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“It is so unfair!” Eloise exclaims, folding her arms across her chest in a way she knows is most unlady-like but she hardly cares, not when her two idiot brothers are the only ones in her company. “If Penelope and I are to be kept apart because of these two other debutantes, it is only right that we should know exactly what it is that they have done! Surely if we are to avoid danger we ought to know about it?”
“For God’s sake, El, you are being a brat. You are all of nineteen and you’re acting like you’re Hyacinth’s age,” Benedict says, looking around the empty parlour at Bridgerton House as though someone might be listening.
Eloise tosses her hair. “Well, nothing else seems to get through your thick skulls! I have tried asking nicely, and I have tried being rational, and you still will not tell me.” She narrows her eyes. “So now I have decided I shall annoy you both until one of you breaks.”
Benedict and Colin exchange exasperated glances, and Eloise knows she is nearing victory. They know full well this is no idle threat - she once spent an entire three week holiday at Aubrey Hall pestering them to teach her fencing and eventually her nuisance became so great that they relented. When Anthony found out all three of them had been soundly told off of course, but to this day Eloise still thinks it was worth it.
She looks between the two of them, and zeroes her attention on Colin. She knows he is the weaker link of the two, the softer heart, and has been… amenable in the past to her quests for knowledge that it is deemed inappropriate for young ladies to possess.
She decides to change tack.
“It is Penelope who I truly worry about,” she says, with a despondent sigh. “You know she does not have any other friends, and her family are so awfully cruel. If we are to be kept apart like this, I believe it is only fair we should know why.”
She watches her words hit their mark. Colin’s face softens, his brow creasing. He gives Benedict a look, and Eloise sees his resolve weakening. She knows he cares for Penelope (not as much as she does, of course - she thinks perhaps no-one in the world cares for Penelope in the way that she does. Certainly not her brother, or Penelope’s own family. In many ways, she is all Penelope has).
Benedict raises his hands up, his eyes wide. “Do not look at me, brother! I shall not be the one to tell her. I would rather avoid Anthony’s ire, not to mention our mother’s.”
“Well, do you not think someone ought to? It seems awfully unfair. It is not Penelope and Eloise who have…” He looks somewhat uncomfortable, searching for the correct word. “Transgressed,” he finishes lamely.
Eloise is silent, biting her lip. She feels victory is close, but she knows her brothers must feel as if they have reached this decision on their own, without her interference. She twists her arms behind her back, gripping her elbows to stop her fingers tapping her thigh impatiently.
Benedict rubs his chin. “Christ.” He rolls his eyes and gives a deep sigh, folding his arms. “Fine.” He gives Colin a look. “But you tell her. That way I can plausibly deny any involvement when our mother undoubtedly hears of this.”
Eloise tries to hide her satisfied grin. She knew she would win them over - she always does.
Colin pinches the bridge of his nose for a moment, one hand on his hip. “How do I explain…?” he asks, turning to Benedict, a question written across his face.
“I have no idea, brother,” Benedict says. “She knows little enough about how it happens in a marriage, let alone…”
Eloise’s eyes flick between them, desperately trying to understand what is being said. It is so frustrating being left out of these sorts of conversations, like listening to a language she only half understands. It makes her feel like an idiot child, which is extra unfair when she knows for a fact she is cleverer than both of her dolt brothers.
“What does marriage have to do with it?” she asks. “Did the girls have their reputations ruined somehow?” She lowers her voice to a whisper. “Were their virtues taken?”
If she is honest, she only vaguely understands what it means for a young lady to have her virtue stolen - she believes it has something to do with the marital act, but she also is rather fuzzy on the details of that , so it all remains a bit of a soup in her mind. Her mother refuses to speak of it, and Daphne only got very pink in the cheeks and hazy-eyed when Eloise tried to get some answers from her last Christmas at Aubrey Hall. Colin is the only person who has ever even attempted to help her out, but all his talk about visiting farms is rather useless when they live in the centre of the Ton. There is not a farm about for miles, and she cannot begin to fathom what farm animals might have to do with a woman’s virtue.
The closest she has gotten to any real answer are the secret etchings Eloise found in Anthony’s study. They were tucked between two dusty old tomes no–one would ever look at - hiding in plain sight, really. Eloise had been snooping around in there one afternoon a few months ago, bored beyond belief, and had seen the corners of the parchment sticking out of the shelf.
