By then I was nearly unable to catch my breath. The crotch of my bloomers was soaked, and the moisture, I knew, had even gone through my skirts. But what surprised me most was that I felt so passive to this treatment. I had not any desire to reciprocate, only to lie back and receive—this was so unlike me!
It was as though I had never actually done that before. And when I thought for a moment, I realized that I had been the active one, always. And now, since the Duchess seemed to enjoy that role, I was handed an opportunity to take on the other.
The Duchess excused herself to visit the commode, leaving me alone on the chaise, my tit throbbing, my cunny scalding from steaming juices. I could only lie back and pant.
All at once, the candle reached the end of its life. She had been so long at the tit that the paraffin had burned down and the wick drowned.
Darkness suited me. Outside, the rain pounded against the window. Inside, I lay sprawled on the furniture, my one breast exposed, my no-doubt crimson nipple simply throbbing with sensitivity and desire.
And when I heard the door open and close and the footsteps cross the room, I moaned softly, unable to contain my lust for the Duchess.
In the darkness, fingertips undid more buttons on my blouse, exposing my other breast. I moaned again, and thrust it up; it was so eager for similar attention.
Lips curled around me and I thrust my breast even higher.
My legs, already parted, parted further. A hand reached beneath my skirts and slid slowly up my thigh. It only stopped when it reached a patch of wetness, then continued up the river flowing from me to the source.
My bloomers were pulled slowly, erotically, from the crotch down. And all the while the mouth on my tit sucked and chewed and twisted me into a state of extreme arousal. If anything, those lips were even more demanding, more fierce than before, and I gave myself over to their demands, and allowed the sensations to course through me. I felt deliciously helpless.
Fingers separated my nether lips and slid in deep, some into my cunny as far as the barrier would permit, others into my rectum. My head fell back in abandon, my mouth opened—it was dry as I gasped and moaned.
For another hour, until the clock struck eleven, the mouth played severely with my tit, and the fingers fucked me mercilessly as orgasm after orgasm washed over me. I was sore, then beyond sore, and just when I thought the Duchess had had her fill, she turned me onto my tummy, lifted my skirts, and—bless her, she must have brought a dildo back with her, one she wore as the one I’d purchased from Vita—inserted a long hard hided phallus into my anus.
This fucking brought me to a new height, and I felt it could go on forever, and in fact did last until the clock struck the half hour. Then, like a man, the Duchess imitated that final thrust that produces ejaculation and, marvel of marvels, I could almost feel the dildo throbbing, like a real penis.
Minutes passed and then the sash was removed from my wrists. I began to say, “Gladys…” but heard the door open and close, and I knew she was gone.
It took until the striking of midnight for me to find the energy to pick myself up, right my clothing and climb the stairs to my room. I was just at the door to my chamber when the door next to mine opened. There stood Lord Wotton.
His face looked stern. “Did you have a pleasant evening, Dorianne?”
I nodded, barely able to speak. He could not know just how pleasant!
“Your time alone with the Duchess must have been enriching.”
“Indeed, Lord Henry, now, if you will excuse me. It’s late and I’m—”
“It’s typical of the aristocracy. They can’t hold their inebriants. The lower classes do better. If they don’t set us a good example, what on earth is the use of them?”
“I’m certain I wouldn’t know, Lord Wotton, and it’s a bit late for idle chatter. Now—”
“It’s unfortunate that the Duchess passed out.”
“Passed out?” I felt alarmed. “Where is she? Perhaps she needs to be brought to her bed.”
“Oh, she has been. I carried her there myself, when I found her at the door of the toilet.”
My addled brain could not take this in, but I knew something was not quite right here. Time-wise, it had not been that long after the Duchess left the room when I, too, exited. I heard nor saw anything of this.
“When, exactly, did you carry Gladys upstairs?”
“Oh, I should think about quarter past ten or so.”
“Quarter past ten! Don’t you mean twelve?”
