His grin was more playful now, but still dark. Not friendly. “Hush! Do you want me to push my handkerchief into your mouth to shut you up?” He winked. “I have another one handy and I can assure you it’s perfectly clean and fresh from the laundry.”
“No! Don’t do that!” The idea was appalling, and all the more so for the way it excited her. People played such games—binding, gagging...blindfolding—along with the spanking. Activities like that were among the most popular of all at Sofia’s pleasure house, and Adela had sampled from the menu on occasion. But somehow, wearing a silk mask and receiving a few light and playful slaps on the rump from Clarence were a world away from this dangerous dance with Wilson.
Clarence and the other lads were there to serve only her wishes. But Wilson was here to serve Wilson. With a force of will that made even the simplest of games a thousand times more perilous.
“You’ll have to keep quiet on your own, then...or risk summoning an audience when I make you scream with pleasure.”
“Who says you can do that?” she said, knowing that he almost certainly could and would. She was so roused already that her vagina rippled; she could almost feel that long, elegant finger of his inside her again, adamantine while she clamped down upon it.
He gave her a narrow, superior look. “Do you think your paid men are the only ones who know a few tricks? You know what I’m capable of. Didn’t I make you moan this afternoon? And I was barely even trying then.” He held her bound hands in one of his, and cupped the swell of her breast, squeezing the gentle curve that rose from the edge of her corset. “Damned frock...I can’t get to your tits in this. Unless I take my penknife to it. Shall I do that? Carve open your pretty dress and your stupid corset so I can suck your nipples until you can’t sit still anymore?”
Adela shuddered. Her face was hot, despite the cool evening air, and there was sweat trickling in her armpits and between her constrained breasts. Oh, Lord, she wanted him to do exactly what he’d threatened. She wanted him to slice her clothes from her body and kiss her all over. Maybe spank her again, and do it hard, until her bottom was steaming and she was weeping, not from pain but from the gouging need to have his cock inside her. She could see the picture now, just as she might draw it, and how it might be engraved. Her naked white body, stripped, apart from her stockings and shoes. She was kneeling on the dark-painted bench, offering up her rosy rump and her juicy puss to Wilson, and he had his marvelous cock out and was presenting it to her entrance.
“Oh...”
“Do you really want that?” Abandoning her breast, Wilson fished one-handed into his pocket, and brought out the slender knife in its gleaming silver jacket. The blade was completely enclosed, safe in its mechanism, but inside it would be sharp as sharp could be. Wilson was a craftsman in all things and even as a youth had taken pride in having the finest of tools.
“No! This is my best gown...and I don’t have all that many good ones.”
Coward.
“I’ll buy you a dozen gowns, Della. I’ve got plenty of money. Hell, I’ll buy you a thousand dresses. I’ll keep Monsieur Worth busy for a year just for you!” He let go of her hands and toyed with the knife, running his fingers along the casing. It had a fine silver chain and fob, attached to the base, as if it might be worn in the manner of a pocket watch.
“I don’t want anything from you. Leave me alone.”
“You don’t mean that.” He moved close, and even though she tried to push at him with her tied hands, he was unstoppable. “And you do want something from me, at least right now. You want release, Della...you want to spend. And you can’t diddle yourself when your hands are tied, can you?” Slowly, he dangled the penknife between her breasts, in the dip of her dress, and let it slide in while he plunged his face into her décolletage and licked the trembling skin of first one upper slope, then the other.
The sensations were so unusual she gasped aloud. Wilson’s hot tongue, wet against her skin; the silver coldness of the encased knife, dangling between her breasts, its menace resting on the upper edge of her corset where the garment hooked together. His mouth roved, kissing and licking every part of her bosom that was accessible to him. Laughing low in his throat, he bared his teeth, not biting, but drawing their sharp edges over her slight curves.
“You’re aching to spend already, aren’t you?” he whispered, then opened his mouth against a patch of skin just beneath her collarbone, and began to suck, suck hard, pulling, pulling, pulling....
