One Wicked Night

by Noelle Mack

  "Go on," Xavi whispered.

  "Your nipples can take more." I pressed without pinching, harder and harder. "She is going to tie your nipples to her own. Close your eyes."

  Alas, the flat small ones on my own chest could not stand up and make the fantasy real. But my voice and the repeated pres­sure from my fingers holding her nipples seemed quite effec­tive.

  I let go and caressed her breasts, moving my hands in light circles over the nipples I had made so sensitive.

  "Those are her breasts brushing against yours." I took hold of her nipples again, pressing precisely upon each. "Hers are as erect as yours."

  "Mmmm . . . oh. Oh oh oh."

  To my delight, Xavi was very close to climax.

  I rolled her nipples vigorously, then pressed very hard for the last time. "Your nipples are tied to hers ... it feels so good ..."

  Then I let go, grabbed the brush and gave the dildo in her behind a firm, final tap. The bulb snugged up against her arse-hole and she swayed, ready to faint with pleasure, all filled up by the thick rod. I reached down and spanked her pussy gen­tly—one, two, three!—rotating the dildo as I did.

  Xavi cried out and came in my hand, rubbing frantically and squirting her juices into my palm with every contraction of her cunny.

  "Screwed and spanked and tied," I breathed into her ear. "How good it feels." A second climax, stronger than the first, began. She went wild and it took all my concentration to do her cunny and arsehole for this one, lightly spanking the first and turning the creamed rod around in the second.

  "Oh! Oh! Oh!" she screamed. I held her at last, absorbing some of the intense sensations she was experiencing with my own body. I felt a sudden wetness between us and I shook all over. She grabbed my arse and held on.

  I had come without knowing it, so aroused had I been by our rough play.

  And we had never even finished counting.

  I awoke some hours later to see moonlight streaming across the bed. Christ. Xavi was still with me and there would be hell to pay when Diego discovered she was gone. But it was too late now. She smiled in her sleep, and threw her arm across my chest. What had I done?

  I had lost my temper at her, and the result had brought us both intense pleasure. It was as if her reckless mood had merged with my own upon her arrival, redoubling our willingness to risk a night together.

  Her full lips parted as she breathed in and out, as peacefully as a child. I put a finger to them and she woke.

  "Where am I?"

  Her lifted head turned from side to side, trying to make sense of her surroundings.

  "In my room. In my house."

  "Oh, no," she breathed.

  I pulled her back. "We will figure something out."

  She nestled against my chest, playing a little with the fine hair upon it. "Are you drunk?"

  "No."

  "Then you must be insane."

  "Possibly."

  "How am I going to get home? In a balloon?"

  "Explain where your bedroom is, and give me an idea of the outside of your house."

  "It is in the back. Diego never comes to me."

  I blew out a breath. "Well, that is in our favor."

  "My maid will help. She hates him. He has tried to molest her."

  "Good. But right now we must act alone."

  Xavi patted me and struggled to sit up, bunching the tangled sheets around her middle. "Not quite. I told her to sleep in my bed just in case."

  "Would he not punish her for her deception? What if he happened to come in?"

  "I told her to flash her cunny. That is all he cares about. She will have to endure his grunting and humping but it is better than being beaten."

  "She is remarkably loyal to you."

  Xavi's shoulders moved in a shrug. "I pay her well."

  I sat up too. "Even so."

  "You are right—forgive me for falling asleep—and forgive what I said to you."

  I kissed her in the middle of her forehead. "I have already forgotten it. There, you have a kiss to take home."

  "Is it magic?" she said wryly. "I need protection."

  "I am doing what I can, Xavi. There is no time to explain it all now."

  I hopped out of bed and jammed one leg and then the other in my breeches. Boots next, shirt, jacket. The strings of the shirt were untied and my chest hair showed.

  "You look like a highwayman," she said admiringly.

  "More like a madman, I should think."

  By providential luck, I got her inside before anyone saw us. The house was immense, with a stable in the back. She had me check there first.

