One Wicked Night

by Noelle Mack

  She thrust several firm pillows under the redhead's arse, lifting it up. I would have an excellent view of what was to come. My erect cock throbbed in time to the pulse that rushed through my body. I heard its steady beat and little else. Gwen nodded to me and clambered over her friend.

  Again I saw the dangling balls between her thighs swing as she grasped her strap-on and gave the redhead the tip. Gwen kept it there, bending down to stroke Jane's heated face and kissing her ardently. "Do you want my big cock, love?" she murmured into the other woman's mouth. "Do you need a good fucking?"

  "Yes ... yes," the redhead whispered. "Give me all of it."

  Gwen thrust her tongue deeply into the other woman's mouth and rammed the dildo in all the way in one swift thrust. The leather pouch smacked against Jane's uplifted bottom, the heavy balls within moving in a way that excited both women.

  I came closer and spread Gwen's arse cheeks apart, liking the feel of the hard-working muscle in her otherwise very fem­inine bottom. She screwed as hard as any man, pounding vigor­ously and giving her friend a great deal of pleasure.

  The redhead writhed under her as much as her ties allowed, and moaned when Gwen cupped her breasts. With a woman's skill, she pinched Jane's soft nipples—the redhead's nipples were not long, with the well-sucked look of Gwen's, but rather like the flat pink petals of some sensuous blossom. Her areolas showed the half-moon marks of Gwen's fingernails with every pinch, and each made her whimper with pleasure. The redhead in her turn clutched and scratched Gwen's big fine arse, driving her to stronger efforts and harder strokes.

  Their roughness with each other was unbelievably exciting to me. The submissiveness of women could change quickly in each other's presence, something I had not known.

  "Look—look in the bottom of the basket," Gwen panted, stopping her movement for several seconds to speak to me.

  I did and saw a very small dildo, shaped like a tulip bulb, also of ivory, with a string through a hole in the slender top.

  "Yes, I have it."

  "Put it in my arsehole."

  Her enthusiastic swiving had made all her flesh so moist that I saw no need for oil.

  "Hold still." I parted her buttocks with one hand and gen­tly pushed the wide part of the little bulb against the tightly puckered hole that Gwen wished stimulated. She relaxed atop Jane, and whispered something in the other woman's ear.

  Reaching around, the redhead assisted me in spreading Gwen's bum wide open and the bulb slipped in as if her hungry little arsehole had wanted it very much.

  "Ahh, " Gwen groaned. "That is very good."

  The began to fuck her friend again, but not so wildly, tight­ening her buttocks with each downward thrust to keep the bulb inside the snug hole between them. Only the slender end of the thing stuck out, the end through which passed the string that I had wrapped lightly around a finger. I splayed my hand across her arse, feeling the slight tugs upon the string as she continued to fuck her friend.

  Her motions were more side-to-side now, rubbing and rocking, bouncing her false balls in this way and that. Their cunnies were swollen and so juicy that they were wetting the sheets. But the redhead could not move away with her legs tied—still, I guessed that the wetted linen under her arse was flattering evidence of Gwen's desire for her.

  I took the liberty of pressing my hand into Gwen's behind, adding my strength to hers to stimulate the woman beneath her. The redhead began to lift her hips to meet Gwen's, strain­ing upward again and again as much her bonds permitted.

  I pushed down, Jane pushed up, and Gwen lost control. Her arse was shaking now under my hand; her cunny pressed so tightly to her friend's that their orgasm was simultaneous and explosive. They cried out at once, and I gave Gwen a fris­son of extra pleasure when I made sure that the little dildo stayed where she had wanted it: up her arse.

  Gasping, they held each other tenderly, letting their desire ebb away, exchanging mutual endearments as they kissed away the feminine tears that streaked their flushed faces. I let go of the dildo and gave Gwen's arse a final pat.

