I was grossly insulted that this man should presume on my time, and was about to say I would do no such thing. But the glint in his eye, firmer than anything I had yet seen in the eye of a man, intrigued me. Apparently he had something in mind, and my curiosity—always the thing that brought me to my knees as it were—would not be ignored. Besides, the pathetic look on Basil’s fact made me realize that the poor painter was jealous. I absolutely delighted in this control over his passions. I could very easily have said no to Lord Henry, but then I would have not only missed whatever he had in mind, but I would have erased that deep pain and longing from Basil’s face, and I had no intention of doing either.
“Certainly,” I said. “The morrow would be fine. Same again?”
Basil, looking stricken, could only nod.
“Excellent,” Lord Wotton said, jumping to his feet. He slapped the crop against his gophers smartly. “Come Dorian. I’ve just the mare for you.”
Since I had no male riding gear, we took Lord Henry’s carriage to a shop specializing in equestrian attire. While I changed into the riding gear, he sat reading a book. When I came out fully costumed for this jaunt, I found him reading the Kama Sutra, in Hindi.
From there, we proceeded to the north end of London, where the Hallworth Stables are located. The ride was long, and during it Lord Henry said no more than one half dozen words, I’m sure. My attempts at witty repartee fell on deaf ears, it seemed, so I gave up and spent the time gazing at the sooty streets of the world’s greatest city.
London. The Ruler of the Civilized World! Her teeming masses clotted the lanes and gullies. Sights, sounds, smells—one could almost taste the air, as if it were a savory pie. The metropolis was a dizzying array of classes, all co-mingling. All, it seemed, making way for our carriage.
At the stables, Lord Henry ordered that his dappled gelding be saddled and brought to him, and that a creature named “Nettie” be brought for me. Nettie turned out to be a fine two year old, graceful, sleek and spirited. When Lord Wotton saw me admiring her, he said cryptically, “Much like you, is she not?”
I took this to be another indication that he knew my gender. Well, if I was to be unmasked, I expected it would be good to get it over with.
We mounted and rode in silence, walking the horses for a time to limber them up, then proceeding to a trot. All the while I contemplated my situation.
Often, I had thought, I should have preferred to be born in another era. Not the past, for the fate of women was no more liberal than that of my own time. Unlike some, I did not envision myself as having been born into the body of a female and that a mistake had been made—I really should have been a male!
No, I adored my body and the luscious sensuality I had come to realize was my birthright, and I had nothing against women in general. But the culture which I had been born into seemed to expect me to be content doing stitchwork and feigning passion. I was not good at the former, and my passions were too outrageous to be either dampened or stifled—the latter proved impossible. And while still technically a virgin, I had been promiscuous since the age of sixteen and now felt that I was beginning to blossom. And just at the moment when being demure was required of me!
As it stood, I led a double life. My only salvation lay in the fact that my parents traveled abroad a great deal, and I had reached the age of majority. The governess hired to chaperon me was a doddering old thing, forgetting her name most of the time, easily convinced that she had after all, spent the evening with me when, in fact, I was elsewhere.
Dressing in men’s clothing, leading the life of the dilettante, had come to me as an idea two years before. I invented my own cousin, from the country, whose name is Dorian, a variation on my own name, Dorianne. My ancestors were from the far north of England, and while of the upper class, too reclusive to have much of a connection to society; my heritage was not common knowledge.
For twenty four months I had been living in disguise. Bobbing about London as a male had been sheer pleasure. I felt larger physically, felt a different type of respect paid to me in general, and most important, had been able to satisfy many of my lusts, as I did with Basil, in secret, in the dark, my gender still hidden, my virginity still intact. Besides the anal form of intercourse, I had enjoyed the taste of many cocks, sipping the semen as if it were a rare wine and, indeed, for me it proved to be. Only one aspect of my erotic nature still lay sleeping and, for the life of me, I had no notion of how to indulge that part without exposing my game.
