Coming this summer starting July 6
TEMPTING GEMMA is purely--impurely might be more correct--a work of escapist entertainment. It is intended as a secret, even guilty pleasure to be indulged in privately, perhaps with a nice glass of wine or the beverage of your choice. Although M/F, monogamous and HEA, it in no way depicts events that I would ever wish to occur in the world as we know it.
Keep scrolling for the first sneak peek. Adults only, please!
Poor, lovely Gemma. She dreamed of going to university, then on to study law and a career as a women’s rights attorney. Instead, she had barely turned eighteen and graduated from convent school before being sold into marriage to settle her father’s debt to an old aristocratic family.
Her husband, The Most Honorable Charles George David Bonville, Marquess of Ardsley was young, handsome and astonishingly virile. He liked nothing better than dreaming up new and creative ways to tease and torment poor, lovely Gemma.
On their wedding day, Gemma was looking forward with innocent excitement to the moment when her husband would kneel before her to remove her garter. Instead, in an excess of enthusiasm, Charles bent her over the head table. To the cheers of his groomsmen, her bridesmaids and the hundreds of guests, he pulled up her lovely wedding gown, tore off her white lace panties and plunged into her embarrassingly wet cunny, taking her virginity there and then.
As Charles was hung like the proverbial bull, this was quite a shock for poor, lovely Gemma. Everything afterward became a bit fuzzy, although she did remember her sister catching the bridal bouquet.
Matters did not improve on their honeymoon. Charles had chosen a private tropical paradise with every amenity a romantic couple could want. But instead of indulging her with spa treatments and the like, he insisted on taking Gemma out into the wilderness beyond the resort. There he amused himself flogging every inch of her skin with palm fronds until she had an all-over rosy glow, staking her out at the water line so that the incoming tide lapped maddeningly at her swollen pussy, and fucking her in all sorts of shocking ways.
In between, he enjoyed watching her run up and down the beach at his behest, her lovely breasts and bottom bouncing with every bound until she was quite breathless.
When they did mingle with the other guests at the resort, Charles insisted that Gemma wear a tiny string bikini that barely covered her naughty bits. Privately, this made her very self-conscious. However, thanks to the excellent education she had received at the Mary Magdalene School for Young Females, the mere idea of questioning her husband on the matter--or any other--caused Gemma such discomfort that she could not conceive of actually doing it. (Details of the unique curriculum, code of conduct, training and disciplinary policies of the Mary Magdalene School for Young Females can be found here in Appendix A).
Charles did take full advantage of the resort’s clothing optional policy for himself. As he was extremely fit and significantly larger--in every sense--than the other men, he drew considerable attention from the females present. However, Gemma continued to be the recipient of his exclusive and highly vigorous attentions night and day in every possible way.
In particular, he delighted in tormenting his innocent young wife, arousing her right to the point of orgasm without allowing her to come. Of course, such restraint did not apply to himself. He was torn deciding which he liked better, watching her struggle to swallow his copious ejaculations or seeing his cum dripping out of her ass or cunt.
Self-gratification being strictly forbidden at Mary Magdalene, Gemma had no idea why marital life left her so embarrassingly engorged and constantly wet. She simply resolved to endure. Finally, while engaging in sexual congress on their patio before an appreciative audience of passing guests, Charles relented and let his little wife come.
The sensation of her ass being slammed up and down on his massive cock while he was vigorously slapping her clit only made Gemma’s first orgasm all the more intense. Her screams were so loud that she entirely missed the enthusiastic applause of their audience who particularly appreciated her vigorous leg flailing and arm flinging.
Once Gemma had started coming, she couldn’t seem to stop. Wherever, whenever and however Charles availed himself of his husbandly rights, the results were always the same. Tied spread-eagle between palm trees, on the dance floor swaying to the beat of steel drums, bobbing up and down on a sailboat, snorkeling, even, to her shame, while touring an historic church, Gemma found herself with a throbbing clit, a drenched cunt, a throat hoarse from her ecstatic screams and a smugly pleased husband.
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After the trials of her wedding and honeymoon, poor lovely Gemma had been doing her best to settle into her new home despite the challenges she still faced. Sadly, Mother, Sister Ismay and Brother Harold remained distinctly unfriendly, taking every opportunity to taunt and snipe at her. How fortunate then that her husband, The Most Honorable Charles George David Bonville, Marquess of Ardsley kept her so thoroughly distracted.
