A Certain Latitude (18 page)

March watched, motionless apart from a stir in his cock.

Now her fingertip strayed to her clitoris.  A slight touch, a little pressure—teasing herself, teasing him.

“A moment.” March’s voice was not as steady as previously. He took the candle and moved to a small cabinet, opened it, and removed a bundle, wrapped in some sort of fabric. The cloth—it had the gleam of silk by the light of the candle—he tossed aside, revealing a model of an erect cock, gleaming white in the moonlight.

“Ivory.” He ran his hand up the length of the phallus in a slow, sensual caress. “From the Orient. Wondrously lifelike, is it not?” His own cock lengthened and swelled. “If I may?”

He brushed the head of the ivory cock in a slow sweep from clitoris to buttocks, then positioned, pushed, penetrated her. “Do what pleases you best, Miss Onslowe.”

She grasped the base of the ivory cock in her other hand—cool at first, then warming as her body closed and took the length. Not quite like a man—too hard, without the flexibility, but enough to arouse her. Slow, even strokes while she teased her clitoris—
Keep it slow, extend the pleasure, it’s what he wants
—her captured nipples throbbed and ached.

March’s cock rose. He stroked himself while gazing at her—what did it look like, the white of the ivory against the pink of her quim?

Her quim made small, wet sounds as she eased the phallus in and out, releasing it entirely occasionally to rub it against her clitoris. Tension gathered in her thighs, her nipples, her belly, as she began the delicious climb to an orgasm.

March’s hand continued the slow, casual slide on his cock. “You like that, don’t you, Clarissa?”

“Yes.” Her voice was tight and breathless.

“You like me to watch you.”

“Yes.” She could barely speak now.

He leaned forward, shifting his gaze from between her legs to her eyes. “Come for me, then.”

Finally. She let go. Arched and cried out, her finger merciless on her clitoris, sliding the phallus ever faster as her orgasm took her, March’s eyes the constant in a plunging universe.

She fell back, astonished and breathless, her hands falling away, and the ivory phallus sliding wetly between her thighs.

“Now lick it,” March said. “Lick it clean.”

He knelt between her outspread legs and pushed his cock into her, filling her—ah, that was better, the warmth and flex of a man—pushing slow, curving into her. He held the phallus to her mouth: she tasted herself, salty and with a touch of vinegar from the sponge, as her tongue explored the carved veins and folds. He groaned, his mouth joining hers on the shaft, and his tongue meeting hers, until they both abandoned the phallus and it tumbled away into the sheets. Now he thrust slowly inside her, the length and breadth of his cock stretching her, vital and alive. He rocked his weight back onto his knees to release the clasps that had so teased and pinched her nipples, and moved from her mouth to lick her there. Both of them moaning now, the playacting abandoned, lost in a drugged sweetness; the slick of wet skin and tangled hair and the scent of sweat-drenched bodies all that existed.

He came with a tremor and a wet surge, although she held herself off in a sort of detached daze, as though an orgasm would detract from the wonder. This was March, so lordly and demanding and fierce, now vanquished in her arms, his head fallen onto her shoulder, his back heaving as he sucked in air.

He kissed her shoulder as though too lazy, or too depleted, to reach for her mouth. “Well?”

How was she supposed to answer that? She searched her dazed mind for suitable compliments on his virility and stamina, failed, and mumbled, “Thank you, sir.”

He laughed and propped himself up on one elbow. A lock of his hair swept over his arm and tickled hers. “I don’t believe you have very much to thank me for that last time.”

His admission surprised her, and embarrassed her, too. She was his mistress, the instrument of his pleasure. Did he want her to perform with the ivory phallus again?

He kissed the corner of her mouth. “What would you like?”

She remembered that first—no, second time—with Allen, where she was dumbfounded by his need to know how and what she liked. Then, of course, she had no idea, only overwhelming excitement. Now she knew.

She took his hand and guided it between her thighs. “Here.” She pressed his fingers into the wet heat, against the swollen length of her clitoris, letting her knees fall apart. His face was serious, intent—a profile worthy of a Greek coin—his hand dark against her thighs as one finger dipped and played. She watched his hand dabble intimately between her thighs.

