by Nina Mason
“Yes, I know. Ours was a marriage of convenience. King Louis’s convenience. We never consummated our vows. Not even once. Did you know that? I am still a virgin—but wish very much to be rid of my maidenhead.” She kissed his neck just below his ear, sending a shiver through him. “Will you do me that favor, Your Grace?”
This could not be happening. Maybe he had drifted off unaware and was having a dream. There was no way in hell Juliette was a virgin. Hugh might have been a Ganymede, but he had mouth-raped Maggie. If he was man enough to do that, he was surely man enough to fuck his wife at least once.
He had almost convinced himself this was not real when her hand began to move. Fingertips brushed across his belly, soft as feathers. His abdominal muscles twitched longingly, calling more blood to his cock. The fingers, moving lower, began to pull the ribbons on his breeches. He lay stiffly, knowing he should stop her, but unable to bring himself to do so.
The angel on his shoulder said, “Think of Maggie. If you do this, you will hurt her.”
The devil argued, “She will never find out unless you tell her. And what she knows not cannot hurt either of you.”
The French temptress breached his bulwarks. As her hand inched nearer the target, lust shot up his shaft like a flaming arrow. Another shiver threaded through him and more moisture escaped the eye of his prick, now a sizzling stick of dynamite. His ballocks felt like cherry bombs, burning and volatile.
Detonation now seemed unavoidable.
Maybe if he just let her jerk him off. Surely, a hand job was not too egregious a transgression on the scale of possible adulteries. Even oral sex should not be a felonious offense. He pictured Juliette with her head bobbing betwixt his legs as she sucked him dry. Then, he pictured Maggie, buggering him with her glass dildol whilst he was strapped to the cross in his flagellation chamber. When she had finished reaming his asshole, she birched his buttocks until angry welts covered his flesh. The carriage ride that followed had been most uncomfortable—even with the extra padding of throw pillows.
And he had done no more to earn that chastisement than he was contemplating now.
The devil whispered in his ear: “Yes, but she need never know. If you do not confess your sin, she will remain none the wiser.”
The angel countered, “Yes, but you will know, and the secret will eat at you forevermore, the way the eagle ate at Prometheus in Tartarus.”
Juliette’s fingertip grazed the bedewed dome of his glans. His cock jumped like a dog eager for a bone. It was now or never. If he was going to stop this, he’d best do it now. Heeding his conscience, he clamped a hand around her wrist and flung her hand away.
“Why did you stop me? It is obvious you want me as much as I want you.”
“It would be a lie to deny my desire,” he said. “But ’twould be a far greater sin to give into my lusts and betray the woman I love and have promised my fidelity.”
He lay there, tense and painfully aroused, waiting for her response. Would she accept his reaction or try to inveigle him? Would he stand firm if she carried on? He prayed she would not, for he seriously doubted he could muster the strength to refuse her again.
After a few agonizing moments, she rolled away. “As I said, I envy your marriage.”
As the minutes ticked away, he heard her breathing change and knew she’d gone to sleep. He, however, lay awake, still hard as bone, and thought of Maggie. Lord, how he wished she was here in this narrow bed with him now instead of her tempting twin. He shut his eyes and tried to sleep, but only missed his wife so much it took all his strength of will not to weep.
Quietly and carefully, he got out of bed and, holding up his untied breeches, went to the washstand. He took the towel from the bar and headed for the chair. As he sat, he listened very hard to the sound of Juliette’s breathing. When he was sure she was sound asleep, he removed the cambric shirttail covering his cock. Wrapping his fingers around his throbbing girth, he started to pump. With each upward stroke, he pulled on the head. With each downward one, he thumbed the oozing tip.
All the while, he pictured Maggie strapped to their bed in her angel mask, her nubile body writhing with each lash of his flogger. Would he find her wet for him when his fingers probed her vulva? “Oh, aye,” his fantasy self whispered as he did just that. She was drenched with the juices of arousal. He moved between her legs, lifted her hips, and buried himself to the cods. As he hammered her with accelerating speed, his hand quickened, too. Each stroke wound his spring tighter. As his pleasure escalated, his balls drew up, ready to explode. Grabbing the towel, he erupted into it, catching the pearl-white spurts among the creases in the cloth.