Adela let her head fall back, so weak with lust she could hardly support it. Her body was betraying her completely. Her sex was aching. A heavy, grinding ache. Without thinking what she was doing, she sat down hard, pressing herself against the firm wood of the seat, trying to get some ease through the multiple layers of skirt and petticoats and drawers.
“Tut tut tut...not until I grant you pleasure,” murmured Wilson, kissing where he’d sucked, gentling where he’d hurt.
Pitching forward, Adela struggled to see where he’d love-nibbled her. Damn him, there was a purple mark already. She’d have to cover it up with Mama’s shawl.
She glared at Wilson, holding his gaze defiantly and surging against the seat, rocking her hips. It probably wasn’t possible to get any kind of ease that way, but she wasn’t going to stay still just because Wilson told her to.
“I never realized you were such a trollop, cousin. So carnal.... It’s no wonder you need to seek out and pay men to service you, if you have an itch like that in your drawers all the time.” Toying with the silver chain of his knife, which still dangled over the black taffeta of her bodice, he leaned forward and kissed her neck, right beneath her ear. “You don’t need to sell your drawings to earn money for yourself, Della. If you sold your hot, lubricious puss, you’d be the one patronizing Worth. You’d make a fortune.”
“You are despicable and disgusting.” She spat out the words, but what Wilson had said almost made her swoon. Why did the idea of being insatiable make her...more insatiable? Being helpless with lust ought to be a shaming experience, but she adored it, and became all the more lubricious at the thought.
Inside her drawers her sex was running like a river. And when Wilson gripped her crotch, pressing on her neediest zone through all the layers of her clothing, she moaned out loud, and knew beyond doubt he comprehended her condition.
“Oh, yes, I’ve got to see the thing.” Squeeze. “I’ve got to touch it.” Squeeze. “I’ve got to taste it.”
Adela whimpered, hovering at the very point of losing her senses.
“Yes, that’s it, that’s it.” Wilson grinned like Satan himself. “Come on, let’s get this confounded nonsense of petticoats out of the way.”
Taking hold of her by the arm, he urged her up off the seat, then grabbed at the mass of her skirts, behind her, and began hauling them up. Stunned, half out of her mind with desire, Adela let him—even while a reasoned observer somewhere within her seemed to take note that beyond this moment, and ones like it, submission was not in her nature.
Wilson gathered the material of her skirts and petticoats in an almighty bundle at the small of her back. For someone simply gowned and unbustled like Adela, the process was far easier than for a fashionable lady, but it still seemed a strange, dark pantomime. Especially when Wilson wrenched at her drawers, parting the vent at the back and baring her bottom to the night air and the moonlight.
Almost beside herself, Adela buried her blushing face in his shoulder while he fondled her buttocks, one hand still holding her linen, the other roving free, fingering, touching, squeezing. She gulped when he dipped into her puss from behind, paddling in the heavy flow of moisture.
“So wanton,” he purred in her ear. “So uncontrolled...so licentious...” His fingertips palpated her soft inner lips from the rear. “Did you know there are still some reactionary members of the medical profession who think this is an illness in women? A dangerous degeneration?” Wilson touched her entrance, and without any conscious thought, Adela pushed a
gainst his hand, her body trying to invite his digit back into her, into the hot channel it had entered earlier in the day.
But he didn’t oblige her. The finger skirted around, not pushing in, not sliding farther. Denying contact with her clitoris. Adela moved again, trying to knock him toward the tiny aching organ, but he said, “No, no, not until I say so, wicked minx.”
Dying of frustration, she thumped him with her bound hands.
“Now, now...don’t be naughty,” he chided. “You’re out of control, Della...what these doctors would call a hysterical woman. Do you know what the fashionable treatment is for this supposed malady?” He flicked at her inner lips again, making her almost want to scream.
“No, I bloody well don’t,” she growled, “but it can’t be worse than the treatment...or lack of it...that you’re dishing out.”
“Well, certain consultants employ various mechanical and electrical contraptions—devices that vibrate, and are applied to the clitty of the unfortunate hysteric, and then held there until she spends and becomes calm.”
Adela laughed.
Oh, Mr. Clever, you think you know everything, don’t you?