Suddenly I realized that Lord Henry had spoken. “I beg your pardon?” I said.
“A race. Are you game?”
“Naturally,” I said. He was a superior horseman, of that I was convinced, but the thrill of a competition excited me, and I wanted to see what stuff both of us were made of. To tease him, I said, “What shall be the reward for the winner?”
He gave me a serious but dark look. A look that made me regret asking the question.
“Let the wager be determined by the winner,” he said in a low voice. “Unless, of course, that does not sit well with you.”
I swallowed hard. I could easily read the sexual innuendo in his tone. Well, he knew of my gender already, of that I was convinced. Perhaps he wanted my maidenhead. I had no qualms about handing it over. In fact, the idea intrigued me. I had to lose it sometime and, considering he knew my secret, I thought it might possibly be a bargaining chip in maintaining my disguise. And, if I won, there would be things I would enjoy as well. “Alright!” I said, and we shook on it in a manly fashion.
Horses galloping, Lord Henry pointed to a stand of trees ahead, and the open fields beyond. “At the trees. To the lake.”
“Fine,” I agreed.
The second we were parallel with the trees, I used the ends of my reign to drive Nettie. She broke into a run, and soon I was flying across the clods of upturned turf. Riding astride was stimulating at this pace, and heat rose through my body. My clit pounded against the saddle, and I felt the crotch of my riding pants become sopping. My nipples hardened at the invigorating ride, the tender, sensitive nubs rubbing the fabric of my new linen shirt. Lord Henry rode to my left, and slightly behind me. To be in the lead was its own reward, and I delighted in the control.
Ahead was the lake. Nettie snorted. Her large muscles stretched and contracted with each stride. Her head flew back, and I could see her eyes were wild. A bit of foam had gathered at one corner of her mouth. “Not much farther, girl!” I called encouragingly to her. I could feel Lord Henry falling behind. Nettie and I were in the lead. I became joyful at this, delighted by the notion that this man would be beholden to me for something, at least.
A distance of only an acre or so stood between me and victory. I bent forward, low, pressing my clit against the hard leather and my bottom rose into the air. “Come on girl! Come on!” I cried.
Suddenly something hard struck my behind, startling me. It threw me off stride, and I threw Nettie, so in tune with me, off stride. Her precisely pounding hooves became erratic. Her head swayed from side to side, and the wild look in her eyes grew intense. Out of the corner of my eye I watched Lord Henry charge past us. I struggled to bring Nettie back to her proper gait, but all was lost. I pulled back on the reigns enough to slow her, as there was no use torturing the poor beast. We trotted to the river’s edge where Lord Henry and his steed waited, breathless, elated by success.
His face possessed a grin that infuriated me.
“You threw me off!” I shouted.
“Did I?” he said. “And how might I have done that?”
“By swiping at my ass with your damned crop!”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said dismissively, dismounting. “Likely a bee stung you. There’s no point being a poor loser.”
He walked his sweaty horse, and I dismounted, doing the same, until both horses had calmed enough that we could release them to drink at the lake. I, however, had not calmed. I felt sure that Lord Wotton had tricked me, and I was incensed.
&n
bsp; He sat on a boulder beneath a willow tree, watching me. I stooped to scoop water and drink it from the lake. I was avoiding him, avoiding another confrontation, but eventually there was nothing for it but to join him. He patted the stone beside him, for me to sit.
“You’re angry,” he said. “And rightly so. You lost the race. It is common, is it not, to look for scapegoats. Women do it all the time.”
I turned on him. “I need look no further. That was no bee sting, but the slash of a crop.”
“And you are familiar with the crop on your backside?”
I felt my cheeks color. “I am not! I simply know what you’re about.”
“Do you?”
Something in his tone kept me from answering.
Finally he said what I had been dreading. “I won the race. The reward, as you agreed, is mine, for the taking.”
I tried to appear calm, but found the posing difficult. Inwardly I was both excited and terrified. I had no notion of what to expect. But the humiliation of being cheated and having no way to prove it laced through those feelings.
