Victorian Taboo

by Bryn Colvin

  “I don’t know how to play billiards,” she offered, with mock modesty.

  “It’s not billiards, my pretty lass. The game is Sans Egal. It’s from France. All the best people are playing it.”

  The second man had answered. He was not Sophie’s type. She considered him too aggressive looking. She preferred the other man, whose smile was playful and features more pleasing to the eye.

  “Come on, lass, what’s your name?”

  There was a moment’s hesitation before she replied, “Sophie Hunt.”

  “I’m Terence Reardon. And this is scowling misery is Sean O’Neil.”

  Sophie nodded but did not move closer. Terence was the one she liked. Sean, for some reason, had become annoyed. He went back to the table and said grumpily to his friend, “She’s too young, Terence. Let’s finish the game.”

  Sophie gave Terence a final smile of encouragement and walked on.

  “What the hell do you think you’re playing at, Terence?” Sean angrily confronted his friend after Sophie was out of earshot.

  “What’s made you so all fired up?”

  “Giving our names to the girl, that’s what. Why don’t you just send a note to the British police, for the Holy Mother of Jesus’ sake?”

  “The lass won’t remember, she’s just looking for a bit of fun, you only had to look at how she was walking to know that. It’d have looked more suspicious if a couple of good-looking lads like ourselves hadn’t been friendly, now wouldn’t it?” Terence defended himself.

  Sean put his cue back in the rack.

  “What do you think you’re about, Terry? Do you think we’ve got time to go laying young English girls? There’ll be plenty of Irish lasses who let you fuck them senseless when your reputation grows after what we’ve got planned.”

  “Such a wonder of the Empire,” Caroline exclaimed as they strolled through the pavilion displaying artefacts from India.

  “William tells me that the Taj Mahal is Mogul, and not Indian,” Hannah said proudly.

  Although a life-long friend to Caroline, her family had allowed her little by way of an education, and even all these years later, she still felt inferior to the friend who had spent years in boarding schools. The chance to demonstrate her knowledge was greater than she could resist. It had always been a competitive friendship, in which Hannah seldom felt that she won many points: Caroline was beautiful, Hannah merely attractive; Caroline had married into wealth almost to match a Maharaja, Doctor Grace was well-off in a middle-class sort of way.

  As they walked, deep in fascinated discussion of the displays around them, Brendan, following them at a respectful distance, felt a hand on his shoulder. He tried not to jump.

  “You’ve done well, Brendan.”

  Sean’s distinctively Irish voice was low and conspiratorial. O’Shea froze. He knew the time had come. His information had directed the rebels to this place and time. A daring, perhaps foolhardy, plan had been hatched to kidnap Caroline Terrington and demand a ransom. The lady had a fortune. It would be easy money to finance the cause.

  “Looks like there’s no one about. Terence and me will grab your woman. You distract her companion and then leave the rest to us. Michael Flynn is waiting outside the side entrance with a carriage. Before anybody can react we’ll be miles away.”

  Brendan did not reply. He knew the agreed plan. He had been sure that Caroline would not know how to fight or make a public spectacle–that she would go meekly when taken–and had said as much. Otherwise, he might have preferred a more secluded spot for their scheme. The others wanted everyone to know what they had done and hungered for the attention they thought their scheme must attract from papers and politicians alike. The two men slipped away behind an exhibit, keeping themselves hidden while Brendan stepped forward to play his part. Steadfastly he walked up to his mistress and her friend.

  “Please excuse me, Mrs. Grace. The gentleman down there at the reception desk says he has an urgent message for you.”

  “Goodness me, Hannah. I hope nothing is wrong with William,” Caroline said with concern. Mrs. Terrington smiled a silent thank you at O’Shea. Her friend went toward the reception desk.

