Lord Carey's Inheritance

I was entertaining a pair of delightful courtesans -- a voluptuous mother and her sloe-eyed daughter - in the gilded salon of a rented Venetian palazzo, when the unlooked-for announcement came. I remember the moment exactly: how my factotum -- a greasy-plump little man with thinning hair and outrageously waxed moustaches -- pounded excitedly on the door and, without waiting for permission, burst in upon us, crying:

"You-er-a-Lordysheep! You-er-a-Lordysheep! Im-por-tan-te-news-a!"

I was fucking the daughter at the time, on a day bed, before the picture window with its broad view of the busy Grand Canal, while the mother strummed a mandolin beside us. I had intended to delay the culmination of my pleasure and to take the mother as well before I finished, but the interruption startled me and, losing concentration, I precipitately spent inside the girl. She reciprocated with a crisis of her own - though whether it was the fruit of true sensation, or merely simulated to compliment my amatory powers, I cannot say. In any event, the daughter's squeals of pleasure were greeted with rapture by the mother, who completed her tune with a flourish, then relinquished the instrument and threw her hands up in the air to applaud our successful efforts. I, still buried in the girl, glanced round at the intruder with an understandable annoyance, and he, too, threw up his hands - as all Italians do at the slightest provocation. Then he informed me, in a tone which, with expert diplomacy, mingled commiseration and congratulation in equal measure:

"You-er-a-father, you-er-a-Lordysheep! Ee-ees-a-died-a!"

I cannot pretend to have felt anything other than sheer delight on receiving this information. I had not, I hasten to explain, hated my father in the least: our relationship had been politely cordial, if decidedly detached, since my earliest infancy. But I had spent the greater part of my childhood in distant boarding schools, where the masters were chilly, the dormitories freezing, the food execrable and the other boys sadistic. This was a completely normal education for male offspring of my breeding, and indicated no intentional cruelty on the part of my parent at all - but the consequence was that I had never known my father as anything other than an occasionally jovial acquaintance. So when I now, at the age of twenty, discovered he had vacated this life and all he possessed therein, and that I, his only son, was the sole inheritor of his estate, I was instantly propelled to a deep-felt sense of well-being. I was, in short, no longer the heir-in-waiting. I was now Lord Carey of Mountjoy. I had come into my own at last!

A messenger waited below and, when I had extracted my member from the girl and thrown on a robe to cover my nakedness, I went down to hear the full facts. My father, it seemed, had expired of an apoplexy some four weeks previously, after a meal of roast beef, apricots and fat mutton, accompanied by perhaps a pint of brandy. Later, there had been an altercation with a footman, who had been tardy in providing more cognac when the bottle had been empty. My father had flown into a rage and died. The messenger was despatched to me at once, but the Alpine passes were still blocked with snow, he said, and his journey had been lengthened by many days. He claimed to have come to me as fast as he was able, and - though I doubted his excuses for the delay - I threw him some coins in recompense for his glad tidings. Then I hastened to make arrangements for my departure. I wished to return to Mountjoy Hall with all possible speed.

At some point in the proceedings, my tutor, Dr. Meecham, bumbled in. He had been appointed by my father to conduct me on the Grand Tour when, two years earlier, I had been released from the torment of my boarding school and, forgoing the customary attendance at the University, had voiced a desire to see The World. Meecham had been the complete pedagogue when I first met him, full of sententious discourses about the enviable industry of the Dutch, the high literary culture of the French, the mechanical ingenuity of the Swiss, and the glorious arts of Italy. Once we had crossed the English Channel, however, he revealed himself to have more fiercely consuming passions -- an affection for alcohol of all descriptions and an exhaustive knowledge of the brothels of Western Europe, both high and low. That suited my own intentions to a tittle, and I wondered if my father, himself a man of the world, had selected my mentor for the journey with my prick rather than my intellect in mind. Be that as it may, Meecham and I made a slow progress through the Continent, sampling the erotic pleasures of its various regions as we went. And I discovered that his only true interest in art -- consuming though it genuinely was -- was in the works of Aretino and Raimondi, specifically their Sixteen Postures, which, in illustrating the various acts of lust, constitute the finest achievements of Italian pornography.

