A Gentleman's Guide to Sexual Deviance
Title: The Gentleman's Guide to Sexual Deviance
Rating: NC-17
Summary: A series of drabbles following the nightly escapades of a deranged nymphomaniac.
Warning: Contains BDSM, non-con, and torture.
Word Count: 500
Chapter One
“My lord?”
“Hm?”
Reynard’s head snapped up as a voice disturbed him from the depths of concentration. Although his estate boasted over a thousand acres of pristinely landscaped gardens (including a greenhouse with a rather extensive tropical collection), a fully stocked lake, and forests teeming with deer and quail ripe for the hunting, the Marquis de Courcelle spent a great majority of his time here, in his own private library. He was presently sitting at one of the long, polished tables situated between the shelves, looking drowned in the scholarly mess of papers, charts, and teetering stacks of books strewn about him.
“Dinner is served, m’lord.”
“Dinner?” Reynard echoed with a mild air of surprise. As far as he was concerned, he had only just sat down to begin his afternoon reading a few moments ago, but a glance out one of the tall windows on the opposite wall letting in the slanted, golden light of dusk that caught and illuminated the dust swirling through the air in the library confirmed that he had indeed misplaced yet another day between the pages or beneath an inkwell. As he rose to his feet, he saw the servants moving through the deepening shadows, lighting the candles in their alcoves.
“Will you be taking your meal here or in the dining room, my lord?”
“Have a cold dinner sent to my rooms,” said Reynard with an absent, dismissive wave of his hand, already halfway out the door. “Oh my… I do apologise,” he sighed regretfully a few moments later as he descended into the cellar, lit meagrely by the last few candles still sputtering light from the melted pools of wax they had been reduced to whilst he was reading.
The boy let out a single soft, croaking whimper as the Marquis gingerly removed the gag, sticky with saliva, and set it aside. He stepped back and cupped his chin contemplatively in one hand as his eyes traced the complex latticework of rope and knots that held the boy suspended from the ceiling, like a dancer caught mid-leap or a bow drawn taut. “I had not intended to leave you like this so long. I suspect you must be quite thirsty,” he mused out loud, lifting up a feather and running his fingertips over the downy fringe before tickling the soft pad of the boy’s foot with it. His toy squealed and started, making all the interlaced ropes seize at once, and gasped as fresh blood oozed out from beneath them in the places where Reynard had put tiny barbs between the hemp and the boy’s skin.
The Marquis stifled a chuckle and set the feather down, wrestling back the smirk quirked onto his lips. “Sorry, sorry, my dear boy… I couldn’t resist. Not to worry,” said Reynard, his tone instantly becoming more chipper as he set about the arduous work of undoing the maze of rope and metal and flesh, “I shall have some food and water brought down. When we’ve finished.”
Rating: NC-17
Summary: A series of drabbles following the nightly escapades of a deranged nymphomaniac.
Warning: Contains BDSM, non-con, and torture.
Word Count: 500
Chapter One
“My lord?”
“Hm?”
Reynard’s head snapped up as a voice disturbed him from the depths of concentration. Although his estate boasted over a thousand acres of pristinely landscaped gardens (including a greenhouse with a rather extensive tropical collection), a fully stocked lake, and forests teeming with deer and quail ripe for the hunting, the Marquis de Courcelle spent a great majority of his time here, in his own private library. He was presently sitting at one of the long, polished tables situated between the shelves, looking drowned in the scholarly mess of papers, charts, and teetering stacks of books strewn about him.
“Dinner is served, m’lord.”
“Dinner?” Reynard echoed with a mild air of surprise. As far as he was concerned, he had only just sat down to begin his afternoon reading a few moments ago, but a glance out one of the tall windows on the opposite wall letting in the slanted, golden light of dusk that caught and illuminated the dust swirling through the air in the library confirmed that he had indeed misplaced yet another day between the pages or beneath an inkwell. As he rose to his feet, he saw the servants moving through the deepening shadows, lighting the candles in their alcoves.
“Will you be taking your meal here or in the dining room, my lord?”
“Have a cold dinner sent to my rooms,” said Reynard with an absent, dismissive wave of his hand, already halfway out the door. “Oh my… I do apologise,” he sighed regretfully a few moments later as he descended into the cellar, lit meagrely by the last few candles still sputtering light from the melted pools of wax they had been reduced to whilst he was reading.
The boy let out a single soft, croaking whimper as the Marquis gingerly removed the gag, sticky with saliva, and set it aside. He stepped back and cupped his chin contemplatively in one hand as his eyes traced the complex latticework of rope and knots that held the boy suspended from the ceiling, like a dancer caught mid-leap or a bow drawn taut. “I had not intended to leave you like this so long. I suspect you must be quite thirsty,” he mused out loud, lifting up a feather and running his fingertips over the downy fringe before tickling the soft pad of the boy’s foot with it. His toy squealed and started, making all the interlaced ropes seize at once, and gasped as fresh blood oozed out from beneath them in the places where Reynard had put tiny barbs between the hemp and the boy’s skin.
The Marquis stifled a chuckle and set the feather down, wrestling back the smirk quirked onto his lips. “Sorry, sorry, my dear boy… I couldn’t resist. Not to worry,” said Reynard, his tone instantly becoming more chipper as he set about the arduous work of undoing the maze of rope and metal and flesh, “I shall have some food and water brought down. When we’ve finished.”