| Author: | Monique Raimbaud | ISBN: | 1230000033980 |
| Publisher: | The Romantica Press | Publication: | November 29, 2012 |
| Imprint: | First | Language: | English |
| Author: | Monique Raimbaud |
| ISBN: | 1230000033980 |
| Publisher: | The Romantica Press |
| Publication: | November 29, 2012 |
| Imprint: | First |
| Language: | English |
She was a sheltered young settler, and he was an American Indian. One day, he came by on a raid, and she discovered a new life--and a new awakening. Erotica.
Excerpt:
She was exhausted, and her hands shook. She could barely breathe inside the tight whalebone stays. They crushed every breath she strained to take from her belly button to her sternum, all pinched together much too tightly. She swayed, the blood almost unable to pump into her head, her eyes.
She could see nothing. All light had faded when the coarse hairy hide fell closed over the entrance, but she could still smell the hides all about her, the uncured leather, the strong pungency of hung meat, and worse--the garlicky unwashed scent of a human body, much too close.
She'd lost her shoes during the kidnapping and stood on the uneven floor in her stockings, sinking into a soft, spongy fur hide beneath her toes. Her hair had come down from its pinned-up coif and hung in stringy tatters around her head, and it was dripping with sweat and river-water, the length falling to her waist.
This was not the way she had thought she would--
A hand from behind lifted a lock of her hair.
Her eyes widened.
She remembered the kidnapping, the Indian pulling her up onto the horse before him, her hands tied behind with leather, and his arm going around her stomach. Then he'd urged his horse to gallop miles, and he'd gone right into the rushing river without a pause, his warriors all around, their rifles poised, and not a settler in sight to save her. Her dress had spread out Medusa-like in the waves, tangling around her knees and exposing her legs, and she'd felt his silent laugh as they went so deep that her dress billowed above her waist. When they came out, her skirt was as tangled as sea-wrack, her white legs exposed to all, chilled to the bone and soaking as her bound hands frantically tried to preserve her modesty. She could do little except try to shift the dress to cover her crotch.
She could not even do that, now.
++++
Monique Raimbaud is also the author of The Sea Devil.
She was a sheltered young settler, and he was an American Indian. One day, he came by on a raid, and she discovered a new life--and a new awakening. Erotica.
Excerpt:
She was exhausted, and her hands shook. She could barely breathe inside the tight whalebone stays. They crushed every breath she strained to take from her belly button to her sternum, all pinched together much too tightly. She swayed, the blood almost unable to pump into her head, her eyes.
She could see nothing. All light had faded when the coarse hairy hide fell closed over the entrance, but she could still smell the hides all about her, the uncured leather, the strong pungency of hung meat, and worse--the garlicky unwashed scent of a human body, much too close.
She'd lost her shoes during the kidnapping and stood on the uneven floor in her stockings, sinking into a soft, spongy fur hide beneath her toes. Her hair had come down from its pinned-up coif and hung in stringy tatters around her head, and it was dripping with sweat and river-water, the length falling to her waist.
This was not the way she had thought she would--
A hand from behind lifted a lock of her hair.
Her eyes widened.
She remembered the kidnapping, the Indian pulling her up onto the horse before him, her hands tied behind with leather, and his arm going around her stomach. Then he'd urged his horse to gallop miles, and he'd gone right into the rushing river without a pause, his warriors all around, their rifles poised, and not a settler in sight to save her. Her dress had spread out Medusa-like in the waves, tangling around her knees and exposing her legs, and she'd felt his silent laugh as they went so deep that her dress billowed above her waist. When they came out, her skirt was as tangled as sea-wrack, her white legs exposed to all, chilled to the bone and soaking as her bound hands frantically tried to preserve her modesty. She could do little except try to shift the dress to cover her crotch.
She could not even do that, now.
++++
Monique Raimbaud is also the author of The Sea Devil.
