The Lesser Portal Ch. 02

Editor's note: this story contains scenes of non-consensual or reluctant sex.

*****

Lydia grows excited in the fernery -- a chaperon -- I hire a "growler" -- the unforeseen consequence

The fernery at The Croft, in the village of Grantford in the county of Cambridgeshire, is an admirable expression of taste, crowded as it is with every hardy species, all laid out in a shallow dell. But, botanist though I am, I had no thought of the ferns. That the shy Miss Lydia Courtenay should ask me to accompany her there, had thrown me into confusion, and I knew not what to say.

It was not long till sunset. In my mind's eye I see her still: a nymph standing in the low late-Summer light, her graceful form loosely clothed in rose-purple -- she favoured "Artistic Dress" -- a purple which glowed luminous against the leaves of the willows towards the river.

She too was silent, but her blushes spoke volumes. The D___l of it was, the volumes were not written in any language I could understand.

"Miss Lydia," I ventured at last, "I hope you will agree that for a time there was an unspoken understanding between us. I have even dared aspire to --"

"Please, Mr Jaspers," she said urgently, turning her face away, her eyes downcast with becoming modesty. "No more of this."

A painful silence followed, until she faced towards the vista that showed the river and asked, "Is not the effect magical? That thin mist forming over the water -- the fading sunlight on the low, blue hills -- does it not all remind you of realms of Faerie?"

I am not immune to Fancy's charms, but at that moment I was inclined to say, Faerie be hanged. I held my peace, however.

She lowered her voice. "My younger sister, Mr Jaspers -- I am loath to say this of one so dear to me, but truth must be told -- my sister Florence bids fair to turn out a -- a wanton."

"I am at least as much to blame for her recent behaviour as --"

"Yes indeed."

She need not have agreed with me quite so readily, I felt. Something along the lines of, "Do not reproach yourself, Mr Jaspers. All men are mere puppets where the wiles of a woman are involved," would have been sufficient. Still, it was now clear where I stood in her opinion.

Next she said, "That gap in the trees -- I saw you there the other day, on the river, rowing."

"Oh, I still pootle about in a skiff when I have the time, you know."

"Pootle! Mr Jaspers, you were cutting through the water like a tea-clipper. I could see why you were chosen to row for the 'Varsity. Such broad shoulders -- such strong limbs -- such power!"

"Well... one doesn't want to go to seed."

Was all this leading somewhere? If so, it was taking a zig-zag path. I waited to see how the land lay.

She sighed. "You should know, Mr Jaspers, that I am the very opposite of Florence. I could never consent to anything improper."

She raised grey-green eyes under long lashes to glance shyly up at my face. "Although, Mr Jaspers, seeing you row, it struck me with dreadful force, that my unconsent might be as naught to a man of strength. For we read of such terrible cases, do we not?" She gazed into the distance, in the grip of imagination. "A chaste young lady, snatched into the carriage of a high-born rake of superb physical development. A respectable girl overcome by a tall, well-built vagabond while innocently picking flowers in a country lane. Or seized by a handsome brute of a man and dragged into a den of iniquity..."

For an instant I wondered whether she was telling me that she had been the target of some vile assault. But her eyes were too bright, her lips too softly parted for that.

"Simply by donning a mask, a man might make himself secure against recognition. And then, when he had me alone..." She broke off, only to continue with mounting agitation: "My clothes torn from my body -- stripped to a state of nature -- my slender form defenceless under his gaze -- too terrified to cry out -- my feeble protests ignored -- I imagine it all too, too vividly." Another glance to my face from under long lashes, her full, rounded lips apart, her bosom rising and falling. "Sometimes, Mr Jaspers, when I lie in bed, as I fall asleep, I almost seem to feel strong hands on me, pinning my wrists above my head, and hot breath on my face, my throat -- lower and lower, Mr Jaspers, lips and tongue violating the secrets of my night-dress -- then I am roughly turned upon my face. My weak form pressed to the bed, overpowered by a muscular physique. All my virtuous instincts forgotten, swept away as in a maelstrom. And finally -- but propriety behooves me to be silent."

She was not silent, however. Hands clasped together, quivering with excitement, she went on. "I could only hope for one small mercy -- that after I surrendered to my fate, I would be taken in a fashion so unnatural, so degrading, that my ordeal, appalling though it was, would bring no risk of discovery." A long, trembling sigh. "For there are some, Mr Jaspers, who would hold me to blame if my ordeal became known. 'She went out alone -- or, she flirted -- she brazenly showed off the naked skin of her arms.'"

