that she was behaving as badly as her neighbors, staring at these captives as though they were animals in the zoological garden. She turned away from the window. As she did so, she caught a flash of emerald satin, gleaming briefly in the cold sun, and recognized it as the lining of a red woolen uniform.

Golden-haired invaders had stormed in from the sea. In every town they entered, they stole cattle, sheep, grain, weapons and the other things they needed, to fight this war that had lasted ten years and still showed no sign of ending. Those provisions included women like me, for the warriors’ recreation.

Now I stood in one of the log houses they had built beside their ships, a stolen girl dressed in looted finery, waiting for one of their leaders to claim me. Flickering in the log walls, the torches showed me that the room contained a wooden bed with thick purple blanket above an even more luxuriant leopard rug. Both lay beneath an elaborately carved suit of bronze armor suspended from the wall. The sight left no doubt as to my purpose there: I was to share the bed with the armor’s owner.

Well, what of it? I asked myself defiantly. I surely had nothing to be ashamed of, as I firmly assured myself. Getting some of their food was what mattered now, no matter where it came from. Even if the invaders freed me, I saw no hope of finding it for myself.

Food was real: bread, cheese, fruit, wine. The pirates had taken it all away from us, piled high in their wooden carts and chariots, so they were the only ones who could give some back to me. Captivity was just a word, like marriage, and it could hardly be any more degrading.

Whatever my captor did to me, it could not be any worse than serving my lawful husband, who had paid my father four oxen for me. And now I had been marked for the most famous pirate prince. My parents could not have imagined such a dubious honor for me, I reflected bitterly, or they would have made the old man pay a higher bride price. My mother would certainly not have been so eager to convince me that four oxen was far better than they had hoped.

The bonds that held my wrists before me were real enough, too. But they were supple willow, which did not cut or burn. Even better, my hands were still free enough to scratch my nose when it itched and even to wipe my tears away, when, despite my best intentions, a few appeared in my eyes.

I had closed my eyes often enough to avoid seeing my husband’s old flesh shaking above me. Then I had pressed my eyes even tighter shut until he finished. I had shut my ears as well, so that I would not hear his complaining about my failure to give him a child in these eight years. Now I could keep both eyes and ears closed again, as the price of my survival.

I did not think of praying to my goddess. She had not saved me from that marriage, despite my frantic pleas, and I did not think she would do any better now.

Instead, I would rely on my own rule: Don’t look, don’t think, don’t care about it. Hadn’t that been the law of my life ever since my parents sold me? I had gotten plenty of practice in keeping my eyes and ears shut tight. My heart was shut just as carefully, during those eight years that were as gray as my husband’s face, as gray as his few strands of hair, as gray as death.

So I waited for the battle to end for the night, as it always did, when my new lord and master would come for me. At this point, I only hoped he would do so quickly and get it over with. I was so tired of standing here waiting, in a few more moments I would have fallen down on the bed, pulled the blanket over me and let him do whatever he wanted to while I was fast asleep. No doubt I would have done so already if the evening chill had not kept me awake. They had captured me in the heat of the day and their maids had dressed me accordingly in a blue cotton gown, so sheer it was almost transparent.

Given the choice, I would rather have gone with the young soldier who had saved me from my burning house that morning. Instead, he had sent me to his prince, who, I was sure, would never be a great enough hero to risk his own life in the flames.

My eyes opened wide as the log door swung open, letting in the wind, which carried a young god with it. He swept into the dimly torchlit room, so gloriously, radiantly, arrogantly alive that he seemed to wear the sun. It had warmed his fair skin to a deep bronze, beneath the lion’s mane of copper-gold hair that fell to his shoulders and framed a square jaw that tapered to a perfectly rounded chin.

He was faintly scented with licorice from the fennel water he soaked in after one of his pirate raids. It made me ashamed of the heavy perfumed oil that the women had poured over my shoulders, so I would please him.

The bards had praised him too highly, I had thought before, when they visited our town singing about the men whom the war was making famous. Now I felt that they had not said enough. They had called him magnificent, but he was beyond even that. The very sight of him summoned me to be as great as he was.

For one thing, there was his hair. Listening to the bards, I had pictured as brown streaked with gold. I was stunned to see, instead, that startling red-gold mane.

