One Wicked Night Read online

  The manor house, built of golden stone, glowed in the after­noon light as we made our way back through the fields, watched only by drowsy cattle. There was no one looking out from the windows of the house and the world seemed to belong to us alone—and then I remembered that most of the house­hold had decamped to Bath for a fashionable wedding.

  "Thank you, Edward, for your company today, " she said as we began to walk down the allee of arching trees that led to the front of the house. Her words were formal but something in her tone was not. "I did enjoy myself.”

  "As did I, " I answered.

  She paused and looked at me tenderly. I was aware of a sub­tle shift in her mood, as if she had come to a decision on some matter that had long been on her mind. She seemed about to speak—then thought better of it and continued on, walking faster.

  I kept pace with her, still holding her things, tall enough to look down her dress and no longer the awkward youth I had been. Her round breasts rose and fell with each breath, barely concealed by the bodice of her light gown. It was all I could do not to put my arms around her and stop her somehow. I longed suddenly to kiss her, to make my feelings known, to caress her—then Anne turned suddenly and planted herself in my path.

  My hands went around her waist as her face turned upward to mine. Pushing against mine, her body vibrated with an eager­ness that caused my cock to swell. Our lips met in an ardent kiss that went on and on—her mouth was hot and silky wet.

  I was dizzy with delight when she broke it off, still pressing her body to mine. Under the material of her skirts, I felt some­thing delicious: she was rubbing the soft little mound between her legs upon one of my thighs. "Come to me tonight, " she whispered. "No one will know. The only servants left are in the kitchen.”

  "A good mile from your bedchamber, " I whispered back, pressing a kiss to her ear. Not believing my good fortune, I felt compelled to mention the risk we ran. "But should your guardian find out, I will be as good as dead. I will have to fight a duel—or marry you—"

  "He has pledged me to another. I did not tell you.”

  Too surprised to speak for a moment, I brushed my thumb against her cheek. I could reply only with platitudes. "You should have. A woman's wedding day is the happiest of her life, is it not?" I could not fathom why she had kept such important information from me during our days together.

  She was silent for a little while. "Not always. My guardian chose the man. "

  The man. Not my love or even my fiancé. Just the man. It was as if she had been given away to a stranger—and I was to find out later that she had.

  "No one can know of this, Edward.” Anne's troubled eyes searched mine.

  "Of what?"

  "That I have kissed you. And that I want you—desper­ately. "

  Her words took me aback. I was not able to think. Only much later did it occur to me how odd it was that so lovely a woman had been on the shelf so long, as if her guardian had kept her there for himself for some unknown reason. I had given the matter no thought at all before that moment, naive as I was.

  "Of course not. No one will know.” My reply was meant to be soothing but perhaps it sounded automatic. She put her hands on my arms as if to push me away. I had no idea what to do or say.

  Perhaps she wanted me to come to her rescue. But claiming her as my own had been the farthest thing from my mind, de­spite my love for her. There was the difference in our age, and— and perhaps I knew even then that romantic fantasy is rather better than the cold realities of married life.

  An odd silence came between us. What did I not know about Anne? She could not be a virgin, I suddenly thought. Her knowing air and the speed with which she had issued such a wanton invitation to me made that suddenly clear. But I was. I wanted her. And she had said she wanted me.

  How often had I stripped off my clothes and tossed them upon a chair, never giving a second thought to my nakedness? I felt different now, undressing by candlelight before a woman who was still clothed, obeying her soft commands, desiring only to please her in every way for this, my first time. Unlike my friends, I had yet to go a-whoring in the brothels of Lon­don or slake my lust with a willing servant girl. I was protected from such temptation by my boyhood love for Anne. Once she had decided to seduce me, I wanted to be totally and com­pletely hers.

  Not knowing quite what to do, hoping she would explain what it was she wanted before I made a fool of myself, I stood before her as she sat in an armchair, my cock so hard and stand­ing up so stiffly from the soft curls at its base that it could not jut out unless I held it and forced it down. She would not let me clasp myself.

