Darker Passions: The Picture of Dorian Gray

by Kilpatrick, Nancy

  Sybil Vane lay on her stomach on the divan. Behind her, Romeo returned to what I assumed was the position he’s been in before I knocked—kneeling between her legs, pumping his rod into her cunny.

  I stood transfixed, watching as he thrust into her hard, listening to her moans of pleasure as she clutched the edge of the couch.

  Juliet stared at me, lust racing through her violet eyes. Romeo glared at me, or so I imagined. But when he saw the rapt look on my face, something in his face altered. Suddenly, he yanked Sybil up onto her knees, then pulled her to her feet.

  Her rosebud nipples thrust out at me, and I realized my own hunger again. I moved toward her as if drawn by some invisible force.

  Romeo stood behind, plugging her cunny as they stood. Both of them watched me like birds of prey, waiting to see what next I would do. Instinctively, I knelt down before this theatrical goddess, and my mouth found Sybil’s dripping sex. She was slick with juices that instantly covered my cheeks and chin, and I lapped at them greedily, cleaning her thighs, then the back of her pussy lips, my tongue sliding around the thrusting cock, and finally I settled in on that swollen clit. Equally instinctively, my hands reached up, as if to find something to hold onto. Her breasts seemed to move toward my hands and fill them. The exquisite taste and smell of her drove me over the edge and my fingers grabbed hold of her nipples and pinched hard. She cried out. A sound only, as on stage.

  All the while, Romeo pumped away and Sybil enjoyed orgasm after orgasm from his cock and from my tongue and lips.

  We continued into the wee hours, switching positions now and again, Romeo fucking my asshole, Juliet licking my cunt, then I licking and poking Romeo’s anus with my fingers while Juliet pinched my nipples and rode his cock.

  And all this time, not a word was spoken between us. It was only then that I realized these two stars were incapable of speech. So much the better, I thought. The secret of my gender would be safe with them!

  Chapter Nine

  The following morning, as I made my way toward my home, a carriage stopped beside me. The door opened. Bleary-eyed, I stared inside and found Lord Henry staring back at me.

  “You’ve had a night, Dorian. That is obvious. Come, I shall take you home.”

  I thought of protesting, but as I was thoroughly exhausted from the evening’s entertainment, instead I simply yielded.

  Once I was seated, and the horses had proceeded on their way, I leaned back against the cushions and closed my eyes.

  “So. You are in love.” Lord Henry’s words jolted me.

  “I said nothing of the kind. In fact, I have said nothing.”

  “Your actions, the disarray of your attire, the look on your face all speak for you. Who is the lucky man?”

  “Did I indicate it is a man?”

  “Ah, then a woman! Delightful. Perhaps you will marry.” This he said with utter cynicism, given that he knew my true identify.

  “Men marry because they are tired; women because they are curious; both are disappointed.”

  “So, this means you are not serious. This was a chance encounter, one easily thrown away.”

  I did not trust him one inch, and managed to avoid confiding by saying, “There are many things that we would throw away if we were not afraid that others might pick them up.”

  “It is only the sacred things that are worth touching, Dorian. Your cousin, Dorianne, knows this instinctively. Your cousin, who loves me.”

  This caused me to laugh. I felt a strong urge to confront him on this game between us, but something perverse made me keep playing it. “When one is in love, one always begins by deceiving one’s self, and one always ends by deceiving others. That is what the world calls romance.”

  “Such cynicism in one so young. And yet you are so vulnerable still. Perhaps that enticing vulnerability will not last long, which would be a shame. It is so difficult to find the open, the exposed. For what is the fun in piercing that which is eager to be pierced.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” I said, suddenly tired of it all. I was about to say, ‘What are your intentions? Are you going to expose me?’ when suddenly we arrived somewhere, for the carriage stopped.

  “This is not my house,” I said.

  “You mean your cousin’s house.”

  “You know precisely what I mean.”

  His sinister smile seemed to reach across the carriage and touch me. “Come inside a moment,” he said. “There’s something you should see.”

