by Noelle Mack
I nodded, thinking I would have to be careful not to trigger Anne's obvious jealousy again. "You did not tell me the name of the girl who was looking for work."
"Corinne. She was with me when I bought my portfolio and she bought one as well."
Quinn's model—so the St. Giles's address was hers. The link had escaped me. Mr. Martin had scribbled her name, no doubt distracted by Corinne's snow-white prettiness. "Why?"
Anne shot me an impatient look. "A girl may go where she pleases in London."
"I mean, why did she buy the portfolio?"
"Not for the sake of art," was Anne's crisp reply. "She wanted to try out the poses and see if she could make more money at a different sort of modeling."
"I am not sure what you mean."
"Emma Hamilton posed naked upon tables for dukes and earls and managed to marry one, to say nothing of bedding Lord Nelson. I suppose Corinne thinks she can do the same thing. If she becomes famous she can even look abroad for a peer. It seems to be quite the thing to do."
"I see." But I didn't, not quite.
Anne sighed. "It doesn't matter. I am so tired of the silliness of young women. They seem to have no idea how soon their looks will go, yet that is all they think of."
I was not sure whether I could find out anything useful from her. It was madness to expect her to want to help Xavi. I should not have even mentioned the matter of the portfolio.
It was impossible to blame her for being upset, even if she had been the one to tell me to go before she ever knew about Xavi.
Anne sat for some minutes in silence, I having decided to let her direct the conversation.
"I did see the reproduction of the portrait," she said at last. "In this business we sometimes have to make conversation while clients are waiting—dear God, how I detest it!—and someone mentioned what a stir it was causing. I suppose the original was even more lovely?"
"It was. It may even be Quinn's masterpiece."
"And where is it now?"
The question was reasonable but for some reason it startled me. "Why—her husband has it, I suppose."
"I have always found it disconcerting," she said dryly, "to look at a portrait and the person who sat for it at the same time."
"Why is that?"
"Because they are so different. The artist paints away all ugliness and presents the person as an ideal."
"Xavi's portrait looks exactly like her."
"Then she can consider herself lucky. Obviously she is perfect to begin with."
"Not at all."
"Is she smiling in it?"
"Not exactly."
"Those vague half-smiles." She shuddered. "I think that artists get them all out of the same book."
"An odd observation but quite possibly true."
Anne relaxed a little. "In any case, Quinn is the best portrait painter in London. Far better than that filthy Fotheringay."
The back of my neck tingled. Something about the disdain in her voice when she mentioned Quinn's rival told me she knew him very well indeed. "So you have met him too?"
"Of course. He comes here often. He does have money and there is not a vice the man does not have. He drinks, he whores, he gambles—"
I had to laugh. "Anything else?"
"He will tell you as much himself." She seemed exasperated. "Can I not speak freely to you, Edward? You and I have known each other for so long—well, the less said about that, the better."
I was silent for a little while. The delicate balance of our relationship was swinging wildly. But if I could get her to tell me something about Fotheringay, it might prove very useful.
"Tell me, Anne—do you think he could have done the etchings of Xavi?"
"Do you mean the naughty ones?"
"Yes."
She made a wry face. "Well, he does hold orgies in his studio. But rolling around with lots of bodies doesn't mean you can draw one."
I laughed. "I think it would make it very difficult to do."
"Edward, why are you asking me about all this? What does it matter who did the drawings? She is not named—who will care?
I reached out and stroked her tumbling hair. Pleading Xavi's case at this point seemed like a tactless thing to do. "I just think Fotheringay might have done them, if only to make Quinn look bad."
"Hra. An interesting point."
I agreed with a nod. "And if another set of engravings like that appears, and Fotheringay is responsible—"
"He could probably get her husband to kill Quinn and have him sent to the gallows."
"Xavi would not cry."
"Oho." She patted my cheek. "Is she that heartless?"
"Anne, you know what I mean."
She stood and stretched. "I think I do. Well, I will give you my set back and I can give you his address. He is not that easy to find sometimes."
