Estelle's Story

by Robin Gideon

  Never before had Estelle seen such steely nerve. She was frightened beyond words, and she felt more helpless than ever before in her life—but these men, these two expensively dressed, velvet-caped men carrying pistols in the worst neighborhood of London—were not frightened. At least they didn’t appear to be. They were angry. They were determined. But they weren’t frightened. Not even a little.

  But Jimmy was frightened. Estelle felt his body trembling. So fearful was he that he had even stopped molesting her, forgetting that his hand was on her breast.

  The gentleman shook his head, and there was something akin to sadness in his features, like a man who could not understand why a serf would behave in such a way as to guarantee severe punishment. He said, “You can’t win. The only question now is how much you’ll lose. If you don’t let go of the woman immediately, you’ll lose everything.” A hint of a smile touched his lips. He nodded in the direction of the corpse lying only a few feet away. “Like your friend there.”

  The knife at Estelle’s throat began to shake. She felt the man shiver as though he’d instantly become very cold. Suddenly, he took the knife from her throat and pushed her hard at the English gentleman.

  Both handguns went off simultaneously, with a deafening roar that caused a high-pitched ringing in Estelle’s ears. She turned to look at her attackers, thinking they must surely have been shot in the back. Instead, both men were on the cobblestones, each clutching at a knee that had been violated by a bullet.

  “I promised they could live, and I was good to my word, but they had to pay the price for their sins, and now they have,” the Englishman explained, taking Estelle by the elbow. “Come on, we’ve got to get out of here.”

  * * * *

  Prince Julian Thurston hurried the woman down the alleyway. To his left and slightly ahead of them, Count Alek Faust was half jogging, his head swiveling constantly in search of threats, a short-barreled pistol in his hand. Glancing at the woman, he took in her profile with the small, narrow, fine nose, the high cheekbones, the full-lipped, lush mouth. Though most certainly a beauty, what drew Julian’s gaze like a magnet was not her face, but her bosom. Full and round, and when she hurried along beside him, the bouncing undulation was erotic enough to tempt a saint—and as literally scores of women in London, St. Petersburg, Paris, and Stockholm could testify to, Prince Julian was definitely no saint. In the midst of being seduced by him, more than a few women had been known to say things like “sweet Jesus” and “oh, God,” but that wasn’t necessarily an indication of Julian’s pious saintliness. Quite the opposite, in fact.

  He wondered who she was, and how she had managed to remain relatively anonymous in London. He thought he knew all the true beauties in the port city, yet this one, already in her early to middle twenties, was a complete mystery to him—a mystery he intended to solve before the evening was over!

  His private hansom cab was only another street away. As they approached it, his personal valet, Jarvis, was waiting with a hard look on his face. He had his right hand behind his back. In that hand, Julian knew, was a revolver. Julian was a crack shot with handguns, but he paled in comparison to Jarvis, who among his many duties served as a bodyguard.

  “There was some excitement,” Julian explained with aristocratic understatement, a faint smile touching his mouth. It was easy to be cavalier now that he was at his carriage and about to leave. Julian and Alek had years of experience leaving scenes of “excitement” hastily. “I’d rather we put some distance between ourselves and this neighborhood.”

  “Anywhere in particular, my lord?” Jarvis asked, his gaze assessing the curvaceous blonde woman with suspicion.

  “I’ll decide that later.”

  Julian got into the carriage, then Alek got in. The coach was big enough for two large men—but just big enough. When the woman got in, she had to sit across their laps. Jarvis closed the front doors, then wisely dropped the front curtain, enveloping the coach in almost total darkness. A slap of the reins got the big Belgian horse moving.

  The woman was light, Julian noticed, her rounded bottom a pleasing distraction as she squirmed on his thighs, trying to find some position that was both modest and comfortable.

  “It seems to me that this is probably an appropriate time to ask your name,” he said, his tone as casual as if the question had been presented at a formal banquet with hundreds of England’s bourgeois elite in attendance.