“Oh no. It was most certainly ten fifteen. In fact, I heard the German clock in the conservatory striking eleven thirty.”
“How could you hear that? The chimes are soft, bells that tinkle. You would have had to have been in the parlor to hear the clock, and I know—”
His wicked smile stopped me short. Not only had he heard the chimes of the clock, but he had heard my own chimes throughout the past hour and a half. I felt my face color, and my ire flare.
Before I could stop one and release the other, Lord Wotton grabbed me by the upper arms and pulled me close to him. I was about to protest, when, instead of kissing me as I’d expected, he shoved me through into his room, then followed locked the door.
“I demand—”
“Onto the bed!”
“I shall not!”
“But you shall, Dorianne.” With that, he dragged me across the room and tossed me face-first onto the mattress. My skirts were lifted and my ass bared in second.
“Let me go!” I shouted, hoping that the other guests would hear.
“Shout all you like,” he said, as if reading my mind. He grasped my wrists behind my back and pressed down, which kept my movements impeded. “They have all been billeted on the other side of the manor and we alone are here, with the Duchess, who is comatose, and the Duke, who is dancing with death even as we speak.”
“You’ve had your way with me!”
“Indeed I have. But you did not obey me.”
“You are not my master!”
“No, not yet. But soon.”
With that, I felt hard leather smack my bottom. And again. Leather I myself had handed over to this man! Was this the purpose for which Vita had given it me? Is this what she knew Lord Wotton would do with it?
But those thoughts evaporated in a swelling sea of pain, for my bottom was being strapped, not in an erotic fashion, but severely, in a way that spoke of clearly of punishment.
My face, buried as it was in the bed, meant my cries were muffled by the fluffy pillows and comforters. Of the few whippings I’d endured, none were as intense as this one. Even the one Vita had given me had been mingled with sexual excitement and fulfillment. He held my wrists firmly and whipped me cruelly—I could see he was an exacting master. I could not escape such ferocious blows, and that alone brought tears to my eyes. But the real tears flowed directly because of the unbearable pain.
How I endured such chastisement, I do not understand. I simply know this one thing: that my bottom became living pain.
And even when he ceased this treatment, the swelling agony continued, leaving me utterly reduced to sobs which would not stop.
Yet in retrospect, I found something of this strapping pleasurable, for the feelings that filled me had softened me considerably. I found myself, to my horror, wanting him very much. Wanting him to plunder me, to ram his cock into my behind. No, to take me as a man takes a woman! To shatter my maidenhead and possess me completely.
These were thoughts I could hardly admit to myself, let alone verbalize. And Lord Henry did not ask me my feelings.
He jerked me to my feet, pulled me to the door, opened his, opened mine, and shoved me inside my own room. He pulled my door closed firmly, and I heard his slam.
I stood there in the glow of a small globed lamp sobbing.
The pain swirling through my behind was nothing to the pain stabbing me emotionally. The abandonment and rejection seemed almost impossible to bear. And the most humiliating part was knowing tha
t Lord Wotton could likely hear me through the walls.
I threw myself onto the bed like a child and threw a tantrum, then sobbed myself asleep.
On the morrow, I awoke to a singed bottom, and a new realization. Before the maid could arrive to ask for the key to unpack my case, I opened it myself. Dorian’s clothing was inside, and I removed his coat and other items, as well as the leather dildo, and hugged them to me.
Dorian! How I wished I’d been born as Dorian instead of Dorianne! Then I would not be so tossed about emotionally. Even the marriage of Sybil Vane had not upset him as I was upset now.
It was all I could do to hold onto Vita’s promise that my life would be better if I followed her prescription, but despite feelings of utter frustration, I managed. I hid Dorian’s clothing in a drawer, then rang for the maid, who prepared my toilet.
“Tell me,” I said casually, realizing that the sun was already high in the sky and that the other guest were likely up and wondering about me. “Has breakfast concluded?”
“Yes, Miss, and lunch, though I shall have cook fix you a plate.”
