MacCaulay knew that he must seize the moment, showing her that his feelings of jealousy could be harnessed to other ends: that her enjoyment of other men did not lessen his own desire. In fact, that her performance only heightened his hunger to please her.
He first pulled the ribbon about her waist, so that it unraveled, and slithered from between her thighs. Next, he bent his mouth to her breasts, removing the pastilles with his teeth, so that her rosy nipples were unveiled. Her mask he left in place. She lay for him, fully naked, languorous and displayed. Her thighs were parted, one knee raised: her labia on show, plump and glistening with his dark rival’s semen.
Knowing that he was watched, and caring not, he lay his own bare body against hers. She turned her face towards his and their lips met in a kiss so deep and tender that MacCaulay felt an ocean wash over him, entering a world in which only she existed for him.
Her nipples brushed his chest, and she pulled herself closer to him, enjoying the hairiness of his torso against her soft skin. Her belly pushed against his, and her hands snaked around his back, at last finding his buttocks, which she drew towards her, wrapping a leg about him, so that his thick rod pressed at her groin.
The moment was exquisite; they lay clasped, body to body, knowing that pleasure was to come and savouring this quiet pause before they surrendered themselves to the throb of lust growing between them.
She wriggled a little against him, altering the angle of her pelvis, and his manhood found its entry as naturally as a fox seeking shelter in its den. He held himself within her, not yet moving, drinking in the sensation of being embraced by her.
At last, imprisoning her in his steadfast gaze, and cradling her as the most precious jewel, he began to rock against her. He sensed some impatience on her side but exerted all his self-control to keep his rhythm steady, refusing to rush forward. In this one thing he was able to defy her, forcing her to submit to his pace, to allow him to woo her with sweet whisperings of endearment and admiration, and gentle kisses at her neck and along her shoulder. Her hands clutched at his buttocks and she ground herself against him, eager to urge him on, to quicken his thrusts and take her with more force, but he refused to rise to her provocation.
At last, she relinquished her struggle, allowing him to dominate her. His hands firmly cupped the underside of her bottom, so that he held her fast, thrusting at his own leisure, yet with focused deliberation. Her eyes, usually so piercing, inquisitive and taunting, grew wide and dark, glazed with feverish desire. Her body finally became limp in surrender, permitting him to take her as he wished. He held her under his spell now: she capitulating to his will.
MacCaulay’s lips travelled down to embrace her breasts, pushing her upper body slightly away from him to do so. She dropped her head back to expose her throat and torso to him, yielding to his resolve. His kisses upon her ivory skin were devoutly tender, bestowed as if upon an angel, yet still he gripped her haunches, so that little movement was possible on her part. He continued thrusting, ensuring that each stroke was slow, long and deep.
She had never looked more captivating to him: a goddess he was honoured to worship. Her superiority to him in intellect and wit was as unquestionable as her beauty and desirability, yet she was his, conceding to him, responding only to his commands.
As her breathing became ragged, and her velvet passage gripped him tenaciously, she wrapped her legs about his all the more tightly and arched her spine. He took her breast entirely in his mouth then, sucking hard at the flesh around her nipple, and drove into her. His fingers clutched into the cheeks of her buttocks, forcing her resolutely upon his groin, so that his penetration was all and everything. They gasped and groaned together, enjoying the ultimate satisfaction of mutual pleasure: sharing that exquisite moment when flesh becomes one and naught else exists.
When all was done, they lay still, like dreamers in half-slumber, yet to awake to the dawn. Eventually, it was he who rose, dressing silently, and departing the room. Her eyes watched his every movement, until the door closed behind him.
Chapter Fifteen
At the Mercy of Love
Lord MacCaulay knew now that he was shipwrecked, without hope of rescue and, indeed, no desire for deliverance. His love could not be denied. Whatever might happen, he knew that his adoration would endure a lifetime. No other woman would supplant Mademoiselle Noire in this respect. His hunger for her was all consuming.
