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Archive for February, 2010

by Lady Carlton née Katie O’Roarke, heroine of The Blonde Samurai”

I spoke in my previous post about the act of deflowering a virgin  and indeed I promised to enliven you with a most interesting posting of how it is done in Japan. 

Without compromise, I shall deliver as promised.  

During the defloration ceremony, the gentleman acts like a male honeybee.  He cracks open three eggs and swallows the yolks then rubs the whites between the lady’s thighs.  Then he wiggles his fingers slippery with the egg whites inside her.  A little deeper each night so that by the end of  the week, the lady is accustomed to the ritual and is very relaxed and ready for the act of making love. 

Controversial, yes, but I must explain to you that virginity does not possess the same sanctity in Japan as it does in our society since the Japanese consider sex a natural act and relegate it to a part of their lives where no sin exists for indulgence in pleasure.  They retain an open and a natural approach toward sex and thereby their attitude is– 

If the vase must break, make it as easy as possible… 

I lost control of my pen as I wrote those words, dear lady reader, trying as I am to remain emotionally detached from this post since I feel it is important to discuss this subject with you since so many young brides approach their wedding night with nary an idea of what to expect.  As my own dear mother told me: 

“So you can understand why I smiled when, after the lavish wedding reception, my mother kissed me on both cheeks and whispered in my ear I could loosen my night corset but not remove it.  And if I lay very still, she assured me in an even voice, it would all be over quickly.” 

If I may speak plainly (as I always do), I admit I hesitated to write a posting on the subject of virginity since my own experience was outside the rules of convention.  Wild, raucous scenes from my wedding night come to mind, whips flying, nude buttocks up in the air, females shrieking…yet I remained a virgin as evidenced by what I wrote in my memoir, The Blonde Samurai: 

“But I was, at this moment, still a virgin and untouched by any man. I have nothing to gain here by delivering an untruth to you. Still, I prayed my virginity was intact, for a wild idea was forming in my brain, a way to save my virtue and my pride. But without proof of my purity, I had nothing to bargain with, for his lordship had made a contract for a virgin and I feared more wrath from him if he didn’t believe me untouched.” 

‘Tis true I arrived in Japan a virgin bride.  But that all changed when I met Shintaro.  I found the deflowering experience with him exhilarating and unique of our love and passion for each other.  I felt adored, desired, empowered.  I shall ne’er forget his devotion to making my journey to womanhood a wondrous and melodious joy that enveloped both my spiritual and physical self. 

So I offer you this solution if you are yet a virgin: choose a worthy and sincere gentleman with experience and allow him to seduce you before your wedding night.  

And if you are not a virgin, why not engage your husband or your lover in the deflowering ceremony as it is done in Japan? 

Seven days of teasing and foreplay, slippery fingers inserted into you, probing and exciting you.  

What could be more delicious?  And naughty… 

The only difficulty will be explaining to Cook what happened to all her fresh eggs.

 

The Blonde Samurai

She embraced the way of the warrior. Two swords. Two loves.”

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by Lady Carlton née Katie O’Roarke, heroine of The Blonde Samurai”

I have always thought of a virgin as being like a grand ovular vase painted with pretty blooms and fancy chinoiserie and trimmed with bright gold leaf around the rim to attract the gentleman buyer in a posh shop on Bond Street. 

Looking it over from head to tail with an experienced eye, the gentleman speaks of his desire to acquire the vase for his collection of beauteous objects.  But does she possess the high quality desired to grace his collection? he wonders, puffing on his cigar.  Admiring her lovely shape and pretty accoutrements, he flicks his cigar ashes into the vase when no one is looking to hide his indiscretion.

He visits the shop daily and stares at the vase until the day arrives when he purchases the precious objet d’art.  He takes her home with much fanfare then, in the privacy of his bedroom, he thrusts his long cigar into her depths.

