Darker Passions: The Picture of Dorian Gray

by Kilpatrick, Nancy

  Quickly I looked in a small hand mirror I kept in the attic. My own face was slim, my bones a bit more prominent than usual, but then I had been “ill” for several days, as Miss Pruit declared.

  It was a mystery, and not one I could figure out at that moment. Instead of trying, I opened the letter from Miss Vane. The ever inventive Sybil had written this:

  “Dorian, our night together, the three of us, is etched in my memory. Oh how you took me! With your lips, your fingers! Again and again! Why oh why did you not stick your cock in me?”

  I put the letter down. The woman could not speak. Perhaps she was partially blind as well. Surely she must realize I have no cock. I picked up the letter again.

  “Come to me. To us. After the play. Soon we begin

  “The Taming of the Screw”—you must see it. The flogger is one that might appeal to you. Oh, Dorian, I hope so! My flesh cries out for that type of foreplay, and yet you only whipped my partner and not me! How cruel you are! How perverse! Cannot you not hear the plea of a woman in lust?

  “Oh, but never mind that. It is your presence that I crave, with all your cultured masculinity, and yet as randy as a stud with a mare. Come to me, Dorian! Soon! My cunny awaits you. My rectum cries out for filling. My lips long to surround your blazing manhood and swallow your seed!”

  I admit that her letter aroused me. It also disconcerted me. How could I grow a phallus on demand?

  I lifted my skirt. My pussy hairs were strawberry blonde and curly and I slid my fingers back and forth through them. The pressure aroused me further. My index finger went lower, finding heat and moisture, and sticky fluids which I used to wet my nub. My legs spread naturally. I found it pleasurable to dip a finger into my cunny, then run the liquid along my slit, round and round my swollen nub, rubbing, pinching, twisting, until I panted and quivered, until I could bear it no longer and drove myself over the edge.

  It was all I could do to stifle my moans, for I did not want Miss Pruit finding my secret attic place, but stifle them I did. And at the moment of climax, my eyes locked with the eyes of the portrait of Dorian. Those eyes seemed alive, penetrating, filled with a secret that only he knew, which in that moment of self-fulfilling ecstasy, I too knew, but I would have been hard-pressed to identify it.

  All that was clear to me then was that our fates were inextricably linked, the portrait and I.

  When I had finished and righted myself, I picked up the letter again. This Sybil Vane. I knew I must have her. I must please her. I developed a plan.

  Chapter Twelve

  My first stop was to the leathersmith. I’d discovered one shop in London while wandering aimless, as I tended to do, along the streets at odd hours. I dressed as Dorian, in male attire, for this trip, as that persona would suit me best.

  The sign above the door, swinging from creaky hinges, was a large irregularly-shaped piece of hide, with letters burnt into it that spelled VITA’S FINE HIDES.

  The day was cloudy, the air heavy as if it were about to rain torrents. I stepped inside, the bell affixed to the latticed door announcing me.

  I waited in the tiny dark shop, surrounded by the heady aroma of leather. Affixed to the walls were various saddles, reins and crops, all the accoutrements of riding and coaching. I noticed right off that the work was fine, the hides cut in an aesthetically-pleasing manner, and well stained or oiled. Inside the cases were unusual items, most of which I had no idea of their use value. I found strips of leather that resembled wrist cuffs, studded with sharp-looking spikes, or twisted grommets reminiscent of torture. There were various and sundry floggers as well, and an assortment of leather paddles and straps. One whip in a corner case reminded me of Romeo’s fiery strands, and I wondered if this establishment had been where he purchased the artistic cat.

  “What do you want?”

  I spun on my heels at the sound of this rough voice, expecting a large ogre of a man. But I was startled. The masculine voice belonged to a woman, of medium height and weight, but for the muscles that bulged in her bare arms. Her dark curly lochs sprang out from her head like the Medusa’s snakes. She had aggressive black eyes and olive skin and reminded me of the Gypsys that frequented Soho.

  The woman placed a fist on each hip and eyed me suspiciously, and with some distaste.

  “I’ve come to have an item made,” I said, doubting now that I would go through with my plan. After all, I needed discretion, for one thing. For another, I’d already rehearsed my story with male ears in mind to hear it; switching gender like this would be awkward, to say the least.

