Sanctuary of Seduction

Book 2: Seduction

by Emma Allan

Genres: Erotic & Steamy Romance

Synopsis

A man like Mark Giles wouldn't normally catch the eye of the rich and powerful Clarissa Peacham. Yet, by saving this commanding blonde businesswoman from a dangerous mugger, Mark earns her gratitude and a visit to her personal pleasure palace.

Soon Mark discovers that even behind closed doors Clarissa rules with a rod of iron. Indecently clad servants cater to her every sensual whim - and to those of her honoured guests like Mark. And as their attentions begin to kindle dark desires within him, Mark starts to discover more about himself than he ever possibly knew . . .

Part two of the Seduction Series.

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 256

Sample

‘Bring her in here again,’ Clarissa said, in her usual imperious tone. ‘How many did you give her?’

‘Six.’

‘Only six?’

The girl was naked. Completely naked. Even her pubic hair had been carefully shaved away, the slit of her labia visible at the apex of her thighs. Madeline manoeuvred her into the centre of Clarissa’s bedroom.

‘Turn around, Angela. Let me see what she’s done to you.’

The girl was blonde, her flaxen-coloured hair cut short. She turned around. She had large buttocks, big oval pillows of flesh that were now criss-crossed with six scarlet weals where Madeline’s whip had landed. The weals radiated heat.

‘Now spread your legs apart and grasp your ankles.’

The girl obeyed immediately, presenting Clarissa with an unobstructed view of her newly-shaven sex. The delicate folds of her labia glistened as if they had been oiled. They had not. Clarissa knew the wetness came from the girl’s own excitement.

Clarissa got up off the bed. She was wearing a black leather bra, its large cups struggling to contain her melon-shaped breasts, and a pair of black leather hot pants, so tight their crotch appeared to have buried itself in her sex. Her long, chestnut hair cascaded over her shoulders. She ran her hand over the generous curves of the girl’s upturned buttocks. As it touched the marks of the whip Angela winced.

‘Do you want her bound?’ Madeline asked.

‘Of course. Tightly bound. You may stand up now, Angela.’

Angela straightened up immediately, not wanting to do anything else to incur Clarissa’s wrath. She had firm, high breasts. Clarissa weighed one of them in her hand. The girl’s nipples were large and puckered. They were an odd colour, a brownish scarlet.

Clarissa walked through the door of the small room she had converted specially for her own purposes, conveniently situated next to her en suite bathroom. The room was a miniature version of the larger, better equipped punishment rooms that were situated throughout the house and grounds.

Madeline took the girl’s arms and led her back into the room for the second time that night. It was rectangular with black walls and a wooden floor. Ropes, metal cuffs and leather harnesses, leather hoods, helmets, gags and blindfolds hung in bunches in one corner and there was an arrangement of metal rings and manacles on one wall, allowing a victim to be spread-eagled against it. Other chains hung down from a beam that traversed the ceiling. There was a rack of whips too, one of which Madeline had used on the girl moments before. Positioned in the middle of the floor was a long, low, padded bench, upholstered in black suede.

Madeline selected one of the leather harnesses. She wrapped a thick leather strap around the girl’s waist and secured it with two buckles. Two leather cuffs were attached to it at either side. Madeline forced the girl’s wrists into the cuffs and buckled them tight.

‘You’re a disappointment to me, Angela.’ Angela was new. Though Clarissa usually liked to take her sexual pleasure with two or even three of the girls at a time, all new arrivals spent one night with her so she could get to know them personally. As Angela had been less than co-operative on her arrival she had also had to be taught a lesson in discipline. From her demeanour now, her head bowed, her body passive, it appeared to have been a lesson she had learnt well.

Clarissa nodded to Madeline, indicating the low bench.

Madeline sat the girl on the middle of the bench. ‘Lie on your back,’ she said.

The blonde struggled to obey. It was difficult with her arms strapped to her sides, but she managed to manoeuvre herself into position. There were four wide leather straps attached to the bench. Madeline wrapped them over the girl’s body at her ankles, at the top of her thighs, around her waist and over the top of her shoulders. Each was buckled tightly making it impossible for her to move.

‘Do you want me to stay?’ she asked her employer.

‘No. I think Angela and I have come to an understanding now, don’t you? You’d better go and check the others.’ Several other girls were on more serious punishments that lasted overnight. Part of Madeline’s responsibilities was to see that they were made ‘comfortable’ for the long night ahead.

