Dark Goddess in Love , livre ebook

Dark Goddess in Love
Peyton Fletcher




Dark Goddess in Love
First published in 2016 by
House of Erotica
www.houseoferoticabooks.com
Digital edition converted and distributed by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
© Copyright 2016 Peyton Fletcher
The right of Peyton Fletcher to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Any person who does so may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.



The First Suitor
My troubles first began when Mummy and Papa thrust me into my social debut the very instant I returned from my year on the Continent. Four months of intense social activity, beginning with Presentation At Court and followed by dozens of coming-out balls - my own included - afternoon teas, country weekends and countless other amusements all left me without a moment to catch my breath, let alone discover what sort of woman my exotic adventures in foreign lands had made of me.
I did know that, among numerous other accomplishments, my year abroad had taught me the call-and-response game of flirting and how to distinguish the mere social pleasantry from a genuine invitation to erotic adventure. From this, I learned much about the wants and needs of both men and women and how to use the subtle changes of my voice and posture to raise hopes or dash them, an advantage I much enjoyed and used shamelessly when I wished to embark on an adventure with a gentleman’s member or a lady’s little slit.
This sort of self-knowledge is, of course, vital to navigating the social season whose sole and deadly serious purpose is to make the most desirable marriage possible-’desirable’ here meaning to increase one’s rank and fortune.
In this, I was more sought-after than seeking. My family’s wealth and exalted position were more than sufficient to attract the hordes for whom money and title are all that matters, while my own obvious transition from gawky schoolgirl to sophisticated young woman drew the attention of the more alert and serious-minded sort of man - a much smaller and more desirable pool.
First and foremost among these was Matthew Westwood, who stood my equal in rank and riches.
I had known him, distantly, since childhood, of course - everybody knows everybody in my circle - but, upon my return, I first caught sight of him on the polo field and was mightily impressed. He played with striking power and grace, spurring his mount into impossible turns and riding off opponents with the ease of a man swatting flies. This alone was enough to arouse my interest and tell me that he had successfully made the transition from boy into man - the first of my requirements for a potential husband. I therefore decided to make a closer inspection.
Not that this was easy. The man was constantly surrounded by hopeful girls fawning, giggling and sending out far from subtle signals. He handled them all with amiable ease, even going so far as to spend time in quiet conversation with Honoria Threadpin, who had been my best friend since childhood and whose general air of sober piety made her seem more chaperone than reveller at any party she attended. But Matthew, bless him, never seemed to mind - another point in his favour.
Accordingly, I adopted a strategy of merely passing by now and then, dropping a civil remark or responding to one as the occasion arose, and allowing my own breeding and elegance to speak for themselves.
This did the trick and, before long, civil remarks passed into brief conversations on topics of the day, then friendlier, more casual ones on the follies and foibles of our friends and acquaintances.
Our temperaments complemented one another perfectly. He was polished, witty, well-read, an engaging conversationalist on any subject and nimble in the dance. In short, the very image of the man I had in mind to marry.
I could see the interest rise in his eyes with every encounter and my own heart had long since begun to pound whenever he hove into view. I craved a more intimate friendship, partly for its own sake and partly to determine whether his sexual appetites should match my own - a key element in any successful marriage.
I certainly hoped that he would prove a suitable match, for I had never seen such a perfect image of masculine beauty. He had a robust physique with broad shoulders, long straight limbs and large, powerful, hairy hands. A thick shock of black, curly hair framed dark eyes set in a craggy face dominated by a hatchet nose that was too large, but just too large enough. Any more would have been mere pomposity. But as it stood, the thing suggested both an endearing nobility of character and a stimulating place to sit.
So, after a whirling hour on the dance floor at the Cheatham’s ball for their daughter, Elsie, enlivened by Matthew’s ardent gaze and intoxicating masculine aroma, I decided that this evening should mark a significant development in relations between us.
To lead him from a breath of air on the terrace to a stroll in the garden was effortless. I drew him away from the light of the house and into the most secluded little rose bower where Elsie, and I had played as children.
Silvery light from the full moon outlined his features and quickened my desire. My nipples stiffened in shivery anticipation and my little slit began to assert its need for filling. I wondered if, perhaps, our encounter might progress beyond the kisses that I had in mind. This despite my keen preference for a more luxurious venue for amorous exploits and my acute awareness of the social ruin that would ensue should we be discovered here.
We sank upon a shadowed stone bench. Matthew’s strong hands enveloped mine and I yearned to feel them crushing my breasts. I leaned closer, gazed into his eyes and parted my lips slightly, as clear an invitation to a kiss as any ever made. Imagine, then, my astonishment when he began to murmur words of love. My lips hungered. My nipples chafed and my quim moistened.
Pretty words are all very well, but kisses, please. Right now. Eventually, the sense of his amorous ramblings filtered through my fog of desire. I was shocked to find, amid the praises to my beauty and character and his feeling of a spiritual bond between us, that he felt a strong disinclination to kiss me. He feared for my reputation. He believed that such intimacies were best reserved for husband and wife, despite his powerful desire to take me in his arms. A few minutes of this and I was ready to scream.
If he would not kiss me, then I would kiss him - and do whatever else I wished, besides. He only needed to be rendered a bit more compliant and his natural instincts would prevail.
To this end, I resolved to mesmerise him. I had learnt this subtle and powerful art from a woman in Rome who became my dearest friend and who patiently schooled me in the ways to compel any man or woman to absolute obedience to my will. The knowledge thrilled me, the practice more so.
But apart from Mummy and Papa, whom I had entranced mostly for practice, I had never before exercised my power over a proper Englishman of my own rank, never mind one of my own social set and one for whom I held strong personal feelings. The prospect gave me pause and set my nerves a-flutter. Nevertheless, I was resolved.
I put on my most gentle and submissive voice and said, “Perhaps you’re right, darling. Perhaps we should just sit quietly and gaze into each other’s eyes. Would you like that?”
“Oh yes. You have the most beautiful eyes.”
“And I know that you like to look into them. I am so pleased. Gaze into them all you want and see there the deep, deep feelings I hold for you.”
I began to trace meaningless patterns with my gloved fingertip on one of his hands while I continued to speak.
“The moonlight in your eyes is so soothing. They gleam like deep, deep pools and I quite get lost in them, seeing only your eyes and the moonlight reflected in them and the deep, deep feelings I hold for you reflected in my own image reflected deep, deep in your eyes and reflecting the strong spiritual kinship between us. You feel that kinship more deeply now, don’t you.”
“Yes.”
“And you see that kinship reflected in your reflection, reflected ever more deeply in my eyes, don’t you.”
“Yesss.” My arousal quickened at his soft, slurred voice. The act of mesmerism has been a powerful erotic stimulus for me since I first learned of it. The intense intimacy of draining someone’s will and filling that place with my own is to be overtaken by a mounting sensation compounded of a triumphant glow and lascivious desire. Then, when my control becomes complete, the delicious thrill of shaping their lusts to my whim drives my arousal to such heights that I require servicing at once, by my mesmeric subject for preference, but really, anyone will do.
In this instance, I very much wanted Matthew and he was coming along nicely. “Your reflection in my eyes is all that you see. I am holding you in my eyes in a soft, caressing grasp, so pleasurable that you want it to go on and on, forever. And it will, even as your weary eyes close and you slip into a profound sleep, you will still see the image of my eyes before you, my eyes holding you deep within me. And you will sim