In the Flesh

by Portia Da Costa

  Glad she wasn’t a lady, and strictly corseted, she flung off her chemise and drawers, too, sending the voluminous piles of white linen flying in all directions. Then, only then, and naked, did she hesitate.

  She’d never shed all her clothes for Charlie. Their snatched liaisons had only really begun since the move to the smaller London house, after Westerlynne had been sold, and the moments they’d spent had always been swift and stolen.

  What if, being fond of men, he found her curvaceous body repellent? What if he preferred sylphlike bed partners whose slighter hips suggested the masculine form?

  But Charlie’s eyes were wide, and hot, and filled with desire and eagerness.

  “My God, Polly, you’re a pretty girl. A real smasher.” For a moment he looked wistful. “We should have got our clothes off before now, shouldn’t we?”

  “She is indeed a beauty,” confirmed Jamie, his hand still on Charlie’s cock. “And she’s here now, and we’re all naked…so let’s get to it!” With his free hand he reached for Polly and tugged her toward them, and a place in the middle. As she moved forward, he released Charlie so she could slide in between them.

  “Goodness me, I’m the meat in a sandwich, aren’t I?” Polly glanced from one man to the other, still spoiled for choice. Charlie was slender and had hair of a reddish hue that echoed his sister’s brilliant Titian curls, while Jamie was of stockier build with thick light brown hair that was straight and shiny. They made a delicious contrast and Polly couldn’t decide which one she desired the most.

  “Hard to choose, eh?” purred Jamie, coming up onto his knees, and drawing Polly up with him. Grabbing her lightly by the back of her head, he pulled her mouth to his for a kiss.

  It was quick and hard and his tongue went straight in. And even as hers sought to fight back, he drew her fingers to his cock.

  So it’s to be you, Mr. Brownlow.

  But he confounded her. After a few moments of hungry, domineering kisses, he drew back and urged her by the arm toward their companion. “Gentleman’s prerogative,” he said with a laugh.

  Polly needed little encouragement. Just as Charlie had never seen her naked, she’d never seen his unclothed body. But now that he was on show to her, she liked what she saw.

  His skin was paler than Jamie’s but it had a creamy sheen to it, and boyish freckles in the most delightful places. For a gentleman of leisure, his musculature was surprising firm and well formed, and his cock was obviously as pleased to see her as it was to see Jamie. With a cheerful sigh, she threw herself into Charlie’s arms, and shuddered inside when he pressed her back against the pillows. He might not be the dominant partner when paired with Jamie, but he was still a man who knew what he wanted.

  Charlie’s kiss was as enthusiastic as Jamie’s and just as stirring. She tasted wine on his tongue, but it was merely a trace, not the marker of intoxication. Twirling her tongue around his, she sampled him like a butterfly seeking nectar.

  His hands were keen too, roving over her body as if excited by the new freedom they had to explore her person. He squeezed her breasts in the vigorous way she liked, and the lovely pressure shot to the place between her legs like a message transmitted by electrical telegraphy. Responding exactly as whim took her, she rubbed her belly against his thigh, then opened her legs to press her crotch hard against him.

  Hugging each other hard, they rocked and swung against each other, tingling excitement building. Polly squeaked into Charlie’s mouth when other hands joined the dance, touching both their bodies. Her eyes snapped open and she saw Jamie looming over Charlie from above, kissing and nipping at his lover’s pale shoulder while slipping a hand beneath Polly to squeeze and play with her bottom. Charlie’s eyes were wide and he was groaning into her mouth, so she guessed that Jamie’s cock was rubbing against his groove.

  Polly hugged them both, sliding her hands over all the male flesh she could reach, while she massaged her puss against Charlie’s hard-muscled thigh. When she reached down and grasped his cock it was a rod of iron.

  Even as she touched him, other fingers explored her sex, curling around with clever deftness from the rear and making her wriggle and squirm harder, craving stimulation from whatever quarter it was presented.

  “Come along, my dear pair. I’d love to see you fuck each other.”

  Jamie’s voice was low and husky, ringing with desire. He manhandled Polly and Charlie apart with a magisterial hand.

