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Chapter One


 

 

“Poison.”

Mortimer Drake flung the book across the table towards his guest. The pages fluttered from the force before coming to rest. Drake pointed at the book and repeated the word.

“Poison,” he said again, as if trying to spit it from his very mouth. “Lord Justice Campbell did indeed accurately describe the nature of such foulness. That man could even….dream of such acts, such perversions.”

James Ketchum, who’d been politely listening to the impassioned rant reached out now to pull the little book towards him. His gray eyes fell on the passage that had so offended his host.

I could not help but moan as his finger slipped into the slickness of my cunny. I felt it come alive with a throbbing, awaken and pulse as if to draw him in. His finger felt like heaven inside of me but it was his cock I wanted. I begged for it, begged like a slattern born to a life of sin and abandon. I spread my glistening thighs wide and when he withdrew his finger moaned in expectation of his cock finally breaching my portal. But instead he turned me over and began to slap my white bum. I moaned into the pillow and raised my hips like an alley cat. Each blow of his hand bought with it a wild pleasure pain. My clitty pulsed in rhythm with his blows. I was sodden with want and when he finally pushed his rod into me I feared the head of my loins would melt and meld him to the walls of my cunny, joining us forever as one love-forged tribute to our mutual vice…

Ketchum looked up to see Mortimer Drake staring at him.

“The man,” he said, pointing at that book. “The man who wrote that should never see what light shines outside the walls of a prison house.”

Ketchum noticed Drake’s hands were shaking as he poured himself a glass of port. When his host held out the decanter, he raised his hand to politely decline the offer. It was nearly five, and Elise would expect him for dinner soon. He longed to tell his host this, but dared not hasten the meeting. A man of ambition, he longed for advancement. When the esteemed Mortimer Drake had summoned him directly regarding a case he hoped to prosecute under the Obscene Publications Act, he’d seen the meeting as an opportunity to finally set himself apart from the other detectives.

“I agree, sir,” James Ketchum said with a solemn shake of his head. “The language is frank and coarse. Do we have any clue as to who would pen such filth?”

Drake took a sip of his port before answering.

“We can be sure of two things,” he said. “They are a person of some reasonable breeding and schooling, hence the respectable command of the English language, even if it is being perverted in the most unacceptable ways. And we can be sure that it is a gentleman.”

Ketchum looked down at the passage again. “Sir, it is written from a lady’s perspective.”

Drake snorted. “No well-bred lady would write such depraved prose, especially not one schooled in writing. This was a man. Mark me on that, my good fellow.”

Ketchum nodded.   “So what would you have me do, sir? Your sharing this matter with me would indicate a desire for assistance? Or do you think me too forward?”

“No, by all means no,” Drake replied with a smile. “I rather like your forward nature. It indicates a force of will, which is what it will take to ferret out the criminal that pollutes our city with such rubbish. We have found fourteen copies of this volume to date. I want you to go from house to house if you must, and inquire as to whether anyone knows of its origins. We have raided two printing houses. One had type close to what was used on this book, but alas, it was not an exact match. The other printed notices and had no type that matched, and the proprietress -  a gentle widow - was apoplectic that we would even implicate her in such activities. We need to find the copies, the press and most importantly, the gentleman who penned in such colorful and vivid fashion these unspeakable acts. The fact that he would dare to take a woman’s view in such lurid…”  Drake’s picked up the book, his face reddening. “I must not speak on it. It vexes me.”

James Ketchum stood. “I am your man, sir. I will see this through and bring the miscreant to justice. We shall see him punished.”

“Indeed we shall,” said the prosecutor. He looked down at the book in his hand and then up at Ketchum.

“You have a wife at home?”

“Yes,” James Ketchum replied with a proud smile. “We’re newly married. She’s a fine, gentle young lady. A beauty from a good family in the east.”

“Ah, good, good.” Drake held out the book. “I want you to take this, lad, but keep it out of your bride’s sight. It is not fit for her eyes to fall upon. The corruption to her morality, to her very soul is incalculable should she allow her mind to feast on such heinous fare.”

“Agreed,” Ketchum said solemnly, taking the book. It was thin and light, and as he tucked it into the pocket of his coat he marveled at how something so small could cause such controversy.

But he also knew the book was more than just a scourge. It was a doorway to success. Bringing down the author of this illicit little tome would earn him the admiration of his peers, and more importantly, the respect of powerful men like Mortimer Drake - men who felt it their duty to safeguard the morality of weaker souls.

James felt different on the walk home. He had a higher purpose now, and the more he reflected on the book the more he began to agree with the prosecutor. Such a volume could forever corrupt the untrained mind of an innocent. He tried to imagine how he would feel if his darling Elise where to lay her slim hands on such a book.

