Brigid raised a leg out of the bath and began to wash it from toe to thigh. The rich lather of the soap making the touch of her soft fingers slick and sensuous. As her hands moved above her knee she became acutely aware of how sensitive her skin had become. Washing her inner thighs made her tingle.
Her hand slid below the water and onto her swelling lips. They were sensitive, and pouting, clitoris engorged and demanding attention. She bit her bottom lip and stroked herself, outer lips first then probing her finger between them, parting them and pushing her finger inside. She tilted her hips upwards to respond to the trespassing finger. Then slowly she worked her fingers in and out. The water around her lips mingling with her own torrent of juices. The touch of her fingers on her moist sensitive pink bud making her want to cry out, such was the intensity of the sensation.
She explored her folds with her hand, slipping deeper into an onanistic haze with each movement. Low moans escaped from her mouth as the pleasure intensified. Caution gave way to abandon as she started to cum. The bathwater was stirred into a maelstrom by her legs as her orgasm took her.
Oates’ eye had been pressed to the keyhole since the lady of the house had stepped into her bath. He rose to his feet, knees complaining, reminding him of his age. He smiled a lascivious smile and made his was to his quarters. The hot throbbing against his right leg promising him his weekly, clandestine gratification.
The gibbous moon struggled to pierce the boiling clouds, intermittently illuminating a solitary figure, laden down with a rucksack, trudging along the drove road.
He felt the cold breath of Faoilleach cut through him, it had come early this year. Tiny icy daggers seemed to pierce his face, cheeks becoming red, then raw under the onslaught. He tilted his head forward to gain the greatest protection from the hood of his rough woollen cloak. Maybe it was a trick of the light, what little there was, but he seemed to leave an inky trail of darkness behind him.
Clinging mud gave way to gravel crunching under his feet as he approached a set of tall iron gates set in the minutely perfect symmetry of a Palladian gatehouse. A door creaked open. A lantern with a guttering yellow candle preceded a gruff voice, “What’s your business?”.
From beneath the hood he replied, “I’m here to paint the lady’s portrait”. From the folds of his cloak he produced a piece of yellow-brown vellum. The gatekeeper took it from him through the wrought iron bars. He didn’t read the letter, just peered at the broken wax seal with age-clouded eyes and ensured the signature was that of the duchess. He was not a man of letters.
The gatekeeper’s mood changed, his manner more friendly as he fumbled with the padlock key, “You’ll be Mr Doyle. Just a moment sir.”. The gate swung open. “It’s about a mile to the house. You being so late they took back the carriage a while ago.”
“No matter. Goodnight Harris”, said the stranger as he and his rucksack lumbered towards the House.
“Mind you stay on the drive Sir, them woods is dangerous”, shouted the gatekeeper, securing the padlock. As he settled in front of his small coal fire in the gatehouse he couldn’t help wondering how the painter had known his name. Perhaps the Duchess had mentioned it in the letter.
Rain, in huge drops began to fall from the leaden sky.
Oates walked slowly to the oak doors, his pace steady as a metronome, countenance fixed somewhere between serenity and distain for the rest of creation. The doors were shaken again by the tardy visitor’s fist. Oates may have just slowed, imperceptibly. The impudence of the artisan’s late arrival infuriated him.
Initial introductions were terse and less than welcoming, leaving the painter dripping on the marble floor of the huge pillared entrance hall. Oates made off to announce Mr Doyle’s arrival.
Doyle drew back his hood to reveal a mane of wavy shoulder length hair, shinny and black as jet. His hazel eyes scanned the four doors leading off the hall. One to his left, one right and one either side of the huge statute of Poseidon at the far end of the hall. The one to Poseidon’s left was slightly ajar. Briefly, a pale face partly hidden behind a fan appeared. Doyle’s nostrils flared, pupils widened, the hairs at the base of his skull rose. Realising its owner had been seen, the face disappeared into the gloom of the room beyond.
Oates reappeared, “Your room is ready, sir”. The “sir” was a mere courtesy, the tone more than expressing his distaste for Doyle.
She lay in her bed awake for most of the night. Her mind thought only of the rough hewn artist she had seen standing in the hall.
That hair, black as a raven’s wing, cascading from his head. His eyes, piercing her across the room. Her heart pounded again as it had when she first saw him, blood rushed to her cheeks. Her chest heaved. Nipples becoming hard and pressing against the inside of her cotton nightdress. When she moved the fabric rubbed against and electrified those two pink buds, making her want to touch them. Touch them in a way she knew she shouldn’t.
The image of the painter haunted her. This was wrong! And it felt even more wrong as she sensed a warmth and moistness building between her thighs. She slid her hand down to feel the velvety softness of wet, swollen labia. She drew her hand to her face, the rich odour of her own arousal overriding her social conditioning, which told her not to do this. She licked her fingers tasting the forbidden nectar and enjoying this elicit delicacy.
She chastised herself for her behaviour, she was a married woman. She was contemplating what it would be like to have this man, let him have her, in the most wanton way. Guilt overwhelmed her and she began to sob, quietly, at her immorality.
Around three her husband rolled into bed in the next room, colliding with furniture, cursing and incoherent. The guilt she felt at her wandering eye vanished and, exhausted, she drifted into the arms of a dreamless sleep.
The next day Doyle was setting up his easel in the orangery when he heard a dry cough behind him. It was Oates, “The Lady Brigid, Duchess of Hampton.”. Oates stepped to one side.
