The Blonde Samurai. Jina Bacarr

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