  Gwen gave a sigh and heaved herself off Jane's body, blow­ing her breath over the redhead's breasts to cool her. She reached around to pull out the little bulb with the string and put it aside. Then, her dauntless cock bobbing in her friend's face, she untied Jane's legs one by one, and rubbed them affec­tionately.

  The redhead rolled over and got up, looking dreamily about on the floor for her robe. She slipped it on and exited without a backward look. Gwen was untying the straps of the dildo and soon set that aside as well.

  "And now for you, sir... " She yawned. "Forgive me. I gave the girl my all."

  "Indeed you did. Well worth the money." I began to stroke my cock, shivering with the intense pleasure of touching my own neglected flesh. The sexual explorations of two women are always stimulating to the male of the species, and the variation upon that theme I had witnessed was especially so.

  "What would you like?" She patted my cheek absent-mindedly as she spoke, her desires so satisfied as to be nil.

  I brought her close to me and let my engorged member press against her soft belly. She answered my movement against her with slight undulations of her body, kissing and nipping at my chest and my shoulders, a series of sensations that went right to my cock. I fought, not very hard, against my mental languor, reminding myself silently of my vow to come away with no ailment to remember her by. How to have a woman with no penetration? There were many ways.

  It was entirely possible that I could ejaculate simply from what she was doing now. Or I could command her to stroke my cock in her tight-clasped fingers, sliding over the skin with sweet oil until I shot in high arcs. Or—I looked down and saw her dreamy eyes narrow as she looked over my shoulders. Some instinct made me turn around.

  It was the bride. I had forgotten all about icing the cake. But she saw what I was doing and lifted her dress ...

  The table erupted in loud cheers and cries for more. Diggory had read it well, with dramatic rolling of his eyes to emphasize every thrust and wiggle.

  "To Gwen and Jane!" said a booming voice.

  Anne raised her glass with the others, laughing. The con­stant company of women was not good for her, I thought. She seemed to brighten up considerably in this group, who obvi­ously adored her. And they had something in common: artists and madams alike made the most money from the careful pre­sentation of female flesh. Their models became her girls and vice versa—and an occasional lucky one did very well for her­self indeed.

  The artists and writers looked down on the artisans and the shopkeepers, who toiled hard for every penny. But Anne was drawn to this world too. She looked through the glass of the windows as if the vulgar bric-a-brac and trumpery things were fine indeed. It was clear to me that she could never go back to her old life in the country, no matter how much money she saved. Anne was a woman of London, for better or worse. And more and more, she was not the Anne I had once loved.

  Nine

  We did not find Fotheringay that night or the next. Anne was willing to go out with me but she kept me at a distance, and her determination to do so was not something I wished to trifle with. It had been selfish of me to want both her and Xavi.

  I was not like Quinn, who grabbed at life with both hands. He cared nothing for the opinions of others so long as he had his pleasures. I missed him greatly and wondered how he fared in the country. The drizzle that had dampened my night out with Anne had turned into a rain so steady that it must be drenching the whole of England.

  We were walking under an umbrella and it felt good to have her under my arm again, when she stayed there.

  Anne had not exhausted the possibilities of the Soho shops. As we turned a corner, I spied a printseller's up ahead but thought nothing of it. Surely she would stop at the jeweler's next to it first.

  I felt her head turn against the sleeve of my coat as she looked out from under the umbrella. And I saw what she saw in the same instant: More erotic pictures of th
e woman who looked so much like Xavi. But they were different.

  I looked more closely. Quinn and I had bought the plates for the ones that were sold in the green-and-white portfolios—I thought wildly that we would have to try to buy these. But where had they come from? I wanted to put my fist through the window and take them away. Anne must have felt the mus­cles of my arm tighten because she patted me quickly.

  "I am sorry. You must not be angry," she said softly. Despite her natural jealousy, her sympathy was real, although I daresay she felt more sorry for me than Xavi.

  "But I am."

  "Shall we go in and ask about them?"

