Jane

Vanessa de Sade

Description

A feast of erotic delights awaits you in the balmy sugar fields of Thornfield Plantation in this bold reimagining of Charlotte Bronte's classic novel set in the Trinidad of 1847, as Jane journeys forth from Southampton to enter the employ of the brooding Mister Rochester, abolitionist ex-slave and now master of his own estate.There are steamy bathhouse encounters with Mama Fairfax the voluptuous Cajun housekeeper; sadomasochistic assignations with an inky black Grace Poole; and deliciously hot tropical nights in the arms of the doll-like Blanche Pang - but all Jane hungers for as she stalks Thornfield's whispering halls of secrets is the dusky Rochester, detached and alone in his chamber at the end of the passage..."A skilful writer of erotica"Esmeralda Greene"Vanessa de Sade's prose is rich and atmospheric; her characters more complex than found in most erotica"Jackson Burnett"De Sade's lush and elaborate prose... has everything I love about erotic fiction: surprising plotlines with character development, diversity in the bodies and sexualities represented, and of course, gorgeous sex"Ella Dawson

Sujets

• Erotic literature

Informations

• Publié par: Andrews UK
• Date de parution: 11 juillet 2022
• Nombre de lectures: 1
• EAN13: 9781785381515
• Langue: English

Extrait

Title Page
JANE
a novel by
Vanessa de Sade



Publisher Information
Jane
published in 2015 by House of Erotica
an imprint of Andrews UK Limited
www.houseoferoticabooks.com
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.
Copyright © Vanessa de Sade 2015
The right of Vanessa de Sade has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.



