Phaze Fantasies, Vol. III

by J Buchanan, Jade Falconer, Eliza Gayle

  Alas, vain hope he had of ever realizing the fulfillment of his fantasies, unless he could ... somehow ... enter into the realm of his Lord's private social circle. For it was rumored by Byron's servant, Geoffrey, that Lord Kincade liked men, pretty young men, and Byron was both. At barely twenty-five, he was still supple and fresh; older men enjoyed his company, his conversation, and, yes, his body. Byron, poor ambitious Byron, wanted the best, and the best was Lord Kincade.

  As he stood stoically, waiting to call the next case, he idly stroked the grain of the rich, dark mahogany railing surrounding the well of the Court. He imagined secret trysts with ‘Cade,’ as he would no doubt refer to his Lordship. Kincade would bend to the unexpected dominance of his junior counsel and quail before his silken lash. Byron's touch would be masterful; his voice more commanding than that of any judge's declaration. Richard Kincade's capitulation would be swift and poignant, his taking complete.

  "Byron, boy, be quick about it,” said Lord Kincade.

  Be quick about what? Byron's secret musings were disturbed by the sudden hush in the courtroom. He looked askance at the barrister.

  His Lordship's knowing glance bespoke his intuitive realization of Byron's state, and he said, “The brief, Byron. Pass me the brief.” He indicated the pile of missives placed in order on a red baize desk to his right.

  Byron stumbled in his haste to fetch said brief, and a spatter of laughter erupted from the middle row of juniors awaiting their turns. Dignity in tatters, Byron strained to put the incident behind him, forthwith concentrating on the cases at hand.

  Hours passed, the day grew long, but still the Court droned on throughout the day. Finally, the judge, and he was a very old judge who resembled the very essence of the law itself, called an end to the day. Thankfully, Byron had only to sidle out the west doorway and down the middle corridor to the dresser's room at the end of the dusky hallway.

  "Well, hello, young Byron. How are things with you then?” the robe master asked.

  "Ah, well enough."

  Byron thought the robe master ancient and decrepit, when in fact he was neither. The subtle staleness of the room and the dim of the gaslights cast a shadow over everything and increased the pallor of the robe master's skin. Combined they lent a somber air of antiquity.

  Into the chamber burst his Lordship, flinging his robes willy-nilly about the place. Byron gazed at the dark complexion and the clear-cut jaw of the object of his affection. The racks of hooks across the back wall of the dressing room inspired Byron to imagine other racks and bilboes with their iron bars and sliding shackles—shackles with which he could ensnare the barrister. He entertained such wicked thoughts that nature saw fit to inspire more than just his mind, and Byron's manhood leapt to the occasion and strained against the confines of his breeches. Mortification swept through him. He felt his cheeks sting with the heat of his blush.

  Seemingly oblivious to Byron's consternation, his Lordship Kincade called out in mock civility, “What ho, Byron! Where were you today? East of India or some such place? You certainly weren't in the Queen's Court. I take it you'll be here tomorrow."

  The hot blush on Byron's cheeks spread downward to his neck and infused his chest.

  "Yes, Lord Kincade,” he mumbled.

  The robe master snickered into his hand. Lord Kincade gave him a hard look and relented a bit on Byron. “Well never mind, young man. What's done is done.” And with that, the barrister made his exit.

  Relieved, Byron smiled at his back. The barrister whirled about just outside the open door, and called back. “Oh, and Mr. Jones..."

  "Yes, my Lord,” Byron answered.

  "Mr. Jones, would you be so kind as to collect my briefs well in advance of the morrow's cases? And perhaps before next week, you might take the opportunity to glance at the first several lots to ensure they are appropriate for the Court of Queen's Bench to hear."

  It was advice and admonishment blended into one facetious bon mot, and Byron took note of the barrister's evident attempt at joviality. With a backward wave, he was off.

  "Confound him,” said the robe master, shaking out the barrister's wig. “How that man loves to fob his slovenly ways off on me."

  Byron grabbed at the wig, and a brief tussle ensued, as though each man sought to grasp at his Lordship's very head. With a laugh, the robe master relinquished the wig to Byron, and with a bow, he presented its skull-like case. Byron placed the wig into the box with all the pomp and ceremony due the placing of the Queen's crown. Both men sensed the hilarity of the moment, and Bryon's desire dissipated.

