Taming Maria Read online

  TAMING MARIA

  by

  RHEA SILVA

  Published by Chimera Books

  ISBN 9781780804606

  www.chimerabooks.co.uk

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  This work is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. The author asserts that all characters depicted in this work of fiction are eighteen years of age or older, and that all characters and situations are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.

  Copyright Rhea Silva. The right of Rhea Silva to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This novel is fiction - in real life practice safe sex.

  Chapter 1

  There was silence throughout the assembly hall, apart from the whack of cane meeting bare flesh and the groans of the girl being chastised that echoed under the high, fan-vaulted ceiling.

  She lay face down across a narrow table placed on a low platform at the far end. This was usually reserved for announcements or awards, for morning roll-call or evening prayers. Now the victim's hair streamed over one side of the bare board, her exposed buttocks raised on the other, legs astraddle. She was of ample proportions, her flesh white and soft, with big breasts and broad hips. Her buttocks bore livid stripes laid on by an expert, placed precisely, no one stroke crossing another. A pair of muscular women stood guard, ready to pounce should she attempt to escape.

  The cane was wielded by a slim, middle-aged lady dressed entirely in black. There was an aura of power about her that no one dared gainsay. Her hair was drawn back into a severe bun, concealed by a white linen cap. Still handsome, her features were set in harsh lines, her eyes snapping as she stared at her prisoner's naked posterior and the split fig of her sex jutting below, barely covered by a slight coating of floss.

  'Ow! Oh!' the girl cried. 'I'm sorry, Mrs Rossiter. I won't do it again. I promise!'

  'Indeed you won't, Lady Cynthia!' The cane rose and fell, leaving a further trail of scarlet marks. 'Playing with yourself after lights out! It's disgusting! I won't have such behaviour at my school. It is my bounden duty to turn my charges into gentlewomen who will be suitable brides for noblemen. Stop making so much noise. Where is your dignity?'

  A further blow was too much for Cynthia's control. Her bladder failed her and urine trickled between her thighs, wetting her bunched up skirt and the floor beneath. This was not the first time the spectators had witnessed such a humiliating scene, and one of them in particular was fascinated by it, a dark skein of arousal stirring in her loins.

  'She couldn't hold her water, Jane,' she whispered to her companion, her green eyes sparkling, cheeks flushed and her body thrumming with excitement.

  'Oh, Maria! The poor thing,' murmured her friend, a slight girl who did not possess the other's long limbs or full breasts. She was a blue-eyed blonde, whereas Maria had fiery chestnut hair and a temperament to match.

  Maria was experiencing the thrill that always shot through her when punishment was being inflicted on fellow pupils. She was not the only one, it seemed. She glanced across to where Mr Robin Claremont sat. He was a young clergyman employed to give religious instruction. The girls giggled about him, starved of male company except for the servants, groundsmen and gardeners, and these were definitely out of bounds, the class system a rigid one. Now his face was red, the skin shiny with sweat, and Maria noticed that he sat with his legs crossed, his hand resting in his lap. Concealing what? she wondered.

  She knew nothing about men and had never seen one naked. She had examined the Greek statues that stood in alcoves in her aunt's London residence, but although perfect examples of the male physique, their appendage were no bigger than a little finger. Sexual matters were never discussed by her tutors. Girls were supposed to go to the marriage bed innocent virgins with no idea of what lay in store. Maria burned to find out about it and discussed the matter at great length with Jane.

  She had managed to keep out of trouble during the five years spent at The Lakeside Academy for Young Ladies, situated in Surrey. This may have been due to her own cleverness or the fact that she was so well connected, but lately she had begun to daydream about having the headmistress, Mrs Rossiter, take the rod to her backside. This positive woman was feared yet adored by the majority of girls, including Maria. Masturbation fantasies featuring her filled Maria's mind when she fondled her nipples and rubbed her clitoris, bringing herself off.

