by Juliana Ross
As he moved to secure the door, I dared to look at him properly. When my husband had come to my bedchamber, he’d worn a thickly quilted robe over his nightshirt and a matching velvet cap on his head. Even in the heat of midsummer he’d always worn that ridiculous robe and cap.
Leo, by contrast, wore the same trousers, shirt and waistcoat he’d had on earlier. He’d discarded his coat and tie, as well as his boots and stockings. I had never seen a man’s bare feet before.
“I had on new boots today,” he explained, seeing how I stared. “They pinched. Will you come and sit by the fire and have something to drink? I remember you said you don’t care for spirits, so I had a bottle of claret brought up. Shall I pour you a glass?”
“Yes, thank you,” I said, and took the goblet from him. I drank from it, perhaps a little faster than I ought to have, and the warmth of the wine spread rapidly through my veins.
He sat in the chair facing me, only a yard away, his legs splayed wide, and took a sip from the glass of whiskey he’d poured for himself. I could feel his eyes upon me, and the sensation was unnerving. What did he see in me that interested him so?
“Where were you at dinner?” I asked, desperate to fracture the silence.
“I was reading. When I saw how late I was, I thought it best to have a tray brought to me here. You know how my father tends to go on.”
Another long pause as he swallowed a mouthful of spirits. “Did you miss me?”
“It’s only that your parents were, ah…”
“I know. Leo the wastrel, etcetera, etcetera. Nothing I haven’t heard before. Did you miss me?”
“I…yes. Yes, I missed you.”
“Good. I was thinking of you, if it makes any difference. I was thinking about what I want from you, and what you must want from me.” He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “Because that is why you’re here, aren’t you?”
I wasn’t ready to answer, not yet, so I fiddled with the stem of my wineglass and tried to think of what I should say.
“You can be honest with me, Hannah. You’ve nothing to fear, I swear it.”
“Why?” I blurted out. “Why me?”
“You intrigue me, that’s why. You give every appearance, on the outside, of conforming entirely to the identity my mother has conferred on you. The drab drudge of a lady’s companion. The poor relation who lives in the shadows. The ghost who—”
“Stop! Just stop. I know who I am, what I am. I’ve no ambition to be anything more.”
“But you do. I can see that so clearly now. When I think of the way you responded to me in the library, I know you’re more than that.”
He was wrong. He had to be wrong. “You mistake me. Boredom has driven me here—that, and simple curiosity.”
“About what? Come now, Hannah—what are you curious about?”
“Everything.”
There. I’d admitted it. I sagged back in the chair and gulped at my wine.
“Then ask me. Ask me anything and I promise to answer truthfully.”
The first question was out of my mouth before I could stop it. “How old were you when you first had relations?”
“Fourteen—nearly fifteen, I think. It was with Betsy, one of the maids here. She was eighteen. Wonderfully enthusiastic.”
“Did you enjoy it?”
“God, yes. It was all I’d been thinking about for months and months. Of course, I was so undone by the experience that it was over quite quickly. But Betsy was very kind to me and before long I knew what was what.”
Another swallow of wine gave me fresh courage. “How many women have you had relations with?”
“Hmm…I honestly don’t know. I’ve never been one for keeping count of things like that. When I was younger, I’d fuck anyone who looked at me. Now I’m somewhat more discerning. Perhaps five or six different women in the past year?”
“Who are they?”
“You want their names?”
“No, of course not,” I clarified. “I meant—are they generally maidservants like Betsy and Ida? Or are they women from your own circle?”
“If a maidservant approaches me—as I said, I’ve acquired a reputation here and at my London house—I’m happy to oblige. Within reason. In general, though, I prefer widows. They have a degree of independence, they know what they want, they’re discreet about it and they’re usually unburdened by romantic illusions.”
“Have you ever harbored such illusions yourself?” He didn’t answer, so I pressed on. “Have you ever been in love?”
“No. Have you?”
“No,” I answered honestly. “At first I hoped…I thought perhaps, with Charles. But no. In the end, no.”
He didn’t look at me as I spoke, and I was glad. Speaking of love, at that moment, was almost unbearable. I ought never to have mentioned it. Best to return to the purely physical plane.
“When you were having relations with Ida, you did so in an unconventional manner—”
“When I fucked her from behind?”
Oh, how I wished he would not use that word. “Yes. Is that because it’s more pleasurable?”
“I wasn’t parsing the whys and wherefores at the time, but that position has a great deal to recommend it. To begin with, it allows me to keep my hands free. And it does let me fuck a woman that much deeper. So, yes, I like it.”
“Do you prefer it to the more usual form of lovemaking?”
“You mean with the woman on her back? Both have their merits. And of course they’re only two of many ways in which the act may be accomplished.”
Would he ever cease surprising me? He laughed, took another sip of whiskey and ran a hand through his hair.
“Shall I rhyme them off for you? Let me see…a woman may ride the man, either facing him or with her back to him. She may lie prone beneath him—a variant, I suppose, on what you saw me doing with Ida. He may fuck her while they’re both standing, preferably with a wall or cabinet or something of the sort at her back. How is that to begin with?”
