Portia Da Costa

by Diamonds in the Rough

  His finger moved. Her crisis welled. She couldn’t help it. The pleasure was stolen and she knew that he’d beat her for it.

  “Wicked, wicked girl.” Wilson laughed, rubbing her as she pulsed. It was as if he wanted to get the orgasm over quickly so they could move on directly to the spanking. Adela’s knees weakened, but he held her against him, still holding her chin. “Greedy, lewd and licentious....”

  I am. All three. Even the boys at Sofia’s don’t realize how much.

  Wilson walked her across the room to the map chest. It was a deep wide structure, and just the right height to bend a woman over, whether to smack her bottom or to fuck her soundly from behind. He nuzzled her hair again for a second, then snatched a cushion from the settee and set it over the hard edge of the chest. “There you are,” he said, settling his hand at the small of her back, to urge her forward.

  The odd little moment of solicitude confused her. Wilson could be so unexpected. Arrogant, selfish and willful one minute, capable of sweet kindness and consideration the next. Adela’s eyes prickled a little as she laid herself across the surface of the chest. So many years had been wasted because she’d kept herself away, unbending, and resisted the challenge of his complexity.

  The intricately patterned inlaid wood was cool beneath her cheek, and her arms, where she circled them around her head. Against her breasts, though, it pressed hard, chafing the aching points of her nipples. The cushion protected her pubis, but she almost wished it wasn’t there. The urge to grind herself against something hard was unbearable. Surreptitiously, she shifted her hips.

  “Uh-oh... Naughty, naughty! I know what you’re about.” Wilson’s palm pressed on the small of her back again. “Keep still, my randy madam, keep still.”

  Holding her firm with one hand, he began an exploration with the other, sliding his fingers over her thighs and buttocks, investigating both the curves and indentations. Adela’s face flamed with embarrassment, even though she’d expected this trial and wanted it. When Wilson squeezed one cheek of her bottom and then pressed its soft contour sideways, opening the cleft, she moaned out loud.

  “You like that, don’t you?” He bent over her, his voice rough yet breathy in her ear. “Don’t you?” he persisted more forcefully, as he put both hands to her rump to manipulate her. Pulling apart the lobes, he exposed the tiny vent, then leaned over it, blowing his warm breath on it and making her shudder wildly.

  “One day I’ll have you there, Della. I’ll take you and I’ll plow you, right up to my balls in your gorgeous backside.” He dropped a kiss on first one cheek and then the other. “But not today, my sweet... Today is for spanking and servicing your cunt in the standard manner.”

  “Well, that’s very civilized of you, Wilson.” The robust words he’d used thrilled her, even while the threat of sodomy made her heart pound. That was something she’d never done, never wanted. But now a dark imp whispered, “What would it be like?” One or two of the more risqué ladies of the circle seemed rather keen on backdoor pleasure, and proclaimed it sovereign as a way to fuck and not conceive.

  “Yes, I think so,” Wilson replied jauntily, and as he straightened up, he shrugged out of his dressing gown as if stripping for action. Out of the corner of her eye, Adela saw it float away across the room. He really was the most untidy of men, and didn’t seem to put anything anywhere if there was the slightest opportunity to throw it on the floor.

  Straining, she followed his small movements of preparation. Rolling up his sleeves. Unfastening another button or two of his shirt. Even cracking his knuckles, the devil.

  “Right, my dearest voluptuary...just a few licks to warm you up.” His hands were on her rump again, measuring, testing.

  “Don’t you think I’m warm enough? I seem rather hot already.” She did feel overheated and sweaty, her skin almost sticking to the smooth surface of the map chest.

  “You are hot, beautiful, Della, a furnace of temptation, and I’m eager to burn.”

  As she opened her mouth to tell him he spoke nonsense, as usual, the first blow fell, a slow, lazy spank that landed hard against the underside of her bottom.

  Heavens, how it stung, how it stirred her. One little tap and she was a furnace, the embers of her pleasure instantly rousing. He slapped again, and she yelped, moving helplessly, her body craving more, so much more. More of his touch, more of his energy, more of him.

