Chapter Three

Beatrice

 

 

 

Rough wetness woke Miranda from incoherent dreams of naked flesh. Perched on her pillow, Heathcliff had decided to give her forehead a thorough bath. For a moment she lay still, feigning sleep, feeling the pressure of late-morning sun on her closed eyelids. Her feline companion was not fooled. He meowed sharply, criticizing her for lying abed, and most particularly for neglecting his breakfast.

“All right, kitten, I get the message,” Miranda pretended to grumble. She shuffled into the kitchen and refilled the cat’s food bowl. “There you go.” Heathcliff rewarded her with a satisfying rub against her bare legs before turning his attention to his meal.

Miranda felt oddly cheerful. She recalled the lewd scenes of the previous evening, but she felt no shame, only a sense of distance. Someone else had sucked Marcus’ cock and fingered Marla’s clit, some stranger who at times emerged from within her psyche then faded back into the shadows. She was not responsible—she could not control this other self.

Still, there was a faint buzz of excitement. She felt energized and enthusiastic. “Today,” she announced to the still-munching Heathcliff, “I’m going to get lots of work done.”

She sat down at her desk and began rereading the excerpt from The Maid’s Tale, carefully recording each detail that corroborated her theory, occasionally consulting some other text or typing a few sentences into her computer. Only when she reached the sodomy scene, when the nameless gentleman penetrated the virginal back passage of his young servant, did she falter. Unbidden, the image of Marla holding the dildo rose before her. Unsought, there was the sensation of that slender finger sliding back and forth in the crack between Miranda’s rear cheeks. The memory was, if anything, more intense than the actual experience, for desire was heightened by a sense of the forbidden that had been mostly lacking the night before.

Miranda sighed, and closed her eyes. This won’t do, she thought, but she was helpless to stem lascivious recollection that flooded over her. She ached again, remembering the supple beauty of the twins, the proud shaft of Marcus’ penis filling her mouth and cunt, the clove flavor of Marla’s kiss. Her nipples puckered under her loose T-shirt. The crotch of her jeans was suddenly unbearably tight against her swelling sex. She felt a wild urge to tear off her clothes and plunge her hands into that hot, hungry space between her legs.

With difficulty, she gained control of herself. No, she told herself sternly. Not now. She realized that this implied a ‘later’. So be it, she thought, turning to the manuscript for My Secret Life.

This multi-volume work took the form of a biography or memoir, a confession and a celebration of the author’s sexual exploits. The memoir was a common form in Victorian erotica, as Miranda had explained to her advisor and the new lecturer. Unlike most such works, however, My Secret Life was generally acknowledged by scholars to be a true—if perhaps exaggerated—account of its narrator’s pleasures and perversities. For Miranda’s thesis, it formed a touchstone, a standard against which other texts could be compared.

Miranda spent hours following ‘Walter’, from stable to brothel to adulterous bedroom, as he engaged in prodigious and outrageous erotic feats. She seemed to be better able to concentrate, perhaps because these tales were told from a masculine perspective, or perhaps because the narrator himself seemed somehow detached from his debauched activities.

It grew warm in the apartment. Miranda opened the window, letting in the deliciously mild spring breeze and the faint sounds of children and traffic. Heathcliff sprawled on the rug in a pool of sunlight, his whiskers twitching occasionally as he slept. After a few moments admiring him, she returned to her reading.

Walter was on a train, rogering some chance-met lady in his private compartment. Her bodice unbuttoned, her skirts and petticoats raised, her lace-trimmed drawers around her ankles, she was moaning delicately as Walter plunged in and out of her love pouch. In and out, in rhythm with the wheels on the tracks, Walter thrust his insatiable prick into her juicy depths, in and out, in a coupling that lasted hours, as the train grew closer to London where the lady’s husband awaited her.

Miranda’s eyelids felt heavy, as if she were being lulled to sleep by the train’s rolling beat. The afternoon sun threw slanting shafts of gold across the hardwood floor of her room. Heathcliff’s rug was in shadow now, and he was curled into a tight spiral.

“I’ll just lay down for a few minutes,” Miranda told herself. “After all, I’ve gotten a lot accomplished this afternoon.”

