A Very Surrey SFS Christmas

by Nicola Davidson

  Whimpering at the erotic sight of Clayton climaxing in her husband’s mouth, of Joseph greedily swallowing it all, Susanna squirmed on the bed. First orgasms were delightful, but the second always seemed to be stronger and harder, feeling twice as good when both men were inside her. Fortunately, she knew from experience it wouldn’t be long until they were ready again.

  “I love you both,” she whispered, resting her head on Clayton’s chest. “So very much.”

  His arm tightened around her, and Joseph linked his fingers with hers. They lay entwined, occasionally kissing, occasionally stroking, murmuring compliments and words of love. Yet soon the kisses became more urgent, the touching more sensual, and Susanna moaned in helpless longing to be taken.

  “On your hands and knees, darling,” said Clayton. “Let’s prepare that lush little ass of yours.”

  When he slicked two fingers in oil and circled her back entrance, she shuddered. But as those strong, sure, painter’s fingers penetrated the tight hole, a sob caught in her throat at the delicious burn that eased into sweet friction.

  “How shall we sit?” asked Joseph. “I mean…Susie, it’s up to you if you want to try for another baby or not.”

  Susanna smiled at him. “In the spring I should like to try again. But not just now.”

  Clayton caressed her backside. “Agreed. Joseph, recline on those pillows so you’re almost sitting up. We’ll lower Susanna onto your cock so you can fuck her ass, and I’ll kneel between her legs. Much easier to withdraw that way and come on her belly.”

  After they coated Joseph’s erect cock in oil, the two men gently guided her down onto it, Clayton holding her under her arms, and Joseph guiding her hips. She groaned when her well-trained back entrance stretched to allow the thick head inside, the burn, the sheer fullness making her head swim. When Joseph’s cock was lodged to the hilt, they both panted at the exquisite sensation of him throbbing inside her.

  “Ready, darling?” said Clayton, his tenderness warming her to the soul.

  “Mmmmm. Yes. Fuck me.”

  He teased her with his cock, rubbing the head against her clitoris and slicking it with her honey, before slowly, so slowly, pushing it in. “What a sweet, hot cunt.”

  “Oh God,” she gasped, her head falling back onto Joseph’s shoulder as she balanced on the cliff edge of pleasure and pain while her body adjusted to the double penetration. But her men knew how to assist, the wicked talk that made her so wet, the teasing tweaks of her nipples and clitoris, and soon she needed friction as much as they did.

  Beneath her, Joseph rocked his hips. Above her, Clayton advanced and withdrew in an easy, lazy rhythm. And it was enough, oh sweet heaven it felt good, and she barely muffled her ecstatic scream as her senses dissolved in an agony of white-hot sensation. Seconds later both men followed her into bliss with primal roars, Joseph climaxing hard inside her backside, and Clayton spurting all over her belly.

  After disentangling themselves and cleaning up with Clayton’s smock, they cuddled together on the bed, utterly exhausted.

  “Three thirds make a whole,” said Joseph, his dark eyes shining.

  Clayton nodded. “Can’t think of a better gift than bedding those I love. Now stay exactly as you are. I want to paint a scene of sated Christmas Eve lust.”

  Susanna just smiled.

  Merry Christmas Eve, indeed.

  Chapter 4

  Lady Portia and Denham

  Christmas Day

  “It’s not even dawn, Portia. What on earth are you doing?”

  Botheration. Caught.

  Lady Portia Denham paused in her scrubbing of the ballroom’s window ledges, judged clean but not clean enough by her eagle eye. “Nothing at all. This is just a particularly vivid dream, we are both sound asleep in bed.”

  Randall sauntered into the cavernous room holding a candelabra, looking sleep-rumpled, irritable, and yet oddly dignified in his nightshirt, quilted robe, and slippers. Her heart fluttered at the sight; brawny shoulders, silver-touched black hair, and dark eyes had never looked better.

  Ignoring her bold lie, he instead glanced meaningfully at the bucket and cloth. “It is disconcerting to wake and find cold sheet instead of warm wife. But I rest easier knowing there are no secret passageways for you to become a spider’s meal in.”

