Diamonds in the Rough. Portia Da Costa
like a wanton. Her bottom tingled more and more with each blow.
“What do you want, Della? Tell me...give me the words.”
The hand that had spanked now lay still across her simmering buttocks, spanning both cheeks. In an act of supreme provocation, one finger dipped into the groove between.
“Make me spend, you hideous plaguing monster. Make me spend right this instant, or I swear I’ll do it myself!” Tugging at her skirts, she began to rummage beneath them. How long would it take for Wilson to galvanize himself into action? She couldn’t wait on his whims.
Roughly, he dashed her hands away.
“No! Don’t touch yourself. You’ll take pleasure at my hand, or I’ll tie your wrists together and leave you here, unsatisfied.”
“You wouldn’t dare!” She attacked her skirts anew in defiance.
“Try me,” purred Wilson, effortlessly catching her wrists at the small of her back with one hand, then applying his other hand to the bundle of bombazine, flannel and cambric. Throwing the whole lot back up over her hips, he slid his fingers in between her legs, right into her sex. One long digit plunged into her vagina, up to the second knuckle.
Adela grunted. Wilson’s fingers were narrow and elegant, the digits of a scientist and inventor, but the one inside her felt thick and intrusive. Was he surprised at how easily it breached her? For all he knew, she’d been chaste for seven years.
If only you knew what I know. What I’ve done and seen.
To confound him, she gripped him hard with her inner muscles, then bit back another cry as pleasure blossomed. It just needed his finger on her clitty to tip her over.
“If I release your hands, will you struggle?” He leaned over her, his voice low in her ear. “I’ll make it worth your while not to.”
Have you read my mind, you evil man?
It seemed he had. When she nodded her assent, beyond speech, he attacked her clothing, sneaking a hand under all the layers and beneath her belly, to seek the heart of the matter. A lot of tussling and burrowing was involved, but Wilson was nothing if not persistent. Within moments, his fingertips inveigled their way into the front split in her drawers, pushing straight at the wiry curls of her puss, searching for his target. As he did so, he twisted the finger inside her, crooking it against an area of sensitivity that made her grunt anew, rendered animal by sensations as disquieting as they were pleasurable. It was too much, too intense, too perverse, but even as tears of surprise formed in the corners of her eyes, she bore down, without the power to resist.
“I...I...”
Her voice failed her again, muffled by an agony of feeling. It plagued her far more than the heat in her bottom, yet seemed akin to it, as hot in its own way. As Wilson nudged and rocked her, low animal sounds broke from her throat, horrifyingly revealing.
“Good, eh?” he whispered, the middle finger of his other hand sliding around in the slick delta of her sex. The tip of it brushed her clitoris from the side, making her jerk and shift her hips to get more contact, but he slid it away again with a low, wicked laugh.
“I never realized that you might be such a voluptuary, Della... You don’t seem to have any inhibitions. Do your friends and acquaintances know how randy you are?” Leaning over, he kissed the nape of her neck, his lips nestling against thick strands of hair that had broken free from her coiffure. “What would they say if they knew you let men stick their fingers inside you like this?”
“I don’t know and I don’t care!” Her voice ragged, she wriggled about, defying him, grabbing at the offending digit with her channel, using her hands to brace herself against the desk for more control. “I don’t let many men stick their fingers inside me...and I’ve only let you do it because it pleases me. I wouldn’t do it solely for your satisfaction.”
Wilson let out a gasp. “You amaze me, Della, and sometime soon I will be asking you some very searching questions.” He nudged against her, rubbing his groin against her haunch, where he’d spanked her. His cock was like stone where it pressed against the glowing, heated skin. “But in the meantime, be assured that touching you has always delighted me.”
“Tumescence isn’t satisfaction,” she retorted. “As I know, right now, to my cost.” She swirled her hips, then let out a sharp cry at the fierce sensations. “Now come on, Wilson, play the game. You made a bargain. Fulfill it!”
“Of course, my queen. As you command.” His voice was silky and facetious, but it was his fingers, not his vocal cords, that concerned her. She groaned long and low as he obeyed her, settling a fingertip on her clitoris, then circling hard.
White flame danced behind Adela’s eyelids, and her hands flailed like captured doves. Her sex convulsed in long, racking waves of pleasure, massaging Wilson’s finger as her clitoris danced and pulsed. Dimly she heard a crash, and in a far part of her mind realized she’d knocked the wretched praxinoscope clean off the desk and undone all Wilson’s good work with the tiny set of tools.
Her hips jerked and rocked as if a demon possessed her body. She’d not climaxed this hard in a long time, if ever, and her clash with Wilson only made the bliss more luscious. The hands of her cousin, also her enemy, were like an angel’s.
The orgasm rose and waned, rose and waned, then rose again, but eventually, she was a spent, wrung-out rag. Slumped forward over the disordered desk, she quite forgot the firm restriction of her corset and the nakedness of her bottom, bared to the world. The door she’d opened with her hairpins remained unlocked, but she hadn’t the energy to worry about it. If a servant or a fellow guest came along, it was the whim of fate. All that mattered was the soft, golden glow in her loins and buttocks, and the iron-hard cock still pressed against her thigh.
But it was Wilson’s turn for pleasure now. Quid pro quo. Glow or not, she would have to rouse...and shock his senses.
5
Quid Pro Quo
There was no question of intercourse.
No matter how much she wanted to fuck Wilson, and how much her body—satiated or otherwise—cried out for him, it simply could not occur. And she had a shrewd suspicion he wouldn’t even ask her to oblige.
Despite their thorny history, her cousin had never seemed to doubt her intelligence. Seven years ago they’d been a pair of blundering, clueless ingenues, but now they were both adults. And well informed, both with a clear idea of the results and repercussions of heedless rutting. Wilson might be arrogant, manipulative, impatient of those less brilliant than himself, but he wasn’t an unfeeling beast. Which, it had to be said, some men in society were.
Wilson would never expect her to put herself in real jeopardy to satisfy his lust.
At Sofia Chamfleur’s discreet establishment for women, devices of rubber were employed. French letters, which ensured there were no unfortunate consequences to secret pleasure. Adela even possessed a small tin containing several of these essential and useful items herself, although thus far, she’d never contemplated needing them outside the walls of Sofia’s quiet Hampstead mansion. Simply having them at all was a defiance. A secret way to thumb her nose at a society that seemed expressly fashioned for the advantage of men over women, despite a member of her own sex on the throne. They were a talisman of the freer life to which she aspired, and to some extent actively pursued.
But with no French letters about her person at the moment, she would have to take Wilson in hand if she planned to bring him off.
Finally managing to stir herself, Adela straightened up. The black swathes of her skirt dropped neatly into place, and apart from her unbuttoned bodice, she appeared decent.
Working on doing up her buttons, her fingers shook. Pleasurable aftershocks, and the heat in her rear made her fumble. Wilson’s sharp, pale eyes followed her every tiny movement, and that didn’t help, either. He was still close enough for her to feel his breath upon her, and leaning