"I have it. But I do appreciate your thoughtfulness, Anne."
"How nice of you to say so. And now, my dear friend—"
That was the first time she had referred to me that way. It stung far more than her playful slap.
"So is it friendship now?"
"You will find that it lasts longer."
"Oh, Anne..."
"Do not sigh." She flung off her robe and pulled the gown underneath over her head. Anne stood before proudly naked. "We can be lovers for another hour."
"Thank you," I whispered.
We hurried through Soho, ducking through narrow alleyways that I never would have let her walk down alone, our way lit by a link-boy with a torch. It sputtered but we went on. A steady drizzle turned the stones of the houses slick and unpleasantly cold to the touch.
It was a dreary change from the cozy bed we had abandoned to come here. I had not wanted her to go out and was struggling to hold an umbrella over us both, but Anne was eager to walk, hoping to get to the streets with brightly lit shop windows in time to look her fill. Many stayed open well after dark to attract the custom of theatergoers digesting their cheap supper after the play.
Walking after dark was a new habit of hers. Evidently she had heeded my advice about her house becoming a prison. She dragged me from one window to another, shopping without spending money. The hubbub on the streets was comforting. It was a sound into which one could disappear if one wanted, enveloped by it and the darkness. Even during the day Soho was shadowy and people here knew better than to look at each other for too long.
We passed by the chophouse where I had met Thomas but we did not go in. When the rain came down, the artists left their chilly studios and headed for the gregarious warmth of the taverns. Fotheringay was bound to be in one or another of them.
I had no plans to confront him, thinking only that an introduction might make him less guarded. He had undoubtedly seen me with Quinn, his archrival in his trade, more than once. Finally Anne stopped on Romilly Street, at a sign proclaiming the public house below it, built below ground level. The entryway held a puddle of dirty water and a wobbly stone to step upon, which she did, hoisting her skirts nearly to her knees. She entered in this way, to loud huzzas from the men gathered inside.
"Annie!"
"Come, please sit with us! Here is a chair!"
This polite fellow had his nose mashed in by the hand of a more enthusiastic admirer, who braced himself on the other man's face and waved to Anne.
"No! Sit on me lap!" he yelled.
"I will sit on the table," she said diplomatically.
"Move down! Make room for Anne's arse!"
I took the men at the table for artists, recognizing the paint under their fingernails and generally wild-eyed demeanor as the hallmarks of the breed. She perched upon the cleared space and leaned back on her hands.
"Anne, I have given up painting to become a writer and, ah, I wrote a story," said a shabby fellow. "Shall I read it? It is dedicated to you."
She wrinkled her nose. "What kind of story?"
"A filthy, dirty, funny story."
The men roared with laughter.
<
br /> "Huzza!"
"Read away, Diggory!"
Diggory pulled out several sheets of paper from his patched overcoat and cleared his throat. "Sweets For The Sweets, or, The Cook's Story."
The waiter approaching the table put his tray under his arm and stopped to listen. The shabby man nodded to him and began to read again.
"My conscience is always clear but then I am a pastry cook. Temptation is my stock in trade. Gwen was a tempting morsel, as fluffy as whipped cream. If I chose to dally with her, it would not involve penetration of her cunny or her mouth, a necessary precaution against the great pox."
One of the men interrupted him. "Is this a filthy story or a physician's tract?"
Diggory replied with severity, "A filthy story." He cleared his throat and resumed reading.
No, we would but fondle one another to climax and be done with it in a few minutes, no more grave a sin than I had committed many times. The thought of Gwen lying back upon the bed, bared to my view, her dress pulled up and her legs spread wide was tempting. I could simply ask her to play with herself while I watched closely, or have her put some big thing into her cunny and give herself a very good fucking with it.
Once out of the kitchen, Gwen requested that I put her down so she could lead the way. Feeling oddly merry (I had stolen a bottle of wine from the butler) and having—most unwisely—set aside all thought of the wedding cake I was supposed to be icing, I followed her up the stairs.
