by Oscar Wilde
He broke away from the kiss and moved on to her neck, first kissing then suckling with a most pleasing thirst. One hand held the back of her head while the other rubbed her breast. A moan escaped her lips when his hand went lower, down the length of her abdomen, and stopped a mere inch above her vagina. It ached for his touch.
“There,” she said. “Please touch me there.”
“Be patient,” said Dorian, muffled in kisses. With diligence and skill, he kissed along her breasts, pausing to suck a nipple. Rosemary shuddered in ecstasy, moaning louder. He drew his tongue the length of her stomach. When he curled his tongue along her navel, she squealed with delight. Would he kiss her there? Yes. Ah! She had to bite her lip to keep from crying out. He was kissing her there.
Was ever there such an exquisite sensation? His tongue at first skimmed the folds of flesh, then delved in, lapping up her juices. Reflexively, Rosemary’s back arched and her calves stiffened. A most enthralling sensation was building in her. Dorian’s tongue moved more rapidly and came to focus on the aching center, the raised ball of nerves at the top of her mound. As he lingered there, she cried out in ecstatic agony. He stopped abruptly, and she felt she would die if he did not bring her to the explosion she was so nearing.
In all of this, Dorian was still fully dressed. Just then he stood and began to disrobe, removing his shirt and pants without the least bit of shame. And considering the sheer beauty of his body, there was no reason for anything but the utmost pride. He was so tall and broad, and every muscle in his chest was accentuated, exercised to perfection. As he removed his underwear, Rosemary stared in awe, the unfulfilled aching in her pussy rising to a near painful intensity. She had seen dirty daguerreotypes before—Helen had a sizable collection—but none of the penises depicted there had been as enormous as this one. Rosemary realized why his hands were so large and handsome—to pair with this master cock. She felt a very important part of Dorian had been left out of her portrait.
Deep as her aching for it was, she was worried at first whether it would fit in her, and if it did, would it damage her in some way? He walked over to the bed, his cock sticking straight up like a sword. He was about to impale her!
In a sudden frenzy, Rosemary wrapped the towel around herself.
“Are you nervous?” he asked, holding his cock and massaging it with more force than Rosemary thought necessary. He was but a foot away from her.
“Yes,” she said. Her voice was so meek, she felt barely audible. What was she doing? Here was the beautiful Dorian Gray flawlessly naked before her, handling the very thing she’d longed to have inside of her for months, and she was overcome with cowardice. She covered her eyes with her hands.
“It’s all right,” he said softly, and came closer. He lowered one of her hands from her face and, with her eyes still closed, brought her hand down to touch him. Rosemary took a deep, empowering breath, and let go of the towel.
It was warm, warmer than it had been in her dreams. He wrapped her hand around it—or as much as was possible, because her hand was too small to encircle it. He moved her hand slowly back and forth. She opened her eyes and looked up at him. His eyes were fixed on hers, but there was a look of delirium seeping into his expression.
“Yes, keep doing that,” he said, letting go. She continued jerking him softly.
“You can apply more pressure,” he said. She tightened her grip.
“And a little faster,” he said. She complied.
“That feels very good. Now, don’t so much pull the whole thing, just the skin. Yes, that’s good. Mmmm. Keep it light and fast. Now, with your other hand,” he said, taking her free hand and placing it on his scrotum. He guided her fingers into the moist, hairy sac, bringing her hand to cup one ball that her palm could barely contain. Then he brought her hand to the other right beside it. She knew these were the testicles in which lay a man’s procreative seed, but she had not known they were a source of pleasure. They, too, seemed untenably large. She wondered how all of this didn’t show through his pants.
“Rub them,” he said.
She complied, rubbing in the same manner she rubbed the shaft.
“No,” he said, and she let go completely and looked up at him at a loss. Was she terrible at this? She felt perhaps it would be best to stop.
“I mean, it feels good. You are still learning. Now, when you tug on my balls, you can go a little harder. They can take it.”
