Diamonds in the Rough. Portia Da Costa
and bare herself to him, challenging him to do his worst, inviting him to plunge into her as he’d once done, taking her breath away.
“Oh, I’ll do what I want, don’t you worry. But you are a liar.”
Pausing only to give her tender nipple one last twist, he dragged his hand out of her bodice and grabbed hold of her skirts without further ado. Taking the voluminous layers of bombazine and flannel and cambric in an untidy grip, he hauled them up, tugging and bunching until he’d exposed her stockings and her garters and her drawers. The latter were old-fashioned; Adela had other calls upon her funds than the latest styles in pretty new unmentionables, and precious little to spend on presentable gowns to go over them. Wilson uttered a happy grunt when he discovered the split that gave him access to her body.
“Oh, I love these. All women should wear these convenient old things. It makes a man’s job so much easier, especially when he’s in a hurry.”
Convenient or no, Adela was glad of her old split drawers when Wilson’s fingertips reached their moist and trembling goal.
“I...I don’t care. I don’t dress for men,” she gasped, “especially crude, grabbing ones like you.” It was difficult to breathe, even to think. Unerringly, Wilson settled his middle finger on her clitoris and rolled it slowly and unctuously, like an oiled ball bearing. “I...oh, dear Lord...I thought you might have cultivated more sophisticated carnal manners by now, Wilson, but you dive straight in and paw madly, just the way you did at nineteen.”
It was impossible not to squirm. Impossible not to rock on his hand, inciting more pleasure. Had he forgotten his threat to spank her? Adela hardly cared, as long as he caressed her like this first.
“More insults, eh, Della? On top of everything else. Time to spank you for disrespect and downright wickedness.” There was laughter in his voice, but the needs of her body were Adela’s one priority. All else fell by the wayside. Nothing mattered but Wilson holding her, and his finger flicking and circling. If he stopped, she might die, or at least scream blue murder.
Wilson stopped as if he’d heard her thoughts. He withdrew the divine finger. Adela let out a strangled cry and tried to jam her puss back onto his hand.
“Greedy Della. You like being toyed with, don’t you? You like having me play with your plump little clitty, don’t you?” His breath was hot against her neck, his whisper a zephyr drifting down over her throat and her exposed cleavage. Adela bit her lip, commanding herself not to speak or move, but a moan of need slipped the leash and her hips jerked.
“Answer me, Della. You like being played with, don’t you? Just like some randy little maid in the pantry being interfered with by an importunate footman?” Wilson’s mouth settled on her neck, in the hollow beneath her jaw, and he nipped her, his teeth sharp, the pressure measured to a fine degree. “Admit it, and when I’ve spanked your bottom, I’ll fondle you between your legs until you spend.”
“I don’t need you for that, Wilson!” she hissed, every muscle straining with the effort of not reacting. “I’m perfectly capable of attending to myself, thank you. Every woman is.”
“But not every woman has the wits or the sensuality to do it, Della. Most are too God-fearing or too afraid their mamas will find out that they’re impure and degenerate.”
“Well, I’m...I’m sorry for them, and I don’t care two pins for what my mother thinks.”
“Wicked, wicked Della. Lack of filial respect now. Whatever am I going to do with you?” His palm settled on her breast through her bodice again and gave it a quick, rough squeeze. “Come along, time to deal with your sins now.”
Wilson Ruffington, you are the most towering hypocrite in the entire British Empire!
He was far more the sinner than she, despite her secret erotic life. He was self-indulgent and selfish. He cared nothing for the feelings of others, or for the observance of any kind of good or moral behavior. And yet right at this moment, she would allow him any liberty, anything at all, to assuage her needs.
“Lean over the desk. Show me your bottom.”
Easier said than done. How typical of a man to forget about her corset only moments after he’d criticized her for wearing it. How would he like to wear it for a day, in the interests of scientific inquiry?
But one look in Wilson’s eyes told her he’d not forgotten at all. He was an encyclopedia, all facts retained, and he was no doubt gauging how much the unremitting undergarment restricted her, and how its pressures might come to bear upon her body. A slight smile curved his lips, and when he maneuvered her into position, the lower edge of the stiffened garment dug into the pit of her belly, making her grunt aloud.
Wilson made a sound, too. A masculine purr of satisfaction.
The sensations were abominable. Wicked. Wonderful.
The lower border of her corset poked her in a sensitive zone, like an etheric hand bearing down on the very root of her clitoris. It made her want to sob, gasp for breath and wriggle against the desk—not to mention ignore every last atom of her pride, reach down to diddle herself and continue doing so until she had a shuddering, towering orgasm.
“Now then, let’s see you.” With cheerful efficiency, Wilson attacked her skirts again, dragging the whole lot of them upward, petticoats and all, in one haphazard mass. “Oh, very nice,” he murmured, slipping a fingertip under her garter and the top of her stocking, and running it along the bare skin above.
Adela gnawed her knuckle. How much more of this could she stand? The pressure in her belly, and the dreadful tension in her sex, were playing havoc with her decorum. Not that she’d ever had much of that in the first place. Slowly, slipping into a sensual reverie, she began moving her hips rhythmically, and clenching her inner muscles. Perhaps she could trigger a crisis for herself and cheat her wicked cousin at his own game?
Deft fingers grasped the edges of the vent in her drawers and dragged it wide-open. The room was warm, but the cooler draft across her hindquarters made them quiver and flex. Adela let out a sob. She was exposed, ignominiously uncovered.
Adela Ruffington, you are the second most towering hypocrite in the entire British Empire!
The voice inside her, the spokesperson of her senses and her deepest urges, remonstrated with her. The exposure was intoxicating, her bare bottom a potent source of feminine power. She could almost taste Wilson’s lust even without feeling the pressure of his cock. Her exposed rump was an object of veneration to him. He was no different from any other man in that respect. The professional boys at Sofia Chamfleur’s house of pleasure all enjoyed ogling their clients’ buttocks, even hers, which weren’t particularly ample. With a secret grin, Adela clenched her interior muscles, both for her own pleasure and to make her flesh dance.
What do you think of that, dear cousin?
“Della! You wicked vixen,” Wilson growled, laying his hands upon her bare behind like a greedy boy grabbing a brace of muffins. “You’re sublime. You know that, don’t you? So delectable, I’ve really got to punish you.”
“Well, get on with it, then. Don’t shilly-shally.” Resting on her elbows, Adela twisted around and glared at him, challenging him with her eyes, and with the smooth nakedness of her flesh.
“Very well. As you command, milady.” The cry was hoarse as his hand came up in readiness.
Adela looked away again, bracing herself.
Wilson’s palm crashed down on her left buttock, swift and hard.
Oh...oh...oh...
She let out a long, hiccupping groan, the cheek of her bottom flaming in less time than it took to acknowledge the impact. Her sex surged, the bump of the blow transmitted to her clitoris by the corset’s edge pushing against her belly.
“Oh, please, please...” Was that a sob of desire or a wail of pain? She wasn’t sure. Between the lips of her sex, fluid oozed and flesh rippled.
As