“We’ll do this with more light and in front of a mirror,” March remarked. “I think you’d like that, wouldn’t you? You’d like to see my hand on your cunny.”

She gave a small gasp of shock and excitement. How easily he read her.

“What else would you like me to do?” March asked, his voice calm as though offering her more claret at dinner.

“I’d like you to lick me,” she gabbled in an embarrassed rush.

“Ah. Where, precisely?”

“Here.” She gestured. Her face heated—she really couldn’t tell whether it was shame or desire, so linked were the two emotions.

“A capital idea.” March bent his head and took her clitoris between his lips in a deceptively gentle kiss. But only gentle for a moment—his mouth engulfed her folds, while his tongue beat a wicked rhythm on her clitoris. And his fingers, dear God! His fingers thrust inside her, hooking up to a surprisingly sensitive place—she gave up the idea of trying to trace the topography of her quim, as his fingers, tongue and lips merged into one splendid instrument of pleasure.
Please, please, please
. She writhed under the intensity of his caress, almost hoping he’d stop—and then spasmed against him, amazed at the wetness and violence of her response.

He held her at the peak of her orgasm, as skilful as a musician sustaining a long note, while she thrashed and groaned and shook.

“Oh,” she said in amazement, as the seemingly endless tumult subsided. Her legs still quivered and small shocks reverberated in her belly.

He raised his head, very wet around the mouth, and smiled. “You are quite extraordinary.”

“So are you.” She could barely move, quite limp and perfectly content.

He yawned. “I should sleep.” He pulled the sheet up to his waist, leaned to kiss her lips, and closed his eyes.

She curled onto her side and watched him. He seemed to fall asleep quickly, his breathing slow and even. His skin was almost as pale as hers in the moonlight, with a sparse slick of hair on his chest, thinning to a narrow line that ran to his navel. Below that, and under the sheet, she knew the hair thickened and spread around the base of his cock, and his legs were covered with a fine sheen of hair, as were his exposed arms.

Beautiful
. An odd word for a woman to use of a man, but beauty he had in abundance.

Was she supposed to leave now? She regarded the sleeping man, sighed, and unfastened the jewels from her breasts. As she sat to place them on the bedside cabinet, he shifted and his hand landed on her shoulder.

“Where are you going?” he said.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.” She turned to him.

“You don’t look happy,” he said quietly.

“I…I’m confused.” His acuity served only to confuse her more.

“About what?”

“You.”

“Ah.” His hand slid to her breast, cupping it in his palm.

“I don’t know you. I feel I see you with a series of masks—as master of your plantation, as a father, as a man who takes and gives pleasure—” She bit her lip. She remembered Allen grumbling at her for not behaving like an obedient vessel of male pleasure. For one absurd moment, she wished Allen was there so she could ask his advice.

“Our contract does not cover matters of the heart.” The words could have stung, but from March they had a certain kindness and gravity. He bent to kiss her breast and slid his hand to her hip. “I wish you to be happy, Clarissa. You are far from home and I suspect you have been lonely for much of your life. We can offer each other comfort and companionship as well as our bodies. I’m not an easy man to know and I think you, too, have your secrets. So be it. Let us start there and see what ensues.”

She leaned to kiss his mouth. As her lips touched his he tensed and then sighed, pulling her close.

“Sleep now,” he said.

She woke later to gray light, with March’s cock rising against her spine, his hand at her breast. He rubbed against her, his intention perfectly clear.

“Fast,” he murmured. “Not much time. Let’s see who comes first.”

She wriggled to take him in. His cock bumped lazily between her buttocks and lingered, prodding, at her arse. He groaned and laughed. “Another time.”

And then he slid into her, perfect and smooth, while he whispered how wet she was, how sweet her cunt, and he knew how much she liked to frig herself at his command. Or did she like to do it on her own too? More indecent, playful murmurs; his thrusts became faster, more urgent, and he released her breast to grip her hips and spend himself inside her soon after she clenched and cried out.

He withdrew in a gush of fluid. “Finch will escort you back to your bedchamber.” He rolled over and rose from the bed. “It promises to be a busy day. I’ve much work to see to on the estate.”