She went back to it. Soon she had developed a rhythm, her right hand loosely jerked his cock, while her left vigorously massaged his balls. Dorian’s head tilted back in pleasure. “Ah, that’s good,” he said. “Now, stop, stop!” he ordered.
She let go, and surrendered her hands in the air. This time she knew he wasn’t stopping her because what she was doing did not feel good, but because, to the contrary, it felt too good. Just as she’d been ready to explode when he was licking and sucking her, she was bringing him too close to the sun. She wanted to pat herself on the back. You’re doing it, she thought. You’re pleasing your Lord, a God among men, Dorian Gray!
“Lie down,” he said, and she fell back against the pillows, naked before him, the red towel beneath her.
“You’ve got a bit of paint on your neck,” he said, touching it lightly. “One of these days, I should like to use a paintbrush and some paint on your naked body. I sense we could have some enjoyment in that. I should like to begin right here,” he said, bringing his hand down to her vagina, tugging a wet tendril of hair. The sensation made her crazy and Rosemary involuntarily thrust upward.
“I think you are ready,” Dorian said.
Ah, yes, thought Rosemary. I am ready, so ready.
Dorian got on top of her and kissed her long and deep. He put his hands on her thighs and pulled them apart, further and further. She was no longer afraid of his enormous cock. No, she was anything but afraid. She was eager for it. She would die without it. And just then, she felt it begin its deep plunge inside her. Then it was filling her up, and filling her up some more. She cried out. Her walls were caving around it.
“Relax,” whispered Dorian. And then it was in deeper and he was mounting her slowly, generously, kissing her neck as he did. She felt his cock pushing against her maidenhead, prying for entry, and then snap! All that fuss was over with. The seal was broken, met with an onrush of unthinkable pain. Rosemary yelped and dug her fingernails into Dorian’s shoulders. He kept thrusting without mercy, his hands holding her breasts, squeezing her hard nipples. His cock was all the way in now, moving in and further into her. Rosemary felt all of her existing right there, between her pussy and his cock, and miraculously the pain began to melt away, and with each mount she felt a building inside her—this one deeper and more intense than the climaxing from when he was licking her. Oh, she didn’t know what was going to happen, but it was going to happen. She dug deeper into his shoulders, dimly aware that she was screaming.
“Yes, yes, oh, God,” she howled.
“Yes, Rosemary,” he said, kissing her furiously. “Yes, you are going to come.”
“Yes!” she cried. And all at once her thoughts disappeared as he rode her to the top of the world, where for a moment she hung suspended, her cries muffled in his shoulder, and then, ah, she fell stupendously from the magnificent height, crashing down into an orgasm that saw no limits.
“Oh!” she cried, her mind spinning, overpowered by the ecstasy. Dorian kept thrusting as her furious aching subsided around him. She was out of breath, practically limp. Dorian was still hard as steel inside her, fucking her relentlessly, when abruptly he pulled out.
“Roll over,” he said.
She opened her eyes. Her vision was hazy, drugged with satisfaction.
“Hmm?” she murmured.
“On your stomach,” he said, scooping her up by the hips as if she weighed no more than a doll, and plopping her onto her belly. Within a moment, he was back inside of her, plowing rigorously away. This was less thrilling for the inside of her vagina, but the weight
of him upon her mashed the front of her pussy into the mattress so that, in a position familiar to her from her lonely nights, her clitoris was stimulated.
“You like that?” asked Dorian.
“Mmm,” Rosemary moaned into the pillow, embarking on another climax.
“You like when I fuck you hard?”
Rosemary moaned again in response, though only half paying attention.
“You like it when I punish you?” he asked, digging his cock into her, speeding up, going so fast she felt she may break—and not in the pleasurable sense. Then all of a sudden, slap! Her bottom rang out in pain. Then another, and another. He kept slapping her. She was too confused at first to register, and by the time she understood—he was beating her—she was crying hot tears into the pillow, and then she was wailing.
“Stop it!” she cried. “Stop!”
And he did stop, but now he had his hands around her neck and was squeezing the life out of her. She fought his fingers with her own tiny ones, and started to gag.