  In the dim light of the enclosed carriage, the woman’s pale skin seemed to glow. Her face was very near Julian’s, and he saw now that she was even younger than he had first thought.

  There seemed to be no place to put his hands which wasn’t on the woman’s body. When his left hand came to rest on her knee, touching her through the wool skirt, she immediately took him by the wrist and raised his hand. Then, with no modest place to put his hand, she simply held it in midair.

  Switching from English to French, Alek said, “He asked you a question. If you don’t understand the language, your silence is understandable. If you don’t like the question, we can always leave you back in that dirty alley where we found you. There are plenty more scum to take the place of the three my friend and I just dealt with to save your rather pretty hide.”

  Julian smiled. He felt the woman’s body become even more tense in his lap. Then she sighed and relaxed infinitesimally, as though she had made a decision. Her bottom had settled between his thighs so that he could feel her buns pressing against his penis, a fact which had caused that always-alert part of his body to awaken and begin paying rather more careful attention to fortuitous circumstances.

  “I understand you quite well,” she said in English, simultaneously proving that she also spoke French. Julian’s curiosity was now thoroughly piqued with the woman on his lap who was, at that very moment, causing a rapidly developing erection to stretch down the leg of his trousers. “My name is…” she said before her words faded into silence.

  Julian had never been a patient man, and most certainly wasn’t patient when he had an erection trapped inside trousers. Rather sharply, he queried, “Well?”

  The harshness in his tone caused the woman to flinch. She whispered, “Estelle.”

  “Estelle. Just Estelle?” Julian was hellishly curious as to how this lovely woman had remained hidden in London. It was obvious that she possessed both wealth and education. And she was good looking. Damned good looking.

  She nodded. “Just Estelle.”

  “Hello, Estelle. And since you’re just Estelle, I’m just Julian.”

  Alek laughed softly and added, “Following suit, I’m just Alek.”

  Estelle closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, and the briefest shudder went through her. “Prince Julian Thurston and Count Alek Faust. I’ve…I’ve heard about you. I’ve even read about you.”

  Julian shifted his weight a little beneath Estelle. His erection was now quite well formed, tenting his trousers and pressing against Estelle’s delectable bottom. Scant layers of cloth separated Julian’s responsive cock from the source of its expanding dimensions.

  The fact that Estelle knew who both he and Alek were didn’t particularly bother him. The reputation he and his friend had for iniquitous excess had been earned one night at a time over more than a decade, and though some thought exaggeration played a role in the stories, in truth, the stories that were whispered by women told of only a fraction of the exploits enjoyed by the men.

  Julian asked, “So you know us, then?”

  “No, I know of you,” Estelle corrected. “I’m sure that’s not the same thing.”

  Julian chuckled and replied, “Indeed.”

  Estelle moved again, trying to find a comfortable position, sitting sideways in the carriage on Julian’s lap with her legs between Alek’s knees. Seemingly finding no other place to put her arm, she put it around Julian’s shoulders. Whether she intended to put the distinctly extravagant mounds of her breasts so close to his face or not, that’s what she did—a fact which caused a rather
dramatic lengthening and thickening of his spectacularly formed erection.

  “It seems to me,” Julian said, his face just inches from Estelle’s, “that since we’ve saved you from those men in the alley, putting ourselves in great danger and so forth, that there ought to be some reward in it for us. A kiss from you, I should think, is warranted.”

  She turned her upper body to look into his eyes, and when she shifted her weight, Julian felt her buns slide across the throbbing bulge of his enflamed cock. Her eyes widened, and he knew that she had just become aware of what her beauty and proximity had caused.

  “One kiss,” Julian continued, looking into lovely eyes that he now realized were the most unusual shade of violet that he’d ever seen. But since erections always made him impatient, it was with an undercurrent of command in his tone that he added, “That’s not asking too much, now is it?”

  Chapter Two

  For the second time that evening, Estelle’s heart was beating from primal fear. Only this time there was another emotion adding adrenaline to her system, making her hands shake and her insides feel jittery. Estelle didn’t want to put a name to the emotion, though she knew very well that what she was feeling was desire. Even more harrowing was the fact that she was painfully aware of who had caused that desire.