The force of his action is not altogether violent (he attempts to be gentle), but nevertheless the vase cracks.  She is no longer an item to be cherished but relegated to the less substantial pieces in his collection.  Sitting on a shelf.  Occasionally admired by the master of the house or a visiting colleague.  But she never again retains the same stature in his eyes. 

She is no longer a virgin.

Such is the way in the West, where virginity is a prized possession deemed to be part and parcel of a bride’s attraction for marriage (not to mention her sizeable dowry).  In Japan, a more “civilized” deflowering ceremony is performed, where the new vase or virgin does not undergo the pain of penetration by an overzealous husband.

Rather, the ritual is performed by a complete stranger.  

I cannot claim to authenticate this ritual except by hearsay, as some claim this deflowering ceremony is performed only upon courtesans, though others also include the maiko or apprentice geisha, where the mama-san chooses the gentleman.  Not a young man who would be too rough.  He must be an older gentleman with experience.  I have also heard that the custom of ritual defloration is deemed a privilege that is bestowed upon the highest bidder. 

You may not sanction such a ritual, dear lady reader, but I can assure you of a most titillating read when you return on Friday for Part Two, as I pray you shall.

  

The Blonde Samurai
She embraced the way of the warrior. Two swords. Two loves.”

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Three courtesans with two attendants

by Lady Carlton née Katie O’Roarke, heroine of The Blonde Samurai”

Is she geisha or courtesan? 

I do not believe I am out of order if I mention that you admitted you believed both geisha and courtesan use their bodies to entertain men in a sexual manner.  You have since crossed that threshold and know that not to be the case.

Only the courtesan grants sexual favors (the tayū or high class courtesan can indeed turn down a customer if she deems him not worthy of her).

Yet I imagine you may yet have questions in your mind as to how a gentleman can tell the difference between a geisha and a courtesan (a lady would never bring up such a question in polite conversation).  As in so many things Japanese, the subtle visual cues clearly define the answer.

I shall confess I made the same mistake when first I came to Japan as to the way the geisha functions in Oriental society:

“I remember quite vividly the day we saw a woman with her red underslip showing under her kimono, her gigantic sash tied in front, her black-lacquered, foot-high clogs zigzagging down the street in a bizarre pattern, a young girl holding a parasol over the woman’s head with a male servant following them.

 “A geisha?

 “No, she was not, dear lady reader. Even I was fooled.”

 Here, then, is the information you seek:

Geisha wear:

  • Kimono styled in a simple manner in subdued colors changed according to the season.
  • Obi or sash tied in back in a style befitting her status; e.g. taiko or drum shape.
  • Geta or clogs worn with tabi or white stockings.
  • White makeup covering her face, neck, hands; lips painted a peony red; eyes outlined with subtle pink-red shading and deep black kohl.
  • Hairstyle subdued and devoid of many ornaments; dramatic and based more on the traditional than the outlandish. 

 

Courtesan wear:

  • Kimono–long, long robe in outlandish colors and design, often padded with many layers and a thick, padded hem.
  • Obi or overly long sash tied in front for a “pillow effect.”
  • Black clogs 12-15 inches in height, used to perform her figure-eight walk (a zig-zag walking pattern); no tabi or stockings; toenails painted.
  • White make-up on her face, throat, hands and feet; white makeup on her face is styled into a “peak” on the forehead: in times past, her lower lip was painted with iridescent green rouge.
  • Hairstyle–needles, ribbons, cords tied in fancy knots; an array of “jewel-like” sparkling ornaments often added to produce a “weighty” effect. 

Woodblock print of Maiko or apprentice Geisha

Before I finish, I shall not forget to mention the outrageous sashes and long sleeves worn by the young maiko or apprentice geishaThey wear these overly ornate costumes as a way of making up for their lack of accomplishments until they become geisha. 

So the next time you chance to overhear a conversation in a Mayfair drawing room between bewhiskered gentlemen from the Foreign Office about “geisha girls” and how they compare to the girls in Madame Moiret’s brothel, you can speak up with confidence and say:

“Geisha do not sleep with their customers, milords.  Only courtesans do.”

