“Answer me, Della. You like being played with, don’t you? Just like some randy little maid in the pantry being interfered with by an importunate footman?” Wilson’s mouth settled on her neck, in the hollow beneath her jaw, and he nipped her, his teeth sharp, the pressure measured to a fine degree. “Admit it, and when I’ve spanked your bottom, I’ll fondle you between your legs until you spend.”
“I don’t need you for that, Wilson!” she hissed, every muscle straining with the effort of not reacting. “I’m perfectly capable of attending to myself, thank you. Every woman is.”
“But not every woman has the wits or the sensuality to do it, Della. Most are too God-fearing or too afraid their mamas will find out that they’re impure and degenerate.”
“Well, I’m...I’m sorry for them, and I don’t care two pins for what my mother thinks.”
“Wicked, wicked Della. Lack of filial respect now. Whatever am I going to do with you?” His palm settled on her breast through her bodice again and gave it a quick, rough squeeze. “Come along, time to deal with your sins now.”
Wilson Ruffington, you are the most towering hypocrite in the entire British Empire!
He was far more the sinner than she, despite her secret erotic life. He was self-indulgent and selfish. He cared nothing for the feelings of others, or for the observance of any kind of good or moral behavior. And yet right at this moment, she would allow him any liberty, anything at all, to assuage her needs.
“Lean over the desk. Show me your bottom.”
Easier said than done. How typical of a man to forget about her corset only moments after he’d criticized her for wearing it. How would he like to wear it for a day, in the interests of scientific inquiry?
But one look in Wilson’s eyes told her he’d not forgotten at all. He was an encyclopedia, all facts retained, and he was no doubt gauging how much the unremitting undergarment restricted her, and how its pressures might come to bear upon her body. A slight smile curved his lips, and when he maneuvered her into position, the lower edge of the stiffened garment dug into the pit of her belly, making her grunt aloud.
Wilson made a sound, too. A masculine purr of satisfaction.
The sensations were abominable. Wicked. Wonderful.
The lower border of her corset poked her in a sensitive zone, like an etheric hand bearing down on the very root of her clitoris. It made her want to sob, gasp for breath and wriggle against the desk—not to mention ignore every last atom of her pride, reach down to diddle herself and continue doing so until she had a shuddering, towering orgasm.
“Now then, let’s see you.” With cheerful efficiency, Wilson attacked her skirts again, dragging the whole lot of them upward, petticoats and all, in one haphazard mass. “Oh, very nice,” he murmured, slipping a fingertip under her garter and the top of her stocking, and running it along the bare skin above.
Adela gnawed her knuckle. How much more of this could she stand? The pressure in her belly, and the dreadful tension in her sex, were playing havoc with her decorum. Not that she’d ever had much of that in the first place. Slowly, slipping into a sensual reverie, she began moving her hips rhythmically, and clenching her inner muscles. Perhaps she could trigger a crisis for herself and cheat her wicked cousin at his own game?
Deft fingers grasped the edges of the vent in her drawers and dragged it wide-open. The room was warm, but the cooler draft across her hindquarters made them quiver and flex. Adela let out a sob. She was exposed, ignominiously uncovered.
Adela Ruffington, you are the second most towering hypocrite in the entire British Empire!
The voice inside her, the spokesperson of her senses and her deepest urges, remonstrated with her. The exposure was intoxicating, her bare bottom a potent source of feminine power. She could almost taste Wilson’s lust even without feeling the pressure of his cock. Her exposed rump was an object of veneration to him. He was no different from any other man in that respect. The professional boys at Sofia Chamfleur’s house of pleasure all enjoyed ogling their clients’ buttocks, even hers, which weren’t particularly ample. With a secret grin, Adela clenched her interior muscles, both for her own pleasure and to make her flesh dance.
What do you think of that, dear cousin?
“Della! You wicked vixen,” Wilson growled, laying his hands upon her bare behind like a greedy boy grabbing a brace of muffins. “You’re sublime. You know that, don’t you? So delectable, I’ve really got to punish you.”
