Memoirs of Lady Montrose (2 page)

When in Brighton she adopted the persona of Mrs Brown, widow—comfortably well off, still in deep grief and requiring complete peace and rest. The boutique hotel where she stayed accepted her cover story and she’d become a regular customer in years past with, recently, two sojourns in as many months.

It took but a short, brisk walk from the hotel to reach the establishment in Moore Street that specialised in ‘sexual satisfaction for lonely ladies’, or so their discreet reputation purported to supply. Henry had made the initial enquiries, having overheard it being discussed at regiment’s reunion.

In her first foray to this establishment she’d filled in a form on which she could state her sexual preferences. She’d stipulated no bestiality, no children involved, no penetration with foreign objects and no cocks in her mouth—Henry being the only male entitled to fill that space.

Next to anal penetration, she’d put a question mark. She could always indicate at any time that she wanted an activity to cease. She’d requested a blindfold be supplied, not to be submissive but because she didn’t want to know who pleasured her. She didn’t care. All she wanted was to be sexually aroused and satisfied, sufficient to last her a few weeks, even months. In her mind she always imagined Henry at his most ardent, sharing the Brighton bed with her.

 She’d never stated the number of partners she wished to have and her last visit had contained a surprise, her first experience of ménage à trois.

Her sexual experiences in Brighton always delighted and titillated her. They were so well managed and luxurious—no lady could ask for more. Each bedroom in the establishment had a bathroom attached and once she’d washed and applied the perfume of her choice, she took herself to the bed, naked or dressed as her fancy took her and waited to be pleasured—she preferred to be naked. Being undressed slowly didn’t arouse her particularly, but that could always change.

Her limbs were relaxed at the beginning of the session. The fresh linen under her buttocks made her feel like a young girl again climbing between crisp ironed sheets on a hot summer’s night. The perfume of the fresh lavender in a nearby vase caused her to imagine she was about to be seduced in a bed of herbs, hidden among trees. Her shower had left her thighs moist and she could feel her heat surging, adding to the dampness. The anticipation aroused her and her excitement kept building until she heard the door open, then close with a soft click.

Her servant had arrived.

Where would it begin, this slow waltz of sexual teasing? It sometimes started with kisses, but this time, it started at her toes. Soft licks and gentle sucks moved along a toe at a time, and when each foot had been thoroughly treated the tongue began its long journey around her ankle and slowly up the inside of her leg. By now she’d decided from the touch of a cheek on her instep that the tongue belonged to a man. He stopped at the knee before beginning again at the other ankle. Next he moved from knee to thigh. Each inch that his tongue travelled closer to her clit aroused her even more. His hands slid up her sides to clasp her breasts, gently massaging them, feather touches over the nipples like being brushed by butterfly wings. With slow caresses, he stroked the insides of her thighs, bending her knees, before easing them apart with gentle pressure. He knelt between her spread thighs and licked her stomach in long, trailing sweeps, then slipped a pillow under her butt. He adjusted her position with gentle squeezes and prods until she lay, she presumed, to his satisfaction. Being so deliciously exposed excited her. His licking had begun again around the top of her thighs, over her pubic rise to trail each side of her labia in turn, until she had to clamp her mouth shut to prevent a begging request for him to hurry up and take her clit in his mouth. His teasing aroused her so much, her excitement dampened her thighs. Desire pulsed through her and he obliged, answering her silent cries of need. He cupped her buttocks and lifted her to his mouth. She might have blushed, but instead she imagined Henry’s head between her legs. She pressed her heels into the bed as she offered herself to him. His tongue, which had previously been gentle and trailing, adopted a rapid stroke. Her clit tingled.

Above her head, the mattress dipped once more and to her surprise a third person joined them. Another’s mouth caressed one breast, the tongue circling closer to her erect nipple before lips clenched and sucked with vigour.

At the same time a strong tongue penetrated her sex then withdrew and sucked her once more. The two sensations appeared to be in time with each other. She climbed slowly to orgasm. It had been two months since her last visit and her passion surged. The strength of her climax took her by surprise. She couldn’t resist the sensation overload. She moaned, drowning in the delicious moment. Every sensitive part of her sang with joy and she rode wave after wave of exquisite delight. An explosion of colours swamped her mind. She didn’t want the rush to stop. She mentally grasped the zenith and milked each second to make it last. Despite her efforts, it faded leaving her with a warmth that hummed throughout her limbs.

