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  A MISCHIEF EROTICA COLLECTION

  A division of HarperCollinsPublishers

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  This collection is entirely a work of fiction.

  The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are

  the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to

  actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is

  entirely coincidental.

  Mischief

  An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

  The News Building

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.mischiefbooks.com

  An eBook Original 2016

  1

  Tested © Rose de Fer

  Overruled © Lily Harlem

  Your Assignment © Sommer Marsden

  Two-faced © CeCe Marsh

  On Your Knees © Alegra Verde

  Doing It for Emmett © Justine Elyot

  Making Movies © Ludivine Bonneur

  A Bid for Her Heart © Kathleen Tudor

  The authors assert the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

  EBook Edition © June 2016 ISBN: 9780008190231

  Version 2016-05-19

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Tested – Rose de Fer

  Overruled – Lily Harlem

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Your Assignment – Sommer Marsden

  Two-Faced – CeCe Marsh

  On Your Knees – Alegra Verde

  Doing It for Emmett – Justine Elyot

  Making Movies – Ludivine Bonneur

  A Bid for Her Heart – Kathleen Tudor

  About the Publisher

  Tested

  Rose de Fer

  I feel like I’m on the deck of a ship in a storm. The floor pitches and twists, rolling with the ceaseless motion of crashing waves. It’s all I can do to keep my balance as I rise to my feet.

  Except I know it’s only me that’s moving. Everything around me is perfectly still. Terrifyingly still. And silent.

  I need a few moments to prepare myself, and it feels like a small lifetime. I take some deep breaths and the hammering of my heart finally begins to slow. My hands don’t entirely stop trembling, but at least I am able to respond when my name is called. Slowly I begin to make my way to the door at the end of the corridor. I may as well be crossing the ocean for all the time it takes me to cover the distance, reassuring myself along the way that the floor isn’t really undulating beneath me. My legs barely feel up to the task of supporting me, let alone carrying me any distance.

  I reach the end of the hallway all too quickly, however. And once there, I hesitate, trying to collect myself. I can’t put it off any longer. I grasp the door handle with a clammy palm. It doesn’t seem to want to turn and for a moment I am irrationally relieved, as though I might escape my fate after all. As though I might be spared.

  But no. The knob turns when I twist it in the other direction and the door opens with a little click. A tiny rush of air escapes, like an icy breath.

  The room beyond is dark, and it remains dark even once I pull the door open. Just enough to permit me to slip inside. I step across the threshold and feel the transition from hard floor to soft carpet beneath my shoes. This room will swallow my sounds. All my sounds.

  ‘Close the door.’

  It might be the voice of the shadows themselves, for I can see nothing in the darkened chamber. It gathers all around me, swelling, a wall of imposing silence. I do as I am told, turning the knob as I push the door into the frame to keep it quiet. I don’t think I can bear to hear the click as it shuts. It would sound too serious, too final.

  My small task completed, I stand and await further instructions, my hands clasped behind my back. Time crawls by while I wait and every second makes my heart beat faster. I try to calm myself again, but this time I can’t seem to control my breathing. The silence builds, a vast, terrible emptiness that threatens to consume me. I could almost believe I am being erased, heartbeat by heartbeat.

  The darkness is unbearable and I close my eyes so I can pretend it’s my choice to stand here, lost in shadow, unseeing and unseen.

  No, not unseen. I know from the prickling of my skin that I am not alone, that I am being watched. That he is here with me.

  When the voice comes again, it makes me jump.

  ‘Remove your clothes.’

  I open my eyes, startled to find that I am no longer in darkness. A spotlight has appeared. I stand inside it like an animal in a circular cage, suddenly missing the shadows. I even miss the storm-tossed corridor.

  There is no question of my obedience. My fingers tremble as I slide my clasped hands apart, uncertain where to begin. I am dressed in what I was told to wear – a smart skirt and blouse. The jacket is first. I can just about manage the single button in the centre and I slip it off. For a moment I stand holding it, looking around for somewhere to put it. But I am given no guidance.

  I fold it carefully and lay it on the floor at my feet, just outside the circle of light. Then I focus on the skirt. It feels good to have a task, to have something – anything – to focus on doing, even if I am only delaying the inevitable. It’s very hard to fit my fingers around the tiny button at the waist, and the zip sounds to me like a predator licking its lips.

  I step out of the skirt and lay it on top of the jacket. The long hem of the blouse hangs down, covering me. I am still decent for the moment, if that’s the word, and some part of me wishes for this to be as far as it goes. I imagine hearing the voice again, softer this time. A gentle laugh and a smiling tone as he tells me that is all, that I may go.

  But the silence is as good as a command. I swallow hard and set about the challenge of unfastening each button of my blouse. At last I manage to peel it open. Gooseflesh stands out all over my body and I feel my nipples pucker as the thin material of my bra is exposed to the chill of the room.

