Misadventures of a Gentleman

The Baron's Lover (3)

The doctor prescribed to him laudanum for his dull headache, which had progressed into insomnia the nights following after his short escapade to Miss Aethenide’s hedonistic soiree. The Baron, waiting for the drug to take effect, stared at the low fire in the hearth and watched burning logs turn into embers. The whole manor fell into a hush; and his eyes grew heavy. A sliver of moonlight between the manifolds of the thick window curtains extended to his bedpost; and though his vision had blurred from exhaustion, the Baron could make out a dark speck inching from his bedpost to the foot of his bed, growing with each of his heartbeat until it became a tall shadow.

            It was out of the ordinary, a phantom, Lord Ashford realized. But strength alluded him and consciousness was hard to grasp as his body slowly succumbed to laudanum. The specter climbed to his bedside. Its dark spindly fingers brushed the side of his face and reached to the inside of his dressing gown, and, to the young lord’s surprise, pinched and flicked his n****e. A warm ache raced from his chest to his groin, a foreign sensation the Baron barely fathomed. He grunted softly as a pair of cool lips caught his mouth and his tongue responded and probed.

            A pair of sea green eyes met the Baron’s droopy stare. Drug-induced and eager for sleep, Lord Ashford whispered to his assailant before falling to unconsciousness, “You Russian swine!”

            The Baron of Ashford woke drenched in sweat and scarcely remembered the night before. He had tea in his library and, when his butler informed him of Mr. Ainsley waiting outside his home, welcomed the army man.

            Mr. Ainsley read aloud the invitation card he brought with him to the Baron and asked if his friend received the same one as well.

            “Another card party from that Vicomte,” the Baron said in a humored tone. “I should like to win a thousand pounds at least.”

            “Mr. Antonelli said so as well,” supplied Mr. Ainsley jovially. Seeing the Baron’s raised eyebrows, he thought to give an explanation. “The Vicomte de Chateaubriand is a friend of Antonelli.”

            “And I suppose Antonelli will bring his acquaintances along, too,” Lord Ashford plainly added.

            “Oh, not bring, Ash. Antonelli tells me the vicomte has extended the invitation to the Chevalier and Le Touriste.”

            The Baron brought his cup down violently at the mention of that foreigner’s moniker. “I shall see you tonight at the Vicomte’s abode, Ainsley. I am sporting a headache at the moment, I do apologize.”

            In good humor, the army man made his address, wished for the Baron’s good health, and left in a hired hackney.

            Later that evening, Lord Ethan Marcus Thorne dressed in a yellow, silken waistcoat, blue superfine jacket, a white cravat tied in a Cascade, was praised for his fashion by the Vicomte de Chateaubriand, who welcomed and led him to a card table of his intimate acquaintances. The young noble was impressionable enough with his good looks, but he had also arrested their attention with his hauteur that none could blame him for. The Baron, after all, was rich enough to lose ten thousand pounds tonight and that sum could hardly leave a dent to his wealth.

            He sat on a table and played whist, and lost five hundred pounds. He loathed bringing a pad of bills in his person, and, instead, wrote a promissory note, instructing the victor to come to his apartments tomorrow. He was in a jovial mood and drank and guzzled wine and champagne in abandon. He lost another three hundred pounds, but won a thousand.

            He gathered his earnings with a smile until a distinct drawl whispered in his ear, “You had the Devil’s luck tonight, Lord Baron.”

            The smile fell from the Baron’s face. “Antonelli,” he said in exasperation, “when did you arrive?”

            The Venetian watched Lord Ashford with a sideways glance, tipping a flute of wine to his lips. “The Chevalier and I, along with Le Touriste and Mr. Ainsley, have been here for at least an hour now, Baron. We dared not disturb you from your game.”

            The nobleman stood and bowed his head to Mr. Antonelli and his acquaintances, and left to the open balcony behind a heavy curtain that afforded anyone needing of privacy. It was, however, unfortunate that he stumbled upon Le Touriste, drinking a glass of port and looking dreamily beyond the expanse of trees in the Vicomte’s property. The foreigner greeted him with a smile and asked if the Baron could join him admire the vista under a pale moon.

            Rather than be assailed by the Venetian again or the bewigged Chevalier, Lord Ashford complied to this request and stood far away from the Russian.

            “Beautiful, nyet?” Le Touriste softly said.

            “I suppose so, but you can barely see the Vicomte’s garden at night time,” the Baron quickly answered.

            Le Touriste chuckled and gravely replied, “I was talking about you, my dear Baron.”

            Lord Ashford froze and clenched his fist. He had been called handsome in many variations, but never beautiful. He turned and glared at the perverted stranger with his cheeks going red. The burn in his hand, which this barbarian left with a kiss nights ago, grew hot and heavy.

            “Do not look at me with scorching eyes, love,” the Russian whispered as he inched closer, his gaze both warm and arresting.

