by Dimitri Markotin
It was obvious to Emerson—and likely most every guest of the garden party—that the raven-haired beauty bore no invitation. Certainly, she was well corseted, bustled, and dressed; her gown swept the stone pathways, its neckline revealed gorgeous collarbones. But her hair was not done up and came only to her bare shoulders. She wore no hat and her skin was tanned to olive. She was not society.
Yet her demure smile defeated Emerson at a glance. So taken with her was he that he immediately sought her arm and walked her through the aisles of rose and hedge to the fountain and the dancing. Assuming his lower-class companion to be something of a lark, the society eyes turned quickly away. Of more interest to them was the remarkable airship that floated above their heads and fed their aristocratic jealousy. The finest, the newest. The fastest, and of course, the most expensive.
The stranger could dance, Emerson realized, though she barely spoke a word. So dance they did, and always, under his arms, he felt she was waiting to break free of the rigid waltzes and minuets. They stepped in time, his hand pleasantly on the small of her back, her brown eyes gazing up at him with wonderment.
Dusk became night and many couples—married or no—filtered away to explore the grounds of his father’s manor, away from the gaslight braziers that lit the party proper.
“Would like you like to come with me, down to the river?” he asked as they continued to dance.
She shook her head, casting her loose hair about in way that was both unladylike and remarkably attractive.
“Then perhaps you’d like to see the Journey Apostle? It’s my father’s ship, and I can take us aboard.”
His dance partner stared penetratingly at his face for several moments before she replied with a smile. “Yes, I would like that.”
That night found Emerson naked in his four-poster bed, alone with his thoughts in the bright glow of mantled gas lamps. Adalia—her name as she had told him—had shyly bid him good evening and walked alone through the gate, where he was certain no carriage waited. She had promised to see him again, but he doubted her.
His hand was around his cock, his thumb applying pressure to the base of the top. Adalia. A shy city girl, he told himself, a quiet young woman who dreamed of a finer lot in life. Her mother may have been a lady’s maid, he conjectured, to have known what dresses to wear.
He massaged the muscles of his groin with one hand while the other moved slowly around the tip of his dick. She had wanted to go to bed with him, but had been too shy.
He lazily fantasized about his lowborn dance partner, dreaming of how he could escape his dull life of privilege and she her menial labor. Perhaps she was a washwoman. They would steal the Journey and escape to the stars. They would make love under the moonlight on the deck of the fabulous ship while the crew slumbered below.
Yes, she would moan, be on top of me. Hold me down—
His fantasies were interrupted by a glint of light outside the window. He turned and saw a figure silhouetted in the moonlight. Emerson thought to yell frightfully until the figure’s face moved closer to the glass, where it was illuminated by the gaslight. It was Adalia, in black pants and blouse, suspended by a rope.
She moved a finger to her full lips, signaling him to stay silent. And then she smiled, a coy smile.
Emerson lay on his back, his head turned to the near stranger outside his third story window, his hands pleasing himself.
His fantasy lay shattered, but there was Adalia, and he stroked himself with a new fervor. Thoughts left him entirely; only his hands and the vision of her smiling face occupied his mind. She was staring intently, alternating between his masturbation and the pleading look he bore on his face.
He saw her lick her lips and he spasmed, but did not come.
She made a sign with her hands that he did not comprehend and then began to climb the rope, out of his sight. A moment later the rope itself snaked up past his window, and he lay sweating in the warm summer night, his mind swimming.
As a precautionary measure, he opened his window.
He was roused not fifteen minutes later by a firm knock at the door.
“Who disturbs me?” He asked coyly, hoping for Adalia.
“It’s Charles, m’lord.” An older servant of the household spoke through the closed door. “I’m just up to warn you; there’s been a guard who says he’s seen someone come over the wall. Now, I’m certain it’s nothing, and I’m certain it’s handled, but I just thought it proper to tell you.”
“Thank you,” Emerson said, irritated. “I’ll be on my guard.”
“Excellent, sir. Sorry to disturb your rest, sir.”