When the last shudders subsided, he lay back in the chair, looked down as his relaxing member, and released a heavy sigh. Relieved of his lusts for now, he stuffed the soiled linen under the cushion and returned to the bed. Aye, self-pleasuring was a sin, but by far the lesser of evils under the circumstances.
* * * *
After readying themselves, Maggie and Gemma left the apartment. As they made their way through the halls toward Lady Fitzhardinge’s rooms, Maggie found herself thinking about Lord Mulgrave’s cock, of all things. How big was it? Nine inches? Ten inches? Was it as big as Satan’s? In the books she’d borrowed from Robert’s library long ago, she’d seen depictions of the devil sporting an erection as big as his arm.
She called into her mind a picture of Lord Mulgrave with horns, an arrowhead-tipped tail, and an enormous phallus that curved upward like a saber. Then, she added to the scene herself and Gemma as scantily clad nymphs dancing around him like a maypole. Each time they came around the front, they slapped the head of his giant prick before skipping gaily onward.
The fantasy both amused and aroused her. By the time they reached the door that must lead to the closet Queen Mary Beatrice had described, Maggie had progressed the scene so that Gemma was down on all fours being fucked by Lord Mulgrave whilst she was behind him, pounding his arse with a tie-on dildol rivaling his member in size.
The fantasy was remarkably satisfying, not to mention, stimulating.
Blinking the scene away with a twinge of regret, Maggie stepped into the closet. It was larger than she’d expected—a storage closet, wherein some old furniture and cases of wine were kept. Gemma came in after her and closed the door, encasing them in darkness.
The only light shone through a hole in the far wall. Maggie stepped forward and pressed her eye to the glowing aperture. It did indeed overlook a chamber with a canopy bed draped in blue velvet. Flocked paper of a similar hue covered the walls, which displayed paintings, gilded plaster swags, ornate mirrors, and brass sconces dripping with crystals.
Though the room was unoccupied, the bed curtains were open and all the candles lighted. There also was a fire burning inside a carved marble mantelpiece. A blue-velvet chaise stood before the fireplace. The small table beside it held a flacon of wine and three goblets.
The scene gave every indication Lady Fitzhardinge expected to entertain more than one guest.
“What do you see?” Gemma whispered behind her.
“Only an empty room at present.”
Gemma came up behind her and set one hand upon her shoulder. The other she placed on the wall beside the peephole. She was so close, Maggie could feel the heat of her body and the rise and fall of her breathing. Her herbal scent filled the space, making Maggie lightheaded. Turning from the peephole in a rustle of silk petticoats, she found herself pressed against Gemma in the darkness, boned bodice against boned bodice. Their faces were only inches apart. Maggie’s pulse quickened as lips, warm and moist, lightly brushed hers. Teeth nibbled at her lower lip. A tongue traced the seam of her mouth. She imagined they were Robert’s kisses and surrendered herself to her longing.
The sound of a closing door broke them apart. Maggie turned back to the keyhole in time to see a footman enter the chamber. It was the same man who’d brought them their supper. The fact that he carried no tray aroused Maggie’s suspicions, along with her antici
pation. Clearly, he was not in the viscountess’s boudoir in any official capacity.
“What do you see?” Gemma’s mouth was so close to her ear she could feel the humidity of her breath as she spoke.
“Only a footman—the same young man who brought us our supper, as it happens.”
“Is that so? Well, well. ’Twould seem I am not the only lady who found him appealing.”
Maggie had not noticed his appearance when he waited upon them. To her, he had been naught but a presence that made unguarded conversation impossible. She tried to get a better look at him now, to form an opinion of his looks, but his back was toward her as he gazed at himself in one of the mirrors.
The door opened again and in swept Lady Fitzhardinge in a burgundy mantua and cream-colored underskirt. The noise of the door turned the footman about, and he went to greet her with a kiss on the cheek. He then took her by the arm and led her not to the bed, but to the chaise. After both were seated, he poured two glasses of wine.
