In the Flesh

by Portia Da Costa

  But now, I feel a little guilty that I didn’t stand up to Mother when she said I must break off with you. Young ladies have been the subject of far worse scandals, but have gone on to redeem themselves, so I feel that I owe it to you now to help you restore your place in society.

  I have missed you, dear Beatrice, and I’m hoping that we may once again step out together. I will certainly not be ashamed to be seen with you in polite circles, and if you would send a reply to this note, I would be more than happy to call on you so we can resume our friendship. And perhaps more?

  With fondest regards, your hopefully to be reinstated fiancé, Eustace.

  Fury boiled up like white-hot magma from the heart of an Icelandic volcano, and drawing back her lips in a snarl, Beatrice rent the letter in two, letting out a mighty, wordless screech.

  Flinging the pieces to the carpet, she leaped up in the air and jumped on them, pounding them with her slipper-clad foot.

  “You unutterably insufferable bastard, Eustace Lloyd! How dare you!” Giving the letter pieces another hefty stamping, she then set about pacing to and fro.

  The gall of the man. What outrageous lies and condescension. It was so preposterous a communication that she could hardly believe she’d received it, but when she snatched up the pieces again and read the words through a haze of red mist, there they were, imparting their unbelievable message.

  I wouldn’t take up with you again, Eustace Lloyd, even if Ritchie ruined me and left me half-naked and begging in the gutter and you the only offer of succor in the whole wide world.

  Her gut still simmering, she swept the pieces back onto the floor and stomped across and rang the bell.

  A cup of tea was in order. A familiar, comforting beverage to calm her ire and set her thinking straight, even though her immediate inclination was to specify a pint of brandy for herself and instruct that a cask of hemlock be sent to Eustace at the earliest opportunity.

  Men!

  She threw herself down into a chair, to seethe and think.

  * * *

  A WHILE LATER, Beatrice was calm again and not in the least inclined toward murder. She’d read the shredded letter several times. Eustace’s motives were still a mystery to her, but somehow, when it came down to it, she couldn’t find it in her heart to really hate him. In fact, as she’d already noted, if he hadn’t done what he’d done, there was very little chance that her path would ever have crossed that of Edmund Ellsworth Ritchie.

  “Thank you, but no thank you, Eustace,” she murmured, taking up her pen again.

  My dear Eustace,

  Thank you for your letter and your offer of renewed friendship. I appreciate the kindness you would bestow on me, but regretfully, I have to decline, as I no longer believe we are suited to each other and I would not want you to risk your reputation on my account.

  Fortunately, for my own part, I’ve recently made the acquaintance of a wealthy and well set up gentleman who takes no interest in reputations, good, bad or otherwise, and I hope that you too will soon meet an amenable young lady who is a much better match for you than I would ever have been.

  All best wishes, Beatrice Weatherly

  “And I hope you accidentally tread in a pile of horse droppings next time you’re out and about too,” she added to herself as she signed the note with a flourish, “and then slip and end up on your pompous hind parts in the middle of the street.” With little regard for the folds, she stuffed the note into an envelope before she could think better of her braggadocio.

  Perhaps it wasn’t wise to mention a “wealthy and well set up gentleman”, but Eustace did have an impossible degree of cheek implying that she was damaged goods and that he was doing her a monumental graciousness by being seen with her again.

  There was nothing wrong with her at all. In fact Ritchie seemed to think there was quite a lot right with her!

  About to ring the bell again, Beatrice was surprised by another knock on the door and the entrance of Polly with the silver salver again.

  “Another letter, Miss Bea.”

  Now this was the one she’d been waiting for. She could tell that strong, decisive script from several feet away. She snatched the missive off the tray and asked Polly to come back in a little while for both the answers.

  Ritchie’s note wasn’t condescending. In fact there wasn’t much to it at all. Simply the time and place—Belanger’s at 7:30 p.m.—and the words, My carriage will collect you.