It came as no surprise, though, when he said, “Lower your trousers and lie over the rock.”
I sat stunned. Even though I expected it, I had hoped there might be another choice, yet there appeared to be none.
Lord Henry stood. I expected the crop, but was startled and confused as I watched him take a pocket knife from his pant pocket. He cut three long willow branches. I sat watching in terror as he stripped them of leaves. When he finished, he swung each in the air individually. They made a fearfully loud whoosh sound as they cut the air. It was dreadful, both exciting and terrifying at the same moment.
At last he looked at me again. “Dorian, if that is your name, you will bare your ass so that I may whip it to my heart’s content. We had a gentlemen’s agreement. Whether or not you are a gentleman remains to be seen, but lose you did, and whip you I shall.”
He had me. I knew there was no escape. Reluctantly, I stood and unbuttoned my gophers. He stared at my crotch like a hawk waiting for its prey to come into sight. He might know my gender, but I had no intention of freely giving him a bird’s-eye view.
I turned so that my back was to him. Keeping my legs close together, I lowered my breeches to my ankles, and leaned across the boulder. Being exposed like this, out in the open—well, in a field anyway—was most titillating, but I wished the circumstances were different. The bitter taste of defeat was still strong in my mouth, and being punished for it increased the acidity of my emotion.
The afternoon sun warmed my fanny and the backs of my legs very quickly. I lay there a long time, finally resting the side of my face against the grey rock. A bee buzzed nearby, and I thought I smelt honeysuckle. Lord Henry seemed to have forgotten me. I had an intense desire to spread my legs and feel the fresh air stroke my quiff, but enough control remained that I resisted this urge. The quiet, the heat of the day, the fatigue from the race, all contributed to lulling me, and I found myself close to dozing.
Behind me, I felt the most delicious sensations beginning. My bottom was being stroked, very gently, very slowly by the branches. I found the feeling comforting and stimulating, while at the same time lulling. My bottom lifted, like a flower turning toward the sun’s rays. Automatically I began to move my hips in a wonderful rotating manner. The rock beneath me was cool, the sun above hot. The natural wood touching me was being moved firmly and skillfully.
I felt my legs gently pushed apart, the very thing I had wanted to do. The air against my cunny was extraordinary, both cooling and stimulating. Fingers slid down the crack in my behind very slowly, one pausing over my bottom hole.
The sensation made me want to open. It was as if my hole knew the potential here—it loved to be filled, and there was something ready to fill it. Little moans escaped my lips. I wanted so for that finger to slide inside me, opening me further, until my anus was widened for a larger object.
As if reading my thoughts, the finger entered me. I gasped. It penetrated inch by inch until it was all the way inside my rectum, as far as it could go. I writhed and squirmed on this fleshy pole, doing a lascivious dance in the open air, enjoying the sensations immensely, wanting even more.
I was about to say, Another finger, please, sir!, when another finger did enter me, but not there. It slid into my womanly place, and easily. The firmness against my soft, moist flesh felt wonderful. But I was startled, for no one but myself had ever played there. Still, I welcomed this invasion. The torment was even greater than that in my bottomhole, for this place was even more forbidden, and here it was, being taken while I lay receptive and yearning.
The finger in my vagina felt large, or perhaps the opening was small. It entered until it reached a natural barrier, one that was meant to be shattered, but was a painful wall nevertheless.
Suddenly the fingers paused, simply impaling me, my hot flesh pulsing around them. And because they were not moving, I needed to. I lifted my ass high into the air, pulling the rigid fingers up with it, and squirmed and writhed even harder, at a faster pace against these two piercers.
The sensations built in me. I reach up under my shirt. I worked my hand beneath the tight bandages flattening my breasts until I found one of my nipples. I could not squeeze it, only rub, but rub it I did, and the pleasure rushing through me led strait to my vagina and rectum. It was as though my entire body were one being, a triangle, so aligned that when a spot here was touched, sensation spread instantly to another there. I had never felt anything like it.
