Viveka Portman

by The Secret Diary of Lady Catherine Bexley

  The windows rattled again and I gave a high pitched and completely feigned shriek of alarm.

  ‘Shhh,’ he groaned, and ran his hands over my hair and traced a gentle line down my face. ‘Shhh.’

  ‘Please don’t leave me,’ I begged him.

  ‘No, no,’ he murmured, and whether it was by instinct or design he ground his hardness into my womanhood. I moaned in earnest then.

  I allowed my hand then to insinuate itself between us to try and free his cock from his breeches.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he moaned, as my hand found the long, hard length of him, and caressed it through his breeches.

  I didn’t respond, for there was nothing I could say that would not make me sound wanton.

  My hand fumbled wildly at the buttons and ties — I honestly felt it was through some miracle that they were released at all.

  His breeches fell open and at last I felt the heat of his cock resting between my thighs. I drew my hand away, though I longed to feel the hard velvet length of him for myself. I feared that that my impulsive un-breeching may have left him disgusted by me, but I did not fear so for long.

  With one swift motion he sheathed himself within me. My quim was soaking with need, so the insertion was majestically smooth. Yet I cried out. I felt impossibly stretched, as I always did at the start of our conjugal act. Joseph froze above me and looked down to meet my eyes.

  His expression was bewildered. ‘Catherine,’ he moaned. ‘The oil …’

  ‘I don’t require it,’ I whispered.

  Then he started to move within me, slickly and with a speed and force he’d never used before. ‘I can’t stop,’ he groaned.

  Lord of all-things-good, I didn’t want him to.

  He thrust into me, now fast, now slow, fast and slow — freed from the tyranny of the mantle clock. His motions were smooth and deep. I could feel something growing tight within my womb. I urged him onward by wrapping my legs around his waist, allowing him closer access to that delicious winding tightness. He paused a moment and ground deep into me, and I felt myself move closer to the satisfaction I longed for. Again I sobbed, and called his name.

  Then he erupted. His seed poured from him, a scalding current as he shuddered above me. So close was I to reaching that elusive sense of completeness, I closed my eyes and writhed piteously beneath him, my body pleading with his to continue the pounding, but he did not.

  In a swift reversal, he withdrew from my quim. I heard myself whisper, ‘No,’ and opened my eyes. He was going to leave me, without fulfilling me. Tears of pure frustration glistened in my eyes.

  ‘I apologise, Catherine,’ he whispered. He lifted his fully clothed body off mine.

  ‘No,’ I began to reach towards him, ‘Joseph.’

  Instead of my words placating him, he began to look increasingly stricken.

  ‘I am sorry,’ he whispered, standing and shoving his cock into his breeches. ‘I became an animal. Forgive me.’

  I tried to grasp his hand, to bring him back. I needed him to touch me again, there, between my legs. My body screamed with tension. He tugged his hand away and stalked from the room.

  When the door clicked shut, my tears fell. Why didn’t he stay? Couldn’t he tell I needed him? I needed him to touch me more, I was so close — but so close to what?

  Dear diary, I confess to you now, I am a woman lost. What more can I do? What more can I try?

  Thursday 29 July 1813

  After a dismal night’s sleep the sun rose behind an angry grey sky. The wind still rattled my windows. I broke my fast in my room late, and stayed there until lunch. It was Hetty, who finally roused me.

  ‘You ill milady?’ she asked in her brusque manner, as I lay listlessly on my bed, dressed in my simple day gown.

  ‘No,’ I replied, and stared out the window. If I stood at the window sill, I could see Albert dressed in breeches and smock, mucking out the stables. Of my husband I had seen nothing since last night, when he’d left me in that perpetual state of dissatisfaction. When I’d woken during the night, twisted in the sheets with longing — I had tried to touch myself down there, mimicking the motions of my husband’s cock. I inserted a finger into that hungry mouth between my legs. It was hot, wet, and slick with my husband’s leavings. I moved my finger in and out — but it was no good. The sense of fulfilment I got from his cock simply was not replicated by my slim finger. I explored further, rubbing the flesh and lips surrounding my nether mouth, and for a time, I focussed upon a hardened bud I discovered hidden near my opening. Though this brought a sense of pleasure, the tightness did not reach the height it had with my husband, and I could find no completion in the act.

