Regency Rogues Omnibus

by Shirl Anders

  Sebastian shifted and his bent legs opened wider as though he could not hold them closed, with Madam DeJonge glancing sideways at him, patting his thigh. “Yes, Sebastian?” she asked.

  “Spit,” he answered in a rather husky-roughened voice.

  “Oui,” Madam DeJonge acknowledged, turning her gaze to their industrious stroking methods. “Men love earthy, my ladies, the sweat, la blanc, the juices that flow from our bodies, and as Sebastian reminds me, they enjoy the spit.” Madam DeJonge shifted slightly sideways in her seat so everyone had a good view. “You can wet your palm slowly with your tongue, enticing your gentleman as you do, yes. Then, take the liquid back to the cock and lubricate it . . . Another way is to wet the cock with your mouth and tongue and this brings us to another way to stroke a man . . . Male cock sucking, and ladies, I say this here, that your mamas would never tell you. This is a man’s favorite request at my salon and you must always take the seed that is ejaculated into your mouth.”

  “Swallow,” Sebastian added, in a near male purring.

  Then, suddenly Brevity’s godemiché toppled out of her fingers landing with a clatter on the polished wood flooring at her feet.

  “Senorita,” Sebastian said, immediately rising to go and pick up the leather penis. However, Brevity was bowing over and reaching forward for it at the same time, so that their heads knocked lightly. Sebastian grasped her hand, steadying her, as he brought the lengthy artificial penis up between them. “Let me help you, sweet,” he said lowly with his brown eyes shining.

  “Is this the true s-s-size?” Brevity asked, seemingly caught in the moment with Sebastian kneeling before her.

  “For some men, yes. For me, Senorita, it is-,” Sebastian paused, then he added quite by all their surprise, “Longer.”

  “Oui, our Sebastian is un étalon,” Madam DeJonge, proclaimed. A stallion, Affinity translated the French word in her mind as Madam DeJonge continued on. “And most men are not this. Six or seven inches is most common.”

  “How on earth do you get that into your mouth?” Diversity, blurted.

  Both Madam DeJonge and Sebastian laughed, and it was not an ungenerous sound of ridicule, but true delight. Then, Sebastian settled slowly onto the floor next to Brevity’s skirt-covered feet as he handed the godemiché fully into her small hands.

  Madam DeJonge waved her gloved hand, “It can be done, cherie, but more often we pretend enthusiastically that we are taking more than we are.” Sebastian cleared his throat, raising a questioning glance at her and Madam DeJonge laughed, saying, “You are learning also, yes, Sebastian?”

  “Apparently so,” he said, nodding his dark head slightly.

  Madam DeJonge countered, “Well, darling, can you remember any woman taking your full harden cock into their mouths, over and over on each stroke.” Sebastian started to answer, but Madam DeJonge raised her hand to him, and finished saying, “Or did you even care they might not be, because you were in such bliss, darling?”

  Instead of looking at Madam DeJonge to answer, Sebastian looked up at Brevity and answered. “Bliss,” he said deeply. “I realize now through the bliss, I never noticed that not one has taken my entire dong into their mouths, stroke after stroke.”

  Brevity gasped, of course they all did, each in varying degrees of rising sexual turmoil. Some of them confused that the very thought of taking a man’s cock into their mouth could be arousing in the first place. But not Affinity, she knew the thought was climatically arousing. She just needed to know how!

  “Show us please, Madam DeJonge,” Affinity found herself pleading softly.

  Madam DeJonge smiled at her. It was a knowing smile, but it had hints of kindness in it. “You have the most need. I already felt this. You have someone in mind, yes?” Affinity nodded. “Then, cherie, take your godemiché and lick your tongue slowly over the head in circles, while stroking the base firmly.”

  Affinity looked down at her godemiché with her mouth suddenly watering. Her need was so great that no perceived shame could over shadow it. She pretended in her mind that she might be alone for a moment to embolden herself. Then, she lapped her tongue outward and over the head.

  “Feel for the slit, then feel the rim with your tongue, cherie,” Madam DeJonge encouraged.

