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“And what exactly, pray tell, is the point of being a hereditary peer if I can’t damn well take my own seat in the Lords?” Angelina threw her evening gloves on the dressing table in the way Zeus would’ve thrown a thunderbolt. She spat out a wildly unflattering mimicry of the Lord Speaker, “only male peers may sit and vote.”
John hung his jacket over the back of the dressing table chair, “there’s a silver lining at least, now you don’t have to spend your days in a room full of the crustiest old windbags alive.”
“I know, I just. . .”
“Could have made a difference?” He took one of his wife’s hands in his, “Angel, darling, you’d have set this whole country on it’s ears for the better. I’m sorry.”
She sighed, squeezing his fingers softly, “you’re hardly the one who needs to be apologising for all the misogyny and idiocy of the world John.”
“No, but I’m still sorry you have put up with it.”
The corners of her lips curled ever so slightly upwards. The buttery glaze of the gas light wrapped around the lines and angles of her face, turning her golden at the edges as if she was shining from the inside out. She was as far as John was concerned. They’d been married for two years now, and despite the way polite society had talked about the whirlwind way they’d gotten married, that day in France was one of the very best of his life.
Angelina stepped towards him, leaning down briefly to kiss him before turning away to start taking off and putting away her jewellery. John joined her, unfastening his cuff links, undoing his tie, and taking out his collar studs. They both carried on shedding the layers of upper class veneer that a dinner party called for with practiced ease. Usually it would be a ladies’ maid’s job to help her mistress out of her gowns but John had long since learnt how to deal with all the various fastenings and lacings himself. Both of them preferred getting ready for bed at the end of the day as ordinarily and with as little fuss as possible. He folded and set aside his shirt along with his trousers on the clothes horse, turning around as Angelina was unbuttoning her chemise. She slipped it off, leaving her in nothing besides her stockings and the silk garters that held them up. It would be blasphemy to call her delicate, she was far too confident and competent for that. She was lithe, elegant, graceful, carried herself with quiet surety and certainty. She was herself, and the world could take her as she was or be damned. Back at the dressing table she started the faintly arduous task of removing all the pins from her hair. She caught John’s eye in the mirror,
“In the interests of gender equality dearest I feel like it’s only fair we both get something to stare at.”
He snorted, forcing his body to remember what functioning was so he could strip himself out of his underwear and socks. As nude as the day he was born, he further unfroze himself and joined his wife, standing behind her as she sat on the dressing table chair. He began helping unravel her chignon, the two of them making lighter work of it between them. Angelina’s hair fell in thick, curling waves, long enough to hang half way down her back. She was Botticelli’s Venus if she’d been painted with dark rather than fair hair. In truth she was more than that. She was real, living, breathing beauty rather than a flat, canvas approximation of it. Angelina turned to look at him over her shoulder,
“Thank you,” her lips curved in a smile as soft as the gaslight.
He leant down, kissing her once gently and then again, harder when she cupped the back of his neck and kept him in place. She held him, mapping his lips with hers until they were teetering on the edge of breathless. John’s skin shivered, the low humming buzz spreading across his body that radiated out from where she touched him. When they finally broke apart to breathe Angelina stood up, then tangled them together again as soon as she was on her feet. John cupped her cheek with one hand and her waist with the other, pulling her flush against him. She lazily looped her arms around his neck, tilting her head to let him trail kisses along her jaw and neck. Everything was slow, deliberate, the putting in to practice of the results of plenty of study into how to make one another’s pulses quiver. After he’d finished tasting as much of her skin as he could easily reach John drew them over towards them bed. It was perfectly evident what kissing her had done to him, he had nothing to hide himself with and no desire to do so anyway. His cock was almost entirely hard already, nearly at full attention against his stomach. One corner of Angelina’s lips curled upwards,
“Shall I open the drawer this evening dearest?”
John’s stomach fluttered, his dick twitched and there was no longer a doubt that he was fully erect. It hadn’t been that long into their marriage that Angelina had purchased and then shown him the joys of the particular object they now kept in a locked drawer in the nightstand. He nodded. She smiled wider, catlike, and fetched the key before unlocking and pulling open the draw. She lifted out a stopped bottle of oil, a soft leather harness, and a very well made, fairly realistic looking leather cock. He swallowed, clutching the bedcovers in his fists, a jittery, bubbling anticipation coiling at the base of his skull. He’d known dildos existed and that men could enjoy being fucked prior to his marriage. What he hadn’t done is put two and two together to realise that a beautiful woman could use a dildo to fuck him into incoherent bliss. His wife, his daring, ethereal wife had been the one to show him that.
Angelina fitted the dildo into the harness and then strapped herself in. She stood at the end of the bed, covered in soft gold light and gentle, velvet shadows, the waterfall tumble of her hair all wild and free like some mythical goddess. She crawled up the bed to him and settled between his legs so he could feel the firm leather of the dildo rubbing against his cock. John keened, pulling her closer to him and mouthing at her neck. She stroked his thigh, squeezing the muscle every so often,
“Turn over for me, let me get you ready.”
With more haste than grace he rolled over as she leaned back to retrieve the bottle of oil. He pressed himself up onto all fours, heedless to anything beyond how soon it would be before she was touching him again. All the air in him bubbled out as a cool slick of oil was poured between his arse cheeks. Angelina’s fingers smeared it over and around his rim, pressing against it but not sliding inside quite yet. His thighs shook and he clenched and unclenched his hands around the sheets, almost soundless little whines threading through his nose. Finally, she worked a finger into him, starting slowly until she was sure she could fit another. She stretched him, pressing the pads of her fingertips against his shivering insides until she found the spot the forced, unbidden, a croaking moan from him.
“Angel,” he gasped into the bedcovers, “Angel please.”