  His large, uncompromising signature followed, with a postscript.

  I hunger for your beauty.

  She ran her fingertip over the letters, imagining the pen held in his long, elegant hand.

  As I do for yours, Ritchie. As I do for yours.

  * * *

  SEVEN-THIRTY FOUND HER at Belanger’s and in receipt of yet another billet doux, handed to her by the maître d’hôtel, who treated “Madame de la Tour” with anxious solicitude as if she were a valued patron of many years standing.

  Beatrice, forgive me, I shall be delayed a little. I’ve arranged for a light meal to be served in our suite. Enjoy it while you wait for me, it will bolster your strength.

  She could almost see him wink at her, those indigo eyes of his twinkling with mischief. What the dickens was he planning that needed such fortification? She hardly dare anticipate, but at the same time, couldn’t prevent herself.

  So, no pretence of respectable public dining this time?

  Having settled in, she surveyed the room they’d shared previously. It looked just as lushly appointed and welcoming as before, with fresh flowers in the vases and lamps turned low, but this time, supper was laid out on a folding rosewood table. Game pie, cold fowl, cheeses and a selection of rather exotic-looking fruit, varieties imported at great expense. There was champagne on ice, and jug of lemonade too.

  The food looked delicious, and tasted splendid too, when Beatrice took slice of chicken in her fingers and nibbled it. Here on her own, there was no need to stand on ceremony, and even though she wasn’t really all that hungry, she picked at items from the table, standing tapping her feet, waiting, waiting.

  How long would Ritchie be delayed? What was he doing? Where was he?

  Surely a courtesan would take the late arrival of her lover in her stride, paid to please when and where and how the man who’d bought her so disposed?

  But increasingly, Beatrice knew she was thinking in a different fashion. Fooling herself, despite her better intentions, that she and Ritchie were engaged in a more “conventional” love affair rather than the indecent transaction it was in reality.

  “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” she chastised herself, taking a sip of lemonade in a champagne glass. The drink was heavenly, sweet, yet sharp and crisp, challenging the taste buds. It reminded her of Ritchie, somehow, but then, everything did.

  Abandoning the supper table, she crossed to the bed and sat on the edge, her senses excited simply by the fact it was a bed. A place where she and Ritchie would make love before long, and hopefully, be naked together. She yearned to see his body, and discover if it fulfilled the promise of his clothed elegance. His bare chest the previous night had been a tantalizing preview, and now her fingertips itched to travel over the rest of him, exploring and pleasuring.

  If they were to be naked, perhaps she should set a precedent by shedding her clothes before he arrived. To encourage him to abandon his quickly and join her?

  Furthermore, getting undressed was at least something to do while she waited, something exciting and daring, even though unfortunately it wasn’t the first time she’d stripped off her garments for a man.

  Botheration! I didn’t mean to think of Eustace tonight!

  Shaking her head as if to dislodge him, she set about her clothing, easily summoning the handsome image of Ritchie but somehow still un
settled by the sudden thought of her former fiancé. That insulting note continued to nag at her, even though she pitied the man too.

  For ease, Beatrice had chosen a moiré dinner gown, in midnight-blue, that unbuttoned down the front. Even though she had Polly to help her with dressing and undressing, sometimes, in the past few months, the maid had been so hard-pressed with her other duties in the house that Beatrice didn’t like to insist on her services as a personal servant, and had often dressed and undressed on her own. She’d developed certain canny little tricks for dealing with buttons and corset lacing and the like, because even though she knew some ladies were helpless under the dominion of their draconian underpinnings, she’d never been one to let anything get the better of her. Especially the time she’d fled from Eustace.

  Still, the layers of silk and flannel and whalebone, and more silk, took a while to shed, and despite the fact she’d half hoped Ritchie might arrive before the process was completed, Beatrice stood naked on the rug beside the bed with still no paramour in sight.

