Author's Note: This is an historical fiction with one of my favorite Victorians of all time: Oscar Wilde. Much of what Wilde says in this story are direct quotes from him or his work. The sex orgy is made up ;) Warning: This piece is dark and not for the faint hearted, but I hope it shows the progression of how Helen and John's relationship might have gone, from light to dark, tragic as that might be. As always, I own nothing of Sanctuary. My words, however, are my own (except for Oscar's, which I've already pointed out). Thanks as always to MajorSam, my forever Beta. Please review and let me know what you think!
PS: This story is dedicated to my faithful reader and friend, Marzia. Thank you for being one of the first people to read and review my stories. You gave me confidence.
Seasons: Summer
The Dinner Party
(Copyright 2011, by NoCleverSig)
"Oscar Wilde…Honestly, I cannot think of a man more aptly named," Helen Magnus remarked as their carriage rumbled past Sloane Square in London's west end. The driver took a sharp turn causing Helen's body to fly into the solid arms of her companion, John Druitt. They were headed south now on Chelsea Bridge Road toward the Thames and 34 Tite Street, the home of Oscar and Constance Wilde and a dinner party with London's most notorious Bohemian.
"Oh come now, darling," John quipped as he put his arm around his fiancé, holding her closer than good manners allowed. With his other hand he reached for Helen's white gloved hand, the summer heat beading his forehead with sweat. "Oscar may be a tad…flamboyant, but he is brilliant and one of London's most sought after dinner companions. He's certainly fond of you."
"And you as well by the looks he gives."
John drew back. "Helen! Is that a note of jealousy I hear?"
"Perhaps," she grinned.
He laughed. "Well, I for one am looking forward to this evening. Watching you and Oscar match wits never ceases to make my blood stir."
"Everything makes your blood stir, John," she teased.
"When it comes to you, my dear, that is true," he grinned, and then leaned forward, his warm, moist breath pressed against her cheek. His tongue reached out and teased the silver earring that dangled from her ear lobe. He whispered seductively in her ear.
"I was thinking, after the party, perhaps I should port us away to a tropical island and have my way with you on the velvet, white sand. The moon shining…the warm breeze gently caressing your naked body…the waves pounding against the shore as I take you from behind…."
Helen's face flushed, her corset suddenly tight.
"John, really," she chided him half-heartily. "You're behaving quite scandalously."
He chuckled into the blonde ringlets that hung down from her upswept hair. "It's only the two of us in this carriage, darling. Goodness knows we've committed far more scandalous acts than whisper sweet words during a buggy ride or have you forgotten?" He dipped his head to her neck, kissing her just under her jaw, tightening his hold on her hand. Instinctively Helen tilted her head to one side, inviting him to continue. John did so, trailing leisurely, wet kisses down her smooth, white skin to the top of her low-cut gown and abruptly stopped.
She could feel the heat, the raw sexual desire swelling within her, shooting from her chest down to her womb. Her body shook with it. Helen turned her head and grabbed John's face in her gloved hands and plundered his mouth, teeth roughly scraping teeth, tongues mimicking the very act he had so recently described.
John reached over blindly and closed the carriage windows, trapping the warm, summer heat inside, leaving the compartment still and stifling. Helen's undergarments stuck to her skin, droplets of sweat forming quickly in her cleavage and her thighs. With one hand John yanked the top of her gown down, freeing one breast, then the other, roughly kneading her fleshly mounds and twisting her nipples with his fingers until she winced in pain. He tore his mouth away from hers and buried his head between her breasts, licking her salty skin then moving his tongue, his lips to one nipple, then the other, sucking, licking, biting.
Helen ran her fingers through John's hair, pressing his mouth against her chest, moaning as he sucked her so hard she knew it would leave fresh marks. She reached down to unbutton his trousers, feeling his rock-hard cock through his pants, desperately wanting him inside her now, thrusting against her as she sat on the cloth covered bench. She needed him banging her into the back of the carriage, coming so hard and so fast, spilling his seed within her womb and knowing full well that when they walked into Oscar Wilde's parlor they would reek of fresh sex.
Suddenly the carriage stopped. The driver tapped on the roof, indicating their arrival. Hastily Helen pulled up her blouse and smoothed out her gown. John tucked in his shirt, buttoned his trousers, and straightened his vest and coat. Helen checked the combs in her hair.
"How do I look?" she asked John.
"Like a woman who has just been ravished," he smiled. When she frowned at him, he added, "A vision, my love. A vision."
Helen drew a deep, cleansing breath and steadied herself, trying to calm her racing heart and the lust still smoldering between her thighs. The coachman rapped on the door. John opened it, and the driver set down the steps. John exited first, grasping Helen's hand, and escorted her past the black wrought iron fence and up the walkway to the red brick home and knocked.
