Lady Wycherley's Secret

Chapter One Guinevere nestled back in the corner of the carriage and allowed herself to be soothed by the clip-clop of the horse’s hooves. It had been a warm day and the heat was now rising from the cobblestones, but when she opened the window she found a refreshing breeze. She had been looking forward to this evening all week, ever since Mrs Atkinson had sent her note. It offered as usual a small, intimate gathering of no more than half a dozen ladies, with perhaps a few more gentlemen. She had dressed carefully, in a new corset of white satin, made to measure by the reliable Mrs Court, tonight worn next to the skin; Guinevere felt that a chemise would be an unnecessary encumbrance. When it was on she had looked at herself in the mirror, then insisted her maid Johnson draw the laces tighter. She prided herself on her figure, the small waist, the softly swelling hips, and a rump the roundness and firmness of which had been commented on by connoisseurs. Sometimes she wondered if her breasts ought not to be bigger, but more than one gentleman had assured her that the common belief that men preferred big breasts was erroneous, and she knew that hers were a good shape, bouncy, pointed, with n*****s that got as hard as acorns. She noted with pleasure that not only did the corset squeeze her waist; it also pushed her breasts up and out, making the most of what she had. She had chosen to wear her green velvet dress, the one that was cut so low that even men well used to the fashionable décolletage of the day could not help staring. Under the dress, above the corset, was nothing but a starched petticoat; like the chemise, the usual silk drawers seemed redundant for this particular occasion. When she got to Mrs Atkinson’s she would divest herself of her outer garments, leaving only the corset, with the white silk stockings which its suspenders supported. And her dainty little ankle boots, of the softest grey calf-leather and with sharp heels. Before Johnson put the dress on, she stared some more at the mirror. The corset ended just above the pubic bone, and she had recently taken to having her pubic hair trimmed, leaving only a narrow strip above the cunt, with the labia bare. She was still getting used to the sight of it, not yet fully convinced that it made her more desirable, though she was becoming more reconciled to the change. Men had told her that they adored her cunt, but she had never been quite certain that it was a thing of aesthetic distinction, though perhaps for the sort of men she allowed to see it, the cunt held a sort of mystic attraction, the supreme object of worship. Well, she thought, I know what it can do for me in the way of pleasure, and I know its power to make a man fall to his knees and beg, whether it’s pretty or not. The cab delivered her outside Mrs Atkinson’s house in Belgravia. The woman was of lowly origins, as was her husband, but Guinevere did not in the least look down on her for that. After all, she herself was not an aristocrat by birth, though married to one. Mr Atkinson had made a lot of money in some business which was never entirely clear, and his wife helped him spend it, one of her favourite amusements being the hosting of soirees for ladies who wished to indulge certain tastes with the security of complete discretion. Guinevere walked up the steps and rang the bell. After a short delay the door was opened by a young man with a pretty face and long hair. His name, she knew, was Julian. He regularly attended Mrs Atkinson on such occasions, offering various services, some of which, she suspected, were performed in Mrs Atkinson’s bedroom after the guests had left. But for the moment he took people’s coats, showed them where the facilities were, brought them food and wine and generally attended to their requests. As usual, Julian was naked except for some small steel n****e clamps, a leather collar round his neck and another collar around his c**k and balls. And then, as he turned to conduct her across the hall, she noticed that this evening he was also fitted with a butt-plug, a silver one with a jewel at the centre. She felt a tingle at the base of her belly as she allowed herself to think of the delights in store. Julian himself was off-limits; though one might casually caress his c**k or pinch his n*****s, he was not available to be taken into one of the private rooms in the house, the official reason being that he was too busy waiting on guests, though everyone knew that Mrs Atkinson regarded him as her private property. Julian showed Guinevere into the ante-room, where she might leave such of her clothes as she chose. He stood with his eyes cast modestly downwards as she took off her coat, her dress and her petticoat. She turned to pick up one of the little masks which were laid out on a table, knowing that Julian’s eyes would have gone to her bare bottom. In such circumstances, a little voyeurism was only to be expected, though she had never yet caught him out in unauthorised observations of her person. She chose a lacy black mask, covering only the upper portion of her face and leaving eyeholes, but it was enough to ensure anonymity, unless someone knew her very well. She checked in the mirror that the mask was an adequate disguise, and then indicated to Julian that she was ready to be conducted to Mrs Atkinson. He led her to the salon, ushering her into a large room, this evening lit only by candles, which gave it an intimate, even romantic appearance. Mrs Atkinson saw her and immediately came forward. “My dear Lady Wycherley,” she enthused, kissing Guinevere on the cheek, “I am as ever delighted to see you. I hope we can offer you some amusement this evening.” “Dear Mrs Atkinson,” Guinevere replied, “I am always happy to receive your invitations. Have you anyone new for me?” “Indeed I have,” Mrs Atkinson said in a conspiratorial manner. “Later I shall introduce you to a young man who I am sure will arouse your interest. But first, come