  “But first, we’d better wrap up the old man, hadn’t we? We don’t want lovely Polly to end up getting more from us in nine months time than she bargained for.” He reached for the patterned tin on the bedside chest.

  Polly’s suspicions were confirmed. French letters. How grand. Now she could enjoy her bedmates to the full, and her sex surged with excitement as she watched Jamie deftly roll the prophylactic down the length of Charlie’s cock.

  You’ve done that plenty of times before, haven’t you, my lad. And probably more than once with Mr. Charlie, I suspect.

  Charlie’s face was a picture as Jamie handled him. His eyelids fluttered and his mouth went soft and dreamy. Polly wondered why she wasn’t envious of his so obvious pleasure at another lover’s touch. But she couldn’t seem to summon the green-eyed monster. She felt only pleasure and happy anticipation.

  When Charlie was encased, Jamie sat back to admire his handiwork. Charlie’s cock seemed to sway and throb as if proud to be on show in its fancy rubber coat. Jamie touched it lightly and made the sway more pronounced.

  “Very fine, isn’t he, Polly?” He smiled across at her, two fingers lightly supporting the other man’s organ as if displaying it as a treasure for her approval.

  “Absolutely smashing, but I’d rather like it inside me now, gentlemen, if I may?” Sliding down on the bed, she opened her legs, then, in a moment of naughty merriment, she slid her two hands between her thighs and parted the lips of her sex.

  “You’re a saucy madam, Polly Jenkins,” announced Charlie, his eyes wide open now and his face alight with hunger. Polly wondered whether she’d misconstrued the exact nature of the men’s relationship, because Charlie surged forward, full of confidence, reaching to touch the jewel she offered him. “One of these days, you shall have a spanking for your forwardness, young miss.”

  Polly hid her grin. He was barely a year or so older than her, but there was confidence in his touch. It set her writhing and wriggling again, especially when Jamie moved alongside on her other flank, and took a nipple of hers in each of his fingers and thumbs.

  “Oh my Lord…oh yes…ooh! Oh, oh!”

  The pleasure was intense, all-consuming. She had two men playing with her. Tugging. Tweaking. Rubbing. Above and below. Squirming, she grabbed for both of them, the rubber-clad cock and the bareback one.

  “Now, now…behave yourself.” But Jamie wasn’t really at all stern as he abandoned her nipples, grabbed both of her hands and then held them above her head. Against the head of the bed, he snagged both of her wrists in one of his big, capable hands. “Right, go at her, Mr. Weatherly, if you will?”

  “Indeed. Right ho!” cried Charlie, utterly joyful to be ordered to his task. Maneuvering himself with a grace she’d never really appreciated in him before, he hopped between her thighs and fitted his cock against her sex.

  Then, as he started to push, he turned his face to Jamie, and the other man kissed his lips in a deep kiss that made Polly shiver and tremble. She moaned, her eyes glued to the sight of the men’s dueling mouths as Charlie’s cock surged in deep and plumbed her cunny. The visible thrust of Jamie’s tongue in Charlie’s mouth echoed the thrust of the man inside her, and somehow seemed to lend it extra vigor. She churned her bottom against the sheets, boiling with desire, and when Jamie released her hands, she threw her arms around both of them, embracing as much of each man as she could reach.


  “Kiss me now,” she growled after a moment or two, but to which of her two lovers, she didn’t really know.

  Jamie obliged, while Charlie buried his face in the hollow where her neck met her shoulder and rocked his hips, fucking her deeply. His breath was hoarse against her skin, and Jamie was gasping too as he kissed her. Someone’s clever hand crooked at an angle and slid in between her belly and Charlie’s as they slapped together, then plunged into her sex, seeking and finding her aching clitoris. Every time Charlie plunged in, he knocked the fingertips against her.

  Lost in each other, they slipped and slid and rocked and bounced and ground together, the experience so intense and rambunctious that she lost account of who was doing what to whom and with what. After a little while, Charlie cried out wildly and mouthed profanities against her neck, his hips beginning to hammer like the very pistons of a steam engine.