John leaned over and whispered conspiratorially into Helen's ear.
"When this party is over, my dear, we shall begin our dance anew…."
The simple sentence tumbled off of John's tongue like chocolate, smooth, sweet and full of sinful promise. Helen's face flushed again as the Wilde's servant opened the door, led them through the hallway to the parlor, and announced their arrival.
"Mr. John Druitt and his fiancée, Dr. Helen Magnus."
They had been to the Wilde's residence before. It was an upscale home in Chelsea, a section of London bustling with artists, poets, and writers. The couple's drawing room was the epitome of Aestheticism, art for art's sake. It was packed with beautifully carved wooden chairs, deep crimson couches, and a massive fireplace with an ornately decorated marble mantle overflowing with flowers and ivy. In front of it stood a heavy, oval table with clawed feet held down by a bowl of porcelain fruit and sunflowers. Gold-gilded mirrors decorated with lilies adorned the walls along with paintings of flowers and pre-Raphaelite art. Rich, red and gold drapes covered the bay window that faced Tite Street, and glistening knick knacks of Japanese china were scattered across the end tables.
The Wildes, a voluptuous dark-haired woman Helen would later discover was an Italian-born actress named Marzia Rossini, and the talented young poet Lord Alfred Douglas ("Bosie" to his friends) were already in the parlor conversing upon their arrival. Constance Wilde, an attractive and quiet Irish woman, greeted them followed by her husband, Oscar, an equally attractive but not so quiet Irish author and playwright.
John reached out and shook Oscar's hand. "I apologize for our late arrival, old boy."
"Ah, John, punctuality is the thief of time," Oscar said, moving to greet Helen, his foppish purple suit making him stand out like a giant plum. He smiled his impish grin at her as she gazed at his garish outfit. "If I am occasionally a little over-dressed, I make up for it by being always immensely over-educated," he quipped.
"Pleased to see you again too, Oscar," Helen responded. He was a conceited man but a brilliantly charming one at that, Helen thought. Arrogance with brains and wit to back it up was easily forgiven.
Oscar bent and kissed her hand. "My dear, it has been far too long, you look….." He paused and eyed her with a wry scrutiny that made Helen think he knew exactly what she looked like under her scarlet gown. "Positively radiant," he concluded. "I take it your carriage ride was pleasant?" he asked, glancing from her to John and back again.
"Most pleasant, indeed," John agreed graciously, his hands strategically clasped in front of his groin.
"As one can tell from your glowing and youthful expressions," Oscar continued. "I had no idea it was still so warm outside. Tell me, are you flushed from the heat, my dear? I mean of the summer day, of course," he smirked and winked at John.
John started to speak in Helen's defense but Oscar quickly waved him off, "Oh, I have no objection to anyone's sex life as long as they don't practice it in the street and frighten the horses. Speaking of, congratulations on your engagement my dear friends! When is the happy day?"
Keeping up with Oscar's mind was like following a three-year old child chasing the geese in Hyde Park.
"In the spring time. April 24. But don't worry, Constance is invited. Oh, and you may come along too if you like," Helen tossed at him.
Oscar threw back his head and laughed, his long black hair falling into his eyes as he leaned forward again. "Just don't wait too long, dear Helen. Long engagements give people the opportunity of finding out each other's character before marriage, which is never advisable."
She couldn't help but grin. "I'll keep that in mind."
The conversation was interrupted by a servant who announced that dinner was ready. The couples made their way toward the dining room, John and Helen leading the way.
"I think my dear that this may prove to be a most interesting evening," John remarked as he escorted Helen through the door. "A most interesting evening indeed."
The dinner menu was in French and featured three courses. Julienne soup followed by broiled salmon and file de soles. Entrees consisted of mutton cutlets, roast quarter of lamb, and braised beef. The final course included green peas, strawberries, and compote of cherries finished by a more than ample serving of Madeira wine, which made everyone a bit light-headed.
Given the company, conversation was lively. It was no wonder Constance was such a quiet woman. With Oscar present she had little opportunity to get a word in edgewise. Still, Helen thought, the man truly was a great wit. He regaled them with tales of his lecture tour of America and his already infamous quote upon landing there, "I have nothing to declare except my genius." No matter how many times he told the tale she still found it amusing. She could picture the bemused American customs official gazing at Oscar with his playful smile and beaver trimmed top hat.
He was currently serving as editor of Woman's World magazine and working on a collection of fairy tales and essays but had an idea for a book, a book he said that would examine the dichotomy of good versus evil, of a man seemingly so upstanding, so beautiful on the outside, but harboring an ugly and murderous soul.