Chapter 1
Southampton 1847
I have finally arrived at the bustling port of Southampton after an exceeding arduous coach journey chaperoned by the interminably boring Reverend St John Rivers, who has now, blissfully, bid me adieu and proceeded on to London, having seen me safely ensconced in my chambers at the Seaman’s Retreat, the name of which makes me snigger quietly when no one observes me. The long sea voyage ahead of me stretches interminably, and I can afford to give no quarter to lusty crewmen during the months it will take to reach the port of Trinidad where my new employer has arranged for me to be met and ferried to his plantation. So until then I must play the chaste lady and keep my legs firmly crossed.
Therefore, now that the Reverend Bore has finally departed - but not before selecting a passage from the Bible for me to study before I say my prayers tonight - I must now go out into the night like some unclean creature and find an object upon which to slake my lust before my period of enforced celibacy. Oh, how we women are cursed and made the slaves of our own libido, when all a man has to do is call upon a house of ill repute and simply agree a price to have all his wishes made manifest. It is, indeed, an unjust world.
But I waste time with speeches. The dark is already descended and my poor fanny cries out for some relief, and so without more ado I go out to scour the seafront for some suitable specimen who will do the deed but be relied upon for his discretion. Not an easy bill to fill, I’ll warrant, but I have done this before and shall, no doubt, be obliged to do so again.
However, it is unlikely that I will be able to bring any member of the male species back to this lodging house, for, although I am sure I saw the landlord cup the buttock of one of his serving girls, they maintain a façade of respectability - certainly enough to convince the Reverend Bore of the house’s suitability to put a roof over my debauched head for the night at any rate. Unfortunately, though, this leaves me with the option of going back to the abode of some random stranger whom I find at the dockside, and though the prospect of being tied up and fucked makes for an entertaining fantasy when I am alone with my thoughts and a dexterous index finger, it is not a situation that I would like to find myself placed in in the world of - all too vulnerable - flesh and blood, and so I must recourse to my only other option, and be prepared to be serviced in the darkness of some doorway or back alley.
Thus, I quickly raise my crinoline and tuck it under my chin as I deftly remove my bloomers but leave my stockings intact and look upon my shameful self in the glass. Ah, that is perfection. I have chosen black velvet ribbons for garters today, and the fine lisle of my hose contrasts nicely with the alabaster white of my skin and the soft Musquash darkness of the thick fur upon my cunny, the whole package wrapped in the froth of my petticoats. Some lusty lad shall indeed be in for a treat when he gazes upon this debauched feast in the lamp-light of some shoreline hovel.
But time marches on and I am greatly in need of fulfilment, so, unless I plan on pleasuring myself in this pier glass, I need to cease this vanity and go out and locate the owner of a stiff phallus in this hard-working costal metropolis. Thus I drop my skirts again and put on my cape and bonnet and slip out into the welcoming dark of the summer night.
A tinge of purple still lingers in the evening sky though the stars twinkle like a coat of gems in some Arabian fantasy, and the moon glows a bloody orange over the softly undulating sea. The harbour lies to one side of me, and the soft salt air is alive with the creaks and groans of tethered hulks, while, to my right, music and song echoes form the quayside taverns, but I am less interested in these dens of drunkards and doxies than in the quite side streets where rooming houses cluster like lopsided sacks, and I glide like a ghost through the shadows until I discover the components I have been seeking.
Several merchants’ premises stand open for trade despite the hour, and in the first, a victualer’s, maid servants with wicker baskets load themselves with fresh bread and bottles of porter and the whole establishment gleams with lamp light, making the tired faces seem animate as the counter clerks toil at their labour. Next door a chandler’s is equally bedecked with bustle and light, but further down the lane a small hardware emporium with low-burning tallow candles nestles into the gloom of the stone edifice of the street, and a lone young man of about two-score years labours to stack a pile of iron brackets which defy all his attempts at order and neatness.
“You have picked a thankless task, have you not, Sir?” I enquire as I slide like a noiseless fish into his premises, raising my gloved hand to muffle the clamour of the brass bell above the door which would normally herald my entrance with song and fanfare.
“That I have indeed, Miss,” he agrees. “For I have no sooner put one pile straight when the other finds itself all askew. And I declare that I have been labouring at this task since before seven tonight and still have not achieved the perfection my master expects.”
“But surely your master has seen how the very objects themselves frustrate even your best efforts?” I laugh from behind my fan, letting my eyes wander up and down his frame. And, in the soft candle light, he is indeed a fine specimen, some nine years my junior and well muscled and clean, though with just the hint of some fresh but honest sweat to him.
“Ah, Miss,” he sighs. “My master has departed to sup more than an hour ago, and I fear I shall not see him again till morning, but I cannot leave until all is shipshape and in perfect order.”
“Then you hold the keys?”
“That I do, Miss. But enough of me. What can I do for a fine lady like yourself this fine summer night?”
And I feel my face flush as I risk his righteous wrath and the possibility of expulsion from the establishment, but lean in very close and whisper in his ear, detailing exactly how he can be of service to me on this fine summer night if he so chooses.
***
The sign on the locked shop door announcing the close of business for the night is still rocking to and fro from the haste in which it was applied, and the front shop candles smoulder and send threads of tapered smoke into the dusty air as young-fellow-me-lad leads, nay, drags , me into a room at the back of the premises and lays down a length of green baize, which he feels will suffice for a bed upon which to desecrate my honour. As the saying goes.
However, I have no intention of arriving at some destination on the other side of the globe retching and with child, and so I set about dampening his considerable ardour - which I can see clearly outlined through his britches - by asking him to place his hands behind his back, which he does with some reticence, and then binding them together and attaching him to a heavy cast-iron contraption which lurks sullenly in the gloom of the dusky preparation chamber.
There is but one candle here, and the place smells of tallow and various oils and polishes, but it is warm and homely enough, and, though my paramour is starting to complain loudly about being restrained, I soon silence him by quickly unfastening his britches and sliding his eager cock out, permitting myself a suitable gasp of admiration as I first lay eyes on the brute, which must measure a good hand’s length, it’s large head already bulbous and the colour of a ripe plum.
“Now, now, my fine lad,” I whisper, my eyes still fixed on the stiff Priapus’ wand in my hands. “Grant me your silence and we shall, indeed, be happy playmates long into the night. So, come, let me slither these fine trousers right down to your knees and gaze upon your manly charms before I kneel before you and gobble you all up...”
And he lets out a groan at this and willingly acquiesces, and I quickly peel his pants and underwear down over his hips and tighten them about his lower thighs, ensuring that I now hold him well and truly captive, then kneel down to observe my handiwork.
And he is indeed a fine specimen, his complexion pale and white like ghost elm bark in the flickering light, his hugely erect prick sticking right out in front of him and curving up like a bent bow, the skin on his knobbly shaft likewise pale and showing all the bulging veins admirably, but his naked cockhead a phantasmagoria of fiery reds and purples, its hungry little mouth already salivating with clear spendings.
“Ah, a fine horn indeed, my bonny lad,” I whisper, kneeling down before him and inhaling his musk. “And have many of your local lasses felt its girth in their hindquarters?”
“Alas, not a one,” he sighs, flinching with ecstasy as I run my fingers along his length.
“What, not any?” I tease mischievously, pulling his tight foreskin up over his swollen head and then dr