The Red Velvet Horse (Siren Publishing Allure) by Iona Blair Read Free Book Online Page B

lassie,” Jock coos and gentles me down until the most intense of the contractions pass. Then he pulls me down to the edge of the horse and penetrates my anus with his great unwieldy cudgel of a cock.
    “Egads...” I gasp as my ass hole resists this invasion of its sanctuary. But I’ve learned how to relax the troublesome sphincter, so the gentleman can, without too much bother enjoy me all the way to the bowels.
    Jock rides me like the experienced old trooper he is, with his stones banging tantalizingly against my cunny and his hands groping over my belly and breasts.
    “Oh God...” I am soon in a state of near frenzy as the excitement builds once again throughout my trembling body.
    “Oh God...” as with feverish skin and swollen lips I erupt most dramatically, swishing my ass around with all the energy of a dervish.
    Then Jock sits down on the armchair and draws me across his lap.
    “My word lass, I could never get enough of your bonnie wee bum.” He drools with unfettered lust, stroking, patting and lightly spanking my rosy posterior until we both begin to squirm with the heat of the moment.
    “So you want to go off again, you bad wee girl, ” he scolds lasciviously, and promptly impales my cunny with his rigid member as I sit astride him.
    I can hear a horse whinnying in the courtyard below and the sporadic barking of a dog in the distance.
    “Aye that’s a girl, faster…faster,” Jock moans, as I ride him with all the gusto that I had displayed earlier on the good Neddy.
     
    * * * *
     
    “But it’s highly unlikely that any of the buildings Hannah mentions will still be there.” Holt stirred his coffee with more vigor than was necessary.
    April glanced at her watch. It was barely noon, but the Green Man Bistro was crowded. “You’re probably right, but I still feel I have to go and see for myself.”
    She had told Holt of her intention to fly to Toronto at the end of the week, in order to retrace the footsteps of the nineteenth century seductress. And besides, she needed a vacation quite badly. This was as good as an excuse as any to incorporate the two.
    “You can always call Fern if the shop gets too busy for you to handle.”
    “Oh, I daresay I’ll manage somehow.” Holt spread too much butter on a piece of rye toast. “But as for Hannah Wilks, I cannot understand your fascination with her. She was just a cheap oversexed harlot who should have had her bottom soundly spanked.”
    “I believe a number of her gentlemen friends did just that.” April laughed suggestively. “And far from deterring her, the lady got off on the thrashings big time.”
    “Oh, all right, have it your own way,” he conceded defeat with at least a modicum of grace. “ I still think it’s a waste of time and money.”
     
    * * * *
     
    Toronto broiled beneath a scorching red demon of a sun. It was high summer and the only relief came with the violent thunderstorms that would crash through the heavens at the end of a sizzling day.
    April mopped a sweaty brow and turned her footsteps towards the first house Hannah lived in when she moved here. It was at number 46 Simcoe Street. She described it in her manuscript as being “modest,” and she had run a small dressmaking business from the downstairs parlor. On the opposite side of the street, there had been a haberdashery store.
    But there was nothing remaining of either building, just an ugly glass monolith of a skyscraper that reared up like some monstrous beast from the burning grit of the asphalt below.
    Yet still she remained, screwing up her eyes against the blazing search-light of a sun and attempting to, at least, get a feel of the place where Hannah had once lived.
    She managed to hail a taxi to take her over to Parliament Street, where she went in search of the “mean and shabby” accommodation Hannah had moved to after Jeffrey Sutton had taken off with her money.
    Here she found a row of grimy rundown rooming houses that could well have been standing