My Lady's Pleasure

by Olivia Quincy

  She in turn fed him some of the cream, and he kept her forefinger in his mouth and sucked it. She felt his tongue on her skin, warm and wet, and the warmth and the wetness spread through her. She arched toward him; she ached for him. She felt the hollowness at her center that she knew she needed him to fill.

  He took the hand that still had a finger in his mouth, and guided it to the bowl. He held her forefinger in his hand and used it like a spoon to get a dollop of the cream. Then he led that hand to her breast and ran her own finger around her nipple, spreading the cream at its base. He licked the remaining cream from her finger, slowly. He started at the base and flicked his tongue over the webbing between her forefinger and middle finger. In her entire life, she’d never been touched there by another human being, and she was surprised at the sensitivity, the eroticism of it.

  Gerry ran the very tip of his tongue up the underside of her finger, and then took the tip in his mouth. Rose was consumed by the sensuality of the tiny point of contact between her hand and his mouth. It was as though her finger was the proxy for her body, and he was licking all of her.

  And then he leaned over and took the nipple, cream and all, into his mouth, and Rose felt enveloped. And she felt the need to envelop in return. She pushed him back until he was against the opposite wall of the narrow hallway. She deftly unbuttoned his waistcoat and shirt and ran her hands up and down his chest.

  He wasn’t a beauty; that she had to admit to herself. He was growing a bit stout, and the rough hair on his chest was already graying. But his eyes were kind and his smile was quick, and it was, perhaps, because he didn’t have such a fine figure that she could feel an attraction to him that was honest, free of worry about her own looks or the social chasm between them.

  Whatever the reason, she couldn’t deny the attraction. She took a deep breath to cool herself down, and then she took another fingerful of cream. She ran her finger down the center of his chest, slowly, and then let her tongue follow her finger. She lapped up the cream with little darting motions, starting at the top and working her way down, down. When she reached the waist of his pants, she fell to her knees and worked the buttons deftly.

  His cock was as hard as a billy club, and he didn’t think it could get any harder. But when Rose ran her fingers lightly up its sides and made that darting motion with her tongue on the underside of its shaft, it got harder still. She reached again for the cream and put one small dab on the very tip of his penis. Then she encircled the tip with her wet, soft lips and sucked gently.

  This drove him mad. He had an almost uncontrollable urge to take her by the shoulders and shove the full length of his cock in her mouth, but it was as though she knew this, and she was testing to find out whether he was a lover or merely a brute.

  Brute he would not be. He did take her by the shoulders, to ease her away.

  “I can’t take much of that,” he told her as he raised her off her knees.

  Rose knew she could have finished him off in a moment, and she liked him for stopping her—it made her want him all the more. She had, in her years, experienced sex without any liking at all, and she thought it rather a luxury to have them both together.

  He backed her from the hall into the bedchamber, and onto the edge of the bed, her feet still on the floor. With adeptness born of practice, he flipped her skirts up and pulled her drawers off. He stood between her knees, cock almost vertical. He put one hand on each of her thighs and leaned over so that much of his weight was on them, and then he moved them up toward her hips. The pressure of his weight, and the roughness of his hands on her skin, sent a tingling excitement toward her center, and she again felt the insistent ache of longing. Her pussy, she could feel, was hot and soaked and ready.

  Neither of them wanted to wait another instant. Gerry moved his hands around under her and pulled her toward him, to the very edge of the bed. She felt his entrance into her as a completion, a satisfaction that made her perfect pleasure possible.

  His thrusts started gentle and long, each time withdrawing the entire length of his cock and then slowly and deliberately pressing back into her. She felt the bulge of its tip against her clitoris each time he brought it out or put it in, and her body responded with a rhythm of its own.

  She knew his urgency was heightening as his strokes grew shorter and more insistent. She wrapped her legs around him to keep him tight to her, and his thrusting became a rocking of his hips that ground against her.