  Ritchie! Come now!

  The command was silent, and unanswered. In the pier glass across the room, her bare body mocked her, so she shook out her hair and raised her arms, striking a classical pose.

  How could he resist her, the Siren of South Mulberry Street, in all her glory?

  Pushing away thoughts of the photographs she’d posed for, Beatrice lifted the coverlet and slid between the sheets. She felt a fool just standing around in her birthday suit, with not even a wretched camera for company, so maybe a short nap would fill in the time until Ritchie’s advent.

  The bed linen was cool and fresh and felt like a chin-to-toe caress on her heated skin. Her intention to doze was derailed by the passive sensuality of the cotton as she moved her limbs beneath the sheet. She sighed, her stomach fluttering as the crisp fabric rubbed against her puckered nipples.

  Still snaking around, she cupped her breast and fondled herself, seeing dark blue eyes glitter in her imagination. He liked her to touch herself, so she would do it. Regardless of the fact that he wasn’t present to enjoy the show.

  This is for my pleasure, Ritchie, not yours. In fact, I shall make you a show in my mind.

  Closing her eyes, she imagined him standing where she’d stood on the rug, as naked as she was. It was easy to imagine the way his body might be formed, and in respect of his cock, she had her recent memories for reference.

  Ritchie wasn’t a massive man, but the way he moved, swift and light, suggested the athleticism she now pictured. He was graceful too, in both larger movements and the detailed articulation of limbs and hands. The latter were a poem as they roved over his own body, the left, flat against his chest, touching the nubs of his nipples, the right extending down to grasp his sturdy reddened cock.

  She bade him stroke himself, and his imagined simulacrum being far more biddable than the real man, he obeyed her.

  Now it was his turn to be a classical image, like a god from ancient times at his self-pleasure. Limbs flexed, back arched, throat a long taut line as he tipped back his head and thrust with his pelvis, pushing his erect member back and forth through the ring of his fingers.

  Beatrice seemed to hear his voice too, then almost laughed when she realized it was her own voice gasping and murmuring. She was breathing heavily, tossing and moaning under her breath, her own fingers at play at her breasts and between her legs, mimicking Ritchie within the limitations of their pleasingly different anatomy.

  How easy it was to summon pleasure while imagining him. She could almost feel the weight of his body resting upon her, pressing open her parted legs even further. Her sex rippled, her inner channel clenching as if it were trying to caress him inside her.

  “Oh, Ritchie,” she gasped, putting both hands to her mound, flicking at her clitoris with her fingertip while pressing two fingers of her other hand inside herself. It wasn’t a substitute for his fine shaft, but it was better than nothing, and still delightful in itself. Working herself, she squirmed around the bed, her mind filled with visions of him and his avidly imagined nakedness.

  The tension began to gather. Pressure. Heat. The sensation of reaching, reaching, reaching for a sweet treasure. She rubbed furiously with her finger and, astonishing herself, pushed another inside.

  “Oh…oh, goodness…oh yes!” she chanted, feeling as if the angel of sexual fulfillment was descending to her, coming ever closer, clad in blinding light.

  Then the doorknob turned and the door swung open, and closed again.

  Dancing on the brink, Beatrice wanted to curse. And cheer. She screwed her eyes tight shut, still straining, and at the same time fervently convincing herself that a waiter or a maid would knock before they entered. Neither of those would be removing an overcoat, and perhaps a top hat, and hanging them on the stand by the door—the actions suggested by small sounds of rustling cloth.

  “My dear Miss Weatherly, what are you doing?”

  Just that low, laughing voice nearly triggered her.

  “What does it look like, Mr. Ritchie?” she gasped, still struggling for the exquisite prize, then slumped, relaxing her straining muscles.

  “It looks to me as if you are a very naughty, impatient young woman and you didn’t wait for me. Either to eat, judging by the state of this repast, or otherwise.”