I wish I could see their faces. 

You shall shine like the reigning geisha at a banquet when you remind them that like a sophisticated lady such as yourself, a geisha has other assets that shall remain hidden to a gentleman’s naked eye.

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The Blonde Samurai
“She embraced the way of the warrior. Two swords. Two loves.”

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"The Blonde Samurai"

  

Exciting news!! 

My new Harlequin Spice, The BLONDE SAMURAI, has been chosen as the Fresh Pick for today, Friday, February 19th at FreshFiction.com 

The Blonde Samurai appears on every page of the FreshFiction.com website today and also in the Fresh Pick Newsletter. 

I’m very honored to be a Fresh Pick.  According to the email I received–

“The Fresh Pick is chosen by a group of readers…”

Writing is a solitary profession, but I can tell you that as a writer, my characters make me laugh, angry at times (when they don’t do what you tell them) and cry.  

I remember feeling the anguish of my heroine, Katie, when she feared she would never have a child; or how much she missed her Irish-American family when she first arrived in Japan; how the inimitable Mr. Fawkes (an Englishman who was her go-between) made her laugh; and how amazed she was to discover that the Empress of Japan was a charming young woman who shared her interest in fashion. 

Then there was Shintaro.  

“Yet the first man I took to my bed after my wedding night was not my husband—or yours—but one of the most mysterious, elusive and enigmatic men in all Japan. A samurai.    

“His name was Shintaro.”     

I’m thrilled that the readers at FreshFiction.com also enjoyed the adventures of Lady Carlton née Katie O’Roarke.  Thank you!! 

  

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The Blonde Samurai
“She embraced the way of the warrior. Two swords. Two loves.”

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Woodblock print of Maiko or apprentice Geisha

by Lady Carlton née Katie O’Roarke, heroine of The Blonde Samurai”

I have a most intriguing question for you in today’s posting, dear lady reader: What is the difference between a geisha and a courtesan?

I am awaiting your answer. Be assured, I will not judge you. There is no dark purpose behind my question. I merely seek your view on a subject surely to become a popular question buffeted about in Mayfair drawing rooms as all things Japanese become more popular in the West.

Including the photographs and woodblock prints from Japan of bare-breasted women wearing kimono.

But are they geisha or courtesan?

Silence.

Come now, we are no longer strangers. Have I not shared with you the intimate details of my life, including my interest in dildos and my tempestuous marriage to Lord Carlton? 

There is no difference between a geisha and a courtesan, you say finally, though I strain to hear your words. They both entertain gentlemen with their bodies.

I am impressed with your daring answer, considering that when we first began this journey of postings you were quite reserved in your attitude and quick to judge me.

Regarding your answer, I will tell you this: You are partially correct in your assessment of the charms of the geisha and the courtesan. They both entertain with their bodies:

The geisha enchants her customer with her lovely voice and the elegant sway of her body as she dances and tosses her fan into the air. She does not include sexual favors in her repertoire.

The courtesan seduces a gentlemen by untying her extravagant sash (which she wears tied in front) and opening her kimono as a flower blossom opens her petals to welcome penetration by the sun’s rays.

Yes, ’tis true I ascribe to the overwrought poetry of a besotted dabbler of words to make my point. I hesitate to make you come completely undone by using the erotic language of the genre, though be assured I do not hold back in my memoir:

“It seems to me when we women pen erotic novels using words men created, that often leaves us unhappily searching for words, descriptions and phrases that evoke the sexual experience the way we women feel it, not how men expect us to act.

“Vulgar, sassy. So I’ve made up my own word.”

I have no doubt there are those among you who would rather I abandon this topic and present a recitation far more mundane. I shall not do so, for that would be untrue to the art of these exquisite ladies of the “floating world” (a term referring to the pleasure quarters).

Both geisha and courtesan.     