Her feelings remained, as ever, mysterious to him; he knew not even if she were capable of returning his esteem. Yet, this mattered not; his devotion was set in stone, regardless of how she responded. She might cast him aside and refuse ever to see him again, yet the flame of his love would remain. Even her death would not extinguish his thirst for her.
He must fall on her mercy and, despite his hunger to possess her, would accept whatever terms she appointed. He could only now assure her of his love and genuine regard: his appreciation of her independent spirit. In this, he was her devoted servant, sworn to uphold her comfort, safety and well-being. If she would allow him to do so, he would become her protector, her companion, her lover and fellow adventurer.
Taking his quill, he wrote a simple note, which he sent with all speed, accompanied by a bouquet of fifty hothouse orchids:
‘The rivers, deserts, forests, ocean, sun, moon and stars encircle you.
You swim in my veins,
My soul’s blood stirs for you.
You are my beginning and my end.’
Chapter Sixteen
Breakfast Surprise
Several weeks passed, in which Lord MacCaulay heard nothing from Mademoiselle Noire. Each day, he sent fifty of the same exotic orchids but, exerting all powers of control, he kept himself from visiting the Club and refrained from correspondence.
Once, in a moment of weakness, he lingered nearby, hoping to catch a glance of her, either arriving or leaving. He saw nothing.
By day, he promenaded Hyde Park and the streets through which he had chased her, wrapped now warmly against the wind. Melancholy thoughts assailed him and brought to mind macabre events which had unfolded in the Park: Sir Robert Peel’s demise on being thrown from his horse some five decades previously; and the near fatality of the cruelly puritanical Oliver Cromwell, whose own pistol shot had missed him by a hair’s breadth, fired unexpectedly during a carriage accident. Ironically, the cold hand of death, which had, with time, guided his mortal remains to repose in Westminster Abbey, led Cromwell’s exhumed body to a posthumous trial and hanging at Tyburn gallows, not far from the Park. The silent grave then closed once more about his corpse, although his head remained on display for many years. Perhaps there was something in the notion of reaping as we sow.
Winter’s icy fingers had entered the city, bringing freezing fog and a damp chill to the air. Those with sense made for Italy or the French Riviera. He felt strongly the urge to leave: to put behind him all torment and find some ease under a warmer sun. He might take a young, carefree local girl as his lover, or find release in the arms of a professional courtesan, but he knew such distractions would not suffice. His thoughts would be always with ‘her’.
Each evening, Cecile implored him to be merry: to play cards, chess or backgammon. She lured him twice to the theatre and once to the opera: a relatively new performance by Puccini, entitled La Bohème, which he found desolately miserable. He really had no taste for dramatic fantasy, his mind being too greatly burdened, and dinner parties he detested. Nevertheless, he agreed to accompany his sister to a pre-Christmas masked ball at the Crystal Palace. A strange notion gripped him that he might see Mademoiselle there, knowing her penchant for concealment. He was rewarded only with disappointment, having unmasked three young ladies with auburn hair to no avail.
The festive season passed with little pleasure. He purchased the necessary gifts, and made calls upon those relatives who must be appeased. His smiles he reserved for Cecile, though sparingly, knowing that his unhappiness would otherwise become hers. After much pleadin
g, he agreed to accompany her to the Barnum and Bailey Circus, for the 2pm assembly on 26th December. Touted as ‘the greatest show on Earth’ he wished very much that the entire company might fall off the globe at the soonest opportunity.
Cecile remained perplexed, knowing that a disappointed love affair must be at the heart of his torture. She recalled only once the conversation they had shared in her boudoir; he asked immediately that they refrain from pursuing the subject and, being always his to command, she conceded.
He continued to send orchids, altering his request of the florist only twice: to send fifty red roses on Christmas Day, and fifty white roses on New Year’s Day. Still, he heard nothing.
