The African grasped her hips, guiding the tip of his thick phallus into position, and, with a motion unexpected in its fierceness, rammed himself into the heart of her. Her pelvis he pulled back resolutely against his, so that her cheeks slapped hard against his abdomen. The motion must have rent her almost asunder. Her face contorted in anguish: her eyes closed and mouth opened in a shriek of pain. She grasped MacCaulay’s hands tightly.
The dark creature held her there, against his stomach, his penis deep within, relishing his fleshy burial. Slowly, he then withdrew, his fat organ appearing inch by inch. Savouring the moment, he paused, before plunging into her once more, hauling her hips towards him. She cried out again, but less acutely than the first time: the cry followed by a small gasp and sigh. The giant held her against his torso, swiveling his hips, grinding against her. This brought forth another cry: soon transformed into a low groan. MacCaulay wondered that any woman could endure that dark weapon without injury, but Mademoiselle Noire’s pain was also her pleasure.
The beast delivered several full-bodied piston strokes, each one sending a shudder the length of her body and evoking her song of pain and bliss. His pace quickened, thrusts coming one upon the other with growing intensity, so that her hair tumbled every way. Her cries became indistinguishable from sobs.
MacCaulay’s head grew light. His body was present, but his legs and arms were numb. As Mademoiselle Noire submitted to the beast’s unrelenting pounding, MacCaulay felt aware of his own desire, imagining that it was he administering those brutal strokes.
The African lashed her harder, opening his legs wider and bending at the knee, while lifting her rump to allow the deepest angle of entry. His hands imprisoned her hips, so that her passage was his entirely. He hammered into her with resolute greed and the energy of a body indefatigable.
At last, he gave his final thrusts, arching his back and pulling her fully onto his groin. He slammed his ebony phallus into her, skyrocketing hard through her flesh, so that his jet seared her. She flung back her head, arching in parallel, her breasts raised upwards, so that it was all MacCaulay could do to keep hold of her hands.
He watched as Mademoiselle Noire, this woman who held him under her perverse spell, writhed in ecstasy, face transformed. She was lost in her own world of pleasure; MacCaulay played but a minor part.
At last, breathless, the giant stepped back, fulfilled. MacCaulay let loose her hands, so that she slumped exhausted over the divan of the chaise, her hair in disarray, face flushed and pupils dilated from lust. She looked him once more fully in the face, saying nothing, since no words were needed.
He had fantasized about chastising her but her own enactment far surpassed anything his own imagination could conjure. Once more, she had outplayed him and, simultaneously, demonstrated to MacCaulay that her sexuality was not to be categorized or anticipated. For him to judge would be obscene, since every aspect of her behaviour roused his own appetite. He admired her embracing of her raw desire and her formidable skill in manipulating his emotions.
He knew, without question, that acquaintance with her would prove his undoing, so that no satisfaction would be had elsewhere, no matter whom he invited into his bed. No conjured debauchery could compete with Mademoiselle Noire’s unadulterated wantonness.
Chapter Seven
Torment
MacCaulay blundered blindly up the stairs, arriving eventually back upon the street, where the rain-spitted night and chill wind brought him partially to his senses. Grim horror beat within his chest, knowing that he had crossed a threshold from which there was no return. He could not escape her image: mouth contorted in gasps of torture and exaltation; body convulsed in the euphoria of passion; and her eyes frenzied by the intoxication of lust.
He waved off his carriage, needing to feel the cool air on his cheek and shake off the power of the memories assailing him. His feet took him where they might, past the homes of men of breeding and fashion: Devonshire House, where the Cavendish family resided behind forbidding brick walls; Stafford House, which was more a palace than St. James’ and had hosted some of the most glittering gatherings of the century; Bridgewater House, with its fine frontage onto Green Park; Holland House, headquarters to some of the most brilliant men of the age and celebrated for its library; and Grosvenor House, with its distinguished colonnades and priceless gallery. The exercise served only to remind him of the society to which he should be keeping. Yet, his thoughts remained with ‘her’.
MacCaulay spent the darkest hours of night in torment, swollen with desire, which no self-fornication could ease. He finally succumbed to sleep, but awoke soon after, feeling great mental discomfort and a penetrating ache in his loins.
Such was his frustration and wretchedness over the following days that nothing could divert him. The hours stretched out, banal and meaningless; beyond that, the mundane weeks and months. It was intolerable. By night, his dreams left him exhausted and unfulfilled. By day, his misery plunged him into a chasm of despair.
He sought understanding of his feelings. Was this pure lust: a desire to possess and conquer: to bring this woman beneath his heel? In part, this was true: he yearned to take her as the African had done. He must claim her body and consume it, until her flesh fused with his and nothing else remained. He would take her at every orifice, so that his body became part of hers, blending in a fiery explosion of heat and light. The thought left him reeling. Her power over him was like a diabolic contagion.
Yet, there was something else. He felt her uncompromising exhibition of her basest animal impulses as a revelation: a miracle of honesty, against which the rest of his life stood in counterfeit. It was as if she had been sent to awaken him to his true self and to lead him on some unsung path.