  "Stand with your legs apart. I would see all of you, Edward. "

  Again I obeyed. Her hand slid between my thighs and touched my balls, stroking with a teasing touch. Expertly she drew down my foreskin and put her sweet lips around the head of my cock, tasting the clear drop of fluid that sprang from the small hole with just the tip of her tongue. I could feel her fin­gers play upon my balls, which tightened. A strong rush of sen­sation—too soon, too soon—made me push her hands away and pull my cock from her mouth.

  I closed my eyes and drew in long breaths, willing myself to wait. Anne murmured something I could not quite hear. I opened my eyes and looked down at her. She had unlaced her bodice and was fondling her breasts while staring at my cock. Stiff as a soldier but more of a gentleman than I, the damned thing bobbed its head.

  "So you know that you must not come too soon—very good. My pleasure takes longer. Ah, you are truly a man at last. I love to look at you."

  The mirror opposite reflected us both. She was a picture of erotic delicacy, pulling her nipples with slender fingers, poised upon the chair in a light summer dress that was coming apart little by little as she undid this and opened that. In contrast to her femininity, I had filled out by that summer and was indeed a man, far more muscular than I had been as a youth of eigh­teen. If the sight of me naked aroused her so readily, then she might feast her eyes upon me as long as she liked.

  "Turn around, " she said. "Ah. Even better. Now bend over. Like that—yes. "

  I braced my hands upon my knees and did as she bade me. Again a soft hand reached between my legs to stroke my balls. The curious subservience of the position did not trouble me—I have thought since that if men love to study women's private parts in every possible way, it is only fitting that we should allow them the same privilege.

  Her hand reached further to stroke my member with subtle motions. Anne ran her fingertips along the engorged veins in a way that made me tremble with renewed lust.

  She stopped and ran her hands over my arse, soothing me until I straightened, then stroking the backs of my thighs until I turned around. Her touch was highly sensual and obviously skilled—I knew then that my lovely lady found her greatest pleasure in teaching young men the arts of sexual love.

  Desiring to be initiated with all my heart, on fire with erotic sensation, it mattered not at all to me if I was not the first who had submitted to her gentle will. Indeed, in my present state the thought of the others aroused me even more. It was as if I could see them in her dreamy eyes, displaying the same impossibly high erection I had.

  Her dress had slipped off her shoulders and lay in folds about her waist. Then, knowing I was watching her every move, Anne lifted and pushed aside the flowing material to display her cunny. I had seen other such but none so pretty. There were the servants that Thomas and I spied on, an occasional slut who hoisted her bedraggled skirts to display her wares in London lanes, and only once, a tight, shaved slit belonging to a noblewoman in a carriage who took a peculiar pleasure in ex­hibiting herself to men, then riding on.

  But Anne's was irresistible, with deep-pink folds inside blond curls, a honeypot dripping with sweetness. I dropped to my knees, eager to taste her. I was clumsy at first but I soon under­stood what excited her most. She spread her thighs far apart and leaned back upon the accommodating armchair, pushing her hips forward. Then she ran he
r fingers through my hair, draw­ing my head down so my mouth was on her cunny and firmly keeping it there.

  I began to lick eagerly, exploring the succulent flesh with my tongue, flicking it over the little bit at the top—ah, that was best of all. Anne writhed and held my head more closely to her private parts. Small but highly sensitive under the hood of skin, the bit of flesh felt like a little rod. Sucking it seemed only natural. And so I took it between my lips and sucked it with gentle emphasis, aware of her ever-increasing pleasure from her moans.

  Two might tease. Novice that I was, I let go and sat back on my haunches, resting my hands on her thighs to hold them open and look at what I had been tasting. Anne opened her eyes and tried to sit up, but I prevented her and made her slide her arse down instead.