On this particular morning, Meecham was already the worse for wear, though the day's eleventh hour had still not chimed. I rapidly apprised him of the situation and told him I intended to depart that day, leaving him to return the palazzo to our landlord and finish all other necessary business. He would then follow on behind, at a slower pace than I, and bring all my bags and baggage back to Mountjoy. But I fear I only appreciated his true state of inebriation when, having told my tale, I asked if he had any questions. Meecham merely blinked at me, like an owl half-blinded by the daylight, and asked with a slur:

"Where are we going, my Lord? I told your father we would be in Venice for several more weeks. He will be displeased, I imagine, if we depart from the agreed itinerary."

At that point I lost my temper. I took him by the shoulders and leaned into his face, braving the rich draught of alcoholic vapours he wheezed back into my own.

"My father is fucking dead!" I shouted at him. "I return to England forthwith, to claim my patrimony! And you, you booze-soaked, pox-ridden old lecher, will follow after me with all my gear, or I'll have you horse-whipped to an inch of your life when next I see you!"

And, with that, I left him. Within the hour I was conveyed out of Venice in a gondola, to the coaching station at Mestre. From there, I thought, if I did not pause for rest, I could reach England in two weeks at the utmost. Onward, I urged the boatman in my mind, to England, home, beauty and liberty!

It took me a dozen days to get to Dover. Having bought a carriage at Mestre, I surged on furiously by day and night, sparing neither horses nor men. I had hired two drivers, who slept in alternate shifts, one controlling the reins while the other recuperated from his earlier labours. We made good progress through both Italy and France but, finally, near Amiens, a horse died in its traces, and we had to cut it out and struggle on with only the remaining five. But we reached the next staging post without further mishap and took six fresh horses for Calais.

There was a packet-boat making sail for England just as we arrived and, by dint of bribery, I was able to delay its departure long enough to sell my carriage at a knock-down price and pay the drivers before I boarded. Then there was the choppy horror of the sea. I was sea-sick of course -- I am never a good sailor -- but the wind was fair and the crossing fast. From Dover I took a coach for London and, from there, another to Oxfordshire.

I reached the staging post closest to Mountjoy in the middle of the night. I could have stayed at an inn but, there being a full moon and the sky almost cloudless, I decided to hire a horse and press on through the woods direct for home. I rode through the night and reached Mountjoy just as the sun was rising. I descended through bright mist from the low hills that surround it, then urged the tired nag to a final effort and cantered excitedly through Mountjoy's park.

There was nobody in evidence at the Hall when I reached the forecourt. I swung out of the saddle and, letting the horse roam where it would, sprinted up the steps two at a time to hammer on the oaken portal. There was an appreciable pause, then the great door opened. Hodge, the major-domo, peered out uncertainly - then, recognising me at last, he cringed and bowed, tugging his forelock and stepping aside for me to enter. I gave him a passing kick as punishment for his slowness, then strode into my new domain.

The place was still as I remembered it: a venerable, rambling pile, the roof beams black with age, the flags of the entry smoothed by countless feet, and dust motes playing in the pallid rays that filtered through the windows high above. It gave me pause to be home after so long and I was, for a moment, lost in contemplation. Then, as I stood there thus, a lady descended the staircase to my left -- the one that led down from the family's sleeping chambers.

She was no ordinary woman and, exhausted by my journey as I was, it took me a moment to place her in the scheme of things. But then it came to me. My father, who had been a widower since my mother had died at my birth, had written just six months after I left for the Continent to tell me he'd married again. The new wife, I was given to understand, went by the name of Lady Arabella. She was, he had said, a little younger than he. But his letter had imparted no more than that - and I, I confess, had taken little notice of the matter, preoccupied as I was with the wines and whores of France. But now I took a most decided interest, for the lady was arresting, nay striking, in appearance.

On this first sight, I put her at five-and-thirty (though I later learned she was closer to forty, in fact). So my father's avowal that there was little difference in their ages had been, at best, an understatement -- he having been past sixty at the time of their nuptial union.

The lady was dressed as if for riding, but not, as one might expect, in the conventional habit of a modest gentlewomen, with long skirts for sitting side-saddle on a patient, docile mount. This lady wore a short black jacket in the Spanish style and tight, white, doe-skin breeches, like a man's. Her ensemble was completed by a pair of boots of polished leather. There was a riding crop in her hand.