  Dear diary, I have begun to wonder, is there meant to be completion and fulfilment in the act for women? Is the shuddering finish I observe in my husband reserved only for the male sex? I don’t rightly know, but I simply cannot believe that my body is able to anticipate my husband’s advances, feel pleasure from them, but never be satisfied.

  Hetty must have noticed my sombre musings. ‘Please milady, if something is bothering you, maybe I could help.’

  I stared at Hetty. She was a matronly woman, her own family grown and husband dead — perhaps she would understand my angst. However, though I wanted most desperately to open my heart and pour my confessions into her listening ears — I could not. I am, at least in part, ashamed of my longings. They are not becoming of a lady, I know this.

  ‘There is nothing, Hetty, I thank you for your concern.’

  ‘Well you’d best go out and get some fresh air then,’ she grumbled. ‘Won’t do you no good sulking abed all day. No matter what your husband’s done to you.’

  I turned to face her. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s a wife’s lot, milady.’ Hetty’s voice softened. ‘Submit to it, then forget about it, till next time,’ she advised me sagely.

  I wanted to tell her I didn’t want to submit, that I wanted to actively participate. Instead I held my tongue and nodded wordlessly.

  I took a turn about the grounds, keeping an eye on the looming clouds, and tightening a bonnet over my unruly curls. It was then I noticed a carriage drawing close to the hall. I stared; it looked unfamiliar. I turned and watched it arrive before hurrying back.

  I slipped in through the kitchen door, upsetting cook with my presence. I apologised and hurried past and up to my room, ringing Hetty to re-dress me in something more suited for guests.

  Shortly after, with flushed cheeks and slightly untidy hair, I went downstairs. I could hear my husband speaking with another man in the library.

  I knocked on the door and opened it without hesitation.

  I was greeted by the surprised visages of my husband and Lord Stanton.

  ‘Good day,’ I said stiffly.

  ‘A pleasure!’ Lord Stanton beamed, and the vision of him spanking the round pink buttocks of his maid floated before my vision. I very nearly choked.

  ‘I was just saying to your husband, Lady Bexley, I was disappointed you left the party so early. Did you take ill?’

  I stared at him. ‘Ill?’

  ‘Your husband said you had a fainting fit, or some such, up on the second landing whilst viewing our new portrait.’

  ‘Indeed, I did,’ I replied.

  ‘Shame,’ Lord Stanton chuckled, his face and eyes lively. ‘I was having a cracking good time.’

  ‘I have little doubt,’ I replied.

  My eyes met my husband’s and we shared a secret smile. It did not take long however, before the smile faltered.

  ‘Catherine, if you would be so kind as to leave us for a moment,’ my husband asked.

  I was surprised by his request, but could hardly refuse, and besides I had absolutely no intention of leaving without listening in on the conversation. I nodded in agreement with him.

  ‘Good day, Lord Stanton. Husband.’

  I withdrew quietly from the room, and closed the door behind me. Alas, Faulks was hovering in the corridor.
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  ‘Milady?’ Faulks greeted me. ‘Can I help you?’

  I had to think of something, and quickly, to get Faulks away, so that I may overhear my husband and Lord Stanton’s conversation.

  ‘I saw my husband’s dogs roaming, on my daily constitutional. The blonde bitch was heading towards the wood. I think you ought go and check,’ I lied boldly.

  Faulks looked slightly alarmed and bobbed his head, dismissing himself before hurrying off outside.

  When he was gone, I hurried back to the door and pressed my ear to the keyhole.

  ‘She’s a fine looking woman, you’re a lucky man,’ Stanton chortled.

  ‘My thanks.’ My husband’s response was stiff, and I heard whisky being poured, and backsides sinking into the leather of the library couches.

  ‘So, what is she like to fuck?’ he asked. ‘A little wild cat? Eh? Or as stiff as a board? I’m betting on the latter!’

  My husband coughed, and was silent.

  ‘Well? Tell me man, don’t leave me hanging.’

  ‘Stanton, you heathen.’ Much to my surprise, my husband’s tone wasn’t angry but merely embarrassed. I realised then that their friendship at some time past must have been a close one.