There were two of them. One was of a woman on a chaise, a man laid on top of her. His breeches were pulled down so his buttocks were showing, and he was burrowed between her legs. The woman was much more interesting: her face was tipped back in ecstasy, her hair spilling over the back of the chaise, her hands clutching the man’s shoulder. Eloise had no idea what the man was up to - why his body was pressed to the woman’s like that - but it seemed the woman was enjoying herself greatly.
The other one was even more beguiling. The artist had rendered a beautiful young woman, plump and lush, dressed for all the world like a well-bred young lady - except her bodice was pulled down to expose her ripe, full breasts, with stiff nipples standing out proudly. She had her delicate hands on the hem of her dress, pulled up to reveal her bare cunny. The artist had drawn in lots of lovely soft hair surrounding it, and somehow it looked like there were little droplets of moisture there.
It had made Eloise’s entire body feel hot and strange and brimming, and she had shoved the pictures back where she found them with fingers that shook and a heart that raced. She had returned to the parlour with a red face, desperately hoping no-one would ask her why on earth she was so flustered. She had barely been able to look Anthony in the eye for days after that.
Later that night she touched herself in the special place between her legs, the spot she had discovered as a girl. She knew even then not to tell anyone about it, because she learned young that anything that gave young ladies any pleasure - sweets, or books, or this swollen little nub that if stroked correctly produced the most beautiful sensations - was inevitably deemed terribly wrong by the Ton, and she would be forbidden it.
She was not sure why the image of the young woman in particular stuck with her so - why it sticks with her now, if she is truthful. She touched herself that night - and she has many nights since - thinking of the fulsome curves of her exposed breasts, the pretty curls over her sex. She wonders if it was based on a real woman, a model who posed for the drawing - what colour would her pert little nipples be? Dark, tawny rose like Eloise’s, or pale pink, like Penelope’s? And what colour the hair on her cunny? Dark and thick like Eloise’s, or soft light curls? Blonde, or even auburn? It was impossible to tell from the black and white engraving, but Eloise spent night after night thinking of it.
She does not know why the bare form of a woman should excite her so. Perhaps it is merely the forbidden nature of it - Eloise has always liked to break the rules. Or perhaps…there was something in the soft round curve of the woman’s cheeks, something in her pleased, pouting lips, that reminds her of -
No. That is too wicked a thought, even for Eloise.
Colin and Benedict exchange glances. “No - well - their virtue remains… intact,” Colin says. He is growing rather red about the cheeks. “Miss Goring and Miss Fife have been sent away because… well, I suppose they have been…” Colin fiddles with his cravat, his eyes darting to Benedict. “They have known each other. As a husband and wife ought.”
Eloise stares at Colin blankly. He clears his throat and looks at his hands.
“I do not… understand. How can two women…” She starts to get a strange feeling in her chest, her breath coming a little short.
She turns to Benedict, who has his lips rolled between his teeth as though he is trying very hard not to laugh. “Do not laugh at me, Ben! It is not my fault I am not told anything!” It is easier to be angry with him, to direct this hot, tight feeling into frustration rather than the way it’s making her chest fizz and her legs tingle.
Benedict has the good grace to look a little regretful. “Forgive me, El. I should not tease.” He straightens his expression.
“I do not understand why this should mean Penelope is no longer allowed to stay the night, though.” She feels about one minute away from stamping her feet like a child, but she knows it will not make her brothers more forthcoming. She must keep her temper as best as she can if she is to get the answers she needs.
Benedict and Colin share a look, and Eloise has to bite her tongue to keep from shrieking - it is one of those knowing big brother looks, where they seem to communicate something secret between themselves without a single word.
“Well, El, Mama and Anthony are… concerned,” Colin says, choosing his words carefully, “that two young ladies of marriageable age who are - as close as you and Pen…” He trails off, and looks back to Benedict.
Benedict pulls a face, and then gives another sigh. “They are concerned that you two might commit… the marital act.”
“They thought it better to keep you apart. Given your…closeness. People might talk,” Colin adds, softly. She can feel him gazing at her in concern, but she cannot look at him, her cheeks flushing red.
Eloise feels as though her entire body is made out of the revolting blancmange that the cook makes on Sundays - jelly-like and thick and sweet as cream. She swallows over and over, trying to regain control of this new feeling.