  And Mrs Rossiter had just said that this was a forbidden occupation. Well, Maria decided, as Cynthia continued to writhe on the table, every girl here would have to be flogged if that were truly the case. We are all at it when the chance arises, either alone or with a friend. Jane and I have often pleasured one another thus.

  Thinking about it made her even hotter, her sex clenching at every blow that landed on Cynthia's plump, quivering posterior. Maria could feel juice seeping from her secret place, wetting the inside of her thighs and she longed to touch the slippery little pearl swelling between her lower lips, demanding that she massage it.

  How would it be to have Mrs Rossiter do it for her? It would be worth the kiss of the rod if she would only slip a hand round Maria's mound, find her crack and fondle her nubbin. And what of Robin Claremont? He was a churchman, but they were not forbidden to marry. Maybe he would know all about her cunt. She yearned to give him the chance to prove it.

  At last, Cynthia was released, almost falling as she adjusted her skirt and covered her bruised hindquarters. No one was permitted to speak with her, and the rest of the pupils trailed out, very subdued as they returned to their classrooms, with the exception of Maria who strode along rebelliously. She was constantly being lectured about walking with a boy's gait instead of moving gracefully like a genteel young lady.

  The school, once a private residence set amidst rolling parklands, had become her home, and she spent eleven months of the year there, only visiting her aunt, Lady Arabella, at Christmas. On these occasions she had always been left in the care of a governess, her aunt too busy to bother with her. She was one of the leading lights of the ton - the flippant, frivolous members of smart society.

  Maria could clearly remember her life as it once was, the only child of Sir Piers Granger of Burrington Manor. She had been his darling, her mother dying when she was born, and he had brought her up to ride like a man, shoot and hunt like a man and hold her own in any argument, be it physical or verbal. Her life had changed radically when he died as the result of a fall from his horse. The manor was closed, save for a skeleton staff, until she came of age, and she found herself in the care of Arabella, her mother's sister. This lady was young and married to an elderly nobleman and did not want to be burdened with an orphan, so had bundled her off to the Lakeside Academy.

  There Jane Dunn had become her close friend and confidante and now, lessons over, they walked hand-in-hand. Maria wanted so much to take her to bed and there bring her to bliss, caressing her pert breasts and flawless body, and the delicate little fork that concealed the seat of pleasure, and have her do the same in return. They wandered into the garden. Spring was in the air, buds bursting and the birds engaged in frenetic activity, nesting and mating. It inspired a deep hunger in Maria, for what she did not know, only aware of an emptiness within her that cried out to be filled.

  'I'm so glad we are leaving school at the same time,' Jane said, finding a stone bench and sitting on it, watching the play of sunlight over the lily-pond. Even the frogs were amorous, white spawn spreading like delicate lace over the surface.

  'Not long now. Thank Heavens! I can't wait.'

  'Neither can I, though Papa has arranged for me to wed the odious Right Honourable Percy Tate, a man I simple can't abide.'

  'It's not fair! We are treated like chattels to be bought and sold on the marriage market, our wishes of scant concern.' Maria was voicing a grievance months old. She knew this was to be her fate, too, if her aunt decreed it. 'I've a mind to run away.'

  Jane's eyes became wider. 'You wouldn't dare, would you? Where would you go? What would you do?'

  Maria shrugged. She had not really thought this through. 'I don't know. Make my way to Burrington Manor, find one of the villagers to take me in, get a passage on a packet-boat going abroad, maybe dress in breeches and sign on as a cabin-boy.'

  'You couldn't go to France, not with the war and all.' Jane sounded intrigued, but Maria's spirits dropped, recognising that such ambitions were unlikely to come to fruition.

  She would need money to break away, and her aunt and Viscount Damien Strafford, that mysterious guardian appointed by her father, had full administration of her estates until she reached twenty-one. She often wondered about this man, having never met him. He spent most of his time overseas and her aunt was not very forthcoming, hinting vaguely that he was a busy person, far too important to pay much heed to his ward. Maria knew little about him, and assumed that he was a contemporary of her father's.

