Page 12 of The Education of Ivy Leavold
No!I watched this arrangement with horror, and I opened my mouth to register my protests, but I was already being swept past Silas and up the stairs. “You seem agitated,” Mr. Markham murmured in my ear. “Now why could that be?”
We were up the stairs now, and the porter was holding open the door to a room, as a large woman swathed in black silk came at us from the end of the corridor. “Miss Leavold, your room is here,” she informed me. She gave Mr. Markham’s hand, wrapped securely around my waist, a look that told me she knew exactly the kind of intimacies we shared and that she saw things like this often and was too jaded to care.
Mr. Markham kissed my cheek and said into my ear, “I’ll be with you in just a moment. And again—I’ll know if you touch yourself while I’m gone.”
With that warning, I was herded into the room by the hotel matron, who ensured that everything was to my satisfaction and then left. I couldn’t sit, I couldn’t stand still, so I paced, praying that Mr. Markham would end my suffering before we went down to dinner.
The door opened after a minute or two, and he came in.
I was on him at once. “Please,” I begged. “Please.”
He slid his arms around my waist. “I’m tempted,” he said. “But to see you so undone at supper…that’s a temptation too.”
“But Silas…” I said, and then I shivered, because I felt his fingers working on my dress buttons.
He walked around me, untying my skirt and bustle, and then the dress fell away. “But that iseven moretempting,” he said. “I want Silas to see how beautiful you are like this. I want him to want you and then know that you are indelibly mine.”
He walked over to my trunk, opening it and pulling out a fresh frock, this one a wine-colored silk with a low neckline and large bustle.
“Julian, no,” I said, seeing that he was about to dress me, not about to fuck me. “No, no, no—”
The dress whispered over my head, Mr. Markham deftly affixing it closed, and then attending to the bustle and the sprays of black lace that frothed at the neckline and at the cap sleeves. I felt a surge of anger then—real anger, limb-shaking anger—and I slapped him hard across the cheek, a crack that resounded through the room.
He growled and crushed his lips to mine, and the press of his body against my own left no doubt what state my rebellion had brought him to. My body responded immediately, the anger fueling my lust, and I seized onto him, digging my fingers into his dinner jacket, grinding my pelvis against his erection, determined to end this torture right now.
And then his hand was on my neck, the pads of his fingers just barely denting the yielding skin and tendons. “Kneel, Ivy.”
“No,” I said, and it was more like a cat’s hiss than speech, and his nostrils flared.
“For that, you don’t get to touch me,” he said. “And the next time I have to ask, I’m taking you over my knee.”
He must have seen the thought that crossed my mind at this, because he added, “And I won’t let you come. In fact, I won’t let you climax until tomorrow night. And believe me, I’ll be watching you like a hawk through all the long hours of your denial.”
It was that threat that punctured my little insurrection. I felt the fight leave my body, my poor, neglected body, and I sank to the floor.
“Let me touch you at least,” I pleaded.
“No,” and his face was almost cruel as he pulled himself out. “No, you may not touch me. Put your hands behind your back.”
I was starting to cry again. I felt raw, flayed open with desire, and I hated it. Except I didn’t. Part of me trusted Mr. Markham, trusted that this was something that would feel all the more stunning for the work it took to get there. Part of me lapped up the suffering and the misery, because it was the man I loved giving it to me, and because I knew it was torment for him too, to not to make love to me, to not to give me what I wanted.
And Ihadasked for all of this, after all.
He fisted his cock and began to rub himself. It was hard and fast—not the leisurely way he’d done it this morning. It was as if this truly were a punishment for me, something to be doled out, not something to be enjoyed. “When we go downstairs to dine,” he said, his face and voice betraying nothing of his activity, “I expect you to be completely obedient. No matter what I ask you to do. Understood?”
I nodded, mute with want, unable to tear my eyes away from the erotic sight of Mr. Markham pleasuring himself, of the way his longer fingers circled the thick, veined shaft, almost vicious-looking and brutal in their grip.
“If you trust me, if you behave, then our lesson in needing can end and I will reward you.” He saw which way my gaze tended. “Is this what you want, Ivy?” he jerked his head toward his erection. “Is this what you want inside of you?”
“God,yes,” I cried. “I don’t care if you want to fuck me in front of all the guests at this hotel, just take me already!”
His mouth twitched, and his dick pulsed, and then he grabbed the skirt of my dress, finishing with four or five long pulls, his seed jetting onto the claret silk.
Another dress ruined, I thought, but I couldn’t bring myself to care about the fabric just then. I only cared that I had been marked once again, claimed, and that while the draped folds of the skirt would mostly hide the stain, I would still know it was there for anyone to see if they wanted.
“I’ll be in you later tonight,” he promised. “And it won’t be quick.” He calmly readjusted himself and his clothing, and like that, it was as if nothing had happened. “Fix your hair,” he said. “We’re already late.”
Ten minutes later, and we were walking arm in arm down the main staircase. Right before we had left my room, he had me spread my legs and brace my hands on the vanity table. My skirt and petticoat were hiked up to my waist, and then he was kneeling behind me, parting my folds with his tongue.