  But even as Polly knew her gentleman was spending, the wicked finger on her clitty circled devilishly and she tumbled over the edge into supreme pleasure right alongside him. She sobbed and cried, kissing Jamie’s face as her body clenched and her sex rippled in long, delicious waves.

  She was still in ecstasy as Charlie collapsed over her, the wind knocked completely out of him.

  “Come along, Mr. Weatherly, that’s no way to treat a lady,” said Jamie with a soft laugh, and before Polly knew what was happening he’d hauled Charlie right off her and plopped him down on the bed at her side.

  In barely a heartbeat he’d taken his companion’s place, drawing Polly’s hand down to his cock as it paused for entrance, to assure her that it too wore a jacket.

  “Lovely girl,” he whispered, and with a strangely sweet sigh, he began to slide in and out of her in smooth, heavy strokes.

  Pleasure surged again, welling up from the very depths of Polly’s vitals in a way that felt new and fresh and rampant.

  How can I take on two men like this? How can it seem right and sweet and natural, all the three of us together?

  Yet it was right, and as Charlie roused again, and rolled onto his side, he embraced and stroked them both, he and she. Feeling his touch sliding over thigh and flank, male and female, Polly turned to him, her body jerking against Jamie’s. On his face, she saw a look of befuddled happiness, as if he too wasn’t sure how this had come to pass, but was joyful and grateful all the same.

  And as she spent again, Polly hugged both her men to her, chanting their names, Charlie and Jamie, one after the other.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  “Madame de la Tour”

  NEVER HAD THE AFTERNOON hours passed more slowly. Home from the Sewing Circle, Beatrice couldn’t settle any of her usual pastimes whilst waiting for her next amour with Ritchie. As she leafed through the Illustrated London News, the words and pictures were a blur to her, and even a rather unsettling novel, a work by Mr. Wilde in the latest Lippincott’s that had initially provoked her interest, couldn’t hold her. Abandoning The Picture of Dorian Gray, she thumped away at the piano for a while instead, but even attempting her favorite, “The Lost Chord,” resulted in far too many chords that were indeed far better off lost. And as for her “Wand’ring Minstrel,” it would have done music lovers a service by wandering as far away as possible.

  Hour after hour, she struggled for composure, to no avail. Her body was sensitized and susceptible, a powder keg waiting for the spark struck by a certain challenging smile or a pair of dangerous blue eyes. She hardly dared think of him lest she ignite.

  And everyone else in the household was acting oddly, too. Since the morning of Ritchie’s visit, there had been a strange, latent atmosphere at South Mulberry Street.

  Cap more awry than usual, Polly smiled dreamily she helped Beatrice to undress. Awry herself, Beatrice eyed the maid, recognizing a mirror to her own state. Was it anything to do with the handsome Mr. Brownlow? Beatrice suspected as much, grateful that Polly’s abstraction made her less openly inquisitive about her mistress’s doings.

  But from where did Charlie’s sudden good humor derive? For the first time in months he seemed at ease with himself, and had apparently forgotten his qualms about her and Ritchie. He’d made jokes and droll conversation over a breakfast far more substantial then he could usually manage due to post-alcoholic “delicacy,” and in an unstudied moment, unaware of Beatrice’s scrutiny, his smile had been almost beatific.

  What on earth has happened to everybody?

  Something had most definitely occurred, and at any other time Beatrice would have passed the hours mulling over it and devising clever questions from which she could deduce the answer.

  But these were not other times. These were the times of Edmund Ellsworth Ritchie and the greater part of Beatrice’s mulling was over him alone.

  At seven, the carriage arrived as he’d specified. On the front steps, as Beatrice attempted not to shake and dither, her heart thudded in anticipation of him being in the conveyance waiting for her.

  But the interior was empty.

  Her spirits dipped, then rallied.

  Only a little longer, Bea. You’ll soon see him.

  The quiet, efficient coachman had specified their destination as Belanger’s, a discreet and much muttered-about dining establishment in the heart of St. James. It was the haunt of the rich and the famous, and oft alluded to in Marriott’s Monde with hints of scandal and outrageous activities.

