Lord Decadent's Obsession by Brita Addams
Prentice Hyde, Marquess of Wycroft, known as Lord Decadent, has been a member of The Sapphire Club since its inception. He is a man ruled by his sexual desires. He loves nothing better than “blistering arses and fucking them insensible,” the very definition of his obsession.
Having lost his wife, who shared the same proclivities, Prentice has wandered lost, until Desiree Huntington appears at the club, wishing to engage his services in just the activities he most enjoys. He is thrilled and proceeds to paddle the lovely widow, then takes her to his bed, showing her passion that she has never before experienced.
Desiree has a secret, however. Ten years before, Prentice Hyde took her virginity, one in a long line of faceless young women who gave it up to the handsome and persuasive noble. That single act destroyed her life, forcing her into a marriage with a man three times her age, since the young man who had wished to marry her threw her over when he discovered she wasn’t a virgin.
When Desiree appears at the club, she not only wants all that Prentice can give her, but she wants him to fall in love with her. When she has accomplished this, she intends to disappear from his life, as he did hers, leaving him devastated and miserable.
She never intends to fall for him, but when she does, her plan is in jeopardy. Anger wins out and she indeed leaves their arrangement, devastating herself in the process.
Undaunted, Prentice finds out the reason she left him and campaigns to win her heart. His charm, sex appeal and oh, yes, a brilliant kidnapping, all lend themselves to a happy outcome for the two lovers, who both want nothing more than to immerse themselves in Lord Decadent’s Obsession.
Lord Decadent's Obsession
"As your master, I will be demanding. You must be available to me whenever I wish. If you receive a missive asking you to join me, you must return with the messenger without fail. I will never do anything you do not specifically agree I have your approval, I also must have carte blanche."
The fire in the grate was burning low, making the room rather chill. Prentice stoked it, and added another log.
"I wish to test you."
"Test me, sir?"
"I wish to see how you take a spanking. Bend over the arm side of the bed."
Prentice watched her face for traces of reticence. She stepped forward, and did as he asked without as much as a blink. She raised her skirts, and placed her hands above her head. He walked up beside her, making sure to brush her legs with his. He skimmed his hands over her bottom, and down to the backs of her thighs. He paid particular attention to the tender skin of her inner thighs, and allowed the side of his hand to graze her cleft. She was wet already, he noted.
"Spankings will always be conducted in the nude. You are to wear no undergarments when you expect me or I summon you. I wish you to be clean shaven as I abhor this." He gently tugged her pubic hair.
He pulled the ribbon that held her frilly white drawers, letting them slide gracefully over her bottom, and float down to her ankles. Then he rubbed his hands over her white buttocks once again. "As long as we are in association, your bottom will never look like this, my dear, I shall see to it." He gave her a smack with the palm of his hand, not holding back in force.
She expelled a breath, and an "Oh!"
"Did that hurt?"
He gave her another, and was amazed when she situated herself so that her bottom was even higher. "I like your pluck," he commented, before he went to work. She moaned, and squeaked, but took his punishment. After twenty strokes, he stopped, having assured himself that she would be a worthy partner in the particular games he so enjoyed. It had been some time since he had found such a person to fill that empty space.
He drew her undergarment up, and helped her to a standing position. She was not even out of breath nor did she have even a trace of a tear in her eye. "I believe we shall do well together, Mrs. Huntington."
"Desiree, please call me Desiree."
"Oh, Desire in French, is it not?"
"Yes, my mother was part French. I am named for my grandmother."
"It is an apt name."
"Am I to assume you have some of that particular emotion toward me, Master?"
"Well, I would have you note that my cock is like steel, and it isn't simply because I have spanked you."
"What shall we do about that?" She riffled her hand over the fall of his breeches.
"You could bend over that bed once again, and I could fuck you insensible."
Prentice's eyes grew dark. His smile disappeared. He'd like to bury himself deeply within her, and he had no patience for seduction this night.
To his surprise, and her credit, she followed his instructions. She raised her own skirts then released the offending drawers from around her waist.
"Oh, yes, and you've a nice color to your ass. I am pleased."
"Yes, I am rather enjoying the sting, and burn. Now I would enjoy something else."