 

* * * *

 

She dreamed, coherently, lucidly, knowing that she dreamed. She stood before a tall oval mirror, outfitted in full Victorian costume—lace cravat at her high-buttoned neck and lace at her wrists, fitted cuirass waist of fine gray gabardine, gathered overskirt of the same and underskirt of flounced gray silk. Her jet locks were piled high on her head in elaborate swirls and rolls. Garnets set in gold dangled from her earlobes, and a matching brooch adorned her throat. She was holding her breath, it seemed, and she recognized this pressure as the embrace of her corset, encasing her flesh in a manner that was oddly comforting. She moved slightly, watching her skirts sway gracefully, noting how the gaslight made her jewels sparkle.

“Shall I help you to undress, Mistress?” The voice was familiar, though the inflection was not. Miranda turned to see her roommate Lucy, dressed as a lady’s maid, with a starched white collar and apron and matching cap atop her blonde curls. The girl’s expression was demure and respectful, but Miranda caught a hint of mischievous gaiety underneath the proper demeanor.

“Yes, please, Lucy, if you would be so kind.”

“With pleasure, Mistress,” she replied. She began unfastening the dozens of buttons along Miranda’s spine, until the fitted top hung loose from Miranda’s shoulders. Then, coming round to face her mistress, Lucy took hold of the long, tight sleeves and pulled the garment off. Next came the main skirt, which was tied around her waist, then the bustle and underskirt.

As the maid worked, Miranda noticed, she allowed her hands to linger slightly on her mistress’ body—an apparently accidental brush of fingertips across Miranda’s breast, a tracing of her hipline while removing a petticoat, a bare palm on the bare flesh of Miranda’s back as her corset was unlaced. Miranda was sure that these brief touches were deliberate, and meant to inflame her senses.

And so they did. When she stood, finally, wearing only her chemise, drawers and stockings, Miranda noted in the mirror the nubs of her taut nipples, pushing through the fine cotton, the flush on her cheeks, the way her chest rose and fell with her heightened breathing. She could feel the growing tension in her sex, wound like a coiling spring, pressing for release. A warm golden aura emanated from her form, pulsing and flickering like a candle’s flame. The rest of the room grew indistinct.

In the mirror, her eyes met those of the saucy maid, who stared back, boldly provocative, abandoning all pretense of propriety. “And now your hair, ma’am?”

“Yes, Lucy.” The maid removed pins and combs, and Miranda’s raven locks tumbled down over her bare shoulders. Lucy’s fingers trailed lightly down the side of Miranda’s neck, along her collarbone, then into the hollow between her breasts. Miranda felt the tension in her vagina wind tighter.

The dream’s richness of detail, the vividness of sensation, amazed her. The delicate fabric of her undergarments draped loosely on her frame, semi-transparent. Miranda could detect the shadow of her black pubic curls through the cloth. Lightly, she touched herself there, with one finger, and shivered as sparks traveled up her spine. With her other hand, she cupped her breast, pushing it up and outwards so that the chemise was stretched tight and she could see, like a dark ghost, the rosy halo around her nipple. Lucy watched all the while, her blue eyes sparkling with her own lust.

“You are a very naughty girl, Lucy,” she said finally. “I’m not sure what I should do with you.”

“Leave that to us, Madame.” Miranda was startled by a masculine voice, coming from somewhere behind her. She whirled round to find herself confronted by five men in riding clothes, complete with top hats and high, shiny boots. They wore masks, not dominos but flesh-colored contrivances that covered the whole upper half of their faces, leaving only mouth and chin visible.

Her boudoir had unaccountably metamorphosed into a library or study, full of shadows, polished wood and dark leather. A fire burned on a hearth to her right, framed by two oversized chairs. Directly in front of her, behind the phalanx of masked men, stood a heavy table of carved mahogany. Miranda had a vague impression of glazed floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, statues on corner pedestals, windows shrouded in folds of burgundy velvet.

The man in the middle spoke again. His voice was hauntingly familiar, though he was as anonymous as the other gentlemen who flanked him. “Indeed, Madame, you have been acting most improperly yourself. I expect that my friends and I need to teach you a lesson as well.”