He knew that his infatuation was inspired not just by a physical ache but by a deeper need. He hungered for her body, in all its sensual perfection, but also thirsted for the essence of her very marrow.
It could not be love: a condition he held in contempt. He knew it could only be described as obsession.
Nevertheless, he could not escape from his conviction that, with her, his life would be glorious: an exploration of uncharted waters. Without, he would desiccate to dust.
Chapter Eight
Divine Couplings
Five days and nights passed: the longest MacCaulay had endured. He knew not what action to take - whether to pack his bags and remove himself from all temptation, or to fling himself at the seductress’ feet. He knew now why men joined monasteries perched on remote mountain outcrops, or the French Foreign Legion, to sweat away their vitality in the harsh desert climate of North Africa. They sought oblivion.
Heart heavy, he finally shaved the stubble from his weary face and allowed his feet to take him where they would: to the crimson salon.
It appeared that every member had gathered; chairs had been brought from the dining room and placed about the circumference, nestled in niches and tucked right up to the tapestries about the walls, the seating arranged in a full circle around the space of a central stage.
There, a bed had been placed upon a raised dais, scattered with rich fabrics and plush cushions, but open on all sides, so that no view was restricted.
A bell rang to silence the hubbub of chatter, calling all to attention, so that the theatre could begin. MacCaulay’s heart beat rapidly, wondering when ‘she’ would appear.
Two women entered, identical in stature and physique, being athletic of build, with well-proportioned hips and buttocks, full of breast and slender of waist. Besides their masks, of pure white lace, they wore simple dresses, Grecian in style, from the lightest diaphanous muslin, so that their form was apparent. The pair held hands, fingers clasped in friendship, leading one another. The skin of one was the colour of coffee when milk has been added, and her hair was dark, hanging straight and lustrous down the length of her back. The other’s was palest alabaster, her hair a luxuriant copper, falling in long, loose curls about her shoulders.
Both w
omen were beautiful but MacCaulay’s disappointment was palpable. Where was she?
It was only when one of the women spoke that MacCaulay’s consciousness was jolted. There, before him, stood the woman who haunted his days and nights. It was the first time that he had seen her in the salon without the formality of her evening gown and with her hair liberated from the confines of a multitude of pins. He recognized now its rich threads of auburn and gold.
Her voice boasted its customary silken seductiveness.
“Tonight, my gentle sirs, I am Thetis, the sea nymph of ancient Greek mythology, and this is Semele, the exotic Theban princess. Once lovers of mighty Zeus, we stand before you as distilled vials of feminine sensuality. We were born to love: to give and receive pleasure. We shall prepare each other’s bodies and then welcome the king of all gods. He shall come to us not as the Zeus of later days, replete with having fathered so many offspring by mortal women, but as his young self, barely matured, new to feelings of passion. We shall initiate him in the ways of love.”
The two then turned to one another and kissed: a caress sweet in its gentleness, lingering and true, as if they were alone and unwatched.
Semele took a pitcher from beside the bed, while Thetis drew back her hair and leaned away. Her breasts jutted upwards as her back arched. The Theban poured water across her partner’s gown so that the fabric became translucent and clinging, revealing the raspberry areola of her nipples, pushed tight against the muslin, and the dark triangle below her belly. Semele bent her head to Thetis’ bared neck, kissing upwards from her collarbone, while letting her hand travel down.
MacCaulay wetted his lips, a flame kindling within him.
Thetis shrugged the dress from her shoulders, so that it fell to the floor, and the beauty of her form was fully displayed, droplets of water adorning her curves. She kept her noble head raised and her hair shimmered down her back. Her skin appeared exquisite, with no obvious sign of bruising from MacCaulay’s crop.
Semele raised the pitcher again, so that rivulets of water cascaded over Thetis’ porcelain landscape: across her abundant hills and downwards, to the mysterious valley between her legs. They kissed once more, Thetis pressing her damp body against that of Semele, still clad. The Theban princess then permitted her robe to be pushed from her shoulders, so that she stood before Thetis as a dark mirror: breast to breast, belly to belly.
Thetis anointed Semele now with oil of orange blossom, warming it in her hands, so that the sweet scent began to fill the room. She kneaded thighs and belly, and then satin spheres, oil glistening. Here she lingered, taking delight in the ample curve beneath her palm, squeezing and stroking, and teasing the nipple between thumb and forefinger. Thetis reached down to the precipice of Semele’s secret garden, cupping its warmth. The maiden parted her legs, rocking against the pressure of Thetis’ touch.
The sea nymph moved her other hand to Semele’s buttocks, massaging and caressing, reaching every crevice, leaving her hand between the cleft while she stole another kiss. The amour of the embrace inspired the dusky princess to wrap her leg about Thetis, exposing the velvet flesh of her under thigh to butterfly touches.
The pair drank deeply of one another, until they fell upon the waiting bed, their legs entwined. They wrapped their fingers in each other’s hair and Semele’s kisses travelled at last to the rosy grotto of pleasure between the pale thighs of Thetis.
