by C P Waterman
“I never realised they might have a commercial value.”
“May I ask you why you drew them? Are you… stimulated by watching two men being intimate with each others’ bodies?”
She blushed.
He sensed her embarrassment. “Of course it does. I am sorry, but I had no right to ask you that. Although I was tired when I came to bed, I must confess that the revelation of your artistic flair has forced me wide awake.”
“And your discovery of my secret has had a similar effect on me.”
“Now let us put you to the test, my dear. Would you sketch me naked, now? But you must give me another face. It must be nobody you know, and nobody famous. Can you do that?”
“I shall try. But let me sketch myself first, using that large mirror over there. I have an idea.” She rose from the bed and took the mirror from the wall; she stood it upright against the back of a chair. Then, sitting on the edge of the bed, she picked up her sketchpad and a pencil and began.
Impatient to see what pose she had adopted, he stood and walked over to the mirror. He turned, and looked down at her. She was leaning back, her legs open, and her free hand was placed close to her slit as if she were about to masturbate. “Ye gods!” he exclaimed. “That is sublimely provocative!”
“This is only the first half of my composition. Notice that I’m only using the right-hand half of the page. Your portrait will go there, on the left-hand side. And your body will appear equally stimulated. Well, it ought to arouse me - a woman - at least.”
“And… when you have finished it… may I have it?”
“No, Sir Richard. I think it would make a fitting gift for you to pass to Mr Darcy. He and his wife kindly gave me some very happy days at Pemberley, and this can be my repayment for their generosity. But they must never know that I created it.”
Through the mirror, she noticed he still stood behind her, looking down at her sketch came to life; his penis was semi-erect, and came to rest on the side of her neck by her bare shoulder. It was warm, and she turned to kiss its tip. He sighed at her touch.
“Now I must get on. No more distractions. Otherwise this will never get finished.”
He moved away, and said nothing for nearly two minutes as he continued watching her progress. But he could not stay silent for too long. “You have yet to put a face on the figure,” he said.
“I know,” she replied. “Do you have any suggestions? How about your aunt - Lady Catherine - as she might have appeared in her younger days? She is Mr Darcy's aunt too, so perhaps he might also appreciate it when he sees it.”
He roared with laughter. “I think you should assign a face of someone who might easily get lost in a crowd,” he suggested. “Just in case the picture were to fall into the wrong hands.”
She complied, and drew a face from memory: one of the maids in her old home. She was tempted to draw a likeness of Sarah, the maid at Pemberley who had snatched a glance through some pages of her sketchbook. But, since she was aware that Sir Richard had enjoyed intimacy with the servant in his chamber the previous evening, she would not wish to embarrass him now.
She worked quickly, and soon finished the first half of the picture. “And now, Sir Richard, I need to draw you.”
“How do you wish me to pose?” he asked.
“I want you kneeling on the bed, looking straight ahead; if you can open your mouth as if you were in concentration, that would add to the impact of the scene I want to present. And I want you to caress your penis. I want you to get it hard and thick again.”
Since he was posing now, he had no opportunity to view Charlotte’s progress with the picture. But she was able to capture the scene perfectly. She decided to provide the figure with the face of a young man he had once known at Meryton; the final feature on the figure – when she had finished everything else – would be the genitalia. By the time she had started to draw his penis, she hoped that Sir Richard would have been pleasuring himself long enough to provide her with a generous erection to depict. “I'm getting impatient now,” he said. “How is it coming along?”
“I've nearly finished,” she answered. “You'll have to be patient a little longer. Can you take your fist off your erection now, please? I want to record every detail. You can hold the shaft at the root between two fingers to keep him upright.” She took one last look at her work and turned to Sir Richard. “You can relax now,” she smiled.
He stretched out on the bed, leaning on one elbow, and looked at the picture that she held up before him. A wall separated the two subjects; the man was watching the woman masturbating through a hole in the wall while he was fondling himself into a state of arousal. “That, my dear, is perfect. You have a vivid imagination and I am sure that Mr Darcy will love this. I only wish we could have had it framed before we give it to him.”
She noticed that he had his fingers curled round his erection once more, and had unconsciously begun masturbating again. She felt stimulated at the sight of his arousal, and she began stroking her bud. When he noticed her actions, he worked harder on himself; his face stiffened and became red as he held his breath in concentration. She moved into a position opposite him, opening her thighs so that he could have a better view.
They continued facing each other in silence, working themselves into a frenzy; the fact that they had entered into an unspoken agreement to watch - but not to touch - only heightened their desire. She felt a surge of passion in her; her knees began trembling, and she knelt down on the floor to get more comfortable.
Her finger worked faster on her private parts, and the intensity of her ardour soon overcame her with such a power that she had not known before she first met Sir Richard at Pemberley. Juice trickled from within her, and slowly ran down her thighs.
“It’s almost as if you’re ejaculating, like a man,” he gasped, still stroking himself . “I’ve watched some ladies do it before, but never this closely.”
“This has never happened to me before,” she confessed. “I’m not sure whether to be enthralled or ashamed.”