  Once Hannah was safely out of sight, O’Neil and Reardon rushed at Caroline, grabbing her around the waist and pressing a cloth to her mouth to muffle any sounds of protest. The almost empty pavilion echoed to the sounds of modest struggle and Caroline’s small, crushed cries. No one had come to her assistance. The escape route was planned, and in moments, she would be their captive. Brendan watched, trying to remain impassive, but she caught sight of him and her large eyes showed terror and panic. She tried to scream. No sound came out of her dry, shocked throat and the wad of fabric was shoved deeper into her mouth.

  Brendan stared at Caroline Terrington, riveted by the scene before him. She was petrified. She was in fear. She was beautiful and her eyes appealed to him for rescue, innocent of his part in her torment.

  His whole being exploded into action and he ran towards the trio. With a swinging punch he sent Reardon flying to the floor, blood trickling from his nose. O’Neil’s face showed incomprehension. Brendan looked around, picked up a ceremonial spear from a display and menacingly approached Sean. His fellow conspirator looked like he might fight, but soon thought better of it and decided on flight.

  Caroline, in a swoon, fell into Brendan’s arms. He held her limp body, conscious of her shallow breathing, the probable return of Hannah Grace and the certainty of difficult questions. There was no sign of the men, but the dropped spear testified to unusual goings on. He saw Caroline’s eyelids flutter and then she was gazing up at him, her cheeks pale and her expression utterly trusting.

  “You saved me,” she said.

  He felt like an utter fraud, but could not confess his part in what had happened.

  “They must have been trying to rob you,” he said.

  “I was so afraid.” She started shaking in his arms and he realized she was shocked. He could hear approaching footsteps.

  “Do you want me to fetch the police?” he asked.

  She shook her head, “I hardly saw them, unless you did?”

  “I never got a good look at their faces, I was too busy trying to get them off you.”

  “I think I need to sit down, and perhaps a cup of tea.”

  “Let’s see what we can find.”

  Brendan offered her his arm and she leaned on him gratefully as they made their way towards the nearest seats. To have her need him like this was singularly arousing. If she thought too hard about what had happened she might guess at his part in it all, and he started to fear the consequences of that–not the legal ones, but the possibility of losing her trust.

  “Hannah will not know where to find us.”

  “I will find her, if you want me to leave?”

  The flicker of panic returned to her eyes.

  “Don’t go,” she said, “I would be afraid they might come back.”

  He touched the back of her gloved hand with his.

  “I won’t let anyone harm you, I give you my word. We can find Mrs. Grace together, when you feel ready.”

  “Thank you, Brendan,” she replied.

  It was the first time she had ever called him that and he found he rather liked the sound of his Christian name upon her lips. The thought of anything of his on her lips was enough to start a heated longing in him, one that took his thoughts away from the practical dangers of his situation.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Frederica had not long returned from the meeting of her literary group and was still hot and irritable from the journey. London was a curse at this time of year and she had decided the only thing to do would be to retreat to their country estate until the temperature became more reasonable. In heat, the city stank disgustingly and it was too overpowering for her to really enjoy anything properly. Her father’s rambling old mansion had the merit of being reliably cool, even on the hottest days.

  “Ah, Freddy, just the person.�
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  There was something of the exuberant schoolboy about Charles’s manner, and she knew this was a bad sign.

  What?” she asked wearily.

  “I wanted to talk to you about your darling little friend, Amelia.”

  “Well?”

  “I was thinking she would be a perfect candidate for our project; so cool and self-possessed, but with a certain sensuality don’t you think, the ideal conduit?”

  “No.” Frederica was in no mood for pleasantries.

  “But, Freddy…”

  “No. And I do not want to hear any more on the subject. She is not your perfect subject–Lady Fontenbras has a distinct dislike for men.”

  “Ah.”

  “Exactly. Had you taken a close look at her friend, Mrs Terrington? I would have thought she was more suitable for the task in hand. Sexually experienced without being sluttish, she seems strong-minded enough to me.”

  “By Jove, it’s worth a thought, and she’s a pretty enough minx. Could you lure her here for me?”

