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About the author:
I grew up on a farm in Massachusetts, but I’ve spent my career in New York City as a writer, publishing more than 100 articles, essays, and stories and helping foundations, museums, hospitals, schools, conservation organizations, and all sorts of other good causes with my writing talents. With this experience, and my long love affair with poetry (you can find my book, “Touched By Its Rays” on Amazon), I think you will find I am a stylist whose writing will be a pleasure to read–and will take you into places, characters, and the heart of action in a way that will make the pages fly by.
What inspired you to write your book?
My lifelong love has been stories with gripping plots driven by logic, heroes and heroines driven by impassioned values and desires, and places and action and dialogue that carry me away to “the homeland of my soul.” Nothing brings these together like a battle for justice, a struggle for love and the fulfillment of sexual passion, the obsessive need to understand a mystery, a problem, a threat.
Here is a short sample from the book:
Charles said, “Before we leave this room, you will be naked. There are enough of us to ensure that. We don’t care if you scream or cry. Do you want to do it, or do you want us to do it?”
He was the most beautiful man she ever had seen. For fully half a minute, they held each others’ gaze. ‘Never, ever show your modesty,’ Maria had said. Hannah reached back and took hold of the blouse. She held her breath, glanced at Charles, and pulled it over her head. There seemed to be no place to put it. She dropped it on the floor. And then she bent to push down the trousers, and was naked. It was the strangest and most frightening feeling. The beautiful man looked at her nakedness and she felt quaking fear—and a hint of excitement.
She had the arms and shoulders of a farm girl, strong, and a waist lean with muscle from bending, lifting, and because there was not enough food. The tiny waist flared up to her breasts, the breasts with raised aureoles and nipples now stiffening. On her shoulders and chest were freckles, but the flawless white breasts seemed to pop out at the viewer, tender and saucy. She held her head with a natural poise, so the sandy curls swirled about her neck. In fascinating counterpoint was a lush, full bush of sandy hair at the apex of her long leg and slim thighs.
The men were studying her with the professional appraisal of connoisseurs who spent their days with some of the most beautiful young women of the realm. Charles gazed at Hannah so long, so openly, that finally she found courage to return his stare. He nodded slightly, rose, and came toward her. She held her ground. When he stood only a few inches from her, his powerful chest almost touching her breasts, she could feel his heat. She could smell his sweat. Charles looked down at her, examining her, then walked around her. Hannah was trembling, but stood still. Charles did not touch her, but, at each moment, she expected that he would.
“You are very beautiful,” said Charles. “They never make a mistake, do they? I wonder what prince of prurience spotted you.”
“The duke,” said Hannah. “He looked from his carriage. I was at the market with a baskets of carrots. We grow carrots.”
“Yes, he always comes here,” said Charles.
“What do you mean?”
“To the performances.” Charles was silent for a moment. Then he said, thoughtfully, “He sits close to the stage. Not in his box, usually. He wants to be able to see if your nipples are stiff.”
Hannah almost raised her hands to cover her breasts.
“Yes,” said Charles. “Like yours are now.”
Hannah blushed, but somewhere within her, traitorous and insistent, was a spurt of pleasure and excitement. Even Charles found her body beautiful and desirable. She cried to herself, silently, “Be careful, Hannah!”
Charles looked around at the others. “She stands so beautifully, as if showing the whole world her titties.” Her hips are strong, like a man’s. She holds her chin like the Countess Morat—but with more justification, I venture.”
All around her, like a pressure on her body, she felt gazes. Each time Charles complimented her, impersonally, like a man commenting on a fine steed, she felt the forbidden pleasure break through her defenses. She fought it, but it came. Charles said, “She is only 18 and already a beautiful woman. It takes your breath away, doesn’t it? A hateful, hot blush came to Hannah’s neck. Charles said, “I feel my prick getting stiff? Don’t you?” Laughter all around her.
“You fainted today, didn’t you?” asked Charles. He waited, demanding an explanation. Hannah said, simply, “Yes. I must have.”
“You never had seen naked grown men?”
“I never saw anyone naked,” said Hannah, in a whisper. “Just my brothers, little boys.”