“Well, get on with it, then. Don’t shilly-shally.” Resting on her elbows, Adela twisted around and glared at him, challenging him with her eyes, and with the smooth nakedness of her flesh.
“Very well. As you command, milady.” The cry was hoarse as his hand came up in readiness.
Adela looked away again, bracing herself.
Wilson’s palm crashed down on her left buttock, swift and hard.
Oh...oh...oh...
She let out a long, hiccupping groan, the cheek of her bottom flaming in less time than it took to acknowledge the impact. Her sex surged, the bump of the blow transmitted to her clitoris by the corset’s edge pushing against her belly.
“Oh, please, please...” Was that a sob of desire or a wail of pain? She wasn’t sure. Between the lips of her sex, fluid oozed and flesh rippled.
As Wilson landed a few more slaps, she lost the grip on herself, surging and rubbing her hips against the desk like a wild woman, moaning like a wanton. Her bottom tingled more and more with each blow.
“What do you want, Della? Tell me...give me the words.”
The hand that had spanked now lay still across her simmering buttocks, spanning both cheeks. In an act of supreme provocation, one finger dipped into the groove between.
“Make me spend, you hideous plaguing monster. Make me spend right this instant, or I swear I’ll do it myself!” Tugging at her skirts, she began to rummage beneath them. How long would it take for Wilson to galvanize himself into action? She couldn’t wait on his whims.
Roughly, he dashed her hands away.
“No! Don’t touch yourself. You’ll take pleasure at my hand, or I’ll tie your wrists together and leave you here, unsatisfied.”
“You wouldn’t dare!” She attacked her skirts anew in defiance.
“Try me,” purred Wilson, effortlessly catching her wrists at the small of her back with one hand, then applying his other hand to the bundle of bombazine, flannel and cambric. Throwing the whole lot back up over her hips, he slid his fingers in between her legs, right into her sex. One long digit plunged into her vagina, up to the second knuckle.
Adela grunted. Wilson’s fingers were narrow and elegant, the digits of a scientist and inventor, but the one inside her felt thick and intrusive. Was he surprised at how easily it breached her? For all he knew, she’d been chaste for seven years.
If only you knew what I know. What I’ve done and seen.
To confound him, she gripped him hard with her inner muscles, then bit back another cry as pleasure blossomed. It just needed his finger on her clitty to tip her over.
“If I release your hands, will you struggle?” He leaned over her, his voice low in her ear. “I’ll make it worth your while not to.”
Have you read my mind, you evil man?
It seemed he had. When she nodded her assent, beyond speech, he attacked her clothing, sneaking a hand under all the layers and beneath her belly, to seek the heart of the matter. A lot of tussling and burrowing was involved, but Wilson was nothing if not persistent. Within moments, his fingertips inveigled their way into the front split in her drawers, pushing straight at the wiry curls of her puss, searching for his target. As he did so, he twisted the finger inside her, crooking it against an area of sensitivity that made her grunt anew, rendered animal by sensations as disquieting as they were pleasurable. It was too much, too intense, too perverse, but even as tears of surprise formed in the corners of her eyes, she bore down, without the power to resist.
“I...I...”
&nb
sp; Her voice failed her again, muffled by an agony of feeling. It plagued her far more than the heat in her bottom, yet seemed akin to it, as hot in its own way. As Wilson nudged and rocked her, low animal sounds broke from her throat, horrifyingly revealing.
“Good, eh?” he whispered, the middle finger of his other hand sliding around in the slick delta of her sex. The tip of it brushed her clitoris from the side, making her jerk and shift her hips to get more contact, but he slid it away again with a low, wicked laugh.
“I never realized that you might be such a voluptuary, Della... You don’t seem to have any inhibitions. Do your friends and acquaintances know how randy you are?” Leaning over, he kissed the nape of her neck, his lips nestling against thick strands of hair that had broken free from her coiffure. “What would they say if they knew you let men stick their fingers inside you like this?”
“I don’t know and I don’t care!” Her voice ragged, she wriggled about, defying him, grabbing at the offending digit with her channel, using her hands to brace herself against the desk for more control. “I don’t let many men stick their fingers inside me...and I’ve only let you do it because it pleases me. I wouldn’t do it solely for your satisfaction.”
