Joy V. Sheridan writes

Charity Amour

CHAPTER TWENTY part 3

Madame, having concluded her preliminary surveillance on the rehearsals for the night’s special performance, had returned to her own rooms to dress for the party. She was speedily competent as her eye and hand selected what ensemble to appear in that night. She had decided on black, for with the vivid scarlet she had applied to her full mouth and spotted high on her cheek-bones, thus accentuating their finely-chiselled perfection, she knew that she should show herself to best advantage. The very picture of svelte seductiveness. 

She had been near to delirium during the afternoon, tasting fantasies, dreams, reminiscences with regard to the handsome lover of her youth. And with the exciting prospects of seducing the mysterious Monsieur Le Bon, or so he had introduced himself that morning!

She teased her small but shapely breasts, making them arch arrogantly from the scoop of her low neckline. There were panels cut into the flowing skirt of her gown, so that black, silk-stockinged, garter-held, slender legs flaunted their promise from toe to hip. She had daubed perfume about herself and in such places as she knew would aid to exciting a man so that he became beside himself. For, was she not a past mistress at feminine sorceries? 

She had seen that one of her rooms was settled for a scene of rapid and alluring seduction. Poor Monsieur Le Bon! He did not stand a chance of defeating her plans! The room which she had selected for this ‘interview amatory’ she had likewise schemed black in colour. Black silken drapes, black satin covers, black velvet, black marble, with a hint of vermillion in the profuse arrays of flowers urned here and there. The air was redolent with musky perfumes. Upon a black onyx table-top resided a pottery pitcher, again in black; two goblets of dark, expensive Venetian glass beside it. Inside the pitcher, one of Madame’s very special liqueurs – the sort which sets fire to the loins two seconds after the drink has been sipped.

Black fur was draped over a couch, large enough to hold two erotically-flailing bodies. A fire burned, warming and inviting, in the depths of the marbled fireplace.

She smiled to herself with sure conviction, her fingers pressing momentarily down upon the lean triangle of her inquisitive, musky muff. She would have him. Tonight! “Ah! Monsieur Le Bon! You have arrived!” “Bonsoir, Madame. It looks as though you have gone to great lengths to ensure that your guests tonight will be kept very busy and very happy! This is my man, Fibonsa. Perhaps, Madame ...?” “Call me Natalie. All my most intimate friends do!” “Natalie. Perhaps you could direct Fibonsa to the servants’ room?” “Why, certainement. I shall have Diana escort him there now. Come, I will take you for a quick guided tour of the house. Then we can come back and join the party!”  

Madame d’Esprit, whilst talking, had slipped an arm through His Lordship’s and was even then in the act of pulling him towards the staircase. She turned and, spotting the Amazonian guard, called the woman over. Pleased to have attended to Monsieur Le Bon’s lackey problem, she hurried him up the stairs. He had, for his part, smiled somewhat bemusedly all the while trying to crane around and adjudicate his surroundings. 

Would there, he wondered, come the opportunity to fathom, by one means of another, if Charity was held in the house? He was willing to become as deceiving and devious as the beautifully-bedecked woman who swayed upon the bend of his arm.

With flamboyant gesturings, Madame ushered him into the warm seclusion of her awaiting chamber. Nodding curtly to a stationed lackey, she indicated that the man, one of the few of that sex employed by her and a man possessed of an unusually high pitched singing voice, should fetch them some light refreshments from the buffet spread out in the downstairs rooms. 

“You are skillful, Madame – I beg your pardon, Natalie, at inspiring admiration for the excellent taste you have lavished upon your surroundings. And this applies also to the taste with which you dress yourself.” “I am delighted that you approve of my décor. Not to mention my ensemble.” Madame d’Esprit preened slightly, touching a falling curl of black hair with the sharp point of her stained fingernail. “Shall we sit? Oh no, Monsieur Le Bon, over here! Beside me.” Madame smiled encouragingly, patting the fur-covered couch. As he settled into its soft embrace, Lord Seyton Clover, aka Monsieur Le Bon, felt the slight pressure of fingertips rubbing the inside of his thighs. Turning slowly and with a sardonic expression, he stared Madame straight in the eyes. Her pale blue orbs bored into him: “Shall we not have a little drink, Monsieur?”

“Natalie: why not merely call me ‘Le Bon; Yes – Le Bon!”  

“Very well,” she murmured, measuring their drink into goblets, “But I surely hope that you shall live up to that name!” 

With a teasing smile, she handed him his drink. She drank fast and deeply from her own goblet. He, for his part, was a little easier in his consumption: nonetheless, he swallowed a goodly portion. “Delicious, Natalie, delicious - I have never tasted anything so good.” “We shall see! Let us not beg on ceremony and politeness, Le Bon You look to me to be a virile man and one who has sampled many wines; tell me, is this better, then, than most?” 