  Blows fell, burning, sizzling...and yet in a certain way, she barely felt them. They were but a precursor to the real act she craved. The act for which she’d been yearning for seven long years, despite all her caprices with Sofia’s accommodating gentlemen.

  Adela parted her thighs, lifting herself, flaunting herself.

  Take me, Wilson. Possess my body. Make me yours, if only for today.

  It was madness. This...this hysteria for him. He was a peril to her, to her heart...to her body, too. With a shock, she admitted the danger, yet knew she must embrace it.

  “Enough, Wilson! I can’t wait. Fuck me now.”

  “My, aren’t we the impatient one? Shouting for service. Is this the way you conduct yourself at the man brothel?” Wilson’s hand stilled on her bottom, fingertips pressing, stirring the ache there, and the other, inner ache.

  “Damn you. Stop taunting me,” she gasped, still rocking. “If you won’t do the business, I’ll leave. I’ll put my clothes on, hail a carriage and take myself to the wretched ‘man brothel’ and get what I want. With what’s in my portfolio, my credit will be good, an all-time high.”

  “No, you will not go.” The words were hard, cold, like wrought iron. His hands were hard, too, holding her shoulder now, and her burning bum. He was indomitable, immovable. More thrilling than ever. “Stay exactly where you are.” Then the pressure was gone, and he was stomping away across the room.

  Adela trembled, in chaos, listening to the sound of him dragging open a drawer in a bureau, and searching within it. As he returned, she craned to look over her shoulder and saw he had a small tin in his hand. It was of a size and shape well known to her, and even though thought of its contents had slipped her mind, she almost gasped with relief and recognition.

  “Yes, I use them, too. I always have. Except just once...but then, you were there, so you’d know that.”

  Had he really? Most men barely knew of the existence of prophylactics, and if they did, eschewed them for reasons of expense or inconvenience. After all, it was the woman who got with child...and as to other consequences, well, so many thought only with their cocks, not their brains.

  But Wilson was ever different. No doubt he’d read a paper or a report somewhere, and decided scientifically on the most prudent course of action. He might be behaving like a wild man now, but with him, the intellect was always foremost.

  “That’s very forward thinking of you, cousin. Now please proceed.”

  He came up very close beside her, as if wishing to assure her he was going to use a device. Adela rolled onto her side, unable to look away as he unfastened his trousers, fumbled with his shirttail and drawers, and drew out his cock.

  This was substance, not shadow. Faced with Wilson in all his glory, Adela found the energetic boys at Sofia’s house paled to insignificance, even though she’d admired all their handsome organs at the time, and taken pleasure in them. As before, at Rayworth Court, when she was with Wilson, only his cock seemed to exist. Fanciful as it seemed, his member set the standard of excellence for all others, so thick and eager and rosy. The artist in her protested when he clothed the length in a coat of fine rubber. “My own formulation,” he remarked, adjusting the fit. “I sold it to the manufacturer for shares in the company. It’s bringing in a considerable profit and growing by the day. All the more satisfying for the knowledge that I’m promoting health, too....”

  Adela almost choked with laughter. Only Wilson could reason this way at the very moment before penetration.

  “Where do you get yours?” His voice was low as he leaned over, pressing his rubber-coa
ted cock against her tender haunch and making her hiss.

  “My friend gets them from France, surprisingly enough.”

  Wilson swirled his hips, rubbing himself against her as if savoring the heat in her skin through the prophylactic. “Good...that’s excellent. The French-manufactured ones are generally far superior to the ordinary English product.”

  Rolling her onto her front again, he continued to massage himself against her. It was hard not to moan at the fires he stoked. Adela found herself biting her lip again, desperate to touch herself. She was just about to do it, Wilson be damned, when he reached around and beneath her, burying his fingers in her fleece and finding her center.

  He rubbed her briefly, and a little roughly, but it was still wonderful, reigniting her pleasure. It seemed that, like the most experienced gigolo, he was devoted to ensuring his partner’s delight as well as his own. Adela supposed that was one of the reasons Coraline had taken up with him, until the financial and titular benefits of her Italian nobleman had proved more tempting than simple physical pleasure.