  “Never have I seen anything more erotic,” Sebastian said suddenly in a husky whisper.

  Affinity barely heard Sebastian’s awe. She was too entranced with the feel of the godemiché beneath her tongue, with the shape of the wide bullet head and the smooth texture gliding beneath her tongue. Amazingly, the godemiché was anatomically correct. There was a slit embedded where she knew it to be and the rim had a notched V underneath. The feel of it stretching her lips and rubbing the tender inner reaches of her mouth, awoke new feelings inside her for more contact, more stretching, feeling and rubbing deep in her mouth.

  Madam DeJonge’s instructions, sounded hushed, and seemed to come to her in slow motion. “Lick the rim underneath. Press the head in your mouth slowly. Suckle. Stroke this base. Faster. Deeper. Oui, Oui!” Madam DeJonge exclaimed, and clapped her hands, jolting Affinity out of her mesmerizing endeavor. “You see, and some of this strokes into your mouth you have taken the cock to the base and they never know it is not each time.”

  Affinity released the godemiché from her mouth, barely able to believe what she’d done . . . and in the presences of others. But bless her friends, and then especially Caprice for her empathy.

  “Oh, and can we use the godemiché on ourselves?” Caprice asked excitedly, breaking Affinity’s embarrassed tension at her outlandish carnal display with a provocative question that fit the situation.

  “Of course,” Madam DeJonge nodded. “But if you are the virgin, you will want to be very careful. You should not take the godemiché more than three inches inside, or your mamas will be so very angry if you lose your precious virginity.”

  Then, the afternoon wore on with intimate instructions of French kissing, clitoris and pussy licking, fortification and the different positions used. Their knowledge grew as their vocabulary expanded also, so that copulation became, “fucking,” their sex was called, “pussy or cunt,” and a male’s seed was called, “come.” Such heady words, earthy sounding, but now they knew their actions. So much intimacy, so much extraordinary knowledge and frankly so much arousal, left all of them, save perhaps Madam DeJonge and Sebastian, dazed.

  Madam DeJonge, who was ever the business woman, sold them the godemichés, and a creamy lubricant used for sexual purpose, and tins of French condoms. She also said discreetly, should any of their friends be interested in instructions such as this, she would be available for the same fee. Then, she also suggested that they could see all of Sebastian’s anatomy for a soaring fee and double that, they could practice their newly formed skills upon him . . . in privacy of course!

  Affinity declined for all of them. Somehow, it seemed that paying for such intimacy made it feel involuntary, as though taking from Sebastian something he would not freely give. Brevity in particular appeared quite relieved as she caressed a strand of Sebastian’s hair without him realizing it.

  Then, the most amazing afternoon was over and Madam DeJonge and Sebastian were taking their leave. “I might not have agreed had you not treated me with this generosity of spirit and respect that you did,” Madam DeJonge said. “The tea was very beautiful.”

  Affinity thanked Madam DeJonge, while noticing Sebastian bowing over Brevity’s hand, kissing it, and when he rose he leaned forward to whisper something in her ear. Then, Sebastian and Madam DeJonge were both gone, and the door shut firmly.

  “What did he say?” Diversity and Affinity asked Brevity at the same time.

  “He s-said,” Brevity answered, clutching her bosom with her skin flushing pink. “Come to me.”

  They all gasped, now they all knew the double entendre of the before seemingly innocent word, “come.”

  Chapter Eight

  Law stood beneath a droopy elm tree in front of Lady Affin
ity Redgrift’s London abode. It was midnight, one week to the hour of their last encounter. He was angry and it was hard to contain, and he was intrigued and that was even more impossible to control. She’d touched his dick. No lady did such a thing, but Affinity was a lady. A pure bred one. He’d not been idle in learning all he could about Lady Affinity Redgrift in his week of confusion and simmering anger.

