Darker Passions: The Picture of Dorian Gray

by Kilpatrick, Nancy

  I have no idea what possessed me to do this, since I’d vowed to myself to pursue the course that Vita had defined for me. In fact, I intended to present myself as entirely female for the duration of the weekend, asserting myself in any manner which struck my fancy. This would be a test ground for me. I would see whether or not Vita’s advice proved reliable outside the realm of art. If I could not find acceptance with my peers, I could always return to my nocturnal wanderings in male guise.

  But, for my own peace of mind, I intended to give the venture a try. I had little to lose.

  I decided to remove Dorian’s things. But just then Matilda entered my boudoir and, in a panic, I shut my case; it would have been awkward indeed to have done much about it then.

  And, of course, I did not have to wear them.

  I went downstairs to await the carriage’s arrival, for Duchess Monmouth was sending her own coach for me. I found myself excited at the prospect of both the languid ride outside London, and of spending the weekend in the country. Fresh air. Nature. Simplicity. All things I needed. And there was, of course, the Duchess herself, full of charms. Charms I hoped she would make as available to Dorianne as she had suggested she would offer to Dorian.

  My excitement received a jolt indeed, though, when the coach pulled up the drive. For who should hop out to greet me but Lord Henry Wotton!

  “Miss Gray,” he said, removing his hat and bowing slightly. “We seem to meet rather frequently these days.”

  “And under the most peculiar circumstances,” I added. I had no idea he would be coming. Worse, Basil waited in the coach. That I would be spending upwards of three hours with these two gentlemen when I longed for peace and quiet, to meditate on my artwork, perhaps to sketch a bit while the horses rested, to investigate my newly assertive female identity…

  “And where is your cousin, Dorian? I know he was invited,” Lord Wotton said, as he helped me into the carriage.

  “Dorian is ill,” I managed, as the horses took off.

  “Nothing serious, I hope.”

  “I’m afraid he suffers a terminal illness.”

  “Really? And what is the source of this malady?”

  “It stems, I believe, from the death of both parents. He has never recovered, you see, and it is only now catching up with him.”

  “To lose one parent may be regarded as a misfortune; to lose both looks like carelessness.”

  “Perhaps you are right, Lord Wotton. And, as Dorian would say, relations are simply a tedious pack of people, who haven’t got the remotest knowledge of how to live, nor the smallest instinct about when to die.”

  This brought a chortle from the two men.

  We chatted amiable, as it turned out, about this and that for the first leg of our journey. After we rested near Brighton, we began again.

  While Basil closed his eyes, Lord Wotton pulled out a cloth-bound volume to read. I inquired what it was he was reading, but he answered vaguely. “Oh, one of those British inventions, an all-purpose guide to the wearing of jewelry, the knotting of a necktie, or the conduct of a cane.”

  “Is it an immoral book?” I asked, focusing on the last in his listing of the subjects.

  “There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well written, or badly written. That is all. And yours?” He peered across the carriage.

  I carefully closed my violet-colored book, with the pages of rice paper, keeping the place with my ribbon marker. “I never travel without my diary,” I said. “One should always have something sensation to read.”

  Again, Lord Wotton laughed. I had never seen him so relaxed in my presence, and it made him rather appealing. My mind for some reason drifted to his absence from my sheets of sketches of nudes. Again, I had that longing to see him in the buff.

  “Dorianne,” he said, his voice quite sincere, “you are a remarkable woman. Feisty and impertinent. The man who wins your hand will be lucky indeed and best be up to the task before him.”

  I bristled at this. “Lord Wotton, if you are implying that I need taming—”

  “Oh, to the contrary. Your spirit needs embracing, as I see it. As does mine. I simply meant that and that alone. You know my views—men and women are equal, and should be by law. But the boudoir has its own laws.”

  “Personally, I believe in democracy,” I said stuffily, feeling rather haughty, and not knowing why I felt that way.

  “Democracy means simply the bludgeoning of the people, by the people for the people. But politics is not romance.”

  “Indeed,” I said, turning to my pages and rereading the passage wherein I recorded finding Lord Wotton in the gutter.