  * * * *

  Lord Kincade strode through the Great Hall, across the vestibule, and down a wide flight of stone steps to exit the courthouse. On his way past the outer courtyard, he chanced to pass Fitzhugh Jameson, his favorite solicitor and friend.

  "Dueced, if it isn't Hugh,” he said and pounded him cheerily on the back.

  Hugh was dressed in the fashion of the day—a great sloppy red checkered tie and a woolen frock coat. He was one of those pale creatures whose fairness of complexion was handsomely set off by his dark wavy curls and hawkish features. In comparison, Kincade looked the gypsy, all dark eyes and heavy brows. Physically, they were apt opponents; both were full-chested and muscular.

  Hugh twirled the slender end of his fine outline of a mustache. “Hey, old chap. Are you off?"

  "Absolutely, I'm having dinner with the parents tonight; Felicity's, of course, so I must rush home to transform myself into the perfect escort.” This was said in such a droll fashion, it caused Fitzhugh to wince.

  "Ouch, my friend, it seems as though the beard has become a tiresome lot."

  "No doubt ... but necessary. Felicity is a charming beard, but quarrelsome and spiteful at times. My ardor for her charms peaked and waned almost in the same hour."

  They both laughed heartily but stopped short at the sight of young Byron hurrying across the boulevard toward home. His quick engaging smile scored his features, belying his normal intensity, and enhanced both his earnest brown eyes and dimpled cheeks. Laughter turned to blatant lust for both men; a shared glance between the two revealed their hunger.

  Hugh growled low in his throat.

  "Too right, my friend, he is a delicate morsel."

  They laughed.

  "And so much sweeter meat than fair Felicity."

  With that, Hugh cuffed the barrister gently on the chin and dashed off onto the thoroughfare.

  Richard Kincade cursed the day he had aligned himself with fair Felicity. Society demanded every man, especially every virile man, procure a wife, and the barrister had reluctantly noticed young Felicity. She possessed most, if not all, of the requirements for someone of his station: good lineage, an ample though not imposing bosom, pleasing features complete with slightly up-turned nose, and a reasonable yet unremarkable intelligence. Yes, Felicity Turner would make an adequate wife and an excellent beard. It was her penchant for pettiness he found the most annoying; however, he also found it impossible to ignore her wheedling. She whined about virtually everything. Lately, he had begun to imagine that the edge of her voice could slice a man's mind in twain.

  Her most striking feature, her unruly mass of auburn tresses, should have given him fair warning of her disposition. Untamed and fiery like her hair, Felicity knew only one master's tongue, her father's; his was the only advice she took, and his the only admonition she heeded. Kincade's engagement to Felicity threatened to become the longest running courtship in English history, for he could not bear to marry her.

  Richard Kincade's choice of Felicity for a beard and a bride was understandable given that he had once ruled this social elitism with a fine disregard for propriety. Only as he became older and began to practice his profession did he begin to rise above and beyond the idle chit-chat of his cronies; the law had been his teacher, and time his mentor. A beard provided him with cover for his inclinations. Discreet dalliances with men hidden by outrageous romances with women had been the order of his e
arly years, but now as he began to mature, he wanted more. He longed for a mate to share his life and his bed. Marriage to Felicity would provide the accoutrements of decency: a wife, heirs, a home and hearth, yet he knew that he would never be able to love her or any woman, for his desire burned, not for the lusty bosom of a woman, but for the fine smooth muscular chest of a man.

  Tonight's dinner with the Turners, while unutterably boring, would provide ample cover for his later rendezvous with Hugh and their newest playmate. A trying evening tonight lent good excuse to his absence on the morrow. He would feign overwork and grave fatigue, thus creating his alibi for more enjoyable pursuits. Felicity, not the tender caring sort, would not relish acting the nurse, and so he would be free.

  Byron, on the other hand, was an eager and handsome upstart with a demeanor that matched his quiet handsomeness. Surely no rouge, instead he exuded an innocent exuberance charmingly combined with a smoldering sensuality. Lord Kincade gave much more thought to said young Byron's physique than that of his fiancée, and his daydreams of seducing his junior counsel occupied far more of his energies than preparations for his upcoming but oft delayed nuptials.

