B006O3T9DG EBOK by Linda Berdoll Page B

my face !”
    To cry out was a severe humiliation.
    Not once in her life had she ever begged. Indeed, Juliette had refused to plead for her life whilst pitching about in the tumbrel as it lumbered towards the guillotine. Therefore, when she was finally driven to throw herself upon the mercy of a mere man, it was not a passing event.
    Her face was her fortune. Was her husband to despoil her delicate visage, the loss would be ghastly for them both. Howgrave knew that. In the throes of sadistic heat, it ill-behoved him not to take heed of her caution. To her great relief, her cries did reach him. When he came to his senses, she turned her head, determined to hide her disgust and abhorrence of both him and her capitulation.
    “Bourgeois fool,” she hissed behind his back.
    Having spent more than half her life being pursued by men of all nationalities, Juliette had come to question the average Englishmen’s voluptuous habits. (If those sons of aristocracy slouching about the clubs of the West End were utterly gauche in the nuances of pleasure, those born in the provinces were absolute louts.) Not unlike many men of his ilk, her husband was not schooled in the art of love. He had hopped on top of chambermaids and widows at will, confusing quantity with proficiency. Therefore, his ego was easily offended. If he happened to fail in the furrow, he cried like schoolgirl. She had to coax him to continue by employing evermore imaginative means.
    Her gamesmanship in the boudoir was excellent. In her life as a courtesan, Juliette had engaged in all manner of services (wielding a variety of props). Thus, she was able to arouse her husband to heights previously unknown to him. It was unsurprising that he (like many before him) became quite devoted to her.
    Bliss had an unhappy knack for abandoning those who come to expect it.
    However eagre he was for her to keep his wick well-lit, his manhood began to fail him once again. Thus, she doubled her efforts, engaging two candlesticks, a pair of tongs, and a pretty Rambouillet ewe. But even those persuaders did not keep him satisfied for long.
    She did not recall which of them introduced the notion of the lash.
    When sheep and dildos did not bring him to achievement, she recognised that the time was at hand to whip his buttocks. It was a remarkably effective tool. Employing it, however, was a delicate business. When applying a cat-o-nine or the likes, one had to strike only the buttocks. If care was not taken, a scar would result. It was all in the wrist. Juliette was a veritable virtuoso with the switch, the lash, the rod. With the merest flick, her tiny hand had Howgrave howling like a she-wolf or shivering like a just-plucked pullet. Indeed, he took the instrument with more enthusiasm than a vestal maiden. (Had she been in want of her own desires enflamed, the sight of his pink, steatopygian bottom was not an encouragement.) As time passed, she had to ratchet the pawl ever more tightly.
    Eventually, whatever her method, laying the strap to him was not enough to bring him to orgasm. To her great unhappiness, he desired to inflict pain—upon her. (She had proposed that they hire a surrogate, but he would have no one but his wife—Juliette saw that as quite touchingly pathetic.) Hence, a train of intolerable degradations encompassed her evenings—made even more so by the unhappy fact that he had no idea how to wield such an instrument. Understanding that her screams requited his passion, she employed her well-honed skills of pretence, elevating and sustaining her cries to maximum effect.
    When her screams did not avail his pleasure, he expressed his disappointment with a braided whip—and a backhand across her cheek. Together, the two brought him to a spectacular orgasm. He fell to his knees, lowing like a cow.
    ———
 
 
    The next morning her head pounded with the weight of a thousand disappointments.
    She avoided her looking-glass, knowing that she would see a new test for her talent