‘Goodnight, then.’ She left, closing the door behind her.

‘How cosy,’ Clarissa said, standing looking down at the helpless girl. ‘Do you think you’ve learnt your lesson, Angela?’

‘Yes, Ms Peacham.’

‘Good.’

Clarissa’s leather hot pants had a zip at the front. She pulled it down. Even with this open it took a considerable effort to wriggle the garment down over her hips. Finally it fell to the floor. She saw the girl’s eyes staring up at her sex, the thick curly chestnut hair that covered her mons trimmed into a neat triangle, the labia underneath hairless and smooth.

‘You see, Angela, if I do not impose absolute discipline this place would simply fall apart. You understand that, don’t you?’

‘Yes, Ms Peacham.’ The girl was going to agree with everything she said.

‘That is the point. You agreed to come here as an alternative to losing employment with my company. It is not intended as a soft option. Was that the first time you have been whipped?’

‘Yes, Ms Peacham.’

‘It made you wet, didn’t it?’

The girl blushed. ‘Yes, Ms Peacham.’

Clarissa straddled the bench, the girl’s head between her knees. ‘Now, you are going to obey me this time aren’t you?’

The girl was staring up Clarissa’s long, slender legs. She could see the thick, fleshy lips pursed between her thighs. ‘Yes, Ms Peacham,’ she said.

Clarissa bent her knees, lowering her sex to the girl’s mouth. She knew the girl had never done this before and that she would have to tell her exactly what to do. But she got pleasure from that. She liked sex with the more experienced girls, the ones who knew all the tricks, and all the places on her body that produced the most intense feelings, but there was something exciting about a girl like Angela who had never even kissed a woman before, and who trembled at the thought.

‘Use your tongue,’ Clarissa instructed as she felt her lips nestling against the girl’s mouth. ‘Find my clitoris, then circle it very slowly with the tip of your tongue.’

The girl did exactly what she was told. She did not want to be punished again.

The Bentley Continental drew up outside Asprey’s in Bond Street. Mark wasn’t sure whether he noticed the burgundy red car first or the woman who was driving it. The car was beautiful but the woman was simply stunning.

He stopped dead in his tracks as the heavy car door opened and a pair of long, lithe legs swung out. The legs were sheathed in dark brown leather as tight as a second skin and calf-length boots with a stiletto heel. As the woman stood up he saw the rest of the outfit was leather too; a matching leather, sleeveless blouse, as tight-fitting as the trousers and with a plunge neckline that wrestled to contain the billowing curves of two ample breasts. A gold choker was wrapped around her neck and she wore a gold Patek Phillipe watch as thin as a razor blade around her right wrist.

The woman had long, chestnut hair that shone with health, and tumbled in soft waves over her shoulders. Her eyes were the same colour as her hair. They were large and at this moment were looking straight at him. Her rich, fleshy mouth smiled indulgently, revealing that she was used to men’s reaction to her. She knew perfectly well there wasn’t a man for miles who would not have been bewitched by her appearance.

The brief contact was terminated quickly. The woman’s eyes dismissed Mark as not worthy of her attention. She turned to lock the car and Mark, reluctantly, walked on. Unwilling to take his eyes off her, however, he nearly walked straight into a burly, squat man half running towards him. He managed to sidestep the man successfully, with the help of his years of rugby training, but just as he was about to walk away the woman screamed. The man had grabbed her by the wrist and was wrestling her back against the car, a large hunting knife now in his hand.

‘Get in,’ the man said. He pulled the car keys from the woman’s fingers and unlocked the Bentley. He began to push her inside, the blade of the knife now perilously close to her throat.

All around them the world seemed to have frozen. There were a few people on the pavement but most of them were old or frail. Mark realised that he was the only one in the vicinity who had any chance of successfully intervening.

He supposed later, when he thought about it, that if he had not acted on impulse he would have been too petrified to act at all. But after a split second in which, like everyone else, he stood completely immobile, he recovered quickly. Before he had time to analyse what he was doing he had turned and dived at the burly man’s legs. In the way that had earned his reputation on the rugby field, he wrapped his arms around the man’s legs and jerked him off his feet.

The man was taken totally by surprise. In an effort to break his fall he threw his arms out to the side, dropping the knife. He landed badly, the pavement knocking the wind out of him so completely that he was gasping for breath. He must have been twisted around by the impact too because, as he tried to sit up and suck in air, his knee made a loud and unpleasant popping sound.