  'You'll have to obey your aunt and reside in London,
won't you?' Jane asked and clung to her. 'Oh, my dear friend, what shall I do without you? Bath is so far away and our country house even further.'

  'You will come and stay with me.' Maria hugged her close. 'I shall write to you and ask my aunt if you can visit or perhaps your parents will invite me to the West Country.'

  'And if they make me marry Piers, will you come to my wedding?' Jane was close to tears.

  'Of course, and if it happens before I'm a bride, then you must tell me all about your wedding-night.'

  'Will it be like the mating of animals, do you think? I've seen my mother's pet bitch being covered by a dog. How horrid!' A shudder shook Jane's slim form and Maria tightened an arm about her.

  This part of the garden was secluded. No one would interrupt them and she undid the tiny mother-of-pearl buttons that fastened the front of Jane's high-waisted bodice, slipped a hand inside her chemise and started to caress the small nipples that hardened at her touch. At the same time she dropped her other hand to Jane's knee and slid her skirt up, higher and higher until she reached the crisp curls that coated her friend's pubis. Jane sighed and parted her legs a little so that Maria might slip a finger into her cleft. It felt so soft and slippery and she breathed in its oceanic scent. She wanted to taste it, and lowered her head while Jane spread herself on the bench, sliding down on her spine, making herself available for Maria's mouth.

  Lost in pleasure, Maria was about to suck Jane's swollen organ to completion when she stopped abruptly, aware of a sound close by.

  'What's that?' Jane whispered, sitting up sharply and buttoning her bodice; skirts once more demurely in place around her ankles.

  Maria put a finger to her lips and they tiptoed in the direction of the noise. It was hardly anything, a rustle of clothing, a stifled groan. Bushes screened whoever or whatever it was, and she crept closer, Jane beside her. She approached the bushes from which the sounds emerged, and carefully parted the branches.

  Robin stood with his back against the bole of a tree. He was oblivious to everything, concentrating on what he was doing, the expression on his face that of a martyred saint. From where they stood, peeping between the foliage, Jane and Maria had an uninterrupted view. Maria drew in a strangled gasp, gazing in astonishment to where Robin had unfastened the flap of his form-hugging black trousers. From this protruded an object which she instinctively recognised - it was long, thick and swarthy-skinned - a fully erect penis.

  The young clergyman was stroking this appendage from base to tip, working the foreskin up and down over the bulging red helm and exclaiming under his breath as he did so. Toying with it, as if it were the most wonderful of playthings, he took his hand away, releasing it from his palm so that it sprang up, slapping against his belly, reaching almost to his waist.

  'Good heavens!' Jane breathed in Maria's ear. 'What a monster! Is that the thing we women are expected to take into our bodies?'

  'I'd love to try, wouldn't you?' Maria whispered, her genital area on fire, her own miniature organ drumming in response to the sight of Robin's much larger pleasure instrument.

  They stared fascinated as Robin, no longer able to keep his hand away, began to rub his cock again. It jumped, swelled, the helm oozing juice and he pulled down his trousers further, exposing a fine pair of balls in their hairy sac. He weighed and caressed these in his free hand and his penis grew ever bigger in response. Maria longed to fondle them and replace his fingers with her own, feeling the silky smooth skin of his shaft, the ridge of his uncircumcised knob, the red and shiny glans.

  He was groaning now, his pelvis moving uncontrollably. Maria guessed that something stupendous was about to happen, though she did not know what. Would it be like her own sensations when she brought herself to fulfilment? What form would it take with a man? Robin's cries were almost piteous and his cock leapt in his hand. He rubbed it harder, harder still, almost brutal in his quest for satisfaction. Then, suddenly, it gave a final spasm and white fluid jetted from its single eye. Once, twice, thrice it discharged until finally drained of its tribute.