A frisson of fear shook her, followed almost immediately by a surge of arousal. “Lucy, remove her chemise and knickers. Leave on the stockings. They will emphasize her nakedness.”

Almost gleefully, Lucy obeyed. Miranda felt helpless, somehow, to speak up or object. The common dream-sensation of being rooted to the spot, unable to flee, held her in thrall. Now she stood nude in front of them, blushing deeply with the knowledge that her nipples were visibly erect and that a careful observer would note traces of moisture on her thighs.

The spokesman continued. His companions remained mute. “You are very lovely, Madame, and very depraved.” He turned to one of his assistants, handing him a silk handkerchief. “Blindfold her. It will heighten her shame, and her arousal, to be unable to tell which of us is abusing her.”

The designated gentleman, slightly shorter than the spokesman, followed instructions. He circled behind Miranda, and she closed her eyes in anticipation. Instead of silk caressing her eyelids, however, she felt rough hands on her breasts, pinching and pulling. This hurt, and yet caused the fires in her sex to flare even higher.

After a moment, the man behind her resumed his task. She felt cool silk against her face, then a sharp tug as the knot was tied. All was blackness as she was led toward the table.

Yet, this was a dream, and dreams are fundamentally visual. Thus, even though Miranda experienced the deprivation of sight, and the intensification of her other senses, she also found herself looking on the scene from the outside, like a disembodied presence, or perhaps, the scene’s director.

Two of the men lifted her onto the polished mahogany surface and positioned her there, on her back, near one end of the table. They bent her legs at the knee and spread her thighs, so that her sex was open and exposed to all of them. Though she did not struggle, two men took hold of her ankles as if to restrain her. She felt motion and warmth there, between her thighs, and when the leader spoke again, she could tell he was very close.

“You are in our power, Madame You are clearly guilty and deserve punishment. And yet you are obviously, shamefully, wet with perverse desire.” He ran one finger swiftly through her folds, from back to front, ending with a sharp flick to her clit. She squirmed uncontrollably. Then he held the finger below her nostrils, forcing her to breathe her own sharp, musky scent. “You are wanton, Madame, and should be whipped.”

Miranda smelled leather, and felt a light touch running down the inside of her thigh. His riding crop—she was certain. At one level she was terrified. She wanted to protest her innocence—though she knew she was not—to beg for mercy. Yet she was silent, seething with passive lust, secretly inviting him to torment her, to mark her, to use his power over her. Her body shuddered, half in fear and half in frustration.

The unseen man laughed a little. “However, I am feeling merciful, and so the only rod you will suffer tonight will be made of flesh.” He paused for two beats. “Starting with mine.” And with no preparation or warning, he plunged a rock-hard dick into her depths.

Miranda screamed, with surprise, pain and pleasure, so mingled that she felt her senses swimming. He rode her with a fury that left her no respite. With each stroke, it seemed that his cock grew thicker and longer, so that she feared she would burst. Now her other eyes were closed, and all she knew was sensation in the dark, sensation so acute that she thought she would faint.

Meanwhile she smelled man-scent and sensed another cock above her, prodding her lips open. Obedient, hungry, she sucked this new cock into her mouth even as her cunt swallowed the first.

There was an explosion between her legs, a flood of cum washing out of her as she was left empty. But only for a moment—another cock slammed into her, taking up where the first had left off, stretching and filling her till she would have cried out, had not her mouth also been full of male flesh.

The owner of the cock in her mouth pulled out, though she sucked hard, trying to hold onto him. A loud grunt issued from his throat, then semen splattered her face. She licked her lips. The strange, acrid taste made her want more, more of anything they were willing to give her.

“You dirty girl, you like that, don’t you?” It was the leader, close to her ear. “You would like us to come in your mouth, on your tits, in your cunt, in your ass. Wouldn’t you?”

Miranda still could not speak, but she nodded. It was true, all true. She would give them anything they wanted, these strangers. She craved their touch, their caress, their abuse.