  Damnation, she had his journal. The seductive minx had his life in her hands. It was disconcerting to have his private sexual thoughts pried into, but more than that it was devastating that anyone of Affinity’s station learn his secret . . . that he was the Benefactor. One wrong word from her petal soft lips, or one wrong excited tittering of gossip and his mission would be at an end. Then how could he atone, he thought, even as he knew there was no possible way he could ever right his wrong doing?

  Law settled his shoulder against the roughened bark of the elm tree as he inhaled slowly on a cigarillo. The fog was dense enough that his darkly clothed figure became a shadow in the shifting mists. The fog condensed everything around him, holding the smoke from his cigarillo like a tangible thing, with the scent wafting strongly in his nostrils. The sudden image of Magdalena laughing as she coughed ridiculously after trying a puff of one of his cigarillos’ sprang into his mind. Thoughts of that time always seemed to haunt him more when he could smell the smoke the strongest.

  He’d seemed so young then, yet it had only been three years ago that he was a first captain in England’s finest military. Then, he’d been a second son and all second son’s dutifully joined the military. His joining found him immediately embroiled in the Spanish War. A hellish action that no proper English gentleman would have fathomed in their wildest dreams. There was no way a man could prepare for the horror of war and the complete foreignness of a country so far away, and he knew that logically, yet one had to live it to understand the compelling strangeness of it all.

  Nonetheless, that was no excuse for his inexperience and for his devastating naiveté. It had cost Magdalena her life. Magdalena, the beautiful whore who had saved his life, just as he’d ended hers. He had berated himself a thousand times and in a thousand different hells for not realizing that an English officer’s presence in a Spanish whore’s adobe hut could get her killed.

  But she had to know, Law thought, tilting his head back against the tree, she had to know how dangerous it was. He’d simply thought that if the Spanish found him, they would capture him as a prisoner. A truly naive Englishman’s thinking. But Spain was not England and war was not civilized, it was ugly and dirty.

  He’d only been two weeks off the ship, when in a horrible and bloody fight, in a dark, dank, and nearly impassible jungle, he’d been injured and splintered from his main fighting regiment. He had alternately walked and hid for days without water with a piece of shot in his arm. By that time, he supposed he was hallucinating, when he’d stumbled into a fair sized Spanish town. However by then, if they took him as a prisoner, he might have counted it a blessing. But this town was far north of the fighting, and at first glance as he’d stumbled through what appeared to be the main dirt street, none of the people looked like the Mexican military, but like peasants and common folks.

  That was where Magdalena found him crumpled against an adobe wall, nearly unconscious. He’d hoarsely begged her for water, then he’d passed out, and when he woke days later he was laying in her scarce adobe hut. She was young and kind, but poor beyond description, and the first thing she’d asked him for was money. He gave her his father’s gold watch, and just that simple action brought such joy to her.

  He had healed and basked in her youth, and they’d become lovers. Many times she’d asked about England, and he’d known as one does, that part of her continued interest and kindness in him was with the hope he might take her there. Take her away from the squalor she lived in, and her firm young body, so sexually eager to please him, had thrilled his masculinity, but also obscured the horrors that he’d seen. The ones that he knew it was his duty to return to.

  Then, he’d made the fatal mistake. He’d felt so alive and he had seen so much death, the spirit of life inside him was unreasonable. He’d left the adobe hut and wandered the village. He’d been seen. Tragically, he’d even been seen wearing his uniform. How mindless he was not to think that men from his country had killed brothers, husbands, and the loved ones of the people from the village.

  He was never certain who it was, which man in the village or perhaps it was someone from the Mexican military. He’d never known. He’d only known that a trap must have been set to kill him, not simply capture him as he would so naively think, if he thought of it at all. And plans set with no thought to Magdalena’s presence beside him. Magdalena must have heard about the plan somewhere, because she’d tried to stop it, and that is when she had been killed in the shots fired on him. She’d died in his arms, broken and bleeding, still begging him to take her to England.

  He could still remember the blood, and the joy in Magdalena’s dark eyes when he’d said, “Yes,” he would take her with him. Then she’d died, as he’d known she would in that horrible moment and nothing had ever devastated him as much as having a woman die in his arms. To die because of him. He’d barely made it out alive after leaving Magdalena’s bleeding body behind.

