Erotique

Chapter 1-2

Some hours later, daylight pours into the room through open windows. The filmy white curtains dance on an invisible breeze, which continues across the room and over my nakedness. Eduardo has already left the bed we share, gone to attend to some chore or other around the estate. It’s my estate, inherited, of course, yet I don’t do anything more taxing than instruct the servants. Eduardo, on the other hand, feels an incomprehensible need to work. His reason, he explains, is that hard physical labour is the best work out a man’s body can have. Possibly, he’s correct. Eduardo’s features are rugged. His body is stockier than mine, more solid and as hard as rock; evidence of his claim if ever there was. Fortunately, I have genes to thank for my attractive appearance, and toned, slender body. I say fortunately, because I’m allergic to exercise and feel nauseous at the mere mention of the word.

I could weep when I think of his masculine beauty. More perfect than a Greek god in marble. And it used to be mine. His heart, his body and soul, belonged to me alone. Not a day or night went by that we didn’t make love. He never cared whether the servants were around or not. When he wanted my body, he took it.

A knock at the door rouses me from my thoughts.

“Enter.”

Lester, my handsome valet and butler, enters. He’s naked, as is one of the conditions of employment at Hilldare Manor. To date I haven’t received a single complaint about this clause, in fact, many men who are ‘that way inclined’, as they say in polite society, seek out the manor for a position because of it. My titillation is of no consequence to any of the males in my employ when compared to the alternatives—a life of lies and the ever-present fear of discovery and of being sent to prison.

“Will you be taking breakfast in your room this morning, sir?” he asks.

He’s slender and muscular, his skin creamy and peppered with pale freckles. His c**k is pendulous and hangs down heavily over equally low-hanging balls. I notice he’s neatened up his pubic area. I walk across to where he’s standing and run the palm of my hand over it.

“It looks nice like that.”

Lester’s c**k begins to stir. “Thank you, sir,” he says. “I’m glad you like it.”

Then I remember his question. “No, Lester. I’ll go downstairs.”

Without pause Lester opens the door and holds it for me as I walk through, his semi-erect c**k brushing my thigh.

“Where’s Eduardo?” I ask.

I barely even notice the paintings and flowers that populate the walls and tables of the carpeted hallway. As I child I would study each painting until I knew I’d absorbed every detail. Often I would ask one parent or the other a question about something I had seen. Why was the lady on the swing? Swings were for children. Why weren’t the farmer’s clothes dirty? If he was really a farmer then surely his garments would be streaked with evidence of his labour.

“I think he’s in the barn, working on one of the ploughs.”

I roll my eyes.

“Why does he do it?” I mutter.

“Sorry, sir?” asks Lester, who’s immediately behind me as we descend the stairs.

I shake my head. “Never mind.”

In the dining room I serve myself bacon, scrambled eggs, and toast from the silver breakfast service on the sideboard. Taylor, tall, slender, and blonde, brings me my newspaper and pours my coffee. His c**k is nothing to write home about, but it does have one remarkable feature—its foreskin. It’s the longest foreskin I’ve ever seen, and while I have examined it with my fingers, I long to chew on it. It looks as though it would feel good between my teeth. Of course I won’t do anything so intimate while my heart still belongs to Eduardo.

I eat my breakfast, pushing equal amounts of egg, bacon, and toast onto my fork, chewing and swallowing one mouthful before drinking a mouthful of coffee. I wasn’t ever aware I ate in such an ordered manner until Eduardo pointed it out and now, even though I realise what I’m doing, I don’t think I ever deviate from the routine.

“Lester!” I call after I’ve finished both my breakfast and the newspaper. “Bring me my robe.”

Lester appears at the door, nods, then disappears again. He returns surprisingly fast with my silk robe, a present from Eduardo during our short sojourn in the Far East two years prior. I stand and Lester dresses me. I feel his c**k brush against me on two occasions. I feel my own c**k stir. Moments like this are why I insist on nudity at the manor.

