Enthralled: The Sex Goddess Read online

  The first time he’d seen her, walking off the long branch from the…what was it? Boat. No, ship. He nodded to himself, remembering the pictures in the book, and how Jane had sat with him, practicing many of the words. His head didn’t hurt so much anymore when he looked at that book. The words were coming back.

  He was remembering.

  As if awakening from a long dream, shaking off the last bit of sleep, he remembered. Knowledge, long buried, had begun to flood his mind; words returned, thoughts clarified.

  And now, as the mating man and woman disengaged themselves from each other, he could hear them speaking. In low murmurs, punctuated with sighs and smiles.

  But when the man said, “I’m worried about Jane,” Zaren stilled and listened, every hair on his body lifting in recognition and interest.

  Jane.

  The woman was shaking her head in a way that made Zaren understand she was concerned too. “I don’t trust that Mr. Darkdale, an’ I’m not even sure as I trust Mr. Jonathan. Man disappears for three years and then returns all-a sudden…and now Miz Jane is gone too.” Her yellow hair stuck out in tufts all over her head, but her eyes were filled with worry.

  Jane. Gone.

  Mr. Jonathan.

  Zaren felt an odd, curling tingle in his belly. Jane had called a man Jonathan, the man whose sudden appearance in the jungle had caused her to faint.

  He was the man who mated with her in the bubbling hot pool…and then allowed another man to mate with her as well—while he watched.

  Zaren’s body tightened with disgust and fury. If Jane were his mate, he would die before he allowed another to touch her. An unfamiliar, bitter taste filled his mouth as he remembered his first impression of Mr. Jonathan.

  He wanted to maim him.

  And now Jane was gone, and so was this despicable Mr. Jonathan. And the mating man and woman—he wasn’t certain if they were called Effie and Everett or Gad and Darling—were worried about Jane. They wouldn’t be worried about her if she was safe, would they?

  As the tuft-haired woman looked out into the jungle, right in his direction—almost as if she could see him—Zaren became as still as the bark of the tree. He knew how to meld into the sun-dappled leaves and vines, becoming invisible to prey and predator alike.

  “Someone must find ’er, and bring Miss Jane back,” said the woman, staring at Zaren’s tree. “Get th’ girl away from the snakes and bad ’uns in the jungle. Someone must bring the poor chit back to us, Everett. Someone must bring her home.”

  Zaren’s heart pounded hard. Surely the woman wasn’t speaking to him. Surely she couldn’t see him…could she? Could she know he was there?

  After one last look into the jungle, right at him, the woman turned away. But not before he saw her nod in his direction.

  — III —

  Jane was taken to a small structure—a hut, really—and released from her bonds with surprising gentleness. Her two guards, Devilish Grin and Cold Eyes, helped her upright, their hands warm and absurdly reverent, except for when Cold Eyes skimmed a palm down the curve of her arse.

  As Jane staggered to her feet, rubbing her scraped wrists, she gritted her teeth wryly. Of course they would be gentle with her. She was a goddess. Heaven forbid they anger—or injure—the goddess, she thought with an edge of hysteria. Jane pushed the thought away and straightened her spine.

  “Jonathan,” she said, trying to sound demanding and goddess-like. “Bring Jonathan to me.”

  He was her only hope. At least he could understand what their captors were saying, and find out what they meant to do. She had no way to communicate and little chance of understanding what was to happen.

  You must do as they wish…for both of our sakes.

  To Jane’s surprise, her two escorts each gave her a deep bow and turned to leave the hut. “Send Jonathan to me!” she cried again, reaching for Devilish Grin’s arm. He, at least, seemed friendly.

  Perhaps too friendly.

  He looked down where her pale fingers closed over his dark arm, then allowed his attention to skim along her body, which at the moment was nearly cloaked by her hair. His eyes turned hot and he said something to his companion. They both laughed, low and lasciviously, and Jane dropped her grip immediately.

  “My man,” she said, desperate to make them understand. She gestured to the outside, trying to use hand signals to show she was speaking of the Englishman, the foreigner. “Jonathan.”