A brief emptiness between her legs, then there was a new penis inside her, hands twisting her nipples, a cock knocking for entry to her mouth, a finger tickling her anus and threatening entry. All was dark, wet, confused, painful, hungry, hot. The vision melted, lost its clarity and flowed into the kaleidoscope of image, idea and sensation more typical of dreams. There was one last sharp picture, though, seen as if from above—her own naked body, splayed and helpless in the hands of five masked strangers, while Lucy sat in one of the armchairs with her petticoats above her waist, completely abandoned, frigging herself as she watched the ravishing of her mistress. And one last thought. As Miranda swam toward wakefulness, she recognized the voice of the spokesman. It was her colleague Mark Anderson.

 

* * * *

 

Miranda’s eyes flew open. The room was dark. Her heart pounded wildly and she was drenched with sweat. Meanwhile both her hands were clasped tight between her thighs, and the denim at her crotch was soaked.

For a moment the shreds of the dream hung around her. She felt a presence, heard echoes of the voice that had orchestrated her humiliating pleasure.

Heathcliff broke the spell, springing onto the bed with a throaty cry and rubbing his chin against her shoulder. She sat up, ran her fingers through her tangled hair, and took a deep breath. Quite a dream. She didn’t allow herself to dwell on the details. How strange, though, that Anderson had found his way into her subconscious. He was attractive, she had to admit, and had that mocking, familiar manner, so appropriate to the dream scenario. But she had only met him once. She hadn’t realized he’d made such a strong impression.

She noticed, suddenly, that she was famished. In fact she had eaten nothing since breakfast, and now it was nearly eight o’clock in the evening. “Come on, Heath,” she called on her way to the kitchen.

She was preparing a light supper of bread, fruit and cheese—with a nice slice of sharp cheddar for Heathcliff—when the phone rang. Miranda recognized Lucy’s voice, and discovered that she was blushing.

“Hey, Mir, how are you? What have you been up to?” Lucy’s voice was affectionate. Miranda could not help but picture her garbed as a Victorian domestic.

“Oh, nothing much. I spent most of today working,” said Miranda, trying to sound casual, neutral. Meanwhile, her nipples were like little pebbles and her sex pulsed with instant heat. Heavens, she told herself, it was only a dream. But she could not banish the image of Lucy masturbating.

She was terrified that her roommate would ask what she had done the previous night. Lucy had other news, however.

“I won’t even bother to tell you that you work too hard—I’ve given up on you! As for me, though, I’m going to take some time off.”

“Oh?”

“Ray has invited me to go to Paris with him. He has some business there, and he wants me to come along. And he has promised me that if I do, it won’t be all business!”

“So, things are going well between you and Ray?”

“Incredibly well. You wouldn’t believe it. Hey, I wouldn’t have believed it. After all this time, all those guys, to finally fall in love…”

“In love?” Miranda smiled, skeptical, but happy that Lucy was enjoying herself.

“Yes. Now don’t rain on my parade, my practical, sensible roommate. I know I’ve said this before, but I didn’t understand. This is it. The real thing.”

“Well, I hope so, for your sake.”

“Oh, it is. You’ll see. Anyway, what better place to be in love than Paris?”

“What better place, indeed!” There was a funny, awkward moment of silence. Miranda wondered what was going through Lucy’s mind.

“So, when do you leave?”

“Tomorrow night. I’ll drop by the apartment tomorrow afternoon to pack. Will you be around?”

Miranda swallowed hard, suddenly nervous about encountering her roommate face to face. It was only a dream, she reminded herself. Sure, Lucy was sexually adventurous, but her interests seemed to be strictly focused on men. “I’m not sure. My schedule is sort of up in the air.” There was another strange pause. “If I don’t see you, Luce, have a wonderful time.”

“I’m sure that I will, Mir. And the same to you, too. Okay?”

“Okay.” Miranda swallowed hard as she hung up. There was her heart again, thudding against her ribs. Her mouth was dry and her sex was damp. What in the world was happening to her?

She took her plate and a glass of white wine back to her desk, where the brass lamp made a warm pool of gold in the darkened room. A mild night breeze ruffled the drapes and whispered in the corners, fragrant with spring. Intoxicating. Voices soft in the alley, the creak of a door hinge, the distant wail of a saxophone—the city breathed outside her window, full of mystery.