  I found the man not a quick study. One minute he seemed vulnerable, the next obstinate, the following moment he would be forceful and dominate in his wants, and then charming and delightful company. I’d not met a male like him; most men were fairly easily dispensed with, which is one of the reasons I had always preferred the company of women, excepting artistic males, of course, who possess enough feminine traits to be trustworthy.

  We rode for another hour and stopped beside a pond, where both the horses and the humans could drink. The setting was pastoral, and reminded me of the last time I was in the country, with Lord Wotton, that first occasion when he’d tricked me in the race and ordered me to bare my bottom, only to insult me by leaving me unsated. That memory made me cranky, and I wandered off alone, stretching my legs before the last part of our journey began.

  Over a low hill lay a ticket, halfway to the bottom. I spied a patch of wildflowers—the last of the season—and wandered in that direction—perhaps the Duchess would like a bouquet, provided it survived long enough. I began to pick the Queen Anne’s Lace, and the Black Eyed Susan. Suddenly I heard a rustling and stopped.

  I turned in that direction. At the bottom of the hill, lying in the tall grass, I saw a couple, young, attractive, and naked! Both the male and female had shed their clothing and were writhing together, muscles flexing, limbs intertwined. Their passion was fierce to behold, and I stood transfixed, watching them, terrified that they would notice me, but they were apparently too preoccupied.

  They were country people, of strong, farming stock no doubt. Both had stocky bodies with not an inch of flab on them, and even the female was muscular, though in a different way from Vita—more curvaceous.

  Their kisses were long and passionate. Sometimes gentle, sometimes ferocious. The man straddled the woman’s thighs, his cock imbedded in her cunny. Between kisses, he would lift himself up a bit and grab her titties, massaging and twisting and pulling and apparently pinching them, eliciting from her the most erotic cries of pleasure while she buckled beneath him.

  I found myself becoming very warm, and was aware of the heat throbbing at my crotch. I desperately wanted to move closer, but was unable to for fear that I would be noticed and they would stop their lovemaking.

  Eventually the man withdrew himself and, grasping the woman by the shoulders, flipped her onto her stomach. He crawled behind her and grasped her hips, lifting her up so that her face was in the grass, her full behind proudly jutting high into the air. Then he began smacking her bottom, hard wallops from the look of it, reddening her behind very quickly with a no-doubt hard hand.

  She moaned and writhed and spread her legs, thrusting her behind at him in a lascivious fashion. When he had her turned from pink to crimson, he mounted her from behind, as dogs and cats do. I watched as he fucked her, like an animal. His thrusts were vigorous, his bottom cheeks tensing and relaxing with each. The woman’s moans became louder until she was crying very loud, phrases like, “Yes, fuck me! Take me hard!

  I love your cock!”

  The man was intent on pleasing her, and himself as well.

  This fucking increased in pace until it became very rapid, the woman screaming out what sounded like gibberish. And then his final thrust, arching his back, his cock imbedded deeply in her cunny. I could almost feel his phallus pulsing semen, and her hot walls contracti
ng around him.

  In the warm sunshine, in the quiet, cicadas in the distance making their own mating calls, a hawk squawking overhead, I felt my body burning with lust. Liquid poured from my cunny down the insides of my thighs, slicking them. My titties were painfully hard. The heat that pulsed through me made me feel very much like an animal, one in need.

  A hand touched my shoulder and I leapt into the air. A small scream came from my lips. Instinctively, I knew who it was and felt terrified to turn, lest he see what was in my eyes.

  The couple both glanced in our direction. Rather than embarrassment, both broke into a grin and waved.

  Again on instinct, I opened my drawstring bag and pulled out the coiled leather belt Vita had instructed me to give to Lord Henry. Without a word, I handed it over my shoulder, and, without a word, he took it.

  Lord Henry, standing very close behind me, his body almost touching mine, him still gripping my shoulder, breathed hotly into my ear in a husky voice, “Dorianne, come.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  We arrived at Selby Royal in a rainstorm. Fortunately, a portico provided shelter as we three ran toward the house. Once we had collected ourselves, Basil, Lord Henry and I were escorted to the conservatory. There we found the pretty Duchess of Monmouth with her husband, a jaded-looking man of sixty, and several guests.