Wilson let out a gasp. “You amaze me, Della, and sometime soon I will be asking you some very searching questions.” He nudged against her, rubbing his groin against her haunch, where he’d spanked her. His cock was like stone where it pressed against the glowing, heated skin. “But in the meantime, be assured that touching you has always delighted me.”
“Tumescence isn’t satisfaction,” she retorted. “As I know, right now, to my cost.” She swirled her hips, then let out a sharp cry at the fierce sensations. “Now come on, Wilson, play the game. You made a bargain. Fulfill it!”
“Of course, my queen. As you command.” His voice was silky and facetious, but it was his fingers, not his vocal cords, that concerned her. She groaned long and low as he obeyed her, settling a fingertip on her clitoris, then circling hard.
White flame danced behind Adela’s eyelids, and her hands flailed like captured doves. Her sex convulsed in long, racking waves of pleasure, massaging Wilson’s finger as her clitoris danced and pulsed. Dimly she heard a crash, and in a far part of her mind realized she’d knocked the wretched praxinoscope clean off the desk and undone all Wilson’s good work with the tiny set of tools.
Her hips jerked and rocked as if a demon possessed her body. She’d not climaxed this hard in a long time, if ever, and her clash with Wilson only made the bliss more luscious. The hands of her cousin, also her enemy, were like an angel’s.
The orgasm rose and waned, rose and waned, then rose again, but eventually, she was a spent, wrung-out rag. Slumped forward over the disordered desk, she quite forgot the firm restriction of her corset and the nakedness of her bottom, bared to the world. The door she’d opened with her hairpins remained unlocked, but she hadn’t the energy to worry about it. If a servant or a fellow guest came along, it was the whim of fate. All that mattered was the soft, golden glow in her loins and buttocks, and the iron-hard cock still pressed against her thigh.
But it was Wilson’s turn for pleasure now. Quid pro quo. Glow or not, she would have to rouse...and shock his senses.
5
Quid Pro Quo
There was no question of intercourse.
No matter how much she wanted to fuck Wilson, and how much her body—satiated or otherwise—cried out for him, it simply could not occur. And she had a shrewd suspicion he wouldn’t even ask her to oblige.
Despite their thorny history, her cousin had never seemed to doubt her intelligence. Seven years ago they’d been a pair of blundering, clueless ingenues, but now they were both adults. And well informed, both with a clear idea of the results and repercussions of heedless rutting. Wilson might be arrogant, manipulative, impatient of those less brilliant than himself, but he wasn’t an unfeeling beast. Which, it had to be said, some men in society were.
Wilson would never expect her to put herself in real jeopardy to satisfy his lust.
At Sofia Chamfleur’s discreet establishment for women, devices of rubber were employed. French letters, which ensured there were no unfortunate consequences to secret pleasure. Adela even possessed a small tin containing several of these essential and useful items herself, although thus far, she’d never contemplated needing them outside the walls of Sofia’s quiet Hampstead mansion. Simply having them at all was a defiance. A secret way to thumb her nose at a society that seemed expressly fashioned for the advantage of men over women, despite a member of her own sex on the throne. They were a talisman of the freer life to which she aspired, and to some extent actively pursued.
But with no French letters about her person at the moment, she would have to take Wilson in hand if she planned to bring him off.
Finally managing to stir herself, Adela straightened up. The black swathes of her skirt dropped neatly into place, and apart from her unbuttoned bodice, she appeared decent.
Working on doing up her buttons, her fingers shook. Pleasurable aftershocks, and the heat in her rear made her fumble. Wilson’s sharp, pale eyes followed her every tiny movement, and that didn’t help, either. He was still close enough for her to feel his breath upon her, and leaning on the desk, with his hands in his trouser pockets, he made no attempt whatsoever to hide his erection. Ever contrary, he seemed to be flaunting it.
“I expect you want me to do something about that?” Adela nodded at the excitement in his trousers. No use prevaricating.