Miranda felt alert, wired, electricity in her veins. She ate thoughtfully, pondering her actions and feelings over the past few days. I thought that I knew myself, knew what I wanted, knew what was important, she mused. Now everything is unclear, everything except this lust, which blazes up in me without warning.

She had an inspiration. Perhaps she should write about it, record her feelings and experiences, externalize it all. Through most of her childhood and adolescence, she had kept a journal, using it as a mirror to confront her fears and her desires. Only after Geoffrey left her had she stopped. It was just too painful to write and to remember.

Miranda recalled the leather-bound Victorian diary. Perfect. The irony somehow pleased her—a modern student of Victorian excess using the historic journal to chronicle her own lustful explorations. She retrieved the diary from her desk drawer, located her fountain pen, opened the volume to the first page.

The blank, velvety parchment invited her. Confide in me. Trust me with your secrets.

How should she begin, though? Miranda sat for a long time, pen poised over the paper, reviewing the events and emotions of the last few days. Heathcliff sat on the corner of her desk, fixing her with his typical unblinking stare.

Miranda ignored the feline, her eyes focused inward. Heathcliff’s gaze became a challenge. Still, she did not respond. Deliberately, the cat reached out a striped paw toward her wine glass. With the graceful economy of motion typical of his species, he nudged at the stem, just enough to send a torrent of Pinot Grigio spilling over the desk and diary.

“Heathcliff!” Miranda sprang from her seat to avoid being drenched with wine herself. “Bad cat!” She rushed to get a towel to sop up the moisture. “Oh, Heathcliff,” she said reproachfully, “how could you?”

The cat curled up on the corner of the desk, looking not the least chagrined. Meanwhile, the diary, though wet through, did not appear to be damaged. Miranda arranged it under the lamp, hoping that the heat from the incandescent bulb would help to dry the pages, and went out to the kitchen to wash her hands and refill her glass.

She returned to a marvel. The cream-colored pages baking in the lamplight were no longer blank. Even as she watched, writing darkened and became more distinct.

The hand was even, ornate, old-fashioned. And definitely feminine. Miranda could hardly breathe with the excitement. Someone else had confided in this diary, someone so chary of her secrets that she’d used disappearing ink for her confessions. As Miranda watched, the date at top of the page became clear.

 

June 12, 1886

I scarcely know how to commence this account of my adventures and my sins. Indeed, I do not fully understand why I feel compelled to commit these things to writing. Clearly, my purpose is not to review and relive these experiences in the future, for in twenty minutes’ time these sentences will be invisible even to me. Perhaps in the years ahead, I will trail my fingers across the empty parchment, colored like flesh, and the memories will come alive without the words, coaxed from the pages by my touch like flames bursting from cold embers.

I have a secret life, another self, and that secret has become a burden that I clutch to myself, and yet would be relieved of. So, like the Japanese who write their deepest desires on slips of rice paper and then burn them, I write of secret joys and yearnings, and send that writing into oblivion.

Let me begin again. My name is Beatrice. The world sees me as poised, prosperous, respectable, wife of one of Boston’s leading merchants and industrialists, mother of two sweet children, lady of a fine brick house on fashionable Mount Vernon Street, with Viennese crystal chandeliers, Chinese porcelain, French velvet draperies, and Italian marble fireplaces. I devote myself to the education of my dear Daniel and Louisa, the management of my household, works of charity, cultural afternoons. In sum, the many and sundry details of maintaining oneself in proper society.

Though I have borne two children, I am still considered beautiful. Indeed, with my golden locks, fair skin, turquoise eyes and rosy lips, I am often compared to an angel. How little they know, those who so describe me. For in truth, I am depraved, wanton, and lecherous, so lost that I do not even regret my fall.

My husband is a kind, intelligent, and honorable man, for whom I have the deepest regard and affection. He treats me with the utmost consideration and respect; he rarely comes to my bed and when he does, he is profuse with apologies for his unfortunate lust. Alas, he hardly knows or understands me. I understand him to a much greater extent, enough to know that I must lie still and silent under him, not move or cry out as his manhood dances inside me. Everyone knows that for proper women, the rites of the flesh are a trial that must be endured; men are subject to carnal weakness, and women’s lot is to be the passive receptacle of their spending. This is what my husband believes. Knowing he believes this takes the fire from the moment, and makes it easier for me to play my frigid, compliant role.