Tayuu or high class courtesan

And so I shall pierce the silken armor these ladies have fashioned for themselves with their numerous layers of kimono and outlandishly tied sashes and high, high clogs and expose in my next posting on the differences between the geisha and the courtesan (I speak here of the high-class courtesan):

It shall be most intriguing, I promise you.

 

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The Blonde Samurai
“She embraced the way of the warrior. Two swords. Two loves.”

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by Lady Carlton née Katie O’Roarke, heroine of The Blonde Samurai”  

Valentine’s Day seems a most appropriate time to revisit my favorite penny-a-line heroine, Molly Pearlbottom.  That saucy, fanny-wiggling lass of The Misadventures of Molly Pearlbottom that I wrote about in my memoir, The Blonde Samurai.  (Should you have an urge to explore a passage, you can read it here.) Molly is once again up to her old tricks, seeking out the skillful attributions of the handsome lord of Malworth Hall to pleasure her bottom with the kiss of fire that sends her senses reeling and her buttocks quivering. 

The coming of Valentine’s Day brings Molly a sweet treat that even she did not deign could be so humorous, dramatic and, if I may attach a literary pun to the telling of my story, stimulating to the point of ecstatic. 

It all began after church services on a pious Sunday morning with a frosty nip in the air that bit at Molly’s tender backside when her father, the vicar, received an urgent message from his lordship’s sister, the Lady Serise. 

She commanded the presence of Miss Molly Pearlbottom at Malworth Hall immediately

Molly squeezed her arse muscles tight.  She knew of only one reason her ladyship would summon her. 

Someone had informed Lady Serise about her whipping trysts with her younger brother, Lord Edward, on Thursday afternoons under the great oak tree on top of the hill.  His silver-handled blue riding crop flying through the air faster than the autumnal leaves could fall or the snowflakes could melt, stinging her arse with one delicious stroke after another.  

No, ’tis not an error of the pen you read regarding the snowflakes.  Bundled up with her snug-fitting bonnet and woolen muff to keep her ears and hands warm, Molly reveled in the extra stimulation of the cold wind licking her buttocks with smarting strokes. 

But I digress, as I am wont to do.  I shall continue… 

Wearing her halo of respectability as the vicar’s daughter, Molly ventured up the long, winding road to Malworth Hall, not daring to cast her eye toward the great oak tree.  Who had told her ladyship about her?  Not Lord Edward.  He found great pleasure in their meetings, commenting on her delicious backside with adoring phrases while he stroked her soft cheeks with his hand, noting the pinkish blossoms from his crop popping up on her tender flesh.  

And a kind gentleman he was, too.  Hugging and kissing her, and making her feel important. 

Was it about to come to an unseemly end? she wondered. 

Refusing to act timid like a servant girl trying to pass muster with her mistress, Molly kept her head up, her back straight, her arse in when she entered the grand drawing room of Malworth Hall, a place much speculated upon by the local townspeople for save a few had seen its vast interior.  Built in the twelfth century before the Third Crusades, the manor house boasted twenty bedrooms as well as a drafty, old dungeon. 

Molly shivered.  She had an idea that was where she was headed before the hour grew late, but she refused to cower before the woman.  In fact, she had to stifle a giggle when she laid eyes upon her ladyship. 

A sight she had ne’er expected from gentry greeted her. 

A red-suited, gold-buttoned monkey wearing a tiny round cap sat on her ladyship’s shoulder, picking at the outdated wig plopped on her head as she sat at a desk worthy of a queen, shuffling notebook papers and scrutinizing a long list. 

Egad, I shall never get through all these names–” she sputtered, ignoring the monkey pulling a hairpin out of her blue-tinted wig and tossing it on the polished marble floor.  

“Your ladyship, the girl you asked for has arrived,” drawled the butler in the monochromatic tone of those who feign importance where there is none. 

“Lady Serise…” Molly said, her voice barely above a whisper.  She made a curtsy, though she couldn’t take her eyes off this elegant woman in her stiff, crackly silk the color of dried almonds. 

“Oh, yes, Molly Puttbottom,” she said, looking her up and down in a curious manner. 