  In a fit of self pity, Kincade raced up the stairway of his business apartment, flung open his chamber door, and howled for his valet to join him. Godwin hurried to answer his master's calling. “Godwin, where have you been?” Kincade demanded.

  "Sir, I've just now heard you come in—not mere minutes ago."

  He sighed deeply. “Too true, old man. Ever sorry,” he threw over his shoulder. Thoughts of Byron had stiffened more than Kincade's resolve to capture the source of his erection.

  Godwin sighed. As Kincade turned and dropped his trousers, Godwin noticed the source of his irritation—the burgeoning brawn of his cock straining to be set free.

  "Master Cade, would you care to be relieved of tonight's burden, before your expected appointment?"

  Kincade smiled in anticipation. No one was better at relieving his loaded body than Godwin. Slowly, the loyal servant released the drawstring of his master's undergarments and pulled free his pulsing cock. Godwin's thumb circled the flaming head and droplets of moisture beaded beneath his touch. His master bared his teeth in the grimace of a smile.

  The servant's gentle hands stroked up and down the hard length of his shaft. One hand moved to grab the swollen sack beneath—and squeezed not altogether gently. Kincade moaned low in the back of his throat. He fumbled with the button on his servant's trousers in feverish anticipation of Godwin's charms. If possible, his servant's cock far out-measured his own ample length. Godwin's erection had caused more than one man to blanch in fearful excitement, but Kincade was used to the ministrations of his faithful servant.

  Kincade grabbed Godwin's throbbing, wet shaft and pulled it to rub against his own. Fours hands stroked up and down and created a pulse that had to be sated. Groans of desire echoed about the bed chamber, until Kincade could stand it no longer. He turned and bent across the bed, exposing his backside to the thrusting cock waiting to enter him. Godwin thumbed his moisture against the waiting hole, then eased the length and breadth of himself into his eager master. Over and over he plunged into Kincade, until he thought his cock would explode. Finally, with a sigh, he came, squirting his juices into his master's arse. Godwin tenderly pushed his master forward, until he was able to pull free. With a slight laugh, Kincade tumbled onto the bed. Godwin knelt between his legs and covered his quivering cock with his mouth. The musky smell of Cade appeared to intensify Godwin's appetite, and he hungrily sucked the throbbing piece of manhood until it burst forth into his throat. Kincade pulled his servant to him and kissed the warm cum from his lips.

  "What would you be wearing tonight, sire, to pay your respects to Miss Turner?"

  They began to laugh.

  * * * *

  Miss Felicity Turner was not in a laughing mood. Her own frock was inches too small. She complained bitterly to her maid, Portia, as though her added weight was the fault of her maid and not her continued consumption of creamy éclairs. Wisely Portia kept her counsel, but oh, the thoughts that did run through the confines of her mind. Portia thought Miss Felicity the most vain, insipid and spiteful character to be found, and within the company of her peers, she said that very thing. Luckily for Portia, other maids had come and gone in the young missus service, and all had shared her worthy opinion.

  "Portia,” she demanded, “pull the dress in closer. I can wear this dress; I've just worn it last month. Lord Kincade loves periwinkle, and this is my only frock in that color."

  Portia privately thought his Lordship was testing her Lady's increasing girth. Not once did she think that her missus might be pregnant, for servants in both households, Turner and Lovelace, knew of the master's affection for his valet. Godwin was not one to kiss and not tell. Soon her Ladyship might find herself wedded, but bets were on the table whether or not she would as quickly be bedded. Portia found the affair a great farce, because Miss Turner was a horrible harridan of a woman whilst still single, and who knew what estate marriage might bring. She shuddered to think.

  Obediently she tugged and pulled on the silken fabric, and though it was soft, it was not pliant. Portia looked at the already full corset in front of her; its seams threatened to rupture at any moment, but it was the only means of contracting her Ladyship into the favored garment.

  "Stand still, Miss Felicity. Better still, hang onto the bedposts, whilst I pull your corset a bit tighter."

