Chapter Two

Shaken to his core, Craven looked about the opulent, furnished bedchamber. The seductive scents of incense spiraled up his nose, myrrh, neroli and verbena. Lined with hand-painted French nudes, the walls complemented the Persian carpet at his feet. A tall chest of drawers stood against one wall, topped by a porcelain washbowl and pitcher. In the middle of the room, and centered on one wall, stood a massive four-poster bed. Craven swallowed hard. Above the imposing lover’s lair, a crystal chandelier glimmered beneath a ceiling of gold-plated mirrors.

He closed his eyes, the words stampeding through his brain. Magnolia Heat. Magnolia Heat.

Childhood memories rushed back when he looked into a darkened corner of the room. He closed his eyes and prayed the object would disappear like phantom vapors when he opened them again. His heart fell to his feet. the wooden horse remained before him in all its depraved glory.

He’d grown accustomed to the weekly punishments he’d received from Nurse Evans—an implacable, tightlipped woman in a stiffly starched white blouse and matching linen cap. The crotchety witch seemed to take special delight in meting out an ass-whipping with her wide belt.

A horse of fine craftsmanship stood in the corner of the nurse’s bedchamber, an adjunct of the nursery, and on the wall hung her personal collection of leather straps and quirts. The first time she strapped him to the horse, terror surged up his throat, but as time passed, he became accustomed to the contraption. Shamelessly, he began to look forward to riding the horse as naked as the day he entered the world. Not only did Nurse Evans and her brutal castigations sharpen his sense of helplessness, but they also heightened his erotic awareness.

Well-padded, with an elevated pubic pad and side-mounted stirrups, the horse did not lack for comfort. By the time Nurse Evans finished tightening the leg, arm and body straps―rendering him immobile―Craven had sprouted a full-blown erection.

The loyal nurse his parents had commissioned would step back, admire her creation and run a slow hand across his quivering buttocks, a signal his punishment would be administered promptly. He’d draw a deep breath and brace himself for the pain/pleasure about to befall him. Evans would slide the flat, thick strap through her fingers, double it, and with a smile on her haggard face, crack the whip as she pulled it tight.

Three seconds later—Craven had counted them off for years—she’d bring the strap down on his ass. Burning like the bite of a thousand hornets, but leaving no permanent marks on his tender flesh, the woman had honed her craft to perfection.

Thinking about the weekly sessions now, his cock expanded. He walked toward the horse in the corner, drawn by an unexplainable mingling of terror and thrills. Reaching out, he touched it and shrank back when a deep, somnolent voice drifted across the room.

“You were instructed not to touch a thing, were you not?”

Craven turned faster than a viper’s strike and looked into the ice-blue eyes of the most magnificent-looking man he’d ever seen. Long, black hair touched his shoulders. Sleek and shiny, the waves accentuated his olive skin and chiseled features.

“Yes, sir, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.”

The beautiful creature advanced. “Didn’t mean to or couldn’t control your curiosity?”

Craven’s cheeks flamed. “I-I, it brought back memories, sir.”

“Did it now?” the Greek God said.

Craven nodded and licked his dry lips.

“Perhaps you’d care to tell me your name and why you were snooping about my private property?”

“Craven Saunders, sir, and we weren’t snooping―”

“What do you call it, young man, agate-picking?” He shook his head, his voice stern. “I detest it when someone lies to me. If you’re determined to spy on others, be man enough to admit it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Yes, sir, what?”

Craven’s tone took on the innocent pleading of a child. “We were spying, Mr. Beresford, but I promise it won’t happen again.”

“Oh, I’ve no doubt about that, Mr. Saunders.” He raised his chin, the sleek, hair shining like onyx beneath the candlelight in the room. “I must inform you, my valet, Higginbotham, claims you’ve been spying for weeks. Knowing Higginbotham is an honest man, I conducted an investigation myself last Friday eve.” The man swiped a hand across his erotic mouth, the gesture turning Craven’s knees to marmalade and his already dry throat into an arid desert.

Craven hung his head. Damn, he could do nothing but confess. “Your man spoke the truth.”

When Craven garnered the courage to look at him again, the man gave a shake of his head. “Craven, an odd name, is it not?”