Pearlbottom, milady.”  Molly lowered her eyes, eager for this dressing down to be done with.  Where was his lordship?  Surely Lord Edward would defend her. 

“I shall call you Molly,” Lady Serise said, settling the matter as she did everything in the household, from arguing with Cook over trussing a pheasant to cutting down on expenses by dying her gowns a new color each season to make them appear new. 

And that wig.  Rumor had it that it once graced the head of a French aristocrat who willed it to her ladyship’s great-grandmother before Madame Guillotine could claim it. 

Molly would also discover that her ladyship kept a tight rein on the day-to-day activities at Malworth Hall in the absence of a dutiful wife for her younger brother, Lord Edward, a bachelor.  His lordship had no intention of finding himself tied down, which suited the Lady Serise.  She was a woman of substance but also rather eccentric. 

Such as her menagerie of animals.  A monkey, numerous parrots, tropical fish swimming in the garden ponds, felines brushed with tawny and white fur, and a pair of hunting hounds roamed freely throughout the manor.

 A quiet, orderly life where supper was served at eight every night of the year, including holidays.  And nothing had changed. 

Until now. 

“Her Grace, the Duchess of Asquith, is coming to tea, Molly, the day before Valentine’s Day,” her ladyship said, standing.  The monkey on her shoulder grabbed onto a low-hanging chandelier and began swinging back and forth, making the girl duck.  “I must have all these invitations to the ladies of the town sent out by tomorrow morning.” 

“Y–yes, your ladyship,” Molly said, her eyes moving right then left and back again, watching the monkey.  What did tea with the duchess have to do with her? 

“I have been told by my brother Edward that you have the most magnificent–” she began then stopped, diverted by the monkey’s antics. 

Molly blushed.  Had his lordship told her about their secret trysts? 

Exasperated, her ladyship grabbed the playful monkey off the chandelier and handed him to a stiff doorman.   She finished her thought with: “Penmanship.” 

Molly let out the deep breath she had been holding.  “Thank you, your ladyship,” she said, relieved. 

“I shall pay you the sum of one guinea to address these invitations if you finish the deed before tomorrow morning.”  She indicated Molly should take her place at the desk.  “Everything must be perfect for Her Grace’s visit.  It has been years since we’ve had such an esteemed visitor here at Malworth Hall.” 

Her ladyship failed to mention that her aberrant ways, most notably her idiosyncrasy of keeping a plethora of animals residing in the manor, kept the local upper class ladies from calling at the social hour.  It seemed, however, the duchess was a curious sort and had heard about the whimsical Lady Serise and wanted to see for herself if the rumors were true.  

Looking at the long list, Molly gasped.  “Is there no one here but me to help you, milady?” 

“No.  Unfortunately, none of the servant girls can read or write,” she said, then she leaned over and whispered in Molly’s ear, “I have tried to convince them to better themselves, but they will have none of it.”  She sighed.  “Would it be that I had been bolder when I was their age.  Then I wouldn’t have ended up a sorry old spinster.” 

Old? Molly questioned.  Her ladyship couldn’t be more seven and twenty years. 

“What about his lordship?” she asked aloud, looking everywhere for Lord Edward but he had not made an appearance. 

“My gadabout brother left for Paris this morning, but he has vowed to be here to greet the duchess.”  The distraught woman sighed and Molly well understood her feelings about the roguish nobleman.  “He is a dear but not given to understanding that his place is here at Malworth Hall and not cavorting abroad with pretty mamselles.” 

Molly smiled, silently agreeing with her ladyship and eager to get started with her task.  With a guinea she could buy a new bonnet and red-and-white striped stockings with lace garters when next she enjoyed a tryst with Lord Edward.  For she believed that no matter how pretty a backside a French mamselle turned toward him, an English arse was vastly superior. 

Such naughty thoughts occupied her mind over the course of the next several hours and well into the night as she wrote one fancy name after another in her curly handwriting on the ivory linen invitations.  