  “Of what nature? For riding? If that’s the case, what you see is what I make.” With that, she gestured to the harnesses and other items along the walls.

  “No, not for riding, at least not riding of the nature to which you are referring.” Why I continued to talk to this hostile creature, I do not know. My immediate thought was to flee, yet something about her inspired me to remain. Perhaps it was simply the high quality of her leathers.

  “Well, spit it out. I’ve not got all day.”

  I swallowed hard. “May we have some privacy?”

  She looked disgusted. “We’re alone, as you can plainly see.”

  “Perhaps there’s someone in the back room. Your husband, maybe—”

  “Hah! Husband! Indeed! I’ve no need of such. Typical thinking of the aristocracy, I might add. I’m an independent woman, well established in my trade, and I’ll thank you to speak your mind, or leave my shoppe!”

  I must admit, her self-reliance and fierce confidence appealed to me. Perhaps that was why I choose to trust her. “I need a phallus,” I said, holding my chin up, prepared to walk to the door with dignity if I were scorned.

  “Why in hell didn’t you say so!” she demanded. “Follow me.”

  She went through the curtain made of knotted leather thongs to the back room. I followed immediately. Inside were her living quarters. Contrary to what I expected, the place was not tiny and cramped, but almost lavish. Certainly this was more the residence of a noble than a craftswoman.

  There were two sofas, one furnished in black leather, the other with black velvet, as well as a chair and footstool matching the former. The tables had leather inlaid into the tops, and along the walls were hangings made of a variety of hides with pictures etched into them. All this darkness was offset by what looked to be hundreds of lit beeswax candles, most in sconces along the walls—I’d never seen so many in one place, even the church.

  “Let’s see what you’ve got,” she said, in her forthright way.

  “I need discretion, if you don’t—”

  “You’ve got it. Drop your trousers.”

  I unbuttoned the trousers and slowly lowered them to my knees, still holding the band. Underneath was the codpiece I normally wore, to imitate a penis so that while walking the streets I might not encounter the jeers of the lower classes, those with eyes that see and mouths that are frequently not afraid to express.

  The woman darted close, like a rodent. Instantly, she stripped away the codpiece. Beneath lay my pubis, the hairy mound a shocking announcement of my true gender.

  “Well, this is fine indeed,” she said, fingering my mound in a professional manner. “You’ll need a little half suit, with the cock attached, if you want it for fucking, which I’m guessing you do.”

  “Yes,” I gulped.

  “Very well. Come to my workbench while I measure you.”

  I followed Vita to a corner where a large worktable stood. She did her measuring and cutting here. Through a window on the other side of the table I saw that the yard out back was where she did her treating.

  “Bend over,” she ordered.

  I bent over the edge of the table, my derriere exposed. Instantly she began measuring my behind with a tape. She was very thorough, not just taking a measure of the overall, but using the tape to do each cheek separately, taking it deep into the crack, running it down over my bottom hole, and measuring from there still lower, over my female li
ps.

  “Turn over,” she said, and I did.

  Now she measured me from the front, imbedding the tape into my lips, then down my thighs and around. All this attention was making me very hot indeed, and I wondered if she noticed.

  Suddenly, she ran a finger quickly from my bottom hole and up through my nether lips, along my clitoris, and stopped.

  I gasped loudly. My face flamed. Her dark eyes locked onto mine, and her lips twisted into a nasty curl. She stared at me as I lay embarrassed, all the while taking those strong fingers and continuing to probe my opening.

  “Surely this is not part of the measuring,” I said, trying to sound indignant.

  “Ah, we measure everything. You never know when a part will expand or contract.”

  With that she commenced fucking me, as much as the barrier of flesh inside my cunny would permit. One finger changed to two, then to three, and soon she was using most of her fist to fuck me.

  Shamelessly, I moaned and spread my legs as the heat spread up through me. I wouldn’t have minded at all losing my virginity in this manner, but she seemed careful to preserve it. But despite that care, fuck me she did, until I writhed, hot and sweaty, against her workbench, until the juices flowed out of me and covered her fast-paced hand, until she had me begging her for release. Until I was on the edge of coming.

