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Recently widowed, Helen Crewe needs a fresh start. A job in the south of France cataloging a private library seems like the perfect change of venue. Once she settles into the luxurious living quarters at Les Santons, she's sure she'll be able to leave the past behind her. Until she awakens in the night to familiar sounds -- a bondage scene being played out in the garden beneath her window between Luc de Prioux and his personal secretary, Branko. In the dark, memories come flooding back. The library Luc inherited with his grandfather's estate contains dozens of priceless treasures -- rare volumes of beautiful engraved erotica. But none are more priceless than Helen herself. Luc knows what he wants, and he's just the dominant Helen needs in her life. As long as she's willing to share... Helen's stay at Les Santons promises to be everything she needs. Until a break-in at the estate makes her wonder what she's gotten into...
A noise outside awoke her. It was still dark and a silver streak of moonlight lit the wall opposite the foot of her bed. Another sound. Oddly familiar but she couldn't quite place it. Maybe she'd dreamt it. It came again: the crack of a whip in the air. Either she was dreaming or... Helen got out of bed. The room was a little chilly in the night. Her robe was still packed, so she padded barefoot and naked across her room to open the window and peer between the slats of the shutters. She all but gasped as she stared intently, blinked to assure herself she wasn't dreaming before she unlatched the shutters and opened one a few inches to see better. The courtyard garden below her window was lit by moonlight, but it wasn't the scent of early jasmine, the sound of some night bird, or the antique ornamental urns that drew her attention. To the right, a pergola stretched from the house to the edge of the courtyard, and lashed between two of the uprights was a man. Naked to the waist, his skin pale in the moonlight, arms and legs spread eagled, he looked helpless, vulnerable and magnificent. The night air chilled Helen's shoulders to the point of goosebumps. He had to be cold... Or maybe not. Her heart did a little flip as the sound repeated. A second man wielded a single tail whip, cracking it in the air and hitting the stone paving with a sharp sound that brought back a flood of memories. Edwin had owned such a whip. They'd bought it together at a fetish fair. He'd never used it on her -- she'd been too chicken -- but just the sound of it was enough to start her creaming. The second man, dressed in a flowing white shirt, dark breeches and almost clichéd high boots, paced back and forth, circling his victim and cracking the whip at intervals. A wave of envy had Helen wishing she were the one strung up and helpless and the whip wielder were her lover... All reticence gone, Helen opened the shutters wide and was leaning forward, breasts over the window sill, as she watched the scene unfold. She couldn't make out either face. Was it Luc and Branko? Branko lived out, or so she'd understood. Was this her employer and a lover? Luc has not struck her as gay, but right this minute, she didn't give a rat's ass about her employer's sexual orientation. She was too busy concentrating on how he wielded that single-tail. It had to be Luc de Prioux. He was too self-possessed, had too much presence to be anything but dominant. And the man who played with that yard of braided leather was expert. He moved with calm assurance and confidence that could only come from hours of practice. As she watched, almost mesmerized by the sounds in the night and the erotic tableau below, she noticed that he worked to a clear and predictable rhythm, circling his victim, cracking the whip at intervals. Three times in the air or hitting the paving stones and every fourth time the whip landed on the submissive's back. Mouth dry, breathing shallow, Helen watched, her muscles flinching instinctively as the cruel tail hit flesh. With each crack, her arousal built, anticipation set a river running between her legs. Her nipples hardened. Her mind slipped into submissive mode and her whole being longed to change places with the nameless man, to be the submissive, stripped and helpless. To wait for the whip, or the flogger, or the crop, waiting for and dreading each harsh caress. To feel need build and peak until her lover permitted her release, or forced her to wait beyond endurance for her climax. The sub screamed. Was that strike harder than the others, or had he reached his limits? The Dom paused, let the whip dangle from his hand, and stepped closer, caressing the naked back with his free hand. She couldn't hear his words but she sensed he spoke to his sub as he leaned close. Promising more and harder? Encouraging him? Complimenting his stoicism or mocking his weakness? It was the delicious uncertainly of it all that piqued her imagination and thrilled her body. Another slash of the whip. Another scream. This time the unknown dominant dropped the whip and stepped back. As the submissive turned his head, Helen caught a glimpse of his blindfold. She could almost smell the intoxicating aroma of good leather, feel the tightness around her head and the brush of the silk lining against her eyelids in the dark. Was the tormentor leaving him there, to hang in delicious pain and wonderful uncertainty? Not exactly. He stepped away, yes, but sat down on a stone bench, crossing one leg across his thigh, watching. Waiting. It was too much, too utterly arousing and too wonderful. Her body sang with need. She ached and throbbed between her legs. She had no one to forbid her release, to withhold her orgasm, to refuse her the satisfaction her body craved. She hopped back in bed, legs spread in the moonlight, her hand rubbing her pussy, her fingers opening herself up. It took very little. She was so ready, so primed. A stroke or two, a few sexy thoughts, her eyes shut to replay the scene outside her window. A little pressure to the side of her clit, a tap on the hard nub and she came in a wild rush of sensation and joy.
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