As they drank and exchanged a few words and tender kisses, he stood up and removed his coat, which he threw over the back of the chaise. He then began to unfasten his waistcoat. As he nimbly freed the line of buttons one by one from their holes, Maggie got a good look at his face. Gemma was correct in her assessment. He was indeed well-favored. In fact, he was almost as handsome as Robert had been before the smallpox ruined his complexion. This man, however, was swarthy, whilst her husband was fair complected.
The footman, by Maggie’s guess, was about two and twenty. He was tall, well-limbed, square shouldered, and broad chested. His cheekbones were chiseled, his jaw was square, his nose inclined toward Roman, and eyes were large, dark, and sparkling.
Gemma nudged her. “What is happening? Let me see.”
Maggie swiftly moved aside so her friend could take her turn. After studying the scene for several moments, Gemma said, “Oh, but he is a handsome devil. Italian, methinks. How delicious it will be to watch him strip down to nothing. It has been too long since I’ve had the pleasure of seeing such a finely formed man shed his clothes.”
Maggie, presuming the last such man she’d seen had been Robert, did not wish to pursue the topic. “What are they doing now?”
“He is down to his shirtsleeves and she is watching him undress.” A few heartbeats passed before she added, “Now she is pulling the pins from her hair.”
“May I have a look?”
Gemma graciously moved aside and Maggie took her place at the peephole. The broad-shouldered footman made a pretty picture with the fire behind him. She watched in breathless anticipation as he loosened the ribbons at the front of his breeches. Lady Fitzhardinge reached out a hand to halt his efforts, which she promptly took over.
When the ribbons were loosed, his breeches fell and he adroitly stepped out of them. Maggie’s heart beat faster as she beheld the tell-tale tenting of the cambric shirttail covering his loins. Then, off came the garment, over his head, confirming all was as she had presumed. A thrill shivered through her as she beheld his jutting phallus. Large and red-tipped, it sprang in the manner of a flagpole from a triangular thicket of dark hair. From the base hung his scrotum, which resembled a pair of sun-ripened figs hanging between boughs.
Ripe for the plucking, she thought drolly.
As pleased by the prospect as was her voyeur, Lady Fitzhardinge paid homage to his manhood with her fingers and lips until the young man appeared ready to swoon. Then, she withdrew from him and began to disrobe.
“Is he naked yet?” Gemma’s query was a hiss near her ear.
“Yes, and she is in the process of undressing.”
“Let me see! Let me see!”
Reluctantly, Maggie relinquished the spyhole, after which Gemma watched for a maddeningly long stretch of minutes before next updating her on the progress of the lovers.
“She is now down to her shift and he is beside her on the chaise, kissing her passionately. Oh, now they are standing and he is untying the ribbon at her neck. There goes her shift. Now, both of them are standing before the fire, stark naked, he paying his addresses to her breasts whilst she pays hers to his tarse and cods.” There was another long pause before she added, “Lady Fitzhardinge is very fair, is she not? As well as voluptuous. I almost envy her. Just look how full and ripe her breasts are, how milky and smooth her skin, and how becomingly her dark hair floats over her white neck and shoulders. I am quite captivated. And, as for him, well…there is nothing more I could want.”
“May I not see for myself?”
Gemma moved aside, giving Maggie visual access to the scene. She had not exaggerated Lady Fitzhardinge’s virtues. She was indeed, in her nakedness, an object worthy of tribute. It was, however, the young man that interested Maggie the more.
His hair, which the viscountess had loosed from its ribbon, fell over his broad shoulders in dark waves. A few sprigs of the same color garnished his muscular chest. He stood gazing, transported, at the object of his desire, whose beauties would have inspired a painter. His hungry gaze devoured her as she shifted attitudes for his benefit. So did his eager hands, which partook of the feast by wandering over every inch of her creamy flesh.
Just as they took their places on the couch, the door opened again and in came Lady Churchill. When she paused to behold the lovers, Maggie thought she might lose her temper, but she did not. Instead, she rushed over and inserted herself between them.
“Oh, I cannot bear the suspense,” Gemma said behind her. “What is happening? What is happening?”
“Lady Churchill has come to join them.”
“Has she? How delicious. Pray, may I look?”