  It was tea-time, and the mellow light of the huge lace-covered lamp that stood on the table lit up the delicate china and hammered silver of the service at which the Duchess was presiding. Her white hands were moving daintily among the cups, and her full red lips smiled at something that one of the gentlemen had whispered to her.

  The men rose instantly, bowed to me, shook hands with Basil and Lord Henry, and the Duchess and the other women clucked approving and welcoming noises in our general direction. Once all the greetings had been exchanged, we were given seats and cups of tea were poured.

  On a peach-colored divan sat Lady Narborough, whom I had just been introduced to as if for the first time. She was pretending to listen to the Duke’s description of the last Brazilian beetle that he had added to his collection. Three young men in elaborate smoking-suits handed tea-cakes to the women, and I was offered a cake as well. The house-party consisted of twelve people, and there were more expected to arrive on the next day. This was not the intimate setting the Duchess had led Dorian to believe awaited him. I took it as a sign that my decision to come as Dorianne had been the right one.

  “Tell me, Dorianne,” said Lady Narborough, “where is that delightful cousin of yours? We met last month, at supper at the Duchess of Harley’s home.”

  “Yes, I recall. Er, I believe Dorian mentioning you.”

  The question was becoming stale. It seemed Dorian’s absence brought more attention than my presence.

  I shoved the petit four into my mouth, to collect my thoughts so that my answer might cut this line of questioning short, when Lord Henry leaned toward me and whispered in my ear, “She’s a very clever woman; the remains of a really remarkable ugliness. After she buried her husband, one of our most tedious ambassadors, properly in a marble mausoleum which she herself designed, she married her daughters off to rich, elderly men and now devotes herself to the pleasures of French fiction, French cookery, and French esprit when she can get it.”

  It was a struggle to avoid choking on my cake, but I managed. Once I’d swallowed a bit of tea, I returned my gaze to Lady Narborough, who sat waiting expectantly for my answer.

  “Dorian is predisposed.” That didn’t seem to satisfy her, so I added cryptically, “He is ill.”

  “Dying, to be precise,” Lord Wotton offered.

  I scowled at him, finding one of his wicked smiles waiting for my eyes. He was toying with me! Again.

  “Well, whatever is wrong with poor Dorian,” Lady Narborough wanted to know. Unfortunately, at that moment, the room fell silent.

  I could not bring myself to speak so freely of Dorian’s demise to these strangers, at least not the real cause, nor the one I spoke about with Lord Henry. Instead, I improvised.

  “Dorian has contracted a malady. In India.”

  “Surely there are doctors working on the case!” Lady Narborough said.

  “Indeed. Several renowned physicians.”

  “Then all may not be lost.”

  “Perhaps you are correct.”

  “Then we must celebrate! To the speedy recovery and quick return of Dorian Gray to our circle.”

  “Yes,” the Duchess of Monmouth cried, for obviously she missed Dorian very much. “Champagne!” she ordered, and servants scurried to the cellars.

  Amidst the general gay chatter, I leant toward Lord Henry and hissed in his ear, “Now you’ve put me in a compromised position.”

  His smile was as the cat having swallowed the proverbial mouse. “I should love to place you in a compromised position, Dorianne. How does over-the-knee sound?”

  “Oh!” I cried. “You are impossible! I do not know why I bother talking with you.”

  Now, he leaned close, his hand on my lower back, sliding lower, where no one could see, until it rested at the top of one of my cheeks. At that point, he squeezed hard, through the fabric, and I nearly leapt from my seat. “Tonight,” he whispered in my ear, “come to my bedroom. I shall be waiting.”

  “And find yourself still waiting when cock crows!”

  The man was a fool; he only laughed.

  “Agree to come to my bed or I shall harass you the evening.”

  Now it was my turn to laugh.

  The tea lasted as long as the storm, and sunshine returned quickly. The Duchess took her guests on a stroll of the gardens.

  “Country life!” Lady Narborough exclaimed with a sigh.