MacCaulay’s lips parted, seeing Mademoiselle’s legs open, revealing her centre, plump and pink, like that of a fig, awaiting exploration. Semele’s tongue probed Thetis’ fruit, licked and sucked, until the sea nymph tossed upon a sea of passion, the waves mounting within her.
Her head cast back, auburn locks all-tumbled, her face showed only delicious delight. A rush of tenderness came upon MacCaulay, watching Mademoiselle’s mouth open in ecstasy, thinking of how he would love to place his lips upon hers.
Writhing now, her pearly teeth biting against her lip in concentration, her flower exploded within her, bringing forth sweet nectar. Semele’s luscious kisses had taken Thetis to the heart of Paradise.
As the two lay resplendent, the drapes parted to reveal Zeus: a young man MacCaulay recognized at once as their newest member. Aged just 20, he rowed for Oxford, giving him a physique more muscular than was usual for his years. His angelic face framed with curls of blonde, he presented himself as suitably god-like.
The two beauties upon the bed welcomed him with arms open, drawing him to them, opening their thighs so that he might lie easily between them. In turn they received his kisses, upon breasts and belly, and gave kisses in return. His skin tingled at their touch: their elegant hands stroking his strong limbs, and the hardness of his buttocks and mighty staff.
Zeus’ caresses became more urgent, his hands grasping the plump and shapely bottom of Semele, so that he might impale her with his divine spear. She met his long strokes with her own dance of joy, her hips rising to meet each thrust, until the Theban princess cried out in delight, her legs clinging about his and her back stretching in pleasure. Zeus’ seed travelled deep, sent on its way with each throbbing pulse, his sword buried to its hilt.
Thetis was now hungry for her turn with the king of the gods, kissing his member back to life, so that Zeus might mount her with the same ardour. Placing her astride his lap, the divinity suckled like a babe at her ample breasts. Firm and pert, with nipples upcast, he took his fill of them, so that Thetis’ shrine ached to feel his thunderbolt within her. Clasping her slender waist, he guided her upon him, exulting in the delight with which she shared her flesh.
Her belly undulated as she encircled him, wishing to bring him to the place of elation she was fast approaching. Zeus bit down upon her breast as his juices sprung forth, his crescendo watering the fertile soil of the sea nymph, and inspiring her own song of jubilation.
They fell now, entwined, with Semele joining them in their slumber, her dainty legs about those of golden Zeus, and her breasts pressed lovingly at his back. Like a painting by Titian come to life, the three curved their bodies one about the other, so that it was hard to tell where one ended and another began.
So ended the tableau and the gathered assembly gave its applause with enthusiasm, some standing to offer their ovation. The play had been presented with utmost delicacy, so that each kiss appeared to fly on wings from Heaven and each thrust was delivered with ease, such as truly bestowed by a god.
MacCaulay had watched enraptured, gratified to see the serenity with which the object of his affections had conducted herself. Each movement was lithe, performed with the grace of a ballerina. From the tilt of her head to the pointing of her toes, her body was a thing of beauty: a ship in full mast gliding across an ocean of pleasure. How relaxed she was, and how ready to lay bare her inner self -showing her soul in its utmost state of bliss.
As the gentlemen began to drum the tables, shouting for an encore, the three young players rose from their slumber to bow in thanks, honoured to receive such approbation. The approval and admiration of the crowd brought a new flush to the performers’ cheeks and they exited the stage with lightness in their step.
Chapter Nine
The Bath
The Gentlemen drifted from the salon into the adjoining room: the assembly hall in which they might act out their own tableaux, with the ready participation of the harem there waiting. The scene inspired a great use of perfumed oil that night and the stripping of clothes, so that limbs might glisten: all the better for the massaging of tender flesh and the slip-sliding of bodies one against the other.
MacCaulay remained in the salon until quite alone, ordering his customary whisky and waiting, in expectation that Thetis might reappear. An hour passed in solitude, so that he had all but given up hope, until the Master of Ceremonies entered, to inform him that Mademoiselle Noire awaited his pleasure. He led MacCaulay through the salon drapes to a corridor beyond. There were several doors here, but from behind one could be heard feminine laughter and the splashing of water.
/> On entering, he noticed first a huge bath, above the rim of which three graceful necks were visible, crowned by pinned locks: one dark, one palest blonde and one richly red. To the rear of the room was a large bed, cloaked in drapes.
Mademoiselle Noire turned on hearing his step, her face flushed rosily from the steam. She appeared younger than he had seen her thus far, her face stripped of any embellishment at the lip or cheek. Moreover, she was without her mask, so that Lord MacCaulay was at last able to fully meet her eye. She held his gaze for some moments, her head tilted to one side, chin slightly raised, taking stock of him.
She was the first to speak and caught him off guard by addressing him by name.
“Lord MacCaulay, you remember Daisy and Hetty I think?”
The girls turned their heads at their names, looking at him over their shoulders, as demure as he remembered them, but with something worldly about their eyes. They were also without any mask of concealment, so that he was able to gaze openly upon their young faces.
The Gentlemen's Club: Volume One in the 'Noire' series Page 4