“Ahhh!” yelled Dorian, and she felt his cock spasm within her and then he quickly pulled out. He released her at last. A rush of warm fluid spewed onto her welted bottom, as she pulled air into her lungs.
“Ah, yes,” Dorian said, kissing her head, while he ran his hands along her sides. “Oh, Rosemary, you feel so perfect. So tight and new. I could fuck you forever.”
Rosemary was silent, gathering the courage to say what? To do what? She was stricken. Her dreams had been all too prophetic. Dorian Gray wanted to hurt her—he had hurt her.
He rolled over beside her, panting, then touched her shoulder, indicating she turn onto her back. She remained with her head in the pillow.
“Rosemary?” he said.
She did not want him to hear her crying. Or maybe she did. She was unsure what she wanted. Perhaps she wanted nothing to do with him. Yes, for now, she had to get away.
Holding the towel against her breasts, she stood. Her legs quaked, the muscles exhausted. There was incredible soreness in her vagina, like a spiked fist was inside her, and it was a challenge to walk. She looked down and saw trails of blood on her inner thighs. She dropped the towel. The imperious red of the fabric camouflaged her virgin blood but she felt it drenched in one area.
“Rosemary?” said Dorian again, a hint of worry in his voice.
“What?” she said, recovering from her tears.
“Where are you going?”
She dressed quickly, not bothering with all the undergarments, just her chemise and knickers. She couldn’t be seen in public like this, and would have to get into a hansom immediately.
“Please have Victor—that’s his name, right? Please have Victor get me a hansom. I must go at once.”
“But Rosemary,” said Dorian, leaping up and rushing to her side. He was still naked, and Rosemary had not the courage to look at him, at that thing that had been inside her.
He grabbed her hands and held them to his lips in a near-dozen kisses, looking at her imploringly. His eyes were no longer filled with the grave absence, but were lively and bright again. They reminded her of the eyes she’d painted.
“Talk to me,” he said.
“You’re cruel,” she murmured.
“What?” he said, appearing quite shocked.
“Cruel!” she cried. “You’re cruel! A barbarian!”
“But Rosemary,” he pleaded.
“No!” she said. “No, and I mean no. Do not try and speak to me about this now. I want to leave at once.”
She fought the tears back and ignored the beautiful, hurt face before her—the face of her Lord, her master. It was all too much to take in, and she thought she may faint if she did not leave at once. The source of all her passions and love was revealed to be brutal.
“Do not see me out,” she said. Dorian looked too stricken to argue.
On her way out, she passed through the living room where the painting lay in abandon by the fireplace. Burn it, she thought, but she did not go near it. She glimpsed Victor in the main hall, opening the door for her, and wearing the falsest of smiles with tears seeping through, she hobbled wretchedly out onto the busy street where everything seemed just as it had been when she last saw it, but so much wetter.
CHAPTER VII
For some reason or the other, the theater was crowded that night, and the fat manager who met them at the door was beaming from ear to ear with an oily, tremulous smile. He escorted Helen and Dorian to their box with a sort of pompous humility, waving his fat jeweled hands, and talking at the top of his voice.
Once they were settled in their private compartment with a central view of the stage, Dorian looked around with an abundance of satisfaction. He quite admired Helen’s capacity for decadence. And he was all the more impressed that it was a woman impressing him. Then again, it was her husband’s riches she was squandering. In the past few weeks since meeting Helen, he’d pondered just how much money must Lord Wotton withdraw from his account to appease her, and why was he so benevolent? Dorian resolved to ask Rosemary about the situation, as he expected it would be quite a juicy tale.
“You say your husband doesn’t have a taste for theater?” Dorian said, testing the subject.
“No,” said Helen, tersely. “I said my husband doesn’t have taste.”
“Oh,” he said, and resigned himself to asking no more questions about Lord Henry Wotton. It may have been in his best interests not to know enough to sympathize with the fellow, anyway, given that he had fucked his wife in his own carriage not long ago.
