LITMIR.BIZ

       Prologue

      The murals were surprisingly well executed. Whoever had commissioned them certainly had eclectic taste, for Dionysius practiced his arts on one wall, with Sappho adjacent, and a selection of rather graphic and—in his lordship’s opinion—physically impossible combinations of male and female were portrayed opposite. Upon the fourth wall was painted a rather interesting triumvirate which Charles Mumford, Third Marquess of Rosevale, would have liked to explore further. His current position, however, made this rather difficult.

      ‘For pity’s sake, Bella, have mercy, I beg of you.’ The Marquess was a man most unused to pleading. In the normal run of things it was his expectation—indeed, he believed it was his inalienable right—to have his every instruction obeyed instantly. But the situation in which he currently found himself could by no stretch of the imagination be described as normal.

      For a start he was trussed like a chicken, bound hand and foot to the ornate canopied bed in the centre of the room. His shirt having been ripped open and his breeches roughly pulled down, he was also shockingly exposed, excitingly vulnerable, from his neck to his knees.

      Then there was the fact that he was being coolly appraised by quite the most exotic and alluring creature he had ever clapped eyes upon. Clad in a black velvet robe with a décolleté so daring it seemed to be held in place only by the sheer power of her considerable will, she was the stuff of every red-blooded man’s fantasy. Dark silken tresses tumbled down her back. Her skin was the colour of whipped cream. Her lips were full, painted harlot red. Her countenance sultry. The black stock of the cat-o-nine-tails she stroked was thick and weighty. She was, overall, a perfect combination of the voluptuous and the vicious, which sent the blood surging to the Marquess’s most prized piece of anatomy. Charles Mumford groaned. Whether in trepidation or anticipation only he could truly know.

      Bella Donna allowed her eyes to wander languidly over the body of her captive. Despite the undoubted fact that he was an insufferable prig, more than deserving of whatever punishment she decided to mete out to him, the Marquess was a prime physical specimen, his lightly muscled body testament to his fondness for the noble art of fencing. A sheen of sweat glistened on his torso as he fought to free himself from his constraints. The muscles in his arms bulged like cords as they strained against the knots she had so expertly tied. A spattering of dark hair arrowed down from his chest, over the flat plane of his taut belly, and down. Bella’s eyes widened as she followed its trail. His reputation was indeed well deserved. She flicked her tongue slowly over her rouged lips. Dispensing punishment did not preclude an element of pleasure. Especially hers.

      Bella drew the whip slowly down the Marquess’s body, watching his skin quiver as the leather thongs slid over him, giving his twitching member an expert and playful little tug.

       His Lordship groaned. ‘Devil take you, release me.’

       Bella laughed. ‘In your world your word may be law, but you are in my world now. The dark and erotic world of the night, where I am queen and you are my subject. I will release you when I have done with you and not before.’

       ‘Curse you, Bella! Deadly Nightshade! You are well named. What have I done to deserve this?’

      ‘You are a man. That is crime enough,’ Bella hissed, noting with satisfaction that, despite his pleas, the Marquess’s tumescence was burgeoning. She plied her whip once more, a little more decisively this time. A hiss as the leather thongs made contact, raising soft welts on the flesh, made her victim wince, made his jutting shaft stand up proudly. She shuddered with anticipation. They were ready. All three of them.

       ‘Enough talk,’ she said, as she hitched up her skirts and prepared to mount him. ‘I have a notion for a midnight ride, and I see a stallion champing at the bit. Though I warn you,’ she whispered into his ear, as she began to sheath the thick pole of his rampant manhood, ‘I will not hesitate to use the whip if you cannot maintain the gallop.’

      The author put down her pen with a trembling hand. It was, she thought, quite the best and most outrageous scene she had written thus far.

      ‘Goodnight,

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