We paused long enough to rest, for I had worked myself into somewhat of a sweat. I could not remove my shirt, but I did take off my jacket. I was about to exit her tunnel, when she reached behind and held me fast. I took it that I was to begin again. The woman was hungry, that was certain, and I was prepared to feed her; to feed both of us. But I wanted this on my terms, and at that moment, I required respite.
Roughly, I shoved her hand away and withdrew. The withering look she sent in my direction gave me pause. And it angered me. I picked up the strap and let her behind have it full out. Her ass cheeks turned from crimson to scarlet in short order, and from there to a purple. I soon had her jerking and hopping and regretting her petulance. I was mad as hell, and determined that the bitch would take what I had to offer and not be so demanding. After all, I was in control here!
But seeing that heine bob and struggle to avoid the stinging leather aroused me anew, and soon my inflatable phallus had slid back inside for another round of amusement.
Sybil and I spent the night in this manner. Only once did she attempt to get her lips over the leather cock, and a sharp smack of the leather belt cancelled that notion.
She had a rebellious nature, that was certain, at least this night. Perhaps it was the role of Kate which infected her beyond the performance, whereas when she played Juliet, she was more passive. Whatever. I determined that I would need tools of a surer variety than this flimsy belt to tame her, and planned on another trip to Vita’s in the near future.
When the cock crowed, I took my leave. I was spent, happily so. I said goodbye to the luscious Sybil and promised to call again soon.
The streets of London of a cold grey morning just prior to dawn have a charm all their own. I wandered them, finally finding a familiar landmark. And by the time I arrived at my own door, the sun was peeking from behind the chimneys.
Miss Pruit was not at her station, for which I gave a silent thanks. I was too happy to tolerate her feeble peltings. As I made my way to my room, I saw a letter on the sideboard, addressed to Miss Dorianne Gray. Something perverse in me made me open it, for I knew immediately upon seeing the handwriting from whom it came.
Lord Henry Wotton apologized. Apparently, he said, he had mixed up the date for the theater. He had gotten it wrong. It was not Friday evening after all, but Saturday night. He hoped I hadn’t been inconvenienced. He would arrive at my door half past six, and looked forward to seeing me, as he had told Miss Pruit.
As I crawled into bed, thinking of the night’s diversions and delights, and then of the engagement tomorrow evening, which I did not look forward to and would have to dream up yet another excuse for, my mind suddenly went to the painting.
I had to see it! I felt compelled! Something told me that whatever else occurred, I would not sleep without knowing if it had altered further.
I climbed the ladder with a candle. There it was. That diabolical portrait! Propped against the wall. Dorian Gray, in men’s clothing, holding himself like a man, that small conceited smile splayed across his gorgeous face. But the gorgeous face was not exactly Dorian’s. Horrified, I moved closer, and held the candle higher, that I might get a better view. The face before me did not so much represent Dorian’s face as the face of another. My hand trembled and I dropped the candle. The flame died instantly.
I stood in the dark contemplating what was occurring. What peculiar occultism was this? Had I tapped into the very route that led to hell? The painting was changing gender!
Chapter Seventeen
Saturday evening arrived too soon. Miss Pruit had, of course, been informed of the crossed dates and had it in her mind that I would be attending the theater with Lord Henry. I informed her several times that I felt a headache coming on. Her reply was to take the hairbrush to my fanny, insisting that she would make certain the pain in my bottom superseded that in my head because, as she replied sternly, “I’ll have no more of this nonsense! You insult your parents by not even giving the man a try. You will attend the theater with Lord Henry or I’ll see to it that you shan’t sit for a week, Miss!”
Her paddling on my healed derriere left much to be desired. It was neither painful nor stimulating. She was determined, though, and I knew that until I agreed she would keep at me, wasting my time. I had better things to do than to undergo such pointless sessions.
Finally, simply to end it, I agreed to attend. The hour was far later than I would have liked and there was no time left to visit Vita’s that night anyway. At least I would take the opportunity to set Lord Wotton straight about one thing—his attentions would no longer be tolerated.