Adrenaline seeped unnoticed into Emerson’s veins as he sat up in bed, pondering the night. Adalia was en route to steal the Journey Apostle, he was convinced. He banished thoughts of his father’s wrath from his mind and gathered the courage to join her at its mooring. All at once he stood and walked towards the magnificent wooden dresser to gather his hunting garb.
But no sooner was he out of his bed when Adalia came diving through the window, hitting the floor with a thump and an acrobatic roll, a knapsack cradled in her arms.
Mindless of his nudity, he rushed over to help her stand.
She shrugged away his hand as a nuisance and deftly regained her feet. The clueless villager he had taken her to be was gone forever, and Adalia stood before Emerson with a fierce confidence and a wild glint in her eyes.
“I told you I was coming back,” she said, stepping towards him and looking up to meet his eyes. “Do you have music?”
“A symphonion? A kalliope? A celesta?” Adalia looked around his crowded room at a strangely frantic clip, dropping the canvas knapsack onto the wooden floor. She opened drawers with abandon, shut them with a fervor.
“I’ve a roller organ, if that’s what you ask.” Emerson walked to a small wooden box on his dresser and opened it, revealing the latest in self-playing music machines.
“Put it on, then, put it on. I’d have music!” Adalia grew excited and continued to pace. “You folk have the finest!”
She acted so much like a wild animal, Emerson thought, that he was reminded of his trip to Africa. He selected a cylinder of Diederick Meer, the mad German, and the roller organ began to play.
A hand came from behind and caressed his bare hip. He turned, and Adalia stood on her toes to kiss him. Her breath tasted lightly of wine and of something more mineral—of rust—but he was enchanted.
She led him to the bed, firmly but not roughly, and pushed him onto it. Once he was seated, she kissed him again, taking his neck in her hands. Her fingers were rough against his growing stubble, and it came as a bit of a shock to realize that her hands would have no reason to be as soft as his own.
“Lie back,” she commanded gently.
He did as he was
told, and she straddled his waist fully clothed. She leaned down to kiss him again. He opened his mouth and lightly licked her teeth. At this, she kissed him harder, her hands cradled behind his head, holding it above the goosedown pillow. Never had he felt such passion, never had a kiss driven adrenaline into his veins.
“Why did you come here, if not to steal the Journey?” Emerson asked when she sat back on her knees and began to knead his chest. She took no break from touching him, exploring him. She hadn’t been still for a second since she had landed in his room.
“I came here for you, sir prince.”
“Bollocks. You didn’t come here for me, and I’m no prince.”
She was reaching behind herself so that her hands ran along the outside of his upper thighs, gently stroking him with fingernails while the music box played its quiet, incessant tune. “Why wouldn’t I? You’re handsome. I’ll wager you know that, I’ll wager you’re told all the time. Yet I’ve thought about this since you took my arm.”
‘You’ve robbed my father, haven’t you?” His tone was more curious than accusatory.
“And who hasn’t your father robbed? A coal baron isn’t rich of their own sweat, never was.” Her hands moved onto his cock, running one fingernail down lightly from tip to base.
“Don’t get me wrong,” Emerson managed between sighs, “I’m glad you’re here.”
Adalia leaned forward and kissed him again on the mouth, her full lips luscious against his own, and Emerson dropped any objections he might have had.
She stood playfully on the bed, ducking her head below the hand-painted tester and striding a quick lap around him. She reached his feet and went back to her knees, laughing.
“Quiet, or you’ll be caught!” Emerson whispered.
“I’ll be no such thing.” Adalia ran her palms up Emerson’s shins, over his knees, up his thighs. Her upper body trailed shortly behind, and soon she reached his cock, poising her mouth above it.
She seemed about to take it in her mouth, when she looked up to meet him in the eyes. “You want this?”
Adalia ran her tongue up the underside of his cock and he felt still more blood rush to fill it. Her tongue reached his urethra and played with it—sending fire through his loins—before she pursed her lips, opened her mouth, and began to suck his dick.
She bobbed her head almost playfully for a short moment, then paused to lick her hands and jerk him off slowly.
Emerson stretched, his hands grasping at the headboard, his mind a scattered mix: frightened of discovery, frightened of Adalia, and enticed and pleasured beyond all reason.