“Yes, of course.” Confused, Clarissa reached for her cloak, puddled on the floor where she had dropped it last night. She dropped the jewels from the nightstand into the pocket.

“You’ll come to my bedchamber tonight.”

“Yes, sir.” She wrapped the woolen cloak around herself—itchy and unpleasant in the cold light and coolness of early dawn.

“Clarissa?”

She turned. March stood naked before her, drawing his hair back into a queue. He smiled. “Forgive my abruptness. I mean no disrespect. You have given me a night of wonderful pleasure.” He bent his head to kiss her lips. “I trust I pleased you, too.”

“You did, sir.’

“March.”

“Yes, March, you pleased me greatly.” She reached to touch the corner of his mouth.

So he had…but why this urge to weep?

“Please sit down, Nerissa.”

The slave stared at her, astonished by Clarissa’s request, and nervously perched on the chair in Clarissa’s bedchamber.

Clarissa smiled at her and the young woman looked even more uneasy. “I wish to ask you some questions about your life.”

“I don’ know, ma’am.”  Said with a closed, blank expression.

“You won’t get into trouble,” Clarissa said gently. She wrote the name Nerissa and the date, and underlined them both.

“You gon’ write it down?”

“Yes. I want to let people know in England—the people who are working to end the trade—what it is like for you and other slaves here.”

“You show it to King George?” Nerissa brightened.

“Well, perhaps not the king. But certainly Mr. Wilberforce—ah, you’ve heard of him, I see. No woman has written yet about the female slaves.”

“I don’ know. De master, he wouldn’t like it.”

“I won’t use your name,” Clarissa said. “No one will know it is you, and I doubt Mr. Lemarchand will read it. My name will not appear on it either.”

Nerissa sat silent. Whether her silence meant assent, Clarissa didn’t know. Might as well begin, then.

“Where were you born?”

“Don’ remember.”

“Here or in Africa?”

“Beg pardon, ma’am, I got de ironing to do for Miss Celia.” Nerissa stood, fists clenched on her apron.

“Wait,” Clarissa said. She lifted the lid of her writing slope and regarded the meager contents. A few coins and that vulgar ribbon Mrs. Blight had given her. She picked the ribbon out and dangled it from her fingertips. Nerissa’s eyes brightened.

“I shall give you this,” Clarissa said, “and sixpence. But first you must talk, and you should tell me the truth. Can you do that?”

Nerissa stared at the ribbon. “I not get into trouble?”

“No. I shall tell no one. And I shall ask other women, too.”

“So I de first?”

“Yes. Yes, you are. And I know you’re a brave girl.”

Nerissa nodded and smiled. “So I be de first. So. I come from Africa when I was little.” She gestured to about the height of her thigh.

“How old were you?”

“I don’ know. Little. De slavers take us from our village, I don’ remember too much of that. Dey take my papa away from us, and me and my mama cry and howl. My mama, she hold me tight when we inside de big ship, and den men come take her away. I never see her after that …”

Clarissa’s pencil scratched busily as she wrote and wrote, her hand cramping. Twice she had to ask Nerissa to stop so she could sharpen the point, and the afternoon light faded as Nerissa’s voice lilted and swooped.

Later, Clarissa read and transcribed her notes and found herself weeping.

When she’d become a housekeeper, Clarissa had inherited a book of recipes and useful household tips dating back at least a half century. She had added in more of the same as she’d learned the intricacies of the household.

Why wasn’t there a similar volume for a mistress? She certainly would have found it useful in the confusion of this first week with March. Sometimes she thought she should create such a book for her successor, who would find herself bound by the same web of complicated, subtle ritual.

She ran over some of those in her mind, as she once again made her way to his bedchamber. What had she learned of March, other than his scents and textures, the sounds he made during lovemaking? He liked to direct the lovemaking, holding on to a rigid control until his orgasm broke, and recovering soon after. He tolerated little affection—she remembered with a pang her hand clasping Allen’s in the heaving darkness of a storm at sea—falling asleep without touching her, but inevitably waking lustful before dawn, reaching out for her. In the early mornings his lovemaking had more spontaneity than the elaborate choreography of the night.

She loved his touch even as it confused her.

And now …