  Once the door opened, I realized we were at Basil’s studio. Too exhausted to argue, I disembarked the carriage and followed Lord Henry to the house.

  Basil greeted us profusely. Seeing my state, he ordered a full breakfast to be served, which I ate with great relish, for indeed my exertions of the night before had diminished my energy.

  While Basil and Lord Henry talked, and I consumed eggs and muffins, and many cups of strong tea, my mind roamed to the seedy theater.

  Sybil was delightful. I had not known a woman to be as passive and yet as assertive as she. She gave as well as she received, and the two roles inspired the same from me. Of course, Romeo, whose name I did not notice in the playbill, whose name I would likely have forgotten anyway, was also a duel player in this game. Men, within my experience, were simply assertive, with no room remaining to allow a woman to take the reins. With Sybil, though, Romeo did yield and, after several hours, even yielded to me.

  The fiery whip they had used on stage rested on the dresser, and at once point I used it on his buttocks. After a moment of awkwardness on my part, the rhythm came naturally. I found my entire body leaning into the swings, and became quickly enthralled by the sight of his reddening arse and the moans from his lips. I wondered how they had created the actual fire, and thought that would be as exciting an experience for the whipper as for the whippee.

  Sybil, the dear, took the opportunity to crawl between my legs and lick my cunny yet again. Hers was a skilled tongue, teasing, licking, swabbing the juices, while her lips sucked hard on my flesh and brought me to yet another orgasm. And at just that moment, she thrust two of her dainty fingers into my anus, doubling my delight.

  “Are you revived?” Lord Henry asked.

  I dabbed the serviette at my lips and nodded. “Quite. And many thanks, Basil.”

  Basil nodded gravely. “I should have starved you, Dorian, for you promised to sit for my yesterday morning so that I might finish the portrait, and you did not. I had to finish it by memory. You should be horsewhipped!”

  His strong outburst startled me.

  “A fitting punishment, I should think,” Lord Henry said.

  I ignored the latter and spoke to the former. “Forgive me, dear Basil. But the painting is finished, is it not? You did an excellent job of it, and more accolades because it was from memory.”

  “Ah,” Lord Henry said, “then Dorianne showed you the painting.”

  I hesitated a moment. “Indeed.”

  “Good. Then I will offer you some advice.”

  “Advice? I did not know I had a problem which needed a solution. People are very fond of giving away the advice which they need most themselves. It is what I call the depth of generosity.”

  “Be that as it may, Dorian, I am forced to advise you that you must persuade Dorianne to marry me.”

  I could only laugh at this, for the duplicity, if nothing more. “She has rejected you. Why ever should I do that?”

  “Because without the safety of marriage, her life is doomed.”

  This annoyed me. “Oh come on, Lord Henry! My cousin has a life which is the envy of most women. She is free, wealthy and beautiful. Why on earth would she need you, or any man?”

  “Because,” he said grimly, staring at me in a highly serious manner, “her appetites will lead to disaster.”

  “Is this some sort of altruistic concern on your part? Or should I assume that you possess emotion, although one would be hard-pressed to find it?”‘

  “Assume as you will, Dorian, but kno
w that Dorianne is in great danger.”

  I sat up stiffly. “I shall convey that message to her.”

  “Do.”

  With that we glared at one another for several moments until Basil, always uncomfortable with a mixture of silence and inactivity, said, “Lord Henry, I have that new object which I’m to show you. Perhaps you would like to see it now?”

  “Perhaps Dorian would like to see it as well,” Lord Henry said.

  “I don’t really think that…”

  “I wouldn’t worry. I believe Dorian will not be shocked. And if he is, I’m certain that he will get over it very soon.”

  Chapter Ten

  Basil led Lord Henry and I to his cellar, a dark, dungeon-like hole in the earth. He carried a taper, which barely nudged the shadows aside as we descended.

  Once we had reached the basement, I was astonished to find Basil fondling one of the stones in the wall. “I’ve come this far to watch you playing with your rocks!” I said. “I am certainly too tired for this nonsense.” With that, I turned to head back upstairs and get myself home to bed.