“Yes, sir,” he interjected. “It means―”

“I know what it means―weak, spineless, fearful.” The world tilted on its axis when the man took another step toward him and raked him over with those deep blue orbs. “Do the adjectives describe you, Saunders?”

“No, Mr. Beresford, sir, I don’t believe they do.”

He studied the man, captivated by the smooth, silky cadence of his voice. If indeed Beresford stood before him, Anthony couldn’t have been more correct. Magnificently stunning, he oozed male virility. The dim light of the bedchamber could not hide it. His mouth full, his nose straight, every feature of his face must have been crafted by a skilled artisan, or, perhaps, a patient God. Craven couldn’t drag his gaze away from the man’s luminescent eyes. His stomach somersaulted and he couldn’t stifle the aberrant thoughts that came to him unbidden. He longed to be touched by him, fucked senseless. Had he been out in the sun too long today?

“Well, we shall test the theory about your namesake.” The man’s languid once-over sent shivers down his spine. Closing the remaining distance between them, he took Craven’s chin between his thumb and index finger and forced him to look into those piercing eyes. “What makes you think my name is Beresford?”

“My friend, Anthony, told me Dominic Beresford’s eyes were the color of ocean depths, sir, so I assumed―”

He snorted. “Anthony? The other sniveling brat who, at this moment, occupies one of my guest bedchambers?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Your cohort in espionage?”

Craven closed his eyes with a nod and felt his knees go weak. A manly scent tinged with spice spiraled up his nose. God, if only he could take back this day.

“How old are you?”

He opened his eyes and drew a deep breath. “Twenty-one, sir.”

“From where do you hail, and as soon as you answer that question, enlighten me, why are you spying on Beresford Hall? Or is it me you’re curious about, my pet?”

“I grew up in Charleston, Mr. Beresford, and I, we, made the decision out of pure stupidity.”

“What though care killed a cat, thou hast mettle enough in thee to kill care. William Shakespeare,” he quipped. “Do you know what it means?” He paced before him, the massive build distorting the light and the other furnishings in the room. “Yes, sir, it means curiosity killed the cat.”

The man dropped his chin, his hot gaze flickering over him. Did Craven detect a flicker of admiration? “So, my curious little kitten; let us see if you can dispel the sniveling adjectives that describe you.” His voice firm, and leaving no room to broker he said, “Remove your clothing, everything.”

“Sir?”

“You heard me. And then mount that horse.”

“Oh, please, sir, you have my word I’ll never set foot on your property again.” Craven wrung his hands. “I will never come within a rod of your land. Ever.”

Beresford ran a bronze finger down his cheek before his jaw twitched, before he grabbed a lock of his hair and yanked. “I’m not going to tell you again. Your punishment will double unless you take everything off and get up on that contraption this instant.”

Craven searched his steely eyes and decided against arguing with him. Whatever the man had in store for him couldn’t possibly be worse than what he’d endured at the hands of Nurse Evans.

His heartbeat thrummed in his chest while he removed his shirt, trousers, and finally his boots and stockings. Standing before the man naked, a traitorous shiver coursed through him.

A smile curled Beresford’s mouth. When he nodded toward the horse, Craven walked crossed the room and stood before it with his heart in his throat.

“Mount. Now.”

Craven climbed onto the horse, the familiarity washing over him like a flow of hot lava. Images of Nurse Evans and her leather straps flooded his vision when the man secured the straps around his ankles, arms and waist. Like the horse at home, this one came equipped with a pubic pad and stirrups, placing his backside high in the air and in the most vulnerable of positions. With trepidation, Craven watched his host walk to the armoire and remove several items, including a riding crop and a flat-handled paddle.

For the first time since the man entered the room, Craven noticed his impeccable attire. An ebony coat topped his deep red waistcoat. The linen shirt, whiter than snow, matched the bow-tied cravat around his neck. A diamond and ruby pin secured the latter.

Moonlight fell through the paned window and illuminated the bedchamber in silver light. Under different circumstances, Craven might have considered the ambience serene, if not pleasant. Under the current circumstances of not knowing what this man had in mind, he couldn’t call forth a Single. Solitary. Comforting thought.

