The Pleasure Ring

by Kitt Gerrard

Genres: Erotic & Steamy Romance

Synopsis

The Kingdom of Pernia, 1785. It's the fortieth day of Amande's preparation - forty days of sexual abstinence, rousing her nubile young body to a frenzy of carnal anticipation. Tomorrow she faces the ultimate test - the Ordeal by Climax. But tonight she lies on a quilted bed in an Arabian palace contemplating revenge on the woman who has corrupted her . . .

Angel, Countess of Mornay and the most notorious woman in Paris, is the scheming adventuress who has debauched Amande's sensual nature, plunging her into a mesmerising world of exotic practices. And yet Angel's gift, the instrument of Amande's torture, still encircles her most intimate portion, enslaving her and enrapturing her in equal measure - the Pleasure Ring.

Release date: February 27, 2014

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 256

Sample

The Kingdom of Pernia, Arabia. 1785

When Ladisa knocks at my door I’m already waiting for her, sitting on the edge of the bed with my robe loosely gathered round me. She enters, smiling in greeting. As she crosses the room to lay down the tray she’s carrying, I slit the silk gown open to the floor.

I’m not wearing anything underneath it.

I lean back across the soft mattress, deliberately parting my legs for her. I’m shaved completely bare, razored by her every morning for the past six weeks until, now, my sex is as smooth as polished marble.

She picks up a bottle from the tray and, opening it, pours out a few drops of clear, sharp-smelling liquid into her cupped palm.

Even though I’m bracing myself in anticipation I can’t help gasping when she suddenly splashes the stinging lotion all over my fleshy mound.

She quickly presses her hand against me, massaging the liquid in before it trickles away down between my thighs. Her fingertips linger a moment or two longer than necessary, just as they always do. I bite my lip as the familiar burning sensation starts to creep up into my belly.

She selects a second item from the tray: a lightweight, wooden paddle, its blade long and flat, planed thin to make it as flexible as a whip. She places her free hand on my knee, forcing open my legs wider still as she raises the paddle above her head.

A moment’s pause and then the blade makes a sound like wind rushing through trees as it cuts down through the air to land on one verge of my damp sex. I cry out involuntarily. She lifts her arm and smacks me hard with the blade again, this time landing the blow on the opposite slope of me.

The wetness of the lotion makes the strokes sting all the more. I look down to see my pink skin flushing bright crimson, puffing up and thickening already.

I make no effort to stop her, but I thank God that this is the final time I shall have to endure this. At long last, tomorrow is to be the day of my Ordeal by Climax.

My preparations have been long and trying. I’ve been denied sexual release for the past forty days and every night before sleep I’ve had to allow her to chastise me like this to increase the sensitivity of my vulva even further.

Of course, we’re both aware that there’s another reason as well. If the urge to relieve myself should become too great to resist during the night, I will be much too tender to touch myself enough to reach orgasm. I know I can only hope to do well during the Ordeal if I submit myself tightened to breaking point with sexual frustration.

By the time she finishes, my eyes are pricking with tears. Every part of my sex, even my clitoris, is smarting and swollen.

Lifting my legs with sisterly understanding, Ladisa helps me swing round gingerly onto the mattress. She whispers her goodnights and then, pulling a quilted throw over me, leaves me to rest.

As I lie in the darkness, I let my fingers stray down to my special gold ring, trying to console myself with the thought of how close I am, at last, to gaining my revenge on the evil woman who first gave it to me two long years ago, halfway round the world in Paris.

Little do I realise that, even as I fall asleep, she is hatching one final, desperate plan to cheat me yet again.

The month after reaching my eighteenth birthday I had been sent to Paris by my parents to stay with my aged aunt. She had many connections in aristocratic society and, although nothing was ever mentioned directly, I knew they all hoped that she would be able to make some glittering match for me; find a suitably rich, young nobleman who would fall in love and propose.

I had only been in the city two days before I was introduced to Angel, the Countess Angelique du Mornay, when we met, I thought quite by chance, at the salon of a certain Madame Valoise.

