Free The Red Collection by Portia Da Costa Page A

doesn’t prevent me appreciating the charms of other males. Especially when that male takes his meat in his fist and begins to work it to a sturdier, stiffer erection with considerable enthusiasm. Perhaps we’re going to see something special after all?
    ‘Hurry up! Don’t take all day!’ instructs Jenna, leaning back on her couch, making no effort to hide the fact that she wants this to be over quickly. What a spoilsport! Me, I’d much rather see an extended performance. Something that’s wild and energetic and sweaty. Something that’s intricate, luscious and unusual. For a moment, I take my eyes from the couple before me and glance at the real man who’s standing so close to me that his leather-clad thigh is actually pressed tight against my bare ankle where my gown has slid aside. He’s dutifully staring at his polished boot toes as decorum decrees, but as if he’s sensed my scrutiny, he turns, ever so slightly, and catches my eye.
    There’s the faintest superior smile upon his sculpted lips.
    You devil! I think.
    The rules of our society say that it’s not his place to judge a mistress or even her servant, but Cicero is ever the uncommon one, and not just in the physical perfection of his body. Only he and I know how much he breaks the mould.
    His erection brought to full stand, James reaches reverently for his lady’s gown and folds it neatly out of the way. Beneath it, her loins are clad in an elaborate undergarment of ruched lace and silk and Jenna tuts and sighs, rolling her eyes in exasperation as her man removes it. His movements are deft enough, but she finds fault all the same. When her underwear is removed and set aside, she appears, to my eyes, completely unaroused – despite the presence of a fully erect male member barely inches away from her niche.
    Indolently, Jenna nods, and James moves obediently to help her into position – adjusting her hips, parting her thighs and then slipping his hand between them.
    He rubs. He fondles. He fiddles. And yet still she seems disinterested.
    ‘Use the lotion,’ she instructs, sighing again and taking a long swig from the glass of wine at her side.
    I glance again at Cicero, and there’s still that little smirk playing around his generous red lips. He never has to use the lotion on me.
    ‘May I pour you some wine, mistress?’ he asks softly, as a distractionary tactic. It wouldn’t do for my fellow mistresses to get wind of his secret insubordination.
    Or would it?
    A tantalising idea forms in my mind. Something so outrageous that it whips through my imagination like a forest fire, so vivid that I fancy Cicero himself might be able to see it. As he pours a measure of ruby wine into my goblet and hands it to me, his great head cocks on one side a little, and his brown eyes twinkle. Out of sight of the other mistresses, an expression of pure devilment and wonder flashes across his handsome features.
    Do we dare, he seems to say, and in answer I nod. The wine suddenly tastes twice as sweet as I sip and scheme.
    Meanwhile back at Jenna and James, the blond man is coating his fingers with the rich scented herb-laden lotion, preparing to anoint her diffident flesh with it. Huffing and puffing, she hitches her bottom along the couch, every action exhibiting impatience and boredom.
    Oh, poor Jenna, I think suddenly, feeling pity.
    To give James credit, he applies himself with unstinting diligence. Gently massaging, circling, flicking. Jenna’s lips tighten as if she’s actually resisting the sensations he’s seeking to induce, but I can barely keep my pelvis still, imagining I’m being fondled in her place.
    I lounge back further on my couch, tweaking and fluffing at my skirts as a cover for the fact that I’m pressing my calf against Cicero’s magnificent leather-clad haunches. Through narrowed eyes, I study his hands, clasped loosely behind his back, and imagine those fabulous fingers playing my sex.
    He’s a virtuoso with those divine digits of his,