His custom was now to drink through the late hours, since oblivion was found only there, and to rise late – usually after Cecile had taken her morning ride in the Park. He would then lounge at the breakfast table until past midday, scanning the paper (ridiculously, reading the small advertisements to see if some coded message might appear there for him). The newspaper held little to revive him to any interest in the world at large: the ascension of Queen Wilhelmina to the throne of Holland; the closing of the Spanish-American war; the German Emperor’s visit to Palestine; the assassination of the Empress of Bavaria; some trifles on the British War in the Soudan; Cuba’s liberation from Spain; and a snippet on the United States’ annexation of Hawaii.
It was often early afternoon before he bathed, shaved and dressed and thus it was that he entered the morning room on the fourth day of the new year in his flannel robe, to find there seated, beside his dear Cecile, a woman of familiar beauty and elegant bearing, her golden auburn hair pinned in the fashion newly arrived from Paris and wearing a suit of coral taffeta. The unexpectedness of the event rendered him quite speechless, so that he failed to greet either his sister or their guest, rather standing near the doorway in a state of shock and perturbation.
Setting down her cup, Cecile reached to shield her guest’s eyes, laughing as she did so.
“My darling Henry is the best of brothers. I only hope that you can forgive his disheveled appearance Maud. He really smartens up quite nicely when he makes an effort.”
She continued, removing her hand and placing it instead upon her friend’s arm. “Lady Franchingham is a very old school friend: she and I were great confidants but were parted some eight years ago when Maud was sent to continue her education in Florence. However, as you know, I’ve taken lunch with her many times in the past few months and we have, to my utmost delight, renewed the friendship we enjoyed as girls. In fact, Maud took me to a meeting of the National Union of Women’s Suffrage Societies yesterday. She is determined to improve my mind, although I cannot think that she will have much success. She knows the president, the tireless Millicent Garrett, would you believe, and is keen for me to take up the suffragist cause.”
Maud, none other than Mademoiselle Noire herself, raised her eyes to his. He presented an ignominious sight in his dressing gown, showing legs bare into slipper-shod feet; his hair was shaggy, his stubble unkempt and his eyes bloodshot.
“What a pleasure to meet at last Lord MacCaulay. I’ve heard so much about you,” she smiled. “You should call me Maud and, perhaps, I might call you Henry; I feel that I know you well enough for you to be a brother to me also. Sweet Cecile hardly stops from offering up her praise of you.”
He was quite lost for words, knowing not whether to run from the room in shame or leap forward to grasp her in his arms.
“I’ve promised to run to Penhaligon’s for a bottle of Hammam Bouquet. It’s for our aunt, can you believe; rather exotic I know: all that musk and jasmine! It’s a rather masculine fragrance - like a musty book – but I suppose it suits some. We members of the fairer sex are trying all sorts these days! I’ve heard Queen Victoria secretly wears it, but people say all manner of silly things don’t they. Anyway, it will only take me a short while to walk to Jermyn Street and I’ll be in time to catch the late afternoon train to Oxfordshire. I know Maud is safe with you; she might even convert you to the notion of women’s suffrage Henry!” laughed Cecile. With that, she swept from the room.
Maud was the first to move, rising from her chair with the fluidity of a python. Carefully, she took teacups and plates from the table, placing them upon the side cabinet, next to a covered platter of bacon and eggs, which had been awaiting MacCaulay’s arrival. He watched her in this, still hardly able to believe his eyes, or to accept all that Cecile had told him.
It seemed impossible that he should no longer refer to her as Mademoiselle. Despite her modest attire, everything about her remained familiar: the curve of her figure, the glint of gold in her hair and the aloof, smug smile that habituated her lips. Plush and pink, he thought of them about the shaft of his cock.
She perched on the edge of the breakfast table, her eyes beadily on his. MacCaulay moved close, leaning to kiss her, but she extended back, exposing rather her full throat. Cupping the softness of her auburn locks, he pressed his lips to her jawline then took the lobe of her ear, so that his hot breath made her quiver.