  “I was thinking I should like to get out of London during this cursed heat. We could invite them to join us. I can keep Amelia distracted and give you plenty of scope for getting your prey.”

  “Freddy, you are a genius.”

  “I know.”

  “Do you think there might be an auspicious date? A full moon perhaps, or a good star alignment?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Do I take it then, that Amelia is your latest fancy?”

  “I rather think she could be.”

  “I cannot help but think it would be terribly useful if you could settle your fancy on a nice girl who rather liked me as well. That way, I could marry her and keep the family happy, she could squeeze out a couple of heirs, I could get on with my life and you could do whatever you girls like to do to each other.”

  “Suck each other’s nipples,” Frederica answered, with an uncharacteristically bawdy tone to her voice. With that she swept off up the long flight of stairs towards her rooms.

  * * * *

  For a long while Caroline simply held the heavy book in her hands, looking at the plain, text-less cover and fearing to go further. Amelia had presented it to her after supper, just an anonymous-looking tome in a brown paper wrapping. She had not asked what it was, nor from whence it came, but she knew. She burned with shame each time she recalled their conversation on matters of the flesh and Amelia’s promise of a book had remained very much in her mind.

  Taking a deep breath she opened it up at a random page. The image before her shocked her so profoundly that she had to look away for a few moments in order to recover herself. The detailed illustration showed two naked people, which was shocking enough in itself, but they had been drawn with the woman squatting obscenely over the man’s face, her head lowered into his lap. It was very clear that she had his organ in her mouth.

  Caroline stared at this graphic depiction with both disgust and fascination. A closer inspection told her that this chapter was entitled, ‘the pleasures of oral stimulation,’ and she began to leaf through it cautiously. A series of detailed diagrams and instructions showed how a woman might utilize her lips and tongue to stimulate a man’s sexual organs. There were many unfamiliar names such as glans, foreskin, and scrotum. She had never so much as put her hand on Josiah’s penis, much less thought of it in those terms or considered running her tongue over it.

  Many women find considerable satisfaction from allowing the male sexual organs to penetrate their mouths. While this provides the woman with no direct sexual stimulation, the giving of pleasure can be intensely satisfying. Furthermore, oral pleasures do not lead to pregnancy or other complications and an exchange of favours in this manner may prove highly satisfactory to both parties.

  Caroline contemplated the images of erect male anatomy and chewed the end of her finger thoughtfully. Her thoughts drifted, and she unexpectedly found herself thinking of her handsome Irish footman. She pictured him unlacing his tightly fitting trousers to reveal just such an expanse of flesh, and then imagined herself taking him into her mouth, sucking and licking him in just the way the book described. She ran her tongue across the tip of her finger then drew the slender digit deep into her mouth, wondering how a man might taste.

  Would he like her to do this, she wondered. What would happen if she were to get up from her bed now and creep through the servants’ quarters to knock upon his door? What would she say to him? Let me take your penis between my lips? But what if he did not want her to? She was startled out of her sensual daydreams by the fear that he might not want her; not that others might disapprove or that it would be improper, perhaps even degraded, but simply that he might not desire her.

  She flicked through the book, skim-reading the opening explanation that the author considered sexual pleasure to be a human right and a gift from God, and took up with the first chapter: Self pleasure.

  Before one can truly experience sexual ecstasy with a partner, it is necessary to understand one’s own body and desires. Every adult should learn how to take pleasure in their sexuality, only then can they begin to understand how best to give pleasure to another and how to instruct a lover with regards to their own needs.

  The first pages described at length the techniques a woman could use to achieve orgasm. Caroline had not so much as heard the word before and had no idea what it meant. She examined the diagrams and read the text carefully, wondering if she dared to try for herself. She had been taught at school that to touch your own body was sinful and unhealthy. She had never touched that place between her legs with her naked hands, only with a washing cloth. No one would ever know, she reasoned.