I wondered if there were other women upstairs, and whether they might be persuaded to join us, then chided myself for being greedy.
Gwen would do very nicely. She had her dress in hand and was lifting it a fraction of an inch with each step up. By the second floor, I was running my hands over her smooth thighs, by the third, her naked arse—but only for a moment.
Nimble and light on feet shod in heeled slippers of silk, she stayed just ahead of me, not permitting me full liberties with her flesh. She was an expert tease, bringing the folds of her dress down a little and snugly wrapping the material around the fine buttocks I had just glimpsed. Round and firm, they were working as hard as her pumping legs to get her up the steep stairs ahead of me.
She stopped suddenly, pulled her dress to her waist again, and I stumbled, unable to keep from pushing my face against her naked bottom. Such soft skin and so yielding! Gwen laughed and looked over her shoulder as I regained my balance. "You are impudent, sir!'
"I am impudent? Why, you—"
She scampered up and away, keeping her dress at her waist. Ah, if there is anything more delicious than a pretty woman half-dressed, slowly revealing her bare behind, I do not know what it is. My cock was ready to poke through my apron. I would have taken her upon the stairs, so great was my lust.
Gwen reached the door of a chamber and went in. I followed eagerly, wanting only to throw her down and have my fun. Without my noticing, she had undone her bodice too on the way upstairs, and her breasts were as bare as her arse. They were a magnificent sight, large and full, heavier than I had expected.
Wicked thoughts assailed my intoxicated mind—thoughts of tying her arms over her head so that the twin globes would look larger still, their long pink nipples jutting out. I might suck upon them to my heart's content and she could not stop me.
Squeezing my cock through my apron, I waited breathlessly for her to undress all the way. Ripping it off would have been faster, but girls like Gwen seldom had more than one dress. Even a whore deserved gentlemanly consideration. And waiting only made desire stronger.
She made quick work of shedding her clothes, pirouetting before me wearing only the heeled silk slippers and a black ribbon around her neck. "What is your pleasure, sir? "
"To tie you up," I growled, and mentioned a few other amusements I had in mind that would not involve my cock in her. She seemed clean and sweet, to be sure, but I wished to leave without a case of clap to remember her by.
Gwen mentally added up the cost of my requests and directed me to place the sum within the drawer of a small table by the bed. I withdrew the pouch in which I kept my money, and did as she asked... delighted to see just the sort of big rod I had imagined her sticking into herself inside the drawer.
The object lay in a satin-lined box. Made of ivory, it had a leather surround at its base attached to a leather pouch that was not unlike the one in which I kept my money.
I winked at her and picked it up. Instead of golden guineas, the pouch held heavy balls that moved within it, larger than any man's. I noticed that the leather cuff had been pierced in four places, no doubt for the thin leather straps that were still in the box.
"The women in the house like to use it upon each other," she explained. "It ties on, you see."
Stepping her legs apart, she traced her fingers over her hips and down between her thighs.
"I should like to see it on you," I said. The intoxication caused by the two glasses of wine had not worn off, and Gwen's open-legged stance was only intensifying it. Not quite dizzy, I was nonetheless not myself. "Very well," I heard her reply.
Gwen took the dildo from me and picked up the straps from the box, unrolling them with a flick of her wrist. The tip of her tongue licked her lips, which I captured for a moment in a kiss, clasping her to me and roughly fondling her arse. Pressed to my chest, she nearly dropped the thing in her hands, but surrendered to my embrace after a moment.
I let her go and removed my own clothes. My usual method for a fast fuck—lowering my breeches and lifting my apron, without bothering to remove my clogs, would make too brisk a business of this interlude. No, I wished to stay a while, and be a naked Adam to her Eve in this garret Paradise. The little room was papered with a flower-strewn pattern that suggested as much.
I watched while she set the dildo on the bed, neatly attaching the first three straps and working on the fourth.
"Do you need my assistance?" I asked, amused by her thoughtful concentration upon the task.