  Until that point, they had been almost silent—the possibility of discovery had been at the back of both their minds. But now the silence was broken by his long, low moan and her answering gasp. The orgasm she felt was acute, intense, almost sharp. It wasn’t just a fulfillment; it was a release of desires that had been pent up for far too long. For several seconds she was aware of nothing but her body, consumed completely by her pleasure.

  When she came back to the present and opened her eyes, she saw Gerry, eyes still closed, in the last throes of his own climax. When his eyes opened, they met hers and the two smiled at each other. She unhooked her legs and released him, and he withdrew and began reassembling his clothing.

  She did the same, and they faced each other a trifle awkwardly.

  “It’s been a surprising evening, Rose,” he said.

  “That it has, that it has.”

  They walked toward the door, and Gerry picked up the bowl of strawberries and ate one of the last two remaining. The last he fed to Rose.

  “I’d say they didn’t go to waste,” he said as she ate it.

  “I’ll thank Miss Mumford in the morning,” Rose said with a half smile.

  FIVE

  The next morning held the promise of a fine, fair day, at least as far as Georgiana could tell from looking out the window of her room. She had lingered long in bed and asked Hortense to bring breakfast to her there; she wanted to avoid the appearance of interest in Barnes’s promised tour of the grounds for Miss Niven.

  When she finally came downstairs it was nearing noon, and the very first person she saw was Barnes, coming in the main door as she was going out of it.

  “Good morning, Lady Georgiana,” he said. “It’s a fine day for a walk.”

  “It certainly seems to be,” she said with some hauteur. “I see you’ve already been out.”

  “I have,” the man said with something like amusement. “I had promised Miss Niven a tour, and I was as good as my word.”

  “And was she quite in raptures over your work?” asked Georgiana archly.

  “Perhaps not raptures, but she certainly was admiring.” After a beat, he added, “Of course, I didn’t take her to the peacock pavilion.”

  “Why ever not?”

  “We took the long way ’round, and she seemed a little piqued. I told her the pavilion was a bit far, and perhaps she should go in for a cup of tea.”

  “I see,” said Georgiana.

  “Do you?” Barnes leaned almost imperceptibly closer. “Do you really?”

  Georgiana looked at him. She couldn’t quite make this man out. Whenever she saw him, she felt the certainty of the connection between them. But there was something about his manner, and the way he behaved with Miss Niven, that warned her to keep her distance.

  “I’m off for my walk.” She turned away from him. “Good day to you, Mr. Barnes,” she called over her shoulder.

  “Lady Georgiana,” he said in a voice low enough to make her turn around. “What time is your tennis match?”

  She scowled. “Three o’clock.” And off she went.

  As she walked down the front steps to the drive, a carriage pulled up. The driver climbed down from the box to open the door, but his passenger beat him to the punch. The door opened from the inside, and a rangy young man with a floppy blond forelock and a wide grin stepped out. Georgiana was the only person there to greet him, but she was too surprised to muster words of welcome.

  The young man had no such trouble. “What ho, Lady G!” he said.

  “Freddy! ” she
said. “What are you doing here ? Your mother said you’d gone up to school.”

  “You know my mother never lies. I had indeed gone up to school. But I’ve been sent down again.”

  Georgiana gasped. Sent down from Oxford! And within weeks of having gone up.

  “Whatever did you do?” she asked.

  “Oh, it was just a prank gone wrong,” said Freddy breezily. “I suspect a few letters from the right places will have me back up again.”

  Georgiana didn’t know much of Oxford, but she did know that, once a student was sent down, it was almost unheard-of for him to be taken back into the fold. And she knew Freddy must know it too. She marveled at his insouciance. Here he was, grinning ear to ear about being sent down, knowing full well that his father would be furious.

  But she had to know. “What was the prank?” she asked, lowering her voice to a confidential tone. “And how did it go wrong?”

  “Well,” said Freddy, equally confidentially, “it was all Stiffy’s fault.”

  “Stiffy?”