“All right, lads,” said Charles, glancing around. “Light the gaslights. We have work to do.” At each moment, as the light in the room increased, as though to illuminate every part of her nakedness, Hannah expected them to attack her. But they seemed almost lethargic.
“Now,” said Charles, “I can have one of these eager young men hold you, while I give you your lesson or you can cooperate. But you already have heard that, today, and know what I mean.”
Hannah said, only, “Please.” She had begun to shake. “Please.” But then she thought, Maria’s advice had worked so far. And she said, as calmly as she could, “I will hold still, for you.”
Charles frowned. “You already have changed,” he said. “You learn, don’t you? That will help you, here.”
Then Hannah gave a brief cry, and shrunk back. Charles had lifted his hands and placed them over her bare breasts. No man had touched her breasts, ever. He said, “Are you cooperating, Hannah?”
With all her willpower, Hannah forced herself to straighten up. She felt her breasts pressing against his hands. And that unspeakable excitement ran through her. His dark, strong hands covered her breasts; she felt her nipples pushing against his palms. He opened his fingers and let the stiff nipples peek between them.
Could she fight 10 men? With what ally? Her hands had come up, but slowly, to cover his. Then she remembered Maria’s story of the night her body was destroyed. She lowered her hands to her sides.
“Look at me,” said Charles, and Hannah realized she had closed her eyes. She opened them, and Charles’s dark, beautiful eyes looked right into hers. “These are your breasts,” said Charles pedantically, and his hands molded them, squashed them, so the nipples pouted forward. “We call them your ‘titties” or ‘boobies’ and they are for the pleasure of the duke.”
The men around the room laughed.
Charles went on, “They jiggle for the duke’s pleasure, they are lifted for the duke’s pleasure…” His hands pushed her breasts upward. “They are separated, thus, for the duke’s pleasure…” and his hands pushed her breasts apart. “In fact, Hannah, they are not your titties at all, do you understand? They are the duke’s titties.”
Laughter, loud giggling, mocking sounds. “The duke has lovely titties, he does,” said Charles. Now, he released Hannah’s breasts, but his forefingers began to trace circles around her nipples. Hannah squirmed. It was a tender, titillating motion, round and round, that made her whole nipples swell. “And these titties get hard for the pleasure of the duke,” said Charles. Her nipples were puckering fiercely, betraying her. They all watched.
Finally, Charles ceased the terrible titillation. He slowly walked around behind her. Hannah braced herself for whatever would come. The strong hands seized the cheeks of her buttocks and, in spite of herself, she gasped and clenched them. She felt the outrageous, precise fingers part her and her legs began to tremble. She noticed the boys around the room were studying her face intently. To smile was unthinkable; she tried to show nothing.
The pedantic voice went on, “This is the duke’s arse, Hannah. It is one of the most heartbreakingly lovely arses I have seen.” The fingers squeezed, hard. “It delights the fingers to mold it. To lift it, spread it,” and his hands followed his words. “It is the arse of Venus, divinely heavy. But it is the duke’s arse, for the duke’s pleasure.”
They laughed, easily, good-naturedly. What kind of place was this?
“When you shit, you are borrowing the duke’s arsehole.”
The boys roared.
“I am sorry I must do this, Hannah,” said Charles, “but it is my duty.” One bold forefinger traveled down the cleft of Hannah’s buttocks. Her buttocks clenched fiercely, her hips pulled away. But the finger did not stop till it pressed on the bud of her anus. Then, it gently insisted, finally driving from Hannah a cry she had vowed not to make. “Oh, my dear God, please!”
She bent at the waist in anguish, her hands over her face, weeping. She had failed. “Show no modesty,” Maria had said.
“This is the duke’s arsehole,” said Charles, gently, probing her. “He will wish to see it, you know. Your arsehole could be seen by the princes and princesses of several countries, next summer, you know. Do you believe that?”
Finally, the outrageous finger withdrew, but Hannah still felt the burning. Charles said, “And the duke’s prick is much, much bigger than my finger, Hannah.
“Straighten yourself up, Hannah, you are displaying yourself most immodestly, back here. Are we priests to resist such temptation?”