“Dorian, I want to fuck you.”
“Oh yes!” I cried shamelessly.
“It was not a question, simply a statement of my desire. Desire that is part of my reward. To the victor, the spoils.”
I could only pant in reply. He knew I wanted him. My anus tightened around his fingers, and the sopping folds of my cunny were like lips that could not stop kissing him.
“Where shall I take you, is the question.”
“Anywhere you like, m’lord,” I said.
“You are under the illusion that my question was directed toward you. You are under many illusions.”
He pulled both fingers out quickly.
The shock of instantly broken contact made me cry out. All input was halted, which left me burning and throbbing, with no way of sating myself.
“Damn you!” I cried, a sob catching in my throat.
“Ah, but we shall both be damned, and for similar reasons.
But that will be later. For now, it is you who shall visit hell.”
I had no idea what he meant. Suddenly I heard that awful sound again, the willow switches cutting the air nearby. My body, already trembling with arousal, began to tremble in fear.
“I shall teach you a lesson, Dorian. One you shall remember a lifetime. And one you shall thank me for.”
“How very generous of you!” I said snidely.
“Oh, but I am being generous. And my generosity shall extend to a severe welting, something I wager you’ve never experienced before.”
I could not think of a clever comeback, for his words filled me with dread. Yet despite that dread, I wanted him to whip me. I cannot say why, only that in some manner I was sick unto death of my own personality. I was a youth for whom the world waited with open arms. No one denied me. I was accustomed to getting my way. Accomplished at artifice. And now I would be forced to submit to the will of another.
A violent spasm of excitement passed through me, which Lord Henry did not fail to notice.
“Yes, you will enjoy this, even as you hate it. And you will want more. And perhaps, if you beg me sufficiently, if you humiliate yourself enough, one day I shall deign to comply with your desires. There is a price, though. Always.”
“What is your price?” Suddenly I wanted this, more than I had wanted anything.
“That will be negotiated in the future. For now, though, I claim your ass as my reward, to whip until the whipping ceases to give me pleasure. Do you give this freely?�
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My mouth was dry, but I managed to say, “Yes.”
He wasted no time. The three switches were brought down hard across my ass forthwith. My bottom leapt into the air and I howled. I had barely gotten that sound from my mouth when the switches found their target again. Over and over the branches beat out a rhythm, like a heartbeat, firing up my bottom in short order.
I twisted and squirmed, only giving myself more pain, for then the willows would land on my hips, or my thighs. My ass was ablaze in no time, and tears gushed from my eyes.
Lord Henry was merciless, as he indicated he would be. The whipping went on and on. I cried out many times that I could bear no more, but he did not heed that any more than he paid attention to my tears.
What kept me there, submitting, when I could have bolted, I cannot say. Surely it was the most painful experience of my young life, one that, while it was occurring, I cannot say I found entirely pleasurable. Many moments I was on the verge of fleeing, but something kept me pressed to the boulder. And I was astonished to find that after a time my heine lifted itself up to meet the switches as it had earlier lifted to the sun’s warmth.
How long this whipping continued, I cannot say. I do know that at some indefinable moment what was painful became pleasurable. Thought left me alone. Instinct took over. I felt wild, the way I had seen Nettie. A part of me needed this pain, and another part of me entertained the fantasy of tearing Lord Henry limb from limb. The outcome was my submission to the constant shock of this punishment.
As suddenly as he had begun, Lord Wotton stopped. My ass was impossibly hot, and throbbed intensely, so much so that it felt twice it’s normal size.
I lay sobbing over the boulder, trying to cope with all the sensations coursing through me. At some point, I became aware that my pussy was wanting something. The flesh inside throbbed in time with the flesh outside. I felt like a creature lifted from the sea, pressed flat to this rock, my cunny gasping like a fish out of water for what it needed, my bottom scorched in a way that would not diminish quickly.
Darker Passions: The Picture of Dorian Gray Page 2