  Lord Henry placed a restraining hand on my arm. “If you’ll be patient, Dorian…”

  Suddenly, I heard a sound, like stone grinding against stone. Basil had apparently found the correct stone, which was attached to a level mechanism. An entire section of wall opened inward. The new doorway led to a room, which astonished me.

  Basil entered first, then me, with Lord Henry bringing up the rear. The room we entered was a peculiar place, much like the basement we had just exited, but larger. Its spaciousness was deceptive, though. Only when I was standing inside did I realize what was hanging from the ceiling. By a series of chains and pulleys, there were several pieces of equipment which could be lowered, depending on which lever on the wall was pulled. Basil pressed one lever down, which lowered a type of short leather hammock.

  “Whatever on earth is this for?” I asked. Obviously it was too small to lie down in. Perhaps one sat there, although for the life of me I could not ascertain why one would want to.

  “Demonstrate, Basil,” Lord Henry instructed.

  Basil prepared to move toward the hammock, but Lord Henry stopped him with a word. “Undress.”

  Basil, eyes bulging, stared at us, or at me, rather. Almost immediately the notion came to me that he and Lord Henry had a rather familiar arrangement. I, of course, was the outsider to this. Basil, embarrassed, was not accustomed to obeying in the presence of a third party.

  Lord Henry took two quick steps forward and smacked Basil soundly across the face.

  “Heavens!” I gasped.

  The painter looked shocked, then furious, then I watched, fascinated, as that fury turned to submission.

  “I won’t tell you again,” Lord Henry said.

  This time, Basil undressed quickly until he stood naked before us. His stocky form trembled slightly, but his eyes showed much more than fear.

  “Into the sling!” Lord Henry commanded.

  Quickly, Basil climbed over the leather strips face first until he lay reclining, or at least the upper half of his body. From the waist down, he draped over the edge of the sling, his behind most prominent.

  “Now, Dorian,” Lord Henry said, walking to a wall mostly in darkness. He carried the candle which Basil had set down with him. As he neared, the now illuminated wall showed the curious objects affixed to it. There were all manner of whips and canes and paddles hanging there, a selection such as I had not seen before, in all sizes and shapes.

  I watched Lord Henry’s eyes rove over the instruments. Finally he found one to his liking, a hard leather strap attached to a handle, from handle to tip no more than twelve inches, and perhaps one inch wide. When he returned to me, he handed me the object for closer examination.

  “It is cowhide,” he told me. “Treated until it is very hard, barely flexible. Go on, slap your palm.”

  I held the thick handle in one hand and brought the rigid leather down onto my palm. The pain was instant and shocking. The stinging left behind had a pins and needles feel to it that pulsed long after the strap had left my flesh.

  “You are correct,” I said. “The leather is not flexible.”

  “All the better,” he said, taking the strap from my hand.

  “If you would be so kind…” He held the candle out and I took it from him.

  Lord Henry assumed a position behind Basil. With no further ado, he swung the strap. The leather landed on Basil’s left cheek. The painter howled. The sling swung forward. When it swung back, Lord Henry applied the strap to the left cheek. And Basil howled again.

  I watched fascinated as Lord Henry strapped Basil’s ass until the change of color was apparent, even in the dim light.

  Basil’s cries turned to sobs quickly. Lord Henry seemed not affected by this. I watched his face carefully. He was totally absorbed in this “work.” I also studied his methods.

  Lord Henry had taken a stance so that when he brought the strap behind, he was facing nearly away from Basil. Then, as he brought the strap forward, his entire body turned, increasing the intensity of the blows.

  This demonstration continued for quite a while, and during that time my fatigue left me entirely. I found myself aroused, both by Lord Henry’s actions, and by Basil’s reddened behind. Suddenly, Lord Henry stopped. He turned toward me and put out his hand.

  I was only holding the candle, so I handed it over to him.

  He took it and tipped the candle so that wax dribbled down onto

  Basil’s raw buttocks. Basil screamed. Lord Henry paused. He dribbled more wax onto the other cheek. Basil screamed yet again.