“Don’t you ever feel ashamed of what we’re doing. You’ll never -” With that, he reached his own orgasm and she watched his semen spurt from him with greater strength, having been stimulated at the sight of her own secretion.
They lay side-by-side on the bed, reflecting on the magic they had wrought together. “I think we’ve done enough for tonight,” she said. “We have to go home in the morning, and I’d like an early start.”
“But you will draw a picture for me one day, won’t you? One similar to the one you’ve done here, the gift for Darcy?”
“Yes. I promise. I don’t know when, but I shall do it. For your eyes alone.” She gave him a peck on the cheek, and snuffed out the candle by the bed.
The following morning, after a light breakfast, Sir Richard paid the landlord for their board; their luggage was loaded and the coachman set off for the final leg of the journey. The coach would stop first at the parsonage at Hunsford to discharge Charlotte before continuing to Sir Richard’s home at Oakhurst. Before she had set out for Pemberley, Charlotte had told her housekeeper that she was visiting a friend, but avoided going into any detail. And now, homeward bound, she did not relish returning to her usual routine after her cathartic sojourn with Sir Richard, Elizabeth and Darcy. It had given her a glimpse of how her life could have been lived if circumstances had been different.
“Welcome home, madam,” her housekeeper greeted her as soon as she arrived. “There’s a letter for you from the master. It arrived by express this morning.”
Sir Richard remained inside the carriage, out of sight from Charlotte’s servants while the coachman brought down her luggage from the vehicle. Charlotte broke the seal of the letter and unfolded it quickly.
Whilst at the conference, Mr Collins had met an old friend from his days at Oxford and he had been invited to stay with him at his rectory at Hythe for a few days. They would travel together straight to Hythe as soon as the conference was over. He had arrang
ed for a retired parson in the next village to preach at Sunday’s service, and would expect to return home in five or six days’ time. She sought out her housekeeper to convey this news, but was told that the master had also written to her, advising her of his change of plan.
Charlotte whispered a curse. On an impulse, when the housekeeper had gone inside the house again, she turned to Sir Richard and explained the situation.
“Why don’t you come down to Oakhurst and stay with me for a few days? The house is nowhere near as grand as Pemberley - nor as pretentious as Lady Catherine’s Rosings - but I can promise to make you happy while you’re there.”
“Wait a moment. I shall have to speak to my housekeeper.”
As she returned inside the house, her mind raced to rehearse what she would say to explain her sudden departure again. She knew the servants spoke regularly to the members of Lady Catherine’s household, and the noble Lady would certainly have something to say when she heard about it. And an unfavorable gloss on the situation would be presented to Mr Collins on his return.
“This is all very unexpected,” she began. “I have received an invitation from another of Lady Catherine’s relatives to spend a few days with them. To be precise, they are her late husband’s kinsfolk, the Waldens.”
“Ah, yes,” the housekeeper replied. “I have heard of them. Not quite nobility… but a refined family, nonetheless. I’ll have your luggage loaded back on the coach. Is there anything else you need to take, madam?”
Charlotte thought quickly. Her sketchbook was almost full with the pictures she had drawn whilst at Pemberley; she had a new book somewhere in the house, but she did not want to waste time now trying to find it. She would purchase another one from a stationers in Canterbury tomorrow: one that she would fill with nothing but erotic drawings of Sir Richard.
Once her luggage was loaded on to the coach again, they moved off to Oakhurst. “It’s a modest little place,” he reminded her. “But it’s home.”
She kept an open mind; was this false modesty, or was it really a tumbledown pile? They arrived within another hour, and she beheld the unassuming charm of the building as soon as it came into view when they turned off the road to follow the track leading up to the front facade. It was early Georgian, she guessed, and its brickwork was greying with age, but she could appreciate its grandeur when it was first built; it was symmetrical, with the main entrance at the centre. There were three storeys, each containing six windows on either side. And, on closer inspection as they drove along the track, it was obvious that the gardens needed some attention.
“Here we are, my dear,” he said, alighting first from the carriage to help her down. A liveried footman opened the front door as they walked up the steps.
“This is Mrs. Collins, the wife of the Reverend Collins, rector at Hunsford and a good friend of my aunt, the Lady Catherine,” he announced to the footman. “She will be staying here for a few days.”
The footman bowed, and proceeded to organize the unloading of the luggage from the coach. “Where shall we put Mrs. Collins’ possessions, sir?” he asked.
“She can take the orange chamber,” Sir Richard replied. Turning to Charlotte, he said, “I do hope you like the room, but if it doesn’t meet your taste, please let me know and I can easily find you somewhere else.”
Sir Richard had a word with the coachman; he suggested he spend the remainder of the day here, to rest the horses, and return with the coach - which Darcy kindly had lent him - the following day. Then he returned his attention to Charlotte, and took her upstairs to show her the chamber he had selected for her use. She was very impressed; it looked over the garden, and she noticed some woodland area on the right hand side. Unlike Pemberley, it had no lake. But, other than that shortcoming, the general impression was favourable to the eye.
“I am assigning you a maid to look after your personal needs,” he said. “Her name is Sally, and I will have her introduce herself to you shortly. In the meantime, if there is anything you need, just pull the bell cord by the bed. Now I must go and supervise my own unpacking.”
