Beads of perspiration dripped now between Evaline’s breasts, her breath fast as she succumbed to the rhythmic probing of her anus. Transported to another place, her body enjoyed such heightened awareness that she was no longer conscious of the room or the vanity of her own identity. She knew only the sensations upon her skin and the great ball of fire within her body.
The fingers at her cunny were pushed aside, so that one of the company might insert his phallus. He smacked roughly against her bottom, his hefty balls swinging as his pelvis ground forward. Those hairy globes knocked at her with each thrust. Meanwhile, her mouth lapped at the salty secretions of the organ offered for her oral delectation.
Those watching stroked their ready erections, waiting their turn, seeking release in the confines of her soft body.
The smell of sexual heat hung thick.
Seeking only to appease his love, MacCaulay replied in desperation, swearing that he would never attempt to hold her to the covenants binding other women. They could create their own contract: a new charter. He would be her devoted servant, entrusted with her safety and happiness, sharing her life and her bed, yet respectful of her chosen path.
Mademoiselle smiled at MacCaulay’s ardent promises.
“Grand words my love,” she admitted. “If they are sincere, I commend you.”
One after another, men claimed their fill of Evaline, wielding rods young and old, hairy, wrinkly, thick and thin, taking their pleasure. She knew not who impaled her, nor cared, submitting herself to the anonymity of their lustful penises, the slippery tips gaining easy entry, stroking her to a state between wakefulness and dreaming.
Mademoiselle watched Evaline’s erotic dance as if in her own trance: one of remembrance and fantasy, in which she clasped her mouth to the bulbous head of a stranger’s penis, and opened her own legs, to be slain by the steel of an unknown assailant.
MacCaulay saw her lips parted, her teeth biting gently upon them and her tongue wetting their dryness.
He desired nothing more than to scoop her in his arms and carry her off to some place of quiet, where he might kiss her heavy eyes and stopper the bottle of her desire, which threatened so dangerously to overflow. He expected at any moment for her to join Evaline in her choreography of erotic abandon.
Whatever her feelings, she controlled them for the moment, rising to leave the room at last, removing herself.
Her last words to him were that he should meet her the next night, at 10pm, in the Mirrored Room.
Chapter Fourteen
A Mirror to the Soul
Lord MacCaulay felt no compulsion to stay longer, returning home promptly, to sit by his fire with a large glass of cognac. His thoughts ran through every nuance of his conversation with Mademoiselle Noire, and her facial expressions at various points of the evening.
He could not anticipate what the following night would bring, but assumed it would be some sort of test: an ultimatum perhaps.
He felt in his heart that this woman who so perplexed him was enduring her own conflict, her head battling her heart. At the next moment, he berated himself for even attempting to understand her motives. She was beyond his fathom, which, he reminded himself, was what made her all the more alluring to him.
At last, he retired to his bed, sleeping with more reward than had been the case on most nights previously.
The following morning, he joined Cecile at the breakfast table for a tolerable repast of kedgeree and poached eggs, at which his dear sister, dressed fetchingly in dark coral silk, related her plans for the day. She was to visit her dressmaker in the Burlington Arcade, and then meet an old school friend for luncheon at The Savoy; it was to be a day most delightful.
George then brought in the morning post and Cecile departed, to ready herself for the carriage. There were six items of correspondence: one an invitation to the opening of a new gallery (he would decline), two invitations to dinner (also to be declined), a long and exceptionally dull missive from the Oxfordshire aunt, berating the state of her gardens following the wet weather and insisting that she could not do without Cecile. She hoped that her niece might take the train at her earliest convenience. Of MacCaulay she made little, other than to add that he might accompany his sister if he had no other business to detain him. The fifth envelope contained a brief report from his bank, informing him of his current affairs and investments (all were most healthy).
The last was addressed in a hand he did not recognize, upon dove grey paper. On opening, he saw at once that the note said little, but he knew then who had written it, although it was only signed ‘M’. That she had discovered his place of residence surprised him not a jot.
She had written:
‘We must see how you endure. If you have the head and stomach for egalitarianism, we may find a path. If not, we shall meet no more.’
***
The hours crept slowly until the time came for him to return to the Club. He had not entered the Mirrored Room on any previous occasion, necessitating his being guided by one of the footmen from the dining hall.
It was most disorienting, each of its eight walls covered in reflective tiles, as was the domed ceiling and, even, the floor. Its intent was obvious: to reflect back at the occupants all manner of their activities, and from every conceivable angle.
MacCaulay seated himself upon the one piece of furniture – a comfortable divan upholstered in dark leather, at the centre of the octagon.
A few minutes passed before a segment of the wall hinged inwards, revealing itself to be a door, and his own Mademoiselle entered. Her attire was such as he could only approve. In her hair, upbraided, she wore a long black ostrich plume. She wore her mask of dark guipure lace, although clearly only for effect, since her identity was now known to him. Her body was magnificently bare, except for silken pastilles covering her nipples. About her waist she had wrapped a satin sash, looping it then through her legs, so that it framed her pubis most attractively, as if she were a gift, for him to unwrap.