  Don Diego's carriage was gone. Two lighter equipages were inside, but the space where the carriage had been was quite empty. The lantern that had been carelessly left lit showed wheel tracks in the scattering of straw—what one would expect to see, of course, but I wondered how recent they were. I took the lantern from its nail and bent down. It was impossible to determine but the stub of a cigarillo glowed amidst the particles of straw.

  "That is the carriage which brought us here from the docks," she said. "With all our worldly goods, it seemed."

  "Why would he use it to go out at night?"

  "I think that he is gone for longer than one night."

  "Then that is our great, good fortune. I will not have to hoist you up the trellis upon my shoulder."

  She smiled fondly. "My hero."

  "Your fool."

  We tiptoed up to her bedroom, finding the little maid where Xavi had said she would be. The girl rubbed her eyes and woke.

  "Where is he, Maggie?" Xavi asked.

  There seemed to be no question of who he was. Dominated as the household was by him, the women in it preserved a shred of dignity by not even honoring him with the title of master when he was not around.

  "He left for a week and took several of the servants with him. And a small woman with black hair and strange eyes."

  Kitty. So he was so bold as to bring a whore into his own house.

  All Xavi knew was that he had brought a woman she did not know here and away with him. It did not seem to surprise her. I assumed it had happened many times before.

  Xavi's infidelity seemed of no consequence whatever com­pared to his. However wild our sexual games became, they were a mutual exploration of pleasure for us both. She loved me and only me; her husband loved no one but himself. His over­weening pride and violent nature compelled him to act purely on instinct and never reason.

  Such were my thoughts as the maid said good-night and quietly padded away to her own attic chamber but not before I gave her a guinea for her trouble.

  "Very odd," I murmured.

  "No, it isn't. He has gone away before, but not like this, qui­etly in the night."

  "Why?"

  "There are several great ladies who find him thrilling. He is invited to country house parties and I am not."

  "You and I might have met more often, had I known."

  Xavi shook her head. "The time of his return could not be predicted. He hates to tell me where he is going or who he is seeing."

  She sat down upon her bed, smoothing the satin of its cover where the maid had wrinkled it. The ornate furnishings were of Spanish manufacture, richly carved and gilded, with an abun­dance of red everywhere.

  Even the wallpaper twisted and writhed, its florid velvet ex­hausting to the eye.

  I looked around and noticed no mementoes of the sort that women cherish, no little paintings of sisters and brothers or a mother and father.

  "Did you grow up in a house like this, Xavi?" She had never mentioned her family, only the convent.

  "No. My house was plain and small. And the convent where I was raised after the deaths of my mother and father was an austere place."

  "Tell me about it."

  "In a moment." She flung herself back into the pillows. "How strange it is to have you here, Edward. In one night we have seen where the other lives."

  "After months of meeting on the
sly, it is odd," I said. "At least this room is yours." The thought of Don Diego pressing her unwilling body down into this gorgeous bed was revolting.

  A dutiful wife would spread her legs and pray for a hasty ejaculation.

  In one corner stood a prie-dieu, the low stool upon which good Catholics petition God in velvet comfort, although there was no crucifix near it or anywhere else on the walls. The rosary with which she had been portrayed in Quinn's painting was nowhere in sight. I supposed she was not genuinely de­vout. No doubt Diego had requested that it appear.

  He was a blackguard, through and through, but mindful enough of the opinion of others to insist upon the appearance of piety.

  "Do you pray upon that little stool?" I asked her.

  "Yes. For his death."

  "Oh, Xavi..."

  "He used to make me kneel upon it for hours. I was sup­posed to look at him naked in front of me. If he wanted to fuck another woman in front of me, he did. If he wanted to jam his cock into my mouth and have me clean off her juices, he did that too."

  So much for kneeling before God. In this house Don Diego was the only god and a law unto himself.

  She hummed as if she didn't have a care in the world, had never cared, would never care. Her tone had been unemotional, so much so that I found it chilling. She was a very different per­son under her husband's roof, in some indefinable way his crea­ture. The man cast a long shadow.