  Devilish Grin nodded, and hope rose like a burgeoning flame. If she could at least speak with Jonathan…

  The guards went out of the hut, leaving Jane alone.

  Blessedly alone.

  She looked around the space. Though it was dim and small—hardly the size of a private parlor back home—she could make out what seemed to be a raised, thick-covered pallet in the corner. It was covered with furs and other, lighter material, and appeared almost comfortable—though anything would surely be comfortable after spending the night on the ground, tied to a tree.

  A primitive, chair-like structure and a table were in the center of the room. The floor was made of hard-packed dirt, and the walls woven of dried grasses and reeds—just as she would have imagined a native hut in the jungle to appear. The roof was relatively high overhead, and in the corner was a small stone fireplace with a hole in the ceiling to allow the smoke to filter out. The faint glow of red told her banked coals waited for use, despite the oppressing heat of the jungle.

  There was but one door and one window, which was covered by a woven mat and allowed very little light into the room. It was also on the side of the structure that faced away from the center of the village.

  Heart in her throat, Jane went to the window. If she could climb out, perhaps she could run into the jungle and escape.

  Trepidation seized her as she thought of being naked and helpless in the thick, dark forest. She had no idea how far she was from camp, no concept of whether there was any other person around who could help her, what wild animals she would encounter…

  Zaren.

  She squeezed her eyes closed as they prickled with tears of frustration and regret. She imagined what would have happened if he’d been with her when the natives surrounded them…fantasized about him roaring with rage, fighting them off, flinging them weightlessly in all directions…then sliding an arm around her waist and launching them into the trees, gliding through the air on swinging vines. She remembered the feel of his warm body, the scent of his fresh, male skin and the brush of too-long but neatly coiled hair. And the slide of his bulky muscles, the delicate touch of his fingers as they smoothed over her skin…

  Jane swallowed hard. She was in a fix—the worst predicament ever. Why was she daydreaming about the mysterious jungle man?

  But she knew why he was in her mind—for somehow, she knew Zaren would never have allowed them to be imprisoned. He would never have allowed any man to put a hand on her.

  Unlike Jonathan.

  Jane allowed herself to wallow in misery and regret, then gave herself a sharp shake. So far, nothing utterly terrible had happened to her. Yes, she’d been paraded about naked…and she’d been touched and fondled…and tasted. Her quim gave a sharp, unexpected twinge at the memory of Devilish Grin’s face buried in the thatch of her pussy hair, and the quick slip of his tongue.

  But that had been the extent of her mortification. And there was still the window…

  Jane went to the opening and carefully peered around the edge of its covering. Less like drapes than a simple shutter, the woven obstruction didn’t fit completely…and there was enough space for her to look outside and see the figure of a man standing there.

  Guarding her.

  She wasn’t going to be sneaking out any time soon. At least, unless she could find a way to distract the guard.

  But even then, what chance would she have in the jungle, helpless as she was?

  Just as the reality of her predicament sank in, the door opened. Jane whirled in a swirl of wild hair, her breasts bounci
ng, her heart thudding. But instead of Jonathan or Cold Eyes, or any of the other men—which, of course, was her greatest fear—a woman walked in.

  She was followed by four other women, all—unlike Jane—fully clothed. They carried pots and cloths and other accoutrements, and Jane had a single wild thought of simply running past them, through the door, and tearing into the jungle.

  But that, as Effie would say, would likely land her in the fire outside the frying pan she was already in.

  “What do you want?” Jane asked, knowing they wouldn’t comprehend, but still clinging to the hope she could portray some sort of control.

  The first woman, a broad-shouldered, no-nonsense type, said something in return. Of course Jane had no idea what, but she stood tall and gave a regal nod. Then she gestured to the room at large, as if to give them permission to bring in their supplies. As each of the women entered and approached Jane, they gave a reverent bow, making a sort of gesture with their hands that was clearly a mark of respect—an absurd concept, with Jane being naked and the others fully clothed. But at least there was a measure of regard between them; perhaps she could somehow use it to her advantage.