"No, sir—there. It is ready."
Gwen kneeled upon the bed and picked up the ivory cock, letting it dangle in front of her while she tied the top two straps around her waist. I could hear the balls clicking faintly inside the pouch. It was clear that the thick leather was meant to soften their swing against intimate flesh.
She drew the other two straps between her legs, nonchalantly setting the rod in place, and pulled them over her buttocks, fastening them to the waist strap from behind.
"I see you have done this before," I said.
"Yes. Few men are so large and we do enjoy it." For the first time, she looked downward at my member and smiled. "But you measure up, sir."
I shrugged. My cock was long and thick, true, but the one she was sporting was an inch longer. Still, the sight of her wearing it was exciting. All I could think of was how it would look to see her thrusting into another woman in every possible position.
"Shall I get one of my friends—"
It was as if she had read my mind, but then the thoughts and emotions of a man about to have sex are as naked as he is.
"No," I said. My imagination would have to do for this brief romp, I told myself. "But get on all fours. I want to see how it hangs."
"Certainly."
She obliged me and put her head down upon her folded arms. I looked my fill at her womanly arse, excited by the thin straps that cut into her skin a little, and intrigued by the sight of balls dangling between female thighs. I reached down and made the leather pouch swing until it touched the ivory cock.
Gwen murmured her encouragement. I played with the cock part too, judging its heft. It was cool to the touch but the ivory would quickly take on the heat of the cunny it penetrated as it was slid in and out.
I let go of it and fondled her breasts, hot and full, swaying beneath her. Her nipples were extraordinarily long, as if an infant had been suckling them. Did she have a child? I stroked her belly, which was soft and giving. Perhaps she had. Women in her profession did not tend
to mention their offspring to clients.
"Do you not want another girl with me, sir? Are you quite sure?"
I could not contain my curiosity. My reputation as a cook was well-deserved and the mere promise of being stuffed with sweets had tempted many into my bed. I had enjoyed two women at once many times, but as it happened, I had never seen one woman fuck another with anything but fingers and tongue. "No—I mean yes." Desire had taken over.
Gwen got up, her strap-on bouncing, and went to the door. She used it to shield her nakedness as she called softly. Someone female answered at once and in short order another woman came into the room, letting a robe of fine silk slip from her shoulders.
Her hair was dark red, impossibly long, and it flowed over her white skin like a waterfall of fire. The curls upon her cunny matched it. She was a beauty indeed. She only nodded to me in greeting, led quickly to the bed by Gwen.
"Lie down, Jane."
The redhead did.
"And lift your legs high and spread them, so the cook may see."
This she also did, using slender white fingers to open her red-fringed cunny.
"I want your big rod, Gwennie," she said softly. "All the way inside me."
"And you shall have it." Gwen turned to look at me and smiled. "Shall I tie her ankles and give her a good banging, sir?"
"By all means."
"She does like it deep."
The woman on the bed looked from my cock to Gwen's. "I would like to be fucked by both of you in turn."
Gwen clasped her friend's ankles with swift strength and lifted her slightly off the bed. The other woman stayed that way, her ankles crossed and her cunny squeezed between her thighs as Gwen bent down to spank the redhead's bottom very hard and repeatedly.
"You are not giving the orders here, Jane."
"No, Gwennie," she whispered. "I must not—oh!"
Gwen redoubled the pleasurable punishment. The other woman's legs tensed but she kept them up and kept her bare bottom where Gwen could get at it, clearly enjoying the stinging slaps. "More! " she cried. "Ah, give me more! "
As suddenly as she had begun the spanking, Gwen stopped. "No. Move back. Put your arse in the middle of the bed. You will get more later."
Thus persuaded, the redhead moved to the middle, watching as Gwen took scarves from a basket near the table. She wrapped each of the other woman's ankles with one, leaving long ends. Then she tied Jane's legs far apart, using the rails at either end of the bed so the taut scarves would not interfere, I surmised, with the fucking she was about to do.