She slowly drew her fingers out of him, leaving him quivering and twitching and already more than halfway wrecked before her. She squeezed his arse cheek, digging the fingers of one hand into the muscles hard enough that he could feel the sharper jut of her nails. His heart fell over itself, tilting and sliding in uneven thumps inside his ribcage. His cock hung so achingly hard and heavy between his legs, precome drooling from the tip to fall in smudgy splatters on the linens. His lungs stuttered and a faint, warbling mewl spilled from him as he felt Angelina rubbing the head of her dildo against his rim. She rutted against him without pushing inside, holding his hips steady as he juddered and shook for her, before finally lining herself up and thrusting in. His arms gave out, dropping his torso heavily onto the bed as his eyelids fluttered. She lay herself along his back, rocking into him with devilish, beautiful, precise strokes. Her fingers twisted into his hair, pulling just enough to arch his neck and pull his head up so his whines and moans were no longer buried in the covers.
She was everywhere, was everything to him always. Above, around, inside. Her breath trickling over his neck as she fucked him hard enough to send fizzing fireflies slewing into his bones. He keened as she angled the dildo to drag and press on his prostate. The glistening, clammy squash of her breasts on his back got tighter, closer, as she leant more of her weight on him. John’s lungs struggled and wheezed with abject delight between her body and the mattress. There was barely any space left between his hips and the bed, his rigid, leaking dick rubbed erratically against the covers. Every intermittent scrap of friction making his stomach muscles twitch and jolt. The fireflies were humming through him louder than thunder and brighter than lightning. Angelina’s hand slithered between him and the bed, closing around his cock and stroking. He wailed, choked and broken and blind to everything except the biblical majesty of how she felt. Lips and teeth marked the tanned skin over his neck and shoulders, mixing reddening imprints with the freckles. Every glide of her hand on his dick stripped his nerves even barer, flaying him with ecstasy and a high he’d chase forever. She bit the curve of his shoulder into his neck, digging her teeth in and sucking hard enough to leave him bruise-branded. Her hand was working faster and faster, her hips railing the dildo into him and sending seismic tremors up his spine, the fireflies were a conflagration. His bones froze, his lung faltered, his ever muscles seized. He came, spending himself in thick splatters over the sheets.
Angelina drew away from him, disentangling their bodies and leaving John’s skin howling for hers. He stared blearily over his shoulder at her, watching as she knelt back and undid the fastenings on the dildo’s harness before taking it off and laying it carefully aside. She reached out to him, steading his crumbling with the touch of her hands. She encouraged his sloppy-limbed body to roll over with kisses and gentle touches until he was on his back and looking up at her. He lay a hand on her cheek, his thumb stroking softly back and forth. Her hair tumbled down around both of them, the thick, raven’s-wing blue-black curls hiding them from the world and the world from them. She turned her face into his palm, kissing it,
“My perfect golden boy,” she ran her fingers through his hair, “you’ve got more for me haven’t you.”
John’s ribs shuddered. Yes. Yes. Always. Whatever she asked, whatever she wanted he’d give it to her. The hand in his hair traced down the side of his face, mapping his cheekbones and jawline until her fingertips rested against his lips. He opened his mouth, felt them glide over his lips and tongue, fucking in and out of his mouth. He sucked, spit slipping from the corners of his mouth chased by muffled moans. Angelina’s cheeks were bright, star-burst red and the flecks of reflected gaslight in her eyes had turned them rose gold. She raked the fingernails of her other hand through his chest hair, scratching lightly around his pec in ever decreasing circles until she reached his nipple and pinched it. He writhed and whined, high-pitched and breathy, through his nose. Even already unravelled and spent his cock was filling out again, stiffening against his stomach. Angelina pulled her fingers out of his mouth, glistening and wet through with his spit, and wrapped them around his dick. She stroked, lazy and fluid over his too-sensitive skin but the fizzing, white hot crackle tipped to the good side of too much.
As soon as John was back to being painfully rigid she stopped her stroking and threw a leg over his hips to straddle him. He clung to her thighs, gripping on to the only thing that was stopping him from dissolving away entirely. She rocked against him, grinding her soaking cunt on the hard line of his cock. Her head tipped back, her neck marble perfect and all her waves and waves of hair tumbling over her shoulders, back, and breasts. Her chest heaved with gasps and sighs that teetered between delighted and delirious. He almost ceased to corporeally exist when she tilted her chin down to look at him again. Without ever looking away from his eyes Angelina reached beneath herself, took hold of him, lined him up and then sank down onto his dick. John’s hold on her thighs locked up so hard his knuckles all turned white. She rode him at a canter, the hot, tight, splendour of her cunt pulling him alarmingly quickly towards losing himself all over again. It wasn’t the hyperactive clamour of the fireflies this time, but more like the inexorable, swelling wrecking of a sea storm. Angelina rocked and bounced above him with all the eager, sinuous lines of her body. She snaked a hand down her front, bringing her fingers to her clit and rubbing,
“So good, so good for me JJ.”
He could feel her getting tighter around his cock. He could only remember to breathe because he was watching the heaving rise and fall of Angelina’s chest. His vision was hazy around the edges, the only bright, distinct point was her. Her. His Angel. She ground herself on him harder, faster, her pale skin pinked with a blush all the way down to her collarbones. She stuttered, shuddered, then arched with seraphic abandon as she came. The rippling, cresting waves of her orgasm juddering through her pulled John into the teeth of the storm crowding his stomach. He came again, buried to the hilt in his wife as she worked herself through her own aftershocks. As the mechanics of breathing came back to them and oxygen started to fill their brains again, Angelina slid off him and flopped onto the bed. She rolled onto her side, resting her head on his shoulder. John curled his arms around her, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.