I was hardly hungry. It was past noon, though, and I must hurry and make my excuses. I was being a rude guest.
“The others. Where are they?”
“In the garden, Miss. Having tea.”
“And Lord Wotton?”
“In the garden also. Did you want me to send him a message for you?”
“No! I mean, I shall see himself shortly. You may go—I shall dress myself.”
That I must face Lord Henry today seemed to me to be the epitome of humiliation. He would know how I suffered, indeed still suffered, for my bottom rippled with pain. The most horrible part of it all was that I found such treatment thrilling. Never had I been so overpowered by another. Even remembering how he wielded the strap sent tremors of excitement through me. And then a great sadness engulfed me and again I began to cry. He had rejected me. Finished with me, no doubt. And now all I had to look forward to was a day of being near him wherein he would reject me further, which I would be forced to endure on a tender bottom.
Chapter Twenty-Four
I dawdled over my cold plate as long as I could, but knew that eventually I must face the music. When at last I entered the garden, it was near sunset.
Most of the guests were gathered there. Some were engaged in a game of quoits, other played croquet. Left on the patio were the Duchess, the Duke—who had nodded off as usual—, Lady Narborough, Basil and, of course, Lord Henry.
I steeled myself to join them. As soon as the Duchess saw me, she jumped to her feet. “How are you, my dear? You don’t feel ill?” She pulled me to her bosom to embrace me, and managed to squeeze a breast en route.
“Perhaps it’s the same disease as the one from which Dorian suffers?” Lord Wotton said, looking out across the playing field as though I did not exist.
“Well, does it run in the family then?” Lady Narborough asked. “Lord Henry claims it does.”
“I suppose Lord Henry would know,” I said in a meek voice.
Lord Wotton did not turn in my direction.
“Do sit.” The Duchess gestured toward a wicker chair between herself and Lady Narborough.
After more inquiries regarding my health, which I managed to brush off with a simple, “A cold, that’s all,” finally the ladies saved me, since they then imagined my malady to be one they themselves shared every four weeks or so. Lady Narborough changed the subject.
The conversation was light, with Lady Narborough and the Duchess and Basil verbally sparring. Lord Henry, though, seemed bored by it all. And still, he did not acknowledge my existence.
The effect this had on me was two-fold. It depressed me utterly. It made me furious! And yet under it all was the terrible knowledge that being in his presence was far better than not being in his presence, which made me feel that much worse.
My behind tormented me and even on the soft cushion of the rattan chair, I suffered. The physical pain added to the emotional torture, and I found myself quite miserable.
Eventually the others joined us and cordials were passed around before dinner. I drank mine rapidly, for I felt I needed something strong to lift my spirits, and shamelessly begged for another.
At dinner, as on the previous evening, we took our places.
Lord Henry sat to my right, Basil to my left, and so on, alternating genders, around the table.
I picked through my food, having just picked through food but two hours before. Yet even if I hadn’t eaten, I would not have been hungry. Lord Henry spoke exclusively with Lady Narborough on his other side, ignoring me completely. Dear Basil made an attempt to engage me in conversation, and I’m sure he must have found me quite dull.
I glanced about the table at this tedious crowd. Ernest Harrowden sat across from me, one of those middle-aged mediocrities so common in London, who have no enemies, but are thoroughly disliked by their friends. To his left sat Lady Ruxton, an overdressed woman of forty-seven, with a hooked nose, who was always trying to get herself compromised, but was so peculiarly plain that to her great disappointment, no one would ever believe anything against her. On his other side sat Mrs. Erlynne, a pushy nobody, with a delightful lisp, and Venetian-red hair. Alice Erlynne, Mrs. Erlynne’s daughter sat next to her mother. She was a dowdy dull girl, with one of those characteristic British faces that, once seen, are never remembered. On her other side near one end sat a gentleman whose name I had already forgotten. He was a red-cheeked, white-whiskered creature who, like so many of his class, was under the impression that inordinate joviality can atone for a lack of ideas.