Doyle bowed, very slightly at the vision in a blue dress who appeared through the doors from the garden. She wore her chestnut hair up, save for a few strategically placed ringlets around her forehead.
Oates left them, promising, or was it threatening to return later with refreshments.
Carefully and without once touching Brigid, Doyle arranged his subject on the bench under the boughs of the largest orange tree. He stepped back and reviewed the scene. Not quite right.
Doyle knelt in front of the Duchess, “May I?”, he asked indicating that he needed to adjust the hem of her gown. “You may.” Finally happy with the scene, Doyle began work. For an hour he drew, calmly to begin with but with an increasing intensity.
As his strokes became more fevered, so Brigid became more aroused. Her eyes never faltered from this handsome, talented and above all darkly mysterious man who she had lost so much sleep over the night before. She felt her chest rise and fall, acutely aware of the reddening of her face.
He regarded her intently, studying her every curve and detail. His eyes often his only visible feature over his canvass, staring at her from beneath his long black hair.
She felt as if she had a raging, pulsing animal between her legs. Her sex craved for fulfilment, satiation in the most unimaginably sinful way. With a stranger, in her husbands house, maybe even in her husband’s bed …
… Oates arrived, with two maids carrying sandwiches and a pitcher of lemonade. He seemed intent on staying to serve but was ushered away by his mistress once the food and drink had been arranged on the small table at the end of the bench.
She passed Doyle a glass and filled it from the pitcher. As she finished pouring, lemonade dribbled down the side of his glass, onto his fingers. She took the glass from his grasp and placed it on the table. Her fingers slid around his wet hand and raised it to her lips, where she licked each finger in turn. She then slowly sucked the tip of his index finger into her mouth.
He felt her tongue circle his fingertip, then teeth gently pressed onto his skin. His breeches suddenly felt too tight around the crotch. Doyle looked into her eyes, “M’Lady …”. “Brigid”, she corrected.
“Brigid.”, said Doyle, “Should we not continue your sitting?”
“Is that what you want? Should not an artist get to know his subject, so he can paint the character of his muse, not just this ephemeral shell which we inhabit? I have so much that I could show you, were you to desire it.” Brigid considered what she just said, she had never even thought about herself like that before, Doyle was certainly making her think in a different way about herself.
This time it was Doyle who took the lead. Raising it to his lips he kissed the back of her hand, then turned it palm-up and gently bit her soft skin. She drew in a sharp breath. Looking up at her with his warm eyes Doyle suddenly bit her, drawing blood. Brigid cried out, but instead of pulling her hand away pressed the palm into his mouth while he tasted her essence.
Doyle stood up licking his lips. His groin was at Brigid’s eyelevel, the throbbing mass within his breeches invited her attentions. She was in no mood to refuse such an invitation. She stood too, the back of her hand brushing against his bulge as she turned, eyes meeting and inviting him to the rear of the orangery.
Once out of sight of the garden he took her in his arms and kissed her. His tongue entered her mouth immediately, neither felt the need for modesty or further courtship. Their intent was simple and pure, as pure and single minded as Belial’s inferno.
Brigid’s hands pulled at Doyle’s clothing, tugging down his breeches to reveal his proud manhood. When she felt its hot, pulsing hardness in her hand she had to see it. She pulled away from his mouth’s ravenous demands. When she had seen it, splendid and proud she had to devour it. So she knelt, worshipping at the altar of his sex, his balls in one hand, the base of his shaft encircled by the other. She guided him into her mouth, already watering with anticipation.
She lowered her head onto her prize until she could take no more, tasting him, smelling his masculinity. Then she felt his hands on the back of her head, and grabbing her hair she felt herself pressed harder and deeper onto him. She was unable to draw breath. She tried to pull away, it was futile, yet she was content with the futility, wanting him to control her. Then as she felt she would faint, like a swimmer breaking the surface she could breathe again. She fell backwards, long strings of saliva glistening on her chin and clothing, the world spinning around her.
Half unconscious she felt her dress being lifted to expose her cotton bloomers. She felt strong hands claw them down, ripping them in two, leaving nothing but tattered shreds around her ankles. She saw his huge phallus, waving in front of him, the end glistening from her saliva and with pre-cum dripping from the tip. She wanted him to impale her on his magnificent member. She want to be taken, without mercy. And she wanted it most because she knew it was wrong.
As he slid into her Doyle watched her face, half in this world, half in, well he could only guess where. She seemed surrounded by a golden aurora, not sexual bliss exactly, just contentment and supplication. His sure and powerful thrusts imbued her with life, her mind returning to full consciousness, then beyond as bliss turned to acute awareness, and awareness to wild, wanton lust.
Her arms flailed. She threw her head from side to side. His grunts turned to howls. Her whimpers turned to moans and then to throaty shrieks, matching his rhythm, each one expelled as buried himself within her. Her nails dug in to his back clawing at him through the linen of his shirt. They came as one, fiery eyed, gasping and snarling.
As she readied herself for bed that night Brigid noticed the brocade curtains were not fully closed. The grey air of her chamber pierced by a single shaft of silver moonlight.
She walked to the window. As she raised her hand to close the gap her eye was caught by a grey shape trotting across the lawn. It leapt across the ha-ha and swiftly made its way up the hill. It turned to face the house, even at this great distance she could see, or imagined she could see, the wolf’s eyes glittering in the moonlight. It raised its muzzle to the full moon and howled.
“Good night Mr Doyle”, she said softly.