Mademoiselle Noire then lowered herself a little, so that, at last, his tongue might reach within her juicy lips. She wriggled the nub of her clitoris upon him, and rocked her hips back and forth, keeping herself lightly above. With each motion, her ripe bottom grazed his nose. He ventured his tongue deeper, which brought forth a purr of appreciation and her cunny dropped down, to press against his face more persistently.
As her frenzy grew, her mouth drew down upon his shaft with tight, smooth strokes. Finally, the sensations across his balls and cock overwhelmed him, and his fierce erection burst into Mademoiselle’s mouth. Hetty and Daisy’s dainty orifices remained firmly about his testicles as he gave forth. Mademoiselle allowed then her own satisfaction to bubble over, her spasm sending honey juices flowing onto MacCaulay’s tongue, so that each enjoyed the taste of the other.
Chapter Eleven
Obsession
She had dismissed Hetty and Daisy, sponged him clean and dried him, untied him, kissing each wrist and ankle, then donned a silken kimono and retired to the next room, leaving Lord MacCaulay without another word.
Lightheaded, he dressed. It felt as if a lifetime had passed since his arrival at the Club earlier that evening.
His carriage he took not home, but through the empty streets of Belgravia and Knightsbridge, wishing to gather his thoughts. He passed the homes of those whom he knew and those whom he did not: families slept behind darkened windows, concealed by drapes tangible and by veils imperceptible. The world he had thought he understood, and, by default, belonged to, seemed now false.
Eventually, as dawn was breaking, he turned homeward and found oblivion in his bed, waking only after noon, to a head hot and a feeling of uncomfortable constriction about his chest. He was strong of constitution, but he felt quite out of sorts and, on ringing for his valet, George, asked if he might recommend any preparation for the easing of such symptoms.
A detoxifying solution of Epsom Salts was placed before him, and a pot of peppermint tea – for its soothing properties. George also requested a tray from the kitchen, of sparsely buttered white bread toast, and two lightly boiled eggs. His Lordship would surely feel more himself after some breakfast, and might then take a turn in Kensington Gardens, since fresh air, albeit accompanied by a mist of drizzle, was known for its restorative powers.
MacCaulay felt somewhat revived by mid afternoon, although his head continued to plague him. He wondered if his discomfort was no more than the confluence of a great many conflicting ideas battling one another for supremacy.
His thoughts centred entirely upon the night previous. Such images assailed him as brought a rush of blood not only to his head, which made it throb, but to his groin – which behaved likewise.
After so much waiting, allowing him to watch her, drink her in with his eyes, even wield the crop against her, but never to touch her, his Queen of the Night had opened herself to him. She had given him the essence of herself: her heart of pure passion. She had clasped him to her as if he were the only man alive. His rod she had claimed as her own plaything, having taken such care to shear it (as he recalled on reaching for a scratch beneath the bedcovers).
She had made efforts to discover his name, although to what purpose he could not be sure. Her own remained a mystery to him.
He endeavoured to understand his feelings for her, beyond his desire to consume her carnally. She continued to fascinate him, perhaps because she continued to elude him. He might possess her body, but her mind and spirit flew free.
He had no sense that she sought to entrap him. Her carefree, casual nature was obvious. She lived intensely, taking her own pleasure, without seeking anything in return. She desired no promises or declarations of love. They were unnecessary.
Nevertheless, his feelings were such that he now wished to heap adoration upon her. She swam in his blood and in his bones. Her breath was in his pulse and her touch imprinted on the naked meat of his flesh.
He had little doubt that professions of devotion would repulse her. She might only scorn him with laughter, but she might also revile him, denouncing his romantic conventions. He had long held the state of marriage to be undesirable, since it placed irrevocable constraints upon a man, forcing him into the company of a wife chosen to fit his place in society. He had never met any woman whose company he sought for longer than a few hours. Even his sister, of whom he was inordinately fond, tried his patience at times.
Dear Cecile, hearing that he was out of sorts, had insisted that she would remain at home until he was quite well, rather than accepting an invitation from their aunt in Oxfordshire for a few days’ visit. The railway line from Paddington was so convenient that she might easily defer her trip to another week.
MacCaulay had stroked her cheek fondly and removed himself to his library. Her affection he welcomed; her continual company less so.
His thoughts were all of his seductress: a woman so vastly different to his sister. Although their ages were probably much the same, their tastes could not have been more diverse. Cecile loved to embroider linens, paint portraits, and take afternoon tea with friends and family. She chatted endlessly to her little terrier lapdog and her exercise comprised a twice-weekly turn through Hyde Park upon her mare, in company with several other ladies of equestrian persuasion.
Mademoiselle Noire’s exercise, he imagined, was rarely performed out of doors.
The only solution, to his mind, would be to persuade her to become his mistress. Marriage to Mademoiselle Noire was a ridiculous notion. From what class of people she originated, who knew? Moreover, her agenda, so ably enacted over recent weeks, hardly marked her out as a woman in search of a husband.