            He didn’t want it, but Ethan Marcus Thorne found himself ensnared in Le Touriste’s strong, sinewy arms. His hands, large and exploring, caressed the Baron’s buttocks and cupped his erection. He couldn’t understand what this heathen was doing, but Ashford’s breath was labored and he grunted. A tiny moan escaped from his lips, which took him aback but earned him a lopsided smile from his seducer. He caught his breath, feeling cold fingers reach into his pants, touching the tip of his burgeoning p***s.

            “S-stop,” he stammered in vain as his body succumbed to this stranger’s playful touches. His mouth welcomed Le Touriste’s tongue, as expectantly as he were confused.

In reckless abandon Lord Ashford kissed and bit the barbarian’s lips. He looked deep into his eyes and felt the unbearable pangs of carnal hunger just as Le Touriste artfully pulled his pants to his knees and the buttons of his shirt, his n*****s and p***s publicly displayed.

“I must have you, my beauty,” his seducer hissed in his ear with urgency. His tongue explored his earlobe, down to the crook of his neck. His mouth closed around a tit, kissed and sucked. His long fingers wrapped around his hot c**k, pulling and pulling.

“Y-you mustn’t,” begged the Baron, wondering at the gentleness of his voice, the erotic tone he never thought possible. “S-something—is c-coming.” He held himself back as semen shot out of his p***s, his knees trembling of his release.

The Russian smiled into Ashford’s eyes, kissing the nobleman lovingly as he covered his fingers with the semen in his palm. “But I am not done, my sweet.” Probing, thrusting his index into the Baron’s moist cavern, widening the gap until he could fit three of his fingers. The young lord folded himself in his arms, groaning and moaning in excitement. “Although I do enjoy your musical voice, but hush now or someone might hear and interrupt us,” he said in mock jest and turned the Baron around, bending over with his hands on the railing.

Lord Ashford covered his mouth with the back of his hand and shut his eyes, feeling a hard, foreign object rubbing between his buttocks. His whole body was in heat and wanting, and when Le Touriste finally thrusted his whole, pulsating c**k into him without gentleness or care, the Baron cried and quivered and released yet again. He rocked with the Russian’s rhythm, lifted his leg onto the railing to give his assailant deeper access into his wanton body.

This was not love making, but two beasts yielding to their erotic desires. The slapping and grinding of their bodies against each other had led them to more than three rounds on the balcony. Had it not been to Mr. Ainsley calling for the Baron behind the curtain, which kept their f*********n a secret from the guests, Lord Ashford would have let their coupling last until the next morning.

Le Touriste wiped the fluids of their copulation off his body and helped him with his clothes. “I apologize for ruining your shirt,” he said with a grin.

Lord Ashford left the balcony apologetically, his eyes fixed on this amorous stranger. “I must have you again,” he pleaded.

“And you shall,” was the Russian’s parting words before the curtain separated them once more.

Just as quickly as the drapes fell, the young lord snapped himself from a trance. He was hot, he noticed, and his buttocks ached, his knees shook; and when Mr. Ainsley finally found him, it was not a smile he greeted him with but a question of horror.

“Thorne,” breathed his friend in worry, “did you sit on your drink?”

The Baron turned his gaze around and touched his damp pants. He felt it, drooling from his buttocks an alien liquid. He hurriedly tied his jacket around his waist and left the party in urgency. When he sat in his carriage, an ache spread across his body. The curious bulge in his pants, he realized, would not leave. With shaking fingers, he squeezed and pulled his shaft until his body was satisfied.

* * *

They walked languidly from Vicomte de Chateaubriand’s manor to the Chevalier’s second-floor apartment above Temple of the Fates: Book Shop in Fleet Street. They agreed the party, though not as exciting as their hunts veiled as soirees, was decent and helped them incur a large sum of money. Once in the warm rooms, they sat around the fireplace, and, without prompting, Le Touriste confided what he had done.

            The Councilman, indifferent to the party guests, laughed jovially at the trick, and said, “You bedazzled him.”

            But the Chevalier saw none of the story’s humor and asked, “Isn’t that violence?”

            A pregnant silence came over them, and a moment or two passed before Le Touriste could answer in a stammer. “Not violence, my dear Chevalier, but a trick.”

            “It’s not a trick, Grazinsky. It’s violence of the most heinous and disgusting kind,” the Chevalier snapped and marched to her room.

            Antonelli watched the Chevalier’s retreat with heavy-lidded eyes and recalled what the Council had reported to him: before she was even called the Chevalier, she was a victim of the same abuse as the Baron was under Nikolai Grazinsky’s hand.

            “Perhaps, she is right,” Antonelli added. “Though we are what we are, Grazinsky, still we are not animals.” He followed the Chevalier to her room, leaving the Russian in wonderment.

            They were not creatures void of feeling, and guilt swallowed Grazinsky. The Baron might had been a contemptuous, arrogant lout, but Le Touriste realized too late that he didn’t deserve such treatment. He groaned inwardly, thinking how to repent.