  And then suddenly, she removed her hand.

  A cry escaped me. I felt brought to a pitch and unable to release the tension. I could only utter little cries of distress, while my body continued to writhe.

  “Turn over again,” she said.

  Instantly, I obeyed. I expected her hand to find my anus in short order. Instead, I heard a sound that made me quiver in excitement and terror—the snapping of leather.

  A quick glance around showed that she held a wide leather strap, some four feet long. She’d doubled it together and was pushing and pulling the leather apart, snapping it loudly, intending to throw fear into me, no doubt, and she was succeeding.

  “You’ve a behind that calls out for this,” Vita declared, slapping the rough hide against my cheeks, lightly at first, then a smack so hard my hips jumped off the table.

  The pain was excruciating. The pain was exquisite. Heat rushed along my ass. That first hard smack was soon followed by another strike of the strap. Then another. She was enjoying herself, that was certain. Those biceps performed as well or better than a man’s, for the strap she laid on caused me great agony each time that hide met my hide. But it was an agony that, between the contact, left me breathless with desire. Desire for more of the strap. Desire to be entered in some fashion.

  She strapped my behind until I went from exquisite torture to total agony and came around once more to bliss, holding my ass high, meeting the strap, wanting more of that heavenly pain and, with it, the sensuous pulsing of my anus and cunny, both of which, if they had a voice, would have screamed from tension.

  Finally, she ceased. It was a blessing and a curse. I did not know what would follow. As I lay sobbing, moaning, begging her in my feeble manner to use me further for her pleasure, I felt something hard nudge against my anus. She was going to enter me there! I cried out my thanks.

  The cock that found me was far longer than any man’s. I could not estimate it’s length, or its thickness, yet I know it was beyond what Basil possessed, or Romeo, or any of the other two dozen men I had encountered on my surreptitious meanderings at night.

  She fucked me like a man, though, the same movements, the same joy of thrusting, and my rectum responded in the same manner, for I so loved this type of intercourse. An added pleasure was my flaming behind, and the stimulation provided by her knocking against it with each thrust.

  How long we were at it, I could not say. I know that I never wanted it to end. But when her hand reached below and fingered my pussy lips, and my sopping womanly button, she brought me to the most powerful climax I had yet enjoyed. And all through that climax, as my pussy lips swelled, and my cunny contracted violently, her marvelous cock pumped me good and hard, making the walls of my rectum hug her desperately until I was spent.

  I laid still, struggling to catch my breath, her phallus sitting inside me; I drifted on a cloud of fulfillment. I heard a little bell, as if an angel had rung it, waiting for me at the doors of heaven.

  “I’ve a customer,” she said abruptly, and just as abruptly withdrew the phallus from me.

  I groaned in disappointment, and emptiness filled me. But the heat on my bottom consoled me, at least temporarily.

  I heard her exit through the curtain, then heard her speaking.

  “Oh, it’s you!”

  From her tone, I knew it was a man who had darkened her doorway, for I now understood that tone as reserved for the male gender, of which she imagined, at first, that I was one.

  “I’ve come for them.” The voice made my eyes snap open. It was Sir Henry!

  Quickly, I scurried off the table and pulled up my trousers. Should they enter the back room, I did not wish to be seen by him in a compromising position.

  “Hold your horses,” Vita snapped. I heard her rooting through something, a drawer perhaps. “Here!”

  “Ah. Very well crafted, as always.”

  Apparently he had used her skills before.

  “The price?” he asked.

  “As I said.”

  Money was exchanged. Lord Henry spoke the words, “You know what to do with it,” and then, without a word, he was gone—I heard the little bell at the door jingle as he exited.

  When Vita returned, I was standing by the workbench.

  She barely glanced at me. Instead, she busied herself by writing down a few notes in a book. “How long?” she asked.

  “Well, I should think as soon as possible.”

  Her head snapped around and the fury in her eyes assured me that I had been mistaken—her hostility was not only directed at men, but at women as well. “How long do you want the bloody cock!”

  “Oh,” I said. “I hadn’t thought much about it.”

  “Well, Missy, did you like the one fucking your asshole?”

  Her crudeness was both appealing and annoying, but her words inflamed my already steaming bottom, and I felt a desire to submit to this tyranny.