“Well, that’s - that’s obviously ridiculous,” she says in a wobbly voice. She clears her throat. “We are friends -” her voice breaks and she closes her mouth, breathing hard through her nose.
She cannot bear the way Colin and Benedict are looking at her, eyes full of guarded pity and concern.
She does not understand any of this. She does not really understand what Miss Goring and Miss Fife were even doing. She does not understand what on earth this has to do with her and Penelope. She certainly does not understand this wobbly, silky feeling in her chest. Nothing about this makes one lick of sense.
“Of course you are, El,” Colin says in his soft voice - he is being kind, and Eloise does not understand that , either. She feels embarrassed for reasons she cannot explain.
“I told mother and Anthony that they were being absurd,” Benedict says, throwing himself down on the settee. “Margie and Bertie were literally caught in a closet together at a ball. There was no way to deny it - half the Ton saw.” He gives one of his cheeky smiles. “Most people who get up to this sort of business never get caught, if they are clever.” He stretches his arm over the back of the sofa. “They’re being overly cautious.”
But Colin is still looking at her with his concerned, pitying eyes. “Are you alright, El?” he asks, gently.
“I’m perfectly fine ,” she insists, though in fact she has turned into a blancmange. “I am still angry that I am not allowed to see my dearest friend.” She puts her hands on her hips, and tries to pull her face into her usual proud mask. “All for the fear that we might accidentally commit the marital act - ” she whispers the words.
“Oh, I don’t think they are afraid it would be an accident, El,” Benedict interrupts, his eyebrows raised.
“Benedict!” Colin scolds sharply. He reaches out a hand to lay it on Eloise’s shoulder but she shrugs him off.
The wobble in her chest seems to migrate to her eyes. She blinks back the hot, stinging feeling of tears. Did her family really think…?
She shakes her head to clear it of the thought. They are all being… ridiculous. She and Penelope would never do such a wicked thing (all the more confounding is that she still does not know what this thing is, still does not know exactly what she and Penelope could do together that would be so awful).
She is about to ask more, but then they hear the front door - their mother and sisters are back from the modiste, and Eloise’s chance for further questioning is snatched away.
______
“Penelope!”
Eloise practically runs across the park towards the hideous bouquet of orange and yellow that signifies the Featherington family, and though the colours of their dresses are undoubtedly violently ugly, the sight of them floods Eloise with relief. She has not seen Penelope in over a week, and it has been awful.
Penelope spots her and hurries away from her family, who happily ignore her. Eloise wishes she could say the same about her own; she can feel her mother’s eyes on her even from here.
She tucks Penelope’s arm under hers, and marches her away from the all-seeing eyes of their mamas, towards the duck-pond where courting couples promenade.
“We must be quick, El,” Penelope says. “My mama says I’m only to say a quick hullo.”
“I have made a discovery, ” Eloise says under her breath, finally able to slow her pace now they are certainly out of eavesdropping distance from their families. She lowers her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “About what happened with Margie and Bertie. Why they were sent away to the country.”
Penelope’s eyes go wide under the ridiculous mop of overly styled curls her mother has made her wear. It is funny, Eloise thinks; she is one of the few people in the world who has seen how pretty Penelope really is beneath all this awful frippery. She has seen her in her simple white nightgown, her hair brushed out and loose over her shoulders, her face flushed from laughing at some silly joke between the two of them. Not for the first time Eloise thinks that if her mother simply put her in more tasteful clothing, she would be quite the prettiest girl in the Ton. Inundated with suitors, Eloise would bet. Really, she is thankful that Portia has such awful taste - she would hate to lose Penelope to a man.
“I tried asking my mama but she just got very quiet and looked off into the distance,” Penelope grumbles, her full lips pulling into a sulky pout. The image of the woman in the engraving pops into Eloise’s head unbidden; she shoves it away.
“Well luckily for both of us, my idiot brothers are much more easily swayed,” she says, quirking her eyebrow. Penelope giggles and Eloise gets that happy fluttering feeling she gets when she makes Penelope laugh.
“What did they say?” Penelope asks, and her eyes are wide with curiosity.
“Well…” Eloise trails off, suddenly lost for words. Penelope is looking at her expectantly, lips parted and eyes shining, and Eloise feels that warm strange embarrassment she felt in the parlour when her brothers looked at her. She has been wanting to tell Penelope this all week, but now it feels… odd. Because she’ll have to explain that her family thinks that she…
“Please, El,” Penelope says in her soft little voice. She grabs Eloise’s arm and blinks up at her and Eloise cannot say no.
