"The Golden Thread" - "Victoria" ITV Erotic Fanfiction - Chapter Three
Victoria’s wedding night looms. Unschooled in love and afraid, who else would she turn to but her mentor in all things, her beloved Lord Melbourne? USUAL DISCLAIMERS APPLY
Icon credit: my_golden_boots
Chapter Three
There was a man in her room. A tall man, dark and with a knowledge in his eyes that she could not compass. He wore boots, fawn breeches and a white shirt - nothing besides. The shirt was open at the throat and a darkness lay there not just of shadows but of the exotic fur of a man’s bosom. His short hair was plastered to his head in Roman curls that framed his face. Almond-shaped eyes bore into her and his hands, his neck, his thighs - all spoke of unfathomable strength.
Here in her room! This was where the mementos of her childhood had been stored. Her rocking horse sat by the window, her first tiny writing desk, her narrow bed. Boxes, boxes everywhere, full of memories and dreams. And dreams she had had of men, too, men full of charm and wit, rakish in aspect yet tender in their touch. And here he was.
“Dearest Victoria,” said Lord Melbourne. “Do not fear me now. You look upon me as if I were some frightful spectre but, believe me, I am a human man. And one who feels the chill, no less.”
The little queen shook her head and admonished herself. “Of course.” She hurried to the sash and closed it, closing the curtains at the same time. Yet when she turned back to pour comfort on a poor, mortal thing, she found herself facing something more than human. The eyes did not rest upon her face but roamed every inch of her. She became aware she was wearing nothing more than her nightgown and although the design was demure - long-sleeved, buttoned to the neck, hem kissing the ground - it was one thin layer of white cotton. A scrap of cloth between her naked body and the desires of a man. From the way he was looking at her, she suspected the fabric had become diaphanous in the firelight and he could see her nude silhouette. A craven little pang went through her and, at the same time, an unknown wetness touched her thigh as what lay between her legs responded to his bold, masculine gaze.
Suddenly, he moved towards her, a dark mass growing larger and larger, until he entered the pool of light cast by a candelabra and his face was the sun. He cupped her own face and bent down, placing a firm kiss on her forehead. He enfolded her in his arms, just as before, yet this time, the heat of his body powered through the ridiculous barrier of their clothes and soothed her, healed her. “Come now, dearheart. Is this not what you desired? Tell me now if your mind has changed and I shall leave immediately.” A forefinger crooked beneath her pointed chin and lifted it. His voice, always soft, was softer still. With the two of them so close, there was no need for volume and the smoky hoarseness of it was like a fragrant cloud about her. “But know now, that is not what I desire. My fondest wish is to be entirely at your disposal, Ma’am.”
The porcelain face shone. The warmth of him had worked its magic, banishing fear of his maleness. All that remained was fear of that unknown quantity, of sex itself. With a bashful smile, Victoria took his hands in hers and led him to the hearthside. “Take off your boots,” she said, “if you wish.”
He did so, placing them in the hearth itself to dry. His bare feet made contact with the rug before the fire and his toes curled at the sensuous touch of the thick pile.
Victoria giggled at the sight of the peer’s naked toes.
Lord Melbourne’s cheek twitched as he settled himself on the floor, back to a fireside armchair. “You find me amusing, Your Majesty?”
She could not stop. “It is as if I never imagined you had feet, Lord M!”
“William,” he said, “surely.”
Victoria shook her head. “Dear me. Bare feet and first name terms.” She bit her bottom lip. “Whatever next?”
“I think I know.” He held out his arms and she went to him once more. He turned her with huge, benign hands so she could sit with her back to him while he stroked the outside of her arms and her hair.
The fire was blazing now: illuminating, warming. In other circumstances, they might have become sleepy but not tonight. Victoria, certainly, had never been farther from sleep. As Lord Melbourne’s hands danced around her, playing with her fingers and combing through her hair, she felt as if every cell of her body were a little soldier standing to attention. Her back had become a sense organ in its own right through which she perceived the living presence of her soon-to-be-lover. The heat of him set the house of her body on fire; his patient, tickling touch went as deep as the lashes of de Sade; the simple rise and fall of his chest was like the poundings of a violator of women. Almost imperceptibly, she began to lean back until she finally gave up all resistance, submitting to the comfort of him, head lolling on his shoulder. She made a small sound, like that of a puppy whimpering in its sleep, as he bent down to kiss her on the neck.