And yet, knowing all this, he heard her in every whisper. She occupied the silence and the roar of life.
The next day, after some hours spent in deep melancholy, closeted in his library, yet reading nothing beyond the obituaries in The Times (which always cheered him) he accompanied Cecile, at her request, to the newly reopened Claridge’s Hotel, in Mayfair. Desirous of seeing the grandeur of the new décor, and to sample the sweet pastries so praised by her friends, she eventually coaxed him into the carriage, so that they entered the grand hall at 3pm. Cecelia exclaimed on the beautiful marble of the new flooring and the sweep of the grand staircase, as they walked through to take their table within the elegant dining room in which afternoon tea was served. MacCaulay eyed the finger sandwiches, eclairs and cream tarts with little appetite, although Cecelia was all praise and clearly enjoying their outing. He smiled fondly at her - happy at least that she was so easily contented.
Looking about the room, which was quite full, since his sister was not the only female in aristocratic London eager to see the hotel in its newly refurbished state, he found himself seeking out ladies’ hair colour. Only two women boasted locks approximating in shade to those of Mademoiselle Noire, but neither had the same rich luster, and their skin lacked luminosity. In fact, there was not a woman there whom he would have called beautiful (apart from his darling Cecile, of course). Several were pretty, but simpering; most were decidedly plain in his opinion. Had he always been so choosy? It hardly mattered now.
Their tea drunk, and Cecile happy at having seen several ladies of note, the brother and sister returned to their carriage. However, they had hardly reached Grosvenor Square before MacCaulay’s attention was caught by an upturned face, seen in the crowd upon the pavement: someone with auburn hair. He banged immediately on the ceiling, so that their driver might stop, kissed Cecile lightly upon the brow, offering profuse apologies, and leapt down onto the pavement, adeptly avoiding the collected filth of the gutter.
He looked about him, certain that he had recognized her, but no lady was visible meeting her description. Then, he saw her again, hair tucked under a cap, but a few locks escaping. She was wearing the garb of a young working lad: trousers of rough cloth, heavy boots, a waistcoat, jacket and a wide scarf closely about her neck, so that her face was barely visible. She was disappearing down A
udley Street, weaving between pedestrians, so that he was obliged to quicken his pace.
He was almost upon her when she turned and saw him, an expression of surprise and some irritation crossing her face. She began to run, dodging down Mount Street and almost knocking into some flower sellers, which brought forth a rich host of expletives. He kept her in sight, although it was all he could do to keep up with her rapid progress. She turned left into Park Street, ran a few paces more, and then disappeared into a smaller alleyway.
MacCaulay was somewhat familiar with the streets hereabouts, as the Dorchester Hotel was nearby, as was the entrance to Hyde Park, off Park Lane. He entered the alley, carefully avoiding the curds of vomit left by a night reveler, but was unable to spot her. He wondered if she had already exited at the other end back onto Audley Street. He took a few more steps, drawing level with some barrels of ale stacked against the wall, and there saw her, his Venus, crouched in hiding among foul-smelling refuse. Her beauty was all the more dazzling here – a place so low and dirty, nauseating in its odour and habituated more often by the beer-bloated and sodden-eyed.
She jumped up at once, making to flee, but he grabbed her shoulder, holding her fast, so that she soon gave up her struggle. The material of her jacket was so very coarse that he wondered it did not make her itch. Her face she turned from him, refusing to meet his eye, clearly unhappy that he had come upon her so unexpectedly.
“My dear Mademoiselle,” he began, only curiosity in his voice, and the softness of one who cares. “Do you usually take your afternoon air dressed in this way? What can be the reason? And why must you run from me? I had thought our acquaintance worthy of the exchange of pleasantries.”
She shook his grip from her shoulder but made no further attempt to flee. However, her voice was all annoyance.
“Lord MacCaulay, it may come as a surprise for you to discover that some of us like to wander London without being recognized by those with whom we have acquaintance. My costume is surely evidence in itself that I am not taking the air as a genteel young woman, for which I would require a chaperone. I prefer to walk alone, being of independent mind, and if you have no further questions of me, I shall continue.”
At this, he could not help but laugh, since her demeanor was so earnest, and her exasperation so child-like. She eyed him with petulance, then looked away again, obviously irked that her fancy dress provided him with such amusement.
“Of course,” he replied, steadying his expression now, to avoid causing more offence. “It’s an exceedingly clever idea in fact: one I may adopt myself.”
“There is no need to mock me,” she answered. “You are a man: to whit, there are no restrictions placed upon you. You are free to come and go as you please; nobody will stop you.”
He saw now that there was more to her irritation than simple annoyance at having been caught.
“How often do you adopt this boyish identity?” he asked, his voice all seriousness.
She did not answer immediately, considering how much of her secret to share. At last, she admitted that it had only been her second outing, and the first had lasted but five minutes before she had returned to the safety of her residence.
“It is perhaps not the solution for which I had hoped,” she reflected.
