Portia Costa - In the Flesh

It suddenly seemed the most important thing on earth to observe the proceedings, and despite branches and fronds of various dripping plants and shrubs almost slapping her in the face, Beatrice edged stealthily around the grotto for a better perspective.

When she achieved it, she clasped her gloved fist to her lips.

Sofia Chamfleur was sucking her husband’s shaft! And thoroughly enjoying it if all her little “mmms” and slithery-liquid sounds of appreciation were to be believed.

Beatrice watched. And watched. And the first shock turned to utter fascination.

I wonder what he tastes like? Is he sweet? Or salty? And what’s his texture? He looks smooth and silky and shiny, even on the length she can’t take in….

Beatrice’s knowledge of men’s bodies and their sexual workings came only from certain volumes she’d studied in the library at Westerlynne, after attacking the lock on the secured cabinet with hairpin. There hadn’t been time to peruse them in as much depth as she would have liked to, but even with only that rudimentary information, it was easy to deduce how much a man like Monsieur Chamfleur enjoyed this act. It must be seventh heaven for any man, pressing the most sensitive part of his anatomy into such a well of heat and moisture and being kissed and licked and sucked by his beloved.

Sofia Chamfleur seemed to be having a fine time of it, too. Despite the fact that her smooth and pretty face was deformed around her husband’s prodigious member, she was attempting a smile and her handsome eyes were sparkling.

She loves to please him.

Reluctant to even think about him now, Beatrice realized that even at her most self-deluded moments, she would never have wanted to kiss Eustace this way. Tommy, probably yes, but Eustace, never! The very idea made her shudder and her skin crawl.

But I’d kiss you, Mr. Ritchie … I’d kiss you.

The idea was preposterous. Ridiculous. Unthinkable. But before she could prevent it, another image sprang into her mind, clearer by far than any risqué photograph.

Instead of the happy Sofia Chamfleur on her knees in front of her beloved Ambrose, Beatrice saw herself, kneeling and sucking enthusiastically, her lips stretched and shiny around the even bigger organ of Edmund Ellsworth Ritchie.

This time her fist didn’t go to her mouth. This time, she couldn’t do anything and was in no danger of uttering a sound. It was as if a giant hand had pushed her sideways, not physically but psychically somehow. The thoughts and images were too shocking for her numbed brain to process, and yet at the same time, she seemed to feel Ritchie’s cock against her tongue.

Licking her lips compulsively, and still half observing the Chamfleurs, Beatrice suddenly experienced the strangest phenomenon. It was as if time itself were slowed down and all thoughts and actions were taking place at a snail’s pace. Her arms fell limp to her sides, and glancing lower inch by inch, she watched the cords and ribbons retaining her fan, her tiny evening reticule and her dance card begin to slide inexorably down the satin slope of her gloved arm and hand.

They’re going to clatter when they land and the Chamfleurs will know I’m here.

In the midst of that thought, she felt less worried about being discovered than she did about disturbing her friends’ pleasure.

What a shame if he doesn’t reach his peak inside her mouth.

But even as these weird observations passed through her mind, and her belongings proceeded at their attenuated pace toward the tiles, another hand, not hers, swept down and caught them.

Who was this prestidigitator, this illusionist? This person who snatched her around the waist at the same time, securing her against him with his other strong hand.

She hadn’t even realized she was falling.

“Hush.”

It was hardly more than a sigh, but she knew the voice, the strength, and the scent of his exquisite shaving lotion. As she breathed it in, her knees were jelly. She couldn’t stand.

The arm around her middle tightened as she sagged, pressing her corset against her body, restricting and controlling her.

“Come along.”

Again, the low voice hummed through her flesh, making the entire length of her torso vibrate where it pressed tight against him. There was no question who it was. It was as if she’d been waiting for him to join her. Somehow waiting since before she’d ever even met him.

Half carrying, half guiding, he began backing her away from the little scene on the bench. The Chamfleurs were completely absorbed in their pleasure, but as Beatrice’s fan swung on its cord, it brushed a palm frond and made it swish and rustle audibly.

Beatrice’s last impression of the jungle grotto was Ambrose Chamfleur glancing her way, smiling briefly, then moaning like a wild animal as his eyes rolled up in crisis.

As soon as they reached a safe distance away from the daring husband and wife, Beatrice tried to struggle against Ritchie’s grip on her then stopped fighting him again, just as quickly. Why give the creature the satisfaction of knowing how much he infuriated her? Especially when there was another distraction it was impossible to ignore.

Against the side of her hip, a sturdy knot of hardness poked at her through the layers of their clothing. And judging by what she’d just seen, back in the hidden grotto, there wasn’t the slightest bit of doubt what it was.

Randy beast!

“Let go of me, Mr. Ritchie,” Beatrice hissed as he manhandled her through a French door and back into the house. They were in another part of the vast Southern mansion now, one some distance from doors by which she’d entered the conservatory.

I’m lost. Lost in a big, strange house with a man who probably has far worse designs on me than Eustace Lloyd ever did.

So why wasn’t she struggling harder? She was a healthy girl with sound limbs, and if a man’s nether regions were as sensitive as Monsieur Chamfleur’s reactions led her to believe, a well-place knee delivered sharply should easily free her.

But you don’t want to be free, do you? proposed a sly, inner voice.

“No, Beatrice. If I let you go, you’ll run away again, and I want to talk to you.” Swiveling her around in his grip, Ritchie’s arms were still unyielding. They held her like iron bands, keeping her jammed up against the hardness at his groin. His cock felt warm and lively against her belly despite the layers and layers of her petticoats.

“It seems to me that you want to do considerably more than talk to me!”

The words came out without her bidding, and worse, her body seemed to have acquired a mind of its own now, too. Her hips jerked and rocked, bumping her abdomen against Ritchie’s loins as if deliberately massaging and caressing him.

What in heaven’s name am I doing?

Her thoughts whirled as he growled. Not quite as loudly and plaintively as Ambrose Chamfleur had done, but still in a way that recognized her desire.

But I don’t want you! No! No! I don’t!

Everything she’d ever read and been taught about ladylike behavior suddenly became nonsense. Stern words that had once tolled in her head were fading, fading. And there was no champagne or other intoxicant to lay the blame on this time. Not even the affection she’d felt for Tommy or misplaced feelings of fondness such as she’d experienced for Eustace.

No, with this man there was nothing more than instinctive antipathy at very first sight, and a low animal reaction to his maleness.

And yet still her hips churned and circled, rubbing her groin against Ritchie’s.

“I can’t deny that, Miss Weatherly. I want to see if that beautiful body of yours is really as luscious as the photographs suggest. I want to touch your skin, stroke you between your legs … taste you there.”