I realized, after a moment or two, that my mouth had fallen open, rather like a fish gasping for air. A woman riding? Standing?
“And of course I’ve only mentioned activities that involve penetration. Oral sex allows for many more varieties in these positions.”
He was grinning—a really broad grin, like a schoolboy would have when ragging a friend. How naive I must appear to him. I resolved to persevere, despite my mortification.
“What is your favorite position?”
“It depends on the woman. Ida, for example, has the most marvelous bottom. So it would have been a shame to ignore it. You, on the other hand…”
I could feel his gaze dropping, focusing on my bosom with an assessing gleam.
“Will you let me see your breasts, Hannah?”
My face flushed scarlet, my cheeks hot with shame. To expose myself so completely was such an extreme step. I wanted to comply, but something held me back.
“I won’t touch you, not yet. I simply want to see more of you, and learn what pleases you.”
Still I made no move to disrobe.
“I know. I’m asking you to set aside every moral stricture that your parents and husband and my sainted mother have drummed into you. But you’re here because you want more. So drink down the last of your claret and open your bodice for me.”
And I did just that. I undid the hooks and eyes of my bodice, all the way from my chin to my waist, and pulled it wide so he could see the swell of my bosom over the top of my corset and chemise.
“Remove it, if you please. Good. Now I want you to take off your corset. Do you need any help?”
“No. It’s not laced tightly.” I unfastened the closures of the metal busk, took a wonderfully deep breath and tossed my corset on the floor, on top o
f my discarded bodice.
“Your chemise too.”
There was no way to remove it without taking off my skirts, and he’d said nothing about that, so I undid its ribbon bow, loosened the gathers at its neck and drew my chemise down over my shoulders, lower and ever lower, until my breasts were entirely bare. I shut my eyes tight and waited for his next command.
His growl of satisfaction was the greatest compliment I’d ever received.
“Hannah, your tits are a marvel.”
“They’re not overlarge?”
“They’re certainly a generous size for someone so delicately framed. But they suit you perfectly. And they’re very pretty, just like the rest of you. I love your nipples—see how pink and tight they’ve become? Can you feel it?”
“Yes. It feels…odd. Almost ticklish.”
“May I touch you now? Yes? Then come and stand before me.”
I did it. I went to him and stood between his knees. And I waited, my nipples tingling with anticipation and fear, my mind awhirl with the suspense of what awaited me.
He still held his tumbler of whiskey, but instead of drinking from it he did the oddest thing—he dipped the thumb and forefinger of his right hand into the spirits. Reaching up, he painted my left nipple with the liquid, his thumb circling, his fingers lightly pinching and pulling and twisting. It was the most mesmerizing feeling, and it sent a lightning bolt of sensation directly to the wonderful place between my legs.
He repeated the exercise with my other nipple, exploring and pushing and demanding, letting the tumbler fall to the floor, forgotten. Then both his hands were on me, cradling the weight of my breasts, pushing them high, rubbing them with his palms. There were calluses on his hands, which surprised me, and their roughness felt delicious against my shivering skin.
“I’m going to use my mouth now. Don’t be alarmed.”
That sounded very strange. “You mean like an infant?”
“Rather like that, but for entirely different purposes.”
He began to suckle at my breasts, his mouth pulling and nipping at one while his hand worked its own magic on the other. My knees buckled, but he simply twined an arm around my waist and continued his worship. My skin was burning from the rasp of his unshaven face, and the throb between my legs was even worse. I couldn’t bear it, not for much longer, but neither could I stand to interrupt him.
“Raise your skirts and hold them out of the way,” he said, his voice brusque. “Do it now.”
I dragged my skirt and petticoats up, gathering them at my waist in unsteady hands. He reached between my legs, his fingers parting the slit in my drawers, moving surely to the place where I ached so badly.
“I doubt this will take very long,” he muttered.
One finger, or perhaps it was his thumb, found the pearl between my legs and began to rub at it, though not as gently as when he was instructing me earlier.
In seconds the thrilling sensations were overtaking me, forcing the breath from my body, the strength from my limbs. I clutched at his shoulders, heedless of my tumbling skirts, and clung to him as if I were drowning. On and on the feelings went, and I bit down on my lip, hard, afraid of betraying us with my cries.
“How was that?” I heard him ask as I floated back to earth.
“Lovely. Even nicer than the first time.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Masturbation is well and fine, but there’s nothing like having someone else do the work for you. Much more exciting that way.”
“Masturbation?”
“The act of giving oneself pleasure. As I showed you how to do this afternoon.”
“People truly do that all the time?”
“Men certainly do. Any man who says he doesn’t is a liar or a prude. Never forget that we’re all animals, for all the layers of clothing we wear and manners we adopt. And the urge to mate is one of the strongest in the world, for beasts and men alike.”
His shirt brushed against my nipples, which were still tender. I began to pull at my chemise, drawing it back up my arms, but he stopped me with a look.
“Not yet.”