  Stanton laughed. ‘Good, I take it. Do you give her a little spanking? Women in my experience love a little tap on the rump during coitus.’

  ‘You are being too free. I’d rather not discuss this with you — or anyone for that matter.’

  ‘You are damnably proper Bexley. I wouldn’t be surprised if you bore the poor girl to death in your bed.’

  ‘I … do not,’ he faded off. ‘She is a lady, and I treat her as such.’

  ‘Just make sure you’re pleasuring her while you’re gaining your own. A young beautiful wife with teats as bountiful as hers will stray if she’s not satisfied, you mark my words,’ he warned.

  My husband fell silent. He was a good man, I knew, despite the marked lack of satisfaction I personally gained from our relations. He went to pains not to trouble me, not to cause me discomfort — though in his efforts he was troubling me greatly.

  Would I ever stray? I wondered then. It was unlikely. To whom would I stray? No, dear diary, stray isn’t the right word, because I didn’t want to stray, I merely wanted to … fuck. A vulgar word, but the correct one for the circumstance, I believe. I straightened and stood to leave, pondering the notion. Who indeed would I fuck if my husband continued to be so … restrained? It wasn’t like the hall was overflowing with eligible and attractive young men — except, perhaps, Albert.

  What a wicked and terrible thought. I knew, however, I could not engage in such a dastardly act. I realise that my husband harbours this misguided notion that ladies do not take pleasure from the conjugal act — but perhaps, if I give him time, he will learn. The thought was a withering one. It was unlikely. I have been married over a month now, and although last night’s episode was perhaps more passionate than those preceding it, I have my doubts that he will ever change. And even if he did change, I certainly didn’t want him as amorous or passionate as Lord Stanton, who takes his ease with his misbehaving maids. I can only imagine the trauma this would cause Hetty.

  Musing these disappointing thoughts, I turned to leave the corridor. I’d resume my walk if I was not needed to entertain, I supposed.

  The wind had risen again, and the threatening grey clouds had gathered closer to the hall. I wondered if I should, perhaps, have taken my shawl.

  I walked past the well-clipped hedge and past the statue of Hercules and the boar, hovering for a moment to gaze upon their struggle. A fascinating sculpture it was, to be sure, and an unusual choice of art, considering my husband’s propensity for all things proper. For a moment my eyes lingered on Hercules’ minute cock, a mere nub in a wild stone bush of hair. I felt a rude giggle swell in my chest. It is a blessing, dear diary, that my husband does not possess such a diminutive thing in his breeches — else I’d be suffering even greater throws of dissatisfaction and frustration. As I released my unbidden giggle, my wicked thoughts were interrupted.

  ‘Cousin Catherine.’

  I swirled around, my gown tangling itself between my legs. Albert stood behind me, dressed in soiled breeches, boots and smock. Filth stained him from head to foot.

  ‘Lord Winteringham,’ I replied, trying to keep the atmosphere formal, I curtsied and accepted his reciprocal bow.

  ‘Pray tell, what do you find so amusing? I do love a good joke.’ His dark hair swirled like a mane in the wind and his glittering blue eyes lingered for a moment on my bust-line.

  I felt a hot sweep of nervousness, and regretted once more my failure to procure a shawl for my walk.

  For a time, I hesitated in answering. I couldn’t possibly have described my indecent thoughts to Albert, philanderer that he was. So, as seems to be my growing habit, I lied.

  ‘I find it amusing that the boar in this sculpture is so small. I have read the classic legend and know it to be of tremendous size — yet in this depiction it is little larger than a hunting dog.’

  Albert’s hungry eyes left my bust-line and studied the statue for a moment. Eventually he nodded. ‘What a perceptive woman you are.’ He smiled at me and reached out his hand to stroke back a tendril of hair from my face, in an offensively familiar gesture.

  I shrank back, not merely because I found his gesture an improper one to impart on a married woman, but his hands were covered in filth.

  ‘Are you as shy in my cousin’s bed?’ Albert asked with a laugh and retracted his hand. ‘Or is he so proper he can’t even get it up?’

  What a singularly inappropriate thing to say!