  “Oh, Della, Della,” Wilson breathed against her hair, nuzzling it again as he readjusted their positions across the chest. Grasping her tingling thigh, he lifted it, opening her up, making her ready. Then, guiding his flesh with his fingers, he found her entrance.

  Oh, Wilson! she wanted to cry, but the words wouldn’t form. He was there, the thick head of his cock touching her, nudging, probing. With a hitch of his hips, he pushed in a little way.

  “There, do you feel me? Do you welcome me home?” He pushed again, a bit more of him pressing in. Adela wanted to scream at him to drive in to the hilt. Strange as his harsh muttering might be, it did feel as if something beloved and familiar had come back to her.

  “Yes...yes, of course I do, Wilson. You’re not an insubstantial man, and you know that. So why ask?” Her own words were harsh, but had to be. Otherwise, she might reveal too much, to herself as well as to the man possessing her.

  Another inch. It felt like a yard. Intellectually, she knew that was nonsense, but her perceptions were with her heart and soul and flesh, not her brain.

  “Good. I want you to feel me properly. To feel me and know it’s me, and no other.”

  He forged in a little farther, but still not fully. He was taunting her, compelling her to comprehend every fraction as it entered, so that the slow introduction would expunge all memory of any other man.

  She jerked her hips, pushing back against him, compelling him this time. With her inner musculature, she gripped him hard, squeezing his cock with her body to impose herself on him as he imposed on her.

  “You witch...you witch! You’ll unman me with those tricks.”

  She gripped again, feeling a faint ripple of response along the length inside her.

  “Do you want me to come off before you do, Della? Is that really what you want? To make me your slave again as I was before, defenseless against you?”

  Defenseless? He’d never been defenseless. It had always been the other way around.

  “You, you’re the one with tricks. Don’t give me half measures. Stop taunting me, you beast,” she muttered.

  Wilson didn’t answer. He just shoved. Hard. All the way in.

  Adela howled. Lord be praised. At last. Grinding her hips, she pushed at him, then at the desk beneath her. The way he held her open, with one thigh up, meant her puss and her clitoris were bumped as she undulated...and he thrust.

  And he did thrust. Again and again. Ferociously. Desperately. The cloth of his trousers and linen chafed cruelly against her punished bottom, but the simmering pain only seemed a different kind of pleasure. She surged and circled, rubbing and writhing, half...no, almost completely out of her wits.

  This was Wilson. Her Wilson. At last. Pushing at her. Pounding her. Almost climbing inside her soul, as much as ravishing her body.

  “Is that enough? Is that full enough measure for you?” His voice was angry, almost from another place. He thrust again, nearly sending her sliding across the top of the chest. She hung on to its edge, bracing herself, thrusting back at him.

  “More,” she groaned. “Give me it all. Give me everything.”

  He jerked, hurling himself into her. “Jezebel! I’ll make you forget those men.” His fingers gouged into her thigh. He pushed her wider, went in deeper, deeper. “You’re mine, Della. You’ll always be mine, even if you fuck a hundred thousand men. They’ll never have you the way I do.”

  Still plunged into her, he adjusted their positions on the chest. Adela gripped harder, for dear life, her inner muscles already beginning to flutter, the bright pennants of orgasm unfurling as Wilson grabbed her by the haunch with his left hand, and with his other, reached beneath, twisting his wrist, to find her clitoris.

  Adela squealed, racked by great wrenching waves of agonized pleasure, her spirit leaping from the highest place into a tumbling, ecstatic fall. Across her back, Wilson fell, too, collapsing upon her, assaulting the air with a string of oaths as his hips jerked and hammered.

  “Now you’re mine,” he cried, his voice cracking and barely recognizable.

  Losing her senses, Adela didn’t have the strength or wits to argue. In that instant, being his was all she wanted.

  17

  Wilson’s Fait Accompli

  “Don’t come in. I don’t feel equipped to explain your presence to Mama right now. She’ll want to know how I came to arrive home in a carriage with you, when I set off for a meeting of the Ladies’ Sewing Circle.”