She swallows, her mouth dry. “Margie and Bertie were caught during a ball… committing the marital act.” She says the words quietly so that none of the other promenading couples might hear them. “As a man and wife.”
Penelope’s brow scrunches in confusion. “The marital act…?” she murmurs.
Eloise nods. She knows Penelope is as clueless as she is on the subject (perhaps even more so; Eloise never told her about the engravings she found - she is not sure why, only it felt too secret , even for friends as close as they).
“Why does that mean we have to be parted?” Penelope asks, and then Eloise watches realisation dawn on her face. She puts it together much more quickly than Eloise did - she will concede that Penelope is perhaps the only person cleverer than her.
Her lips pop open. “Oh,” she says faintly, her cheeks flushing prettily. “They think that we might…”
Eloise’s heart races, feeling shy for reasons she cannot understand (Eloise hates not understanding, and this past week has been a tangle of not understanding, over and over).
“Ridiculous, of course,” Eloise says, in an attempt at her usual bravado, but she watches Penelope closely from the corner of her eye, gauging her reaction. She waits for Penelope to agree, or make a joke, or look scandalised, but she does none of those things.
She seems to be lost in thought. She makes a little humming noise, and her chest is flushed as red as her cheeks, clashing horribly with her yellow gown. “But I still do not understand how it works …” she murmurs, seemingly more to herself than to Eloise.
“Girls!”
They are interrupted by the sight of Anthony striding jerkily towards them, walking fast enough that he might as well be running. His eyes are tight, his forehead vein pulsing wildly, and it would be comical if Eloise were not so desperate to know what Penelope was about to say next.
He slows his pace as he approaches and tries to plaster a smile on his face, as though he is not obviously panicking.
“For God’s sake, Anthony, you are worse than Mama,” Eloise says. “Stop clucking over us, you shall give yourself an apoplexy.”
Anthony ignores her. He gives Penelope a short bow, and loops Eloise’s arm tightly under his. “Penelope, please excuse us. Our mother wants you, Eloise.”
Eloise rolls her eyes. “Oh, I am sure -”
But Anthony is already towing her away. Eloise turns to look back and sees Penelope standing at the duck pond alone, her face still lost in thought, and Eloise’s belly begins to ache.
______
El, I cannot stop thinking about what we discussed. Please find a way to come and see me. I fear I shall go mad. - P.
Eloise still has the note clutched in her hand as she steals her way across the square to the Featherington House, her hooded cloak pulled tightly around her face so she shall not be recognised - though it is dark enough that she can hardly be seen.
Her heart pounds wildly, and does not stop even when she has snuck through the gate and is standing by the tree nearest to Penelope’s bedroom window, soft candlelight glowing within - Penelope must still be awake reading, even though it is very late.
She feels wild, reckless, her body singing with exhilaration as she finds a little stone on the ground and lobs it at Penelope’s window. She feels for all the world like a knight from a ballad, here to meet his lady love trapped in her castle, and for some reason the image buoys her; in fact, it is what spurred her to carry out such a risky undertaking in the first place.
Penelope’s note had given her the blancmange feeling, but this time it felt… sweeter. Penelope needs her and Penelope does not have anyone else, does she?
The first stone does not seem to do the trick, so Eloise tries another. She sees a shadowy figure appear in the window, and her belly starts to tighten with excitement.
Penelope opens her bedroom window and peers out into the darkness. Her eyes go wide when she sees Eloise, and Eloise cannot help the silly grin that spreads across her face.
“Eloise,” she hisses into the warm night air. “What on earth are you doing here?”
Eloise brandishes the scrap of paper in the air. “I received your note. You needed to see me, so I came as quickly as I could.”
Penelope looks as though she wishes to be disapproving, but her lips twitch as if she is hiding a smile. She makes a very lovely picture like this, Eloise thinks, her hair glowing like fire in the flickering candlelight and her white nightgown slipping from her shoulder. Like a girl in a play - Juliet on her balcony.
“How will you get up here?” Penelope asks.
Eloise grins. “I have a plan.” And without a second thought, she begins to climb the rose-covered trellis that decorates this side of Featherington House.
Eloise was a very good climber as a child - better than her brothers at climbing the trees on the Aubrey Estate - but she has not done it in years, and it is much more difficult in her dress and stays and cloak than it used to be in her short gowns. She huffs and puffs her way to the top, and Penelope has to haul her over the ornate metal railing that covers half the window and drag her bodily into her bedroom.