  Beatrice snapped open her eyes, and saw Ritchie sipping lemonade from the same glass she’d used herself.

  “And you are a very naughty, obtuse gentleman. You told me to eat without you!”

  He laughed, knocked back the drink, then set aside the glass and strode forward her, unpinning his necktie as he came.

  “Ah, but I didn’t tell you to diddle yourself without me, did I?” His tie, a shimmering silk length of midnight blue, and gold pin dropped onto the cabinet set beside the bed. Eyes narrowing in determination, he set about his studs.

  Giving him an old-fashioned look, Beatrice shuffled and started to sit up.

  “Now what are you doing, Bea?” queried Ritchie, still unfastening.

  “Waiting for you.”

  “Oh, no you don’t, madam. You carry on where you left off. Don’t you dare cheat me out of the rest of the show.” In a dramatic gesture, he reached out and whipped the bedding away.

  Exposed, Beatrice flushed pink. Almost everywhere, it felt like. Her ears were burning and her chest was rosy, as were her face, neck and shoulders. Despite that, it didn’t occur to her to demur.

  Sliding back against the large, plump pillows, she let her hands find their way back to their previous locations. Her clitoris throbbed beneath the pad of her forefinger, and her channel was so slippery her fingers breached it easily.

  “Divine,” sighed Ritchie, sitting down on the bed’s edge to get a better view.

  Hot and twitchy, Beatrice scowled at him. “I know I am…but it’s so unfair. I’ve barely seen anything of you yet. I wish you’d take your clothes off too.”

  He gave her a long, odd look, as if assessing not just her body, but her mind and her heart, too. It should have disturbed her, interrupting her train of pleasure, but somehow it only nudged her closer.

  “All in good time, Mistress Impatience. You’ll get your wish. Although you might not be all that impressed when you get it.”

  Now she was a bit distracted. Whatever did he mean?

  “Well, all looks promising from where I’m sitting.” Abandoning her clitoris for a moment, she reached out boldly and gripped the muscles of his thigh through his trousers. He felt solid and well exercised, in peak condition.

  “Uh-oh, get back to the business in hand.” Gently but firmly, he pried her fingers off him, conducting them back to her crotch.

  “I’ve lost my thread now.”

  “Well, whose fault it that?”

  Beatrice studied him
, especially his eyes. He’d looked troubled a moment ago, but now the familiar playfulness was back. Her heart and her sex gave a delicious lurch of anticipation.

  Whatever he wanted, she was ready to perform.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  A Flawed God

  AH, SHE UNDERSTANDS, she understands.

  Ritchie’s nerves seemed to vibrate with pleasure. Some women never truly understood eroticism, not in a hundred years, nor in a thousand fucks. But naughty Miss Beatrice Weatherly was ready willing and able to put on just the show he wanted.

  “Whose fault is that?” he repeated more softly.

  “Mine.” She shifted her position on the bed, and the fingers that had stalled began to move. The flame of desire leaped in her glittering eyes.

  “Thread found again, I see.”

  She didn’t answer, but just continued to diddle herself, fingertip circling and hips working as she bore down on the fingers inside her and squirmed her bottom against the sheet. The very goddess incarnate of rambunctious sensuality with her sleek limbs and her rioting tumble of Titian hair, she tilted her hips as if offering a better view.

  Ritchie gasped silently, not sure what tempted him most, the sight of her working fingers—beating on her clitoris and sliding in and out of her puss—or the pale arch of her throat crying out for kisses. The way she wriggled about and murmured and pleasured herself made Ritchie want to tear open his trousers and his linen and beat himself off, too. His cock ached like a bar of molten lead, and as Beatrice’s eyes closed, he cupped himself through his fine suiting and squeezed.

  Oh Beatrice, Beatrice…

  Her beautiful bottom lifted from the bedsheet as she reached for fulfillment, gifting Ritchie with a glimpse of the sumptuous curves of her bottom.