  By now it had become clear the women had brought the necessary tools to bathe and groom her. Cloths and soft, woven fabrics that would be like towels, a carved-wood comb, jars and pots of substances that filled the hut with exotic smells, and a mass of bones, feathers, and shells that appeared to be a garment or some other adornment.

  Last, there was a large woven object resembling a gigantic basket, brought in by four large men. At first glance, it looked as if the water inside would seep through, but upon closer look, Jane saw that the interior was lined with oiled, tanned hide. A bathtub.

  The men—who ogled Jane appreciatively—were shooed out of the room just as they would have done back home in London. This was, clearly, women’s work.

  No sooner had the door closed behind the men than the five women took control, under the command of the broad-shouldered one. Jane’s hair was bundled out of the way, and she was directed to the tub.

  This she could understand—and was even used to. Normally at home, of course, she only had Effie to help her bathe and dress in the complicated, restrictive clothing of London—but to have five women seeing to her bath wasn’t utterly off-putting, nor surprising, given her so-called goddess status. And very little communication was necessary, for they knew what to do and Jane—who was beyond exhausted—let them.

  Perhaps, she thought half dreamily, sinking into the warm, scented tub, they would even allow her to rest and sleep after this.

  Hands scrubbed her head, wetting her hair with a soft, creamy substance that smelled like tropical flowers. More hands attended to her feet, which were rested on the far edge of the tub. This basket-like container had soft edges and its sides were malleable, creating an extremely relaxing vessel in which to soak. Slick hands were everywhere, all at once—massaging and stroking.

  As Jane tried to relax—to have her hair washed and then combed, to have her feet soaped and then massaged, followed by her arms, legs, torso, face, and neck—she drew in a variety of scents and smells. The hut seemed to have become warmer and closer, and a sleepy glance toward the corner told her the small fire was banked up. Someone had placed wide, damp leaves on the flames, and the resulting smoke wasn’t unpleasant, but sweet and thick.

  Her breasts floated just out of the water, warm from the rising steam, and her nipples pointed softly to the ceiling. Jane watched as if disembodied while two large, dark hands soaped and massaged them, brushing over each nipple once, twice, thrice, until she could no longer ignore the little zip of pleasure from the slick, warm strokes. Her breathing shifted and caught, and little frissons of pleasure mingled with the sure touch of hands, the soft lap of water, the dull, smoky essence in the air.

  Then the hands moved to her arms, massaging them with the soft, sweet soap, and another pair of hands found her thigh and arse, lifting her from the bottom of the tub, massaging and rubbing as yet another pair of hands soaped her torso with the steaming water, and another rubbed her scalp and brushed her hair, then coiled and braided it. Each touch was impersonal—the women talked and chatted; even sang or chanted as they worked. It was only Jane who felt every touch, every stroke, every slide of skin over skin, until she realized her body was like one large, smoldering fire. She was full and soft and swollen.

  When the broad-shouldered woman and one of her companions helped her to her feet, Jane stumbled, weak and lightheaded in a pleasant sort of way. Sleep, she thought. If I could just sleep a little…

  Her long, damp hair brushed against her bare spine and arse, and the lightest touch of the hands directing her toward the pallet in the corner seemed to raise delicious sensations on her skin. The heavy, sweet floral and spice aroma filled her nostrils, clouding the room.

  Somehow, she was on the pallet—a thick, soft, welcoming bed. Many hands lowered her reverently into place, and Jane’s hair was tugged up from beneath her as she settled onto the softness. The fire glowed nearby, and the scent given off from burning leaves was even more pungent…and pleasant.

  She turned to her side, curling up like a child to sleep, but firm hands directed her onto her back. Jane made a moan of protest, but there were too many hands to fight. Now new scents filled the air. Soft hands, slick with oil that smelled of flowers and other exotic scents, massaged into her clean, damp skin.

  More hands settled gently over her throat, moving up over her jaw and face, and Jane drew in the beautiful, relaxing smells deeply. Whatever they were smoothing over her skin was delicious and heady, and her eyes sank closed. After this, I’ll sleep. I’ll rest, and find a way out of here.