  It’s easy enough to slip off my shoes, and the stockings come down one at a time with a silky hiss. I hesitate again, raising my hands to the middle of my back, willing them to unhook my bra. It’s as though I am separate from my body, telling it what to do from somewhere else. The illusion fades once the hooks are undone and my breasts tumble free. My natural instinct is to cover myself with my hands, but I stop myself in time. I know that isn’t permitted. Instead I busy myself with folding the bra, as though presenting it as a gift.

  My panties are all that cover me now, and the tiny scrap of silk only seems to enhance my sense of exposure. They are easier to manage than the bra. I slide them down over my bottom and thighs and crouch down to place them on top of the rest of my clothes. Then I rise unsteadily to my feet. And wait.

  I clasp my hands behind my back again, grateful for the submissive posture. I couldn’t bear having to keep them at my sides and inside I plead not to have to.

  Now there is the creak of a chair and a hint of movement in the shadows. The room grows a little brighter and I can make out the silhouette of a man as he stands and moves tow
ards me. He is tall and intimidating.

  I lower my head, keeping my eyes down as I’ve been taught. I have no control over what will happen next.

  ‘It’s time,’ he says. His voice is deep and resonant. It makes me weak. I feel lightheaded, as though I might faint.

  ‘Put your hands on your head.’

  It’s a simple command, one I can easily obey. Gratitude washes over me as I lace my fingers on top of my hair. The position forces me to raise my head and I see him for the first time. His eyes are dark and brooding, his expression inscrutable. I can’t bear the eye contact, so I drop my gaze. Before I can focus on the floor, I see what he is holding. It’s a small whip. A dozen red and black tails hang from a braided handle.

  He notices me noticing and brings the whip up to my eye level. Then he slaps it against his palm. The sound makes me jump, and I sense that my nervousness gives him pleasure.

  ‘Do you know why you’re here?’ he asks, his voice low and silky, full of authority.

  I open my mouth to speak, but at first nothing comes out but a little squeak. I clear my throat and try again. ‘Yes, Sir.’

  His expectant silence prompts me for more.

  ‘My Master sent me to you.’ I can barely bring myself to speak the words, but I manage to force them out. ‘To test me.’

  ‘You know of my reputation, then?’

  Oh, yes. Who doesn’t? I am overwhelmed by the reality that I am here. Actually here. With him. My head is spinning with the impossibility.

  ‘Hmm? I didn’t hear you.’

  ‘Yes, Sir,’ I say, my own voice barely a whisper. ‘I do.’

  He nods, seeming pleased – both by my answer and by my obvious fear. He looks like a judge about to don a black cap and sentence me to the gallows.

  ‘Very well, then,’ he says. ‘Stand still and straight. Arch your back.’

  I had been expecting him to tell me to turn around. Instead, he stays in front of me and merely takes a step back. I feel my entire body begin to tremble as I realise what he intends. I lock my knees and inhale deeply.

  The first stroke falls, striking my right breast. The soft leather tails impart a sharp kiss to the nipple, making my skin tingle. I close my eyes as the stinging sensation swells, gritting my teeth to keep from whimpering.

  The wait is torture. My arms are already beginning to ache from their position on top of my head and my legs have felt in danger of turning to liquid ever since I got here.

  He doesn’t keep me in suspense for long. The whip comes down on the other side, bringing pain to the delicate skin there as well. My nipples burn and it takes all my willpower not to press my cold fingers against them to soothe it away.

  But I know better.

  I picture myself in my Master’s arms, wrapped in his embrace and comforted after a challenging session. I hear his voice praising me, telling me I’ve been a good girl and made him proud. I feel his lips as he kisses mine, taste his tongue as I press myself against his hard cock and his hands explore every inch of my punished flesh. I sigh at the vision, knowing it will be my reward if I am good for this man.

  The whip falls again, and again, the tails fanning out over each breast in turn, spreading their bright little kisses all across my chest. My skin feels alive, every nerve tingling. The stimulation is having an effect all over.

  The pain builds in a wild crescendo, finally reaching a peak where it begins to blur into pleasure. Like a developing photograph, wonderful sensations come into focus, exploding throughout my entire body. My sex pulses in response, conditioned both to fear and to want what is coming.

  When the whipping stops, he tells me to lower my arms. I do so, my shoulders flaring at the sudden return of blood. I flex my fingers to encourage the sensation.

  ‘Kneel,’ he says.

  I sink to my knees, grateful not to have to stand any longer.

  ‘Right down.’

  It’s as though I’m melting into the carpet. I bend my knees all the way, until I’m sitting on my calves. Then I fold my body, sliding my arms out in front of me like a sphinx and lowering my forehead until it touches the carpet. I love the position. It deepens my feeling of submission, liberating me further from the confines of reality.

  I sense movement, feel the stirring of air as he walks around me, inspecting me. I know he intends to whip me more, and I’m not surprised when I feel the tails flick against my bottom. He directs me to adjust my position.

