Portia Costa - In the Flesh

All that remained was a cigarette. A mild vice, but it calmed his nerves all the same. Pausing to extract his silver case and light a gasper, he turned briefly and realized that, mired in his troubles, he’d walked a considerable way from the terrace and had ended up almost lost amongst a stand of laburnum bushes.

I should be looking out for Bea. I should be protecting her and sheltering her and steering her away from the likes of Ritchie, and that viper Eustace Lloyd before him. She needs a good man with a bit of money, and a proper home and children. It’s no good we two rattling around at South Mulberry Street together. The house is far too costly to maintain, and we’re getting on each other’s nerves.

Poor Bea. He loved her dearly, and his own guilt made him impatient with her. His sister’s nature was warm and wild, and he loved her for that. But it didn’t make her marriageable. Even her undeniable beauty couldn’t offset the trouble she’d got herself into, posing for those photographs. If only she’d named Lloyd in public as the photographer, they might have had some redress. But she wouldn’t do that, claiming that what was done was done. And because the pair had never been officially engaged, there was no question of breach of promise either.

And now a new set of rumors about her and Ritchie would be circulating. Charlie had seen the eyes of the gossips following the two of them, and the whispered exchanges. Women would be fluttering furiously over the china tea and shortbread during their at-homes in the next few days, and men in clubs all over London would pick over the story while they shuffled cards and consumed brandy and roast beef, weaving salacious fantasies of his sister being debauched by that whoreson Ritchie. He’d already heard murmured asides this very evening about her “moving on to pose in another bed.”

If I’d any guts I’d have shot Eustace Lloyd! One minute he’s as good as proposed to Bea, the next minute she’s not good enough because she posed naked for his camera. Goddammit, he’s the one who sold the photographs anonymously, even if he claims otherwise, and now poor old Bea’s the one who’s ended up alone and ruined.

Charlie’s cigarette tip glowed red as he stood in the shadows, dragging on the thing as if he could suck in good fortune with each breath, and then exhale his self-loathing for not defending his sister better.

After a few moments, the nicotine and the moonlight settled him, and as vague plans and resolutions circled in his head, his senses reached out into the garden.

There was someone else here, just feet away.

“Got a light, friend?” The soft, rough 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.