Maggie, unwilling to tear her gaze away just yet, went on watching. The women were embroiled in an open-mouthed kiss whilst the footman had slipped a hand under the skirts of Lady Churchill, who, in turn, was squeezing Lady Fitzhardinge’s breast with one hand whilst teasing her cunny with the other.
Maggie, highly excited by what she saw, now regretted not having thought to bring her new Love Bird along. How she would like to hammer Gemma from behind as she watched the scene within unfold.
“Let me see! Let me see! You must not horde all the delights for yourself.”
Maggie, now possessed of an idea, readily gave up the peephole to her friend. Moving away, she fumbled in the dark in search of anything she might employ in the manner of a godemiché. A candlestick or even an unburnt candle might due for her purposes. Unfortunately, much to her frustration, she could locate nothing of the sort in the blackness.
Her spirits rose when she stumbled upon a crate of wine bottles. Taking one out, she wiped off the dust and fingered the neck, which was thickly covered in sealing wax. A smile curled her lips as she turned toward her friend, whose eye was still pressed to the peephole.
“What are they doing now?”
“The footman and Lady Fitzhardinge are disrobing Lady Churchill. She is down to her shift and stockings, and her thighs are spread wide, exposing all her secrets to my view.”
“Do be a friend and describe what you see in greater detail.”
“Describe Lady Churchill’s cunny, do you mean?”
“Precisely. After The School of Venus, I should think you’d have no trouble crafting a description worthy of Shakespeare.”
“I fear you overestimate my literary abilities, but I shall do my best. For starters, her hair down there is fair, like yours, but her cunny pales in comparison. Her inner lips are much larger and, where you are pale pink, she is a dusky shade of rosy brown.”
“Go on. You are doing splendidly.”
“I cannot, for that part of her is now hidden behind Lady Fitzhardinge’s head.”
“Oh? And where is the gentleman?”
“On the opposite side of the chaise with his cock in Lady Churchill’s mouth.”
Her narration sent a quiver through Maggie, who still gripped the wine bottle with illicit intent.
Gemma turned, letting the light come through the peephole. “What are
you doing, duchess?
“Looking for something to fuck you with—unless you’d rather I did not.”
“I’d rather you did,” she said excitedly, “especially if you allow me to go on watching.”
“I gather from your request that you find watching as provoking as do I?”
“Indeed I do. So provoking, in fact, that my cunny is trembling and my maidenhair is damp with the juices of my arousal.”
That was all Maggie needed to hear. Bottle in hand, she returned to Gemma and lifted her many layers of petticoats. “Spread your legs wide and tell me everything you spy whilst I see to you.”
Maggie pushed the neck of the bottle into Gemma, who did not overstate her wetness. Maggie’s nether regions were equally dewy with desire. As she worked the bottle in and out, Gemma moaned and rolled her hips.
“What are they doing now? Tell me everything you see. Leave out not the minutest of details.”
“They have changed postures. Now, the viscountess is lying lengthwise upon the couch whilst Lady Churchill, now as naked as the other two, straddles her mouth. Meanwhile, the young gentleman is standing betwixt Lady Fitzhardinge’s widespread legs with his tarse in his grip. Now he is moving closer to the target; now he is raising her knees; now drawing aside her nether-lips; and now lodging his phallus—by means of several ardent thrusts—inside her cunt. He now withdraws his weapon, wets it with spittle, and re-enters, with the ease of a sword being sheathed to the hilt. Now he is thrusting with more ardor and speed. Meanwhile, Lady Fitzhardinge’s fingers are pressing into her friend’s pale thighs quite hard enough to leave marks. Lady Churchill, however, appears unbothered by the assault; on the contrary, she looks to be in raptures.”
Maggie, experiencing raptures of her own, worked the neck of the bottle in and out of Gemma’s cunny. “And what of the handsome young footman? Is he in ecstasy as well?”
“He is, but his joys are more reserved. He releases naught but broken murmurs and sighs as he thrusts into her with vigor. Fortunately, they are positioned in such a way as to give me an excellent view of his glistening shaft as he slides in and out of her. God, but he is thick. How I should like to have a go with him myself.”
