Angelo opened the cage which surrounded the bed and stepped inside.
"I'm here to teach you that you are not untouchable. Turn over, Lady Spencer."
He enjoyed using her honorific when he intended to undo her in some humiliating way. This time was no exception.
She pouted, and she flounced, but she did as she was told.
Angelo was pleased when he saw her turn over at his order, her pretty rump rising skyward. She was indeed becoming somewhat obedient, but it did not have the feeling he was accustomed to getting from those who were truly learning to obey.
"Imagine all you could have been if you had not decided to throw your life away on vengeance," he said, running his palm over her cheeks. They were remarkably smooth and unmarked, considering all he had done to her. Perhaps there was something in British breeding which allowed a woman to absorb punishment.
Today, he had an old-fashioned remedy for impertinence in mind.
Her bottom, pink and pretty, was ready for him, offered not, perhaps, with eagerness, but with some willingness. Angelo wondered how much she was enjoying herself. Her reactions suggested she was enjoying it more than she would have liked, which was the plan all along.
"I have something from the kitchen for you today," he said. "A little tender treat…."
"Just get it over with," Willow hissed, a brat emerging from the elegant lady.
"I'll get this over with in my own time," Angelo reprimanded her. "I assume you don't have anywhere else to be."
He parted her cheeks and pressed the nub of ginger to the tight little hole which resisted it most. He twisted it gently, pushing it in, making her take it by very slow degrees. He was careful. More careful than Willow deserved, but as careful as he was with everything he cared for.
It was soon seated where it needed to be, warming the innards of the wench who crossed him. He wondered if punishing Willow would ever lose its allure. Probably not. She had that innate arrogance that made him throb with desire to punish her.
Angelo stood over her, watching the aristocratic woman writhe with a ginger nub firmly secured in her rectum. Her pussy was already dripping with the sort of female need that usually left a woman in a shameful state of reluctant desire, but Willow was not ashamed of her need. Every time he tried to push her past her limits into some kind of submissive headspace, she would rise out of it like the Loch Ness monster emerging from a Scottish lake. He could already see her overcoming the initial humiliation of having a root inserted inside her.
There were more toys to use. He supposed he might as well use them all in a full sensual assault, designed to drive the fine lady Willow to the brink of wild orgasm and beyond.
"What are you doing, man?" She sounded imperious.
"I am preparing a fuck machine to fill your pussy, Lady Willow. I have another for your mouth, so your lips will have something useful to do besides barking orders at your captor."
"Someone needs to take the lead," Willow smirked, arching her back playfully. Oh, she was enjoying this far too much.
He worked the machines into place, locking them against the bars of the cage with clamps. This was more gear than he usually needed, but she was more trouble than he usually dealt with.
"The woman is concerning."
Funny how there were two women, but Bobby knew precisely which one Angelo was referring to. Angelo had undertaken several sessions with Willow, and after each one, the master Vitali had seemed more unsettled than the time before.
Bobby would have enjoyed seeing Angelo struggle, but for the fact he did not like Willow one bit. It wasn't just that she was arrogant and cold. It was that she treated Gemma like a useless appendage, and Gemma didn't seem to notice. At every turn, Gemma was running off to Willow, like a slave taking orders.
"Could kill her," Bobby suggested.
"We don't kill women. We break them."
"We usually have nothing to do with them at all. It was easier when we didn't. Are you sure we can't just kill Willow?"
"Just Willow?"
"Well, the girl isn't a problem. She's just… a girl. She's not going to move against us on her own."
"And Digby? They still want Tilly."
There was so much in play, so many actors, many of whom were unknown. The death of Tilly Braybrooke's father had sent shockwaves through the largely staid and silent British aristocracy. Her current location was an absolute secret, and had to stay that way. The existence of her infant was an even more closely guarded secret.
"I think she's in league with her brother," Bobby said. "She's not here to rescue him. She doesn't give a shit about him. And he doesn't even like her."