  She knew all about Prince Julian and Count Alek. She had heard of their exploits in the salons of London’s beau monde, stories feverishly whispered of women discovering themselves capable of multiorgasmic evenings after falling under the charm of the blond Austrian count or the dark English prince. The numbers of women seduced by these two men varied greatly, though the totals themselves were always extraordinary. Some claimed—usually envious men—the numbers were hyperbole. Whether the numbers were exaggerated or not, what was indisputable was that the women who shared their passion with these virile but profligate men did not regret the experience.

  Neither Alek nor Julian was inclined to discuss their own sex lives. It was the women they slept with who were doing the kissing and telling. Estelle had two close friends—both trapped in loveless marriages—who had slept with the men and had told her about the experience. Estelle had listened to her friends discuss how they had seemingly fallen under a libidinous spell, as though they’d been given a drug or had the new parlor trick called hypnotism used on them. The women compared notes, as it were, trying to decide which man was the better lover. Discussion was necessary because Alek and Julian made a point of never seducing the same woman, sparing themselves potentially contentious sexual competitiveness.

  These thoughts were ricocheting through Estelle’s brain as she looked down at Julian, hearing the authority in his tone as he asked with seeming innocence for a single kiss to reward him for his valiant rescue. But, of course, no kiss from Julian could ever be deemed innocent, Estelle told herself. If for no other reason, the hard column of manly flesh pressing against her buttocks disqualified Julian from any boyish claims to such innocence.

  “I don’t think you understand,” Estelle said, her voice barely above a whisper. “You couldn’t understand.” She smiled sadly. “I don’t understand my own life, how could I expect anyone else to?”

  For several seconds, Estelle closed her eyes. She felt the strength and virility of the men in the crowded hansom cab, and she knew they wanted her sexually. But though their charm was without denial, Estelle was a married woman. It didn’t matter that her husband was a vile, abusive cretin who had made her life a living hell, he was still, if in name only, her husband. Estelle had never been unfaithful to Horace, and she’d never even considered being unfaithful, even if he had cheated on her countless times, and had made no effort to hide his actions. In fact, he seemed to delight in tormenting her, letting Estelle know that he held her in contempt, smiling maliciously whenever she discovered his latest debauchery.

  “Well, Estelle?” Julian asked, as though she was a frightened girl needing to be goaded into being kissed for the first time.

  She closed her eyes for only a second and whispered into the darkness, “There are things that you don’t understand.”

  “Tell me. Maybe I will understand.”

  But what could Estelle say? That she hadn’t had sex in more than two years? That she’d had only one lover in her life, and that he was her husband—who was now the terror of her existence? Estelle knew that these men played at love. Sex, for them, was casual, frequent, and no doubt wildly entertaining. But it was always with transient partners, permanence being anathema in their lives.

  Julian’s voice, low and seductive, touched her like a caress when he said, “Look at me, Estelle. All I’m asking for is a kiss. Am I that difficult to look at?”

  That brought a smile to Estelle’s full-lipped mouth. Prince Julian had been born with a staggering overabundance of all the gifts any demigod would expect from life. Gorgeous physical beauty, athletic grace, savoir faire and poise, and money. And, as she could now discern for herself, he also had a very large penis. This final awareness was one of the main reasons why Estelle’s breath came in quick, shallow gulps, and her mind was whirling dizzily.

  Estelle looked at the prince and replied in a whisper, “You’re gorgeous…but you’ve got plenty of debutantes to tell you that.” The pink tip of her tongue made a brief attempt to moisten her lips. Though the attempt was unsuccessful—her breath was coming too rapidly to not have a dry mouth—it presented a wickedly erotic imagine to Julian. “I haven’t”—she paused a moment, since she had the choice of several words she could accurately use at this moment—“been kissed in more than two years.”