  ‘Present yourself for me,’ he says.

  I have been well trained and I know exactly what he expects. I lift my bottom, raising it up in the air. At the same time, I curl my spine forwards, cat-like, tucking my head under. My breasts still burn and tingle, radiating warmth from the punished skin.

  The whip finds my back, caressing, tickling, as he draws the tails over my waiting flesh. The first strokes are gentle, almost sensual. Each unerringly finds its mark with a resounding slap in the small room. I can feel my skin reddening beneath the slow, steady onslaught, building until I can’t restrain my little gasps and yelps.

  A particularly hard stroke between my shoulder blades makes me cry out and for a moment I dip my back, as if I can escape the pain that already sings through me. I gather myself at once and resume the position, hoping he isn’t disappointed in my momentary weakness.

  He says nothing, just continues to lay on, the soft leather tails painting stripes all along my exposed body. His aim is flawless.

  He walks slowly around me as he whips me, circling me like a shark. Now the whip finds my bottom, and he brings it down hard on the more resilient flesh of my cheeks. I open my eyes to peek, watching him out of the corner of one eye. He gathers the tails in his left hand before releasing them as he swings the implement down, striking precisely where he aims.

  These strokes are deeper and more penetrating, designed to push me. I can no longer control my cries and it’s all I can do not to writhe and struggle and try to escape the whipping. But I imagine my Master watching. I desperately want to please him, to make him proud of me. I must take this. I must endure what I am given. It’s what I want too.

  The tails lick between my thighs, striking the delicate folds of my sex. I hiss with pain, sucking air in through my teeth. A few lighter strokes follow, peppering my bottom with leather kisses. Then he delivers another sharp stroke to my sex. This time I scream.

  The pain is intense, but it’s also exquisite. I blush to imagine how wet the tails of the whip will be after a few more of those strokes. I can feel the sticky dampness between my legs. I am forbidden to come, but if he continues like this my body may betray me. He is testing me.

  Again and again he punishes my bottom, wrenching wild cries from me. I clutch the carpet, digging into its soft loops with my fingers to draw the focus away from my sex. It doesn’t work.

  My nipples are still sore from the breast whipping, hard and erect. Painfully aroused. An image flashes into my mind of being kissed there. A warm, wet tongue flicking over each burning little pebble of skin. It makes my sex pulse and another well-aimed stroke inflames the delicate nerve endings there. My entire body is throbbing, desperate for release. But if I come, I will fail the test. And I will be punished.

  It takes all my willpower to hold back my climax. My thighs are soaked with wetness. I hold them far enough apart that nothing makes contact with my clit. One touch would be all it took. I focus on my submission instead. My obedience. I am a good little slave. I will hold my position and take whatever I am given, whether it be pain or pleasure. For they are not my master.

  After a while he eases back, slowing the strokes and laying them on with less and less force, fading the sensations. Now it feels more like a sensual massage. I sigh as the tails flick lightly over my back again, my burning cheeks, then once more kissing my nether lips. Sensations wash over me, but I am not at their mercy. I feel like I have weathered a storm.

  When he stops, he stands in silence for several moments. The only sound is the blood pounding in my ears,
the pulsing of my skin as heat and desire consume me. I am flying.

  ‘Good girl,’ he says.

  The words bring tears to my eyes. I could let go and melt into the floor now, dissolve into a quivering puddle at his praise.

  Only I know this isn’t the end. I am here to be tested, after all, not merely tasted.

  ‘Raise your right foot.’

  My entire lower half trembles as I obey. I bend my knee and lift the leg just enough to hold my foot up, parallel to the floor.

  He dangles the whip over it, teasing it with the tails. I shudder, but manage to hold still. When I feel the whip lift away, I brace myself. Then I cry out as he brings it down sharply across the tender flesh of my sole. Heat flares across the skin and I point and flex my toes over and over until it becomes bearable. The feeling travels along all the nerve endings in my leg, all the way up to my sex. A second stroke wrenches another cry from me, but by the third I am succumbing to the pleasure. I lose count after that.

  I hear him laugh softly, as though amused by my obvious arousal. ‘Now your other foot,’ he tells me.

  I do as he orders, offering up my other delicate bare foot like a sacrifice. It receives the same treatment, first a series of gentle flicks and then proper stinging strokes. Both feet feel like I’ve walked on hot coals, the soles pulsing hotly in concert with the throbbing of my sex.

  When he is done he orders me to put my leg down and kneel up. Gratitude floods me as I do it, swimming in sensation. I am slightly dazed and euphoric, my entire body excited and stimulated. My sex pounds in time with my throbbing heart. He has made my entire body an erogenous zone.

  ‘You’ve been very good,’ he tells me, and I can hear the smile in his voice.

  ‘Thank you, Sir,’ I whisper.

  ‘And you’ve earned a reward.’

  I wait for him to continue, but it seems he wants to tease me. I resist the temptation to speak.