I walk through the kitchen to the mud room, step into a pair of rubber boots, and enter the day. The robe is a precaution against unexpected visitors, especially the kind who don’t understand the allure of an erotic lifestyle. As it is, the garment offers scant coverage. While walking purposefully towards the barn, it flies open and billows out behind me, the light fabric flapping wildly against the naked flesh of my buttocks and thighs.

I hear the sound of industry as I near the barn. When I enter Eduardo is bent over the plough, spanner in hand. He has one foot up on the brace beam, tightening something. His lightly-haired buttocks are parted slightly and I can see the thick line of hair that traces the crack. His balls are hanging down, large and full, and are swinging with each turn of the spanner.

I’m immediately erect.

He hasn’t seen me yet, so focused is he on the task at hand. I drink in his nakedness, even noticing the way the hair along his arse crack is wet with perspiration and stuck in short, dark tendrils to his skin. I watch the smooth movement of his muscles beneath the confines of his tanned, olive skin. The way his balls are swinging is mesmerising.

I grip my erection and give it a couple of tugs.

“There you are,” I say finally, smiling as I approach him.

He takes his foot off the brace beam and turns. He smiles at me, his teeth so white and perfect. His brown eyes are warm.

“I can’t deny it,” he says with only a trace of his Brazilian accent.

I walk to him and wrap my arms around his broad shoulders. I press my c**k up against his, which although flaccid is still something to behold. It feels soft and fat against the stiffness of my erection. We kiss, briefly, before we break our embrace.

“This is a surprise,” he says, returning to the plough. “Anything the matter?”

“No, nothing’s the matter. I just wanted to see you.”

His foot goes back up onto the brace. The allure of his muscular buttocks and the damp line of hair between them are too much. I step behind him, pressing my erection into his arse crack. I can feel its wetness on the underside of my c**k.

“What are you doing?” Eduardo asks, once again removing his foot from the brace and turning to face me.

He’s not smiling anymore.

I shake my head. “I just wanted to be close to you.”

“While I’m working?” He gestures to the plough.

“You can take a break,” I say. I’m aware my smile has faded. It’s become a nervous, pathetic replica that threatens to slip from my lips at any moment. “Surely. We have staff to do these things. I don’t understand why…”

He cuts me off, fixes me with an expression bordering on anger. “No, you wouldn’t, would you?” He starts to turn then obviously has second thoughts. “Despite the fact I’ve told you so many times before.”

And then he does turn around. He bends over the plough this time. I wish it was me he was bending over. The way he used to. It doesn’t matter, anyway. I’m no longer feeling amorous and my c**k is slowly deflating, much like my self-esteem.

I return to the house, removing my rubber boots upon entering the mud room. I then remove my robe and fling it onto the kitchen floor as I hurry through to the main hall. Inside, my inner child is throwing a tantrum, wanting something that doesn’t want it. It’s all I can do not to throw myself to the floor and give my inner child free reign. I know exactly how he feels. Instead, I go into the study, flop onto one of the couches, and close my eyes. How can I make him love me again? What can I do to win back Eduardo’s heart?

Eventually I hit upon the idea of a romantic dinner, a ploy I’ve tried before, to little effect. This time, however, things will be different. I’ll add an element of the unexpected, of the erotic, to this special dinner. I spend the next few minutes exploring the idea and by the time I leave the couch I know without a doubt what I’m planning can’t possibly fail.

I hurry to the kitchen.

“Francois, have you started dinner yet?”

The stocky French chef looks a little startled. The white cap on his head and the white apron are his only clothing.

“No, sir. Désolé. I ‘aven’t.”

“Splendid,” I say.

He’s visibly relieved.

“I want you to prepare all Eduardo’s favourites—beans, rice. What’s that dish he likes? Feijoada? Prepare that. Chicken. Coxinha, isn’t it? You know what he likes. I want a veritable Brazilian feast.”

Francois’s expression returns to one of worry. I ignore it. The dinner has to be prepared and that’s all there is to it.

“And if Eduardo should happen to come in for his lunch, please don’t let on I have a surprise planned.”

Francois nods and I leave the room feeling proud of myself.