  The reading matter was making her feel rather hot and peculiar, and she had a powerful urge to follow its suggestions. She carefully hitched up her long nightdress and parted her legs so that she could slip her fingers down between her thighs. With the book open on the bed beside her she felt her way around herself, using the map to discover the contours of her own body. Between the folds of skin there was moisture, just as the text had suggested there might be.

  She pushed a finger slowly into herself, it was not an unpleasant experience, and she found herself imagining that the finger was not her own, but Brendan’s. She shivered and a strange, hot sensation began to flourish within her. There was no denying it to herself–when she read about sexual pleasure, his was the face that filled her thoughts and his the body she was itching to touch.

  Exploring further, she found a spot a little above her opening that almost made her cry out when she touched it, so sensitive did it seem. She wondered then how she could have lived with it all these years and not known it was there. Following the book’s instructions, she began to move her finger in slow circles, varying the pressure and speed until she found a combination that seemed most pleasing.

  Her breath was increasingly uneven and she pulled her legs further apart, aware now of an intense need, a yearning, longing empty feeling that she could not name. Caroline pulsed her finger, feeling the sensations of physical pleasure grow ever more intense. She had not known it could be like this. Once again her thoughts drifted to Brendan, and she imagined him as she had seen in one of the many illustrations, his head between her thighs, his tongue darting over her body, just as her finger was doing. She imagined his fingers penetrating her, satisfying her need to be filled, and she began to tremble in earnest then, feeling her hips thrusting uncontrollably against her hand until she was overwhelmed with a great rush of sensation.

  For a long time afterwards she lay curled in her sheets, the sweat cooling on her skin, and her breathing growing more even. She smiled to herself and began to explore with her fingers once again, hungry for that blissful release. She had never imagined that her own body could give her such delight and she realised that she would have to find a very special way of thanking Amelia for sharing this precious knowledge with her.

  * * * *

  Guilt was far from his mind–it being an alien emoti
on for which he had little time. Conscious of how romantic he must look in his current pose, he watched the Thames Lightermen ferry goods from the ship anchored in mid-stream and deposit the crates on the quayside. A horse and cart stood by with the name of Sanderson and Sons in lettering on the side. This stretch of the Capital’s river, along by the Lower Strand, had many warehouses to hold wine and spirit. Gabriel Waterburn assumed the cargo was from either France or Spain.

  “What are you going to do?”

  The question interrupted his thoughts. He looked away from the river scene and lazily engaged the eyes of Justin Herbertson. His friend was wild looking, with the appearance of an Old Testament prophet.

  “About what?”

  “Don’t be so arrogant, Gabriel. You know perfectly well ‘what’.”

  “You mean Jenny Nightingale?”

  Herbertson puckered his lips.

  “I understand she is ill?”

  “The doctor says it is consumption,” Gabriel said as he stared into the ink black water of the Thames. He saw a large piece of driftwood float by and took it as a metaphor for his life, swimming in the darkness without direction.

  “And yet you philander with this new girl, Gabriel.”

  Herbertson tried not to make it sound like a reproach. Waterburn sighed in exasperation. He walked on from where they had stopped. His friend followed.

  “My good Justin, how long is it since our brave pioneers, Hunt, Millais and Rossetti formed the Pre-Raphaelitism Brotherhood?”

  “Thirty-five years, I think,” Herbertson mused.

  “Then, dear Justin, why are you still trifling with bourgeois morals? This new girl, as you so coyly phrase it, is so exciting. She reminds me of a free spirit of nature. Her face could have set the pulses racing at the Round Table.”

  Herbertson let the argument pass.

  “What is her name?”

  “Belle, Belle Larke. Oh, Justin! What a natural name for a lady who personifies nature. Yesterday when she came to me, I wanted to create a canvas that would tell the world of her beauty.”

  The Moses figure of Herbertson bit his lip, and said deliberately and slowly.