THE DARKER PASSIONS: THE PICTURE OF DORIAN GRAY
By Nancy Kilpatrick
First Digital Edition published by Puffin Rooster Press
Smashwords Edition published at Smashwords by Puffin Rooster Press
Copyright 2014 / Nancy Kilpatrick
LICENSE NOTES
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Meet the Author
Nancy Kilpatrick is a writer and editor. She has published 18 novels, 1 non-fiction book, over 200 short stories, 5 collections of stories, and has edited 12 anthologies.
She writes dark fantasy, horror, mysteries and erotic horror, under her own name, her nom de plume Amarantha Knight, and her newest pen name Desiree Knight (Amarantha's younger sister!)
Nancy has been a Bram Stoker finalist three times, a finalist for the Aurora Award five times and, in addition to winning several short fiction contests, won the Arthur Ellis Award for best mystery.
She lives with her calico cat Fedex in lovely Montreal. As with previous dwellings, this one features Gothic decor, which suits the sensibilities of both residents.
When Nancy is not writing, she travels planet earth—the Great Curio Cabinet—in search of cemeteries, ossuaries, catacombs, mummies and Danse Macabre artwork.
Book List
Eternal City
The Vampire Stories of Nancy Kilpatrick
The Power of the Blood World:
Child of the Night
Near Death
Reborn
Bloodlover
The Darker Passions Series (writing as Amarantha Knight):
Dracula
Frankenstein
Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde
The Fall of the House of Usher
The Pit and the Pendulum
The Picture of Dorian Gray
Carmilla
Acknowledgements
To my most wonderful, delightful friends. Without the deliciously witty Oscar Wilde, the cleverest lines in this book would be missing. We are forever in your debt, Oscar, for showing us what charming fools we all are.
“We are all in the gutter, but some of
us are looking at the stars.”
Oscar Fingal O’Flahertie Wills Wilde
from Lady Windermere’s Fan
THE DARKER PASSIONS: THE PICTURE OF DORIAN GRAY
Chapter One
That morning Basil’s studio was filled with the rich odor of roses, and when the light summer wind stirred amidst the trees of the garden, there came through the open door the heavy scent of lilac, and the more delicate perfume of the pink-flowering thorn. Beneath all that, though, were traces of a darker scent, one bespeaking the hidden, the unknown.
I sat before the French doors, perfectly still, as Basil insisted. I had posed for this renowned artist before, many times over the last several weeks. He seemed obsessed with me. He often said things along the lines of what he was saying right now: “Dorian, your exquisite cheekbones, your extraordinarily beautiful grey eyes, those full, inviting lips—you could have as easily been a female as a male. Of course,” he went on, “either gender brings rewards, does it not? For those in possession of beauty have only time as their enemy.”
I laughed at his comments, of course. “Time is the great equalizer,” I admitted, “presuming that one is interested in equality.”
I suppose that being blessed with what had been termed a “perfect” face afforded me much leeway. For instance, I rebelled again and again at Basil’s insistence on painting me in the buff. He longed to discover if the body which accompanied the visage could, as well, inspire his painter’s talents. Or, that was his preferred argument. But I had my reasons for refusing.
Of course, he had experienced my body on several occasions, but never in the light. Last night, when I came to sit for him, when the moon rose and the sky blackened, I turned out the gas lamps until the air resembled intangible tar. Only then, in the darkest corner of the parlor, doors locked for safety from intrusive servants, did I lower my trousers, keeping my knees tightly together. I have had a rule, which Basil nearly broke last night. I have never permitted him to touch me with his hands. As midnight approached, I felt the soft hairs of one of his sable brushes stoke my bottomhole until I quivered with desire. Perhaps because of that quivering, I was not at first aware of the fingers sliding over my ass cheeks, then the palm, rounding one cheek, then the other, the grip growing firmer, on the verge of sweeping round to my front.
The moment I became aware of his touch, I shoved his hand away and shouted, “No! You know my rules! Desist, or it is over!”
Basil, shocked, no doubt, reacted purely by instinct. His palm struck my behind, first one cheek, then the other, smartly, in quick succession. The stinging startled me. Then my bottom began to feel pleasantly warm. Basil, upset—for he is of an artistic persuasion and a sensitive soul—apologized, but I would have none of it.
“Do what you must,” I told him. “You always do.”
With that, he did as he enjoyed on such occasions. I felt his hard cock, the tip moist from a tiny emission, prodding the opening in my backside. The stimulation of this initial query sent a thrill through me. I braced myself as I lay over the footstool. Then his cockhead pierced me, and I moaned in delight. That thick uncircumcised head impaling my anus sent shivers of delight thorough me. My rectum contracted involuntarily, then expanded, anticipating more of the same. It was not disappointed.
Basil seemed unusually firm and his rod entered quickly, staking me with his full length until I shook from the sensations. My walls welcomed him, submitted to him, as always, for I so enjoy a good ass fucking. Why society as a whole should frown upon this pleasure and yet indulge in it so often, so secretly, I cannot say. I only know that the moment he filled me fully, my brain ceased to function and my body gave itself over to intense, illicit pleasure.