Until finally she finished her task in the wee hours of the morning when she found herself being driven home in an elegant Brougham carriage with a driver and a footman. 

And a guinea clenched in her hand. 

Sleepy-eyed and dreaming of her next tryst with his lordship and her wearing her new red-and-white stripped stockings, Molly concluded that would be the end of her adventure with her ladyship.  

Or so she thought. 

The saucy lass was helping her father, the vicar, assemble the prayer books for the Sunday next services when another note came from Malworth Hall.  Lady Serise requested her presence at tea. 

The day before Valentine’s Day when the Duchess of Asquith was due to arrive. 

Me, Molly Pearlbottom,”  she questioned the footman in the fancy livery awaiting her answer.  “Are you certain?” 

“Yes, miss.”  He told her he had instructions to call for her at two in the afternoon on the appointed day.  

Molly couldn’t believe her ears.  She was going to take tea with the duchess.  And his lordship would also be there. 

Molly was in a state of high anticipation by the time she arrived at Malworth Hall on the day before Valentine’s Day.  Fancy carriages and fancier ladies wearing exquisite hats with long, swaying plumes tarried and gossiped, while stiff-collared and white stockinged servants proffered cakes with vanilla butter cream frosting and tarts with sugar-glazed fruits and marzipan that stuck to the roofs of their mouths. 

“It was Edward’s idea that I send for you, Molly,” her ladyship said, primping her wig with her long fingers.  Her pet monkey sat on her shoulder, pulling on the pearls hanging from her off-the-shoulder cap sleeves.  “I should have thought of it myself, but I have been so frazzled getting reading for Her Grace’s arrival.” 

“Then Lord Edward has returned from Paris, milady?” Molly asked, her buttocks contracting with delightful sensations she didn’t try to stop. 

“Yes, my dear, he’s–oh, there is Her Grace now!” 

Blinded by her need to be the perfect hostess, Lady Serise picked up her silk skirts and raced toward the arriving noblewoman, not realizing her pet monkey couldn’t hold on.  Screeching loudly, the frightened animal jumped off her shoulder and grabbed on to the long train of her gown.  Holding on and making raucous noises, he rode on her ladyship’s train, tipping his hat to the ladies whose names Molly had so studiously written on the invitations.  

Ladies now beside themselves, twittering with laughter and whispering cruel remarks behind their teacups about their hostess.  

How dare they ridicule her ladyship after all the hard work she did putting on this tea for them so they could make the acquaintance of Her Grace, Molly thought angrily.  The nerve of them.   

“What are you ninnies laughing at?” she said, taking them on, hands on her hips.  

“Who is she?” 

“Some servant girl, most likely.”

“How dare she speak to us like that!” 

Molly didn’t that stop her.  She continued, “Lady Serise is a grand lady who has a big heart and takes good care of her animals,” she said, pulling the squealing monkey off her ladyship’s long train.  “All you ladies have are big arses.” 

Ignoring their agitated outrage and finger pointing in her direction, Molly spun around so quickly she bumped into the Duchess of Asquith, holding a plate filled with cakes topped with a mound of raspberry butter cream frosting– 

And spilling gooey, fluffy butter cream all over Molly and Her Grace. 

It was a day of madness madder than a silly rabbit’s tea party with the rustle of silk and shocked indignations bantered about as Lady Serise pulled off her wig in frustration and tossed it over the monkey’s head to quiet him down.  Then, in a reserved, dignified tone, she announced to the cackling pullets in silk that the afternoon’s festivities had ended. 

No one was sadder than Molly.  Covered with butter cream frosting and certain she was about to be sacked and never again invited to Malworth Hall. 

I imagine you are quite alarmed by this turn of events when I promised you a naughty spanking.  But I am not a scribbler who taunts her reader with provocative titles then does not deliver. 

The naughtiest morsel of my tale, dear lady reader, is at hand. 