“That would be most pleasant. Most pleasant indeed.” Wilson’s voice was bland, but his face was more telling. A strange amalgam of a cool scientific, detachedly observing his own physical phenomenon...and infuriating masculine smugness. They were all like that, men. The handsome boys at Sofia’s house were inordinately proud of their own equipage, even dedicated as they were to the service and pleasuring of women. Something Wilson would readily discover if he reneged on their agreement and opened her portfolio.
There were sketches of Yuri and Clarence and Lionel—her three favorites—among her drawings, all in a blatant state of nudity and arousal. These works were destined for the pages of the journal Divertissements, or as commissions by private buyers, regular and wealthy patronesses of the beaux in question, all of whom had generous funds at their disposal.
This secret career as “Isis,” the noted erotic artist, was how Adela had been clandestinely bridging the gap between the pittance allowed to her mother, herself and her sisters by her eccentric, misogynistic grandfather...and Mrs. Ruffington’s social aspirations, and the maintenance of a standard of living to which she was accustomed. Adela might be frugal in respect of her own requirements, and young Marguerite was naturally wise, but Mama and Sybil hadn’t a clue about money, except how to spend it.
Adela’s art income was a necessity, and she couldn’t jeopardize it by revealing its provenance to Wilson.
She decided on a direct frontal attack. The best way to distract even a polymath genius, if that genius was male. “I won’t fuck you, so you can forget about that.”
“I don’t expect you to, Della. I wouldn’t want to compromise you with a babe out of wedlock.”
Adela looked sharply at him. He’d edged a few inches away from her now, but seemed to have retreated much farther than that. His voice was cold and his eyes looked angry. About to speak, Adela hesitated. What had caused the sudden reaction? Was it simple annoyance? Or pain? What?
“Hah, if Mama were here, she’d probably throw you bodily onto me thirty seconds after she’d finished screeching and wailing and having the vapors because you’d compromised me.” Adela almost laughed. She could imagine such a thing really happening. “Anything to compel you to marry me. It was her primary goal in accepting this weekend’s invitation.”
“I don’t doubt it. But she’ll be disappointed, even if you aren’t.” Wilson’s beautiful mouth thinned into a hard chilly line. It was as if they were right back to thos
e days at Ruffington Hall, when he’d come out with all manner of blunt, apparently unfeeling utterances, sometimes, she suspected, purely for effect. “I don’t plan to marry and I’ll never be a father.”
How can you be sure?
The question balanced on the tip of her tongue, but his silver-blue eyes kept her silent. Had he wanted to sire a child on his mistress, that woman, and been refused? Was that the true cause of their parting?
“Grandfather won’t be pleased. He’s pinning all his hopes on you, now that our line of the family has produced nothing but useless women who drain his resources.”
“Not entirely useless. Not from my standpoint.” Heat stirred in the silver now, like pale hot metal. Clearly, Wilson still possessed his youthful facility to shut away unpleasant thoughts as quickly as they’d occurred. He glanced down at the bulge in his trousers with a mercurial wink.
“You’re atrocious. Indefensible.” Yet Adela still found herself smiling, and drawn to him like iron to a magnet. She flicked her gaze to his groin, wondering, wondering. It was seven long years since she’d seen what lay behind that fine worsted, and no doubt the best quality woolen jersey of his undergarments, but she could still recall every particular detail. Her first ever sight of a man’s rampant member. She’d drawn it from memory often enough.
Oh, dear. I’m weakening.
If Wilson hadn’t been watching her like a raptor, she’d have clutched her hand to her bosom to calm her inner fluttering. He must not know how susceptible she was. She could accept his knowledge of her as a woman of physical needs, but her finer emotions must remain impenetrable.
And for that, she needed to quit this room as soon as possible. Which required that she dispatch Wilson to erotic oblivion as quickly as she was able, and then flee with her portfolio. To stay longer was to risk playing tricks with her mind, and making one afternoon seven years ago into yesterday. Her emotional equilibrium was a hard-won prize, and she wouldn’t sacrifice it for a few moments of dalliance.
Portia Da Costa Page 5