His caresses travelled down her neck, while his hands fumbled with the buttons of her taffeta jacket, causing her to help him, until she had shrugged it off, standing in her under-blouse and heavy coral skirt. He began unbuttoning the muslin, his mouth working down her collarbone, onto the upper curve of her breasts. He was more urgent now, his rough chin tearing at the delicate skin. MacCaulay reached behind to loosen the upper ties of her corset, but lost patience and picked up a knife from the table instead, cutting through the ribbons. It took but a moment and the abundance of her breasts was in his hands. Falling upon them fiercely, he bit into the generous flesh, opening his mouth wide, taking her pert nipples hard between his teeth. She cried out in pain, but her arched back and grasping at his neck told him all he needed to know. He sated himself like a babe in arms, burying his torment in the heavy warmth of her bosom.
His hands grasped below her skirts; he found no bloomers, only the top of her stockings and soft, cool thigh above. He might have lingered there, caressing this tender part of her, but he was too eager, bearing down to cup her mossy garden, pushing several fingers within.
Her breath caught in her throat and she held her head apart, surveying him through half-closed eyes, enjoying the moment, watching him. He held her gaze then moved his fingers deeper, all four, massaging her velvet orifice. Grasping his arms, she rocked her pubis against him, riding his hand, so that her warm juices oozed down his palm. The smell of her – hot and musky – made his jaw slack with lust.
Able to wait no longer, thinking only of her cunt and his desire to feel his cock tightly grasped within her, he untied the cord of his dressing gown and dropped his pyjamas, releasing the club of his engorged manhood. She took it immediately, coiling her fingers around the shaft, guiding it to her, as eager as he, aching with need.
He stabbed into her, driving deeply, repeatedly, iron-hard and demanding. She welcomed the piercing pleasure of his urgency, opening her legs wider, pushing her skirts away and wrapping her legs about him. His thrusts pushed her roughly against the table, but she rose to meet each one, clinging to him at the hip, grinding her own need to match his. Her fingers clawed at his buttocks, gripping him to her, pushing herself against him, devouring him.
Her cries and the rhythmic clenching of her oyster told him that her crisis was upon her, and he felt his own shuddering spasm, fuelled by lust: beautiful and all consuming. His head swam as if he might lose consciousness, so that he clung to her, his face again at her breast, his mouth open in a groan of great satisfaction. He assailed her with the full weight of his body, pressing down upon her, so that his weapon was buried to the hilt, pinning her immovable as his spume jetted violently. At last, he drew back, freeing her of the burden of his torso, allowing her to breathe freely once more. Thighs still spread, he admired his cock emerging from her juicy cunny, oozing now with his viscous spurting.
The table, unsurprisingly, was in some chao
s, since she had not removed every item. Meanwhile, her own appearance was in disarray, her breasts tossed free and hair tousled in wanton fashion. The pupils of her eyes were wide and her breath continued to come in short rasps.
“Is this how you usually take breakfast Lord MacCaulay?” she exclaimed, laughing now and endeavouring to sit upright.
He took the knife and cut the remainder of her corset ribbons, tossing the offending garment across the room, to their mutual amusement. The muslin blouse he pushed upwards and over her head. She turned, so that he might unhook her skirts, and these she tumbled to the floor, so that she stood naked, shivering a little.
She began to mockingly scold him on the chill of the room, but he stopped her mirth with a gentle kiss and pushed her back against the flat of the table. She did not struggle, allowing him to lower his lips to hers. Her hands he placed above her head, so that her frame was lengthened. The ivory orbs were exquisite in their paleness, topped each by a sweet raspberry. He held her wrists there, savouring this moment of physical dominance; then drew forward the pot of marmalade, overturned upon the cloth. He dipped his fingers within and transferred the sweetness to first one nipple and then the other, causing her to chuckle merrily as he had not heard before.
The Gentlemen's Club: Volume One in the 'Noire' series Page 9