I was immediately dazzled by Angel’s sophistication and style. Although she was only some three years older than I, she was everything I wanted so desperately to be. I know everyone kept telling me how pretty I was but, compared to her, I was just a fresh-faced country girl. She was absolutely beautiful; jet-black hair and flashing hazel eyes.

To my astonishment, she seemed to like me too. I was tremendously flattered when she gave me her calling card as we left. But my aunt was furious. She lectured me sternly that Angel was a dangerous woman, a libertine who was notorious for parading around pretending to be a lady whilst, at the same time, all Paris was alive with the rumours of her promiscuous adventurings. She told me that she feared it was no coincidence that Angel had happened to visit whilst we were at Madame Valoise’s. She would have known full well that this was going to be one of my first outings into Paris society and it was plain she had deliberately arranged for our paths to cross.

My aunt practically ordered me not to have any further contact with Angel but, of course, being young, this was almost as good as telling me to do just the opposite. In an act of headstrong defiance, I deliberately set out to go against my aunt’s wishes. Although I do see now that really this was less to vex her than to show Angel how spirited I could be.

I met Angel almost every day and, although she was so much more worldly wise than me, I truly believed we had become firm friends. When I repeated to her my aunt’s warning, she just laughed and told me that people made up such stories because they were jealous of all the fun she had.

There was no denying, though, that she was shockingly unconventional. Some of the things she did were quite outrageous, but she just didn’t seem to care what anybody thought about her.

She was like an older sister to me. She became my confidante. I found I could talk to her about things I’d never spoken of to anyone else. By subtle encouragement she was able to persuade me to tell her all sorts of intimate details about myself.

One day, only a fortnight or so after we’d first met, she told me she thought it was time that I experienced the more ‘adult’ delights that Paris could offer and that she had decided to appoint herself as my guide and tutor.

It appeared my education was to start immediately for that same evening we drove out in her carriage to a country inn hidden away in the forest of Fontainebleau. It was a long way from the city, but on our arrival I was surprised to find the driveway lined on both sides with elegant town carriages.

I had never been in a place like this inn before. Everywhere was in darkness, lit only by the glow of a huge log fire. A gypsy band was playing wild music; men and women were sitting at rough wooden tables, drinking and laughing loudly. But behind all the gaiety there was an undercurrent of tension I couldn’t understand.

Angel seemed to know most of the men there. She was stopped numerous times on our way across the room to meet her waiting friends.

After Angel had introduced me and given me wine, I began to look around me. All the dimly lit tables were being waited on by young serving girls. Each wore a loose cotton blouse and long skirt and, it seemed to me, very little else. As the girls brought round the jugs of wine, the men at the tables were quite openly caressing them. I was shocked to see them pushing their hands up the girls’ blouses and under their skirts, even so far as to occasionally expose the rounds of their buttocks.

Then I felt Angel reaching over to touch the back of my hand, quietly attracting my attention without alerting the others. She motioned with her eyes over towards the farthest, darkest corner of the room.

In the shadows a man was sitting alone at a table. A serving girl had made her way over to him and was placing a jug of wine in front of him. As she turned to go, the man pushed a silver coin across the table at her. The girl picked the coin up and, quickly checking about the room, pocketed it before sliding round to the other side of the table.

Then, quite clearly, I saw her loosen the man’s britches and hitch up her skirts as she sat down on his lap. They started to kiss and I could see the man nuzzling his face down into the girl’s blouse.

Although I had never ever seen it being done before I just knew for certain that the girl was letting the man have her. She was actually riding up and down on him now, holding on tightly with her arms round his neck as he thrust up inside her.

I knew it was wrong to go on watching them, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away. It is impossible to describe how arousing I found this sight. My head was swimming, my stomach fluttering, my sex felt as if hot syrup had been poured over it. It was the expression on the girl’s face, the way she somehow looked hot and worried and in pain all at the same time; the way their bodies moved together furtively.