For a moment they stand there, breathless, neither of them speaking. Then Penelope dissolves into giggles, her hand pressed over her mouth to stifle the sound. They must be quiet so as not to wake Portia.
“What?” Eloise asks with a laugh. “What is so funny?”
“You should see yourself, El,” Penelope says in a half-giggle, half-whisper. “You look utterly wild.” She reaches over to pluck a leaf out of Eloise’s hair. “I fear you may have lost your mind altogether.”
Eloise tosses aside her cloak. “From your note I thought you were the one who was going mad,” she says. “So perhaps we are both as mad as each other.” She gives her a lopsided grin. “We can hold hands in the lunatic asylum when our families inevitably send us there.”
Penelope laughs, and Eloise gets the fluttering feeling. Penelope sits on her bed and Eloise joins her, both of them sitting cross-legged atop the covers.
Eloise takes Penelope’s little hands in hers. “Tell me what it is that has been troubling you, Pen,” she says, and her voice comes out gentler than she means it to, but she cannot help it - Penelope looks so soft and sweet in the candlelight, Eloise has the feeling she must be tender with her, careful, as though she were dealing with a little kitten or something.
Penelope bites her lip. “It is very wicked of me, I know, but I cannot stop thinking about… how.”
Eloise blinks at her. “How? How what?”
Penelope’s eyes shift to the bedcovers, and the round apples of her cheeks blush pink. “How two women would…do such a thing,” she whispers, and her voice seems… thick, somehow. Raw. “As man and wife.”
“I know little enough about how a man and a woman do it, if I am honest,” Eloise admits. She feels that strange, wobbly feeling in her chest as she gazes at Penelope. She thinks again of the engravings, but this time she does not push the thought away. “I believe the man lies on top of the woman, and that it may cause her pleasure.” She thinks of the woman’s face in the drawing, her mouth open and her eyes closed in ecstasy.
Penelope’s eyes widen. "Pleasure?”
Eloise nods, swallowing. All her wildness, her knightly courage, seems to have dissolved the moment she sat on the bed with Penelope. Everything is hushed and still around them, the only sound their wet, shaking breaths (Penelope’s seem as shuddery as Eloise’s) and the crackling of the candle flames.
“Yes. Yes. I think it has…” Eloise cannot believe she is saying this out loud, but she cannot stop herself when Penelope is looking at her like that - curious, awed, slightly afraid. “I think it has something to do with… the spot between a woman’s legs. There is a spot that if you touch it… it feels rather pleasurable. I think perhaps it could have something to do with that.”
Penelope’s pupils seem overly large in the dark light, and Eloise watches Penelope’s throat ripple. Her chest heaves with her deep, ragged breaths, the tops of her pale breasts swelling and falling with each inhale. Her fingers tremble a little in Eloise’s.
“I did not know about such a spot,” she says softly, blinking fast. “Is it not… rather improper to touch one’s self there?”
Eloise nods. “Very improper, I’m sure.” She manages half a smile, which Penelope does not return.
“So perhaps Margie and Bertie were… touching themselves so?” Penelope says hesitantly. “Is that how two ladies might commit the act, do you think?” Her tongue darts out to wet her lips and Eloise finds herself entranced by the way her lips shine pink, saliva clinging to them. She cannot draw her eyes away, even when Penelope says next: “You know, I had believed a man was supposed to … insert himself.”
Eloise is so fascinated by the sight of Penelope’s wet round mouth that it takes her a moment to register what her friend has just said. She tries to focus, though thinking about a man doing anything in this moment feels rather irrelevant and somehow annoys her. “Insert what? Where?”
Penelope shrugs. “I do not know. I overheard Mama speaking to Philippa and Prue about it when she thought I was not listening. But I believe this insertion is very important for the act.”
Eloise starts to feel a little dizzy. She has touched the special spot, but she has never inserted anything, never delved lower. Her skin feels awfully hot, her stays digging in uncomfortably. She wishes she was wearing her nightgown, same as Penelope, so that she might breathe easier.
It is like Penelope can read her mind. “You should take it off, El.” Her words are soft, and they make Eloise ache strangely. She looks at Penelope sharply.
