A Gentlewoman's Quartet. Portia Da Costa
I whimper. I clasp at both men, grabbing at clothed and naked flesh. I am in a frenzy of desire.
I want more, more, more.
The two men seem to be able to communicate by some kind of mental telepathy. They work as an infernal arousing team.
Yuri smothers my breasts in a last veil of kisses, then backs and turns away for a moment. I watch in fascination as he rolls a device of fine rubber over his magnificent manhood, then Ambrose takes me by the shoulders, and moves me onto my side. I’m in such a state of voluptuous excitement that I allow myself to be handled, loving the dominance of my duo of lovers.
I am between them now, facing Ambrose, and with Yuri’s sleek, nude form molded to my back. Purring like a cat, I rub myself against him, all the while gazing into Ambrose’s dark eyes.
I am completely relaxed, yet in a state of high, delirious excitement. Behind me, Yuri adjusts his position, and his warm, hard member brushes the backs of my thighs, exquisitely tempting. Ambrose touches my face, his fingers infinitely tender.
The two men take possession of me, manipulate me. My hips are tilted, my thighs parted from behind, and as Ambrose holds me steady, Yuri thrusts into my slick womanhood, slowly and surely.
I am filled, sublimely filled, in a position that the late Mr. Harewood never attempted, and in a situation I would never have credited possible.
Two men. Two delicious men. Both for me.
I’m not yet bold enough to look Ambrose in the eye as Yuri ploughs me, but I bury my face in his shoulder, breathing in the fragrance of his linen and his warm, male body beneath it. He drops a kiss on my brow, and murmurs something so low I can’t make it out, although perhaps Yuri can? But the tone of his voice is soothing and loving.
As is his finger as it moves deftly between my thighs.
We rock in a syncopated action, as perfectly coordinated as an expensive Swiss clock. Ambrose strokes me exquisitely throughout, taking my breath away, and I feel him hard—hard as sin—beneath his clothes.
Ambrose whispers encouragement. Yuri grunts and sighs with a deliciously animal enthusiasm. I moan like a madwoman, relishing my own freedom and my liberty from inhibition.
When my crisis comes, I claw at Ambrose while I push back against Yuri to receive him yet deeper.
My mind reels like a joyous waltz. I soar again. I adore these men both, but the sweet courtesy and tenderness of Ambrose wins my heart. The emotion is irrational, and sudden, but I truly feel it.
And as I descend, knowing I will rise again soon, I reach for the buttons of his trousers and fumble them open. Diving into his combinations, I draw out his swollen shaft. Yuri is still hard at work in my channel, so I simply caress Ambrose with my fingers, as he caresses me.
We writhe again, we three, a squirming mythical beast of hands, fingers, arms, torsos and happily glowing genitals. I drift into such a stupor of sublime sensation that I barely know where one of us ends and the next one begins.
We are one voice, one body, even one heart.
And as one, we all cry out as we achieve sweet resolution, Yuri pumping enthusiastically inside me while Ambrose spills his seed upon my belly.
I am awash. I am debauched. I am in heaven.
For many minutes, we lie too stunned to speak or move, but as I recover my faculties I’m not so naive as to believe that such an occurrence as this is regular. I sense that it was different. Unusual. That Ambrose Chamfleur does not often take part in such frolics, or at least to such a degree.
When I look into his eyes I see them filled with wondrous happiness.
My heart fills with joy, too.
As Ambrose leans in to kiss me, I am vaguely aware of Yuri sliding from the bed behind me and padding from the room, his job well done.
“So, Mrs. Harewood, do you feel that you are fully acquainted with sexual rapture now?” Ambrose enquires when we are alone, reaching to sweep my tangled hair away from my cheeks so he may see my expression clearly. I, in turn, feast my eyes on the noble contours of his suddenly dear face.
“Fully. Although I suspect that there are many shades of bliss yet to be discovered, Ambrose.”
I try to imagine looking into the eyes of Mr. Trentham, or Lord Lotherton, or the earl of Davy whilst experiencing this glorious lassitude, and I find I cannot picture them. They are nothing to me. Just ciphers. Only this man—and his delightful companions—have any reality for me.
I can see that my previous plans will have to change.
1888
She draws me aside at the Ladies’ Sewing Circle. Young Lucy Montgomery. Mrs. Montgomery, as of a few months ago.
Her eyes are strained. Her face is pinched. Experience tells me that all is not well in the bed of her new husband. Mr. Montgomery is older, so much older, and her family’s choice for her.
I remember when I felt as she does. Disillusioned. Disappointed. Yearning for a certain magic that I was convinced existed but had not yet experienced.
Not until I met a man named Ambrose, who has some revolutionary ideas about how ladies should learn about matters of the bedroom.
As she haltingly describes her dilemma, I find myself drifting back to that first time, just after I’d behaved like a wanton libertine, and discovered my true erotic nature in the arms of Ambrose and Yuri and Clarence.
Afterward, alone, he tended me with all the delicacy and scrupulousness of a perfectly trained lady’s maid. Washing his jism off my body with a soft muslin cloth dipped in rose-scented water, talking to me in quiet tones, and all the while smiling as he described to me all outrageous delights and glories that lay ahead of me in the world of sensuality.
Alas, with such heated descriptions, and such intimate handling, it wasn’t long before my dear Ambrose was spending his dear, precious essence all over me again, although this time we both naked, his clothes being off.
In the peaceful aftermath, I outlined my plan, and though nervous at first, I warmed to my theme. And so did he.
A process that led delightfully to yet more spending.
“Er…um…Lady Arabella said that you might be able to advise me…offer a consultation and perhaps some…therapy?” She twists her handkerchief in her fingers, mangling the poor scrap of lace near to destruction. “Obviously, on a professional basis, of course…. She said you were a…a consultant.”
“Of course, my dear. I’ll be happy to help.” I still her hands with mine, then reach into my reticule for my card case. “Why not come to this address at around three p.m. tomorrow? I’m sure that my associates and I can provide you with all the answers—and the therapy—that you need.”
“Associates?” She looks doubtful.
“Don’t be concerned. They’re the most trusted of professionals. You’ll be safe in their hands.”
She smiles. Her spirits seem to be lifting already and her eyes are brighter.
“Thank you so much. I’ll be there.” She almost seems about to kiss me in gratitude. “Bless you, Madame Chamfleur. I knew I could rely on you.”
As she turns away, and begins to discuss cross-stitch with another of our number, I glance down at the top card in my little case.
Mme. Sofia Chamfleur, Intimate Advice to the Gentlewoman, it proclaims in a very handsome copperplate script, followed by an address in Hampstead, and the words Consultations By Appointment.
I smile, happy anew every time I think of my plan, the way I invested some of my fortune, and the delicious arrangements I made. Beneath my skirts, my body warms as if readying itself for the attentions of my beloved Ambrose.
You see, I did decide to marry, after all.