  "No." At that moment I began to have the curious impres­sion that someone, somewhere was out to get Xavi. Her name had yet to be connected with these erotic engravings—this lot was titled only A Beauty Bare. Yet whoever was printing them was making sure that they would be seen.

  It was futile to track down the remaining portfolios or try to establish their connection to the addresses on Mr. Martin's re­ceipts. More would only pop up. I could not shake the feeling that I was also a target in some way. Certainly our secret love affair made her position doubly precarious. As Anne had pointed out, private infidelity and public virtue made strange bedfellows. Xavi was guilty only of having a face so lovely that her image became valuable.

  Who was behind this?

  I doubted I could stop it simply by buying up each new set that appeared. My intuition told me that whoever it was would only do it again. The new etchings were more roughly done than the others in the seven sets, as if to satisfy a demand that had grown without my knowing it.

  When Xavi learned of this—she would learn, someone wanted her to learn. She had no one to turn to but me for help. Of course I would do my utmost, I thought, moving with Anne a little distance away from the printshop window. Nonetheless, for Xavi's safety and my own, I would have to end our affair.

  We came to Anne's neighborhood after a silent walk. There was no one on the streets. The curtains were drawn in all the houses and the doors shut tight and bolted. Her man would let her in and then I would be on my own. I was glad of it, my mind still troubled by what we had seen.

  We found a shadowed place to kiss good-bye and took our time about it. Then, hearing a noise, Anne peered into the dark­ness and we both saw a dark figure some distance away move slightly out of shadows of his own. The man wore a wide-brimmed hat tipped down over his eyes, but he raised his head just long enough for her to get a glimpse of his face.

  "It is Fotheringay," she breathed.

  "The very man I want to talk to."

  She pointed at his back. He was walking away quickly. "Not unless you run after him."

  "I cannot leave you here, Anne."

  "He is going to the gaming hell. I have seen him here be­fore." She told me how to find it and I walked her to her door, waiting to see that she was safely inside. She blew me another extravagant kiss. So much for friendship.

  "Be careful, Edward," I heard her call.

  I turned the corner as she directed and found the place. A small brass plaque was the only marker. I tried the knob. The door was not locked and I entered, then made my uncertain way down a flight of narrow stairs, keeping a hand on a banis­ter of well-smoothed wood until I stepped onto the landing at the bottom. A balding fellow in a shabby tailcoat showed me into the room beyond.

  Though it was not yet midnight, the table was surrounded by exhausted men, whose undone shirts and wrinkled jackets attested to the length of time they had been there. Playing cards had been tossed down upon the cloth, abandoned along with the gamblers' hopes of making back what they had lost.

  Anyone could see that a few had risked all for kings, queens, and jacks, the stone-faced swallowers of great fortunes and es­tates—and lost. These unfortunates sat slumped in their chairs, the fever that attended their play broken at last. Others, with more sense or less to risk, perhaps, seemed calm enough, smoothing their disheveled hair and finishing up the dregs of drink in their glasses. No one talked. A sense of despair per­vaded the atmosphere, already thick with stale smoke and the sweat-smell of nervous men.

  Only one seemed at ease amidst the scene. A tall man with black, piercing eyes was standing near a wall observing the men at the table—whether he had just entered, like I, or had been there for a while, I did not know. He moved away, avoiding the light of the sinumbra, the shadowless lamp at the center of the table—a lamp that brightened many a slide into hell.

  A dark fire flashed within his eyes when he suddenly looked my way, and I recoiled, as if from the sound of a gun. But no shot had been fired. I dismissed the odd illusion. In a moment, I became aware of ordinary noises: the sighs and the dull scrape of chairs as the gamblers rose, ready to stumble home.

  More would soon come down the narrow stairs to replace them and the play would continue until dawn. I glanced around, avoiding the gaze of the dark man, whom I took for the proprietor, his suspicions awakened by my entrance. A pretty wench entered and pressed herself against him, kissing him to distraction. Well and good. I examined him from across the room. His clothes were impeccably cut and elegant, although he did not look English. Why, I could not say.