  But at this moment, even Jane didn’t want to leave. It was heaven on earth: soft, warm, relaxing, and she felt as if her head and all of her worries had been sloughed away in the tub. For the moment, her world was sensation and pleasure and she no longer had the desire to fight it.

  When her legs were drawn apart, Jane hardly noticed, for the long, smooth strokes on her calves and thighs loosened her muscles and brought gentle, tingling sensations to her skin. And there were hands at her torso, massaging her ribcage and beneath her breasts, and over her nipples, over and over and over…

  Jane caught her breath as the languorous moment pulsed into a stab of pleasure. It shot in a little streak from her suddenly tight nipple down to her quim, where another pair of hands was very close by, rubbing oil into the inside of her thighs. She suddenly became very aware of hands on her breasts and nipples—three, or even four of them, massaging, fondling, sliding over the tight, sensitive peaks. The oil made everything slick and aromatic, and Jane’s pulse bumped up as those hands slid and stroked, and her nipples rose harder and tighter, pleasure zinging down, down, down…to where someone was parting her legs even farther.

  “No,” she tried to protest, shifting her hips. But the hands at her thighs were strong and steady and they massaged and stroked that delicate curve of sensitive skin, right by her quim. She shivered, shifting, arching, her breath rasping and rough. Her little pearl pulsed and her labia swelled as if preparing for some erotic onslaught.

  Hazy, yet fully aware of every touch on her body, Jane tried to push them away, struggled to prop herself up on her elbows. But she was too weak, too cloud-headed, and there were too many of them.

  Dimly, she was aware of the women talking, looking at her, particularly at the bright thatch of hair between her legs. They seemed to be conferring about something, even as fingers stroked and—oh!—gave a little tweak to a nipple. Jane couldn’t hold back a gasp of pleasure-pain and the women smiled with satisfaction.

  One of them—the broad-shouldered one—nodded as if they’d come to some agreement. Jane, who’d been able to pull herself into a half-recline, was eased back flat on to her back. Now what are they going to do?

  Her masses of hair were lifted and her arms drawn up into its heavy warmth. Jane was hardly aware of what was happen
ing until she realized the women were braiding her arms into her hair. Like silken bonds, her long tresses were roped and braided around her wrists and arms, affixing her hands to the top of her head in a horrible—yet sensual—manner.

  One of the women brought her a jug of skin, obviously thinking her thirsty, and lifted her to pour some of its contents down her throat. Water, infused with something fresh. It was crisp and cool and Jane drank even as she was aware of the women watching her. Waiting.

  Someone had added more leaves to the fire, for the intoxicating, flowery, sweet scent filled the hut and Jane’s protests fell away. Her thirst quenched, she lay on the pallet, her arms bound in her own hair, body glistening with scented oil.

  Like a sacrifice.

  Or a goddess.

  Now the women stood around her, encircling the pallet. In the dim light, their eyes glittered with delight and heat. Expectation and anticipation fairly sizzled in the room. Jane opened her mouth to speak, but instead of words, the only thing that came from her was a sort of moan.

  Then one of them—the broad-shouldered woman, the leader—bent over and placed a kiss on Jane’s forehead…and then moved to press a kiss onto her lips…and then she moved to her chest, placing a light kiss on each shoulder, then into the curve of each underarm. Jane quivered, her breath unsteady as little prickles of sensation tightened her skin where the woman touched her.

  When the leader came to her breasts, each up-thrust nipple received the same treatment: a kiss, moist and slightly longer than the busses pressed to her shoulders, and Jane couldn’t control a sharp intake of breath. She tried to move, to shift away, but the broad-shouldered woman was strong and her hands fell to Jane’s thighs, holding them down, pressing them wide open.

  The other women were chanting something softly, and Jane found herself holding her breath as the broad-shouldered woman moved her hands, slick with the oil from her skin, down over her thighs, up and down, up and down…and then she knelt in front of her.