He unlaced the bodice, pressing it open until her bare chest toppled out before him. "My God, you are a sight."

She giggled shyly. "You are too kind."

"No kindness here, milady, only appreciation." Charles studied her every line and feature, burning it into his mind where he hoped it would stay forever. All the while his hardness increased. He lowered his breeches to the floor, unbuttoned the first few buttons.

His lover's delicate fingers found their way to his chest. Claire tugged at his sleeves until his shirt hit the floor, landing on top of her garments. She kissed his shoulders, his neck, his chest. Each proclamation made him more eager for her. She traced her fingers over the tip of him and instinctively tasted his wetness. "Mmm. Quite good."

"Am I?" Charles slid his torso down hers and spread her legs wide, dipping his tongue inside her sweet center. With wet mouth, he lifted his head. "You're quite tasty yourself."

For someone who never had a lover before, Claire arched her back and moaned out like no other Charles had ever had.

The sight of this made him wild with passion. Without her express permission, he rushed over her, guiding himself into her center and forced himself to the deepest parts without incident.

"Agh," she moaned.

He pulled out and checked for blood. There wasn't any, which surprised him. If she was a virgin like she said she was, shouldn't she have been in pain, shouldn't there have been blood? He rested the tip of his member just inside her folds. "Are you okay?"

"Yes, I want more." She reached her hand around his neck, kissing him and sending her tongue dancing inside his mouth.

And more he gave her. Again and again he thrust until he unloaded himself inside her. The pair crumpled together in a sweaty heap of lust.

At that moment, there was a loud knock at their door and a familiar voice of William Davies spoke. "Darling? Are you in there?"

"It's been a long time, Robert," she whispered, releasing him at last and nibbling his ear. "Are you sure you remember what to do?"

"I'm sure I do." he smiled.

"A handsome man like you, I'm sure you must have been fighting the women of London off with a stick!"

"Oh, hardly!"

"Why not?" she frowned. "Have they no taste?"

His face wore a pained expression. "Is there a right answer to that question, Charlotte dear?"

Her lips twitched. "Perhaps not."

"It's been a long time since I dallied with a woman."

"I hope you don't dally with her still?" she asked, alarmed.

"No, no. No, she married another and left the city. But she did give me three months of, ah, education."

"Three months! Oh my! I hardly dare ask, but was it fun?"

"It was a pleasant diversion, nothing more." He looked at her. "I've always had a place for you in my heart."

He kissed her again, and this time his hand wandered up her leg, to her hip, and higher, until he cupped her breast. "I think I know how to really satisfy a lady," he whispered in her ear, and licked it.

She giggled. "Then show me how."

He leaned against her and she yielded to him, falling back to the bed. His hand wandered down over her body, stroking her breast and tummy and then he was fumbling at the hems of her skirt. Charlotte watched him, wide-eyed as he hoisted her skirts up around her hips. She wore nothing beneath. She parted her thighs to let him gaze upon her most intimate place. Her face burned with a mixture of shyness and lust.

Robert's face was a picture as he took in the sight of her pussy with its thick mat of curly dark blond hair. His fingers stroked her knee, then her inner thigh, and higher.

"Ah!" she gasped as he touched her sex. A trickle of moisture escaped her and she could feel it, hot and wet in the cleft of her butt.

"Do you like that?" he whispered.

"Yes! Oh yes! Oh God, Robert, it's been so long…"

Atalanta was panting for it. I could tell by the way she kept flexing her ass and twitching in her seat. Hercules was flexing and twitching, too, but I knew the sweaty bout Atalanta had in mind wasn't the one my ever-hopeful Herc had in his mind.

They say men think of sex every six minutes, but the way I see it, it isn't men that do the thinking. I think of plenty of stuff normal-type stuff like computer games, cloning, DNA, world peace, fruit fly, cabbages--Mr. Clean, that's me. It's Herc that has the dirty mind stuck under his helmet. He might be lolling about on his beanbags, snug in his sleeping bag most of the time, but whenever Atalanta Atkins comes striding back into our lives, he's suddenly up on his haunches insisting he wants it now. He's pretty explicit about it, too. Anyone with half an eye could see he's ready to rumble. Anyone but Atalanta, that is.