She held the empty goblet against the pale expanse of her breasts. He could hear that she was beginning to breathe harder and faster, her body shuddering slightly. “It is, as I said, delicious, excellent: much artistry must have gone into its concocting!” "How true. Oui, its con-cock-ting! But one should see it in its naked shape,” Madame began to ease her gown off, “In its raw shape; one can tell more easily if it will rise to the occasion beautifully. Or otherwise.” 

With a hungry smile she had shaken the fabric away from her limbs. With a sudden recklessness, she jumped upon His Lordship, settling herself with agile abandon upon his lap. She took his lips like one famished, devouring them with her own covering mouth, kissing him forcefully, demandingly. All the while, her fingers were busy with the opening of his breeches and with a triumphant, guttural sound, she eased the half alert member from its cover. 

Removing her lips to the tip, she began to suck hard and long upon the gland’s head. Lord Seyton Clover felt his phallus beginning to stretch into life, shaking off the cocoons of apathy which seemingly had chained him so remorselessly before. The harder she sucked, the bigger his member became. He closed his eyes, sublimely forgetful of all but the busy lips. Neither of them moved from their positions as the flunkey brought in their refreshments and swiftly, ever so discreetly, receded and withdrew from the chamber. “Monsieur Le Bon, I have the feeling that you ARE going to live up to your name!” 

She swung herself momentarily, hesitant as to what to do next. Her voice was husky with desire: “Come, you shall kiss me!”

She decided and with that, swung herself around so that her cunt was upon his lips. Tingling with anticipation he let his tongue begin to investigate her crevices and investigate them thoroughly. But when, when, was she going to resume her own work on his prick? She moved herself up and down upon his mouth with an increasing tempo. Then, begging off, her hands about his phallus, she resumed her own lickings and manipulations to that acolyted member. He groaned with pleasure. “How big you are becoming. So big!” She purred, licking the shaft of his penis, her strong, pink tongue glistening with dew drops and his love juices. He for his part, was back at his task, tonguing and probing with the excitement of his burrowing tongue drinking and forking her juices. 

Again, with almost feline agility, she removed herself. With a strangely unreal strength she caught hold of his hands and threw them, held by her own, back on to a cushion, stretched out behind his head. Apart from the undone breeches, he was still fully clothed. Laughing wickedly, Madame lowered her head again and tempted his member into even greater spasms of desperate desire. “Shall I lick the little man, or shan’t I?” 

She squinted up at him: “Shall I suck the little man. Or, shan’t I?” He for his part was regardless of anything bar the conclusion of the burning, tickling, panting geyser which boiled below the tip of his pulsating flesh. “Anything. Do anything.”

His voice was laboured and hoarse. 

Madame swiftly took the whole shaft into her cavernous mouth, the thick lips drooling with her own ecstasy. Then, she was away from him again and he felt the thrill of temperature chillier to his hugely swollen phallus. 

“Come here,” he growled, pulling the abandoned woman to him, letting her hover over his extended prick, so that the head brushed against the flesh of her own orgasmic flower. She shook one hand off and poured two measures into the goblets, swallowing from one, she bent her head towards his and kissed his partly-opened mouth. 

So doing, she passed a large mouthful of the aphrodisiac to him. Then she eased herself onto the gigantic width and length of his hot, engorged and throbbing phallus. 

He thrust, jabbed, screwed, withdrew repeatedly. The climax hovering for him like desert under which bubbled a hot, fast ready-to-spout geyser of oil. On and on they screwed, each groaning with pleasure. Eventually, she clasped his prick with the muscles inside her cunt and began to draw the come from his quickening. 

He could not keep what she wanted. Panting, clawing, throwing her arms about, she was cursing his inability to ejaculate, moaning about the extraordinary size and quality of the flesh he possessed.  

Up and up and up and then - with a sunburst of sighs, sobs, the moisture flowing in exhausted spurts and tremors - he had ejaculated almightily. She, for her part, gorged her mouth upon his, her thin body shaking with her exertions, arching over him, her vulvic lips pulling life from the spent member yet. 

He was away again, the drying phallus colouring like a cyclone to the cul-de-sac passageway of her fleshly mountain. She crooned into his ear, she wriggled, threw herself inches away from the throbbing heat of skin, vein, gristle, then she had slithered down his pole again and this time there was no stopping either of them as the tornado of sensations threw up their combined ecstasy and dried their ardour, like the sun raying in upon a waxen candle’s flame. 

Exhausted, Lord Seyton Clover had reclined on the couch, his priestly tool outside the altar of its ordination. His eyes closed, he swooned into a drenched tunnel of bliss. Madame smiled widely, licking her lips, as though she had but recently partaken of a bowl of cream. She licked the limp flesh of his prick and kissed it affectionately, before throwing the heady musk of her own sensuality back into its sheath of clothing.