  The penis sagged and shrank. Robin wiped it on his handkerchief and collapsed against the tree, utterly spent, eyes closed and a peaceful smile on his face. He looked hardly more than a boy, his brown hair flopping over his forehead, his prick still resting in his hand.

  'I want to do that for him,' Jane said, as they crept away. 'I think I love him. How can I tell him? Help me, Maria.'

  'She'll be here in a week,' said Arabella, wife of an earl, mistress of a huge country estate, and enthusiastic hostess of many an extravagant and orgiastic party.

  She was in the vault of Strafford Hall, a magnificent gloomy pile in Hampstead, on London's outskirts. It belonged to her master, Viscount Damien Strafford. Manacled to a wooden crosspiece, her arms were outstretched and her legs, too, a brace holding her knees apart, her ankles in metal cuffs chained to the lower struts. She was naked apart from straps that passed round her neck and hoisted her breasts high. The nipples were pierced with gold rings from which dangled little bells that tinkled whenever she moved. Her ribs were arched, her belly flat as a lad's, the navel embellished with a further ring supporting chains that disappeared into her delta. This was hairless, a handsome barber ordered to shave her daily.

  'I'm glad to hear that. It is high time I met my old friend's daughter. We were close, you know. He saved my father's life in battle and I owed him a debt I could never repay,' Damien replied, running the leather thongs of a flogger through his long, aristocratic fingers.

  'How noble, and I expect you've not forgotten that she's an heiress. Whoever marries her will come into a fortune,' Arabella reminded, as she feasted her eyes on him through the veil of honey-gold ringlets that straggled over her face. The vault was lit by braziers set at intervals along the grey stone walls.

  He was worth looking at, his black hair curling around his neck and over his brow. His broad shoulders were covered by a fine linen shirt with full, belled sleeves. Open at the throat, it displayed a tanned, darkly furred chest. He strode over to stand directly in front of her, his long legs apart, covered in black leather breeches that fitted flawlessly, outlining the bulk of his penis at the apex of his thighs, and ending in highly polished riding boots.

  Arabella had taken her fill of good-looking men, but no one thrilled her like Damien. They had been lovers for ages, or rather she had been his submissive. Love did not fit into the equation. Both milked life of its bounteous pleasures, and neither gave a damn about anyone else.

  'Would I forget such a detail?' he answered, a cynical smile lifting his finely chiselled mouth. 'No one else shall have her dowry, lands and possessions. We'll see to that, won't we, my sweet little slave-slut?' He emphasised this remark with a flick of the whip.

  Arabella squirmed and pouted. 'More, master... give me more. You know I'll support you whatever you decide to do. Maria is an innocent, a pawn in our game. Let me help you tame her for I gather that she is wilful and likes her own way. Sir Piers spoilt the girl, I fear.'

  'Leave it to me,' Damien assured her, standing closer and running the pliable, many-thonged implement between her legs. 'I shall enjoy breaking-in this wild creature. You know that nothing pleases me more than subduing a hell-cat. Take yourself, for example. Didn't you fight me, once upon a time?'

  'I did, master, I admit it,' Arabella murmured, while he moved the tails backwards and forwards over her love-lips and nubbin, the leather darkened by her emissions.

  'Her initiation should prove to be enjoyable.' He replaced the thongs with his fingers, tugging at the labial chains, frigging her till she yelped. 'When is she arriving? I can't wait to begin her education.'

  He removed his hand, threw the flogger aside and picked up a whip. She rested against him for a second, and then he turned her on the crosspiece. This was cleverly designed to give access to its victim, back and front, according to the master's desires. Her shapely shoulders, spine and buttocks were now displayed for his amusement. She guessed that the curve of her thighs and calves, the slender ankles and high-arched feet would satisfy his aesthetic taste. He was a connoisseur of art and lovely women. He moved closer and she knew he was breathing in her scent, a combination of heady French perfume, sweat induced by passion and the female juices that betrayed her arousal.