I know better, though.

Today, I walked in Louisburg Square with Daniel, Louisa, and their nurse. The weather was glorious, sky of limpid blue sown with fluffy clouds, new leaves dancing in the breeze. My parasol raised against the sun, I did not see him until he was almost upon us.

He was of medium height, sumptuously attired, as fair-haired and blue-eyed as I. His mouth had a fullness that I liked, the look of someone who savors the sweet things in life, and a readiness to smile. As he swept off his hat and bowed, I noticed his hands, with long delicate fingers clad in beige kid gloves.

“Good afternoon, Madame,” he said courteously. “I trust that you and your children are enjoying this fine weather.”

Meanwhile, his eyes were sending me a different, more intimate message, which would have been lost on someone who was not sensitized to such things. There were no words in this message, only images, emotions, sensation, a quickening of breath, a heat, a tightening.

I am perpetually amazed at how we recognize each other, those of us who live beyond the pale of propriety. Is it some primal scent that we exude? Some subtle clue in posture or expression? Could it in fact be some spiritual connection, a mingling of thoughts in the ether? The mechanism is obscure to me, but I know the phenomenon only too well. I have sat in a concert hall with two hundred elegantly dressed, respectable members of proper society and found my eyes drawn to a single face in the balcony, a set of eyes that knew me, saw through my finery to the hungry flesh beneath.

“Good afternoon, Sir,” I said, my voice low and modest. “It is indeed fine, especially for so early in the season.”

“Of course, that may indicate that it will become hot sooner than usual.” The gentleman’s eyes sparkled with humor at his little private joke. Hot indeed, I thought to myself, adjusting my expression to signal some slight disapproval.

“I do not believe that I have the pleasure of your acquaintance, Sir,” I said.

“Forgive me for my lack of courtesy.” He reached into his waistcoat, withdrew a card and wrote something upon it. “Here is my card.”

“Thank you.” I examined the card. It was not, in fact, a visiting card, but a blank upon which he had inscribed the following few words:

 

Ten O’clock this evening

No. __ Beacon Street

With respect and hope,

Charles Burnside

His name was unknown to me. Clearly he must be one of the many visitors to our prosperous city. I gave him my most luminous smile. “Perhaps we will meet again, Sir.”

“I do hope so, Madame. Adieu for now.”

I swept past him, my silks rustling, my heart pounding deliciously.

My husband was away this evening, as he so often is, visiting his mills in Lowell or consulting with his agents in New York. I would never risk one of my encounters if he were at home. He is a pillar of Boston society, universally admired and respected. He has even been urged to stand for the Legislature in the next election. Never would I allow the slightest hint of scandal to tarnish his good name. I am scrupulously careful in my dark liaisons. Even these private words will vanish shortly, so that there should be no evidence of my shameful behavior.

Tonight, however, I was free to pursue my desires. After the children had been put to bed and their nurse was on guard at their side, my maid Pauline assisted me in my preparations. Pauline is the only soul who knows my secrets. I trust that she will take them with her to her grave. She is French, and experienced in the ways of the world. She does not condemn me for listening to the siren call of the flesh, though she sometimes regards me with a strange light in her eyes.

I chose my costume with care, a rich but somber dress of midnight blue poult de soie, with a cashmere mantle to match. I wished to appear respectable, remote, and infinitely desirable. My hair shone like spun gold in contrast with the dark fabric, and my eyes had depths like the ocean. I donned my hat and veiled my face, then followed Pauline out the back door and into the alley where the hansom carriage she had summoned awaited me.

The address he provided proved to be a small townhouse facing the Common, with fine leaded glass windows. A sour-faced domestic answered the bell, took my wrap, and led me to the drawing room, which was furnished with indifferent taste.

My fair-haired Charles leaped up as I entered, his face glowing.

“You’ve come, Madame! I hardly dared hope.”

“I could scarcely refuse such an enigmatic invitation,” I said, holding out my gloved hand. He bent to touch it to his lips, then stopped himself. “If you will permit me,” he said with a shy smile. Then without waiting for my reply, he stripped the glove off my fingers and planted a delicate kiss on my bare palm.