Mark dived on the knife then scrambled to his feet.

The man regained some breath but screamed as he tried to struggle to his feet. His knee wouldn’t take his weight. He rolled over on to his side.

‘What’s happening here?’ A policeman had appeared from nowhere.

‘This man tried to rob that lady,’ Mark said, handing the policeman the knife. ‘I think he’s bust his knee.’

‘You were wonderful,’ the chestnut-haired woman said. ‘You probably saved my life. There’s no telling what he would have done to me once he got me into the car.’

Another policeman arrived. He started cuffing the burly man’s hands behind his back. The man was in too much pain to resist.

‘You’ll both have to give us statements,’ the first policeman said.

Those rich brown eyes were looking at Mark again. ‘I don’t know how to thank you,’ she said.

‘That’s all right. It was an instinct.’

‘You were really marvellous. God …’ The woman was trembling. Mark saw her make a conscious effort to pull herself together. Her hand rested on his forearm for support. She had slim fingers and long fingernails varnished a dark red.

A police car arrived. A detective inspector in plain clothes took them into Aspreys, who provided a room and gave them both a cup of tea in fine porcelain cups as the inspector took down their statements and told them that George Henry Long had eight previous offences for mugging, the last of which had resulted in a six-year sentence. He had been released a week ago.

It took an hour. There would only be a court appearance, they were told, if Long decided to plead not guilty. But bearing in mind the evidence and the presence of witnesses, that was unlikely. They should not be bothered again.

Outside Mark was just about to walk away.

‘Hey, hold on,’ the woman said, ‘Where are you going?’ She caught him by the arm.

‘Back to my office. I was on my lunch break.’

‘No, I mean you can’t just walk away. Not after what you’ve done. I’ve got to find a way to thank you.’

‘It’s all right, really, there’s no need.’

‘There’s every need. You saved my life.’

‘Honestly, it was nothing, I just acted on instinct …’

‘Well, thank God you did. At least let me buy you a drink.’

‘There’s no …’ He looked into her eyes. There was no way any man could refuse. ‘All right.’

‘So, where do you work?’

‘Just around the corner. Falconbridge Enterprises.’

‘Really? Lavinia Falconbridge?’

‘That’s right. Do you know her?’

‘Vaguely. And what time do you finish?’

‘Five-thirty.’

‘Brown’s Hotel is just around the corner. I’ll meet you in the bar.’

‘All right. But it really isn’t necessary.’

‘It is for me,’ she said emphatically.

Mark walked back to his office as he saw the woman go into Tiffany’s. He knew her name of course. Clarissa Peacham. She’d given it to the policeman. And she knew his. He supposed if she really wanted to be grateful there were several things he could think of asking her for. He smiled. Three hours in a bedroom at Brown’s Hotel for instance.

That fantasy and others like it made the afternoon pass quickly. Mark was a minor cog in a large wheel of an import/ export business, Falconbridge Enterprises, run by the formidable Lavinia Falconbridge. He specialised in exporting to Chile and at the moment business was quiet. Quiet enough to look up Clarissa Peacham in the phone book and discover that Peacham Associates was listed as an advertising agency. With a bit of help from a friend in marketing, he found out that Clarissa Peacham owned one of the leading advertising agencies in London. No wonder she drove a Bentley and shopped in Tiffany’s. It also explained why she appeared to know Lavinia. No doubt her agency had pitched for Falconbridge Enterprises’ account.

By five-thirty, as he walked around to the hotel, Mark’s sexual fantasies had dissipated. There wasn’t the slightest reason in the world why someone like Clarissa Peacham should be interested in him. She was going through the motions of gratitude, which was fair enough, he supposed. So he would have a quick drink with her and go home.

The bar in Brown’s Hotel was not busy. She sat at a corner table, her long, leather-sheathed legs crossed, one foot drawing circles in the air, a collection of Bond Street shopping bags testifying to the way she had spent her afternoon. A bottle of champagne sat in a silver wine cooler in front of her alongside two champagne flutes. She smiled at him as he approached, then got to her feet.

‘Mark,’ she said, kissing his cheek, ‘are you all right?’

He inhaled her musky and expensive perfume. It was mixed with the aroma of leather. He couldn’t help noticing the way her large, squashy breasts bulged out almost indecently against the neckline of the leather blouse. He doubted there was a man in the bar who hadn’t noticed them.

‘I’m fine, thanks,’ he said meekly.

‘No delayed shock?’ She sat down.