  “John Stiffson. He’s in my college. His father made an absolute fortune in some kind of shipping—I’m rather hazy on the details—and he’s simply loaded. But he can’t stand that his money isn’t aeons old, so he puts on the most horrible airs. You wouldn’t believe it, Lady G. The man’s as pompous an ass as ever brayed.”

  “Do asses bray?” Georgiana asked. “I thought only donkeys bray.”

  “You have led a sheltered life, dear Lady G, and you have not been subjected to many asses. I assure you that asses in general, and Stiffy in particular, are masters of the art of braying.” said Freddy, and went on.

  “So Stiffy’s old man used some of his wads to bring one of those new motorcars over from Germany, and Stiffy brought it up. I’m sure you’ve seen pictures—it’s the Benz Patent Motorwagen—and it seems to be all the rage on the continent. And so Stiffy, who had been just barely tolerable—his free-flowing liquor counterbalanced his beastly manners—crossed the line to unbearable, what with his acting the swell because he has a motorcar and you don’t.”

  “And naturally, you couldn’t just leave him be . . .” said Lady Georgiana, wryly.

  “And live with myself?” asked Freddy incredulously. “Certainly not.”

  “So?” Georgiana knew she ought to be more severe, but she couldn’t help being drawn into sympathy with Freddy.

  “Well, for Stiffy, the internal combustion engine was food and drink. Better than food and drink! It was better than booze, better even than women! Well, if it was that good, he ought to be going to bed with it, oughtn’t he?”

  Georgiana looked at the ground and put her hand over her mouth to hide her smile.

  “So I rounded up a bunch of rather large chaps, and we broke into the barn where he kept the precious thing. It was a matter of minutes to unbolt the engine from the frame. We popped it in a wheelbarrow and rolled it around to his rooms. Good thing he was on the ground floor!”

  “Good thing, indeed!” Georgiana didn’t bother to hide her smile now. The prank seemed harmless enough.

  “So we heaved the thing into his rooms and put it in his bed. We even drew the covers up and added a frilly nightcap.”

  Georgiana waited for the “went wrong” part of the story.

  “And the sad part is, Stiffy never even saw it. The stupid thing had some oil or some petrol or something in it, and it leaked into the bedclothes and onto the floor. When the porter came in to make up the fire, a spark caught it and it went up like a bonfire.”

  “Oh, dear,” said Georgiana. It had indeed gone wrong. “What happened?”

  “Well, the fire was put out right quick, and didn’t do much damage. But the porter was terribly burned.” Freddy either felt very bad about this, or had the good sense to look as though he did.

  “Oh, dear,” Georgiana said again.

  “As soon as I heard,” Freddy continued in a sober tone, “I told them I’d done it, and I was sent down before you could say, ‘Jack Robinson.’”

  “You told your parents?”

  “There was no point in writing when I’d be here before the letter arrived. No, Lady G”—he grinned again—“you have the honor of being the first to know.”

  “Not much of an honor, I’d say.” Georgiana, thinking of what a blow this would be to the Loughlins, was having less trouble being severe. “And your parents won’t think so, either.”

  “Oh, Mama will take it all right, but the pater will have kittens.” Freddy rolled his eyes.

  Georgiana thought Freddy’s assessment accurate. Paulette thought of Oxford as just another hoop you jumped through to be welcomed in the highest social circles. Her husband, though, thought it a badge of all that was right and proper, a validation of worth. He would indeed have kittens.

  Freddy was looking at his shoes and shuffling a bit, but he evidently decided he had been abashed for long enough, and he looked up and brightened.

  “Where are you off to?” he asked.

  “Just for a walk.”

  “Topping! It’s a grand day. Shall I come with you?”

  “You shall not,” she said firmly. “You shall walk directly into that house and tell your parents what has happened.”

  “I can do that anytime. But right now the sun’s out and you look ripping, if I may say so, and who knows when we’ll have another moment like this. Carpe diem and all that, you know.”

  His manner would have been ridiculous in an older man, but Freddy was only eighteen, and his blatant disregard of what was clearly his duty came off as youthful ebullience and high spirits. It was difficult to speak to him sternly, but Georgiana made the effort.