I couldn’t help it—I felt shy, standing so exposed before him. I looked away, looked down, and I saw it. Saw how I had affected him. “Does it hurt?”
He followed my gaze, which was fixed on his erect member, held tight within the confines of his trousers.
“Oh, that. Not really. It’s more distracting than anything else.”
“When you have an orgasm, does it feel the same?”
“As what you feel? I have no idea, though I expect it’s similar enough. You are full of questions tonight.”
And still there was so much I wanted to know. “When Ida was kneeling before you and had her mouth on you, there—what would have happened to your seed?”
“In the past she’s swallowed it.”
Just as I’d feared. “But that seems so lacking in hygiene…”
“As do many other aspects of lovemaking, when you stop to think about it. If it makes you feel better, I’ve been told by more than one woman that she enjoys the deed. And there’s no need for a woman to swallow it. A handkerchief will do.”
“I’d like to…”
“Yes?”
I wanted to ask. Wanted to know. But it was so hard to say the words.
“Nothing you can do will shock me, Hannah. Just say it.”
“I…I want to see it. Your member.”
“Are you certain?”
This time I didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
“Very well. Not that I need much encouraging at this point.”
I stood back, just a little, and watched with rising excitement as he unfastened first his braces, then the fall of his trousers, then his smallclothes. His member sprang forth, almost of its own volition, and I drank in the sight with hungry eyes.
Its appearance was, frankly, quite shocking. It really was darker than the rest of his skin—it hadn’t been a trick of the light, earlier, in the library. It stood proud, quivering a little in the cool night air, and as I watched it seemed to thicken and lengthen fractionally.
“Is it like that because of me?”
“What do you think?”
That was the trouble—I wasn’t thinking, not anymore. My mouth had gone dry, my pulse was thrumming in my ears, and it took every measure of willpower I had to refrain from leaning forward and caressing him.
He reached out with one foot and kicked a low stool in front of his chair. “Kneel,” he commanded. “Now take my cock in your hand.”
“Is that the word you use for it?”
“There are, ah, many terms for it,” he answered, his voice faltering as my hand closed around him. “Cock is simply the least ridiculous one.”
I was shocked by how hard it was. It might as well have been made of marble, it was so unyielding. I began to move my hand up and down, just as I had seen Ida do, but gently, so as not to hurt him.
“That’s it. But take a firmer grip. And move a little faster. Yes, you have it. Perfect.”
His eyes were fixed upon my hand and his cock. He seemed mesmerized, as indeed was I, by the sight of my small, slender hand moving upon him.
I leaned forward, engrossed in my task, enthralled by the sight before me. Leo’s hand closed over mine for a minute, tightening my grasp, making me move faster, before falling away. I knew he stared at me, I knew his eyes were devouring the sight of my half-naked form. I knew I ought to be ashamed, but the excitement of the moment overpowered any finer feelings I might once have harbored, grinding them into dust.
Reaching into his waistcoat pocket, he extracted a handkerchief. This he pressed into my free hand. “Use this. And don’t stop, whatever you do.”
His cock grew harder and I knew, without his saying another word, that
I should move my hand even faster. A pause, a gasp—from his mouth or mine?—and then the rush of his seed as his orgasm poured out of him and into the square of fabric I held.
Should I cease the movements? I looked to Leo for direction, prompting him to once again cover my hand with his. He showed me how to slow the strokes, render them gentle, and I continued to caress him until his hand bid mine be still.
“Well done,” he whispered.
“I suppose I ought to go to my room,” I said, though I wished I could stay at his side all night.
“Of course. Yes, that’s for the best. But tell me first—how did you enjoy your lesson?”
“Very much. Thank you.” I looked him in the eye for the first time in many minutes. He was smiling at me, so I smiled back.
“Tomorrow afternoon, Hannah? In the library?”
All I could do was nod. After all that had happened, I hadn’t the words, nor the will, for anything else.
The walk to my room made me feel like the heroine of a gothic romance, complete with ominous shadows and portent-laden silence. Accompanied only by the flickering light of my oil lamp, I quickly made my way to the servants’ staircase at the end of the corridor, then up the stairs and along the low, dark hallway that led to my room.
It was a small room, as cold as the Arctic in the winter months and hotter than Hades in the summer, but at least I had it to myself. The maids all slept two or three to a room but I, by virtue of my connection with the family, had been accorded the honor of a private room. It was a dubious honor, given the shabbiness of its furnishings and fittings, but it was, I told myself often, more than I would have had in the workhouse.
I changed into my nightgown, removed the pins from my hair and climbed into my cold, empty bed. The sheets were chill and faintly damp, and it was an age before I felt properly warm. I slept for a while, I think.
And then, as I grew comfortable, I let myself remember. Leo’s hands moving so cleverly over my body. His mouth on my breasts. His touch between my legs. Could it really have happened?
I dragged the hem of my nightgown above my knees, pushed it out of the way, and let my fingers hover over the soft patch of hair between my legs. I could feel it humming still, the explosive charge of sensation he had kindled, and I knew I hadn’t been dreaming.