Penelope withdraws her hands, her cheeks flushing redder. “Your dress, I mean. You must be very uncomfortable, and it is too warm to wear it tonight.” Her eyes are fixed upon the yellow sheets.
“Yes,” Eloise says faintly. “I believe you are right.”
Eloise gets off the bed and turns her back to Penelope whilst she undresses. She does not understand - she has undressed in front of Penelope before, even been completely bare, but it feels different tonight. It is as though there is some invisible creature in the room with them, some giant cat that prowls around, purring and snarling, watching their every move. It has sharp teeth and glittering eyes and when it looks at her Eloise feels as if she is doing something very, very wrong.
So why can’t she stop?
Her dress is easy enough to remove (though her shaking fingers make the stays somewhat more difficult). Even with her back turned she feels Penelope’s eyes on her (is it Penelope or the cat - she cannot be sure).
Once she is down to her chemise, she clambers back onto the bed, realising too late that her shift is much, much more transparent than Penelope’s nightgown, and the shade of her hard nipples are clearly visible through the fine cotton; and she wonders if the shadow of her cunny is displayed too, but she cannot bring herself to look down and check.
“Better?” Penelope asks. Her eyes are fixed upon Eloise’s face, and she realises that Penelope is trying very hard not to let her eyes stray downwards. The big cat rumbles and switches its tail.
“Better.”
Penelope manages a small smile.
“So,” she says. “What is it that the man is supposed to insert, do you think?”
Eloise takes a deep breath and it shakes through her lungs far more than it ought to. “Fingers,” she croaks. She clears her throat and tries again. “He might insert his fingers.”
Penelope’s eyelids drop a little, her gaze hazy - almost dreamy. “Hm.” Then she shifts, and Eloise watches in awed disbelief as she lies back upon her pillows, her hair splaying around her like a halo of fire. “So the woman lies back like this…?”
Eloise stares at her, every thought in her head emptied by the sight of Penelope Featherington splayed out upon the covers. She looks angelic like this, Eloise thinks, glowing in the warm orange light. Seraphic, with her soft cheeks and lips.
She cannot really be asking…?
Penelope’s blue eyes are filled with a mixture of emotions: expectation and fear and, yes, there is need there, is there not? Penelope needs her.
“Yes,” Eloise nods. “And the husband…”
The cat roars, a purring rumbling sound that reverberates through Eloise’s body. She swallows and slowly, slowly crawls her way up the bed, until she is kneeling by Penelope’s legs.
Penelope parts her knees slowly. “I think - I believe I feel it, El,” she breathes, her voice low and tremulous. “The spot, between my legs. It aches and - throbs. It’s as if I can feel my heartbeat there.”
And then - Christ - Penelope’s little hands wind into the cotton of her nightgown and slowly she starts to lift up the hem, and it is so precisely like the engraving that Eloise starts to feel faint, her blood racing too quickly to bear. She tugs it up and up, exposing thick, creamy thighs that tremble and there - there, her plump little cunny, all covered in soft red curls that - yes, yes, moisture clings to them, she is dripping and weeping just like the drawing, her swollen folds just as wet and pink as her tongue, and before Eloise knows what is happening she is reaching out and touching her.
Just the barest stroke of her little slit, but Penelope whimpers and presses her hand tightly to her mouth. “Hush, wife,” Eloise says, and her voice sounds like the crunch of gravel, like a blacksmith’s forge, as deep and as burning as it has ever been.
Penelope nods, her fingers still pressed firmly to her mouth. Eloise’s gaze drops back to the spread little cunny before her, her entire body growling with the cat’s purr.
She runs her finger up and down Penelope’s lips, watching in fascination as her thighs shake and her little hole clenches. She barely breathes, using her forefinger to swipe through the wetness and then slowly push inside.
Penelope’s cunny feels marvellous. Silky and wet and warm. “I feel you clenching around my finger,” Eloise says in fascination, whilst Penelope’s breasts heave and shake with her gasping breaths. “How does it feel, wife?”
Penelope’s blue eyes have turned almost black, her pupils utterly blown. She removes her fingers from her mouth. “F-full,” she stutters. “Tight.”
A little groan escapes Eloise’s lips, and she shifts so she is lying on top of Penelope, just as the man had in the engraving. She props herself up on one arm, their bodies pressed close. Her finger remains lodged inside her soft cunny, but this way she gets to feel Penelope’s soft, trembling body wriggling beneath hers.
