At Creavey Hall, the reform school where he’d spent his youth, a lad named Ratterby had smuggled in an erotic book featuring stories from Roman mythology. Ratterby had charged a hefty “borrowing fee,” and Conrad had bartered his meals for a week to get his hands on that volume. He still remembered turning those pages with trembling hands, his blood heating and his cock swelling at the explicit words and illustrations.
The maid by the stream had been the spitting image of the heroine of his favorite story, “The Naughty Naiad.” The tale told the adventures of a water nymph named Pearl, who was ruthlessly pursued by a satyr named Prickonus. Despised and unloved, lonely old Prick had roamed the countryside looking for a mate, and from the moment he saw Pearl, their fates were sealed.
Each chapter followed a formula. The peerless Pearl would tease the randy satyr, then lead him on a merry chase. Their lusty cat-and-mouse scenes always ended the same way: with Prick capturing Pearl and fucking her in creative variations until she cried her surrender. The story would conclude with Pearl wrapped around the hairy beast, her elegant fingers teasing his untamed mane as she promised never to leave.
Of course, she fled at the first opportunity.
Those illustrations had fueled Conrad’s lustful adolescent dreams. He couldn’t count the times he’d feverishly frigged himself to images from the book. He had two favorites. One was of Pearl against a tree, her wrists captured in the satyr’s powerful grip, her features blissful as he impaled her upon his massive shaft. In the other, she was on her hands and knees, and Prick was shafting her from behind, his hand fisted in her hair as she arched in ecstasy. While the poses were undoubtedly arousing, it was Pearl’s expression—one of sweet surrender—that had captured Conrad’s imagination.
For those fleeting moments, the nymph had truly belonged to the satyr.
The country maid had shared Pearl’s nubile figure and sublimely animated features. He’d wager his fortune that if freed from those thick plaits, her hair would flow down her back in a dark, silken river, just like the nymph’s. While the black-and-white drawings hadn’t shown the color of Pearl’s eyes, the maid’s gaze—a shade that made him, a proudly unsentimental man, think of violets in the rain—was mythical perfection. In short, she was his fantasy come to life.
Which was why he hadn’t gone back. Fantasies were dangerous. They distracted one from reality and made one vulnerable to folly and failure. He couldn’t afford entanglements when all his attention needed to be on his purpose—on getting what he was owed. If he wanted a fantasy nymph, he could purchase the services of one of the whores prancing about. Hell, Isobel would play the role if he asked, especially if he gave her that diamond bracelet she’d been dropping unsubtle hints about.
“Darling,” Isobel said throatily.
Kneeling between his thighs, she held his turgid cock, feeding it to the lightskirt. Yes, he decided, he would get her that bracelet. While she didn’t have Pearl’s willowy form, her arse had a nice jiggle when he plowed her from behind. Perhaps, if he asked, she would even run from him, for nothing aroused him like a good chase. His brief pursuit of the maid through the woods, for instance, had made him harder than rock. Yet he’d promised not to take more than a kiss, and he was a man of his word.
“Hmm?” he asked indulgently.
“I want to share your bed this eve.”
He stilled. Isobel continued to pump him languidly while the brunette applied her oral skills.
“I beg your pardon?” he asked.
“I said I want to go home with you tonight.”
Frowning, he gave the prostitute’s hair a gentle tug. Given the sudden turn in conversation, he didn’t want to be distracted—or manipulated—by her talented mouth.
“That’s enough,” he said.
“You don’t find me pleasing, guv?” she asked.
At her crestfallen look, he felt a moment’s regret. He did admire her talent.
“You’ve a delightful mouth, sweetheart,” he said. “Tell Mrs. Moddesty to add fifty pounds to my tab for your services.”
“Thank you, sir!”
Beaming, the lightskirt headed off…straight into the arms of another customer. Watching her rub her tits against the man’s chest, Conrad thought philosophically, On to the next transaction.
“It’s not such a surprising request, is it?”
Isobel breathed the words against his cockhead. When she swirled her tongue across the broad tip, he grew harder despite himself.
“We’ve been together for weeks now,” she said sultrily. “And I’ve never set foot in your town house.”
That was by design. Conrad saw no reason to bring Isobel into his sanctuary. They usually met at a venue such as this one; on the rare occasions when they rendezvoused at her home, he never stayed the night. What was the point in lingering after the deal was completed? Moreover, after a good fuck, he was relaxed and magnanimous, and prior partners had taken advantage. Aftermath had cost him a fortune in jewels, furs, and other gewgaws.
Isobel, however, had yet to make him come, which was a tactical error on her part. When he was aroused, his mind was sharp and clear. He knew exactly what she was up to.
“We agreed from the outset,” he said. “We are casual bedpartners, nothing more.”
Isobel pouted, and he had to admit she was good at it. She released his erection, letting it slap against his chiseled stomach. Rising, she crossed her arms under her breasts, the calculated pose pushing up her tits and showing them to distinct advantage.
“I am not asking for a lifetime commitment,” she said sarcastically. “Just to stay the night.”