  Each cry was like an electric prod to my vagina. A shock surged through me. As on the previous evening, when Romeo and Juliet were on stage, I found myself envious of both positions—the one inflicting the pain, and the one on whom the pain was being inflicted.

  Suddenly, Lord Henry turned to me. He looked me square in the eye. “Dorian, if you are as intent as you seem to be on learning the dark arts, then I suggest you learn from a master. I shall take you under my wing. Train you, as it were. Perhaps then you will be happy at last.” He handed me the strap.

  With trembling fingers, I took it from him. He relinquished his spot and I stepped into it. From this position, I could see very clearly the marks the hide had left on Basil’s rear end. Already where the edges of the leather had struck hard, weals had formed. Basil’s balls were tight sacs, and his cock, erect and full, stuck out between the leather thongs on which he lay. His behind trembled. Actually, his entire body trembled. I did not know what to do. Excited as I was, I could not envision myself whipping this man who was already so wounded.

  As if reading my mind, Lord Henry said, “You must learn to read him.”

  “He is not tabula rasa. The pages of the book are burned already.”

  While Lord Henry peeled the melted wax from Basil’s raw bottom, he said, “Ah, but that is where you are mistaken, Dorian. Basil, here, has simply been primed. If you are in doubt, ask him.”

  I hesitated a moment. Basil was, after all, the man who had taken my anal virginity. Who had fucked me in the dark so often in his studio that I could not count the times. And now here I was, the youth, the novice, strap in hand, about to turn the tables on him.

  “Basil, would you like more?” I asked.

  I was astonished when he answered, “Yes, please, Master Dorian.”

  None had before called me Master. The word rang through me as though it dovetailed perfectly with how I felt, how I wanted to be. His acknowledgement of my new-found status and his ascent that I continue left me needing no further encouragement.

  I positioned myself as Lord Henry had done, although he corrected the position of my feet a bit. “You must be able to turn fully at the waist,” he said, like a professor instructing a student.

  The first swing, the feel of it as my body turned, my arm moved swiftly through the air, the sound of the heavy leather cracking against alre
ady sore flesh, the sight of Basil’s bottom jumping into the air, his body swinging forward, his cry of pain, all of it was like ambrosia, far sweeter than what I had experienced the previous evening when I whipped Romeo.

  Quickly I fell into a rhythm, turn and swing, smack of leather against flesh, winding back. Lord Henry called out encouragement, and the odd correction, but I found that I was a natural at this activity. Only when Lord Henry’s arm caught mine did I stop.

  He nodded at Basil’s behind. The weals were about to burst, even I could see that.

  “You’ve aroused him enough,” Lord Henry said. He opened the fly of his trousers and, while I watched, shoved his cock into Basil’s anus. Part of me longed to have a penis at that moment, something to shove into Basil’s mouth. And while my cunny ached with a desire to be stroked and entered, I could not risk Basil knowing my true identify. Instead, I watched, titillated, aroused to the point where instinctively I crawled beneath Basil and took his cock between my lips. He was hard to the point of eruption. I slid a hand down inside my trousers and masturbated to climax while Lord Henry pumped at Basil’s ass to his own climax, and Basil shot his cum deep into my throat. Oddly enough, the three of us came simultaneously—Lord Henry with a great thrust and cry, Basil with a wail and an ejaculation, and me, my hot pussy catching fire until it exploded like a volcano.

  Chapter Eleven

  I slept for three days after my adventures at the theater, and in Basil’s basement. Hot, dark dreams permeated my sleep. I was sweaty and feverish, and Miss Pruit was all concern as she bathed my brow and force-fed me consommé. When finally I roused myself, I found a letter waiting for me in the mail. The envelope was pink, and the return address was for Miss Sybil Vane. I took it upstairs to my secret attic room.

  The picture of Dorian Gray stared at me. Whether it was my state or mind, or the light, or the optical illusion some painting create, or perhaps even something else, I did not know, but I felt certain that the picture was somehow different from what it had been. I moved close to examine it. The paint did not seem corrupted. Stepping back, again, I could not quite make out what was different, but I knew that there was definitely a softer, rounder look to Dorian’s face, or at least it seemed so.