“Are you warm, Victoria?” he breathed. He began to undo the mother-of-pearl buttons at the neck of her nightgown.
She let him and as he undid the final one, she tilted her head towards him, eyes questioning.
“Would you like me to kiss you now?” His face seemed sombre, twisted away from the fire and in shadow but still she could make out the kindly humour there.
“Yes, William, I would.”
And so he did, lips capturing hers, head describing small circles that made their mouths shift against one another, varying contact and pressure. In terms of sensation alone, it was not so different from kissing Albert. The real difference lay inside her head. With Albert, her mind had asked questions, What is this? and Who are you? whereas with Lord Melbourne, her mind screamed answers, William, William, I am kissing William, it is William I am kissing, William, William! The wrongness of it and the rightness of it! He should only have been her advisor, a father-figure - and he was those things to her but he was also much more.
Her love-object.
Lord Melbourne moved back, observing her reaction. “How was that for you?”
“That was good.”
“You are familiar with kissing, yes?”
“Yes, I am.” She shrugged one shoulder as if shy to admit it.
“Have you kissed in the Florentine style?”
“The Florentine…? No, I think I have kissed only in the German style.” Her lips fluttered in amusement and she was glad to see his respond in kind.
“Permit me, then, to introduce you to this style. It is popular far beyond the bounds of its homeland.”
“Very well.”
He moved forward once again. This time, as his lips touched hers, he opened them a little and there he waited, breathing warmly, until hers did the same. He pushed down and kissed her more deeply, jaws locking with hers. It was a fierce kiss that threatened to lay her horizontal until his hand came up and cradled the back of her head. He devoured her; she moaned into his mouth. Then as he drew away and she began to float up towards awareness again, she felt something soft and wet move over her lips.
Her eyes flew wide. “Was that - your tongue?”
“Yes, my dear.”
“And is that ‘kissing in the Florentine style’?”
“Yes, indeed.” He raised an eyebrow. His face was still very close. “You do not care for it?”
“No, it is not that,” she said, a little hurriedly, her knotted brow belying her words. “It just seems rather strange.”
“Is it really strange? Is my body so strange to you?” He took her hand in a certain grip, his thumb lying across the base of her fingers and brought it to his face. He tapped the tips against his bottom lip, moving his head from side to side so they slid over the flesh, watching her intently all the while. Then, as her fingers became bolder and stroked the warmer flesh within, his tongue moved forwards and touched them.
Such a delicate thing! Victoria could not believe what she had found, what she was being permitted to explore: the vulnerable opening into this powerful man’s core. As two fingers pushed inside, his eyelids closed, dark lashes fluttering against his cheeks. His tongue rose from its oyster bed to meet her probing, hardly moving at all, simply responding with tiny oscillations to her innocent touch. Yes, it was a strange yet cherishable creature she had discovered!
She wanted more. Her fingers ran round from his lips to the nape of his neck, pulling him towards her. When his mouth met hers, she stroked it with her tongue and when he opened it to moan, she slid her tongue inside.
He accepted it with good grace, permitting it to thrust up into him even though he occupied the superior position, leaning down to meet the woman he held in his arms. He was very pleased with her.
They kissed, then, and for some time there was no thinking of it in terms of its component parts. It was the kiss - the Great Kiss. Without knowing, both began to move their bodies in time, chests heaving, hips squirming in anticipation. Then Victoria became aware that Lord Melbourne’s hand had dropped from her jawline and now lay at her throat. It pushed down between her breasts, never breaking contact, over her stomach until it arrived between her legs and clasped her there. His large hand felt like the saddle of some fey steed. A ride in the greenwood beckoned.
Her lips fell from his as Lord Melbourne’s touch became more precise, fingers running up and down, ruching the fabric of her nightgown, lingering on that heavenly spot at the crest. Her forehead pressed against his jaw and there she remained, breathing longer, voiced breaths as her lord schooled her. Her face bathed in the waves of warmth and musk that billowed from the open neck of his shirt. When she let out her first soprano cry, his head shifted so his lips lay against that broad, intelligent forehead, pressing it in kiss after kiss.