She marvels at how different Penelope feels - pliant and pillowy and extravagant, the only sharpness the feel of her hard little nipples poking into Eloise’s chest. She is very different to the long, willowy lines of Eloise’s body.
“Will you - will you touch the secret spot, h-husband?” Penelope asks, in a quavering voice that turns Eloise inside out. She feels her own cunny throb painfully and she nods, too far gone for words. Husband. Wife. Why does that feel so powerful? Why does she feel so possessive, as though Penelope really is her wife - hers to own and use and take care of? Husband. Why does the word pump through her like blood in her veins?
The cat snarls, bares its sharp white teeth.
She moves her thumb up through Penelope’s satin-soft folds until she finds it, the swollen little spot at the top of Penelope’s sex. Her thumb brushes over it and Penelope lets out a pretty cry. Her hands wind into Eloise’s chemise, gripping tight as Eloise swipes over it, her forefinger still buried deep.
“Does that feel good?” she murmurs. Her face is so close to Penelope’s she can taste her sweet breath.
“It - it’s so sensitive,” Penelope gasps. “It’s too - too much.”
“Hm.” Eloise frowns, her thumb pausing its back and forth motion. Perhaps Penelope’s cunny is different to hers - she experiments with a few different movements until she finds one (large, firm circles around her nub but not directly upon it) that makes Penelope’s eyelids flutter closed, her mouth drop open.
“There we go, little wife,” Eloise says with satisfaction, as Penelope’s hips roll against her. “Do you like that? Yes, yes, let me please you, wife.” She barely knows what she is saying, only the words spill like honey from her lips, and she likes the taste of every single one. “You are so very pretty like this, aren’t you?”
Penelope lets out a tiny, whimpering moan at that.
“Show me,” Eloise says hoarsely. “Show me your breasts.”
She does not know where it comes from but it is all she can think about with them squashed beneath her. She thinks of the drawing, of the erotic spill of heavy flesh, and she is sure she will die if Penelope does not show them to her.
Penelope is so far gone from Eloise’s ministrations that she seems to move mindlessly, desperately tugging down the bodice of her nightgown. Her breasts bounce free and Eloise moans to see them - plump and large and tipped with perfect pink peaks.
“God, Pen,” she groans, and dips her head to the pale, delectable skin, her lips pressing desperate kisses. The flesh is so pliant and sweet, and Eloise’s mouth automatically closes around one of her stiff nipples. She begins to suckle and Penelope lets out a deep moan, far too loud, but neither of them care. Her hands wind into Eloise’s hair and her hips begin to jerk upwards into Eloise’s touch, chasing the pleasure.
“Oh, husband,” Penelope gasps, her fingers tugging at Eloise’s dark brown waves.
“Yes, darling,” Eloise murmurs against Penelope’s heaving breast. “Let go, let go. Release upon your husband’s hand.”
Penelope emits the most beautiful, wondrous mewling noise, and Eloise feels her flutter and quiver upon her finger as she peaks. She cannot help what she does next - she releases Penelope’s now soaked nipple and presses her mouth against hers in a deep, needy kiss. Penelope’s lips are already open and Eloise opens hers, too, feeling Penelope moan into her mouth, sucking the noise from her tongue as her release washes over her.
She pulls away, and Penelope gazes up at her with such feeling in her face that Eloise cannot stand it. “Oh, Eloise -” she starts, but Eloise cannot hear it; cannot bear what she will say next. They are husband and wife, not Eloise and Penelope.
She withdraws her dripping finger from Penelope’s cunny and wordlessly pushes it into Penelope’s mouth, hushing her. Penelope’s eyes widen for a moment, but then almost immediately they drop closed, and Eloise feels her soft little tongue licking her, suckling her own wetness from Eloise’s finger.
After a moment Eloise sits back, withdrawing her finger. It comes out of Penelope’s plush lips with a wet pop, and the sound is deeply erotic. Eloise feels breathless as she gazes upon Penelope, her cunny aching fiercely at the sight of her: breasts spilling lewdly from her nightgown, the hem rucked up around her waist, wet little cunny flushed a deep rosy pink, just as her cheeks are. In that moment Eloise wishes very badly she could draw, like the artist who made those engravings, so she could commit all this beauty to paper, treasure it and touch herself to the image over and over. As things stand, she must satisfy herself with committing the sight to memory, engraving it in her mind instead.