This first exquisite touch sent shivers through my body and left me slightly faint. Already I was melting in the rising flames of my own desire. A sigh escaped me. In any case my companion already knew how he had aroused me. His youthful eyes sparkled as he perceived my flushed cheeks and the rise and fall of my breath.

“My apologies for the appointments here,” he said after a long moment, punctuated by the beat of my heart. “I am renting these lodgings while I have business in Boston. Can I offer you some tea, Madame? Or perhaps a glass of wine?”

“A sip of sherry would be delightful,” I answered, struggling to control my voice. “I find that my throat is a bit dry.”

“It will be my privilege,” he said. He went over to the sideboard and returned after a moment with two crystal goblets brimming with golden liquid.

“To chance meetings,” he said, raising his glass to his lips.

“To pleasure,” I countered boldly, looking deep into his eyes. They were the same clear blue of today’s sky, and equally full of promise. Between my thighs I felt the heat of the coming summer.

We sipped for a moment in silence.

“What should I call you, Madame?” he asked archly. “‘Madame’ seems a bit formal under the current circumstances.”

“Angela,” I told him. I often use that name on my midnight sorties. The irony somehow pleases me.

“Lady Angela, you are truly a vision from heaven. I would be honored if you would allow me to undress you, so that I might better appreciate your divine form.”

Once again, he acted without my overt permission. He set aside our glasses, and his languid, tapered fingers were already undoing the buttons that fastened my waist. We understood each other; we did not require speech.

I stood meek and compliant, watching his face as he removed my garments. He worked slowly and meticulously, with a skill that suggested experience. As each article was removed, he would pause and gaze at me in delight.

The measured pace aroused me further, as it was intended to do. Charles managed to completely undress me, while touching me hardly at all. My neck, my shoulders, my breasts all ached for his caress. With admirable self-control, he confined his contact with my flesh to the absolute minimum required for his task.

His own excitement was evident in the tented bulge in his trousers. I longed to reach out and test its lovely hardness. However, I refrained, realizing that this would be out of character, a deviation from the roles in which we had cast ourselves.

Finally, I stood before him, naked save for my embroidered silk stockings and kid boots. The golden curls between my thighs were already damp with my own fluids. I was ready to sink to my knees before him, to beg him for his touch.

Thankfully, he was finished with making me wait. He swept me into his arms and carried me to a brocaded chaise near the hearth. I gloried in his strength. He smelled of soap and pipe tobacco. I rubbed my cheek against his fine woolen coat as he settled me on the shiny upholstery, my arms cradling my head. “Angela,” he sighed, kneeling beside me. “Let me feast upon your marvelous flesh.”

He leaned over and brushed his lips ever so lightly against the sensitive skin just below my earlobe. Then I felt his tongue, sliding down my neck, circling the hollow at the base of my throat, tracing its way down the hollow between my breasts, nibbling, nuzzling, tasting me. Each touch was careful, deliberate, almost reverent. There was nothing holy, however, about the way my hips churned in response. When he sucked my nipple gently into his mouth, I spread my thighs wide. When he nipped it with his sharp white teeth, I could not help the lewd way I arched my back, silently crying for him to invade my most private recesses.

Charles turned his attention to my lower extremities, bestowing tiny kisses on the silky skin between my thighs. I moaned and circled my hips, inviting, pleading. However, my gentleman continued to tease. He unlaced my boots, then drew my stockings down until my feet were as bare as the rest of me.

I felt a shock as his warm mouth closed on my toes. The sensation was strangely thrilling. He probed between my digits with his agile tongue, sucked and licked until I thought I would go mad with pleasure. All the while, my cunny grew wetter and more swollen, until I could feel myself gaping, open and dripping.

“Oh, please, Charles!” I gasped, “I cannot bear any more. Please, put your rod inside me. Take me, Charlie, please!”

My fair gentleman paused to smile at me. “Madame Angela, I would dearly love to satisfy your request, but I dare not. If I were to get you with child, it would be a disaster for both of us.”

“Oh, please!” My hand flew to my groin, spread my red, glistening folds for him to see. “See how you have roused me, set me on fire. You must quench this fire, or I will lose my senses with longing.”