“More?” the man queried.

 She could only murmur ‘soon’ and nod her head. The person near her breasts left the bed. The base of the mattress dipped and she gathered the man at that end had also departed.

Moments later, hands lifted her and a warm towel was placed under her before she was washed with a soft cloth. The water ran over her clitoris, still proud and sensitive, its tiny head—a ball of nerve ends—clamouring for more. Another cloth, soft as silk, dried her. She loved being pampered. This was what Henry paid for.

She’d thought to doze off and perhaps ring the bell at the bedside later when ready once more—but no, he returned.

She heard the rustle of foil before his fingers probed her, careful not to touch her clit, still extended and tender. Her back arched as she enjoyed the pleasure of his hands. The smell of rose oil drifted to her and its aroma triggered memories of her childhood, summer days and picnics in the garden. She inhaled and felt him rub a little across her upper lip.

His fingers returned and seeking deeper, they worked their magic. She tensed when his other hand began to circle her anus. Now she knew what the oil was for.

“Careful,” she cautioned.

“Relax,” he answered. “I’m here to pleasure you.”

He removed the pillow from under her, then pulled her closer to the end of the bed before hooking her legs over his shoulders. Again, someone else climbed onto the bed. The newcomer’s arms travelled under her shoulders and held her. Their breath warmed her throat as they leaned over her and again they licked and sucked her breasts. A myriad of sensations overwhelmed her mind. The deep massaging of her vagina, her anus being circled and entered, raised her excitement to a new level. Each pulsing probe explored a little further, each foray a little deeper, increasing her desire in tantalising increments. This new experience banished any thought of saying stop and the sensation—not painful, just different—continued to please her.

Deep inside her heat, his fingers had found her G-spot and she moaned with pleasure. When he withdrew there was a sense of loss, until he licked her juices and sucked her sensitive clitoris. Her breasts ached with the constant suckling.
Should I whisper stop?
Except, at that moment, she climaxed for the second time, climbing her peak in delicious, shuddering steps.

She rejoiced in the experience of her mind filled with joyous tingles while her partners played their magic. Her spine tingled and she mewled in delight. She didn’t want it to stop…ever. Even when he sucked, enough to make her want to cry out, she clamped her jaws shut to muffle her shout of joy.

Grabbing her hips, he pulled her off the edge of the bed and down onto his cock. The person above had released her breasts and held her firmly, supporting her body while the first man drove his long pleasurable cock into her wet, waiting pussy. Faster and faster he pumped in time with her own response, meeting her demanding G-spot. With clenched buttocks to hold him, she wrapped her legs around his waist then tensed as he lifted her. Would he now slip into her ass?

“St—” She hesitated. Did she want this experience?

“Are you sure you want to stop?” he queried, and gently parted her smooth labia, spreading the lips flat, then slowly lowered her again onto his hard, firm cock.

“Not this time, Madam,” he said.

Her flesh complained of soreness and she decided she’d had enough, but at that moment he shuddered and she knew he’d finished. In return for his expert attention, she allowed him to soak a moment before placing her hands on his shoulder and pushing him away.

He eased her buttocks back onto the bed. His partner slid his hands under her armpits and manoeuvred her to a comfortable position. Those hands had been most supportive and necessary. Her breasts now felt abandoned and her nipples ached.

Without a word, they withdrew and the door clicked close, leaving her to doze as she waited for the next phase to begin. Though not sexual, she enjoyed the pampering.

The sound of water running breached her light sleep and she heard the bathroom door open. Guiding hands helped her, and she swung both legs off the bed to stand before she was led to the bathroom. She was lowered into a warm shallow bath and left to soak for a few minutes before soft, small female hands soaped her all over.

Washed and rinsed, she stepped out of the bath to stand while she was dried with soft towels, dusted with powder then lowered carefully onto a chair. At the sound of two people leaving the room, she removed the blindfold.