  Law winced, grating his head against the tree. They said time healed and the memory did not bleed as badly as it once had. He’d fought the rest of his term of service in a daze, surprised still that he had survived. It had seemed at times that he willed his death. Then, upon his return to England, he’d found his own brother dead of a simple and foolish horse racing accident, leaving him now the Duke of St. Martin. Yet, he’d been too fanatic in his grief. It had suffocated him, until in a drunken motley state he’d come across a street walker being attacked. Her screams had jolted his drunken mind and without a second thought he’d plowed into her attacker. The blackguard had fled, but the prostitute was injured by a knife wound to her chest.

  Rosie was her name and she was as plump and pleasant as a tart cherry pie. He’d saved her, and then suddenly he’d found the pain of his existence eased. Rosie had lived and as she did, he found himself speaking to her of a different life. Each word he spoke seemed to heal him and make him more whole, and when she had agreed to finally take his help . . . he’d smiled.

  He’d felt guilty about that smile immediately afterwards, yet twenty dozen smiles later in his life, he did not feel guilty any longer. He wondered now, as anger simmered inside him while looking up at Affinity Redgrift’s bedchamber, if the time had not nearly come for him to forgive himself.

  Law extinguished his cigarillo, then he turned and climbed the elm tree and followed the largest branch over to the balcony he knew to be outside Affinity Redgrift’s bedchamber. What he was doing was completely out of his nature. He intended to get his journal back, that part was true, but he also intended to find a way to blackmail Affinity into not speaking of his hidden work.

  Nevertheless, it was the other intentions inside him that he dared not look at too closely. Like the fact that he’d never taken his cock in hand and relieved his arousal of that night or the fact of his intrigue about Affinity’s intense curiosity over him and her seemingly unconventional methods of doing . . . What?

  All that he knew for certain was that he could still feel Affinity’s body pressed to his body and her finger sliding over the wet slit of his cock.

  Chapter Nine

  Affinity squinted at the page she was reading as she lay on top of her bed covers with her night gown pulled upward and bunched around her waist. The godemiché lay beside her on the bed as she read a passage in Law’s journal.

  . . . Mary, with her dusty blond hair and her blush petal lips, so thin as to be emaciated, has revealed to me the greatest gift a man could possess. It is the art of cunt licking. And I must say here that I am invigorated. My dreams each night since hearing of this have been fulsome with images of women’s bared pussy’s that are wet, swoll
en, and rosy. Each dream-filled pussy is splayed and begging for my tongues caresses. The wonder that a man can give a woman such pleasure is emboldening.

  I understood before, have witnessed it in fact, that a woman does receive pleasure from the thrust of a man’s cock, but never with this method and to these heights as I now understand. Ah, and the method. Could the method be more enticing for a man to do? Taking your woman’s sex into your mouth and tasting the heat of it. Feeling the pinpoint throbs and the deep inner flesh leaving wetness on your mouth from the musky lips or deeper.

  To take a woman and hold her down so. To have her spread her thighs and raising her long soft limbs as though an altar for a man to worship upon. Then, the talent of it that Mary described. She instructed me to long slow licks of the tongue to start. She named the bud of every woman’s pleasure as the clit, clitty, or love button. How a man should stroke this furrowed button with the tip of his tongue. In doing so it fills with passion and thrusts upward to meet his tongue pleading for more attention. Then, as the woman’s excited moans quicken, the man’s tongue should follow them in speed, circling, then licking . . .

  I am uncertain if I can continue here, my senses are so heightened that my fingers tremble and my cock throbs stiffly between my thighs.

  (Hours later . . . I could not stop myself, nor in my damnation did I want to. I took my insolent cock to my hand as my mind filled with dreams of a woman’s pussy beneath my eager mouth. I am sated now, beyond understanding. My seed is spent. Yet, I promise myself to write again of this masturbation. I want to explore a man’s masturbation and my deep feeling toward it . . . )