  It seemed cruel, brushing him off like this, but it would be too uncomfortable to explain him to her mother. Especially as Adela wasn’t sure she could explain what she’d been about even to herself.

  “If you wish.” Wilson’s low voice was sober, but the way he played with the brim of his top hat betrayed his inner tension. The fact that he had one with him seemed to indicate something amiss in itself. He looked entirely ill at ease so conventionally dressed, even though his fine frock coat, surprisingly subdued waistcoat and small, neat bow tie became him well.

  “I’m sorry, Wilson. But you know Mama. Even if there was a reason for you to be delivering me home at this hour, she’d still make far too much of it.” It was Adela’s turn to fidget, fingering the handle of the small carpetbag that contained her precious portfolio.

  After they’d coupled, Wilson had held out the portfolio to her, free and clear, while she was still naked, crouched on the sofa in a large red blanket he’d draped around her in a strangely tender gesture.

  In fact, he’d been solicitous in the extreme, swathing her in the blanket, bringing her brandy, smoothing her hair back from her face as if she’d suffered some terrible shock or been rescued from a disaster at sea. He’d even winced when she’d grimaced from the lingering soreness in her buttocks. And he’d done all this while strolling round his spacious workroom stark naked himself.

  Afterward, he’d retrieved her clothing and escorted her to an impressively modern and well-appointed bathroom and lavatory. Everything in Wilson’s home employed the latest technological development, and some features, she suspected, did not exist elsewhere. He’d run hot water from a miraculously efficient system for her bath, providing a full tub of heavenly soothing heat in which to wallow. Then, when she’d returned to the workroom to take her leave, he’d plied her with orange pekoe tea and an excellent seed cake, this reviver presumably prepared by his own hand, if his servants had all taken advantage of their unexpected liberty. At least she sincerely hoped that was the case, because the idea that some lingering servant, especially the smoothly efficient Teale, might have heard all the screaming and shouting and carrying on she’d done was simply unthinkable.

  “Perhaps you’re right,” Wilson said more gently now, favoring her with a slight, crooked smile. “A visit from me will only complicate matters.”

  But as they drew up before her house, perhaps it was too late, anyway. Mama was bound to be in a state of high anxiety, and looking out of the window for he
r. It was six o’clock and Adela had gone out at half past one.

  “Don’t get out. Let the coachman help me down. Mama’s going to be on watch for my return.”

  “Very well.”

  It seemed strange that they could hardly speak to each other, but no words could encapsulate Adela’s feelings, and even Wilson, who could segregate his emotions with glacial ease, seemed affected much the same. She’d never traveled, and had never experienced a tropical cyclone or other fierce wonder of the weather, but in the aftermath of such a phenomenon, one must experience the same state of stunned incomprehension she was in now, Adela decided.

  It’s like I’ve been to heaven—and hell—and back again.

  If only Wilson had never been at the Rayworths’ house party. How much simpler life would be now.

  And how boring and insipid, too, caprices at Sofia’s house of pleasure notwithstanding. Adela couldn’t seem to remember a single thing that had ever taken place there...while her mind had recorded every word, every gesture, every breath that Wilson had taken back in his workroom.

  His caresses and the feel of his cock were indelible brands, imprinted on her far more deeply even than the heat of that spanking.

  But now she must return to her normal life. Normal but changed. Even if she never fucked Wilson again, she still wouldn’t turn to Yuri or Clarence in his stead. Sweet as they were, virile as they were, they could no longer satisfy her heart.

  “Shall we see each other again?”

  The tentative quality of Wilson’s voice was unsettling. For a capricious, arrogant, domineering man, it echoed oddly, like the plea of a lost and lonely boy.

  “I’m not sure that’s wise.” She had the portfolio now. There was no reason.

  “A letter, then? I’ll send you a letter.” More confident now, more her familiar Wilson.

  Adela swallowed, at a loss to imagine what he’d write. It would probably be some lascivious screed to rival, or surpass, anything in Divertissements. Or alternatively, a treatise on the more esoteric properties of steel, with a few words of light regard appended as an afterthought. Wilson simply couldn’t be normal. “Um...yes. Yes, of course. That would be pleasant.”