With a sudden, ferocious blush, Hannah straightened.
“You know what’s next, don’t you, Hannah? Here…” he guided her over to the vast bed, and gently pushed her back; she let herself fall. A young man sat on either side of her. In sudden fear, Hannah tried to rise, but they gently restrained her.
“You are cooperating?” asked Charles. Hannah forced herself to lie back. But she pressed her thighs together, and that was not to be. The young man on either side of her took her knees and pulled them apart. “No,” whimpered Hannah. Now, it would come.
“Hannah,” said Charles, again. “Your eyes are shut. You cannot make things go away just by refusing to see them.”
When she opened them, Charles was standing between her forcibly parted thighs. Now, he began to stroke them, gently, persistently, with just his fingertips. His fingers moved high up, where the flesh was silky, sensitive, and quivering, now. “You are beautiful, Hannah,” he said. “Who would hurt you? You are beautiful here, Hannah.”
Slowly, he wooed and calmed her. She was desperate to believe him. But something inside her cried, “Oh, Hannah! Be careful!” When she had stopped shaking, Charles reached out and covered her pubis with his hand. His grip possessed it, owned it. He said, “I am sorry to tell you this, Hannah, but this is the duke’s pussy.” He squeezed her mound. “Is that what you call it? It is the duke’s cunt. When the duke wants it, he will have it. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Hannah whispered. Her eyes were open, gazing at him. Her belly squirmed. Was it fear? Pleasure? Both?
He said, “If you had any idea how beautiful you are, Hannah, you would be more frightened, I think.”
Again, she felt the traitorous pleasure.
Charles’s finger strayed downward, caressing the lips there. Hannah could not believe it was happening, but she was excited. The finger traveled up the other side, the other lip, possessing every centimeter.
Charles said, “Until they brought you here, this was Hannah’s cunt. Now it is the duke’s cunt. It is royal pussy.”
The fingers by imperceptible degrees stole into the silken flesh, slicked with Hannah’s wetness. Her hips began to move, a little. Charles smiled into her eyes, as though he knew, knew everything. The invading finger halted, but it pressed a single spot. He asked, “Do you know what this is, Hannah? I venture that you don’t.”
There was laughter. She blushed furiously. “I must have an answer,” said Charles. His finger made agonizingly slow, exquisite progress around the spot.
Hannah stared up at him, saying nothing, giving him nothing. “What do you want?” she asked. She could not concentrate; what Charles was doing made her feel she was losing her mind. Her whole belly felt hot and now she caught the odor of herself. Still Charles looked at her and still the finger moved.
“What is this?” asked Charles again. “You don’t know, do you?”
“No,” Hannah gasped. “I don’t know. Oh, I don’t know! Stop!”
The skin of her belly twitched and her hips began to grind. She squirmed on the bed, her breasts rose and fell rapidly. She was transported and terrified. She closed her eyes. She simply did not care anymore. She wanted to feel, not to talk. All her courage had been unavailing because her body had betrayed her. She was wanton. She was sinning.
She began to weep, overwhelmed by the confusion, gripped by the rising, surging, scalding feelings between her legs. “I can’t,” she sobbed. “Oh, I can’t.” Now, her hips moved without restraint, heaving. She writhed on the bed, and sobbed with her writhing.
Suddenly, Charles stopped, withdrew his hand. It was as though Hannah had been soaring, without weight, higher and higher, toward some golden orb, and the soaring brought all the pleasure and promise of release. Just when she might reach the golden orb, so that nothing, ever, would matter, the finger departed and she plummeted in bitter, cold disappointment, falling back forever from the sweet prize.
Charles said, “You will survive, here, Hannah. You are one of us. Welcome to the duke’s troupe.” The hands that held Hannah’s thighs released them. They were leaving, all of them, silently, like a jury that had pronounced its verdict. Someone tossed the key back to her. It struck Hannah’s leg and fell to the floor. The door shut and she was alone.
Slowly, she rolled onto her side, drawing up her knees. She wrapped her arms around them, hugging herself. Then she shut her eyes and wept uncontrollably, with such a confusion of feelings that she did not know what she mourned.
And then she slept, naked, alone.