Penelope looks at her hesitantly, a little breathless still from her release. “What - what of my husband?” she whispers. “Is it not - not a wife’s duty to bring her husband to his pleasure?”
Eloise feels the cat’s claws scrape over her skin and she shivers with the pain-pleasure. “Yes,” she rasps, her voice buried deep in her throat. “Yes, a good wife would do so.”
Penelope’s teeth dig into her bottom lip. “And how might she do that?”
Eloise’s mind flies around wildly. “I might - I might rub myself upon you, whilst I - I suckle you.” She has no idea where that came from, only that she so very much liked feeling Penelope’s plush body beneath her, squirming and soft.
Penelope is nodding, her cheeks still a delicious red. She leans forward, and her fingers grip the hem of Eloise’s chemise. She starts to tug it upwards, and Eloise helps her, and soon she is bare and trembling on her knees.
Penelope settles back down upon the pillows, her eyes half-lidded as she gazes upon Eloise’s naked form. Her eyes travel over her face, down to her breasts and settle between her thighs, to the dark thatch of hair, and Eloise feels it like a featherlight touch against her skin. She shivers pleasurably, and she cannot believe that the desire inside her seems to be matched on Penelope’s face.
She crawls back atop Penelope, and straddles one of Penelope’s thick, luscious thighs. She presses her centre against Penelope’s warm flesh, and Penelope gasps. “You’re so very wet, husband,” she says, something like awe in her voice. “And warm.”
Eloise cannot speak any more. The big cat has its teeth in her throat, its jaws crushing tighter and stealing her voice. She can only dip her head to Penelope’s breasts and resume her suckling, her fingers kneading the full, expansive flesh. She begins to move her hips, sliding her wet, needy cunny up and down Penelope’s soft thigh.
Penelope lets out a soft, pleased humming noise, and her little fingers thread into Eloise’s hair, petting her softly whilst Eloise draws upon her stiff nipples. Eloise’s mind starts to drift away, a strange peace overcoming her, her hips bucking mindlessly as she grinds her cunny upon Penelope’s leg. She feels as if she is drowning in Penelope’s flesh, so warm and welcoming, her fingers squeezing and groping her breasts.
There is something about the way Penelope lies there so sweet and still whilst Eloise takes her pleasure from her body that starts to build something tight and hot in Eloise’s belly, a thread stretched taut. It winds tighter with every writhe of her hips, every little gasp Penelope emits as Eloise’s teeth nip at her breasts hungrily, desperately. Penelope cradles her head and lets Eloise use her softness, lets her suckle and rub and grind, and it does not take long before the thread snaps and Eloise’s body floods with sweet, singing pleasure. She cannot help how her teeth close around Penelope’s nipple in the moment of release, biting down harder than she ought, making Penelope gasp and arch her back and twist her fingers into Eloise’s hair. Pleasure cascades and cascades through Eloise, and all she can hear is Penelope’s soft, pleased sobs and the big cat’s roar.
Eventually it subsides and Eloise rolls off Penelope, breathing heavily - but Penelope immediately closes the distance, curling up close and resting her head upon Eloise’s bare breast. Eloise feels startled but strangely pleased and warm, and she curls her arm around her friend, holding her tight. She feels something wet against her skin, and realises Penelope is crying.
“What - what shall happen to us, El?” Penelope sniffles.
Penelope’s mind works fast - it always has. It is so like her to already be thinking of the consequences of this, of what the future might bring.
Her mind is fuzzy from the pleasure. “I do not know, Penelope.” She strokes her fingers up and down Penelope’s soft, plump arm, trying to soothe her friend. Her mind casts around for some comfort. Eloise knows they must have done something very wicked - it felt too good not to be improper - but if she is honest it does not feel wrong, not really. “But, you know, Benedict said that there are many couples… such as us.” Her tongue struggles for a moment with that - couples such as us - but it feels right, does it not? With Penelope in her arms, everything feels so very right. “The clever ones never get caught, he says.”
Penelope lifts her head and gazes at Eloise, her blue eyes shining with tears. “Really?” she asks.
Eloise nods, and cups Penelope’s cheek, her heart so full she could cry too. “Yes. And are we not the two cleverest girls in the Ton?”
Penelope gives a wet little laugh, and nuzzles her head back to Eloise’s chest. “I believe we are,” she murmurs into her skin, her hot breath making Eloise shiver pleasurably.
The big cat purrs.