He rammed in and out of me, each thrust intensifying my enjoyment. His hands grasped my hips—the only touch I permitted—and that allowed him to control his movements all the more. Such control permitted us both the pleasure of the full length of his staff being used completely.
I felt myself building to a pitch. Oddly enough, my bottom cheeks still stung slightly, and in the course of Basil’s thrustings, his hips knocking against my behind seemed to increase the exquisite discomfort there. All this led me to peak quickly. Basil, as well, could not hold back, but shot his cum deep inside my rectum, and my thirsty hole drank his liquid as if it were ambrosia and I were parched.
That, of course, was last evening. Now, in the light of day, our relationship has returned to one of artist and subject.
As Basil worked and I day-dreamed, there came a knock on the studio door. A man was admitted, tall, rather austere, with a cynical downturn to his lips. He was obviously well-heeled—dressed in riding attire complete with crop—one of our own class. His dark eyes fixed on me, and I had the distinct and uncomfortable impression that he knew my secret. It made me turn from his scrutinizing gaze.
“Lord Henry!” Basil called. While they greeted one another, the dark eyes of this stranger never left my pewter orbs. Finally, introductions were made.
“I would like you to meet Dorian Gray,” Basil said.
The man identified as Lord Henry Wot
ton extended a hand in my direction. When I took it, an electrical charge passed up my arm that left me breathless. Our eyes locked. The power in his, the indomitable will therein, kept me from speaking. I could not understand the feeling overwhelming me, yet I felt that I had just experienced someone who would change my life, of that I was certain. But what I was not certain of was whether it would be for the good.
I came to my senses only when Lord Wotton broke the physical contact. He turned away to stare at the portrait on the easel which Basil had been working on. It was a large canvas, full-length.
“Beautiful! Extraordinarily beautiful!” Lord Henry was saying. “A young Adonis, made of ivory and rose-leaves. A Narcissus.” He turned to Basil. “To your Echo, no doubt.”
“Merely a painting,” Basil hurried to reassure him. “Dorian has been kind enough to sit for me.”
“Hardly just a painting,” Lord Henry said. And now he turned toward me again. “A work of art. The model and the artist. United.”
Basil cleared his throat. “Every portrait painted with emotion is a portrait of the artist, not the sitter. The painter, on the colored canvas, reveals himself.”
“Then you must exhibit yourself,” Lord Henry said, laughing. His eyes had found mine again. I felt like a child before him, unable to speak, unable to do anything but allow those masterful eyes to control me.
“Never!” Basil said.
The vehemence of his response jolted both Lord Henry and myself. Basil stood, a round man, short, losing his hair too young, a look of wilful pride on his whiskered cheeks, a pride that made no sense.
“Surely I’m not sitting in vain,” I said, finally locating my voice. “I should think you would have found me a worthy enough subject for display. Certainly others do, if the number of party invitations I receive is any indication.”
“That is not the point!” Basil said. Disconcerted, he moved to a decanter. “Brandy?” he asked.
It was still morning, but Lord Wotton apparently had no awareness of time’s limitations. Because he accepted the offer, so did I. I felt myself locked into his aura, wishing to be close to him, physically, psychically, and yet at the same time wishing more than anything else to get away from him. A peculiar feeling overwhelmed me—I wanted to submit myself to this man, and I fantasized him buggering me. I was headlong into the fantasy when suddenly it was interrupted.
“So,” Lord Henry pursued, as though the conversation had not faltered, as though I were not in the room, as though I had not just envisioned his cock plugging my asshole. “You are too close to Dorian to part with his image. Are you fearful of forgetting such beauty if it is not in your presence?”
“On the contrary. He is never more present in my work than when no image of him is there. He is a suggestion.”
Hearing myself spoken of in this spectral way brought my ire to the fore. “I should think that after so much has occurred, I should be more a reality than a fancy,” I said, my tone a bit huffy. I was, of course, alluding to our passionate sessions in the middle of the night.
Lord Henry turned on me sharply. A broad smile filled his face. Only now for the first time did I notice just how cynical a smile it was. “Yes, Dorian, you must demand what is rightfully yours. A place of prominence in the life of the one who creates you. For after all, if he consumes your time, and whatever else he consumes in the production of this portrait, then refuses to show such a fine work, what, then, will he do with that image?”
The thought had not occurred to me, nor concerned me until those words were spoken. I had not seen the canvas yet, and moved around the easel.
“No, Dorian, do not—” Basil began, for he hated his work being observed before it was complete. But it was too late—I had already seen the best, and the worst.
The likeness of myself stunned me. Yes, Basil had captured me, my youth, my delicate beauty. His talent was strong enough, and perhaps his desire as well, that the fine edge between male and female that many a twenty-year old exhibits had been secured. The portrait was definitely male, though, the clothing, the stance, the look of determination spread throughout my youthful features. Seeing myself thusly was daunting. I began to notice something else; imbedded in my features was a seductive quality that I had not hitherto been aware of. A look of longing laced with submission permeated the face in paint, and throughout all that an undercurrent, a steely quality that appeared dangerous, even to me. I did not understand it then, and could only stare at the picture in awe, entranced by my own visage.