Charles’ demands were unceasing both in the bedroom and everywhere else the mood happened to strike him. Indeed, he seemed to make a particular effort to take Gemma by surprise, tumbling her in the most unexpected places. Closets of all sorts were among his favorites, as was any available table. In addition, he had her in the wine cellar bent over a barrel of malmsey, which they then tapped and enjoyed; in the mews where they startled the hawks and other sporting birds of prey; and even in the vast family vault beneath the chapel, beside the tomb of an ancestor he described as a ‘randy old fellow’ who, he assured her, wouldn’t mind at all.
Is it any wonder then that waking early one morning after a particularly vigorous night, Gemma chose to slip away whilst Charles yet slept? Ignoring a certain wobbliness to her knees as a result of an excessive number of orgasms, she threw on a pretty little dress of flowered chiffon, caught her hair up in a ponytail and hurried off.
Her hope was to have a bit of time to herself in which she might catch the morning light. With the paint set she had asked Charles for--and which he had surprised her by instantly granting--she made her way down to the lower garden. There she unfolded her little stool beside the long rectangular pool that neatly bisected the lushly rolled green lawn. At the center of the pool stood an immense statue depicting the Romans’ rape of the Sabine women. Arcs of water rose all around the tall impressively endowed men carrying off their naked, struggling prey.
Sunlight glistened on every blade of grass. A soft breeze came from the east, bearing the perfume of the orchards. Apart from the bevy of swans that strutted by, followed by the boy charged with cleaning up after them, she was entirely alone.
Gemma worked happily for almost an hour before she noticed the figure of a man emerging from the house. Standing on the broad terrace, he absently scratched his broad bare chest and glanced around. Spotting, her, his languid manner suddenly vanished, rather like a hound coming to attention, ears up, tongue flapping, ready for a romp.
With a sigh, she put down her brush and prepared to greet her husband.
He had, she was relieved to see, put on a pair of cargo shorts that drooped at his lean hips. As his habit was to sleep naked, and he had no hesitation about being seen in that state, she was somewhat surprised that he had bothered.
“Here you are,” Charles said, closing the distance between them. “I wondered where you’d gone to.”
“I wanted to catch the early light,” she said softly. “It’s best for painting.”
“If you say so. Rather inconvenient though.”
His shorts were impressively tented. As he looked over her shoulder at her work, she felt the long, hard girth of his erection pressing against her back.
“That’s quite good,” he said. “I had no idea you could manage so well.”
Pleased, Gemma turned to him with a smile. His blue eyes were alight with guileless sincerity. Sometimes, she wondered how he managed in the City, which she understood to be a place of such unbridled greed and ambition that even Machiavelli would have been taken aback by it.
“Thank you again for the paints,” she said.
He grinned and drew her up from the stool. Holding her close, her husband slipped a hand under her dress and stroked her legs upward to the apex of her thighs. Discovering the presence of a thong, he pushed it to one side and thrust a long, thick finger into her.
“Thank me properly.”
Adding a second finger, he stroked that particular spot on which she was so exquisitely sensitive.
Her mouth parted in a small, soundless ‘O’.
“Ride my fingers, sweetheart…that’s it…just like that. Good girl.”
His voice thickening, he said, “Unbutton your dress. I want to see those gorgeous tits.”
Obeying, she moaned as the soft morning air caressed her skin. Her nipples were hard almost to the point of pain. She cried out when he leaned forward suddenly and rolled one between his teeth.
A low, harsh sound came from him. His fingers thrust harder inside her, driving her higher as he moved from one to the other of her breasts, alternately sucking and lashing her with the flat of his tongue.
If he hadn’t been holding her upright with a muscular arm around her waist, Gemma was certain that she would have collapsed onto the ground in a sodden heap of arousal and need. Instead, she came helplessly, her knees quaking even as her cunt convulsed again and again.
Charles laughed, well pleased. He withdrew his fingers and slipped them between her parted lips.
“Taste how sweet you are, baby.”
Flushing, she did as he said. The flavor on her tongue--like salted honey--proved oddly fascinating. While still experiencing the aftereffects of her orgasm, she could feel herself becoming aroused again.
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Charles opened a door and stood aside for Gemma to enter. It must be said that in matters other than the connubial, he was a true gentleman.
Accustomed as she was to the style of the rooms at Ardsley Manor--centuries of judicious looting combined with a fondness for chintz--Gemma was startled to find herself in a thoroughly modern gym.
Floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over rolling lawns filled the space with morning light. Various black and chrome steel apparatuses were set up at intervals around the room. The wall opposite the windows was mirrored while the remaining two were painted an inoffensive beige. The floor was covered in black rubber tiles with several mats scattered about.
Through an open door, she glimpsed a shower sufficient to accommodate a good-sized a capella group, who presumably would take the opportunity to burst into song.
“I had no idea this was here,” she said.
Charles voice was muffled as he pulled his tee-shirt off over his head. “I had it put in a few years ago. Hate being stuck behind a desk in the City. This helps.”
Eying him, Gemma couldn’t help thinking that the sculpted sweep of his broad shoulders, his chiseled biceps and the clearly defined V of muscles across his abdomen indicated the benefits of his need for constant, physical challenge.
Tossing the shirt aside, he asked, “Did you do much sports at school?”
Gemma had to think for a moment. There was no sports program as such at dear old Mary Magdalene but the girls certainly got plenty of exercise. She had very clear memories of the blisters that resulted from hoeing and planting in the garden to augment their meager diets, not to mention toting stones to keep the walls in good repair, and scrubbing every inch of what were surely miles of tiled floors.
And then there were the required cross country runs--urged on by the school hounds. She still shuddered at the thought of those.
But no doubt that wasn’t what Charles had in mind.
“We did have a fitness program,” she offered. “Pilates, yoga, swimming and such. The emphasis was on flexibility and agility.”
Belatedly, it occurred to her that at least some of the positions they had practiced so faithfully were now familiar to her in a different context--namely her husband’s fondness for carnal acrobatics. She could only hope that he did not intend to make use of quite all of them.
Dropping his shorts, he said, “Hmmm, yes, I have noticed you’re quite flexible. Still, what’s good can always be made better.”
Gesturing at the filmy little dress she was wearing, he added, “You won’t need that. I like to work out in the buff. That way allows the skin to breathe.”
Resigned, Gemma removed the dress along with her shoes and joined her husband. For the next few minutes, she did her best to keep up with his directions. Jumping jacks bare breasted were a bit uncomfortable but he certainly seemed to enjoy watching her perform them.
Stretching on a mat in front of the mirrored wall was less onerous but she flushed to see her naughty bits so blatantly displayed with every squat, leg lift and back arch. The effect was not lost on Charles. Watching her, he kept one hand on his formidable erection, stroking it as the indulged appendage that it was.
Despite the unmistakable gleam in his eye, he said, “Let’s see what you can do on the treadmill.”
Gemma eyed the contraption dubiously. It looked like something that belonged on the bridge of a starship or some such. She was certain that the moment she set foot on it, she would be hurtled off.
But it started slowly enough, at a mere walk. She was just beginning to think that she could manage it when Charles ramped up the speed and set the infernal thing to an incline. Almost at once, she was running flat out. Ten sweaty, increasingly unpleasant minutes later, she was panting and more than ready to stop.
Heedless of her low tolerance for such exertions, her husband persisted in offering helpful suggestions such as “keep your head up” and “lift those knees more”. She did her best but the truth was that she had never liked running--the hounds again--and she certainly had no wish to take it up on a regular basis. Sadly, Charles had other ideas.
Without warning, a stinging slap landed across her bare bottom. She yelped and turned to see her husband smiling innocently. His powerful muscles worked as he stretched a resistance band across his chest, the very same one he had just used to whack her ass.
“Multi-purpose,” he said, indicating the hitherto innocuous piece of gym equipment.
In between toning his already impressive pectorals, he continued encouraging her in like manner as though--Gemma thought resentfully--she was a reluctant horse in need of chivvying.
Unfortunately, the technique worked. Each time the band snapped against her bottom, she ran harder. Sweat trickled between her bouncing breasts. Her breathing was labored and the muscles of her legs burned.
But all that was eclipsed by her humiliating awareness of the trickle of moisture slipping down her inner thighs.
At long last, Charles called a halt. The treadmill slowed and finally stopped. Panting, Gemma stepped off gingerly and rubbed her stinging bottom.
“If I may be frank, my lord,” she said as best she could given her labored breathing, “your coaching style could use some refinement.”
Another man, expecting due deference from his wife, might have taken offense. Charles merely laughed.
He walked over to a nearby weight bench and stretched out on it.
Trying hard not to stare at his cock jutting perpendicularly from the nest of curls at his groin, rather like an eager periscope, Gemma obeyed.