I sighed heavily and called for Matilda. “I’m off to the theater with Lord Wotton,” I said in a bored tone. “Give me a dress. Any dress. The more unflattering the better.”
Matilda could not make me out, that was certain. “Miss Gray, you are a peculiar one, if you don’t mind my saying so. You’re a lovely young woman, and yet you do not accentuate your assets. And Lord Henry is quite the catch, if I say so myself.”
“Say what you will and say it yourself,” I chided. “The man is a loathsome bore. Handsome and wealthy are two qualities shared by many men, although not usually in combination. Still, if I could send you in my place, I certainly would.”
She clucked at me in the manner maid’s will. Contrary to my request, she took out the lavender gown with the tulle covering the bodice. “No. Bring me the faded orchid satin,” I said.
“It’s being cleaned,” she told me, pausing by the closet lest I request something else.
“Oh, never mind! What does it matter? Here, slip it over my head and be done with it!”
Matilda helped me with the dress, my boots and jewelry. “Would you like me to fix your hair, Miss Gray?”
“I’ll do it myself,” I said, brushing my long strands haphazardly and piling the lot atop my head. The face in the mirror before me had a fresh-cheeked quality that annoyed me. Far too feminine in appearance. Far too similar to that accursed portrait in my attic!
Precisely at six thirty the doorbell rang. I sighed. When I heard Lord Henry’s voice, I picked up my evening bag and headed for the stairs. He waited at the bottom like a suitor.
My instincts told me to turn on my heels and retreat. The man was beyond annoying. That confident smile. Those haughty, arched brows of the aristocrat. Two eyes so dark they appeared black, that seemed to constantly be testing me, in a game I did not wish to play.
He had the charm of being very dangerous. But that was all. He was too clever and too cynical to be really fond of. I wondered briefly if there would ever be someone who would fill him with a strange idolatry. Was that one of the things life had in store for this man?
“Miss Gray, you look lovely,” he said in a false voice, bowing in a manner that was studied and for the benefit of the gushing Matilda and the blind Miss Pruit.
“Thank you,” I mumbled. A pause ensued, wherein I was expected to say something more, no doubt. “And you are…reasonably attired.”
“How very generous of you,” he said in a snide tone, but from the looks of the doting females about me, I was the only one to perceive it. “I do believe my tailor has fashioned a suit that brings out my attributes.”
“He who falls in love with himself will have no rivals,” I managed, as he whisked me out the door.
We rode to the theater in silence, Lord Wotton seated next to me. Unlike the affected manner he exhibited in my home, now he was cool and aloof, which suited me fine, since I had no wish to converse with him. That he left me with my private fantasies was a good thing, indeed.
In the distance, I saw Covent Garden. The carriages lined up for several blocks, and we were forced to wait it out. The theater was grand indeed—Miss Sarah Bernhardt had played here many times, and Sir John Irving. Recently I’d attended a heart-stopping play penned by that Irishman who wrote the penny dreadfuls. London was the center of the civilized universe when it came to theatrical entertainment. Yet I used the route there to rem
ember another theater, a modest yet garish one. In it a performer brought alive Shakespeare’s greatest heroines, in a silent manner I had not seen enacted on any stage in this great city. Sybil Vane aroused me so. My one desire was to be there now, in that squalid building that reeked to high heaven of oranges and garlic, watching my Sybil have her fanny reddened. A fanny I would then use and abuse to my own personal delight.
“Are you sweltering?”
I turned toward Lord Wotton, unsure of his meaning.
“The heat,” he said, but with that terrible smile on his lips that said he could almost read my thoughts.
Suddenly I realized that I had been sitting with my cloak pulled tightly about me. I was, indeed, hot, and perspiration dotted my forehead.
Lord Henry reached over and used his handkerchief to blot up the moisture. “Women who perspire are rather appealing, particularly in the boudoir. Did you know that, Dorianne?”
“Of course I know of no such thing. A gentleman would not have noticed, let alone brought it to a ladies attention. But then, you are hardly a gentleman.”