and have a glass of wine and meet your friends. Julian, champagne for the lady.” Though Mrs Atkinson recognised her guest beneath the mask, it was the convention that all her visitors wore masks and went by a stage name. Many amused themselves by adopting names from history or legend of powerful, even fearsome, women. Guinevere went by the name of Salome. Mrs Atkinson took her across to two ladies on the other side of the room, engaged in earnest conversation. One of them was her friend Lydia, known here as Delilah. Guinevere embraced her warmly, then Mrs Atkinson introduced her to the other, an older woman, whose alias was Judith. Mrs Atkinson whispered in her ear that she was the Countess of Dumfries. It appeared the Countess had a mischievous turn of mind, and was fond of alluding to the story of Judith and Holofernes with the gentlemen she encountered. Like Guinevere, she was masked, and dressed in a long black shift, almost transparent, under which could be seen her large breasts and the triangle of dark hair at the base of her belly. Standing next to her was a man of about her own age, smartly dressed in evening clothes, except that his flies were open and his c**k and balls exposed, tightly bound in a leather strap to which was attached a thin chain, the other end of which was firmly in the hand of the Countess. As she spoke to the others, she tugged on the chain occasionally and the man winced. Despite, at Mrs Atkinson’s insistence, using an assumed name, Guinevere’s friend Lydia disdained any further attempt at secrecy and wore no mask, but then Lydia was an actress, albeit a distinguished one. She was married to the most famous actor-manager in the West End, and would be regarded by many of those who considered themselves to be high society as only a few steps up from a courtesan. As such, she was happy to flaunt herself, knowing that those who attended Mrs Atkinson’s events were expected to exercise discretion about revealing names or details of what went on at the soirees. And if they did not, well, what was that show business adage? There’s no such thing as bad publicity. Lydia was naked except for white silk stockings, very like Guinevere’s own, and some little red boots. Her n*****s had been painted red to match, and the lips of her shaved cunt were red also, an effect which her friend found both captivating and disturbing, like a hungry red mouth looking for food. At her feet knelt a naked boy, also on a leash, attached to a leather collar. “I see your friend is dressed for the occasion,” Guinevere said to the Countess, indicating the gentleman in evening clothes. “I think he’s a little surprised to find himself here,” she replied. “He wasn’t sure what to expect. I think he’s still not sure.” “But you keep him on a very tight rein,” said Lydia, laughing. “That must give him a few ideas.” “I’m the one with the ideas,” the Countess said, laughing too. “My dear, should you like to fondle him?” “I should love to,” Lydia said. Still holding her boy’s leash with one hand, she passed her champagne glass to Guinevere and took hold of the man’s balls, squeezing them hard. He moaned softly. Then she took his c**k in her hand and twisted it violently, so that the man cried out. “Be quiet, or I shall have to punish you,” said the Countess sternly. Lydia winked at Guinevere. “Would you like to touch him too?” the Countess said to Guinevere. “Indeed,” Guinevere said. She took the man’s c**k in her hand and stroked it gently. It was hard now, jutting out at an angle of forty-five degrees. She had a sudden urge to hurt him. She put down the glasses she held and placed the palm of her left hand under the man’s c**k, then brought her right hand down sharply, slapping him hard. He gave a little cry and stepped back. “Keep still,” the Countess snapped, “or I’ll whip you till the blood flows.” There was a glint in her eye; she looks capable of it, Guinevere thought. She took hold of the man’s c**k again and smacked it once more, even harder. The man gave a stifled grunt of pain, but held his position. Guinevere wanted to see pain in his eyes. “Look at me,” she said. The man stared back. “Shall I hit you again?” The man muttered something inaudible. Guinevere smacked his c**k again. “Answer me,” she ordered. The man thought for a moment. “As you wish, madam,” he said. “Good answer,” Guinevere said. She smacked him several more times. His c**k was red. Then she let him go. “Thank you, my dear,” the Countess said. “Have you no boy of your own?” “No one regular,” Guinevere said. “But Mrs Atkinson has promised me someone this evening.” “I wonder if I might ask you a favour?” Lydia said to the Countess. “Of course, my dear. What is it?” “My boy is rather bashful. In particular he is shy of other boys. But it is one of my pleasures to see boys perform together, and I am training him to perform such acts as I dictate without hesitation. It is my intention to turn him into a plaything for men or for women. And so I wonder if you would allow him to suck your gentleman’s cock.” “My boy, you mean?” the Countess said. “They’re all boys to me. But of course. Do as you please.” Lydia gave a hard tug on the leash of her boy, pulling him forward. “Now, little slut,” she said, “you will take this c**k in your mouth, you will lick it and suck it, and you will take it right down to the back of your throat. If you do not do it well, I shall whip your balls. You remember what that felt like last time?” The boy looked suitably scared of this threat, despite his apparent distaste for the act he was ordered to perform. He bent his head to the man’s c**k and kissed the tip. He put his lips around the head of the c**k and slowly pushed down. The man’s c**k slid in halfway. Lydia put her hand on the back of his head and pushed it firmly downwards. The man’s c**k disappeared a bit more, but the boy began to choke. Lydia held his head down until he was red in the face, then allowed him up for air. He gasped, spluttering and coughing.