“In addition to many other fine attributes in your possession,” he continued.
He tugged at her nipples and all her anger dissipated, replaced with a poignant need. She looked away once more, but he took her chin and directed her to the mirror.
“Look at yourself,” he commanded.
She raised her eyes.
“I am no poet,” he said, “or I could speak eloquently of these.”
Once more he fondled her breasts. Desire warmed in her loins despite the awkwardness of having to look upon her own nakedness.
“And these.”
His hands dropped to her hips.
“And this.”
One hand reached the triangle of hair at her groin. How delicious his warm, strong hands felt upon her body…
A hundred pounds, she reminded herself.
“You have the body of a goddess.”
His voice was a caress as powerful as his touch.
“That of lithe Artemis,” he continued, “or Athena.”
He took both her hands in his and guided them to her breasts and over her belly. He moved their right hands between her thighs. She gasped. She was touching herself in front of him! He stroked her flesh through her fingers. His left hand moved hers back to a breast, palming the mound, rolling it over her chest. She needed to escape the assault of sensations but tried not to squirm. He began strumming against her flesh, bumping her fingers into herself. She squeezed her thighs together to limit the movements but he managed to push her forefinger into her wet, hot cunny.
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Dear God, he’s making me frig myself. She was both aroused and flustered. He lifted his head to see her countenance. The flash in his eyes made her heart thump even more. He pushed her finger deeper inside her while he pressed his thumb upon her clitoris. Gradually he increased the motions of both hands. Her head fell against his shoulder at the onslaught. She could look no more. Wonderful sensations brewed and ricocheted inside her.
A hundred pounds. A hundred pounds. A hundred pounds.
“Do not move,” he said, withdrawing his hands.
She saw herself in the mirror, one hand upon her breast, the other buried between her legs. Her cunny throbbed around her finger. When he stepped away to retrieve something, she pulled out of herself and covered herself.
“You moved,” he scolded upon his return.
The darkness of his tone quickened her pulse. A threat lay beneath his words. She saw he held a long thick rope. He planted a simple wooden chair behind her.
“And I have yet to punish you, Miss Herwood, for your first indiscretion.”
Punish?
“My lord?”
“I specifically told you not to come inebriated.”
She felt like a chastened child but retorted, “I forget you are accustomed to women doing all that you bid.”
He pulled the rope taut between his hands. “By all means, contravene me at every turn. I take as much delight in administering punishment as I do pleasure. Arms behind you, please.”
After a brief hesitation, she complied, praying that she would not regret her decision to place all trust in him. With the servants asleep, there would be no one to come to her rescue should she need it. She doubted they would hear her screams through the door and down into the servants’ quarters.
Standing in front of her, Rockwell looped the rope around her neck, crossed it in front of her chest and wound one end beneath a breast, around her arms in back, under the other breast and back up to her neck. He did the same in mirror fashion with the other end. With the skill of a weaver, he wrapped the rope about her ’til her arms were pinioned and her breasts trapped, simultaneously propped up by the rope beneath and pressed down from the rope above. He bent her arms at the elbows and tied her forearms together. He stepped back to evaluate his handiwork.