  “Yes, I did.”

  She turned away. “Come back in three days.”

  “Three days? Can’t you do it sooner?”

  She stood up straight and turned again. This time she walked past me, to the workbench. She picked up the leather strap and snapped it loudly.

  “Down with the trousers!”

  “I…I—”

  She did not waste a second. She strode to me, grabbed my arm, hoisted me over her knee and quickly pulled down my pants, ripping the buttons in the process.

  Then she whipped my ass in a manner that was definitely meant as pure punishment. The strap fell again and again, while I squirmed and howled. Her hand was heavy, indeed, and she had great stamina. By the time she finished with me, I had cried my eyes out, and my cunny was boiling over again. This time, though, she made no attempt to fuck me. Instead, she stood me on my feet, told me to hike up my trousers, and shoved me toward the door.

  Outside it was now dusk. My face, I knew, must look shocked and pale. My bottom screamed in agony, so much so that I could hardly walk, and knew I could not sit at all.

  In this state, I hobbled as best I could in the direction of my home. Damn my luck that Sir Henry’s carriage should, yet again, find me.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Come inside,” Dorian, Sir Henry said, when the coach had stopped and the door opened.

  I tried to resist him, with words and with actions, but I was still too stunned. Easily, he pulled me in. The carriage started up immediately, and I fell back against the seat. A cry came from my lips that brought a smile to Sir Henry’s.

  “I’m so glad we’re run into one another again, Dorian. Of course, you’re coming to supper at the Duchess of Harley’s home.”

  “
I couldn’t possibly,” I muttered, struggling to find a painless position in which to sit. That proved impossible, what with the carriage’s incessant rocking, and just the simple contact. Tears filled my eyes, for this agony was too much to bear.

  “But you’ve already told her you’d attend. I cannot see you backing out now, especially as you’ll be arriving with me.”

  I recalled the invitation, and my eagerness to reply—it was one of the better social engagements. Damn! I had committed myself. There was nothing for it but to attend, and to make my excuses early.

  “You’ll come, of course,” Lord Henry continued, ignoring my obvious distress.

  “I suppose so,” I said hesitantly, wiping my eyes, trying hard to sit on my hip, although my ass steamed no matter that it did not have contact with the coach seat.

  I wondered how my face must look to him. After all, the torture I felt must be reflected there. Yet he seemed to be looking on me with a certain fondness, and a certain eagerness, as if this quality were appealing.

  “Perhaps,” he ventured, “the sit-down part of the affair will be brief. I shouldn’t count on it, though. The Duchess is famous for her long soirees, and her eight-course suppers.”

  “Last, as usual,” said the Duchess of Harley. With that she gave both Lord Henry and I each a swat on the fanny with her cane. Lord Henry laughed good-naturedly. I grimaced.

  The Duchess is a lady of admirable good nature and good temper, much liked by everyone who knew her, and of those ample architectural proportions that in women who are not Duchesses are described by contemporary historians as stoutness.

  The other guests had already retired to the dining table, a long, elegant walnut affair, perhaps a bit too Rococo for my tastes.

  Next to the Duchess sat Sir Thomas Burdon, a Radical member of Parliament. He followed his leader in public life, but in private life followed the best cooks, dining with the Tories, and thinking with the Liberals. The post to the Duchesses left was occupied by Mr. Erskine of Treadley, an old gentleman of considerable charm and culture, who had fallen into bad habits of silence having, as he explained once to the Duchess, said everything he had to say before he was thirty. Next to him was Mrs. Vandeleur, a perfect saint amongst women, but so dreadfully dowdy that she reminded one of a badly bound hymn-book. To her other side sat Lord Faudel, a most intelligent middle-aged mediocrity. Then there was Lady Agatha, Lord Henry’s aunt. The only other woman at the table, the young Duchess of Monmouth, an exquisite creature, with hair washed in sunlight, and eyes as blue-green as the Mediterranean. The Duchess of Monmouth was married to a jaded-looking man of sixty, who was not in attendance. Fortunately, I was placed between her and Lady Agatha. Equally fortunately, the latter was preoccupied; apparently she had been in the middle of a discourse on the Americans.