His tall body towered over her as he came up behind her, and spread her legs wide with his own. He teased her with his fingers, finding her clitoris, taking it between two fingers. She was wet. He was nearly salivating with need. With little ceremony, he entered her with a grunt. "Yes, that is what I like, a wet, and ready quim."
He pumped her as his hand found her anus. His finger toyed with the opening, getting no argument from her. He used her own moisture to lubricate his finger, and entered her. She groaned, and balked, he stilled.
"All right." He inched his way in, feeling her muscles expand, and contract around his finger, stopping, and starting him.
He couldn't hold back much longer. The orgasm was building much too soon but he couldn't force himself to stop. With no regard for her pleasure, he pulled from her at the last moment, and finished with his hand. He felt an immediate sense of loss; his hand had never been a substitute for the moist depths of a woman.
She groaned in what sounded to him like disappointment but he dismissed her with a swat on the bottom. "Your time will come, but not tonight."
"That is not quite what I had in mind, sir."
"The next time we meet, I will see to your pleasure as well as punish you for your impertinence."
She stood up, and smiled. "So there will be a next time?"
"Oh, yes, you have much potential. Come now, I will see you home."
"I have a hackney."
"Are you arguing with me?"
"Good. I shall see you home."
Fifteen minutes later, as the carriage made the long journey from St. John's Wood to her Doughty Street home; Prentice was afforded the opportunity to examine the lady who had so precipitously fallen into his life. He was able to observe her without her knowledge as the carriage lamp illuminated her face, a combination of fine bone structure, and flawless, alabaster skin. Her nose was Patrician, her expressive eyes just large enough to portray surprise or pleasure, preferably in equal measure. Her mouth was a luscious creation, with a bottom lip just plump enough to nibble on or suck into one's mouth. The natural curve at her mouth's corners betrayed a propensity to smile often. He'd like to be responsible for some of her smiles, and would be envious should anyone else do the honors.
She was a beautiful woman, indeed. She had a bawdy nature, but to his way of thinking, all women should. He had no patience for a missish female, and they were the only kind that pursued him, more often than not with marriage on their minds.
The pretentiousness of society had prolonged his search for another mate, though, heaven knows, it was disagreeably uppermost in his mind. A marquess must secure the title and fortune with an heir. The very thought sent shudders through his body.
His wife, should there ever be one, would have to live life on this terms. He wouldn't give up his sexual proclivities for anyone. She would either be his partner or she wouldn't be his marchioness. He'd had it all once, and there would be no compromise. If there wasn't another Abigail for him, so be it. His cousin's footmen would look wonderful in blue and gold livery.
"This really wasn't necessary, my lord. I am quite capable of seeing myself home."
Prentice was torn from his melancholic reverie. "I realize that, my dear, but I am nothing if not a gentleman."
"I would hope not too much of a gentleman."
He smiled, storing away her comment. "So you said your husband didn't spank you?"
"No, he did not. He was not the man I wished to marry, and I would prefer not to speak of him."
Prentice nodded his head in acknowledgement. "I am sorry if I have opened old wounds."
Giving him a weak smile, she said, "Do you mind if I ask you a question?"
"Not at all."
"How long have you spanked women?"
Prentice laughed. "You make it sound as though I search the countryside for fresh asses to blister."
"I apologize. I simply meant…"
"I understand." He put his hand to ward off her apology. "I have been a devotee for many years. I've spent a considerable amount of time on the Continent, and was taught much by some very talented people."
Silence once again surrounded them but for the clopping of hooves on the cobbles, and the occasional command from the coachman. The carriage creaked its way through the streets as the moonlight flickered through the windows. Prentice couldn't bring himself to speak, though he had much to say.
He had been retrospective of late; the anniversary of his wife's death was looming. It was like this every year. His usual jovial humor was reduced to morose thoughts, and though his sexual urges never abated, he took little pleasure in satisfying them.
The carriage stopped outside number forty-two Doughty Street. The coachman opened the door, and Prentice got out. Desiree followed with his help. "Would you care for a brandy, my lord? I have some fine French."
"Yes, I believe I would," he said without thinking. He loathed being alone, and rather enjoyed the lady's company.