Upon her feet, she wore shoes decorated with diamantes and feathers and with a tall, thin heel, which clicked as she walked towards MacCaulay. She stopped then, standing before him with legs tantalizingly apart, so that the reflection from below was most engaging.
“Lord MacCaulay,” she purred, barely above a whisper. “Why is it that I am ready for you, yet you are fully clothed?”
Her request was soon fulfilled, so that he stood before her naked. Her eyes appraised his firm torso, legs and arms, and her handiwork from some nights previously: his groin remained bare.
She removed the feather from her hair, touching the tip against his chest, and then dropping it to brush his legs. She slowly encircled him, letting the feather stroke his back and buttocks, before standing once more in front. The mirrors afforded him a breathtaking view of her body as she navigated around him, so that he admired the curve of her breasts, and the glorious roundness of her bottom, from every angle.
Facing him, she dropped the feather to his phallus, so that it’s light touch teased him.
“One day, as Shakespeare reminds us, we shall lie with worms as our chambermaids. Until then, should our bodies not experience all pleasures?”
She continued, “This room heightens the experience of watching, does it not, Lord MacCaulay? Every act within these walls is magnified and reflected back at the protagonists.”
As if in demonstration, she bent forward at the waist, keeping her long legs straight and parted, so that her buttocks rose and the cheeks parted naturally; looking in the mirror behind her, MacCaulay was able to fully appreciate the view. She whipped the feather through her legs, so that it stroked her cheeks, and momentarily concealed her delta.
She remained in this attitude, clearly inviting him to touch her.
Taking a position of advantage, he rested his right hand on her buttock. He considered a moment then raised his arm and brought his palm upon her, delivering a sharp spank. He felt the acuteness of it on his own skin. He gave her another, w
atching his hand in the mirror opposite, as it made contact. The slap caused her to flinch, but her heard her sigh also: the timbre of which was now familiar to him. He paused, allowing the sensation of the sting to sink in before giving her more. She remained folded over for him, eager for more of his burning smacks upon her flesh. The peach of her cheeks rippled each time under the impact of his blows.
He felt his veined majesty rising, until his ruby head was more than ready to menace her lewdly presented crevice. He maneuvered the tip of his phallus and she held still, freely inviting him to mount her. He did so, easing his shaft slowly within, desiring to appear nonchalant. The inner lips of her cunt stretched to accommodate him, then closed about his shaft, embedding him in her velvet passage.
He became aware of a heavy ache in his balls: a desire to ride her mercilessly, to show her that he could wholly satisfy any urge she cared to inspire in him. Grasping her firmly about the hips, he pushed further into her than he had before, since her folded stance offered more access than on the other occasions. Her groan of pain and pleasure spiked his desire, so that he knew he would only endure briefly before having to succumb.
Watching himself in the mirrors on every side, he withdrew his sword, pleased with the sight of it, so engorged and powerful. At the last moment, as his contact with her would be lost, he thrust forward hard, driving into her depths with the full length of his shaft. She groaned again, but pushed herself back upon him, eager to enjoy the exquisite torment. He repeated the action twice more, plunging himself to the hilt after withdrawing slowly.
He then lifted her buttocks high upon his groin and rotated his pelvis into the heart of her, grinding relentlessly against her cunny, taking her arousal along with his. He bent his knees to facilitate the angle of entry, on a shared journey of lust. Too soon, he knew he could tolerate no more. The sight of their coupling, his thrusts reflected back and forth, entering her willing flesh, his penis penetrating again and again, drove him to the brink.
Forsaking all other thoughts, he rutted into her, in a fashion more animal than human. His eruption he held fast within, so that she squirmed against the sensation before accepting her own fall into oblivion, her walls pulsing to an echoing rhythm.
When they had gathered their breath, she stood upright and turned to face him once more. She tilted her head, lips raised and parted, as if to allow him to kiss her, but placed the feather between them at the last moment, laughing gently.
“Truly, your prowess cannot be questioned my Lord,” she conceded. “However, if you wish still to enter into our contract, I must be convinced that you can honour your part, allowing me to invite others into our bed.”
At this, she returned to the mirrored door and opened it wide, to allow two others to join them: the huge African and the young Zeus.
Both naked, one ebony dark and the other golden, they exhibited strength and beauty such as no man could deny. As ever, his heart quickened on being faced with his black rival. The young stallion he recalled from the ethereal performance with Thetis and Semele. He felt no fear: only anxiety.
Mademoiselle Noire strutted between and around them, taking such strides as to ensure that her figure was placed to best advantage: stomach gently rounded, thighs firm and breasts glorious, legs luscious. Every part of her was magnificent.