Then, suddenly, I saw the man begin to buck violently and I knew he was coming. To my great excitement I saw the girl tip her head back and mouth a long but silent ‘Ohhh!’ as she climaxed with him. Her whole body seemed to go rigid before she collapsed limply over his shoulder, shuddering in pleasure.

My mouth felt very, very dry. I was unable to recover myself properly before Angel caught my eye and smiled at me knowingly.

Further discomfort was only spared me by the timely arrival of a hawker selling his wares. He was holding out a wooden display case studded with a collection of the most exquisite gold rings. They were so unusual I couldn’t resist picking one out to examine it. For some curious reason the ring was fashioned from two halves, joined with a tiny hinge on one side and fastened shut with a concealed catch on the other.

I idly placed it on my little finger, the only one it would fit and, snapping it closed, I lifted my hand up to admire it in the firelight.

To my bewilderment everyone began to laugh at me, but it was Angel who finally explained the joke.

‘My little innocent, that is a pleasure ring. It’s not for your finger. It is meant to be worn on a much more intimate part of your anatomy!’

I couldn’t help my face reddening madly when she leant over to whisper in my ear that the ring was made like that so that it could be closed behind the swollen clitoris. It was designed to hold it standing proud of the sex, proffering it out so that the stimulation of lovemaking and the joy of orgasm were greatly increased.

Despite my vehement protests Angel insisted on buying the ring I’d chosen and giving it to me as a token of our friendship. I could not refuse her and I must admit that by this time I was secretly aching with excitement at the idea of experimenting with the ring when I returned home to my aunt’s that evening.

I will also confess, now, that ever since I had arrived in Paris I had been indulging in The Maiden’s Vice quite shamelessly. At home in Angers I have to share my room with my two younger sisters and there has never been any opportunity for me to touch myself at night in bed. I have always had to go out of the house during the daytime to find some quiet barn or wooded copse on the estate and relieve myself there.

However, since I’ve had my own room at my aunt’s, I’ve been free to masturbate myself without restraint and, for the first time, I have discovered the pleasures of the candle. (Though I have been very careful to remember the old wives’ tale that you can always tell when a young girl has fallen into The Vice by the way there is always one of her candles that never burns down as far as the others.)

Not that I haven’t had my scares as well. The first night I brought myself off like that I loved it so much I did it again and again until I eventually fell asleep, exhausted with coming. I must have lain on top of the bed all night long, stark-naked with the candle still clutched in my hand. When the maid came in the next morning, I only had the briefest moment to cover myself up. Even now, I’m not completely sure she didn’t catch a glimpse of the round-tipped wax shaft before I managed to pull the sheets over myself.

This night, though, the candles would stay in their stand. I undressed quickly and stood in front of the mirror. I unwrapped the ring and pulled it open with trembling fingers. There was no need to prepare my clitoris. It was already hugely stiff.

Watching my reflection, I parted my legs and pressed the ring back behind my tender nub. With a jerking groan, I snapped it shut. My clitoris was left captured, gathered together and displayed out from between my lips like a tight, round, cushion button.

I knew straight away I’d been given something wonderful. Cautiously, I took a step forward. The moment I moved I almost doubled up as the bouquet of sensuous flesh grazed against my labia and sent out a shock of pleasure that went right through me. I steeled myself and took another step. Then another.

I tried to walk across the room but only managed five or six stiff-legged paces before the stimulation was too much. I could feel my knees going weak. I reached to lean against the chair standing at the end of my bed, but even the movement of steadying myself just caused more unbearable sensation. I felt myself losing control, felt the start of orgasm pulsing out from inside the ring, spiralling away, spilling out of me.

I collapsed into the chair, wrung out with the ecstasy of violent climax, just like the serving girl I’d watched at the inn. And all the time I was coming I had to squeeze my sex lips together as tight as I could, had to hold the ring completely still because it was impossible to bear even the slightest stimulation whilst I was coming off.

It was the first time I’d ever reached climax without touching myself. The ring had forced my body to have a ‘self-inflicted’ orgasm. And it was so different, so much more intense than any I’d known before, that it made all the others seem like girlish play.