“And you are hardly a lady, but then that only adds to your allure.”
I was about to snap back at this fractious male with a blistering comment or two, when suddenly the carriage jerked forward. The lineup of carriages moved quickly from that point on, as they began a double lane, and within minutes we were disembarking.
Lord Wotton held out a hand and, for propriety’s sake, I took it. But once my feet touched cobblestone, I snatched it back. He only laughed, which infuriated me anew.
Once we entered the grand theater, we were escorted to our seats promptly. We sat in a box—how ironic, I thought—at stage left—the very place I’d sat at that other theater that was so aligned with my heart. By contrast with that poor theater in Soho, this stage was elegant and magnificent, with a thick red curtain edged in gold brocade, and royal blue carpet down the aisles. The gilded orchestra pit housed musicians attired in finery, and they tuned their delicate instruments as the chattering crowd took its seats.
Lord Wotton, to his credit, did not attempt to further engage me in dialogue. I was content to stare at the crowd, waving here and there at a face I knew, waiting for this event to transpire. I was so disinterested, I realized I had not the slightest notion of which play we were about to see.
“The Taming of the Screw,” Lord Wotton said, as if reading my mind. I lifted my eyebrows by way of answer, and he handed me a playbill.
Unfortunately, we did not share the box, which meant we were alone when the usher closed the door behind us. Eventually the lights were lowered and Lord Henry pulled the curtain at his left forward, so that any view of the audience was blocked, leaving the focus on the stage. At least he knew the proper direction for his energies.
The music was wonderful, and I suppose the performers were doing an admirable job of it, yet I could not concentrate. My thoughts kept traveling back to that other Kate, who received immediate and direct response to her barbed comments, whose snapping facial lips brought the snap of leather to her nether lips—in Sybil’s rendition, the words, of course, were not spoken.
Memories of her wet cunny, her eager nipples, her swollen clitoris…
My mind had obviously drifted farther than I thought, for I did not notice Lord Wotton’s hand on the back of my neck until it was too late.
His grip was firm and determined. He shoved me down to my knees before I could protest. And in fact, when I did manage to open my mouth, suddenly there was a pause on stage and in the pit, and silence filled the theater, making me bite my tongue.
Lord Henry moved me about quickly and before I knew it, my face was at his groin. When had he liberated his cock? In the darkness of the theater, I could only see its dim outline, yet I had a dim memory of it from when he visited my cunny lips—I knew its size and shape by feel; the hazy view confirmed it.
He forced me forward. What possessed me, I could not say, but my lips parted automatically. Before I knew what was what, I was lowering my mouth over his hot shaft.
Lord Wotton used the hand still holding the back of my neck to guide my movements and set the pace. What struck me as impossibly large, far too large to fit into my mouth, suddenly became acceptable. This fleshy rod slid in and out, or perhaps I slid over it and back, for soon I was lost in the delightful taste of what I had expected to be repugnant.
I licked and sucked at him, running my teeth over his shaft, taking him in deep until his head hit the back of my throat, then teasing just that head, tasting a sweet-tart liquid that instinctively I wanted more of. While all this was occurring, I felt the skirts at the back of my dress and petticoats being lifted until my bloomers were exposed.
Then, I felt them being slid down, and finally my behind was feeling air all around it.
This excited me tremendously, and my mouth went at him with renewed vigour. I not only tasted the shaft, but took the testes into my mouth, first one, then the other, finally sucking in both together, which filled me—I felt him moan softly, and reveled in this newfound power.
Lord Henry leant forward and ran his hands over my derriere, sliding his thumbs down the crack between my cheeks, pressing against my bottom hole. I grew hot and fiery there, all throughout my genitals, really. Truly, I forgot in the darkness of the theater who I was with, and what I was supposed to be doing. I only knew that I wanted to suck and taste this rod of flesh forever.
But forever was not possible, and soon I felt his staff stiffen further, then a delicious liquid flowed into my mouth. And none too soon. The audience was clapping, the curtain lowering, and the lights of intermission being lit.