By then I was too despondent to look further, only to note that, of course, the Duke and Duchess sat at either end of the table. The talk befit these feeble excuses for conversation indulged in by cultivated ladies and gentlemen. It was deadly dull, and I was bored. Besides, my own thoughts dwelt almost exclusively on Lord Henry.
At one point I summoned my courage. I turned to him when there was a pause in his conversation with Lady Narborough, and said, “Lord Wotton, did you have an enjoyable day?”
“Quite,” he said, without even glancing at me. Instantly he turned back to her ladyship and my spirits plunged.
After dinner the men retired for a smoke and the women sat in the conservatory gossiping about who was having an affair with whom, and whether or not so-and-so’s recent weight gain indicated an impending visit from the stork in that household.
The conversation did not interest me. I struggled to keep my head above water emotionally, and at one point, when I felt daring enough, began to speak of painters and their works. Interestingly enough, most of the women plunged right in, as though they had been simply waiting for an intelligent subject to be broached and were starved for such fresh ideas.
About seven thirty, the men rejoined us. The Duchess was all charm, and full of enthusiasm.
She stood and clapped her pretty little hands together for attention. Little hands that had fondled me so dearly. Hands that led to other hands, and then my thoughts were back on Lord Henry and they darkened. I stole glances at him like a pup hoping a master would pay some attention. He did not.
“I’ve a wonderful surprise!” the Duchess was saying. “Tonight we will have a vignette preformed for us by two London players.”
“Oh!” Lady Narborough exclaimed. “Entertainment. How thoughtful.”
“Yes it is. Lord Wotton arranged it. We are to see the death scene from Romeo and Juliet.”
A terrible feeling gathered in the pit of my stomach. I felt that I would rather flee this house now than be subjected to what would follow, although I did not know why I felt that way.
A section of the conservatory had been cleared, and a chaise lounge installed in the middle of this cleared space, no doubt for the death throes.
Romeo appeared, wearing gold and purple, and the emblem of the family. I watched him wander the stage, looking forlorn—he had just learned that he could not have his beloved. The si
lent performance brought tears to my eyes, for I could relate to this.
Then, he prepares for death—his own.
Why this actor seemed so familiar, I could not say. Of course, I went to the theater often enough, and perhaps had seen him in some Irving play or other. I glanced at Lord Wotton. He was staring at me, and not at the stage.
Suddenly, Juliet appeared. And my heart stopped for a moment. It was Sybil Vane. She entered and began repeating her lines immediately, in a terrible voice, leaden, emotionless.
She was not a good actress!
But fine thespian or not, seeing her again rekindled in me all that I had lost, or felt I had. My heart began to hammer in terror of the emotions that were springing up in me. I felt faint. I heard a roaring in my ears. I could not watch her for the tears that gushed from my eyes, tears of lost love.
And then I felt it—Lord Wotton’s gaze. I turned my head to see his cruel eyes boring into me. He enjoyed my pain! He wanted me to suffer in this way. He planned this to humiliate me!
I fled the room in a state, out the front door and ran ran ran toward the horizon where the sun had recently set. The red that streaked the sky there reminded me of my burning bottom, and humiliation raced through me so that I could only run faster to escape it. And all the while I sobbed inconsolably.
Suddenly I was caught from behind and spun around. My attacker was Lord Henry! I pounded his chest and clawed his face, screaming all the while that he was insensitive, a beast, and that if I could, I would kill him!
He shook me hard until my frenzy abated enough that I could hear his words. “Dorianne, you needed to see reality. That woman is not who you think she is. Nothing is as you believe it to be.”
“Do not tell me how things are! You are a callous monster, bent on destroying me!”
“No! You are bent on destroying yourself. I merely helped you destroy the last vestiges of an illusion. You see before you a man who cares for you intensely, and yet you reject me.”
Darker Passions: The Picture of Dorian Gray Page 14