Masks

Sometimes dreams are just so hot that you have to get up and write them down, even at 4.30am…

—

… and, after dinner, the Duke would despatch the ladies to the their allocated rooms… He’d leave them time to undress; the maids would come and take their fine clothes and hang them neatly. Two items would rest on the bed: a fine mask, which the girl would put on, and a thick leather strap.

She’d take her designated position: face down down on the soft bed, forbidden to touch herself on pain of punishment. And then she’d wait, wondering which of the gentlemen would own her for his evening’s entertainment.

Last time, it had been the Duke himself, behind his mask. Rough, forceful, brief – using her, as he pressed her into the sheets with no thought to her pleasure. Tonight…?

She knew it was her lover without looking, from the moment he walked in. His footsteps. His scent. The sleeve of his expensive jacket, brushing her skin. His hands, touching.

She wondered momentarily if the Duke knew their secret; wondered who else knew; perhaps, wanted it to be known – fearful as she was of her father’s likely reaction and of the whipping she would doubtless receive.

His voice: “Let’s see if I’ve been given an obedient girl.”

He’d step away, walking over to the chaise longue. “Come here.” And she’d walk to him, suddenly shy, the mask making her even more conscious of her otherwise-nakedness. He’d drape her over his knees; caress her; spank slowly, gently at first, building up until she writhed. And his hands would stray, and touch, and go back to inflicting such pleasurable pain.

“Now, kneel down.” Between his legs: she’d need no guidance as to what was expected of her. She complied – hungrily.

He’d take her back to the bed; make her kneel; pick up the strap. “It seems the Duke wants us to beat our girls this evening.”

“Yes, sir…”

The strokes, across her bottom and thighs, would be unforgiving – as they always were from him when she deserved it or wanted it.

“Touch yourself for me.” An instruction, not an invitation.

“Yes, sir….”

She’d reach down, feeling his gaze upon her. And he’d hold and touch too, his hands and hers together. Surprisingly quickly, almost breathless: “May I have permission, sir…” And it was granted, and she cried out, shuddering – and then felt him pushing her down, forcing his way into her tight arse.

Afterwards, they’d hold each other tight. Kiss. Kiss more. And then he’d adjust his mask, and stand up: “I believe I’m expected downstairs by the Duke, for a cognac. It’s been a pleasure, young lady, whoever you might be…”