  “You will indeed carpe diem,” she said, “and you will do it by marching into that house, finding your parents, and telling them what has happened.”

  Freddy cocked his head and looked at her fixedly, with an expression resembling seriousness. “You must still think of me as a little boy, to talk to me in that way,” he said. “I left the nursery years ago, you know.”

  Georgiana was a bit abashed. In her head, she replayed what she had said to him, and the tone in which she had said it, and found that it sounded terribly matronly and stiff. She did still think of him as a little boy. She had known him as one and, as he had grown up, her image of him hadn’t adjusted commensurately. She knew herself to be in the right to tell him to see his parents, but she realized she should have moderated her tone. Freddy was a grown man.

  “You are entirely right, Mr. Loughlin,” Georgiana said, and curtsied. “I apologize unreservedly.”

  Freddy’s high spirits were back in an instant. “Oh, I think you can still call me Freddy.” He gestured down the walk. “And you can still take that walk with me.”

  “Thank you for that offer,” said Georgiana, with exaggerated polite-ness, “but I’m afraid I must decline. And I will add that it is my considered opinion that you should go and greet your parents.”

  Freddy guffawed. “I’m dashed if I know whether that’s better or worse! But I suppose I should get it over with.” He bowed as formally as she had curtsied, and went inside. Georgiana headed down the walk alone.

  Once Freddy had made up his mind to break the news to his parents, he wasted no time. He found them in one of the drawing rooms, his mother finishing her tea and his father smoking a cigar. They looked up as he entered the room, and it took a moment for them to understand that his presence at Penfield boded ill.

  “Freddy!” his mother said. “Whatever brings you here?”

  The young man went straight to the point. “Mama, I’ve been sent down.”

  “Sent down!” his father positively roared. “Sent down?”

  “Yes, Father. Sent down.” Freddy tried to look neutral. He knew he must take this seriously, but he didn’t think what he had done was so very bad, and refused to look ashamed. A stoic dignity was what he aimed for.

  He told his parents what had happened, and they reacted essentially as he had predicted to Geor
giana. His father absolutely raged. His mother was irritated, but neither furious nor surprised.

  She had never breathed a word of her preference, but she had always felt closer to Freddy than to his elder brother, Robert. Robbie was like his father, but Freddy had inherited her own spirited cheerfulness. That, coupled with a rambunctiousness she always attributed to his gender, got him into all kinds of scrapes. When he had gone up to Oxford, she would have been willing to wager that he would be sent down again—although not quite this soon.

  And now, when her blue-eyed son stood before her, making an obvious effort at stoic dignity, she could not find it in herself to be angry. Scrapes were Freddy’s lot in life, and if this was the worst one he ever found himself in, he led a charmed life indeed.

  Her husband had enough anger for both of them. After spluttering almost incoherent expostulations of his son’s thoughtlessness and stupidity, he realized he needed to calm down before he discussed this any further.

  “We’ll talk about this later,” he growled to his son. “Right now, I need you to get out of my sight.”

  Freddy was happy to oblige. He ran up to his room, changed his traveling suit for riding clothes, and headed for the stables—via the kitchen garden, where he pulled up two fat carrots. He was in no mood to explain his presence to any of the servants, and he went through the back door to the stall where his favorite of the Penfield horses was contentedly eating oats.

  “Prancer, old girl,” he said to the horse, and she came over, nuzzling him to find the food she knew he inevitably brought. He gave her the carrots and stroked her nose. “I’m glad to see you,” he said softly, and he meant it. Freddy’s heart was soft and permeable, and a lively horse or a loyal dog could find its way in with very little trouble.

  He saddled Prancer and rode off to the north, to the far end of the Penfield lands. There was a small dairy farm that abutted the estate, and the farmer was a German named Glück with a remarkable knack for cows. He owned only twenty acres, though, and such limited grazing could support only a small herd. Fifteen years before, he had approached the Loughlins and asked about leasing grazing rights for a thirty-acre portion that bordered his land.