‘No. What about you?’ He sat opposite her. A waiter appeared, wrapped a white linen cloth around the neck of the champagne bottle and twisted out the cork with hardly a pop. He poured it into the two glasses.

‘I’m fine,’ Clarissa said. ‘So here’s to you, Mark – thank you again.’

They clinked glasses and sipped the wine. It was Dom Perignon he noticed, something he could not afford.

‘Look,’ she said. ‘I’ve been thinking. I’ve really got to do something to repay you.’ He shook his head but she continued. ‘No, I would like to. What you did was extremely brave.’

‘And foolhardy.’

She smiled. ‘Yes. Probably. But I’m really grateful. I’ve got this farm down in the country. In Dorset. It’s got everything. Swimming pool. Tennis court. A gym. And a very good chef. And I’ve built up a good cellar. Why don’t you come down and spend a week there? Have the run of the place. Do you have a wife, a girlfriend, a significant other? They could come too, of course.’

‘Not really.’

‘Well, then …’

‘I couldn’t possibly.’

‘Of course you could.’ She leaned forward and put her hand on his knee. ‘It would mean a lot to me,’ she said. Those chestnut eyes were looking into his fiercely, defying him to say no.

‘Can I think about it?’

‘There are a few extra features that you might find amusing too,’ she said. She smiled, one corner of her mouth turning up slightly higher than the other. It gave her face a strange, almost cruel expression which he didn’t understand.

‘Extras?’

‘Come and see for yourself.’

‘And you’ll be there?’

‘Of course, Mark. I may have to come back to town from time to time but I’ll certainly be there. I want to show you all the facilities myself.’

There was no suggestion in the way she said it that she would be showing him anything else and in an odd way that was a relief. Though Clarissa Peacham was probably the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and certainly the most beautiful he had ever sat having a drink with, her personality was much too formidable for him to want to contemplate any intimacy with her. He had the feeling she would eat him alive.

‘I’m sure I’m going to have nightmares about that knife,’ she continued. ‘Another inch and he could have … and God knows what he’d have done once I was in the car …’ She shuddered.

Mark tried to change the subject. ‘What about you? Are you married?’ This afternoon’s research had failed to reveal any personal information.

‘No.’ The word was pronounced in such a way as to suggest that any further inquiries in that direction would not be welcome. ‘So, will you come?’ She took a slim, black leather wallet with gold corners from her handbag, extracted a card and handed it to him. ‘This has all my numbers: car, mobile, house and the private line at my office. Use any of them. Just name a date.’

‘It really isn’t necessary,’ he said.

‘Mark.’ She put her hand back on his knee. ‘Just let me do this for you. Please. I can promise you it’ll be an experience you’ll never forget. Trust me.’ There was something about the look in her eyes that he could not read. ‘Please say you’ll come.’

‘All right. I’ll speak to my boss. I’ve got some holiday due.’

Clarissa looked delighted. She leaned back and sipped her champagne.

‘Good,’ she said. She had the air of someone who had just completed another successful deal – gratitude successfully negotiated.

Lavinia Falconbridge was short and blonde and plump. She was always immaculately dressed, and had accounts at all the couture houses in Bond Street, around the corner from her offices.

This morning she was wearing a light grey suit and a white silk blouse. In order to increase her height, she wore the highest of high heels and this morning, Mark noticed, they were grey too with a gold motif on the toes.

‘Well,’ she said, rocking back in her leather swivel chair. ‘I suppose we can let you go next week. Have the Thomsons confirmed their shipment?’

‘Yes. It’s on the way.’

‘All right. Take next week off then. Where are you going? Somewhere nice?’

Mark hadn’t told anyone about the incident with Clarissa Peacham.

‘I’ve been invited to a farm in Dorset.’

‘Lovely.’ That was clearly the limit of Lavinia’s interest, as she picked up the phone and asked her secretary to get her a number in Hong Kong. ‘Close the door on your way out.’

Mark got to his feet. He realised that there were a lot of similarities between Clarissa Peacham and Lavinia Falconbridge. They were both unmarried and both highly successful in business. But whereas with Clarissa it was difficult not to think of sex, he realised that he had worked for Lavinia for two years and he had never once in all that time thought of her as a woman, as an object of any sort of sexual desire. It wasn’t that she wasn’t pretty. She had a small, round face with bright blue eyes and smooth, ruby red lips and, though her figure was a little overweight, it could still be described as voluptuous. It was just that she seemed to project an invisib. . .