Joy V. Sheridan writes

Charity Amour

CHAPTER THIRTY ONE, part 2

Charity's eyes followed his every move. As the footman appeared with the tea tray, he balanced it upon the arm of his chair. It was obvious that he had no intention of returning it, just then, to its rightful owner. Jumping to her feet, Charity recovered her possession with impatient hostility. 

“You are referring to my residence here? Believe me, or not, Lord Rispian, this is MY house and to my mind, ’tis you who are the interloper. Do not worry, I know of much of your skulduggery. And my name is Lady Seyton Clover.” She added this with an icy dash. If Charity expected Lord Rispian to be swayed by her words and manner, she was, alas, mistaken. For all of his life, Lord Rispian had lived as a superior being. He was not, at this stage in his life, about to be upstaged by an erstwhile stage siren and amateur adventuress, as he was convinced she was. He dismissed the servants with an admonishing wave of the hand. As they departed, he walked fast and furious to the door, locked it and pocketed the key. 

Next he turned and walked towards where Charity sat. His movements were fluidly fast for someone of his size and before she had time to demur, he had hauled her by her wrists, his fingers burning into her flesh and was even then in the process of pressing his suddenly fleshly lips upon her own. 

“Come here, harlot! I have wanted this for a long time now! Remember? And this time you shall not escape me!” 

Charity had no chance to scream as Lord Rispian pushed her down upon a chaise longue, even as he did so, his fingers were busy about the opening of her gown. With a sudden small cry of success, he had grabbed one of her breasts and was lubricating its wide pink nipple with his tongue. He moved his hands under her skirts and she began protesting energetically. He removed his hand and hit her hard across the cheek, partly stunning her, then with a renewed vigour, he was investigating beneath her skirts. 

His breath was coming in short, sharp gasps. Charity’s mind reeled with the blow, then an iciness descended over her, coupled with a frigid calm. She had crystals in her bag which would immobilise this lecher for some time. But she needed to win his attention and faith before she might have the opportunity to reach for them. “O kiss me hard upon the mouth, your lordship. I do so deserve your ardour.” He looked startled temporarily, then was only too willing to comply with her wishes. She broke away after a couple of minutes. “Can we not get more intimate in a more accommodating position? For, as you know, it can get mightily boring being in the same old positions.” She was throwing herself hard against him now: “Let us try the chair, Fitzroy, let us try the chair,” she whispered urgently. 

With his eyes half shuttered and his manhood fairly separating the fabric of his pants, he carried her across to the chair she had formerly been sitting in. “Will this suit you my tasty little whore?” “Perfect,” she purred. 

Her bag was now by the left front leg of the chair. “Lift up my petticoats then” Charity settled herself upon his lap. “How exciting this is...” 

She made herself fondle the gleaming moisture-ladden penis he was brandishing. With trembling fingers, his breath coming in deep gulps, he was even then in the process of locating Charity’s most intimate part. “Ah, but this is thirsty work!!” She squirmed as he entered her. He, for his part, did not hear her, so intent was he on gaining his own satisfaction. He began to pump harder and harder into her. She begged him to slow his work. “Lord Fitzroy, Fitzi, dearie – a girl needs a drink: for this is mighty thirsty work.” She forced herself to smile down at him, flirting with her eyelashes, her voice. “Arrgh . . . Uggh ... what you say ...?” His tongue was poking thickly out between the lines of concentration which formed his mouth. “Can we not have a drink whilst we pleasure ourselves? For ...I am . . . oh ... feeling mighty ...dry.” “A drink? Yes...why not. For sure, does feel a little parched dry in places ...” 

Lord Rispian gave a low, fruity chuckle and slipped out from under her petticoats. As he moved to pour two glasses of Madeira, Charity searched for the packet containing the crystals. Success! Nimbly she extracted the pouch and unfastened it. 

His lordship rested the glasses upon a nearby table-top. Then he was all to eager to resume where he had left off. With renewed interest, his tongue again poking out in earnest concentration, he resumed his amorous work. Charity forced herself to groan with pleasure: she was a little surprised to discover that the groan was not altogether forced. 

“A sip of this, your lordship? I am sure that we can, in future, perhaps work out satisfactory arrangements betwixt the two of us, do you not?” 

She forced a professional blitheness into her voice. Whilst he had been busy with his thrustings and jabbings, his lips wrapped about her pink nipples, she had eased some of the crystals into a glass. They dissolved very quickly, so she had been informed when Madame d’Esprit had shown her how much to dispense. Charity picked up the tumbler and pulling her teats from his sucking lips, she offered it to him. He took it. “All the very best to come, my little slut!” “The best to come,” replied Charity taking her own glass of Madeira and knocking it back in one go. His lordship gave her his empty tumbler and continued with his thrustings. “Gawd help me, but I shall come very soon now my dear .....   

Arggh....Uuhhmm...” 

Charity joined him in the heightened pace, her own sensual appetites delighting in his salivary-salient emotions. He had gripped her buttocks harder, his thrustings growing wilder. 

She was climbing up and up, then... the brown crystals worked and he was spark out. Pulsing with flushed frustration, Charity pushed herself off the now unconscious man. That would take care of him for a considerable amount of time: long enough to allow her to make her bid for Freedom. For by this time, Charity knew that her own suite was on quicksands. 

There was no other place for her to go than for her to leave England and journey to Lord Seyton Clover’s vast estates in Jamaica. And he, in his wisdom, had prepared the way for her by the ring which she wore upon the third finger of her left hand. Should her beloved spouse be alive - although she doubted this now, with a heavy, saddened heart - he would seek her out. Of that she was confident!