“I saw how you interceded on my sister’s behalf, Molly,” Lord Edward said but an hour later, his fingers softly caressing her bottom under her cotton chemise.  “How you stood up to those women and forced them to look at themselves in a cold, harsh light.” 

Molly wiggled under his touch, soothed by his words and his probing fingers.  Hard to believe that she, Molly Pearlbottom, was lying on top of a cream-colored satin coverlet trimmed with rose-pointed lace in what was called The Royal’s Bedroom (named after a titled personage on the outs with the government who spent the night at Malworth Hall with his mistress during the time of Oliver Cromwell).  

After the “incident,” as she called it, Lady Serise had insisted Molly wash up and change her soiled clothes.  No sooner had she given her dress stained with frosting to the maid when Lord Edward sneaked into the room through a secret passageway. 

Oh, the fun she was having with him here, pinching her flesh and making her giggle and squirm. 

“I had to do something, your lordship.”  Molly shivered when he ran his hand down her leg and clasped her ankle then squeezed it.  Tight.  She was deliriously happy she was wearing her new red-and-white striped stockings.  “I couldn’t let those drivel-nosed old women mock your sister like that.”  

He said, “It’s not every lass who has the courage to do what you did, Molly.” 

“I only did what my father, the vicar, taught me.”  She leaned against his broad chest and nuzzled her face into the warm spot on his shoulder.  She felt protected and safe.  

“And what was that, Molly?” his lordship asked in a polite manner, but Molly could see by the bulge in his trousers that he was burning with impatience for what she hoped would be a pleasurable afternoon after all. 

“Not to let anyone take advantage of someone when they’re down, even if they are your betters,” she stated with assurance.  Lady Serise wasn’t a bad sort.  In fact, she rather liked her.  Monkey, wig and all. 

Lord Edward snickered.  “I have never seen my sister so befuddled, especially when you said her guests had ‘big arses–‘ ” 

“I pray her ladyship has recovered,” Molly said, lowering her head and trying to appear meek, though she wasn’t ashamed of what she did.  Those old drones deserved to be put into their place. 

“She is a bit overwrought,” Lord Edward said, licking raspberry frosting off her nose then her chin, “but secretly pleased to be rid of those sniveling harridans and their pompous manners.” 

“And the duchess?” she dared to ask, wishing his lips would move to her breasts and taste them

“She is properly amused by the entire affair.”  He leaned Molly over his knee, stroking her bottom, then passing his hands up to her breasts and lingering there momentarily to twist her nipples, impassioning her fervor.  “She and the Lady Serise are enjoying a chat in her private sitting room.  I haven’t heard my sister laugh so much in years.” 

“Then her ladyship is not angry with me?” she asked, lifting her head.  She was desperate for him to spank her, but he pulled her up to a standing position instead.

 “Angry?  She insisted I make arrangements for you to purchase a new gown at the finest shop in Newcastle and send her the bill.”  

“Milord, I cannot believe my good fortune.” 

“I am so proud of you, Molly,” he said, picking up a wrapped package she hadn’t noticed before sitting on the blue silk meridienne.  “I was going to give you this present on Valentine’s Day, but under the circumstances I want you to have it now.” 

“For me, milord?” she asked in an expectant voice.  What was in the package he was hiding behind his back?  His riding crop?  

She began to quiver and shake with a scintillating excitement she could barely control.    

He cocked his head to one side, teasing her.  “Something I know you will like.” 

Before he could utter another word, she ripped open the package and pulled out a pair of pink satin bloomers with white lace cuffs and long red ribbons. 

“They are beautiful, milord,” she cried out, never having owned satin drawers before, but she couldn’t hide her disappointment at not seeing his favorite crop.  Her lower lip curled upward in a pout. 

“Are you not pleased with the garment, Molly?” he asked, dismayed.  “I bought them especially for you in Paris.”  

“Oh, yes, milord,” she said, her eyes widening, then: “But I was hoping you wanted to  play our little game.” 

He smiled.  “Oh, but I do.” 

She lifted her eyebrows.  “You do?” 