  A grin lifted her lips. “About that…”

  “Christ. Where?”

  “All in good time. Imagine, thinking that a Tudor manor wouldn’t have a plethora of secrets. Really, Randall.”

  “A fine attempt at distraction, my lady, but it doesn’t explain why you’re scrubbing ballroom windows by candlelight on Christmas morning in a nightgown and slippers.”

  Portia beamed. “If you joined me it wouldn’t be quite so odd, and you’d have my eternal gratitude. I just want everything to be perfect for this evening.”

  With a long-suffering shake of his head, Randall set his candelabra down on a side table. “What shall I do?”

  “Kiss me.”

  He stepped forward, cupping her face and brushing his lips against hers before deepening the kiss until a little whimper escaped her mouth. Surely it must be scientific fact that Captain Randall Denham was the finest kisser in the realm. Perhaps the continent. No woman could be more fortunate, to have a husband who cherished and protected and also followed instructions so very well. She loved Randall madly in return. So much so, that each day she refrained from heaving his bloody curmudgeon father into prickly shrubbery. Most days, this directly qualified her for sainthood.

  “Better?” he murmured, when he eventually stepped back.

  “Always,” she replied.

  “We’d best get scrubbing then.”

  Portia handed him a cloth and they worked side by side, only the occasional sound of water sloshing and slippers moving on the ballroom floor breaking the companionable silence. Yet another thing she loved about him, he never felt the urge to chirp. When he had something to say, he said it, otherwise he simply rolled up his sleeves and got to work.

  No one looking at Randall would guess he was one of the wealthiest men in England, but Faffy had settled an enormous fortune on him. As he was an illegitimate son he would never inherit the dukedom, but they were both quite content with that. Randall was far too happy overseeing his barracks of returned soldiers, training them as bodyguards and teaching them how to ease back into civilian life. And she was far too happy with her orphanage, charities, and duties as both chairwoman of the Surrey Sexual Freedom Society, and unofficial empress of Guildford.

  Far more fun than being a duchess.

  “Look,” said Randall gruffly, as he set his bucket down and stretched his back. “The rising sun is giving you a halo.”

  Laughter bubbled. “Paint a picture, my captain. It will probably be the only time in history.”

  “I’d rather dance with you.”

  Portia’s brow furrowed. “Dance? Now?”

  “Might not get an opportunity later. All the young bucks will be chasing you, wondering who the mysterious beauty in the emerald gown and silver white mask, is.”

  “Ha. You mean all the women panting after the pirate in black. Never thought a man could look so dashing in a demi mask.”

  Randall grinned. “I aim to please, my lady. And dance without anyone commenting on my feet.”

  “I will comment on your feet. Rather loudly, if they crush mine,” she replied archly, but held out her hands so he might twirl her about the empty ballroom.

  In truth they did little more than sway, their arms tightly wrapped around each other. Even this eased her tight shoulders, his strength somehow seeping into her bones through touch alone.

  “I’m too bloody old to be kneeling on hard floors and scrubbing windows,” Portia said mournfully. “I swear I creak more than an ancient staircase when I get to my feet….don’t say a word, Randall, or I’ll remind you that you’re six years older.”

  “Why do you think I let you ride me?” he asked, his eyes glinting. “Fo
rty-five year old warhorses need to conserve energy, madam.”

  Suppressing a shiver at the thought of riding him—one of her favorite activities—she instead snorted. “Warhorse. I should put you out to pasture. Or at least use my riding crop a lot more.”

  “No need,” he murmured, leaning down and kissing her neck, “not when the lightest touch on the reins will do…”

  “Randall! Portia! What is the meaning of this?”

  Wincing both at her father-in-law’s strident tone, and the echoing thump of his cane, Portia sighed and swayed them around so they faced the ballroom door. “Good morning, Faffy. Merry Christmas.”

  The duke harrumphed. “Can’t be Christmas. Not even a drop of snow outside. And since you avoided my question, gel, you might explain why I am fully dressed, and you and Randall are downstairs in your damned nightclothes. Unseemly!”

