In the Flesh. Portia Da Costa
voice reminded Charlie of Westerlynne, and a handsome gamekeeper’s lad he’d known as a curious youth. A man stepped out of the deeper shadows, the white tube of a cigarette poised in his fingers. Powerful fingers, steady yet relaxed.
“Yes, of course.” Charlie drew out his matches again, astonished to be shaking. The sturdy, powerful man seemed much closer than before, even though he hadn’t taken another step yet.
The light from the match showed a strong face too, not coarse, but a little rough-hewn, not a gentleman. What was the man doing out here? Was he a servant? A groom? He wasn’t dressed for the ball, but looked well in a plain dark walking suit, and a striped shirt sans collar. His thick brown hair was as straight as wheat, and might have benefited from the comb.
Charlie shuddered, his blood turned to fire. Dark urges welled in his gut. Another reason to be nervous, and yet excited.
They smoked in silence for a spell, the garden air tranquil apart from Charlie’s heart, thumping in the night.
I shouldn’t do this.
And yet senses he barely understood told him the man smoking in the shadows was of the same persuasion as he. Well, if Charlie could be sure what his own persuasion was half the time.
Charles Weatherly was attracted to his own sex. He was an unnatural, an invert. But the fact that he also eagerly desired women too only added to his confusion.
“So, friend,” said the stranger after a long quiet while, “what brings you out here when the rest of the nobs are in there enjoying themselves? You look like a man weighed down by troubles.”
The Charles Weatherly of polite society bristled. He should rebuke this overly familiar fellow for asking personal questions of his betters. But Charlie, perplexed and out of his depth, wanted to spill all … both metaphorically and physically. Orgasm was a path to oblivious forgetfulness of problems, just as drink and the thrill of the card table were.
“You could say that, friend,” he compromised, taking a drag on his cigarette. “I have my fair share of concerns. But what business are they of yours?”
“Just a sympathetic individual, sir.” It wasn’t uttered with deference. “It seems like you’re looking for diversion on a fine night like this … the pleasures of the moment and to the devil with tomorrow.”
Oh, you’re sharp!
Charlie puffed furiously. He couldn’t speak, silenced by the forbidden, dark excitement, and a new emotion, almost unmanning him. Woes of his own making bore down on him like a heavy yoke, and the sudden sympathy of this stranger strummed his nerves.
His new friend laughed softly, the sound drifting low as he reached out, took Charlie’s cigarette right from his lips, and tossed it with his own, end over end, onto the gravel. “You don’t need that, friend,” he murmured, drawing Charlie by the arm, deeper into the shadows and the moist vegetable secrecy of the bushes.
“What are you doing?” It should have come out as righteous outrage, male and stentorian. But instead, his voice seemed light and insubstantial as the moonlight. He opened his mouth again, but the shaggy-haired stranger covered it with his own, suddenly kissing him with firm warm lips and backing him up against what appeared to be the kitchen garden wall.
Charlie’s head reeled, even as the last vestiges of fight made him press against the stranger’s lapels with his fists. But it was an empty gesture. Just as quickly, his hands relaxed against the muscular, well-shaped chest beneath the layers of wool and flannel of his companion’s clothing. In the blink of an eye, he was clutching the very same lapels, his mouth yielding as he silently begged the man not to withdraw.
Or stop kissing him.
A potpourri of tobacco and whiskey on his companion’s lips was intoxicating, and Charlie wondered momentarily where he’d drunk the latter. Was it purloined from his master’s supply? Stolen like these moments of forbidden pleasure?
But when a warm, wet tongue plunged deep into his mouth, Charlie wanted to weep like a girl, deliciously subdued. The man’s large, confident hand closed round his genitals, at the same time, cupping and squeezing with just enough force.
Squeeze. Release. Squeeze. Release. Hardened to iron, his cock leaped with each tightening.
“Oh good Lord … good Lord,” he gasped when his mouth was suddenly free, then he moaned when deft fingertips found his glans through his linen and squeezed that sensitive tip with particular skill.
“No, friend, not our Lord, just ‘Jamie.’“ His new friend laughed, still continuing his divine ministrations.
Charlie was overcome. Still grasping Jamie’s lapels, he threw back his head, bumping it on the rough masonry of the wall yet barely registering the momentary pain. His knees buckled, and he slumped, his back pressed to the damp brickwork. Biting his lips, he fought to suppress his cries, his hips flaunting forward following Jamie’s teasing, tugging fingers.
“Do you like that, sir?” A redundant question, the impudent honorific, and Jamie’s low laughter only added to the sweet sensations.
“Yes, oh God, yes I do!” Charlie tossed his head against the bricks, aware of the ever-present sooty grime of the city soiling his hair. “My name is Charles … Charlie … oh hell and damnation man, that’s wonderful … oh God!”
“But we’ve only just begun, Charlie,” breathed Jamie, then he stabbed in with another deep kiss, before nibbling on Charlie’s lower lip. “Shall we let the rampant beast see the air now?”
Reality suddenly pierced the hot, sensual haze. Charlie struggled for sanity, for sobriety, and tried to pull away, even though the denying words still eluded him.
But Jamie would not be gainsaid. He squeezed yet harder on the tip of Charlie’s organ, the fleeting moment of cruelty like heaven to a man of Charlie’s sensibilities.
“Oh no, you don’t, sir.” The husky voice was playful yet menacing, “I want a good look at this nice little toy.”
“Not so little, I’ll thank you,” growled Charlie, finding his backbone from somewhere.
“Indeed,” said Jamie, his deft fingers working on the buttons of Charlie’s trousers … and then his linens.
Charlie gasped as the cooler air of the garden night hit his cock. Jamie eased him out of the aperture in his clothing, and he could almost imagine his flesh steaming, hot and hard as an iron bar.
“Fine … very fine indeed,” murmured Jamie, his hand settling upon it.
At first he just held Charlie, his large yet nimble fingers lightly curled as he kissed Charlie’s face in little nips and dabs and busses. It was a delicate exploration, all the more stirring for the intimate hold down below. Charlie wanted to scream at Jamie to pump him.
“Steady, Charlie my boy, steady on.” Jamie’s smile was saturnine as he pulled back a little, staring into Charlie’s eyes, his own hooded and sultry as a finger drummed hither and thither, light and taunting. “I’m not ready for you to spend all over me … at least not yet. You have to earn your satisfaction, my fine lad.”
Luscious fear coiled in Charlie’s gut. He thought of practices performed in certain discreet houses and his organ stiffened harder at the thought, jumping in his lover’s hand.
“You’re a naughty fellow, aren’t you?” purred Jamie, his raw tone revealing his country origins. Despite his desperate state, Charlie felt a rush of warmth, remembering happy times at Westerlynne. “But I’m not doing it all for you, Charlie my lad. Not tonight …” He reached for Charlie’s hand and folded it around his very own flesh.
Blood burned in Charlie’s face and in the hard rod between his fingers. Dark pleasure surged at the thought of exhibiting his private technique. His fingers shook as they fumbled and slid, and his head felt as light as if he’d supped a quart of brandy on top of the several snifters