  “They get up early because they have so much to do,” Basil said sagely, “and go to bed early because they have so little to think about.”

  “Perhaps,” said the Duchess, “life in the country is simpler. Take marriage. In the city, people just will not stay married.”

  “Oh, some of us do. Or did,” Lady Narborough said.

  “You were far too happy,” Lord Henry chided her gently. “When a woman marries again, it is because she detested her first husband. When a man marries again, it is because he adored his first wife. Women try their luck; men risk theirs.”

  “I like men who have a future, and women with a past,” I blurted out.

  That brought a great pause, which lasted all of three seconds. “How intriguing you are!” Lady Narborough said, giving me the once-over with her grey eyes as though looking at me for the first time. “Much like your cousin.”

  “Very much like her cousin,” Lord Henry said, on the edge of exposing me. Fortunately, he knew the precise psychological moment to say nothing more.

  We were fed lavishly, on mutton and potatoes in a type of peasant stew I found tasty enough—Basil speculated that the fresh country air was responsible for our solid appetites.

  All throughout the evening, Lord Henry harassed me, as promised. I dared not so much as glance in his direction, else he would catch my eye, his full of suggestion. His barbed comments aloud to the guests, frequently alluding to Dorian, placed me in an awkward position verbally every few moments, forcing me to continually answer for my cousin, and his constant tête-à-têtes with me, demanding that I come to him, wore me out. Finally, about eight, I hissed, “Yes, alright! I shall join you! But for god’s sake, leave me now in peace!” I had, of course, no such intention, but Lord Wotton did not know that, and wouldn’t until sunrise.

  Lady Narborough played the clavichord while Mr. Chapman, from the House of Commons, played a viola which was not precisely on key. The guests began to retire early—even Lord Wotton made his way upstairs about half past eight without, I might add, trying to further gain my attention—and I found myself sitting alone with the Duchess of Monmouth.

  She ordered that the lamps be extinguished, but for one candle on the tea table, creating a very intense setting indeed.

&nb
sp; She produced two sherry glasses and filled each to the brim. By the time we had reached our fourth glass each, the rain had begun again, and our conversation had turned intimate, although not in a manner I would have anticipated.

  “Before I married the Duke,” she confided, her eyes a bit glassy, “I had my choice of the young men. And women. Oh, Dorianne, do come and sit beside me! I find it so difficult to shout across a room.”

  I was seated on a chair, not two feet from her ear, but picked myself up and joined her on the Récamier.

  “This is cosy,” she said, patting my thigh, leaving her hand resting atop the fabric of my satin skirt.

  “You know,” she began again, “Lord Henry used to say I had their hearts embalmed and hung at my girdle.” She paused. “In truth, I didn’t. Because none of them had had any hearts at all!”

  Now she began to giggle wildly. Although seated, she lost her balance and fell sideways, into me, and her head and hand ended up on my bosom. The Duchess clutched my flesh, as if for support, at least initially. Soon, though, her fingers were busy clutching for other purposes and working themselves inside the fine wool of my jacket, and between the buttons of my blouse.

  Once her delicate hands found my flesh, they became busy indeed. She fondled me urgently, first the entire breast, then the areola, and finally the nipple, squeezing gently but consistently, arousing me instantly. The sherry had gone to my head, and I laid my head against the back of the chaise, which gave the Duchess the opportunity to put lips to tit.

  Her rosebud mouth was hungry indeed, and she sucked hard, causing juices in my cunny to flow. Then her teeth clamped on, and she bit, at first gently, then harder, chewing until I writhed beneath her and moaned extravagantly.

  While all this transpired, she managed to pull my wrists behind me and use her waist sash to tie them together. This had the effect of forcing my exposed tit higher, as if pleading to be tortured further in this exquisite manner.

  The Duchess did not disappoint. Between her teeth biting and pulling on that one tit, I could do nothing but seep. The sensation was delicious, sending chills throughout my body, leaving me limp and receptive to all that the Duchess would inflict on me. And inflict she did. The clock had just struck nine, and it was ten before she finished with that one tittie alone.