  Then I lifted her legs up nearly to her shoulders and told her to hold them there, guessing that her cunny would be nicely squeezed between her thighs. She obeyed me this time, clasping her legs behind her knees and hiding her face behind them. I liked seeing her this way, legs, arse, and cunny, presented for my pleasure. Her labia were swollen, flushed with sexual excitement, and dripping with a warm juice that I lapped up, slowly at first, then faster.

  In this position I could also see her arsehole, and touched it tentatively, not sure if women enjoyed the sort of sport in which stableboys indulged, bending each other over bales of hay to fuck and be fucked.

  I was growing bolder and bolder, my status as an initiate soon to be over. Anne had given up the secrets of her body one by one, and the pulsing spot under my fingertip was the last. The juice from her cunny trickled down and wet my finger lib­erally. Without further ado, I thrust it in.

  Anne cried out with pleasure. Her arsehole was quite tight at first, but she seemed to welcome my exploring finger in that place, and I enjoyed her shamelessness.

  My cock was ready to explode. I got up, and handled her somewhat roughly and ripped the dress off. I cared nothing for who might see it on the morrow.

  She kissed and caressed me with wild abandon as I carried her to the bed and tossed her down as she laughed with antici­pation. Anne got on all fours and begged me to enter her. I re­fused. Standing behind her, I spread and spanked her buttocks until they turned bright pink. She moaned her satisfaction with my firm treatment of her flesh, whispering of her taste for the birch, taking and giving. Ah—my early fantasy of her whipping Lucy had been real enough. Had I a bundle of slender twigs at hand, I would have done that to Anne too.

  It seemed no surprise to her that a relative innocent could suddenly seem so sure of himself. For my part, I found out that one could learn many things very quickly when nature had its wild way. With my finger and thumb, I stretched her cunny lips apart and looked within. The glistening folds opened slightly, so swollen that only a thick and extraordinarily stiff cock could penetrate them.

  I grasped mine and came closer, pushing just the head into the soft heat of her cunny. I told her not to move—the delicate sensation of her ever-swelling flesh enfolding my knob was a thrill like nothing I had ever experienced. I rested my hands upon her back at her waist, the heat from her thoroughly spanked arse perceptible on my skin, and simply waited.

  To have my love in this way, poised and still, her ragged breathing the only motion she allowed herself, in deference to my wishes, was a very great pleasure and one I wished to savor.

  But the involuntary tightening of my groin and balls made me enter her with one powerful thrust. Anne cried out and rocked back, banging her hot arse against me. I clasped her waist and gave myself over to the sensations flooding through me, not wanting to come, unwilling to stop. She seemed strong enough to carry my weight and so I dropped down over her to hold her bouncing tits in my hands. The feel of her erect nip­ples in the center of my palms was all it took. I rammed her with all my strength as the first scorching jet pulsed through my cock—then another, and another, until it seemed that my very soul desired release.

  Together we found it... and as the hours went by, much more. I was well-schooled in her loving arms and taught every­thing I needed to know about how to please a woman. Young as I was, I thought at the time that the only one I would ever want was her. It was not to be.

  After that night, we were parted forever. From all reports she was soon married and a dutiful wife in the end, safe and se­cure as women must be, since they cannot make their own way in the world, but must needs rely upon the strength and sup­port of men.

  But I wondered during the ensuing years if I had been her last young lover. Certainly it was not a subject that I would ever discuss with Thomas. My correspondence with him never even mentioned Anne—he knew nothing of my affair with his older sister and I wanted to keep it that way.

  But I have heard that Thomas has returned from the West Indies just this year. If I should see him on the street, I will en­quire after her.

  Three

  Several weeks later...

  So much for my past. One's youth passes swiftly and I have no regrets (but then I am only thirty—give me time).

  To return to Xavi or rather, my memories of Xavi, it is nec­essary to sort through the collection of papers at last. It will not take long and I am feeling more level-headed than usual where that lady is concerned. But then, I have had time to think.

  The weather has been dreadful and I have been too much in the house, watching the rain streak down the tall windows and the wind lash the trees. When it eases, which is not often, I take to the streets, but the ebb and flow of London humanity is as dispiriting as the brimming river that threatens daily to over­flow its banks.