But, although this singular garb was sufficient in itself to attract one's gaze, the feature that caught my attention on the instant was the luxuriant mass of dark red hair that tumbled to her shoulders. -- That, at least, and the challenging glint in her eye.

She paused on the staircase's lowest tread and stood there smiling. (She seemed not in the least surprised to see me, and was unabashed by my regard.) I stared back, not bothering to disguise my admiration. We remained like that, I believe, for several seconds -- much longer than is normally polite when strangers meet. And the message that passed between us was quite clear: our mutual lust was as plain as the day outside.

At last, she spoke. "Lord Jonathan, I presume?"

I answered to the name and made my bow.

Then: "You would be the Lady Arabella, Madam?"

She inclined her head and smiled to admit she was. But then she said:

"You are, perhaps, a little shocked at my attire, my Lord? It seems, in fact, that you cannot tear your eyes away. But the explanation is very simple. You see, I like to go riding early in the morning and, because I have a good seat, I prefer to ride astride. I know it is unusual for one of my sex to comport herself thus, but I find I can control my stallion much better in that fashion -- with the pressure from my thighs, you understand."

Still gazing at those thighs, I was sure she was right. I nodded my agreement. "I would not have it otherwise," I murmured.

She smiled again and, descending the final stair, came forward to me with a hand outstretched. I took it, bent, and kissed it. The hand was warm. Then, meeting her eyes again, I enquired after my sisters. (I had two - identical twins, some two years older than I but both, as yet, unmarried.)

"They are still a-bed," said she. "I will wake them later. But now, I think, you would like to retire to your chamber to make your ablutions. You must be fatigued after the journey from Italy."

I admitted that I was - though at that moment all tiredness had fled from me, such was the power of attraction this woman had.

Lady Arabella clapped her hands and called for a maid. Almost instantly, one appeared. She was a pleasing-looking thing of some five and twenty, with a pert smile and a round behind, I noticed. I had never seen her before. She must have joined the house while I was gone.

"Fetch warm water," Arabella told her, "and bring it to Lord Carey's room. And be quick about it, girl. None of your dawdling now! Your master has returned and you must be diligent."

The girl bobbed a curtsey and left us, and Arabella turned to ascend the stairs again. I followed in her wake with my heart beating fast.

We went to my former chamber, where Lady Arabella was eager to demonstrate that all had been prepared for my arrival.

"I hope you will find me a competent housewife," she told me. "All the hangings have been beaten thoroughly, for instance." To emphasize the vigour of the beating, she smacked her own booted calf with her riding crop, then attacked the curtains of my four-poster with the same implement, to show that no dust fell.

"And your linen has been thoroughly aired," she added. She flicked the bed covers back to display the sheets. "There is no dampness here, my Lord, I can assure you."

I muttered my approval.

"Of course," said Arabella, "you may desire in time to move into your late father's chambers. As the Master of the house, it is only fitting that you should. I will be ready to vacate at a moment's notice. You have only to mention it ... if that is, indeed, your wish."

I smiled my assent again -- at which point the pretty maid entered, bearing a steaming jug of water for me to wash with. She carried it to the wash-stand and poured some in the bowl, then turned to her mistress, awaiting her instructions. Arabella turned to me, indicating the bed.

"Perhaps, my Lord, you would like to remove your boots? If you sit here, young Dotty will assist you."

So I sat down and Dotty knelt before me, taking one boot in her hands and tugging strenuously to draw it off. And, as I looked down on her exertions, I was reminded of the whores of Italy, who kneel like that to play the flute as they call it -- to perform, that is, what is more properly termed, in the Italian tongue, the delightful perversity of fellatio.

It entered my mind that I should like nothing better than to place my prick in her mouth, so that she could favour me with an English rendition of the self-same tune the Italian ladies play. If it had not been for Arabella's presence, I believe I would have done it then and there, but I was still uncertain of the limits of her propriety, so I desisted from my impulse and waited patiently as the girl removed first one boot, then the other. That done, I rose and threw off my coat, then moved towards the washstand, where I began, quite innocently, to take off my shirt, before I bethought me that Arabella might take it amiss to see me thus exposed. I turned my eyes towards her, intending to enquire if she would countenance my stripping in her presence or if she would rather withdraw, but was surprised to see that she had taken my former place on the bed and was sitting, legs apart, while the maid, who knelt between them, pulled at her lady's boots just as she had done with mine. So, reasoning that if Arabella could make free with my bed I could at least take off my shirt, I divested myself of the garment and threw it on the floor beside my coat. Then I lowered my face to the basin and spent some time washing, ridding myself of the clinging traces of the road.