He began to move towards climax, unconsciously thrusting his hips, and she let off and rose to her knees. With both hands she unbuttoned first her lace-less blouse and then her plain, utilitarian chemise.
Emerson rose up in bed, and sat cross-legged in front of her, his hands reaching out to touch her breasts. They hung slightly low, unaccustomed to daily corseting, and her nipples were large and dark.
“Kiss them,” she said, and he did, one after the other, savoring the feel of their softness against his lips
“Bite one gently,” she said, and he did, feeling the nipple grow hard as he released his teeth.
He eased her onto her back, and she lay down with her legs together. When he tried to place his own legs inside hers, she resisted.
“No?” he asked, surprised.
“No,” she said. “I’ll undress, and you can look—I want you to look—but you won’t touch me. Don’t ask me why.”
Emerson nodded, acting as nonplussed as he was able. Certainly, there were greater mysteries to the night than this new one.
She reached down and unbuttoned her pants at the front, sliding them down over her quite generous hips. Such an hourglass figure she had, even uncorseted. Emerson rose to his knees and stared at the curve of her body. Unconsciously, one hand went to his groin and he touched himself.
He watched as she rolled over slowly, showing her body to him. He stroked himself, longing to touch her.
Adalia sighed pleasure at the sight of his arousal and opened her legs, revealing a beautiful, large-lipped cunt. The smell made Emerson ache to be inside her, to reach behind her and take her ass in his hands while he fucked her, and he jerked himself still faster.
Adalia began to rub her cunt, opening it voyeuristically and arching her back, putting her weight on her feet and shoulders. He heard her moan softly, her eyes closed, and Emerson was floating somewhere, lost in her beautiful form.
Not touching, they both began to quiver slightly, both finding a strange rhythm, Emerson sliding his saliva-wet hand up and down his shaft while Adalia spread her lips open and rubbed her clit.
“Straddle my waist,” she said, and Emerson did, still kneeling.
Adalia licked her hands and took over for him, quite clearly delighting in his pleasure. She rubbed spit on the skin between her breasts and brought his dick down between them. She pressed her tits around his cock and put a hand on top of his dick, guiding it. He fucked her chest and she propped her head up on a pillow. He closed his eyes in pleasure. So easy it was to imagine he was inside her.
He felt her tongue opened his eyes. He saw the head of his dick in her mouth, and he quivered and jerked. Suddenly her other hand was on his ass, pulling him further forward. Her finger, wet with spit, pressed hard against his asshole, sending electricity all through his body.
“I’m going to come,” he said, panting, driving hard through her breasts and into her mouth.
She pushed harder on his ass and her finger slid in halfway to the first knuckle. His whole body shook violently, and he came into her mouth, his mouth a silent scream of pleasure. After a another tremor went through him he collapsed onto her, spent and happy.
After a moment, she forced her way out from underneath him with remarkable strength. She looked at him, smiled, and spit his cum onto his remarkably expensive bedsheets.
The roller organ still played, the same five-minute tune.
An hour later, she was still in his bed, wearing only her black canvas pants. He was curled up naked against her, running his fingers through her now-tangled hair.
She was staring towards the window at the first hint of morning light. “You know high society, through and through.”
“Help me then. You can get me invited to the finest manors.”
“For half the money?”
“I don’t keep the money,” Adalia’s spoke as though her mind were far away, wandering the woods of a distant land, “it goes to the poor.”
“If I help you, will I then be able to touch you?”
Adalia looked at Emerson quite seriously. “No.”
sp; Emerson didn’t hesitate: “I’ll do it anyhow.”
Adalia absentmindedly ran a finger down Emerson’s neck. “Thank you.”
A long moment transpired, as Emerson pondered the new life ahead of him, before Adalia spoke again: “For whatever it’s worth, I’ve never done this. I’m not using you,” she seemed to be struggling to find the proper words. “I did what I did because I wanted you, prince.”
Dawn peeked through the window, and Emerson watched as Adalia stood and dressed herself. He meekly met her eyes when she kissed him farewell, and he said nothing as she hefted his family’s fortune in jewels onto her back and climbed out the window.
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