  "And—and what did you do?"

  "I steeled myself to endure. Eventually he became bored and looked elsewhere."

  "Let us talk of happier things, Xavi. You said you would tell me of the convent."

  "Yes. We—we were strictly schooled." I took her slight hes­itation for a painful memory. "But I found some things beauti­ful. The chapel, for one—and the way the light came down from above. The garden that the nuns kept."

  The serenity of the picture painted by her words were so at odds with her glorious wantonness ... I could not comprehend how her nature had been formed in such a place.

  "And were you married there to Don Diego?"

  "Ah—yes." That memory must have been painful indeed. "A virgin bride of sixteen ... it seems like a very long time ago."

  I was taken aback. I had no idea of how old she was. "But you are now just..."

  "Twenty-three."

  "And Diego?"

  "Forty-six."

  "He seems younger. Quinn described him to me as an old goat, so I thought of him that way."

  She snorted. "He seems younger because he is pickled in spite. There is no blood in his veins. But he likes to see it flow from others."

  I was silent, remembering the fight. More and more, I felt it was my duty to rescue her from the brute. But how to do it and not be killed was a puzzle I was not yet ready to solve.

  "Are you safe in this house?" I said suddenly. "Is that bad?"

  I thought of how I had seen her at first, sitting for her por­trait, calm and utterly beautiful. Without the opportunity to meet in society, our passion had been intense, explosively so. The undercurrents I felt more and more now had not pulled so strongly at me then. And I had Anne, who simply loved me. And was honest when it was over. "Xavi—answer me."

  She seemed far away.

  "England is . . . better. I am not locked in my room here or followed by a duenna. Time moves much more slowly in a country like Spain. You live more slowly . . . and if I were there, I would die slowly too."

  I heard a noise—a rattling of wheels—and Xavi sprang from the bed. "He has returned!"

  I went to the window and opened it, seeing a hack go by over the cobblestones.

  "No. It is only a hired coach. But I cannot stay."

  “Then go.”

  She stayed where she was upon the pillows, her hastily donned clothes in a tangle about her.

  She was sulking again. Xavi could be highly sensual, sophis­ticated, provoking and childish by turns. The more I learned about her, the less I seemed to know. It had been a very odd night.

  "Good-night, my love." I leaned over her to kiss her cheek.

  "The trellis should hold you."

  Her matter-of-fact tone made it clear that she wanted to be left alone. I went to the window and opened it, then climbed down and got away.

  Eleven

  Quinn's return was a rowdy one. Rob had come round to tell me that his master was arriving at noon at the Hare and Bells and I made sure to be there. He clambered down from the coach with a pair of chickens under his arm in an openweave basket, clucking madly.

  "Chickens? Quinn, whatever were you thinking?" I asked.

  He winked. "I need them for a painting. I shall give Fotheringay a run for his money in the cottages-and-chickens line.

  "I am surprised you are not leading a cow on a tether." Miss Reynaud's timid voice made itself heard.

  "Thought of that. Couldn't get one in the coach."

  He handed me the basket of chickens and gave the copyist a mighty hug. Then he presented the birds to her. "For you, Miss Reynaud."

  "But I don't want them."

  He didn't seem to be listening. His ruddy face beamed with pleasure at seeing us all again.

  "And how are you, Edward? Still killing the ladies?"

  His choice of words was unfortunate but I managed to smile. We made an odd procession on the way back to his stu­dio, Rob laden down with bags and boxes, Miss Reynaud ex­changing beady-eyed stares with the chickens, and I carrying his rolled canvases.

  "You are a good sport, Eddie," he said. "For a nobleman, that is."

  I frowned at him but he only grinned back.

  "So how goes the great cunny hunt?" he whispered conspiratorially.

  "What?"

  "The etchings. Have you retrieved them all?"

  "No. More have appeared."

  His expression grew sober.