We stood but two or three feet apart, and the reader will readily guess my state of arousal. With ardour I replied, "Miss Lydia, whatever should befall, I would always hold you blameless. And I must add, I will strive to make myself a new man, and become blameless myself in your eyes. But in the meantime, I beg you, say whether we may sometime be truly alone together." For we both knew that the tea-party was viewing us with interest through the French windows.

Though her eyes were chastely lowered, it seemed her gaze lingered on that embarrassing protrusion which excitement provokes in a man's nether garment. She murmured, "Mr Jaspers, you know propriety forbids me from making an assignation." But her chest continued to heave with the excitement she herself had aroused.

I pleaded, "Only say that should we chance to meet -- I know you love to wander in the woods and meads -- say you'll not leave me 'palely loitering'."

"Oh Mr Jaspers!" she breathed passionately. "I could never love a man who did not love Keats."

For a long moment, we gazed into one another's eyes.

But stern decorum asserted itself. To linger would be to invite gossip. I said gently, "The air grows chill, Miss Lydia. A harbinger of Autumn. You are far from robust -- let me accompany you back to the house."

We re-entered the drawing room through the French windows, and found nearly all the company inspecting us with interest. Only Mr Courtenay, father of the three lovely sisters, sat oblivious, combing Madeira cake-crumbs out of his handsome beard with his fingers.

Lydia and I had nothing to report, however, other than that the ferns were thriving, and so the conversation resumed its humdrum course.

I now saw two goals ahead of me. First, Lydia had given me hopes of eventually winning her hand in matrimony if I showed sufficient devotion, and so I must put an end to the train of blissful carnal liasons between young Florence and myself. The second goal was, of course, to satisfy the burning desires that Lydia had disclosed, yet could not with decency admit. This posed practical obstacles. I could mask myself easily enough -- but -- for instance, what was a den of iniquity? Did Cambridge possess one? And could one book a room in it?

But before I had even begun to answer such questions, a larger obstacle loomed, in the shape of Mrs Threlfall.

Not that Mrs Threlfall was entirely large in herself. Remarkably well-developed as to her bust, certainly, and of above medium height -- still, not large in all directions. But I should properly introduce her to the reader.

Aged somewhat above forty, a respectable widow of our village, Mrs Alicia Threlfall was yet a lady of superb appearance. If the Courtenay sisters were delicate roses in different stages of opening, Mrs T was a pale, lush rose full-blown -- and with a certain thorniness about her personality, too. Her black mourning clothes chimed well with her dark auburn hair, and both gave sombre dignity to a face which might have been sculpted from marble. In public places, a heavy mourning veil conferred an alluring air of mystery. Her solemn mien had won the trust and respect of Mrs Courtenay and Mavis; and it had won her the secret mockery of Florence.

I would not have resented the occasional presence of the imposing Mrs Threlfall, had she not suddenly become remarkably fond of Lydia's company. I never met Lydia walking about the village, or gathering nuts in the lanes thereabouts, or enjoying the bustle of Cambridge, sans Mrs Threlfall at her side.

About this time, Florence brought a message to the old carriage-house that is the laboratory of Doyle and myself. The laboratory is at one end of the village -- The Croft is at the other. Mavis, being the senior, married sister of the three, often sent eighteen-year-old Florence to carry messages.

Florence reported that Doyle was needed at The Croft -- something about Cook being rebellious about rhubarb. With a groan he left, and Miss Florence Courtenay and I were alone together for once. Our intimate encounters had been intense, but decorum had made them infrequent.

I explained to Florence that our affaire du corps must end. I had been apprehensive that she would be distressed -- I was taken aback -- she was serene. I suspect that the heartless charmer at once began to run over in her mind a list of possible candidates to initiate into the Cult of the Lesser Portal. Her only sign of regret was, "Oh, and I had thought of a new position we could try."

I then asked, what explained this friendship between Mrs Threlfall and Miss Lydia?

"That's my fault," she declared cheerfully. "Mavis is so afraid that Lydia will follow my example, that she persuaded Mrs T to chaperon her at all times." With a coquettish smile she continued, "But now I had better return to The Croft. I detect from the way your gaze lingers on my maidenly bosom, Mr Jaspers, that I am placing temptation in your path."