“What’s so amusing?” he demanded, and as he did so, he pushed his fingertip into her a little way.
Adela panted, so close to pleasure now. But she knew he wouldn’t give her satisfaction...not yet.
“The—the house I visit has one of those contraptions of yours.” She fought for breath. “Some of the ladies have tried it. I haven’t, though. I’m told it’s rather noisy, and can, um, put one off. Although one or two of my friends claim it’s the best thing ever!”
“Perhaps I’ll design an improved version of this marvelous example of medical engineering. What power source does this miracle employ? Electricity? A wet cell or a dry cell battery? Is your friend’s house supplied by a power company, or does she have her own generator?”
“How the devil should I know? You’re the technological genius, not me.” Adela suddenly wished she had the device here with her now, and could somehow whirl away from Wilson, use it and claim her own crisis, denying him the privilege of granting it. “And you really are the most aggravating lover!”
It was Wilson’s turn to laugh. “It should be easy enough to construct. I have electrical power installed in my home and workshop, with many advanced refinements...and I could use you as my guinea pig.” His eyes glittered in the dark. “Ah, yes, Della, that would be a very fine thing. To shackle you hand and foot to a bed, then treat you...and treat you and treat you and treat you...until you go insane from the pleasure of it or beg me to desist.”
“I wish we had such a mechanism here, in some portable format.” She pushed herself toward him, but he would not be tricked. “Then I could throw myself at it and not have to wait for you to oblige me!”
“Are you this strident and demanding with your gentlemen?” Wilson’s fingertip withdrew, and dallied, so close to the area where she wanted it that she almost screamed. “They must find you an incredibly taxing customer.”
She wasn’t. She was only an occasional patroness of the establishment. But she wasn’t going to tell him that. “Indeed. I’m voracious, as you well know. So if you’re going to service me, please make haste and do so.”
“Very well, then,” he said in a low, hard voice. Was his opinion of her so poor? Had he been harboring boyish dreams of her remaining pure and reticent for him? That was ridiculous. She’d never been reticent seven years ago, so why now? Surely an enlightened man like Wilson didn’t adhere to outmoded tenets of a “woman’s place” and suchlike?
Grabbing hold of her buttocks beneath the mass of petticoats, he kissed her voraciously on the mouth again, then pushed her back down onto the seat, setting her in place, then withdrawing his hands. It was cold where he’d parted her drawers and bared her bum, the wood rough and a little damp against her skin.
Adela shuddered. How lewd did it feel to have her naked buttocks pressed down on the old wooden bench? And worse yet, her roused sex hot and dripping against it? Wilson barely gave her time to absorb the sensations before he was pushing aside her bound hands and hauling at her linen from the front. Up and up the bunched mass of cloth came, until she was exposed at the front, too, her dark motte a shocking contrast to the white skin of her belly and the even whiter froth of muslin and discreet lace framing it.
“As I have no French letters about my person, I shall have to improvise,” said Wilson, dropping to his knees on the grass in front of her. “Dinner was indifferent, but I shall certainly enjoy this feast.” He grabbed her by the buttocks again, this time from beneath, and edged her toward the edge of the seat, opening her for his delectation.
Ooh! Oh, no! Oh, yes!
Not pausing, barely even looking at what he was doing, he plunged his face in between her thighs, nudging her damp curls aside with one hand, while he clung on to one of the cheeks of her bottom with the other, his fingertips wickedly brushing her anal crease.
Not wasting time on the niceties of exploration, he lashed her clitoris with his tongue, then encircled it with his lips and sucked hard.
“Oh...oh, God! Oh, dear!”
Pleasure blossomed instantly in her puss, too sudden, too soon, almost painful. She’d been aching to spend, but this quick, almost violent completion was as shocking as it was delicious. As her channel clenched and clenched, and her legs kicked out, she grabbed hunks of Wilson’s hair again with her bound hands. He grunted, but kept on sucking, making her orgasm into a fierce, relentless trial of the senses.
And just as he’d predicted, she had to bite her lips to keep in her ecstatic screams.