“Alas, my Angela…”

“Let me see it, at least; do not be cruel!” I cried, and lunging forward I tore open his trouser buttons. His erect member sprang free, engorged and purple with lust. Before he could object, I sank to my knees and circled his manhood with my lips, sucking and tonguing him in an abandoned frenzy.

“No, Angela, wait, please, I will spend too soon…” I ignored his entreaties, which grew more feeble as I increased the vigor of my ministrations. I was punishing him for his teasing, and rewarding him for his technique. The rod in my mouth grew more rigid by the instant. I sensed a spiraling tension, like a snake gathering itself to strike. Then he groaned and my mouth was flooded with his bitter fluid. As always, the taste brought me to full, delicious appreciation of my own depravity. How I enjoyed the dark, sharp flavor of a stranger’s spend upon my tongue. The thought, by itself, brought me to the very edge of climax.

Charles was panting, his blond curls plastered on his sweating forehead. “Oh, Angela, you are a wicked one! That was glorious, my dear.” He raised his shapely eyebrows. “But what can I do for you, now? I fear that even if you were to convince me, my tool will be of little use for some time.”

Somehow I sensed that he was playing with me once again. “Give me your mouth, then, Charlie,” I said boldly, sitting back on the chaise and spreading myself wide. “Kiss me, here.”

“Actually, I have another idea. Something a bit more—unusual—which I suspect that you will enjoy.”

He went to a cabinet in the corner and rummaged for a moment, then returned with a box of Chinese lacquer ware. “I acquired this on one of my business trips to the Orient,” he said slyly. “I have not actually had occasion to make use of it until now.”

Slowly he lifted the lid. The sight of what lay within took my breath away. A huge ebony phallus lay cradled in the silk-lined casket. It was so highly polished that it glistened in the light of the gas chandelier. I wanted to touch the beautiful and perverse thing, but I could not make my fingers move.

“This should do nicely, do you not agree?” Charles stroked the phallus lovingly, as if it were his own organ. He knelt between my damp and sticky thighs, and blew lightly on my sex. I quivered all over. “Now, open wide,” he said softly, and thrust the hellish thing deep into my slick folds.

I cannot write coherently of what happened next. Reason was wholly swallowed by lust. I thrashed and squirmed, I know, as Charlie worked me with the ebony rod. There was no respite from the fierce black phallus, and I wanted none. I wanted only to be filled, plumbed, penetrated. He understood this, and I blessed him for it. I do not recall what I thought, what he said, where he buried the oriental tool after he had wrung climax after climax from my battered cunny. I mindlessly surrendered my body to him, and was rewarded with pleasure that was close to delirium.

Later, as he helped me dress, he explained that he would be in residence in Boston for another fortnight. “Perhaps we can meet again, Madame,” he said, a twinkle in his eye but undisguised longing in his voice.

“I think not, Charles,” said I, kissing him lightly on the cheek. “I cannot risk discovery, and I have found that habit breeds carelessness.”

I did not explain to him what I understand so well myself, that if we were to meet again, the thrill would be blunted by familiarity. The danger and suspense would vanish. The intoxicating sense of unspoken secrets shared with a stranger would be replaced by affection, concern, responsibility, all the bonds of human social interaction. These are the true risks, that mystery will be swallowed by the mundane, that sweet, selfish abandon will fade to bland attraction.

I give my lovers one night, and one night only. May it burn in their recollections as brightly as it does in my own.

 

The first entry ended there, though there were several dozen more pages full of the flowing antique script. Miranda closed her eyes, trying to slow her breathing. Excitement crackled through her limbs. What amazing fortune! She had discovered a genuine erotic memoir, triumphantly supporting the premise of her thesis.

And what a memoir! Never, in all her reading from the period, had she encountered an erotic text so lyrical, honest, and unabashedly hot. Her own cunt was slick from the tale, her clit throbbing. She put the diary aside, turned out the light, and allowed her fingers to wander through the furred forest of her sex. An image of Charlie and his ebony dildo spurred her toward climax.

It was only later, long after midnight, still too excited to sleep, that the thought dawned on her. Beatrice’s voice, hungry, horny, always seeking new strangers, could have been speaking for Miranda herself.