Quiet, thoughtful Elise. Beautiful Elise. Submissive Elise. Well, not entirely. She tried, but in truth, James Ketchum’s young wife had just enough naughtiness to make her a challenge. He knew she wanted to be the good and obedient spouse he expected her to be, but she could be so contrary. He blamed her parents. As an only child, Elise had been indulged and perhaps too liberally educated. Her brother had passed away from fever at a young age and her parents had poured all the effort into her that they would have poured into a son. Art, music, mathematics, letters - Elise could converse on equal footing with anyone, and James had to repeatedly remind her not to show up their guests or - god forbid - to correct them when she found them wanting on some point of debate.

“It is not proper,” he said to her once when she’d been discussing botany with a dinner guest who’d misidentified a region in Brazil where a certain orchid grew. The man’s face had grown dark with distaste as she corrected him and then went on to describe the obscure region - its climate, its politics, its geographical features.

To temper her exuberance, he’d arranged a weekly brunch for her with his aunt Matilda, a quiet woman with the kind of demure meekness he hoped would rub off on his high-spirited wife.

The light was glowing through the window of their apartment. He smiled, thinking of Elise sitting on the horsehair sofa her parents had given them as a present, doing some embroidery or perhaps reading with her head turned towards the light just so. He loved the way the curls nestled at the nape of her neck, the nape of that slender, white, kissable neck.

He opened the door, the vision in his head. He could not wait to see her in the flesh.

“Elise? Elise my love?”

“James?”

Her voice came from their bedroom. He suddenly worried that she was ill and walked towards the door. He saw her standing by the bed hastily tying the ribbon on a hatbox.

“Darling,” he said. “I did not expect to find you here!”

She looked up, smiling. Her high cheeks were flushed with color, her eyes dark and twinkly as they got when she was agitated.

“And I did not expect to find you home so soon!” She put the box down with the others and smoothed her skirts before rushing to him. She kissed him on the lips. Hers were soft. He felt a stirring in the crotch of his breeches. Just the nearness of her. The smell of her skin….

James gently pushed her back until they were an arms length apart. He wanted her so badly, but it was still light out. It wouldn’t be proper.

“Did you have a good day, my pet?” he asked.

She smiled. “Reasonably so.”

“And brunch with my Aunt Matilda. How did it go?”

Elise cast her eyes down now. “About that, my dearest James…”

“You did go?” he asked.

She sighed. “I sent my apologies, James. But I could not bring myself to go. She’s insufferably boring…”

“Elise…” The tone of warning in his voice was unmistakable.

“…and she smells of lavender and tonic.”

“Elise,” he said again. “Aunt Matilda is a member of the temperance society.”

“By the smell of her, she’s as temperate as the men on the docks, James. And perhaps she is so docile because she’s drunk.”

“Young lady…” He’d had enough. More than enough. Elise had failed to heed the warning in his voice. And she’d disobeyed him by missing the brunch he’d insisted she attend with his aunt. There was, in his mind, only one way to remedy such willfulness.

James ignored her protests as he pulled Elise over his lap. He’d seated himself on the bed, far back enough that he could pull her up and hold her tight with her arms and legs supported by the mattress. Not that it was necessary. She was a small thing, and he could - and had - easily spanked her while sitting in a chair or with her bent over the back of the sofa in the living room. But the bed was best when he needed to restrain her for a good, thorough, bare-bottomed spanking.

“No! No!” Elise kicked and struggled as James pulled up the hem of her skirt. Underneath she wore a pair of charming ruffled pantalets with delicate lace at the cuffs. He could see the outline of her firm, pink bottom through the sheer fabric. Again, he felt the stirring in his loins and willed himself to think on the matter at hand, rather than the sensation of her writhing, writhing, writhing over his lap as her bottom lay nearly exposed just beneath his hand.

He swallowed hard. Being a stern husband was not without its challenges. He loosened the string at the waistband of her pantalets and dragged them down until her bottom was completely exposed. Two perfect mounds, a thing of perfection. He wanted to sink his teeth into the soft skin, to bury his face between the creamy thighs, to inhale the sweet, musky scent of her. He wanted to do what he had never done, which was to insert his tongue into the moist, secret place and lap away all the wetness, the slickness, the honey she produced when he excited her enough to make entry like gliding through liquid silk.

“Please don’t!” Her voice brought him back to his senses, to the duty at hand. He ached for her, but his higher calling as a husband was to discipline her fully and completely. James raised his hand and brought it down on her bare bottom. The sensation was….exhilarating. He told himself that it was because he was doing the right thing, and that the satisfaction of shaping the morals of one weaker could bring a certain kind of exhilaration, could it not?

He did not stop to ponder the nature of his feelings. He began to spank Elise hard, with steady, perfunctory blows that quickly reddened the perfect pink bottom and had her bawling and squirming and squirming and squirming. His cock awakened under the writhing loins of his wife. Temptress. Seductress. She knew what she was doing. He spanked harder, gauging the effectiveness of her punishment not by the cries but by the hue of her bottom, which now blushed cherry red.