It was early yet, and the lights were bright in the auditorium. The audience had taken off their waistcoats and hung them over their chairs. They talked to each other across the theater. Some tawdry women were laughing in the pit. Their voices were horribly shrill and discordant. The sound of the popping of corks came from the bar.
“Do you like any of them?” asked Helen.
“Pardon?” said Dorian, flipping idly through the playbill.
“The girls,” said Helen, indicating the throngs of made-up women below with a comprehensive wave of her hand.
Dorian thought to feign innocence as to what Helen was getting at—he was still reluctant to be in such public presence with this sorceress of sin. Usually they met in private, or at an hour so late no one of worth would recognize or remember that they were together. He quarreled with himself. Why should he be ashamed? What use was there in pretending he wasn’t on the hunt for degradation? And who would argue that Helen Wotton wasn’t the most suitable chaperone? He accepted the opera glasses from Helen and scanned the audience.
Women of all ages were well gussied up for a night on the town, their hair spun up and pinned on the top of their heads, trapped in place by sparkling jeweled pins and long velvet ribbons. There were some definite beauties among them, but whenever his eyes fell upon a small, dark-haired girl, his heart raced. He hoped it would be Rosemary. But every time he caught sight of her face, the eyes were too close together, or the nose was too snubbed, or the mouth was too thin, or there was any other combination of features that spelled out: stranger—a creature of lesser beauty. It was hopeless and painful, and, he wondered, would the feeling ever leave? He’d been positively heartsick since Rosemary left. He’d sent her letters defending himself and even went to her house, where he was greeted coldly by her butler and told that Rosemary was not at home. Dorian stuck his head in the doorway, peering frantically around, calling her name. He could feel her presence, but the butler refused him entry and bade him to leave lest he notify the police of a trespasser.
Ah, looking around for the next woman for him to entertain his sexual fancies was not what he wanted. But he would not waste his fleeting youth and virility poeticizing Rosemary Hall and pining for her in chastity. No, he’d keep himself sated and empty his seed on a regular basis.
“Some of them are nice,” he said to Helen.
“Nice?” said Helen. She yawned loudly.
“Well, there are some beautiful ones,
” considered Dorian, continuing to roam the audience through the optical lenses. It felt wrong to be looking at decent women this way, like they were pets that were up for purchase.
“What about the one in the yellow dress with the red hair?” said Helen, then murmured in his ear, “Don’t be afraid to skip past the ugly ones. The old and tired had their time. They’ve been plucked and now can only wither. Like every fruit and flower, humans, too, go bad and rot.”
Dorian frowned through the glasses. There was more than one redhead, but he couldn’t spot any in a yellow dress . . . and then there she was. A tall, slender girl with a surprisingly curvy physique and hair as fiery as a burning sun. He recognized her at once.
“Ah, I know that one!” he exclaimed.
“Ah, you do?” said Helen with some intrigue. “She’s a magnificent-looking creature. Where did you come across her?”
“I will tell you, Helen, but you mustn’t be unsympathetic about it,” he warned, for she could get very jealous when she was excluded from anything that bore even a taste of the libidinous.
“After all,” he went on. “It never would have happened if I had not met you. You filled me with a wild desire to know everything about life. For days after I met you, something seemed to throb in my veins. I had a passion for sensations. . . . Well, one evening at about seven o’clock, I was determined to go out in search of some adventure. I felt that this gray monstrous London of ours, with its myriads of people, its sordid sinners, and its splendid sins, as you once phrased it, must have something in store for me. I fancied a thousand things. The mere danger gave me a sense of delight. I remembered what you had said to me on that wonderful evening when we first dined together, about the search for beauty being the real secret of life. I don’t know what I expected, but I went out and wandered eastward, soon losing my way in a labyrinth of grimy streets and black grassless squares. About half past eight I passed by an absurd little theater, with great flaring gas jets and gaudy playbills. You will laugh at me, I know, but I really went in and paid a whole guinea for the stage box. But, oh, the night I had! It was so worth remembering that I vowed to forget it immediately lest I tarnish its luster.”