Victoria’s eyes fixed on Lord Melbourne’s shoulder and the tiny movements that revealed the employment of his hand below. She traced the arm, the angle of the wrist and noted the size of his hand against her small frame. Surely he was a giant? And why had she never heard tell that giants were kind? Amidst all those tales of crunching bones and utter devastation, why had it not been told they could direct that same power into the most exquisite of touches? She smiled. She decided she loved giants. Look there at how that spade of a hand hovered above her, middle finger only stroking up and down the line between her legs, titillating, teasing -
“Oh!” Her thighs clamped shut and she writhed in his embrace.
“What is the matter?” Lord Melbourne’s venturing hand now held her face.
“I am so sorry. I do not know why I… I am so sorry.” She twisted and turned like an animal caught in a trap.
“Have I hurt you, little one?” He looked down to where his hand had lately played but there was naught to indicate what had prompted this reaction on the Queen’s part, only a dark area in the cotton where her pleasure had soaked through.
Victoria clutched at the telltale patch, removing it from his sight. “I am so ashamed.”
“No, no!” Though he tried his best to keep the corners of his mouth turned down, he could not entirely suppress his mirth. His face beamed Jovian warmth. “There is nothing to be ashamed of here. It is entirely natural.”
“Sir, there are many natural functions that I do not wish to share with others.”
“This one should be shared. It is the very reason why a man touches a woman in that way: to make the honey flow.”
She risked a glance upwards. “I think you are being very kind.” Her cheeks were scarlet but her eyes begged him to prove her wrong.
“Being kind?” He bumped his forehead against hers and his voice was like velvet. “My darling Victoria, it excites me, it excites me. Listen. Something similar happens to a man. When he first becomes aroused, his cock moves of its own accord. Twitches. Yes,” he said as he watched her colour deepen, “ʻcockʼ is the word we shall be using here. Cock and quim. Let us have no more prudery. This is not the place for it.”
With the power of the wind that catches you at the summit of a hill, he clasped her and spun her, laying her on her back in front of the fire.
Icon credit: my_golden_boots
Chapter Three
There was a man in her room. A tall man, dark and with a knowledge in his eyes that she could not compass. He wore boots, fawn breeches and a white shirt - nothing besides. The shirt was open at the throat and a darkness lay there not just of shadows but of the exotic fur of a man’s bosom. His short hair was plastered to his head in Roman curls that framed his face. Almond-shaped eyes bore into her and his hands, his neck, his thighs - all spoke of unfathomable strength.
Here in her room! This was where the mementos of her childhood had been stored. Her rocking horse sat by the window, her first tiny writing desk, her narrow bed. Boxes, boxes everywhere, full of memories and dreams. And dreams she had had of men, too, men full of charm and wit, rakish in aspect yet tender in their touch. And here he was.
“Dearest Victoria,” said Lord Melbourne. “Do not fear me now. You look upon me as if I were some frightful spectre but, believe me, I am a human man. And one who feels the chill, no less.”
The little queen shook her head and admonished herself. “Of course.” She hurried to the sash and closed it, closing the curtains at the same time. Yet when she turned back to pour comfort on a poor, mortal thing, she found herself facing something more than human. The eyes did not rest upon her face but roamed every inch of her. She became aware she was wearing nothing more than her nightgown and although the design was demure - long-sleeved, buttoned to the neck, hem kissing the ground - it was one thin layer of white cotton. A scrap of cloth between her naked body and the desires of a man. From the way he was looking at her, she suspected the fabric had become diaphanous in the firelight and he could see her nude silhouette. A craven little pang went through her and, at the same time, an unknown wetness touched her thigh as what lay between her legs responded to his bold, masculine gaze.