“Will you do as you are told, Elise? Will you obey your husband?” James spanked her as he asked the question.

“Yes!” she cried. “Yes! Yes! Yes!”

He stopped, and even so she continued to writhe on his lap. He looked down. Her bottom was red as a rose, the twin mounds deliciously punished. James dropped his hand to her punished cheeks and rubbed. He whimpered, and that excited him, as did the feel of warmth emanating from those perfect, fleshy orbs.

“Sit up,” he said, his voice strangled with lust. She seemed not to notice as she did, whimpering more as her well-spanked bottom encountered the fabric of his pants. She was obedient to sit up as she did, he observed. And he was proud of her.

“It’s grown dark,” she said. “Supper will be cold.”

He looked out the window. She was right, but it was still winter. Darkness fell soon after five. He looked up at her. Tears hung on the long lashes above her green eyes. The eyes were languid, hypnotic. Her face was so beautiful, so perfect, the lips so inviting.

He kissed her. This time he allowed his tongue to plumb the depths of her mouth. But it would just be a kiss, he told himself. He’d punished her for defying him, after all, and she deserved a kiss for bearing up and being a good girl, for not fighting. But then she yielded to him, and laid back against his arm and he found himself following until they were prone together and their tongues were sparring.

His hands were on her, all over her, at war with the fastenings of her gown which they defeated together. Plump, round breasts spilled out, their dusky nipples enticing. She moaned like a wild thing when he pulled on them harder than he intended. She opened her legs to him, and he felt her hands on his shoulders, pushing him. Was she pushing him away? Or down? He felt himself inch lower. His heart raced. If he… What if he…? It was wrong…? No….

He pulled himself up, denying himself -and her - the knowledge of how it would feel to have his tongue delve into the slick cavern of her womanhood. Instead he hoisted himself up, positioned the cock he’d unleashed from his trousers and drove it into her.

The cry he heard. Was it one of satisfaction? Or longing? He could not tell. He concentrated on thrusting into Elise, into driving her up, up and up until her ecstasy spilled over like a wave that engulfed them both and he came hard into her, pumping his seed into the endless secret cave of her where he imagined it being absorbed, held captive by a force beyond his understanding or control.

They dozed, and when he awoke, James realized to his horror that he’d never even removed his jacket, but that during their lovemaking the little book had fallen from his pocket. He glanced over at his wife, and - assuring himself that she slept - picked it up.

James flipped it open, and in the dimming light, began to read.

“I’d defied him, and now I would pay. My hands were pressed against the wall, My bottom jutted out in supplication. My very stance bespoke a silent plea for mercy as my strong husband stood behind me, ready with the strap. He raised it, and as I  brought my hips up to meet the blow, I screamed as the imprint of the strap bloomed across my alabaster bum. My legs quivered with pain, but I held my position as I absorbed the exquisite beauty of it. He hit me again, fascinated now by the result - I did not have to see his face to know that he found my reactions nearly beautiful.

Then he noticed something else - a trickle running down my inner thigh. It had increased with the second blow. He could see it was was clear, and it glistened, and beckoned. He dropped the strap and then dropped to his knees, eager to investigate. He put his hands up, almost worshipfully, and parted my artfully welted buttocks. Still I stood, and moaned. My back arched most becomingly, as if in effort to open myself to him, to expose myself to whatever needs he had, whatever dark desires….

His face was pulled - by some unseen force - towards the cleft in my bottom. He parted my cheeks even more. I could feel the advance of his tongue and I wanted it so…My tiny cries excited him. He pushed the orbs of my bottom apart. The skin of my cunny was swollen, slick with juice. His tongue emerged, drawn towards it. The tip of his tongue touched the mysterious folds. I  jolted and the sound that came from my throat was of a hungry animal. He jabbed me again with his tongue, aggressively, and then caught the swollen flesh and began to suckle. I squirmed and fought, even as I pushed my cunny into his face with such force that he was forced to hold my still-burning bottom with his large hands. He held me there, by my sore buttocks and restrained me thus as I bucked against his eager mouth, both fighting and feeding him with the juicy offering of my love.”

Beside James, Elise stirred and - guilty - he slammed the book shut. Prosecutor Drake had pondered at what minds might foment such corrupting thoughts. What minds indeed! He rose, guilty for the erection that had unwittingly emerged as he read. The notion that he’d become excited reading such prose while laying beside his sweet and still-innocent wife filled him with guilt and shame.

It only confirmed to him the veracity of the prosecutor’s fears. The words in the damnable book were corrupting, and the minds behind them depraved and worthy of punishment. Rising, he secreted the little book back in the pocket of his coat, then gently shook his wife awake. 

No doubt, their dinner was growing cold, and it would not do for the servants to talk.

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