*

Late Summer wore on into early Autumn, and the opportunity for any sort of rendezvous between Miss Lydia and myself seemed as far away as ever. Perforce, I turned to onanistic relief, but it could not quench the fervid desire I felt for her.

And then, unheralded, an opportunity presented itself.

I was in the laboratory, lighting the lamps near sunset. Florence -- looking twice as desirable now that I could no longer have her -- called with another message for Doyle: "Mavis said to remind you, supper will be very late tonight."

Doyle looked up from warming cherry resin over a spirit lamp (our work involves plant extracts) and said through acrid fumes, "Hmm?"

"She told me you'd probably forgotten. She's going into Cambridge with Lydia and Mrs T, to hear the Reverend Dr Handscombe speak on 'Sins Ancient and Modern'. We'll all sit down to a cold collation when they get back. Though," Florence glanced at me and twitched a meaning eyebrow, "Lydia says she might not stay long. She has a headache. She may take a cab home from the Market Square."

This Reverend Handscombe has a large female following, and Mrs Threlfall is a devout admirer. But more of him in a later chapter.

"I have to go into Town myself," I remarked, knowing that she would mention this to Lydia. "There's a fellow -- I mean, a Fellow, of the Royal Chemical Society -- who liked my paper on oxalic acid, and wants to fit in an hour with me before the seven-thirty train back to London."

"But Mr Jaspers, this is so impressive! Now, be sure to look your best."

"I really don't think it will matter a jot what I look like. No, we'll just discuss the paper over chops at The Railway --"

"The Railway! The smartest new hotel in Cambridge! Then you certainly must look your best. And I suppose you intend to turn up in that dreary navy coat of yours?"

"Certainly I intend to. I have no other."

"I will lend you one of Father's."

"And will your father know?"

"Mr Jaspers, all our fortunes are bound up in this chemical-laboratory venture of yours. Even if he knew, he'd have no right to object."

And so it was that I found myself hurrying out of The Railway Hotel about five-and-twenty past seven on a misty October evening wearing a borrowed opera cloak, silk scarf and shiny top hat, all in black. "Dressy", but undeniably smart. I would walk home via the Market Square. If Miss Lydia appeared, I had a plan, plus a jar of the lubricant (a colloidal compound, in lingua scientia). If not, there was a full moon, and a solitary walk to the village through the meadows would be atmospheric.

But as I turned the corner that showed me the portico of the meeting-hall, I saw a distant female figure step from between the columns. Lydia had recently bought a hooded coat of a romantic style, and although the hood shadowed her face entirely, and she had drawn a muffler up to her mouth against the chill mist, the eye of Love saw the lovely sylph within. She turned and set off towards the Market Square.

I had not reckoned on her being ahead of me. However, the principle streets of Cambridge are furnished with gas lamps, and she was bound to keep to the well-lit way past the western entrance to Emmanuel. I knew a much shorter way. I dashed into the murk of a side-alley and sprinted for the Market Square.

The mist was turning to fog. As I emerged into the square I saw the hazy outlines of three cabs standing in the cab-rank. Two were Hansoms, which were no use to me. The third was a four-wheel carriage, popularly called a "growler", with the driver so slumped on his seat as to resemble a torpid sack of potatoes topped with a bowler hat. I quickly flung the silk scarf across my lower face and roused him with a "hullo!".

"There's a lady approaching up Market Street," I informed him. "Take me that way, and when I see her I'll knock on the glass behind your seat. I mean to surprise her, so mind you stop in a dark place, then you must open the door for her. And then on to Grantford by the slow way."

"I understand you perfec'ly, Sir," said the cabby, touching the brim of his bowler and favouring me with a disconcerting leer.

Inside the cab I settled myself into the murkiest corner. Then I unbuttoned the fly-front of my trousers and got out my excited member, which sprang to attention, looking larger than ever in the dim light and eager for the fray. I concealed it under the opera cloak.

This was the work of seconds. I leaned my head out of the window, and pretty soon saw Lydia's hood silhouetted against gaslight. A rap on the glass, and the cab slowed. I blessed the mist that had caused Lydia to effectively disguise herself with her scarf. Cambridge is not a great city, and I would not want the cabby to recognise her.

The cab came to an ill-lit place, and halted. It creaked and tilted as the cabby swung himself down from his seat.

