style="font-size:15px;"> He steps back, to let me pass, his eyes still on me.
The hallway is pleasant, high-ceilinged and airy. A number of small prints adorn the walls, but I’m in no mood to peruse them. Not while I’m still being perused myself, and so insolently.
“I’m Clarence. Pleased to meet you.” This personable, roving-eyed young man offers his hand, smiling broadly in a very knowing way. When our fingers touch, his are warm even through the kidskin of my glove, and they linger around mine far longer than is polite, and hold too tightly for common propriety. But despite that, they feel nice and I’m irrationally disappointed when he frees me. “Do come this way. I’m afraid Madame is with a lady at the moment, and the poor dear is proving exceptionally nervous and taking longer than expected.” As I follow him toward a door at the end of the hall, he turns suddenly, and I could swear he winks at me. “You’re not nervous are you, Mrs. Harewood? There’s nothing to be afraid of here. Not a thing.”
His frisky demeanor quite takes me aback, and I don’t quite know what to say. But it doesn’t seem to matter. He smiles at me as if we’re having the most civil of conversations and ushers me in to a small but cozy parlor.
“I’m sure Madame won’t be too long. I’ll come and fetch you when she’s ready to receive you.”
What is this strange emphasis on the words Madame and she? And why does he seem to chuckle he says them? I thank him and attempt to maintain my equilibrium. A difficult task given the delicacy of my mission here, and the unnerving, heated scrutiny of Clarence.
“Read a journal while you’re waiting,” he recommends, waving in the general direction of a pile of periodicals stacked on the top of a bureau. “They’ll relax you, they will, and put you in the mood.”
Exactly what mood would that be? I wonder when he’s gone, given the kind of advice I hope to receive at the hands of “Madame” Chamfleur.
Expecting the Ladies’ Home Journal or the Tatler, something familiar that will settle my mind for the approaching interview, I don’t recognize any of the titles. The top one on the pile, a journal called Divertissements seems innocuous enough, so I take it with me and take a seat next to the window, overlooking the garden.
I open the magazine at a random page, and my jaw drops in shock. I suddenly feel hotter than ever. With it laid open on my lap, I loosen my walking jacket, and take off my gloves.
The page in question consists of one large illustration, an extremely fine lithograph.
And it’s a lifelike engraving of yet another handsome and personable young man, exotically dark this time, rather than fair like Clarence, but this young man is naked. Completely bare. Not a stitch on him from head to toe.
Oh, dear, I feel breathless. But I can’t look away. I suddenly wish Clarence would return so I could ask him to bring me a glass of water. But then, perhaps better not. I’m so overheated by the sight of this beautiful, unclothed youth in a state of masculine excitement that I certainly don’t want cheeky Clarence to see me blushing.
After a moment, I settle down.
Is this not what I’m here for, after all? To learn more about the sensual side of life? Madame Chamfleur has probably left this journal here in her waiting parlor for that very reason. Allowing her female clients to be gently introduced to masculine nudity and its pleasures.
And he is a very fine specimen indeed.
Slim and muscular, with a head of jet-black curls, perfect clear skin and a vigorous growth of dark hair on his broad chest. As well as lower…
He has a thick thatch of black hair at his groin, and protruding below, an extraordinarily large and vital member.
Dear me, it’s enormous. And he’s touching it, his long fingers resting languidly on the thrusting branch, lightly curled around it as if to draw attention to its splendor.
As if it needed attention drawing to it. My curious female eyes can’t be torn away from it.
What would it be like to touch such a mighty staff? Feel it throb and burn in my small hand. The late Mr. Harewood was not abundantly provisioned in his intimate areas. Possibly the reason for our disappointing marital endeavors? In addition to the fact that he didn’t quite seem to know what to do with what he did have.
And being neither experienced nor bold, I suffered his inept fumbling whilst knowing there was more, so much more to connubial joining, if only I could work out what was missing.
But that’s all behind me, and I’m resolved to make sure that I get what I want when I marry again, and I’m here to learn precisely what that is.
From “Madame.”
Touching my fingertip to the smooth paper, I wonder if Mr. Trentham, or Lord Lotherton, or even the earl of Davy are as generously proportioned as this beautiful young man.
What it would feel like to have such a magnificent organ lodged inside me?
“Ah, I see you’ve found Yuri,” says an amused masculine voice from somewhere near my elbow. “He has a magnificent cock on him, doesn’t he? Not as big as mine, of course. But he’s still a very fine fellow.”
Blushing furiously, I look up to find that Clarence has crept up on me like a cat burglar and is staring down at my fingertips, where they rest incriminatingly at the base of handsome Yuri’s abdomen.
I open my mouth to speak, and find myself completely incapable of uttering a word. Not satisfied with ogling the image of one young man’s nakedness, I suddenly find myself speculating about Clarence’s body. And whether his member is as big as he says. Goodness me, it must be enormous!
Dangerous thoughts stir, as does that strange and delicious heaviness deep in my belly and the very quick of my body. It’s uncomfortable, but also curiously exciting.
“Not to worry, Mrs. Harewood. Ladies do like looking at pictures of naked men, you know,” continues Clarence cheerfully, “and pretty pictures are the very least you’ll see in this house.”
Showing no propriety whatsoever, he takes me by the arm and almost lifts me to my feet. “Please come this way, won’t you? My employer will see you now, if you’re ready.”
Too flustered to speak, I snatch up my gloves and my reticule and follow his lead along the corridor and then up a flight of stairs. He doesn’t urge me to precede him, but instead climbs ahead of me, offering me a clear view of his buttocks in his pale, fashionable trousers. They look firm and muscular, and the tips of my fingers tingle with the compulsion to reach out and lay hands on him. The flesh of his backside is so inviting. It lures me to exploration and the desire to fondle.
Whatever is happening to me? I’ve only been in this house around ten minutes or so, and already I’m turning into a wanton.
But isn’t that what you want, Sofia?
Of course it is, but I’m still not ready reach out and goose Clarence spontaneously.
On the first floor he escorts me to the door at the end of the landing and knocks.
A peculiarly deep voice for a woman calls out, “Enter!”
The room beyond