“Yes, Molly.  These are special bloomers for my favorite Valentine.” 

He motioned for her to turn them around.  Molly squealed when she saw two big hearts cut out, one on either side of the buttock cheeks. 

She knew what that meant.  “Oh, milord!” 

“Put them on, Molly, and show me your beautiful arse,” he said, pulling on a pair of fine gray leather gloves.  She heard him draw in his breath, knowing only a good spanking could assuage the hunger they both craved, eager as they were to indulge in the pleasure of their private game. 

“Yes, milord.”  Grabbing the drawers, Molly slipped on the silky pantaloons in the flick of an eye blink then bent over, smacking herself on the buttocks.  “I am ready to receive my Valentine’s Day present.” 

“And so you shall have it!” he said, his voice hoarse and needy, his eyes bedeviled with intent, his breathing coming faster as he raised his hand then brought it down hard on her waiting backside. 

Smack!   

Molly cried out again and again each time he brought down his hand on her exposed pink flesh peeping through the cut-out hearts, hitting his mark with precision and tinting her nude skin a deep rosy red while she writhed about on the fancy royal coverlet, her body in total surrender.  

She moaned over and over, giving in to a rising sensual heat, then arching her back in a surge of wild excitement that made Lord Edward gasp. 

“My dear Molly, you are a wonder.”  His lordship laughed then slapped her buttocks again with his gloved hand, making her quiver and shake with delicious contractions she could not control.  Nor did she wish to.  

“I pray her ladyship…will ask me back again…to Malworth Hall,” Molly said, trying to get her breath. 

“I am certain she will, Molly,” Lord Edward said, laughing.  “You have the most magnificent–” 

“Your lordship!” she cried out, putting her hand over her mouth. 

Penmanship,” he finished with a sly smile, then kissed the enflamed red hearts on each of her nude buttocks and making her sigh.

 

Ah, yes, ’twas a grand day for Molly, who not only received a naughty spanking from his lordship, but made an ally in her quest to better her station in life under the guidance of the eccentric Lady Serise.  

I wonder where it will lead as we follow The Misadventures of Molly Pearlbottom.

I wonder…      

What you do you think, dear lady reader?    

 

NEW: The Blonde Samurai:

“She embraced the way of the warrior. Two swords. Two loves.”

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Sex and chocolate are the ultimate pleasures, so why not combine them both in a spicy surprise you’ll both enjoy this Valentine’s Day?

The fun is not just in the eating, but in putting together a sexy choco version of his dream gal: You.

The surprise is the smooth sorbet or ice cream hidden under the whipped cream.

You’ll have him thinking there’s more to you than meets his eye.

                                                                                                                                                            Serves: 2

Preparation time: 5 minutes

Assembly time: 10-15 minutes

Ingredients

1 12-14 oz. bag of M&Ms (I used Cupid’s Mix with red, white and pink M&Ms)

1 can of whipped cream

2 scoops of raspberry sorbet (or the ice cream/ sorbet of your choice)

Shredded coconut

2 chocolate or cocoa covered almonds

1 Hershey kiss

Ground cinnamon

1 oval serving platter

Arrange a bag of M&Ms on the oval platter into the shape of a sexy female torso using any color combination you like.

Be creative and put a hula skirt on her with shredded coconut as I have or a cute polka-dotted bikini top or leave her topless. It’s up to you!

Use a Hershey kiss for her belly button.

Arrange two big scoops of your favorite sorbet or ice cream at the top of the platter. Make her any bra cup size you wish.

Add swirls of whipped cream over the scoops of sorbet.

Place a cocoa-covered almond on top of the whipped cream swirls.

Sprinkle with ground cinnamon.

You can add candies and spices of your choice to create a fun, romantic mood with your Naughty ‘n Spice Choco Surprise that will have him thinking about you every time he grabs a handful of M&Ms.

Happy Valentine’s Day!!

 

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The Blonde Samurai:

“She embraced the way of the warrior. Two swords. Two loves.”   

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