In seconds, Lord Henry had righted himself. I, on the other hand, knelt before him, my skirt up, my ass exposed, feeling somewhat stunned. I heard the usher’s steps—he was coming to open the door for us! Quickly I pulled my skirts down and bent to the floor, as if searching for something, which is how the uniformed man found me when the door opened and the corridor lights illuminated the box.
“Perhaps you are searching in the wrong place,” Lord Henry said.
I looked up into his eyes—they were laughing—at me!
Awkwardly, I managed to stand, furious. Here I had debased myself, in public, drinking this man’s semen, and he could only humiliate me further!
Without a word, I hurried past him, my steps impeded as my bloomers were still caught around my thighs. Down on the landing, I entered the ladies toilet and found an empty stall, which I took for myself instantly.
Sitting there, fury surged within me. Lord Henry was a pig! Nothing but a classless ignoramus! How I could have permitted what just occurred, I did not know. Perhaps I had lost my mind. I wondered if my monthly was approaching—that might be the cause of such madness!
Yet even as I mentally castigated myself, and cursed him with every word I could think of that proved damming, I was aware that my genitals still burned. What did this fire mean? All along my bottom, down from my bottom hole, along the lips of my vagina, the inner and outer ones, up inside me—it was as though a fire had been lit and I could do nothing but bear it as this pulsing heat scalded me. I became aware of my aching nipples. So many parts of me wanted release. This throbbing was torturous! And then suddenly, the maid was calling that intermission had ended, and I was forced from my retreat and back to the theater box, to the company of the nefariously cruel Lord Henry Wotton!
As I entered the box, he stood—of course, he could do little else in public, what with the usher looking on. I took my seat next to him and turned away slightly—I had no intention of giving him any satisfaction.
Oddly enough, he seemed to be ignoring me. He read the playbill. He looked out over the audience. He examined his gloves, as if searching for a tear. Eventually the lamps were dimmed and the curtain raised, and the second act began. In it,
Kate is more obstinate, more resistant to the attentions of Petrucio. And her suitor is becoming firmer.
I spent the rest of the eve
ning aware of my burning body and not much more. Of course, I was also keenly aware of Lord Henry beside me. Oh, how I hated him! For bringing me to such a pitch! For ignoring me! For being all that he was!
The play did not end soon enough. Rather than offer me a cordial or a late supper, Lord Henry told the carriage driver, “To Miss Gray’s residence.”
I kept my tongue, only because I felt that if I were to open my mouth, I would say things that I might regret, things about his lineage, about his masculinity, about how despicable he was. And I did fairly well, until he dropped me at my door.
“Here she is, Miss Pruit,” he said, handing me over as if I were a child into the charge of my governess. “Safe. Sound. Miss Gray,” he said, tipping his hat. “Thank you for an arousing evening.”
With that, he turned on his heel and headed down the walk.
“Monster!” I shrieked. “You are not even a real man, but a mockery of what it is to be a man! You need a good lashing!”
I went on and on, much to Miss Pruit’s horror, as Lord Wotton climbed into his carriage and the driver sped off.
Miss Pruit, ever aware of the neighbors, dragged me inside. I was beside myself with fury. The man was a conniving beast who had used me to enjoy himself and not had the decency to offer me anything in return! I continued my tirade like a madwoman, yelling, screaming, turning red in the face, no doubt.
With Matilda’s help, Miss Pruit had me across her knee, and both of them took a hairbrush each and spanked my ass until my screams turned to moans of pleasure and then to cries of frustration and finally to squeaks of pain. But the spanking only inflamed my desire, desires that would not be sated that night.
Once they permitted me to retire to my room, I went straight up to the attic, sobbing bitterly. The fake phallus was handy, and I used it to relieve myself as best I could, crying tears of rage that I was forced to do this for myself. Why were they all so selfish? Sybil only pleasured me inadvertently. Vita’s attentions stopped short of coitus. And Lord Henry! He was the worst of all! He left me high and wet, so hungry I had lost my mind.
Darker Passions: The Picture of Dorian Gray Page 9