For the first time since she left Pemberley, she was quite alone. She began to wonder what the servants at the parsonage would be saying about her absence from the house. She did not really care; such wonderful things were happening in her life – wonderful things which would come to an end soon – and she had to seize every opportunity to enjoy herself. For, when her husband returned, she knew she would live years in a humdrum existence where she was trying to avoid close contact with him whenever possible.
For form’s sake, they would dine together, but they ate in total silence, ignoring each other's presence. And, at bed time, he would lie beside her at night and, once he had stroked his penis into an erection, he rolled his body upon hers and would take his husband's rights. She had already come to accept this routine and could see no escape from it; she had adopted an attitude of calm acceptance.
There was a knock on the door, and a young maid walked in. She curtsied and introduced herself; she was the girl Sally that Sir Richard had assigned to her. Charlotte seized her sketchbook and pencils from her trunk, and allowed Sally to empty the remainder of its contents. She watched as the maid worked quickly and efficiently in silence.
“How long have you worked for Sir Richard?” she asked.
“Not long, madam,” she replied. “I used to work for Mr Darcy at Pemberley. But, when he married, he suggested to me that Sir Richard might needed my services. And here I am.”
“Do you miss life at Pemberley? Working in such a grand house?”
“I enjoy working for Sir Richard. He is such an agreeable master. Is there anything else, madam?”
“No, thank you, Sally. That will be all for now.”
Sally curtsied and left the room. Charlotte decided that she would go downstairs and wait for Sir Richard; she was hoping that he might show her round his house and the grounds.
As soon as she reached the hall at the bottom of the grand staircase, a footman appeared out of nowhere and approached her. “May I help you, madam?”
“Can you tell me where I might find Sir Richard?” she asked.
“I think you’ll find him in the library, madam. Please follow me.” He led her through three connecting chambers - the sitting room, the music room and, finally, they reached the door to the library. The footman knocked softly on the door and opened it; without looking into the room, he swept his arm wide to invite her to enter.
Sir Richard was sitting at his desk, his attention absorbed in a range of pictures spread in front of him. She recognised them straight away: they were her own sketches of the intimate scenes she had drawn at Pemberley, with him and Darcy in a variety of erotic poses. He did not appear to have noticed her entry into the library. She was about to clear her throat to announce her presence when she realised his arms appeared to be fidgeting; his hands, hidden under the desk, were busy in some activity. Then she realised that he was masturbating.
Not sure what to do, she sat down in a chair by the wall and continued watching him. He was holding his breath, his face becoming red with excitement as he anticipated his approaching orgasm.
Charlotte felt stimulated at this unforeseen spectacle; there was a stirring in her crotch, and she had to place her hand quickly on her private parts to subdue any possibility of arousal. But her middle finger had come to rest hard on her bud, and it intensified her libido. She needed to suppress herself, in case he noticed her….
Suddenly, he began to gasp and then shot to his feet; the drop flap of his breeches was open, and he was grasping his thick erection. He had still not noticed Charlotte, watching from the side of the room. He caressed himself for a few moments more, then grunted as he ejaculated on the desk, carefully avoiding the pictures on display which had induced his brain into this orgy of passion.
She watched him come, the initial droplets of his semen shooting far out to the other side of the desk, and then the subsequent issue dribbled down from the h
ead of his penis. Once he had discharged his load, he collected his thoughts and looked round for something to wipe up the cream deposits.
“Would you like to use my handkerchief?” she smiled confidently, and rose from her chair, pulled out the soft white cloth from inside her sleeve and handed it to him.
He blushed. “You… you were sitting there, watching me?” He took the handkerchief and mopped up his seed before securing the drop flap on his breeches.
She nodded, and lowered her head in shame.
The silence between them was broken by a knock on the door. The footman entered.
“Excuse me, sir. An express letter has just arrived.” He handed it to Sir Richard, who broke the seal and unfolded it.
He scanned it quickly and dismissed the footman before turning to Charlotte. “It’s from Darcy. He wrote it only a couple of hours after we left Pemberley yesterday. Remember we thought our aunt, Lady Catherine, had left the house? She had given us the impression that she was returning to Rosings. But she changed her mind, and went to visit some other friends overnight. Then, yesterday - not long after we’d left - she arrived at Pemberley again, expecting me to escort her and cousin Anne in her coach back to Rosings this morning.”
Charlotte said nothing; she knew that Lady Catherine had a habit of keeping everyone on their toes.
Sir Richard continued. “And now, this morning, Darcy is accompanying her in her coach to Rosings instead. Once he has seen her settled, he is riding on here, to Oakhurst, to see me… to pick up his coach, which we borrowed to return here, and to take the pictures that I purchased yesterday on his behalf.”
“I do not think it would be a good idea for me to remain here a moment longer. If he were to see me, and mention it to Liza, then my reputation in society would collapse…”
“Nonsense, my dear. I would expect Darcy to arrive late this afternoon, and he won’t stay long. There are plenty of places here where you can hide. Besides, there is so much more that I’d like us to do together.”