  "Tighter! I can scarcely breathe as it is."

  "I don't know what else to do, miss,” she said. “Perhaps the dress shrunk."

  "What a suggestion!” Felicity exhaled sharply and looked with dread at the beautiful gown. Its bodice was a mass of brilliant white ruffles adorned with an extravagant bow, and its pretty blue skirt flowed straight into layer upon layer of more ruffles until its hem. The cut of the gown enhanced her breasts and caused her waist to appear insubstantial. Her pale skin and beautiful auburn hair, flowing down her back, made the dress a perfect foil for her attractions

  "Pull then. Pull the corset tighter. I shall wear this gown, and I shall be the most beautiful woman at dinner this evening."

  Behind her back, Portia crossed her eyes and stuck out her tongue. Then she yanked the cords of the corset, causing her mistress to grit her teeth and hang on tighter to the bedpost. Finally, amidst much crying and screaming and after a raucous belch, Felicity was hooked and tied into her evening gown.

  "How am I going to sit down for dinner, Portia?” she cried.

  "Carefully, miss ... very carefully, or you'll wind up straining your gizzard."

  "Do women have gizzards?” Felicity asked stupidly.

  "Why of course, miss, it's right above your womb,” said Portia knowledgably, and with a wink she departed.

  Outside of the young woman's room, Portia leaned against the wall and sighed. Forever doomed to act as servant to one so hopelessly stupid and so intolerably arrogant. How was she to stand such a punishment? For punishment was how she viewed her situation—a punishment bereft of a crime.

  * * * *

  Inside her bedroom, Felicity spread wide her fingers and gazed at their plumb white nakedness. Surely, soon, Kincade would see fit to place his ring upon one, marking her as his. Everyone knew of their engagement. What was the reason for his delay? Closing her eyes tightly, she imagined the breadth of his chest pressed flat against her own, his hands splayed under her hips lifting her onto his waiting desire. Even though his kisses seemed almost insolent at times, she regarded them as the prelude to a more intense infatuation.

  Surely, she thought, he cannot resist my charms. Yes, she was beautiful, but it was a fleeting mark soon forgotten when one became acquainted with her personality. Unlike most women of her day, Felicity's education had lacked the finer subtleties needed to refine her character. Her sullen stare when denied a simple treat had been Kincade's glimpse past the sweet beguiling persona she tried so hard to wear. Like a mask that did no
t fit, kindness and gentleness did not set well on her Ladyship's face.

  Surprisingly, Felicity never lacked for social invitations and suitors. Her irascible nature was viewed in society as a mark of her station. Her more distasteful qualities lent her the distinction of superiority. Her social companions did not mind her snobberies and pretensions, for they, themselves, were snobbish pretentious boors. Most of her friends were shiftless louts who lived off inherited titles and gains. Notwithstanding the few productive mortals in their crowd, for the most part, the new social milieu was not by nature fastidious or discerning. Kincade was quite a catch, and she had no intention of letting him off the hook.

  She determined to press for a wedding date and the sooner this was accomplished the better. Perhaps after dinner, she could lure him into the garden and entice him with sweet kisses. She smiled. Kincade would not stand a chance. She always got what she wanted, and Felicity wanted Lord Kincade.

  "Tonight,” she vowed.

  Chapter Two

  Byron smoothed the brilliant white paint across the curve of his cheek. The makeup was lead-based and heavy, but polite society decreed that everyone of the genial sort, male and female alike, adorn themselves with paint and rouge. As he stroked the make-up across his face, Byron admired his high cheekbones and the delicate curve of his chin. An acrid taste filled his mouth from the fumes of the paint, but he scarcely noticed. With shaking hands, he carefully dabbed a bit of rouge into the hollow of his cheek, tracing the fine line and creating sensuous shadows. He bit his lip in concentration as he labored to create the portrait of a beautiful woman on the right side of his face.

  He outlined half of his mouth in dark red and then filled in the outline with rouge and lipstick. His wayward eyebrow, he wet and smoothed into a gentle arc, and he carefully outlined his right eye with a stick of pure kohl. The transformation was astounding. When Byron turned his face to the right, he was a man, but turning his face to the left revealed a beautiful woman, Rebecca.