  “You know,” said Randall thoughtfully, “I recall several visits where Mama greeted you in her nightgown. You didn’t find it so scandalous then.”

  Fairfield looked away, his shoulders drooping a little. “Unseemly,” he mumbled.

  “Was there something you needed?” asked Portia softly.

  “I’ve come to warn you,” the duke replied, his shoulders stiff and straight once again. “There is mutiny in the kitchens. My valet says the chef and saucier are dueling over first choice of pots, the butcher delivering meat thought to pinch his wife’s backside and got someone else’s by mistake, so he received a cup of flour over his head which annoyed the pastry chef, who threw an overripe pear…”

  Randall cleared his throat. “I could summon my men to capture the kitchens. Take a few prisoners. Or we could send in Portia, who will take none.”

  “It’s Christmas. Christmas is the problem. I’m going to have breakfast now, past time for my tea and toast, but at least I am properly attired. Certainly hope you’ll change before the ball.”

  “Why?” asked Portia sweetly. “We could stand proudly in the receiving line, slipper to slipper.”

  Faffy sniffed. “With a draught like this you’d freeze your extremities off. For heaven’s sake, gel, get the fires lit.”

  With that irritable pronouncement the duke marched away, and Portia sighed.

  “He really doesn’t like December, does he?”

  Randall shrugged. “He did, once upon a time. On Christmas Eve he’d visit the cottage, bring food and drink, and a carriage worth of gifts to open in the New Year. Mama never could wait, though. We’d play charades and drink mulled wine…”

  Portia went up on her toes and kissed his cheek. “I’m glad you can remember the happy times. I so wish I could have met Joanna…however now I must go and scold chefs, sauciers, and bottom-pinching butchers.”

  “Come now, my lady. They can’t be worse than Cheapside drunks.”

  “I’m not so sure. But they certainly require a slice of Lady Portia’s ire pie. As my hair is unbrushed and I’m in a dressing gown, it shall be particularly frightening. Serves them right for fighting on Christmas Day. I suggest you get dressed before going out to the barracks, though. Those soldiers have seen enough…oooh! You did not just pinch my bottom, sir.”

  “Never. But I did see the culprit running in that direction,” Randall replied blandly, gesturing to the ballroom door. “Also…no one could make unbrushed hair and a nightgown look more beautiful.”

  “Bah!” she replied, throwing her hands in the air and stalking from the ballroom so he didn’t see her huge grin.

  Infernal beloved man.

  Guests would be arriving for the masked ball in a few short hours, and in truth the event couldn’t come fast enough for him.

  As he completed his shave—wealth had not provoked him into hiring a valet, no matter how much it pained his father—Captain Randall Denham glanced for the hundredth time at his wife, currently wearing a hole in the bedchamber rug with her frenzied pacing.

  Never had he seen her so anxious about a ball.

  “Portia…” he began.

  She stilled. “No need to say it. Even I know I’m being irrational. But this is the largest ball I’ve hosted, with the most interesting guest list, and I just want everyone to have a wonderful time. Christmas can be painful for those who are lonely or estranged from their family. I want it to be a night recalled fondly for years to come.”

  After rinsing the remaining soap from his chin and patting the skin dry with a towel, Randall crossed the bedchamber to take Portia in his arms. In testament to her anxiety, she actually clung to him. “Everyone attending knows how much you care. That is why they said yes to a ball in the wilds of Surrey on Christmas night, because they know it will be amusing and unconventional and welcoming.”

  “I want our Society members to have the most fun of all. Even Faffy, although I swear that man is attempting to turn my hair as silver as his own,” she mumbled against his chest.

  He stroked her back. “If we’d been smarter, we’d have given him balls of yarn to maul also. Perhaps staged a duel between him and Mittens, to the victor the slippers.”

  “Ha. Now that I would pay to see.”

  “I know it hasn’t been easy,” Randall said softly. “My father can be infuriating, rigid and cantankerous. But the way you banter with him, remember his favorite things, include him in the Society…it means the world to him, even if he won’t unbend enough to say. He is making an effort at atoning for his past actions, too. My feelings are still rather complicated, but I understand now how much he loved my mother. Truly loved her. The way I love you.”