"Will you stop squirming, Mel?" says Atalanta this day in July. She's called to say 'hi' on her way down from the twenty-fourth floor. I'd like to cuddle a bit, and talk a bit, and offer her a back-rub, and generally hang together, but she's already getting restless.

Panting for it, like I said.

She gets out of her seat, and starts her stretching regime.

"Like a cup of coffee?" I say hopefully. It's the best thing I can think of to keep her with me a little longer. If she'll accept the coffee, maybe the cuddles can follow.

And the sex. Lots of it. Lashings of it.

That's Herc, getting back into the action. It was the C-word that did it.

"No coffee while I'm in training," says Atalanta.

"A beer, then?"

"No beer while I'm in training."

"Come to bed, then?" It slips out before I know it. I guess Herc is to blame. He's using me like a ventriloquist's dummy.

"Hmm?" Atalanta flexes that neat ass some more. Her gluteus contracts as if winking at me. Herc does a little samba in my shorts.

"You look tense, Atalanta." I pat the couch beside me, and edge my toe over towards the lever that drops the couch into a bed. I do a little inventing and adapting in my spare time. This is one of my niftier creations. "Let me relax you. I do a wonderful back rub."

Atalanta turns to stare at me. She's gorgeous in her running vest and shorts. Those legs go on forever, and every muscle ripples like a tiger's under the skin. She's got a mouth just made for sucking and I almost moan aloud. I haven't tasted pussy in a slick little sixty-niner for weeks.

"I don't want to relax, Mel." Atalanta drops into a flex that hoists her ass in the air. She rests her palms flat on the ground.

"Sure you do." I get up and edge behind her. Maybe I can get a nip of that thigh? Herc is straining to peek above the rim of my shorts. Go get her, cowboy.

Atalanta sways over so one leg is stretched out sideways. "I'm going for an easy seven today." Herc flexes his muscle. He definitely saw what I did. I think he wants some. "Want to join me?"

"Yes, please. Whipped cream or Athenian slaves?"

"I'm talking about miles." She sways over to do the other leg, and gazes up at me from next to her ankle. "This isn't working, Mel. It's the same every time we get together. You can't think of anything but sex."

"I do! I do! I think of lots of other things. Movies, moonlit walks, mousse, picnics..."

"All of which lead to sex," said Atalanta.

"So what? Sex is good. Sex is fun." Herc is doing his little samba again, but now I'm back in control. "Sex is wonderful, but there are other things that are wonderful too. Let's get married!"

Atalanta shoots upright like someone rammed a lollipop up her ass. "You have got to be joking."

"It's logical," I say. "You can run every day, and every night you can sleep here. I'll cook you dinner when I finish work, and then we can do other things."

"Like sex."

"We can have gorgeous dripping sex, yes. Lashings of it."

"No," says Atalanta. "I have to concentrate on my training, and you should concentrate on your work. Don't you have a deadline?"

"I can't concentrate," I say. "Every time I start a new chapter I start fantasizing about making it with you in a hot tub. I even find myself looking funny at the bain marie." I write popular biographies for Profile Press, but I double as a fancy cook at Marie Helena on Friday nights. And I've heard every pun there is about books and cooks. Wanna make something of it?

Atalanta shrugs. "That's your problem, Mel, not mine."

"So it's up to me to solve it, right?"

"Sure," says Atalanta.

"Any way I can?"

"Exactly. I'm glad you're being mature about this. I'll see you after my run." Atalanta drops a kiss on my eyebrow, then steps out on the landing and takes off down the stairs in that long loping stride that reminds me of racehorses. She'll lope down the eight flights, hit the ground running and never crack a sweat until Mile Five. Me, I sit down to solve things, just like she told me.

"Shut up, you," I say to Herc. He's envying my eyebrow. He wants me to think about getting those lips on him. Ever since we met Atalanta and wrote her biography, finger and thumb just don't do it for him any more. Other women? Puh-lease. When you've had the best...

Oh, who am I kidding? I love the woman. I'd die for her. If I didn't crack jokes about it, even to myself, I'd crack right down the middle.

"I'm thinking, I'm thinking..." I mutter.