Coming to stand beside him, Beresford ran a hand over his naked ass and whispered, “Now, you will tell me everything I wish to know, and willingly.”

Craven drew a deep breath and stared at the flickering flames of the hearth rather than look into the eyes of his handsome interrogator.

“Tell me about the childhood memories you spoke of.”

“The horse, sir; we had one at home.”

“Your parents are of English descent?”

Christ, did the man want his lineage back to the War of 1812, possibly his christening date before he meted out punishment? “My father is English, my mother Scotch.”

“Ah, yes,” the man said with pensive observance. “Mine, too.” He changed the subject on a breath. “From whom did you inherit the wheat-colored hair and hazel eyes?”

“My mother, sir.”

“You were about to tell me of your childhood. Your parents employed a nurse, did they?”

Craven nodded, and immediately Beresford brought the paddle down hard on his bottom, eliciting a yelp. “Do not nod or shake your head again. Answer audibly.”

“Yes, sir; Nurse Evans remained in my father’s employ for fifteen years.”

“Tell me about Mistress Evans. Did she take particular delight in misusing your virginal body?”

Every muscle in his body taut, his mind wandered back to the vivid images of Nurse Evans strapping him. He could feel the pain now, and the rush of the intense pleasure between each blow.

Craven nodded again, and fast as a star falling to earth, the paddle met his buttocks. A quick inhalation of air and a fleeting moment of bliss hung in his lungs. Another smack was delivered, followed by yet another before he could catch his breath. The pain spread through his butt cheeks and shot into his lower abdomen. His cock hardened. Oh, please not now.

“Ouch! Yes, sir, she incorporated enemas into my weekly routine and doled out punishment when I misbehaved.”

Again, Craven felt the soft whisper of the man’s hand against his ass. “How many strikes did she deliver while you were trussed up like a goose on the horse?”

Filled with nervous apprehension, butterflies took flight in his gut. “Fifteen, with a leather strap, additional stokes with a paddle if the offense was particularly grievous.”

“Do you consider spying on one’s private affairs grievous?”

Craven knew if he answered yes, he’d receive fifteen whacks with the paddle, but if he answered no, perhaps he’d receive double. “Yes, sir, a most heinous offense.”

“I agree,” the husky voice behind him said. “And you may call me Mr. Beresford if you like. I don’t have to tell you what is about to transpire, do I?”

“I’m ready, Mr. Beresford; please deliver my punishment.”

“Good boy,” he said. “I like it when my subjects ask me to perform unpleasant duties, but make no mistake, you’ll not only ask, but beg for more by the time I’m finished with you.”

His intestines launched into a spasm. Never in his life had Craven been spanked by a man. He braced and prayed his cock wouldn’t weep for all the world to see.

Beresford counted off the strokes out loud. By the time the man reached ten, Craven’s breaths came hard through his nose and his mouth. By fifteen, he whimpered like a wounded animal.

Beresford ran his hand across his flaming buttocks, kneading and caressing until a moan escaped from Craven’s lips. “Such a beautiful ass.” When the man slipped his hand between the horse and his pelvis and clasped his hard erection, Craven writhed against the restraints.

His voice rumbled low, an indication Beresford seemed to enjoy this cat and mouse game. “Pain and pleasure all melded into one, isn’t that right?”

Craven held his tongue and concentrated on his breathing.

“I asked you a question and I don’t fancy waiting for answers.”

He heard Beresford open the night table drawer. “What are you about, sir?”

“I’ll ask the questions here, but if you must know, punishing you for not answering my question.” Low-voiced, he asked, “Have you ever been fucked by a riding crop?”

“Oh, God, please don’t . . . Ouch!” He screamed when the paddle met his sensitive flesh again—three consecutive slaps eliciting an agonizing wail from his lips. “No, no, sir, I haven’t.”

“Think on the bright side. Soon you’ll be able to answer yes to that question.”