Somehow, I felt the ring had given me my first real ‘woman’s’ orgasm.

Now, a week later, I’m sitting in the back of a cab, clattering through the darkened, cobbled streets of Montmartre. I’m full of anticipation. Angel is taking me to visit the opera for the very first time. I’m dressed in the expensive new outfit that she helped me choose especially for this evening. It’s the latest fashion – a full, hooped skirt of silk, worn with a tightly corseted matching jacket. Angel and all her friends are wearing them at the moment.

They’re all a little older than me and their bodies are much fuller than mine. At first I thought my figure was still too undeveloped to carry off such a style, but Angel wouldn’t hear of it. She absolutely insisted that I chose this design for tonight.

My carriage arrives at the steps of the opera house. As uniformed attendants step forward to help me out, Angel comes down the stone steps to greet me. She takes my arm and escorts me into the foyer. I see heads turning all around us, people whispering disapprovingly. We seem to create quite a stir – it’s a heady feeling to be the centre of so much attention.

Angel ignores them all completely. She leads me through a doorway and we climb a long, narrow, candlelit stairway up to a dark corridor that has a row of doorways opening off down the side of it. Angel stops at one of them and ushers me through into her reserved box.

My first sight of the theatre below is even more wonderful than I imagined. We’re high up at one side of the upper circle, looking right down across all the hundreds of richly dressed people sitting in the seats below us. There are chandeliers burning, the brightly coloured stage, the noise of the orchestra tuning up, the babble of excited conversation.

The box itself is like a very small room but with the front area of the carpeted floor stepped down a foot or so. Two rows of wooden chairs are arranged facing the stage, one on the lower front level and one directly behind on the higher level. There are heavy curtains at the back of the room that can be drawn to keep out draughts. We’re separated from our neighbours by high side walls that come so far forward no one would be able to see in from the next boxes even if they leant right over the edge of the balcony. It’s totally private.

Angel’s other guests have already arrived. There are six of them, all women. I notice straight away that every one of them, including Angel, is wearing the same sort of dress and jacket style that she chose for me.

I can’t help feeling it’s a little strange that they’ve all remained standing whilst they’ve been waiting for us. They were all talking as I entered, but the moment they saw me they fell silent. For a few brief seconds I have the uncomfortable feeling that their eyes are somehow searching over my body. But then they catch Angel’s angry glance and hastily avert them.

I don’t understand what’s going on and there’s no time for me to think about it because, just then, the lights in the theatre are dimmed to warn us that the performance is about to begin. I nod my greetings to them hastily and move to take the chair on the front row of seats that Angel indicates for me.

I immediately see a problem. The box wasn’t designed to accommodate so many women wearing such full evening skirts. The hoops will take up so much space there isn’t going to be enough room for everyone to sit down.

When I mention this to Angel, she just laughs conspiratorially and tells me there’s a simple answer. Going to the door, she turns the key in the lock before pulling one of the draught curtains across and disappearing behind it. When she emerges again I’m staggered to see she’s removed her skirt and has it in her hand. She drops it to the floor at the back of the box and brazenly takes her seat wearing only her jacket and leg stockings.

Taking her lead, the others do the same, one after another until it only remains for me to follow. I feel very nervous. I’ve never done such a thing before but, as Angel quite rightly says, no one can see us below our waists, so nobody will ever realise what we’ve done.

I do it. Slipping behind the curtain, I wriggle out of my skirt and add it to the pile of others.

Feeling very conspicuous, I hurry to my seat as quickly as I can.

The lights go up on the stage and the performance gets under way. It’s marvellous. I love everything about it; the music, the singing, the beautiful costumes.

Angel is sitting right beside me. I look towards her, thinking how beautiful she is too. I can’t help my gaze straying down to her lap, to the smooth whiteness of thigh that’s showing over her stocking tops. Like all the rest of us she’s wearing a bande, a long, oblong strip of linen passed between the legs and buttoned to the front and back of the undercorset so as to modestly cover the sex. Sitting down has made Angel’s gape slightly op. . .