"'Scuse me, ma'am," I heard him say, "but a gen'lman sent for me to take you to Grantford, if you'll just hop in ma'am." As the cabby opened the door I could see his breath hanging in the misty air.

"How thoughtful," said the lady -- and I was stricken, paralysed.

This was not the sweet, clear voice of fair Lydia.

This was the voice of Mrs Alicia Threlfall.

The cab swayed and sank as Mrs Threlfall put her foot on the step and helped herself in with the strap. She sat down diagonally opposite me, and the cabby shut the door brusquely.

Evidently, distance and mist had misled the wishful eye of Love. The hood and muffler were in reality Mrs Threlfall's hat and its mourning veil.

I confess that I found being at close quarters to the striking, shapely Mrs Threlfall with my sexual part throbbingly engorged, thrilling in the extreme. However, to all appearances I had most improperly lured her into a carriage, and if she should tell Lydia... I must do something; but what?

My predicament was bad; but it grew worse. Mrs Threlfall startled me with a girlish giggle -- whisked off her hat and veil -- sprang across to sit down next to me -- pressed the softness of her magnificent bosom against my upper arm -- sought out with her hand the opening of my cloak, delved into it, and seized my rigid organ in a confident grip!

She giggled again. "Oh, Mr C! The pills have worked! What a big white rabbit you have grown -- it will quite fill up Alice's rabbit-hole." And she proceeded to fondle my upstanding member with evident delight.

Next she parted my cloak with her free hand the better to inspect my proud organ, and bent her head over it. Small exclamations of approval escaped her, until she raised her head to whisper teasingly in my ear, "Shall I sit on your lap and let the cheeky bunny-rabbit hop into my nice warm, wet hole, Mr C?"

It was all I could do not to assent. But then she added, "Mr C, it was wise of you to hide your visage from the cabby, but you need not conceal yourself from your eager Alicia." She reached up to the silk scarf across my lower face.

At once it flashed into my mind that this "Mr C" could only be Mr Courtenay, whose outfit I had borrowed. Before I had a plan of action, however, she pulled down the scarf and discovered, not his bushy beard, but my own clean-shaven jaw.

She sprang into the seat opposite like a pin to a magnet, and stared firmly out of the window. I hastily covered my excited member.

A tortured silence followed, during which I willed my erection to subside without success.

We had left the town and the fog had thinned, and I saw how slowly the cab was going. I lowered the window, leaned out and called, "Cabby! Take the direct way to Grantford, please. Quick as you like."

The cabby gave an encouraging whistle to the horse, slapped the reins on its back, and the cab sped up.

I shut the window and sank back into my seat, and with anxiety, furtively inspected my companion. Bright moonlight showed that a blush suffused her gorgeous cheeks. She glanced in my direction, and instantly turned away. But a few seconds later she stealthily looked again. She seemed fascinated. She was not looking at my face... I followed her gaze.

The dickens! In leaning out of the window, I had accidentally uncovered my mischievous organ, and it was basking unabashed in a shaft of moonlight, splendidly hard, the prepuce taut around the hard dome of the glans penis. I flung my cloak over the impudent member and returned to staring out at the hedges by the road.

To my astonishment, after a minute or two Mrs Threlfall cleared her throat as if to speak. She hesitated, then cleared it again. At last she said, "I believe you are a doctor."

I responded, "Well, yes --"

"But you do not use the title because you choose not to practice medicine," she suggested.

"Well, no --"

"You would not wish to be distracted from your researches."

"That is true as far as it goes, but --"

"So, as a medical man, you will have learned how strangely grief may affect the mind. My dear, dear husband passed away two years ago," her voice trembled for a moment, but she forced a recovery, "and yet somehow --" She halted, then continued in a firm tone, "Somehow for an instant I forgot that he was dead. And that is the only reason, the sole reason I addressed you as Mr T." She emphasised the "T".

"I see." I had given up trying to remind her that my doctorate is in Botanic Chemistry.

In a low, confiding tone she went on, "When my grief abates, I intend to find a husband."

Better, I thought, to have looked for a man who was not a husband. But I began to see that she was a woman at the mercy of powerful appetites.

"And when I do..." She paused. "I bore Mr T three children, Dr Jaspers. Three beautiful babies, all now left me for Rugby School."

Was it a universal sexual characteristic, or was it only the women of Grantford who could never get straight to the point?