In the Flesh

by Portia Da Costa

  What to do? Fuck her? Spank her? Tease her?

  All, in good time.

  He imagined handling himself as he loomed over her just as he was handling himself, supine, now. Working his fierce reddened flesh until he spent, copiously and in bliss, across her buttocks.

  “Beatrice…Beatrice,” he gasped, broken by her beauty, rendered a frenzied, moaning animal merely from the power of imagination, memory…and hope. His spine seemed to melt along the length of his back as he arched in orgasm. He barely contained the burst of his seed in his clutching fingers. The way it jetted forth nearly sent it flying toward Beatrice’s picture—to anoint her in her absence as he’d anointed her, in his mind.

  Afterward, as he lay back, sticky and shattered, another sweet illusion presented itself to him. Raising heavy, tired eyelids, he looked at the large and comfortable hotel bed across the room, and a twisting, plangent yearning gripped his heart and seemed to toss it around inside his chest.

  He wanted her to be in that bed. Beatrice Weatherly, lying there sleeping. And he wanted to climb in between the sheets and sleep beside her.

  The thought shocked him awake and he sat up, rubbing his fingers on his own thigh, to get rid of the drying semen.

  I said never again. I said I’d never sleep the night with a woman, no matter how fond I am of her, or how shattering the pleasure has been.

  The last time he’d slept in a woman’s presence he’d woken to blood and the smell of smoke and a strange, quiet raving. His own blood, and the low hypnotic raving of the woman who’d just killed his son.

  That wouldn’t happen again. It couldn’t happen again. He knew that. But in the recesses of his mind it still remained a haunting fear.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The Shopping Doll Learns a Few Tricks

  BEATRICE COLLAPSED ON the bed at Sofia Chamfleur’s establishment in Hampstead, as limp as a dish rag.

  Whoever knew that shopping and the acquisition of knowledge could be so exhausting? Her head was whirling, her thoughts dashed hither and thither, from the shopping to the instruction and back to the shopping, round and round again.

  They’d spent a delightful morning, touring the most fashionable West End stores, and several more exclusive establishments that Beatrice had never heard of, but where Sofia was clearly a cherished patron. Not all that many years ago, the Weatherly family had enjoyed at least the facade of being well set up, and in consequence, Beatrice hadn’t quite forgotten what it’d been like to be a “shopping doll.” But now, somehow, even as she lavished Ritchie’s wealth on gowns and shoes and lingerie, and the expensive products of Sofia’s favorite cosmetician, a still, small voice admonished her for wasting money that could have been spent more worthily. She resolved to make some charitable donations—if the various worthy matrons who administered such missions would accept funds from an apprentice demimondaine such as she—and lavish bonuses and new uniforms and even some personal treats on Polly, Cook and Enid.

  Banishing thoughts of finance, Beatrice stared up at the ceiling…and her mouth dropped open.

  Naked nymphs and satyrs cavorted in outrageous positions and caressed one another’s bodies shamelessly. The decorations in Sofia’s Hampstead house were eccentric throughout, but this guest room in particular seemed designed to stir the senses, and all that frisky fondling high above returned Beatrice’s thoughts to what she’d done with Ritchie.

  Why do I feel far guiltier about spending money than I do over having a handsome man touch my intimate parts?

  It was bizarre but true, like guarding a delicious secret. A daring indulgence that thrilled her anew every time she took it out to examine it. And frustrated her, too. How typical of Ritchie to prime her mechanism with an hour of dalliance, then disappear abruptly on business, leaving her marking time, gathering momentum, yearning for him.

  Her own fingers had helped, but now that she’d tasted shared pleasure, she wanted to sample what some of the nymphs and satyrs were doing, particularly the ones engaged in full sexual congress.

  Goodness, this is an outrageous place, Sofia!

  Restless despite her fatigue, Beatrice sat up again and looked around.

  Everywhere was luxury and sensuality. Rich furnishings. Flowers. Paintings and sculptures all designed to rouse the senses. And this was only one room of many in the large house. What lay behind other closed doors? The hall had been as hushed as a Harley Street waiting room when she and Sofia had arrived, but there was a sense of discreet energy in the air.