Knowing he was watching her, she flicked her ostrich feather over her new lovers’ bodies as she promenaded, her eyes and touch roving to their tight buttocks, their biceps, and their toned abdomen muscles – leading down to fat pythons between their thighs.
Letting her feather linger below, her voice taunted them, in its usual manner.
“Goodly Gentlemen, I hope your instruments can provide adequate sport for me.”
She led them to the leather divan, kneeling upon it, with one at each side, her back to MacCaulay, whom she left where he was.
Mademoiselle wrapped her fingers around their members, stroking them simultaneously, one upon her left and one upon her right. Her languorous caresses soon roused them to full erectness. MacCaulay was obliged to watch, feeling envy and jealousy, yet also pleasurably inflamed. Mademoiselle caught his eye in the mirror before her, ensuring that he observed her smile, taunting.
She took then the tip of the African’s mighty phallus in her mouth, moving her lips over its bulbous head, and her tongue along its purple, veined length. Her other hand continued its ministrations, until she altered her attentions, turning her face to offer kisses to Zeus’ generous organ.
So it was that MacCaulay was compelled to watch those lips he would kiss and call his own placed upon the penises of other men; the dainty tongue, which had probed his in a tender caress, lick the shaft of another’s cock. Moreover, there was no doubt in his mind that his Mademoiselle had the greatest satisfaction in the task: an enjoyment only heightened by the knowledge of his watchfulness. Each stroke of her velvet mouth brought forth a grunt of appreciation from he before her, which served to increase her fervour. MacCaulay knew her well enough to see that she had every intention of enjoying those engorged members to the full, not just against her tongue, but deep within her most private of orifices.
Sure enough, only a few moments passed before his Queen altered her stance once more, pushing the African onto his back upon the divan, so that she might spread her legs to sit across his lap. Her eyes on those of MacCaulay, she mounted the dark giant with care, allowing herself time to accommodate his great girth.
Lord MacCaulay was mesmerized by the sight of her, breasts jutting upwards, and ivory thighs parted, taking the African’s dark cock inside: hips making a gentle forward caress as she reached the ultimate point of fulfillment, and tilting back as she rose, the phallus reappearing. The curve of her spine and the slenderness of her limbs were in marked contrast to the sheer bulk of her ebony lover, whose hands could have spanned her waist without effort. Moreover, the luminosity of her pale skin was the perfect foil to the glossy black of he below.
As her motion upon her steed gained in ease and speed, she whispered something to her golden Zeus, who had waited patiently. Mademoiselle lay down upon the giant’s torso, so that her white breasts brushed his dark chest, and then opened her legs wide, keeping the African’s phallus firmly within her cunny, but exposing her delectable bottom. She angled her buttocks so that the delicate rosette of her anus was exposed.
Zeus reached below the leather divan and brought up a bottle of the now familiar oil, which he set about rubbing liberally onto his organ. Then, without further ado, he massaged the pink bud of her tightest passage with the slippery substance. He took his time with his caresses, ringing the rim with his finger until she was quite in a fury for him to enter her. He bothered not with further foreplay, setting about taking the puckered bloom so beautifully presented to him. As his rotund head pushed forward, she uttered small cries of anguish. However, within the shortest of time, her golden lover’s shaft had entered some inches, allowing freer movement. He lay partially atop her, making slow strokes to her most intimate of places, as she enjoyed the dark sword of the other. Sandwiched in this way, her frame appearing most fragile against their strength and size, she enjoyed the sensation of this double penetration. Zeus’ strokes had been shallow at first, but became deeper now, as her pretty hole expanded to accommodate him.
MacCaulay’s view was unhindered and magnified many-fold: the clenching buttocks of Zeus plunged repeatedly at the rounded bottom of his most beloved, driving forward with relentless hunger, grinding his weapon deep within her constricted passage. Meanwhile, MacCaulay’s true love, she who haunted him in wakefulness and sleep, pushed greedily upon the African’s groin, eager to satisfy the longing within her.
Their shared rhythm was evidently much to Mademoiselle’s taste, as her cries were now such as could only be interpreted as signs of impending ecstasy. Her thrusts became more demanding and faster paced. Zeus was first to shudder in delight, surging into her, uttering a great groan of satisfaction.
The music of his org
asm inspired that of the African below, who shot forth his juices with a moan long and low. MacCaulay saw his own sweet love’s hips writhe with the great fulfillment of desire. Her body then froze, held rigid, before a shudder passed through her and a flood of passion erupted, as if she were exhaling her soul.
Her cry brought a tightness to MacCaulay’s throat. His envy burned within him, knowing that others had taken her to such a place of arousal and contentment.
The three lay breathless, one upon the other, bodies glistening with perspiration. At last, they parted, Zeus and the African taking their place at either side of the room. Mademoiselle lay reclined upon the couch still, her chest rising yet with rapid breaths.
The Gentlemen's Club: Volume One in the 'Noire' series Page 8