His butt cheeks clenched and every muscle in his thighs grew rigid bracing for the intrusion. The scent of lavender and an unfamiliar aroma reached him. A warm hand spread his cheeks and a lubricated finger pushed inside him. His hips arched up unintentionally allowing the sinful man better access. He felt the ring of muscle around his hole work hard to push the invader out, but his body responded contrarily to the rapturous sensation. At least Beresford had taken the time to use oil on his finger. Two fingers now as the man inserted another and probed his insides. Craven felt his staff leak and wondered how long he could hold out against this exquisite torture. Perhaps Beresford would punish him indiscriminately if he shot his load on his precious horse.

“Easy, little kitten. Allow me entry. Think about the pleasure, not the pain.”

Damn, the man was wicked. He knew precisely how to press against a spot that sent him catapulting into oblivion.

He removed his fingers and except for Craven’s heavy breathing, silence came to the room. Moments later, Beresford whispered, “The crop, lovely one, bear up.”

“Oh, oh, God,” he panted when Beresford pushed the crop against his hole and inserted the tip.

“Open, loosen for me; release that sphincter and take it in.”

Craven closed his eyes and concentrated. Within seconds, the crop slipped in several more inches and he moaned like a sick calf.

“That’s it,” Beresford said. “Three more inches now. Take a deep breath and remain very still.”

“Oh, sir, please.” Reeling from unexpected ecstasy, he could no longer distinguish between reality and fantasy. He couldn’t control the words from his mouth or his hot, throbbing cock.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” Beresford manipulated the quirt, moving it in and out while scraping the instrument along the walls of his insides.

Craven tried without success to dispel his building orgasm. A cascade of lights spiraled behind his eyelids and cries fell from his lips. “Please, please.”

Beresford worked the crop, pushed in and pulled back, increasing the tempo with every thrust. Craven’s release came sudden and hard. He expelled a long gasp followed by a bone-numbing scream. Stars exploded and shot through the sky, his body went rigid, even his toes. God, he’d never felt anything so potent. Moments later, weak and out of breath, he collapsed against the horse, grateful he’d borne up under the man’s punishment.

Beresford’s footsteps drew his gaze when the man crossed the room. He opened the chest drawer and pulled out a variety of objects—a triangle-shaped iron bar with a chain at the top, four cuffs, two small, two slightly larger, and a bottle of amber liquid resembling yet another oil. Next, he pulled out another iron bar with hooks. Good, God, did those attach to cuffs and what was the man about now? His heart rate had just started to normalize and now it launched into another frantic beat, the beat of fear, anticipation and desire.

Beresford grabbed a chair from the corner, walked to the center of the room and climbed atop. Moments later, with the chain secured to a hook in the ceiling, he jumped from the chair with the loose-limbed agility of a jungle cat. Craven didn’t have to wonder what he was about. He knew the contraption had been assembled for him, and the knowledge sent shivers of dread and excitement pedaling through him.

Beresford loosened his cravat, removed his shirt, and walked toward him. “Other than the horse, have you been restrained before?”

“No, sir.”

“I didn’t think so. I won’t harm you. If at any time you want me to stop, you have only to say so.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Does the thought of being bound excite you, Craven? Answer truthfully. I’ll know if you lie.”

“Somewhat, yes, sir, but . . ..”

“I know, you’re frightened, but it can be immensely pleasurable. Remember what I said; tell me to stop and I shall.”

Craven nodded and Beresford removed the restraints on the horse. The man smelled delectable, a mixture of sandalwood, musk and pure male. When his cock jumped again, he couldn’t hold back his look of surprise. How could he possibly be ready so soon? And what did Beresford plan to do with him once he restrained him?

“All right, we’re set. Walk to the bar and take a firm hold of it.”

On shaky legs Craven walked toward the shiny object and grabbed hold. The sting in his butt cheeks reminded him that more of the same, or equally as decadent, would be delivered forthwith. Beresford took his wrist, slipped the cuff on and secured it to one end of the bar, repeating the same with the next.

“Spread your legs, wide.” He placed the cuffs around his ankles. Cool and reassuring eyes met his as Beresford hooked the cuffs into the ends of a second metal bar at his feet. “I don’t need to ask you if our last session met your wildest fantasies, do I?”

He shook his head.

“An audible answer. You came so hard you screamed. Tell me, did you expect to be so close to heaven this night?”

“No, sir.”

“You pleased me, held up most admirably on the horse. Now we shall see whether or not you truly live up to your name.”