  Portia sighed. “That is why I persist. Although I admit to unholy glee when I verbally best the almighty Duke of Fairfield. I’m not a perfect woman.”

  “Never say,” he replied, feigning shock. “To me, you are though. My perfect woman.”

  “Randall, I swear on the family bible, if I cry and have puffy eyes and blotchy cheeks for the ball I shall not forgive you.”

  “Can’t have that. Perhaps I could make you moan instead?”

  Wordlessly she stepped back from him, took his hand, and led him over to the sturdy embroidered chaise in front of the fireplace. After shrugging off her dressing gown and removing her chemise, she lounged back on the soft cushions like the empress she was.

  Then she gestured for him to kneel.

  And handed him a cushion.

  Randall couldn’t help his grin. How very Portia, even as she commanded him, she cared for his wellbeing. Or in this case, his forty-five year old warhorse knees.

  Sinking down onto the cushion, he waited for his next instruction. She leaned forward and cupped his face, teasing his lips with hers, before kissing him fiercely. A groan rumbled in his chest, all he could do was open his mouth for her expert, plundering tongue. But then she tangled her fingers in his short hair and guided his head down to her breasts.

  “Suck them,” she ordered, her green eyes glittering.

  In minor rebellion, he darted out his tongue and flicked the tip of one taut, rosy nipple instead. That never lasted though, not when he loved pleasuring her so much, and possessed an innate desire to obey. Gently cupping one breast, he rubbed his thumb across the tip, then engulfed it in his mouth, drawing hard.

  Portia moaned. “Yes. You know what I like.”

  Back and forth Randall moved his head, sucking her nipples, scraping them with his teeth, circling them with a pointed tongue, until his breathing was as ragged as hers. But he needed more. He craved the taste of her in his mouth.

  “Permission to feast on the sweetest cunt in England, my lady?”

  Smiling wickedly, she slid a hand down between her legs and deliberately touched herself, stroking her swollen clitoris before pushing a single fingertip inside her slick heat. As Portia’s mound was hairless, kept bare with the help of a special cream, nothing impeded the delectably arousing view. “Oh, you want this, my captain? You’d better ask nicely, then.”

  “Please,” he said, unashamed to beg as he inhaled her spicy, musky scent. “Please.�
��

  “Permission granted.”

  As though it had been years rather than a few days, Randall fell on her like a starving man. Long, slow laps of her cunt. Delicate flicks of her clitoris. Deep penetrations inside her, as far as he could push his tongue, savoring the sweet honey that trickled into his mouth. Naturally, his wife didn’t buck to escape the sensation. No, bold and lusty Portia demanded more, clasping the back of his head with her hand and grinding her cunt against his lips and chin.

  Owning him. As she had from the start, and would do forever.

  All at once, his head was yanked away. “Fuck me,” she said harshly, her cheeks pink, her breasts rising and falling. “I want all of you. Now.”

  Slowly he rose to his feet, licking his lips. His hands were clumsy as they attempted to unfasten the fall of his trousers, and Portia batted them away, tearing the fabric in her impatience. But he didn’t protest. How could he, when his wife took his stone-hard cock in hand, squeezed it firmly, and then sucked it down her throat?

  “Christ,” he rasped. “Portia…”

  With one last expert flutter of her tongue, she let him go, then gestured for him to sit on the chaise. “Are you ready to be ridden, my beloved warhorse?”

  Randall laughed. “Always.”

  With one hand braced on his shoulder, the other grasping his cock so she might hold it steady, Portia slowly lowered herself onto him.

  They both moaned.

  “Each time I think,” she whispered, curling her hand possessively around the back of his neck, just the way he liked, “surely this is heaven. And each time I’m proved right, of course.”

  “Of course,” he replied, holding her hips as they rocked against each other, denying themselves a swift release to instead make it last and last. “I’m fairly certain I know the answer, but…you haven’t changed your mind about a child, have you, after extended close proximity to babies? Ow! No need for cuffs to the ear.”