  One look at the sweet-faced girls and the eager youths who pursue them, one look more at the older women whose eyes tell of their disappointment in life and the careworn men who hurry along the cobblestones, and the sadness at my heart over­whelms me.

  But sequestering myself within these walls is not the answer. Albermarle Street is pleasant enough and this house, which be­longed to my late father, serves my purposes. I can write undis­turbed, sleep alone if I wish, my everyday needs seen to by capable servants... but I often find the rooms unbearably lonely. For that reason, I am out and about more often than I am here.

  The past is a trap. Perhaps it was a mistake to set down my memories of Anne a month ago. I did love her. My subsequent affairs were about physical pleasure and little more. Easily ob­tainable from lovers who were easily replaceable.

  Xavi, the wife of a jealous brute who had no real use for her, was unique. And she was taken. Perhaps I fell in love with her because I knew I could not have her all to myself. Ah, our stolen hours were infinitely precious to me—damnation! Re­membering her when I am alone is unwise. What happened is all in the past and I ought not to brood as I do. But there is no one I can tell of my real feelings. A pragmatist like Quinn would only laugh at me. Besides, it is easy enough to distract myself. I frequent coffeehouses and inns and places like that, where the hubbub drowns out the echo of memory.

  Lately all the talk is of the great storm off the coast of Por­tugal, which sent a fleet of merchantmen straight to the bottom and sank the fortunes of the fleet's backers and insurers as well. By the grace of God, many were saved. But the cargo was not and I so I find myself without the brandy I prefer.

  Perhaps the Almighty took it for Himself, along with the drowned sailors. Such rough fellows will make odd angels, I suspect, but it is said that our Heavenly Father loves us all. I would venture to present myself as an exception.

  Does that sound cynical? I am not a religious man, although I do not mind the practice of it in others.

  My dear Xavi had been raised according to the rites of Rome— penance and confession and such—in fact, Quinn painted her with a rosary of fine pearls wound around her fingers. All the same, my talented friend could not make her look pious.

  Ah. I have found the etching I was looking for, reproducing that very portrait. It is a handsome one, as crisp as the day it was pressed and pulled from the engraver's plate. Un
signed, though.

  Miss Reynaud swore it was not her handiwork, though she excelled at drawing from Quinn's lively art, and also supervised the engraver who worked from her drawings, or from his scan­dalous sketches—she sniffed at these.

  Inexpensive reproductions were displayed by the dozen in printshops and popular subjects—adorable children, virtuous daughters, country cottages—were quite profitable. Risqué subjects made even more money. At two guineas for six etch­ings, in print runs of, oh, two thousand at a time, Quinn did very well indeed. Of course, he spent the guineas nearly as fast as they came in, taking pride in being dissipated and wild, like most artists.

  It was a good thing that Miss Reynaud put up with him. She insisted on skillful engraving, disgusted by the look of prints pulled from plates that had been used too many times. The bet­ter the quality, the happier the customer. She also excelled at ex­tracting payment from printsellers, thus ensuring her meager wages would be promptly paid.

  But Quinn did not sell cheap versions of his commissioned portraits. His wealthy patrons would have abandoned him in droves.

  They abhorred the crowds that gathered outside the display in the printseller's, exclaiming and pointing—and sometimes going in to rent an entire portfolio for a night's amusement. Such private viewings had less to do with the appreciation of art than with seeing the nude female body in all its splendor.

  Quinn had little interest in producing male nudes, but other artists supplied the demand.

  My secretary, Richard Whiston, collected these by the dozen, favoring Grecian themes: young athletes, mighty wrestlers, satyrs, and so forth. To each his own.

  He lived—and still does—with another man in perfect har­mony. They have long been together, a fact that Richard attrib­utes to the open nature of their relationship. Their love endured; their passions were fleeting. The arrangement is not uncommon within his milieu—I often heard outré tales of this world from him, but I will not repeat them upon these pages.