When I next looked round, both Arabella's boots were off -- as were her breeches. The maid still knelt between her thighs but now her face was pressed against the lady's ginger muff, with Arabella's hand placed firmly on the back of the girl's head to keep all in the proper place.

I was, of course, no stranger to Sapphic lust, having seen similar shows a-plenty in the brothels of Paris, Rome and Venice. But I had never before beheld a scene like this in my own domestic setting. I was mightily shocked and heartily aroused -- and Arabella, seeing my amazement, smiled up at me even as her bosom heaved.

"Young Dotty's talents are not confined to fetching water," she informed me. "In fact, that is the very least of her. Her tongue plays upon my clitoris so prettily and sweetly, it is like an angel strumming feathers on a harp. And your father told me she is equally accomplished when ministering to the membrum virile."

At that, the girl left off her labours, to turn her head and smile at me, but her mistress wrenched her round again quite roughly and pressed her mouth back firmly against her quim.

"How many times have I to tell you, girl - you may not desist 'til instructed to!" she scolded.

I saw the maid redouble her efforts now, and watched entranced as her mistress ascended the peak -- her cheeks blushing rosily, lips rounded in a tiny scarlet 'o'. At last it came and Arabella, with her head thrown back and both hands now pressing the girl's lips to her hole, climaxed - sobbing, laughing, screaming. At length, she gave a final savage shriek; then she released the maid and sank back satisfied onto the bed.

There was a moment's silence as all three of us recovered our composure. Then Arabella crooked a finger at me.

"Do you, my Lord, require some entertainment before you sleep?" she asked.

I had her from behind. She first knelt on all fours, presenting her buttocks to me, with the enticing glint of her quim winking in the cleft below. I quickly removed my breeches and knelt behind her, then drove my rod up hard against those fleshy lips. I sank right into her -- like a knife into butter. The maid had done her work with interest. Arabella was more than ready: her cunt was a deep, warm, and slippery wet.

I was so intent on fucking, I did not notice for some time that the maid too was taking a form of pleasure. She had lain back on the floor with her skirts hoicked up around her, her legs akimbo, and her busy fingers working at her slit. She watched us both intently as she frigged - and our exertions, I realised, were the engine of her pleasure -- her motive force. The girl's excitement transferred itself to me. Feeling her eyes upon me, I fucked my partner all the harder. I rogered her mercilessly and she groaned and panted for more.

Arabella's appetite, in fact, was limitless. I was convinced that, had I been able to go all day, she would have stayed with me to the very end. At last, however, I gave up the ghost and came. My seed jetted into her and my tension drained away. But I stayed in the position for some time longer, enjoying the warm grip of Arabella's cunt; enjoying the sight of Dotty, too, who was still self-pleasuring.

Then the maid finished with a protracted cry and I withdrew. Arabella remained kneeling where she had been. She spoke sternly to her maid.

"You frigged yourself without permission," she told her. "You know that is wrong, of course!"

Dotty hung her head contritely, though I thought I detected the faintest hint of a smile at the corners of her mouth.

"You know you must be chastised for it?" Arabella asked her.

"Yes, Madam, I know it," answered Dotty, meekly; prettily. Then she added, huskily sotto-voce: "I will look forward to it."

I cannot tell when I finally closed my eyes, but close they did. My exhaustion was complete. After that headlong dash across half of Europe, and the journey from Dover and my all-night ride, then finally the exertions of coition, I had nothing remaining to support a waking state. The dreams into which I plunged were deep and manifold - of lanes and hedges, villages, towns and bridges, and the insistent clopping of many horses' hooves. But, intertwined with that ghostly reprise of my journey, were visions of my step-mother and her pretty, saucy maid.

I was swaddled in sensation in my bed. I was cradled in my sleep by Arabella's cunt. My prick twitched as I dreamed. I had come home!