  She watched as Julian’s dark eyebrows arched in suspicion.

  “I’m serious. I’m being honest with you. I haven’t”—she thought of saying “made love,” but whatever it was her husband did to her, it sure wasn’t making love—“had sex in more than two years.”

  Julian angled his face upward, easing his fingers around the back of her neck to pull Estelle down slightly. “Let me,” he whispered, his breath warm and smelling minty from schnapps, “end your personal drought.”

  Estelle tried to keep her eyes open. This wasn’t the time to get starry eyed, holding on to childishly romantic notions of the world. But after all that she had been through since her marriage to Prince Horace Moreland, to have Prince Julian’s warm, moist lips pressing lightly against hers was delicious. His fingertips traced slow, tantalizing circles against the back of her neck, her eyes drifted closed as she uttered the softest of moans. His kiss was heaven itself.

  When Julian pulled Estelle closer, his lips pressing more firmly against hers, warning bells began clanging discordantly in her brain. She sat upright instantly, ending the kiss with such swiftness that her head banged against the roof of the hansom cab.

  “Prince Julian, I think you shouldn’t…” Estelle said under her breath.

  She felt his erection beneath her buns. It promised the fulfillment of desires she’d never known. Everything about these men whispered of carnal pleasures beyond Estelle’s limited experience. She wished there was some way she could move so that she wouldn’t be constantly reminded of their size and virility, but escape was impossible within the confines of the hansom cab’s passenger compartment. When Julian continued to caress the back of Estelle’s neck, warm tingles slithered outward from his touch. She waited several seconds because the pleasure was such that she lacked the willpower to take immediate action. Then, finally, she took him by the wrist and removed his hand from her body.

  “That was…um…a bit more of a kiss than I had agreed to.” She still had one arm around Julian’s shoulders, but with the other hand she patted her chest as though attempting to slow a heart beating much too quickly.

  Alek cleared his throat, drawing Estelle’s attention. She was suddenly very much aware of where her legs touched his thighs. In the poor light of the passenger compartment, his faint smile was roguish.

  “And now it’s my turn, my dear,” he said, slipping his hand behind Estelle’s
neck to pull her closer. With her legs between his thighs, kissing wasn’t going to be easy.

  Estelle gave him a sheepish smile. He was bigger than Julian, the breadth of his broad shoulders dominating in the confined quarters of the hansom cab. A tiny voice of logic and reason whispered in her brain that she was a married woman—granted, it was a sham of a marriage, but it was still a marriage—and that married women weren’t supposed to go around kissing two gorgeous men.

  It was with some surprise that she heard herself say, “Just one kiss,” as she reached for Alek to pull him closer.

  Their lips met, and like simultaneously touching the terminals on a battery, electricity arced from Alek’s body into Estelle’s. She had taken him by the lapel of his jacket to pull him closer, but when Alek’s arm went around her neck, holding her securely as he slanted his mouth more firmly against hers, she released his jacket. Her hand turned until her palm pressed against his shirt front, as though she was going to push him away—but her hand would not do the bidding of her better judgment. Her fingers splayed out, experimentally testing the muscles hidden beneath the starched white formal shirt. The tiny moan of nascent desire that came from Estelle was immediately swallowed up by Alek’s kiss.

  Seconds passed before a tiny voice whispered inside Estelle’s head, warning her that she was going too far, that sexual intemperance was for other women but not for her. But it had been so long since she had taken any pleasure at all in a man’s kiss, so many years since her husband’s desire for her made her feel anything other than revulsion and hostility, that when the tip of Alek’s tongue lightly caressed first her upper lip and then her lower, Estelle moaned her approval. And when his tongue sought entrance into her mouth, she acquiesced with a trembling sigh.

  Estelle had never responded so quickly or so favorably to a kiss. When her husband forced his tongue into her mouth, it always made her feel slimy, defiled in a way that was even worse than when he touched her body. But with Alek, her body reacted instantly, a warm flush going through her, her nipples stiffening, her labia swelling and becoming dewy in anticipation.