12
A Feast for the Senses
Something so intense could not endure long. And perhaps it was just as well, or she might have passed out. Within moments, Adela was descending again, not even sure whether she’d enjoyed the experience. She opened her eyes, unable to remember when she’d closed them. Amazingly—and disappointingly—she hadn’t wrenched out hanks of Wilson’s hair by the roots.
Had she hurt him? She sincerely hoped so. He’d given her pleasure, but he’d stolen it from her, too. Being compelled into a brief, hard, almost brutal release was a long way from being fully sated. “Unfasten this,” she commanded, tempted to cuff him on the side of the head with her bound hands. Especially when he lifted his face from her loins and grinned up at her, his lips wet and shiny.
“Why should I?” He ran his tongue round his mouth in a slow, provocative circle. “And why would you want me to? In my experience, ladies find that fulfillment is all the more intense when they’re constrained. Surely that’s common knowledge at this pleasure house of yours?”
He was right, of course. It was. She’d indulged herself, once or twice, but very safely. There was a world of difference between fur-lined cuffs with Yuri or Clarence, both so trustworthy and paid never to exceed a lady’s limits, and Wilson, who was not trustworthy and who dedicated his life to exploding limits in every sphere.
“Unfasten me, you clod!” She biffed him on the side of the face with the back of her hand.
He stared up at her, still smirking.
“I’ll do it myself, then.” Kicking at him with her heels, and tipping forward so he was compelled to shuffle back on his knees, Adela bit at the knot in the foulard. Trying to loosen the fabric with her teeth was an unpleasant experience, but after a few seconds of worrying at it like a terrier with a bone, she got some purchase and started to pull it free.
Only to have her hands drawn away from her face by Wilson. Gracefully, but with muddy trouser knees, he’d resumed his seat beside her, and now proceeded to unfasten the foulard and release her hands. Stuffing it into his pocket, he gently chafed her wrists as if they’d been cruelly bound with hemp rope instead of lightly constrained by a little piece of silk.
“Better?” he asked, bending to kiss each wrist.
Yes, better, but a perverse part of her still wished she was bound. This dark Adela wanted the dan
ger only Wilson could offer, and low in her belly, desire still plagued her. She wanted to be tied to that bed while he tormented her yet again with his games. She didn’t care about any fancy mechanical device, though; she knew full well Wilson was more than capable of driving her witless with just hands and mouth...and cock.
“Yes, thank you.” She shook herself free, and tried to rise, but he retained his hold on one hand, folding his fingers around it, not forcefully, but in a light, sweet grasp. “Wilson, I should go now. This has been unwise. Surely you realize that?”
“I suppose so....” He raised her hand to his lips again, kissing it with exquisite delicacy on the back, then turning it over and doing the same on the palm, only lingering longer there. “And I haven’t been kind, have I?”
Adela blinked. She didn’t expect Wilson to be kind. Kindness belonged to their past relationship, way back beyond the time when they’d first lain together, when things were simple both between them and on the larger, familial scale. But he was being kind now, with his soft kiss still lingering against her skin.
She suspected a trick.
“You’ve dispatched the office of a lover. You’ve made me climax, which was the whole point of the exercise, I’d imagine, in order to show me how superior you are to my other...paramours.”
The expression on Wilson’s face tightened momentarily, but it was fascinating to observe the way he cleared it.
“I wasn’t superior at all, though, was I? What I did was rough and crude, and not, I suspect, fully satisfying.” He paused, then pressed a more open kiss to her palm. “Let me set the matter straight, and then if you wish it, I’ll leave you alone and not trouble you further.”
What? Did he mean to fuck her now? That was impossible. Unthinkable. But oh, how she wanted it.
Alas, there could be no intercourse without some preventative device, without a French letter. In her discussions with Sofia Chamfleur and her other close intimates of the Ladies’ Sewing Circle, Adela had learned everything that Mama would never have thought it seemly to tell a woman without marriage prospects. Namely that even if a gentleman withdrew before completion, there was still a significant possibility that he could get you with child. Or worse.
Portia Da Costa Page 14