Suddenly, he moved towards her, a dark mass growing larger and larger, until he entered the pool of light cast by a candelabra and his face was the sun. He cupped her own face and bent down, placing a firm kiss on her forehead. He enfolded her in his arms, just as before, yet this time, the heat of his body powered through the ridiculous barrier of their clothes and soothed her, healed her. “Come now, dearheart. Is this not what you desired? Tell me now if your mind has changed and I shall leave immediately.” A forefinger crooked beneath her pointed chin and lifted it. His voice, always soft, was softer still. With the two of them so close, there was no need for volume and the smoky hoarseness of it was like a fragrant cloud about her. “But know now, that is not what I desire. My fondest wish is to be entirely at your disposal, Ma’am.”
The porcelain face shone. The warmth of him had worked its magic, banishing fear of his maleness. All that remained was fear of that unknown quantity, of sex itself. With a bashful smile, Victoria took his hands in hers and led him to the hearthside. “Take off your boots,” she said, “if you wish.”
He did so, placing them in the hearth itself to dry. His bare feet made contact with the rug before the fire and his toes curled at the sensuous touch of the thick pile.
Victoria giggled at the sight of the peer’s naked toes.
Lord Melbourne’s cheek twitched as he settled himself on the floor, back to a fireside armchair. “You find me amusing, Your Majesty?”
She could not stop. “It is as if I never imagined you had feet, Lord M!”
“William,” he said, “surely.”
Victoria shook her head. “Dear me. Bare feet and first name terms.” She bit her bottom lip. “Whatever next?”
“I think I know.” He held out his arms and she went to him once more. He turned her with huge, benign hands so she could sit with her back to him while he stroked the outside of her arms and her hair.
The fire was blazing now: illuminating, warming. In other circumstances, they might have become sleepy but not tonight. Victoria, certainly, had never been farther from sleep. As Lord Melbourne’s hands danced around her, playing with her fingers and combing through her hair, she felt as if every cell of her body were a little soldier standing to attention. Her back had become a sense organ in its own right through which she perceived the living presence of her soon-to-be-lover. The heat of him set the house of her body on fire; his patient, tickling touch went as deep as the lashes of de Sade; the simple rise and fall of his chest was like the poundings of a violator of women. Almost imperceptibly, she began to lean back until she finally gave up all resistance, submitting to the comfort of him, head lolling on his shoulder. She made a small sound, like that of a puppy whimpering in its sleep, as he bent down to kiss her on the neck.
“Are you warm, Victoria?” he breathed. He began to undo the mother-of-pearl buttons at the neck of her nightgown.
She let him and as he undid the final one, she tilted her head towards him, eyes questioning.
“Would you like me to kiss you now?” His face seemed sombre, twisted away from the fire and in shadow but still she could make out the kindly humour there.
“Yes, William, I would.”
And so he did, lips capturing hers, head describing small circles that made their mouths shift against one another, varying contact and pressure. In terms of sensation alone, it was not so different from kissing Albert. The real difference lay inside her head. With Albert, her mind had asked questions, What is this? and Who are you? whereas with Lord Melbourne, her mind screamed answers, William, William, I am kissing William, it is William I am kissing, William, William! The wrongness of it and the rightness of it! He should only have been her advisor, a father-figure - and he was those things to her but he was also much more.
Her love-object.
Lord Melbourne moved back, observing her reaction. “How was that for you?”
“That was good.”
“You are familiar with kissing, yes?”
“Yes, I am.” She shrugged one shoulder as if shy to admit it.
“Have you kissed in the Florentine style?”
“The Florentine…? No, I think I have kissed only in the German style.” Her lips fluttered in amusement and she was glad to see his respond in kind.
“Permit me, then, to introduce you to this style. It is popular far beyond the bounds of its homeland.”
“Very well.”
He moved forward once again. This time, as his lips touched hers, he opened them a little and there he waited, breathing warmly, until hers did the same. He pushed down and kissed her more deeply, jaws locking with hers. It was a fierce kiss that threatened to lay her horizontal until his hand came up and cradled the back of her head. He devoured her; she moaned into his mouth. Then as he drew away and she began to float up towards awareness again, she felt something soft and wet move over her lips.
Her eyes flew wide. “Was that - your tongue?”
“Yes, my dear.”
“And is that ‘kissing in the Florentine style’?”
“Yes, indeed.” He raised an eyebrow. His face was still very close. “You do not care for it?”
