Lady Maris Stride
The High Tea
Society Papers
Dearest readers,
Fresh from the pot, today’s brew is a piping hot cup of scandal . . . or is it??
One of London’s most libidinous libertine’s carriage has been spotted coming and going from an unknown Pimlico address. There appears to be no ball, no dinner, and no celebration afoot . . . so is it a house of ill-repute? Or has one of the ton’s sparkling diamonds caught the eye of this stony-hearted rakehell? Only time will tell, my dears, but this reporter will keep an eagle eye on the comings and goings for your benefit!
Until next time ?? sip slowly!
Lady Grey
Epilogue
The Moth and Butterfly
The manor at Basingstone was an oasis of shaded walls, turned slate in the encroaching twilight, its hundred palladium windows flat and muted, reflecting the dusk sky. The roses smelled just as sweet as they did at noon, the topiaries cast long, leaping shapes across the walkway, and as she walked, the sound of a nightingale filled the air with its sweet song. The rolling hills around them were turning black as the sun turned his face away, and behind the house, the waves crashed in a uniform intensity, a non-stop push and pull against the rocks.
The moon temple was one of the most beautiful buildings she had ever seen. Stained glass windows in shades of blue and violet surrounded the entire cylindrical structure, and the story they told — of the moon goddess and the life cycle of a moth ? had brought her to tears more than once. Because of its shape, the temple possessed the sort of acoustics that made every note echo and waver, and the lure of opening her throat and running through her repertoire standing in the middle of the circle was sometimes too great an enticement to deny. There were often one or two members of the pious sitting on the long benches giving thanks to the moon mother, and Eleanor did not want to be disrespectful, but the mothfolk who lived on the grounds had assured her repeatedly that it was an honor to have their temple serenaded by the Marchioness of Basingstone.
She was humming that evening as she followed the stone path. Past the grape arbor, past the gazebo, following the path around the lilacs to the doorway. She was still humming as she entered, not pausing her song as she dipped her head respectfully to the small group of mothwomen who were there, continuing on up the circular stone staircase. He would be waking up soon, and she would be there to greet him when he did.
Eleanor considered all that had transpired over the past four months as she seated herself on his knee. Her husband had been asked to stand at the wedding of his friend, the Duke of Warwick . . . who’d happened to be marrying her friend from the ball, Penelope Essex, who’d brought more books than ball gowns, and had still captured the heart of one of the most eligible bachelors in attendance.
“Do you know if you hadn’t let me borrow that dress, I’d probably be a washerwoman right now? I know Silas too well. He’s a fool for a daring décolletage.”
Both women fell into a fit of laughter, and the bride wiped at her eyes.
“Dramaticis a ridiculous understatement. I can’t believe my father thought I would —“
She waved the thought away, and Eleanor stood, patting her friend’s beautiful copper hair beneath her headpiece.
“You look beautiful. I’m so happy for you, Penney.”
“I’m happy for both of us. And just think — now we each have someone to talk to at those wretched parties.”
Her own wedding was a rather staid affair, the pomp and pomposity that had been tentatively planned being upended when Lady Maris unexpectedly went into labour.
“It’s honestly for the best,” she panted when Eleanor had crouched at her side. “Any lord you might think to invite, his wife or daughter has likely already become intimately acquainted with my brother. Pushing him off the roof was a fine idea three months ago, but now we have need of him again, my dear.”
Eleanor leaned forward to press her lips to his cold, marble mouth. She had a great need for her husband, as a matter of fact. A need that had been kindled when she rode atop him that morning, gripping the back of his throne for leverage as she rolled her hips, bouncing on his cock. She’d had need for him all day long, once she’d risen, sometime after noon. It was as if someone had lit a match just beneath her skin, and the flame had rippled out, igniting in her core. She burned for him, and there was only one way to extinguish the fire.
Dragging her nails down his marble chest, she scraped over his stomach, detouring around his groin to tease his well-muscled thighs. His cock was a rigid marble staff, jutting into the air as if it were waiting to have a flag run up it, just as swollen and stiff as it had been when she had left him that morning.
“Do you like the way my cock fills you, Lady Stride? Are you ready to come for me? I want to feel this sweet pussy flower squeeze me.” His words had been a taunting growl at her ear, holding her steady as she rode him, one final bit of pleasure before he turned.
Silas liked emptying his balls just before dawn, claiming his sleep was most restful after a good fucking, and then again shortly after twilight, when he woke, clearing his head for the night to come. Most nights she loved obliging him, for Silas Stride was a rake of his word and always, always saw to her pleasure . . . but some nights it was good to remind him that even the Marquis of Basingstone could not always get everything he wanted.
She had become very good at learning how to time her climaxes. Eleanor wished she could say it was an accident, that she often came around her husband’s cock just a moment before he turned, clenching him tightly with her muscles, milking him as she spasmed, her arm around his neck as she moaned out her pleasure . . . just too late for him to spill his seed.
It was an exquisite torture. He would be right there, poised on the edge of his peak, his knot swollen and throbbing, heavy bollocks pulled tight to his body, eager to empty, and then . . . nothing, as he stiffened to marble, unable to move, unable to cum, unable to voice his frustration at all. He would be left with the aching agony of unfulfillment all day until she returned at dusk to put him out of his misery, as she was readying to do then.
“I’m sure it wasn’t too bad, darling,” she murmured, kissing his jaw as she cupped his balls, squeezing the unyielding stone. It was just close enough to twilight that she knew he could feel her touch. She dragged her fingers up his cock slowly, rubbing her thumb over the pronounced ridges, before dropping to her knees. “You’ve been a very good boy lately; I think you’ve earned this.” She licked a broad stripe up his swollen shaft, grinning at how fat and full he was. He was likely going to erupt the instant he regained movement, and she was going to be ready. In the meantime, she would give him a bit of encouragement.
Her lessons with the Marquis of Basingstone had not ceased after the ball. Her husband had been a world-class rake, after all, and it seemed foolish to stop improving her own love-making skills once they were wed. It was for her betterment and their own enjoyment, and Eleanor found she didsoenjoy taking him to pieces with her mouth. She laved her tongue over his cockhead, pressing into the seam of his slit, letting her teeth graze over the flared marble edge. She hummed again as she sucked him deeply, tightening her lips on her pullback and releasing him with apop.