  "Really? Where? At Martin's again?"

  "No, in Soho, at another shop entirely."

  He kicked open the street door to his studio. "Hmm."

  We got through the business of dragging all his things up­stairs and Quinn sent Rob out for something to eat. He gave Miss Reynaud the rest of the day off, but she didn't leave.

  "What shall I do with the chickens?" she asked fretfully "I am not going to take them home."

  "Very well. Put them on the balcony for now. I will build them a box to live in. Perhaps they will lay eggs, eh, Miss Rey­naud? Lovely fresh eggs."

  "You have gone mad," she said. "The country did you no good at all."

  "Well, I was not there for my health, strictly speaking," he told her.

  I shot him a warning look.

  "I was there to paint pictures! Lovely, lovely pictures! Of chickens!" He gave me a maniacal smile.

  "Completely mad," Miss Reynaud said.

  She did eventually leave and Rob did too, once Quinn's be­longings and supplies were stowed away.

  "Now then. What the devil is going on?"

  "I found two—no, four of the portfolios." I had forgotten Anne and Corinne for a moment.” I think Fotheringay has one and you kept one. The last belongs to an address I have yet to visit."

  Quinn thought that over. "I thought Foth might have done them, though. Why would he buy his own?"

  "I don't know. I haven't asked the man."

  "But you must, Edward."

  "I followed him into a gambling den and was nearly burned alive."

  "Dear me. I had no idea that playing cards were so flamma­ble."

  "There was a fight. Someone knocked over a lamp.”

  He raised his eyebrows. "How exciting. I am sorry I missed it. But there I was, buried in the country."

  "I should think you would have buried your cock between a milkmaid's thighs."

  "I did. Several times." He guffawed and slapped his leg. "And you?"

  "Is this a fucking contest?"

  The idea intrigued him. "An excellent suggestion."

  I laughed—I had to. Quinn's good nature and common sense dispelled the t
urbulent emotions, good and bad, that I had been weathering. It was refreshing to see him. "Then we shall have one."

  "You won't," he scoffed. "You are far too much of a roman-tic.

  "You may be right."

  "Of course I am. Come, let me show you my paintings. I went around and persuaded the gentry that they needed paint­ings of the houses they lived in."

  "Anything else?" I knew him too well.

  "Oh, I painted their dogs. Good sitters, dogs. Cats are not."

  I admired his work, which was well-done as always. But I could not put off telling him of Don Diego's suspicions for long.

  It was no longer a question of losing patrons at court or scoffing at the empty threats of an enraged husband.

  "Quinn, Xavi's husband was in the gaming den."

  "What, with Fothy?"

  I nodded. "Fotheringay may have led me inside. Diego in­sisted on talking to me. But he wanted to know if I was your friend."

  "You are. That is no secret."

  "You don't understand. He thinks you are Xavi's lover."

  "But I'm not."

  I put a hand on his shoulder and shook him a little.

  "He tried to get me to incriminate you, but I would not."

  "Good. Very wise. I still think you are overreacting."

  The painter was far too blithe for his own good. "He is dan­gerous, Quinn. And he lives according to his own law."

  "Explain."

  What I knew was in part supposition and not fact. But the sinister demeanor of the man—and Xavi's toneless recitation of his cruelty toward her—and most of all, his conduct at the box­ing match, made me afraid. He had watched a man die an ut­terly miserable death and it had seemed to invigorate him.

  "He is cruel, deeply cruel. Take my word for it. Is that enough?"

  Quinn studied my face. "I do believe you are serious."

  "Then what are you going to do?"

  "Go back into hiding. But not in the country."

  "Then where?"

  "Corinne's. She wants me to paint her picture again. I look forward to sucking her delicious toes."

  He picked up one of the bags he had emptied and started throwing things into it: a clean shirt, a parcel of paints, and so on, until it was full.

  "I have a very grand painting planned, in the style of the old Italian masters. I shall be God, riding a cloud, and Corinne and that lot can be the angels. What do you think?"