Basil was busy with excuses. “It is not my best work. Perhaps not modern enough in style…”
“Modern pictures are, no doubt, delightful to look at,” I mumbled. “But they are quite impossible to live with; they are too clever, too assertive, too intellectual. Their meaning is too obvious, and their method too clearly defined. One exhausts what they have to say in a very short time, and they become as tedious as one’s relations.”
As if reading into my words, Lord Henry who had, unbeknownst to me come up behind me, said, “Basil, you must sell me this portrait. I should like to have Dorian in my possession.” Did I feel the back of Lord Henry’s hand brush across my behind? For some unknown reason, memory of the slaps Basil had administered the night before were rekindled in my flesh and in my brain. My breath caught in my throat. I wanted this man, Lord Henry Wotton, more than I could even permit myself to know. But I also knew that I could not have him. He was dangerous, that was evident. He would not respect the limits I imposed with Basil and which the artist readily agreed to. Lord Henry would insist on taking me beyond those limits, which would expose all my secrets. But equally, I could not bear to have him own this portrait. For after all, the portrait might become more dear to him than the person on whom it was based, and that was not acceptable either.
“I wish to have it myself!” I blurted out. It was the only solution I could think of.
“Whatever for?” Basil called.
“I am the subject, it is within my right to request that the portrait be given to me, sold to me, or destroyed.”
Lord Wotton looked like the proverbial cat that had captured the canary. I could not know then just what that look meant.
Basil out and out refused. In fact, my request, nay, demand, set him off on a long, boring discourse on the rights of the artist, and the inability of the non-artist to understand the various levels of the value of true art, the general worthlessness that society as a whole places on the arts, etc. etc.
As I half listened, I felt liquid seep down my thighs. In that instant, I glanced up. Once again my eyes locked with those of Lord Wotton. He knew! Of that I was certain! Horror filled me. Would he let on? I knew not. I doubted it, at least he would not announce what he knew now. Not yet. Not until he had me vulnerable enough. For what Lord Henry knew, which I, of course knew, and of which Basil and the rest of London had been woefully ignorant, was that the liquid seeping from me was not semen, but the sweet juices of my cunny. Lord Henry instinctively deduced that I was a woman disguised as a man.
My body, staked beneath his fierce gaze, began to tremble. I felt my bound nipples firming with desire. Without a doubt, I knew that when the time was right, when he decided it was right, Lord Henry would not only have me, and at his whim, but he would expose me to the world!
Chapter Two
Our little group adjourned to the garden. Refreshments were provided by the manservant, and as Basil, Lord Henry and I sipped our Darjeeling tea and dined on crustless cucumber sandwiches, I again became a persona non grata, at least as far as Lord Henry was concerned. He continued to speak of me as though I did not exist, a pretty but vacuous boy whose opinions were neither warranted nor solicited. Contrary to the previous occasion, this time I felt relieved at being invisible. For I knew that the more attention he paid to me, the more danger I was in. Still, something about being ignored so thoroughly by Lord Henry both wounded and excited me.
“The picture,” he said. “You really must decide, Basil. K
eep it, exhibit it, sell it to me. Give it to Dorian. Destroying it is, of course, out of the question.”
“I refuse to argue,” Basil said, his voice rising.
“Oh, we are not arguing. Only the intellectually lost ever argue. But on another note, tell me, is Dorian Gray fond of you?”
Basil glanced at me. He looked uncomfortable at being asked so direct a question. “As a rule,” he said hesitantly, “he is charming to me. We sit in the studio and talk about a thousand things.”
“No doubt uplifting.”
I shifted uneasily in my seat. Lord Henry had not looked in my direction since we’d come outside. I admit that I was a narcissistic youth, accustomed to turning heads, and this indifference piqued my curiosity even as it insulted me.
“Now and then, however,” Basil continued, “he is horribly thoughtless, and seems to take a real delight in giving me pain.”
This brought a slight downturn to Lord Wotton’s lips. Suddenly he turned to face me directly, startling me, so much so that the China cup perched on my knee nearly toppled. Those eyes held me like chains. Once more I could not speak, but Lord Wotton could.
“Thoughtlessness is a serious matter. It requires a reaction. I doubt that Dorian takes any real delight in callousness, which may be to his detriment, yet it is a trait that worms its way into the personality of youth. Guidance is needed, in order for the worm to find its way out again. Do you ride?”
I was a bit stunned by the last words, directed at me. So much so that the question hung in the air until I found my voice. “On occasion.”
“Excellent! Basil will forgive you, then, for cutting short his painting session today.”
“Lord Henry,” Basil began, “I am on the verge of finishing the portrait—”
“And that is a good thing. I suspect that tomorrow morning Dorian will be more than happy to sit for you, and be far more enthusiastic.”
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