Helen noticed her clothes still hung where she’d left them, along with her purse, hat and veil. The navy blue suit, fine nylon hosiery and sensible smart shoes contrasted with her underwear, expensive and delicate. While in Brighton, she role-played at widowhood but Henry insisted her undergarments be luxurious even if her outer layers were demure.

After dressing, she walked through to the small lounge furnished with a sideboard, a table and two chairs. Set out on the polished sideboard sat a fresh pot of coffee. Beside the coffee and cakes stood a decanter of sherry and a crystal glass. The smell of beeswax polish mixed with the heady scent from the floral arrangement. Too tender to sit, she stood to drink her coffee, glancing through the lace curtains at the passing parade along the Brighton beach.

Autumn winds shook the trees and the sea looked grey and wild in contrast to the warmth and sated glow of her sex. The pier stretched out into the water like a shaft and the sea splashed around its base, sucking in and out. The waves stroked the supporting piles. Further along, the breakers rolled in, pushing the wooden piles before sinking back. Everywhere she looked, sexual images appeared.

* * * *

The next day, she took her sore body back to London. Henry laughed at her bruised breasts and red tender areas, then kissed them better, and listened to her detailed account of her Brighton trip, knowing his money had been well spent.

“I’ve been inspired, my love.”

She stretched down and wrapped her palm around his erection, stroking the swelling organ, encouraging its length. Straddling him, she eased her sex down onto his now-firm cock. She rocked her hips, locking him inside her sex then moved back and forth along Henry’s pelvis, keeping a firm grip with her muscles. Henry’s pleasure bathed his face—his eyes were closed and the corners of his mouth curved up.

“God, that feels wonderful.” She rocked faster but to no avail. Henry grabbed her hips, sliding his hands up her sides to cup her breasts. She leant forward so they hung pendulous in his grasp.

“Oops, the Member seems to be ignoring Standing Orders,” Henry commented, his eyes flicking open.

She saw a flash of sadness in his eyes and leant down to kiss his nose. She kept his member tight until finally she raised her hips to release him, sliding her body over to lie along Henry’s side and resting her head on his shoulder, his arm curved around and down her back as he stroked her spine.

“Sorry, darling,” he said.

“Nonsense, Henry. As a Member of the Lower House, he shows promise. I’m sure he’ll stand again.”

“Let’s hope so,” Henry said.

His expressions of love, and her desire to love him in return, kept their marriage firm. By those means, they combated the leers of the younger men within their social circle. With a haughty toss of her head, she could ignore the lewd suggestions they whispered. She would place her hand on Henry’s arm with a smug smile. It was no one’s business who put the smile there.

* * * *

At home, after her evening at the Albert Hall

Her mind leapt again with fear and dragged her back to the present. The loud pounding of her heartbeat filled her ears, then slowed. She was safe at home with Henry, but out there in the dark danger lurked.

One of her Brighton lovers had recognised her. Which one and who was he? Her name would have been recorded in the Brighton establishment whenever she’d visited as ‘Mrs Brown’. He must have read the records. How else would he know to call her by that?

She had no doubt that by now he would have learnt her real name. As Lord and Lady Montrose, they frequented social gatherings in the city, mingling, dining and attending shows, operas and charity events. Any casual query would elicit her true title.

Henry served in the House of Lords and in his position as Chairman of the Committees he could not afford scandal to be attached to his name. However, she knew from his comrades’ stories that Henry could be fearless in battle, verbal or physical. He had injuries from the war to attest to this. He’d joined as an officer in 1938 and had fought bravely in France before being invalided home. He still walked with a limp from his hip injury. Sadly it was not his injury, but his age, which had brought them to this situation. At sixty-five, his body had begun to betray him. His desire was still strong, his heart still willing, though his flesh refused to rise to the occasion.

She hated to consider what the tongues of acidic gossipers would say, the titters that would be barely hidden behind raised hands and the gasps of mock horror should her Brighton trips become common knowledge. She would be shunned by many and courted assiduously by the salacious few. Surely Henry would be proven right—this man must only want money, not to ruin her reputation. There would be no profit for the man to broadcast his knowledge, especially if he wished to establish himself in London’s society. Being at the Albert Hall this evening indicated he’d already begun to make contacts. To reveal his previous employment would damage his own footsteps up the social ladder