  The books and artifacts Sofia had shown her were astounding. Illustrated volumes on eroticism from the Far East and the Continent. Prints and photographs far more explicit than her own accidental venture into pornography. And…things…objects…devices intended to be used as part of love play and sexual games, all shown to her by Sofia with a knowing attention to detail.

  Did the Chamfleurs employ these toys in their frolics? Did Ritchie, with his more sophisticated mistresses?

  Sofia had left a few examples for private examination while Beatrice took a rest before tea, and then her eventual return home. The items resided in a small but beautiful intaglio-work mahogany chest on a dressing table, but as yet Beatrice hadn’t summoned the nerve to get them out and fiddle with them.

  As she debated, there came the sound of a faint commotion somewhere in the house. Voices raised in welcome and conviviality, for the second time since she’d retired, but much as she strained to hear, both times Beatrice hadn’t been able make them out. Tightening her red Japanese silk kimono about her—a new purchase, and a reminder of a fine night out at the Savoy Theatre in happier times, to see The Mikado—she sprang to her feet and padded to the door, opening it a crack. Unnerving as it was to sneak around a strange house in just the silken robe, her chemise and her drawers, curiosity drew her out onto the landing.

  From a couple of floors below, the light, cheerful sound of Sofia’s voice drifted up, then a man’s tones, lower, not so distinguishable. Beatrice listened hard, heart thudding, but just as she ran to the banister and looked down, the door to Sofia’s sitting room closed, cutting her off.

  Don’t be silly. What would he be doing here? He’s up in the North on business.

  Unsettled nevertheless, Beatrice picked up the little chest from the dressing-table tray and took it with her to the bed. Taking a sip from the glass of spiced Madeira that Sofia had left her, Beatrice savored the rich flavor and set about her box of treasures.

  The chest had little velvet-lined drawers that could be lifted out, and on the first lay an object shaped exactly like a man’s erect penis. So exactly shaped, that Beatrice expected it to twitch and swell, just as Ritchie’s as yet unseen member had done when she’d touched it. Extending a forefinger, she gave the item a cautious poke.

  No pulsation of life, but instead of the cold, inert consistency she’d expected, the ivory phallus seemed warm and felt organic and enticing to the fingers. It was hard in the way an aroused man might be hard, and its smooth surface invited a lingering inspection.

  As I’m sure your cock does too, Ritchie.

  Beatrice lifted it out. Sofia had explained that this thing—a godemiche—was also called a “widow’s comforter.” And the feel of it was indeed peculiarly comforting.

  Or perhaps I’m just a natural fondler of men’s organs?

  She giggled, imagining how much that would please Ritchie. If only he was here right now to receive the benefits of her native inclinations.

  Was he as big as this charming monster? Or even bigger? Judging by the bulge she’d seen in his trousers, and felt beneath her bottom when she was sitting in his lap, he certainly couldn’t be smaller.

  With her own finger, she traced the groove around the head of the phallus. It was a most particular shape and seemed to coax an examination by the smaller fingerti
p of a woman. Or perhaps a thumb in the little indentation beneath? Closing her eyes, she saw Ritchie’s face, contorted in pleasure as she explored his topography.

  Of course, the general use of such an item as this was to put it inside one.

  Beatrice tipped the godemiche this way and that. Goodness gracious, it was thick. Would it even go inside? And more to the point, would the organ it represented go inside? She supposed there was one way to find out, but her heart bounced at the thought of it. Circling her finger and thumb around the thing’s girth, she puffed out her lips, doubtful.

  Evading the issue, she set the faux phallus aside and lifted out another drawer to examine more unnerving wonders on the next level.

  More ivory items, but this time a selection of spheres and ovoids of a thoughtful size, with fine cords attached. Some were singles, others doubles. One specimen seemed to be curiously weighted, and on closer inspection, she detected a very fine seam around the circumference, as if it was hollow, and contained another, smaller ball which rolled around.

