The Secret of Blackthorne by Roger Hastings
"You won’t find it on any ordinance map, the National Trust will deny it exists,
yet crouched on a hill in south-west Scotland is a twin-towered manor house and estate
where the infection of shame and self-righteous censure has never festered."
Thus begins the first book in the new Blackthorne House series. Come to this half-mansion, half-prison, perched on a lonely crag surrounded by the moors of Scotland. Here secrets are concealed behind stone walls and iron bars, and escape is never possible. Join in with the forbidden revelries in the ancestral home of the Cailean family. From everywhere in Europe and America beautiful young girls are abducted and brought here, to be imprisoned in the cellar chambers, where they are stripped naked and taught to obey. The family’s staff of powerful men and severe women train their defenseless victims with whips and cruel devices, these lovely subjects soon yield their bodies to the family’s relentless carnal appetites. Seen through the eyes of the newest Laird of Blackthorne, Sir Richard tells of his amazing introduction—and most erotic initiation into the world that he will rule. He soon delights in the lusty female slaves there to serve his every sexual desire. Though his enlightening education into his family heritage also reveals how once each year, the tables are turned on the Cailean family, as the spirited men and women of this remarkable clan must submit to a night of terror. Riding into the mysterious circle of stones hidden in the estate forest, they discover for themselves a secret world of feral lust and frenzy at the hands of the very slaves they have so carefully trained.
Erotica writer Roger Hastings is an eloquent story teller, with a wild and sometimes crude imagination. He offers in his first novel for Pink Flamingo a page-turning tale that includes an inventive plot and graphic sexuality with both Male/dom and Fem/dom scenes, all exquisitely drawn to lure the reader into the sensuous and provocative world of Blackthorne House.
“And now the maids,” Caroline said. “They are all eighteen or older.”
They all wore a starched white cap and loose, flimsy, translucent blouse, with waiflike blue velvet skirts fluffing out from their waist. Creamy skinned thighs and calves with luscious, curves descended to their feet, that nested inside shiny black schoolgirl shoes. Their blouses were pulled not-quite-closed with a flimsy lavender ribbon threaded through a hole on each side of the front. Since they were quite low-cut, and only loosely held together by the ribbon, they gave me a delightful view of their twin charms. The blouses were far too short to reach down to the wide black leather belt of their skirts. My hands itched with desire to caress the wide circle of soft bare skin so temptingly exposed.
Their lace-trimmed skirts, cut scandalously short, flared out from their hips. I could easily see the nakedness of their pretty thighs above the tops of their white stockings.
All the maids were short. The tallest girl, even in their slim shoes, barely came up to my chin. What astonished me most was the thick leather collar locked around each girl’s neck, with a hefty brass ring dangling from a loop of metal in front.
Miss Ballard stepped out of the line and pointed her riding crop at the first girl. “Leslie!” She barked.
The raven-haired girl did a quick curtsy, grasping the sides of her skirt and tugging upward, exposing a flash of pubic hair as she bent her knees. “Welcome home, Sir.” Her voice was submissive, hardly more than a whisper.
Miss Ballard pointed her crop at the next girl. “Gail”
The red-haired girl curtsied, flashing a shy smile. She repeated the welcome, gracing me with a glimpse of her silky Venus-nest.
The shortest girl curtsied, a pale blonde whose curls caressed her shoulders as she moved. “I will gratify your every desire, Sir.” Her smile and half-wink made my already pounding heart leap into my throat.
A pleasingly plump black girl with a smooth skin that glowed like mahogany velvet curtsied with a wink and a cheerful tilt of her head. Her walnut-brown hair was piled in great sweeping curls on her head Gibson-Girl style. She smiled, tugging her skirt up even higher than the first three girls. She twisted one thigh slightly over the other, making her triangle of black thatch pout an invitation. The gleaming whiteness of her teeth, framed by the sensuous cupid’s bow of her lips was the image of joyful sunrise after a night of gloom. When her lips moved, I felt their enchantment, hardly hearing her words. There was sincere desire, a wanton energy in her voice. “May I always pleasure you, sir.”
“Next is our newest and youngest acquisition, Donella. We acquired her just a few days ago, on her eighteenth birthday.”
The girl bowed her head, the lustrous ends of her page-boy, ebony hair stroking her neck. With a frightened blush coloring her girlish face, she grasped the hem of her skirt with trembling fingers. Her breasts began to quiver with her sobs as she struggled with her shame. She hesitated, then tugged down on her skirt as she curtsied. Her lips moved, but her weak breath carried no words.
Aunt Caroline’s eyes widened in indignation, and she whispered fiercely into Miss Ballard’s ear.
Miss Ballard nodded, scowling at the terrified young girl. “Donella, after Sir Richard dismisses us, you will report to Master Shawe in the stables immediately. I’ll join you there. Your disgraceful lack of submission needs correcting.”
“But she didn’t...” I began.
“Now Richard,” Aunt Caroline said, “The maids’ behavior is Miss Ballard’s responsibility. She is strict in her duties. Our family gives her and Crom complete jurisdiction to punish disobedience. Even you cannot stop whatever they may do to our girls. You’ll understand later why things are done in such severe ways. Be patient until you learn the reasons for our harsh rules.”
I nodded and looked back at the last maid, an elfin-faced girl, her face and exposed shoulders decorated with hundreds of brown-sugar freckles. Her wide, blue-eyed expression was framed in a swirl of flame-red hair. I had to fight down the temptation to reach out and stroke those inviting paired mounds of soft flesh displayed on her chest. I glanced at my aunt. She was looking at the jutting bulge growing in my trousers. She nodded at Miss Ballard, and they both smiled.
The riding crop aimed at the girl. “Fiona, from Ireland. She speaks a passable English.”
“Welcome, Sir. Pleasin’ you shall be my fir-r-rst desire.” She curtsied with a flash of love’s secret.
“Excellent,” I replied. “I love the musical lilt of an Irish lass.”