“No, it is not that,” she said, a little hurriedly, her knotted brow belying her words. “It just seems rather strange.”
“Is it really strange? Is my body so strange to you?” He took her hand in a certain grip, his thumb lying across the base of her fingers and brought it to his face. He tapped the tips against his bottom lip, moving his head from side to side so they slid over the flesh, watching her intently all the while. Then, as her fingers became bolder and stroked the warmer flesh within, his tongue moved forwards and touched them.
Such a delicate thing! Victoria could not believe what she had found, what she was being permitted to explore: the vulnerable opening into this powerful man’s core. As two fingers pushed inside, his eyelids closed, dark lashes fluttering against his cheeks. His tongue rose from its oyster bed to meet her probing, hardly moving at all, simply responding with tiny oscillations to her innocent touch. Yes, it was a strange yet cherishable creature she had discovered!
She wanted more. Her fingers ran round from his lips to the nape of his neck, pulling him towards her. When his mouth met hers, she stroked it with her tongue and when he opened it to moan, she slid her tongue inside.
He accepted it with good grace, permitting it to thrust up into him even though he occupied the superior position, leaning down to meet the woman he held in his arms. He was very pleased with her.
They kissed, then, and for some time there was no thinking of it in terms of its component parts. It was the kiss - the Great Kiss. Without knowing, both began to move their bodies in time, chests heaving, hips squirming in anticipation. Then Victoria became aware that Lord Melbourne’s hand had dropped from her jawline and now lay at her throat. It pushed down between her breasts, never breaking contact, over her stomach until it arrived between her legs and clasped her there. His large hand felt like the saddle of some fey steed. A ride in the greenwood beckoned.
Her lips fell from his as Lord Melbourne’s touch became more precise, fingers running up and down, ruching the fabric of her nightgown, lingering on that heavenly spot at the crest. Her forehead pressed against his jaw and there she remained, breathing longer, voiced breaths as her lord schooled her. Her face bathed in the waves of warmth and musk that billowed from the open neck of his shirt. When she let out her first soprano cry, his head shifted so his lips lay against that broad, intelligent forehead, pressing it in kiss after kiss.
Victoria’s eyes fixed on Lord Melbourne’s shoulder and the tiny movements that revealed the employment of his hand below. She traced the arm, the angle of the wrist and noted the size of his hand against her small frame. Surely he was a giant? And why had she never heard tell that giants were kind? Amidst all those tales of crunching bones and utter devastation, why had it not been told they could direct that same power into the most exquisite of touches? She smiled. She decided she loved giants. Look there at how that spade of a hand hovered above her, middle finger only stroking up and down the line between her legs, titillating, teasing -
“Oh!” Her thighs clamped shut and she writhed in his embrace.
“What is the matter?” Lord Melbourne’s venturing hand now held her face.
“I am so sorry. I do not know why I… I am so sorry.” She twisted and turned like an animal caught in a trap.
“Have I hurt you, little one?” He looked down to where his hand had lately played but there was naught to indicate what had prompted this reaction on the Queen’s part, only a dark area in the cotton where her pleasure had soaked through.
Victoria clutched at the telltale patch, removing it from his sight. “I am so ashamed.”
“No, no!” Though he tried his best to keep the corners of his mouth turned down, he could not entirely suppress his mirth. His face beamed Jovian warmth. “There is nothing to be ashamed of here. It is entirely natural.”
“Sir, there are many natural functions that I do not wish to share with others.”
“This one should be shared. It is the very reason why a man touches a woman in that way: to make the honey flow.”
She risked a glance upwards. “I think you are being very kind.” Her cheeks were scarlet but her eyes begged him to prove her wrong.
“Being kind?” He bumped his forehead against hers and his voice was like velvet. “My darling Victoria, it excites me, it excites me. Listen. Something similar happens to a man. When he first becomes aroused, his cock moves of its own accord. Twitches. Yes,” he said as he watched her colour deepen, “ʻcockʼ is the word we shall be using here. Cock and quim. Let us have no more prudery. This is not the place for it.”
With the power of the wind that catches you at the summit of a hill, he clasped her and spun her, laying her on her back in front of the fire.