  Remembering Sofia’s instructional lecture, Beatrice quivered. It would jiggle, wouldn’t it? Jiggle and wiggle inside as one walked around. Involuntarily, her sex clenched as if grabbing at a phantom weighted ball rocking inside it.

  Down in the further depths of the chest were a couple of small pots of balm or ointment. Sofia had explained these too. Beatrice unscrewed the lid of the first, labeled Lubrifiant de Cythère, and examined its contents; a silky smooth unguent, very slick and bland, almost silvery between her fingers. She knew what it felt like, but it still took an effort of will to admit it. The glistening stuff was almost exactly the consistency of her own fluid, the moisture that welled between her thighs when she stroked herself…or was stroked by Ritchie.

  The next pot, épice Divine, yielded up a thicker, more viscous substance, with a more pronounced scent. It reminded Beatrice of something.

  Ah, the spiced Madeira!

  It didn’t take a medical genius to work out how one might use a warming ointment.

  Taking up a tiny amount on her little finger, she rubbed it on the back of her hand, and as expected, the skin there glowed with a gentle but exciting heat.

  Beatrice considered trying it, then thought better. Thrilling as it probably felt, it wouldn’t do to provoke herself too much. She couldn’t pass the rest of the afternoon in company, longing to stroke her private parts. It would probably require a bath to remove the stuff once applied.

  The temptation still piqued her though, and when she’d sipped a little more wine she lay back on the bed, thinking of Ritchie and imagining him rubbing the stuff on her, then smiling devilishly when she writhed, helplessly aroused. Tantalizing fantasies danced in her head. What would happen if she rubbed the épice Divine on him, for example? The thought was as provocative as the effect of the ointment, and she mused on it languorously as she drifted toward a doze.

  But right on the point of sleep, Beatrice heard a sound. An utterance that could have come straight from her dreams.

  A woman’s voice gasped then whimpered in breathy excitement.

  Just like me in the morning room with Ritchie.

  But where was the sound coming from? Sofia’s villa was large and solidly built, with many well-appointed rooms. The noise must be coming from nearby for Beatrice to hear it.

  When the noise came again, more of a moan this time, Beatrice sat up and cocked her head on one side, to better locate its source. It seemed to be emanating from the direction of a rather beautiful painting of a reclining nymph, which hung on the wall, adjacent to a well-upholstered chaise longue. An odd juxtaposition, but Beatrice hadn’t investigated too closely as the image had a disturbing likeness to her own, as photographed by the wretched Eustace.

  But now she drew close, to focus on the girl’s voluptuous body, and found something odd about her navel. It looked very distinct, almost like a jewel set in her white belly.

  Then it seemed to wink.

  Oh, my goodness, it’s a peephole!

  And peepholes were made to be peeped through, especially when such naughty noises were issuing from beyond them.

  Beatrice almost laughed out loud when she pressed her eye to the aperture and she had to press her knuckle between her teeth to keep herself quiet.

  The moaning, whimpering lady was a person of her acquaintance, almost a friend. It was her hostess from the ball where she’d first met Ritchie—Lady Arabella Southern.

  Standing in her drawers and corset, the famed society hostess was kissing a naked young man with an exotic tawny complexion, black curly hair and a very shapely posterior. He had his hand between her legs, and the way the muscles of his well-shaped arm were moving suggested that he was frisking the good lady Arabella with deft enthusiasm.

  Oh, Lady S., you are a wicked woman! Does His Lordship know that you attend the House of Madame Chamfleur?

  The handsome aristocrat was a woman of middle years, a little thin and brittle looking, but the way she was kissing her naked lover and handling his body was nothing short of voracious. Beatrice fought desperately not to giggle. Arabella Southern was stately and refined in public, known for her gracious gestures and perfect deportment, but right at this moment, she seemed to have more in common with a Whitechapel streetwalker than a member of fashionable high society.

  Her hands were everywhere. Sliding over the honeyed skin of her handsome young lover, fingertips curving to grab and squeeze. Beatrice let out a gasp when Lady Arabella grasped her paramour’s sturdy penis and started working it vigorously, up and down, up and down.