Desiree let them into her home, the servants long abed. Ferguson had left a taper lit, which provided scant but sufficient light. She led Prentice to her drawing room, a small but adequate place, filled to teeming with furniture that belonged to the last century. A sconce was lit in this room as was a nice fire in the grate, which warmed the room cozily.
Prentice walked around, looking at the porcelain figurines. "This is a nice room. It seems to be a pleasant place to spend some idle hours."
"Thank you. This is my favorite room in the house."
"How long have you been in London?"
"Many years now, but in this house only the last five."
"Is that when your husband died?"
"Yes, it is."
Prentice turned to again apologize, and was struck once again by her inordinate beauty. His heart wrenched.
"What is it? You suddenly look so terribly sad."
Her compassion gripped him. He crossed the space between them, and before he could think, he kissed her. He covered her lips with a desperation that frightened him. As her lips parted, and her arms came around his neck, he became lost in the moment. His tongue delved into her mouth.
He wrapped his arms around her slim body absorbing her warmth, her strength. He didn't allow himself this type of closeness. Having a woman's body pressed so close to his own was a luxury he rarely indulged in. Fucking was one thing, this was something else entirely.
She gave back, kissing him with abandon, with purpose.
"I want you," he whispered. "Where is your bed?"
"This way." She led him up the stairs, down a long hallway, and to her bedchamber. It too was warmed by a cheery fire in the grate.
They were barely through the door before Prentice was working the buttons on the back of Desiree's dress. He wanted to tear the thing off of her but realized that forbearance was the route he should take.
"God I hate buttons, especially tiny ones," he grumbled. She giggled like a young debutante.
Finally, her dress was pushed down over her shoulders, into a fluffy heap about her ankles. Her stays soon joined the dress, leaving her standing before him in her chemise, looking lovelier than a woman had a right.
He couldn't resist the temptation to pluck the silver pins from her hair. He wanted to see if her tawny hair felt as silky as it looked. It took but a moment to discover the softness, and become intoxicated by the glorious smell of gardenias. He raked his hands through her locks, allowing himself to become lost in the moment.
"I wish to see you, Desiree."
"You have but to ask, sir."
"I am not your master now. I am simply a man who wants you under him."
She slipped the chemise over her head. Prentice filled his hands with her breasts then covered each nipple in turn with his mouth. She seemed to melt in his embrace. He suckled them, hungrily drawing the nipple into the moist heat of his mouth then laving them with his tongue.
She reached up to unbutton his coat, which he shrugged out of, and dropped to the floor.
"I wish to see you as well."
He picked her up, and carried her to the bed. Perching her bottom on the edge of the mattress, he towered over her, his tall, lanky body shielding her from the lapping shadows of the fire. Her face was close enough to . . . .
She reached for the bone buttons of his breeches, her tongue licking her bottom lip. When Desiree's hand brushed his cock through the linen, he closed his eyes, the sensation almost overwhelming. For a moment, he replayed another night in his head, another woman. He forced himself to open his eyes, to bring himself back to the present. She's gone, old man. Abigail's gone.
Impatience replaced sorrow as he helped her with the remaining three buttons. He then allowed her to slide the breeches, and small clothes over his narrow hips, savoring the feel of her hands skimming over his skin.
Her warm breath upon him was nearly his undoing. "Touch me." Even he sensed the raw need in his voice.
He waited for the first contact; that precious feeling he'd always adored. Her warm hand reverently closed around his steel hard cock, while her eyes studied his face. She was practiced, he could tell. He did so hate to break them in, to teach them the many ways to please him, especially when he was anxious to sink into them, and forget. He wished for a schooled touch from someone who might have a few surprises of her own.
She slid her hand down, touching all of the most sensitive spots. Then up again, her thumb riding the engorged blue vein. "Oh, shit" he hissed through his teeth.
"Do you like that, my lord?"
"You know I do, vixen." His hold on composure was tenuous.
As her hand slid down once again, her tongue flicked the bulbous head, lapping the secretion her ministrations produced. Her mouth covered the head, surrounding it in wet, velvety warmth. Inch by delicious inch, she took him in.
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