  But will I be able to eat?

  The prospect of Dover sole or guinea fowl à la russe didn’t excite Beatrice one bit; her hunger was for Ritchie and his touch…and his skills.

  The well-maintained carriage was smoother ride than most, but still it trundled on the uneven surfaces of the streets and swerved hither and thither amongst the sheer press of cabs, carts and other coaches out even at night. Rocked in her seat, Beatrice barely noticed the throng of London’s humanity outside the comfortable interior. The sounds of street vendors and newsboys came to her as if from a distance, beyond the border of her secret, sensual realm. It was a country inhabited only by Ritchie, and herself, and the movement of the carriage seemed to mimic his caress, as did her clothing, sliding over her body with every sway.

  Beatrice had never worn silk underwear before.

  Back home at Westerlynne, serviceable cotton and muslin had always sufficed, and since her arrival in London there hadn’t been money to spend on extravagance. Finally out of mourning for her parents, Beatrice had relied on Polly’s skills with the needle to make over some older outfits, and all her meager clothing allowance had gone on one or two reasonably presentable new gowns, deemed essential purchases if she were to stand any chance of snaring a husband.

  A husband!

  Glad she was alone, Beatrice snorted in derision. How ironic that now she had plenty of money for spouse-luring finery, she no longer had a reputation suitable for matrimony.

  But that didn’t reduce her pleasure in the clothing for which Ritchie had paid. The delicate fabric that whispered over her skin like a zephyr, and the carefully fitted chemise, and lace-and-ribbon-trimmed drawers sat beneath a featherweight and equally fancy corset designed by Sofia’s modiste. It was the most comfortable corset Beatrice had ever owned, and it barely felt as if she were wearing one at all.

  Her petticoats were silk too, and they swished and slithered as she walked, or even just shifted on the carriage seat, recalling the magical drift of Ritchie’s fingertips.

  All for you, my dear sponsor and protector. All for you, having purchased my virginity, too.

  Perhaps she’d lose that particular asset today? She sincerely hoped so. What was the point of being a scandalous mistress if you didn’t get a good seeing-to for your efforts?

  At last, the carriage pulled up outside Belanger’s, and Beatrice snapped out of her reverie. On stepping down, a doorman escorted her across the pavement li
ke a visiting empress, and when she turned to thank the coachman, he was already atop his vehicle and pulling away.

  Was the threshold to Belanger’s quiet, luxurious foyer another Rubicon? Her heart thudded as she advanced, head held high. Nerves would settle, she knew, as they always did. But they’d twang in an entirely different way when she set eyes on Ritchie. The prospect of seeing him again made the hushed atmosphere and the eyes of a smattering of fashionably dressed people—men, women and couples—in the restaurant’s reception lounge far less daunting.

  A rather stout maître d’hôtel sprang forward to greet her. “Ah, good evening, Madame de la Tour, may I welcome you to Belanger’s. How gracious of you to patronize our establishment.” He bowed his head, then indicated the way ahead with an expansive, theatrical gesture.

  Madame de la Tour?

  Beatrice blinked. Surely he’d mistaken her for someone else? But seeing her hesitation, the maître d’ gave her a kind, twinkly look, his face both friendly and somewhat conspiratorial.

  Ah, that was it. At Belanger’s people often didn’t use their real names and “Madame de la Tour” was a nom de voyage that Ritchie had fancifully bestowed on her.

  Well, it would’ve been nice of you to inform me, you infuriating wretch! If I’m to have a high courtesan’s name, I really ought to know it in advance.

  Smiling at the maître d’, she silently maligned Ritchie in an unladylike fashion as she followed her new friend into another sumptuous room.

  It wasn’t like any restaurant Beatrice had ever visited. Not that she’d visited all that many. The large area was discreetly lit, the lamps imparting a gentle glow on the handkerchief of open space in the center of the room. For dancing, Beatrice wondered? Or some other entertainment? A musical quintet played softly on a small dais adjacent to the window. Selections from The Mikado, if she wasn’t mistaken. She smiled, wondering if Ritchie had influenced the program.