  He seemed too aristocratic in manner to be the proprietor, James Townly, whose name I had noted on the small brass plaque by the street door. Who else could he be? The dark man had not been among the players at the table, but only watching as I came in.

  Will Fotheringay was nowhere to be seen. I supposed he might be in one of the curtained alcoves to the side, where other wenches relieved the occasional winners of some of their wealth—I was familiar with the operation of such establish­ments.

  A young man entered, setting the dirty glasses upon a large tray and sprucing up the uneaten food with a little fresh parsley for the next customers. He nodded at me and asked what I wanted to drink. I asked for wine—it did not go to my head as a rule. The young man took the full tray into an antechamber and I made myself comfortable enough in one of the chairs as a few men, casual acquaintances, came in, talking loudly of the operetta they had just seen.

  I recognized Sir Peter Moncrieff, a dissolute friend of my cousin, and young Lord Sperry, whose first name escaped me, although he would not have bothered to remember mine. Being ignored did not trouble me. I thought to stay a while so long as I could remain in the shadows, but if Fotheringay did not ap­pear I would leave.

  The young man reappeared with a glass of dark red wine. I thanked him and once more noticed that the dark man was looking at me on the sly. He gave the wench he had been kiss­ing a resounding slap on her arse and told her to try her luck elsewhere. At the moment she was trying her coquettish wiles on the opera-lovers. None seemed interested in her charms.

  "Who is that fellow? Does he own this establishment?" I asked in a low voice. The young man kept his head down and did not look in that direction.

  "No. Far from it. He is Don Diego Mendez y Something," he said. "A great man in his own country or so I was told. He came here with a friend, but the poor sod lost a thousand pounds in five minutes and stormed out."

  So this was the husband that Xavi so loathed. What in God's name was he doing here? My curiosity about the man made me study him anew, but more discreetly than before.

  Our paths had never crossed until now—I had taken great pains to make sure of that and so had Xavi. It was pure coinci­dence that we should meet in such a place, but then, I reminded myself, anyone with money was welcome here.

  He was younger than I had thought he would be, yet his true age was difficult to determine. He exuded an air of self-possession, clearly accustomed to command others and to have his commands instantly obeyed. And I had mistaken him for the owner of a gambling hell... but then he did look like a Lu­cifer. Whether his manner was a consequence of his noble birth or his important position at court, or simply the natural result of his height and powerful build, I could not decide.

  The wench crossed the room to me and smiled prettily
. I motioned her to sit in my lap. What else could I do? If I were not occupied, Don Diego might attempt to strike up a conver­sation. I could not very well slip away until he left the room.

  My new friend needed no further invitation. She dropped onto my thighs, wriggling with evident pleasure and scarcely permitting me to finish my wine. It had little effect—the pres­sure of her squirming arse made my cock stiffen, which she felt. The young man saw that my glass was empty and brought an­other without my asking. I drank that down and dug in my pocket for a coin, giving it to him along with the second, now empty glass.

  "What is your name?" I murmured into her soft neck, press­ing a kiss to the black velvet ribbon around it.

  "Bess," she said simply, as if she had no last name worth mentioning. "Shall we go upstairs?"

  Here was my reason to leave the room and not be followed. All thoughts of the previous events of the evening vanished, along with the memory of Anne's face. I rose with her in my arms, looking straight ahead and heading back toward the stairs. No one remarked upon my departure—I guessed that my pretty friend serviced several men a night, and most of them were regulars.

  But when I heard a deep voice call my name, I turned around. Diego was asking to talk to me.

  I put Bess on her feet and told her to run along. The play at the table had resumed and the gathered men concentrated their attention on their cards.

  He was taller by an inch or two. I refused to be intimidated. "Yes?"

  "Come with me. We can talk over here where it is quieter. I know who you are, Lord Delamar."

  What could I do? No gentleman would cut and run. I had no idea what he would say.

  I took the chair he indicated and sat, looking him squarely in the eye.