  Have a care, Arabella, he’ll spend on your fingers if you don’t moderate your actions.

  But it seemed Lady Southern was well aware of the hair-trigger nature of the gentlemanly appendage, and as her comely friend’s hips began to jerk, she let him go.

  “Oh, Yuri, you’re adorable! I can’t get enough of you,” the older woman purred, kissing her virile young companion. “I love your cock. It’s such a beautiful monster. I can’t wait to get it in me.”

  And Beatrice could see why her friend was enamored. The lad certainly was big in the gentlemanly department. His shaft was long and thick, with a rosy, rounded head.

  Not as big as my Ritchie though, I’ll be bound.

  Not that Ritchie was hers as such, but she’d still wager her protector was the bigger man and her eyes popped wide as the risqué performance continued.

  Goodness me, she mouthed silently, blood surging.

  That again!

  Dropping to her knees in a way that was far from stately, Lady Arabella Southern applied her patrician lips to the task of sucking her youthful friend’s penis.

  First Sofia and her Ambrose, now Arabella and her unknown beau. Everybody seemed to indulge.

  Beatrice licked her lips, trying to imagine the taste of Ritchie. Would he be sweet? Or salty? Delicate…or robust? Her mouth watered in anticipation. There was no doubt he’d want her to do it, and suddenly she wished with all her heart that he were here so she could begin her education.

  Arabella’s friend Yuri was certainly enjoying the experience, and that was a fact. His dark head tipped back as the countess made a meal of him, the mouth that instructed servants and chitchatted with royalty on occasion, stretched around his sturdy organ. Grabbing her head to direct the caress himself, he jerked his hips, and nearly knocked Arabella over, growling and snarling in some unknown foreign tongue that sounded vaguely Balkan. The fact that he seemed to be using the countess so casually should have been demeaning, but every line of Arabella’s lean body cried out her enjoyment.

  She really loved being on her knees and sucking a man’s cock, and she reached around and grabbed his bottom to effect her own direction.

  Beatrice watched for a few moments more, anticipating Yuri’s crisis, but jus
t when it looked all but inevitable, he suddenly pushed Arabella away, holding her from him and grinning down at her. As she gazed back up at him, he leaned over and murmured in her ear.

  “Oh yes, oh yes,” gasped the titled lady, clambering to her feet and climbing onto an upholstered divan adjacent to where they were standing. How handily placed that item of furniture was. So obviously positioned exactly in front of the peephole for viewing convenience.

  Instead of lying on her back, as Beatrice had expected, Arabella came up on her hands and knees on the divan. Dishing her back, she looked over her shoulders invitingly, wiggling her bottom and licking her lips to entice her lover.

  Yuri growled something in his mother tongue, and Arabella whimpered and undulated, a smile of pure happiness on her face. Beatrice hadn’t the faintest idea whether her friend understood the young man or not, but the harmony of their bodies seemed to breach the language barrier.

  Arabella certainly understood him when he suddenly and shockingly thrust a stiff finger inside her. She cooed like a dove and thrust back against the intrusion with enthusiasm.

  Beatrice almost cooed too. Or more accurately, moaned in fierce frustration.

  She wanted to be the woman on the divan with a man’s finger inside her.

  She wanted to be the one groaning and swaying, her body breached.

  Ritchie, she mouthed in silence, watching the show.

  * * *

  “A VIRGIN? Are you absolutely sure?”

  Ritchie sat down heavily in the chair, his thoughts wheeling. There was a profound difference between his own suspicions, coupled with secondhand servants’ talk conveyed to him by Jamie, and this, the confirmation of a fact. Beatrice’s status was pure, and she’d admitted so, frankly, to her friend Sofia.

  He didn’t know whether to be elated or horrified by the news.

  Margarita had been a virgin. Her bold, flirtatious behavior had led him to believe otherwise, and consequently when the moment of truth had come, his attempt to embrace her had been disastrous, leading to a horror that even now he could hardly bear to think about and could not discuss.