The House of Elyot

1888 Part 5

Posted on: February 2, 2011

Starving in a garret never looked so appealing…


Vyvyan Stanford was ever considerate of his lovers’ comfort and pleasure, but even the log-piled fireplace, the warm chintz half-draped across Jessie’s nude thighs and the curtains drawn against the rickety sash windows could not prevent blasts of icy air penetrating their little temple to the gods of love and creation in SW3.


“Darling, are you almost finished?  I shall freeze solid in this pose soon,” complained Jessie, fretful and unable to shift lest the quantity of strategically-placed dried rose petals that dotted her upper torso should scatter and reveal a stray nipple.


Stanford put down his palette and brush, cocked his head to one side so his luxuriant hair brushed a shoulder and smiled indulgently.  “A very pretty ice-sculpture you would make too,” he remarked before swooping over to kneel beside the chaise whereon Jessie lay, brushing aside a cluster of petals and replacing them with the pad of his thumb.  “Oh yes, my poor Muse is in need of warmth,” he crooned, circling the stiff red peak and blowing hot breath upon it.


“Oh Vyvyan, a wrap and a hot cup of tea were what I had in mind,” clucked Jess, “but now you’ve started…oooh…don’t stop….”


The buds stood upright, brazen pink sentinels, even as the white mounds they topped puckered into gooseflesh.  Jessie was conscious of nothing but the throbbing pleasure-pain that swelled her nipples bigger and harder than seemed possible, burying her hands in Stanford’s abundance of chestnut hair and squeezing at his scalp while she giggled unrestrainedly.


“Ooooh, Vyvyan, oooh, stop, it tickles!”  Her protests were sincere, though somewhat belied by the prickling beads of excitement seeping into her nether curls.


Vyvyan’s response was to dart the tip of his tongue, tensed to a point, swiftly across the diameter of that precious summit to which all his attention was directed, the gusts of the low laughter precipitated by Jessie’s resultant squirm drifting down the mountainsides.


Squeaks and yelps turned to languid erotic moans once Vyvyan, having his fill of lapping at the tumescent nub, slipped its entirety into his hungry mouth and sucked heartily.  Starving in a garrett he might be, but this was surely the food of the gods!  He essayed a little wordplay on palette and palate as he feasted, looking for some witticism with which to impress Oscar at his next soirée, but he could not perfect it, so returned his full focus to driving his lovely model to a distraction of lust.


When he lifted his head, Jessie sucked in a breath, noticing the sharp distinction between his hot mouth and the frigid air that replaced it and imagining the shiny slickness that now coated her nipple freezing over into ice.  But this fear held only brief tenure in her mind, chased onwards by the plunging of Vyvyan’s tongue into the welcoming location of her mouth, inveigling her into a kiss whose passion bordered on frenzy.


Oh yes, she and Vyvyan were kindred souls, brought together by the kind of chance lovers liked to call Fate, and never to be wrought asunder.  Who else would understand their unconventional way of loving but each other?  Who else would accept the other’s need to be free even while their hearts were captivated, to taste and experience all that life had to offer, without constraint or fear of society’s reproof?  Neither of the pair accepted any limits on their natural right to explore beyond the margins of decency, for what was decency anyway but a spurious straitjacket imposed on the people by autocrats who feared the consequences of giving the public imagination full sway?  No, they would live without apology or bourgeois restriction, and they would love accordingly, moving blindly in whatever direction their desires took them.


Vyvyan’s fingers slid beneath the heavy smoothness of the drape and dipped briefly between his lover’s lower lips, finding them dewy with liquid heat.


“My Aphrodite,” he murmured, finding her ear with some difficulty beneath her extraordinary copper halo.  “I know what would warm you.”


“Mmm, so do I,” panted Jessie, but his proposal was not what she expected.


“Pleasure yourself, my love.  Put that pretty hand between those legs and let me sketch your face when it transfigures in ecstasy.  No man should be denied that sight; surely the faces of the Seraphim kneeling at the feet of their Lord could not rival it.”


“Vyvyan, don’t go…” wailed the redhaired temptress, propping herself on her elbows and frowning, but the artist was back at his canvas, selecting charcoals and urging her to spread her legs.


Relenting, Jessie shot him a brazen smile and crooked one leg whilst moving the other down off the chaise, so that Vyvyan’s gaze travelled straight into the V-shaped delta thus revealed.  Her pubis was adorned with delicate curls the very shade of her leonine mane, fleecing her parted lips on either side and providing an exquisite colour contrast to the ruby red hood peeking out from the centre of the tableau.


“Beautiful, oh, divine,” shuddered Vyvyan, his drawing hand shaking slightly at the addition of Jessie’s slim white fingers to the picture.  She pressed and stroked with unhurried languor at first, then she cupped one breast with her free hand and began to flick at the nipple, biting her lip in her absorption until it was stained almost blood red, her limpid green eyes rolling upwards and back, her waxen cheeks suffused, her chest heaving.


“Yes, yes, Jessie, yes, please, this is exquisite!” encouraged Vyvyan, keeping the rhythm going, adding broad sweeps of his pencil to capture precisely the careless rapture of Jessie’s pose, shouting in triumph as he found the expression he needed and then his model was at her crisis, heaving out his name, shaking her hair and kneading at her breast until she sagged back down against the cushions, spent and flushed.


“Mmmmmmm,” she purred, clasping a silken pillow to her cheek and closing her eyes.  “Now I could sleep.”


Vyvyan’s eyes were torn from his sketch to the vulgar bulge in his velvet knee-britches.  “Not yet, though, love?” he pleaded, flinging down his materials and joining his Jessie on the chaise.




Later, over tea and toast, the drowsy lovers pondered their situation once again.  Damnable though it was to have to admit it, if one wanted to live a life of freedom, one needed capital.  Ever since Vyvyan had exhibited his first semi-nude goddess, his allowance had been shaved back to the bare minimum, in stern rebuke from his father, a merchant banker.  He had sold a few paintings here and there but it was true to say that only the barest of Bohemian existences could be financed from this.


Jessie earned a modest wage as a chorus girl, but it covered only sundry necessities such as food, wine, absinthe and opium, as well as clothing and entertainment.  How were they to travel, to see the world and its ways, on such a minuscule budget?  Something needed to be done.


“Darling, I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again.  There are men who would queue up to give me money, to buy me jewels and furs.  Why not let them?”


“Jess, I know, but…it pains me to think…”


“I would not have to do anything, dearest.  Just let them buy me dinner, take me to the races.  Surely that would not be such a hardship?  After all, we each have other lovers.”


“Yes, but they are for our mutual pleasure, not for….base profit.”


“Ah, love, but base profit is what we need more than anything.  The world is wicked, Vyvyan, and there is nothing we can do about it.  Let us at least use its wickedness to our advantage.”


Vyvyan sighed.  “You are always so practical, my dove.  I suppose you are right.”


He sipped ruminatively at his tea and twirled one russet curl around a finger.  How could such ethereal looks adorn such a hard head?



Come back on Friday when I’ll have a special guest in the House – champagne and oysters for all!

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