  ‘I will take my leave of you, sir,’ I managed to say stiffly, and made to depart. Alas my retreat was interrupted by Lord Stanton’s carriage barrelling past the gardens and down the driveway.

  He waved cheerily from the window and I raised a hand awkwardly in response.

  ‘Who was that?’ Albert asked, stepping closer to me once again.

  ‘My husband’s friend, Lord Stanton.’

  ‘The Lord Stanton?’ Albert asked, with a lascivious wink.

  It seemed to me then, dear diary, that Lord Stanton had a reputation that I had seen, but never heard spoken of.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ I retorted, and moved to go.

  His hand gripped my arm. ‘Don’t go,’ Albert growled softly under his breath, though I could scarce hear him over the increasing roar of the wind.

  Would it have been rude of me to tug my arm away? I wasn’t sure, but I felt terribly uncomfortable under his wicked blue gaze.

  ‘I must, the wind is getting high and Joseph will be looking for me,’ I lied, hoping to release myself from his grasp.

  ‘I doubt it,’ Albert replied, and pulled me physically towards him. ‘He’ll be busy with Faulks and the accounts, no doubt rubbing his hands with glee at the small fortune my father has paid him to house me here.’ His breath was hot against my cheek. ‘So we are, for all intents and purposes, alone …’

  May the Lord forgive me, but something sparked within me and my traitorous loins burned back into life.

  Albert, filthy as he was, dipped his head and kissed my cheek.

  ‘You are as soft as a peach,’ he whispered against my skin, and began to trail kisses down my neck. ‘Ripe for me to … pluck.’

  Did I mishear him? I wondered, did he say fuck? I tried to twist away, but he grabbed me and dragged me close to him, sheltering me beside the hedging, away from eyes from the hall.

  ‘Let me go,’ I breathed.

  Albert’s dirty hand dove inside the bodice of my gown and pulled a breast out with his grimy hand.

  I cried out, the cool air instantly made my nipple pucker, and I automatically went to cover myself. ‘How dare you!’

  ‘I’ve wanted to see those teats since I first stepped in this hall,’ he growled, and wrapped himself around me. I struggled weakly. The scent of horse manure and earth were strong, and I gagged, but
Albert seemed not to notice.

  ‘This is most inappropriate sir,’ I gasped as he lowered his head to my exposed breast and suckled it as I imagine a babe would.

  Despite the shock of the moment, my body reacted and a slight groan slipped from my throat. ‘But you like it don’t you?’ Albert murmured, still nuzzling my exposed breast.

  My words were choked in my throat by the mounting pleasure suffusing my body. ‘It doesn’t matter if I do,’ I gasped. ‘I’m a married woman. Get off me.’

  His other hand began to delve lower, snaking down between my thighs. I cried out when his dirty hand moulded itself to my mons and rubbed at it through the material of my gown and petticoat.

  ‘Stop.’ His voice was like a strike of lightening. Lord Joseph Bexley appeared like a vengeful god. I stared at him, grateful but horrified.

  Albert froze, his hand falling from betwixt my legs. He stepped away.

  ‘Cousin,’ he demurred, ‘I …’

  ‘I have eyes, and have ears, Albert,’ my husband growled. ‘She said quite plainly to get away.’

  ‘She needs a good fucking,’ Albert muttered. ‘You can’t blame me.’ But he moved away from me none the less.

  I was completely motionless with the horror of the situation. My husband’s dark eyes crawled over me, and lingered on the exposed breast. My breath hitched in my throat. What was he going to do?

  Dear diary, of all the situations my over-active mind may have envisioned, what he actually did surprised me most.

  ‘I will deal with you later, Albert.’ Joseph snarled. ‘I must deal with my wife first.’

  Within a moment, I found myself bodily scooped into my husband’s strong arms. The gardens flew by in a blur. I could feel his strong hand bite into the flesh of my thigh as he carried me. The heat through his clothing burned.

  ‘Where are you taking me?’ I whispered. It had begun to rain and large cold droplets began to pour over us, soaking my gown and making it cling to my body.

  ‘To bed,’ he growled.

  Dear diary, had I heard my husband correctly?

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked, titillated as well as alarmed.