“Nevertheless, the costume suits you well young garçon,” smiled MacCaulay.
“I am not of a mood for jest,” she retorted, moving to walk away.
He reached out again, detaining her once more, turning her towards him.
She looked up with defiance, but his face was all softness, eyes smiling not only in amusement but with affection.
She raised her lips to his, taking a kiss.
“Now I must leave you Lord MacCaulay. I’m sure you have other calls upon your time than hob-nobbing with lowly street boys.”
She began to walk away but MacCaulay spun her about, and wrapped her in a firm embrace, meeting her lips with sweetness, but also with urgency, as if he might never lay eyes upon her again.
She made no effort to remove herself, allowing his tongue to probe her mouth. Her hands moved within his coat, lifting his shirt so that her fingers might find the bare skin of his back.
Her touch thrilled him, sending a jolt to his groin, but he hesitated, remembering of a sudden that they stood in a public place – though dusk was falling, obscuring them somewhat from view. Were someone to call an officer of the police, he would face confinement in a cell, and likely sentencing for indecent behaviour – being found with a ‘boy’. Even were he to bribe his way out of the mess, he might well find the story leaked to the newspapers.
As if reading his mind, she threw forth the challenge. “My Lord, I am a woman who likes to be kissed – and by someone who knows how to do so. You are brave enough to accost a young lad in a darkened, foul alleyway, but does your courage take you any further?”
She reached then for the front of his trousers, stroking his growing erection through the serge wool. She found the buttons, and soon gained entry within, her hand cool against the heat of him. Her fingers ringed the base of his member, squeezing, and then dropped lower, to his testicles.
A haze of lust fell upon him at her touch. What kind of woman was she to inflame such desire? At every meeting, he began under the illusion of having the upper hand and, each time, she so swiftly educated him.
She looked directly into his eyes now, and saw there the look desired by all women: the look of a man spellbound, obsessed, hers to command and hers to submit to.
Despite the nearby sounds of the main street, and the sight of passersby so near, he moved his hands swiftly, unbuttoning her rough-hewn britches and untying the cotton bloomers she wore beneath. Pushing aside the confines of the fabric, he found her golden gate, entering her with his fingers. Her breath was already coming quickly, her velvet walls eager to receive him.
He raised her from below her arms, pinning her to the wall then with his chest, so that her cunny was placed for his entry. Her legs were restricted in their movement, so that she could not wrap them about him as she desired, but he pushed down her garments to the extent required and guided his phallus between her legs. Its head nudged at her labia, and then drove home. His hands he placed beneath her buttocks, so that her weight was fully supported.
She could move but little. However, the angle of his penetration proved fortuitous, since his shaft pressed to the front, fully against her clitoris; each stroke brought an intense wave of pleasure to her. She groaned so loudly that he feared her noise would draw the attention of those in busy Audley Street.
The danger of the situation added a great frisson to the act: she reveling in the public nature of being held fast and speared by his weapon; he fearful of being observed yet incited by her hunger for him and determined to prove himself a match for her never-ending challenges. He would show her that he could meet any trial she set before him.
Her cunny clenched about him as she climaxed. Such was her noise that he brought his mouth upon hers, attempting to stifle her cries. His groin awash with her delicious juices, his own crisis followed close, his rod pulsing to its peak of gratification.
Chapter Twelve
Achilles’ Heel
They had gathered themselves into a decent state, shared a knowing smile, and exited from opposing ends of the alley.
MacCaulay took a short cut through Hyde Park, past the statue of Achilles, created in likeness to some figure on the Monte Cavallo in Rome. It was a sculpture he had always admired, the musculature of the hero’s body appearing too lifelike to be formed merely from stone. Shield upheld and sword in hand, he stood in defiance, ready for war. MacCaulay, vain and egotistical as he was, had never thought to compare himself with the majesty of the demi-god, dipped in the River Styx to render him invincible, but for the heel by which his mother held him. Now, he felt some affinity with the noble warrior, whose pride and courage led him into the thick of danger at Troy.
His battlefield was less tangible but he felt it no
netheless: an inner conflict, in which his head and heart conducted their own havoc. As for his Achilles’ Heel, her name remained unknown to him, despite the planes of her face being etched upon his consciousness. MacCaulay stood he knew not how long, pondering his feelings, wracking his heart and mind. Other pedestrians bustled speedily now that the wind had picked up and drizzle was descending. At last, he turned homeward, the final leaves of autumn eddying about his feet.
He passed the old ‘Route du Roi’ – corrupted incongruously into its common name of ‘Rotten Row’. In fine weather, the broad avenue attracted all ladies and gentlemen of fashion, wealth, celebrity and beauty. It ran to his right, leading off into the darkness. His own path stretched similarly before him. He rarely thought of the future, or the inevitable changes brought by age, but they pre-occupied him now; he imagined growing older, dissatisfied, without hope of a great amour, passionless and withered.
The Gentlemen's Club: Volume One in the 'Noire' series Page 6