"There are moments, psychologists tell us, when the passion for sin, or what the world calls sin, so dominates a nature that every fiber of the body, every cell of the brain, seems to be instinct with fearful impulses," Oscar explained. "Men and women at such moments lose the freedom of their will. They move to their terrible end as automatons move. Choice is taken from them, and conscience is either killed, or, if it lives at all, lives but to give rebellion its fascination and disobedience its charm."
"Tell me, Mr. Wilde," Marzia said with her thick Italian accent. "Who has inspired such a tale from you?"
Oscar looked around the table, his eyes finally resting upon John's.
"My friends," he said cryptically, then changed the subject.
Conversation turned to Marzia's work in Europe, her London debut, and then Helen's scientific studies, which Oscar was well aware of and also patronized.
"Dearest Helen," he begged. "What new and delightful discoveries have you and James Watson unearthed as of late?"
"Oh, Oscar, you wouldn't believe it if I told you," she responded quickly trying to deflect the conversation away from herself. Discussing her work with the Wildes was one thing. With Miss Rossini and Lord Douglas it was another.
"Oh, I can believe anything provided it's incredible," he retorted.
John chimed in to help. "I believe what Helen is saying is that we have heard so little from Lord Douglas about his latest book of poetry. The last thing either one of us wants is to dominate your dinner party conversation."
Oscar smiled. "Nice sentiment, old boy," he said. "But alas it is a beautiful woman's fate to be the subject of conversation wherever she goes." He leaned forward, took Helen's hand, and kissed it. "Still, old Johnny is right. What of your work, Bosie?" he asked, eyeing the handsome and young Lord Douglas appreciatively. "What new and inspirational verses might you regale us with tonight?"
Oscar had taken the not-so-subtle hint, and Helen squeezed John's hand in thanks.
After the final course had been served, dishes cleared, and conversation in a lull, the men broke out their cigars and the women rose to exit to the parlor for music, cards, and discourse of their own.
Except Helen.
Whether it was the amorous adventure in the carriage, the witty repartee, or too much Madeira after dinner, she suddenly felt emboldened.
"I have to wonder, Oscar, with a man as modern in his sensibilities as you, why must we women leave?"
Constance and Marzia had already made their way into the drawing room, but paused when they heard Helen's statement. Oscar stopped in the middle of lighting his cigar and smiled at her. "Pray tell, my dear, why would you want to stay?"
"Curiosity," she mused. "I wonder what manner of conversation and…other things go on behind these closed doors when we women leave the room?"
Oscar smiled. Bosie grinned and moved to his side, his arm casually resting on Oscar's shoulder. John simply sat there looking anxious.
"She is very clever, John. Too clever for a woman. She lacks the indefinable charm of weakness."
"Which makes her all the more beautiful in my eyes, Oscar," John retorted, reaching down to kiss Helen's hand.
Oscar laughed. "Not just your eyes, John. Not just yours…"
"I'm still here you know," Helen said, not backing down. "You needn't speak of me as if I've already gone."
They all laughed at that. Marzia and Constance stood near the doorway in rapt attention. "Oh, you are here indeed, my dear, and quite difficult to miss for so many reasons," Oscar said. "Perhaps you are right. Perhaps tonight we should join the ladies and give them a taste of what our man's world consists of, if they are up to it that is."
"I assure you I am well equipped to handle most any task, regardless of my gender," Helen replied fiercely.
John nodded. "On that point she does not lie."
"Very well," Oscar nodded. "Have you ever partaken of the green fairy my dear?"
John shot him a look down the table. "Oscar, I don't think…"
"Your betrothed wondered what we did within the confines of the dining room doors, John. I only intend to enlighten her. Well?"
"You're speaking of absinthe? No, I have not." Helen had never tried it. She didn't know if John had either, although she suspected he might. It had quite the reputation and a disreputable one at that. A favorite of writers, poets, and Bohemians, like Wilde and Bosie, it was renowned for its highly addictive and alcoholic nature, and, according to some, its ability to alter one's perceptions.
"She has not tried it, and she shall not," John stated adamantly.
Helen turned to him and scowled. "You have no right to declare what I will or will not do!"
"Helen, don't be a fool. Don't let your ego goad you into doing something you…we…will regret," John muttered fiercely.
"Well let me just say this about that, dear Helen, and you make the choice. After the first glass you see things as you wish they were. After the second you see them as they are not. Finally you see things as they really are, and that is the most horrible thing in the world."
Helen narrowed her eyes. "I'm not sure I understand."
"I mean disassociated," Oscar continued. "Take a top hat, for instance. You think you see it as it really is. But you don't because you associate it with other things and ideas. If you had never heard of one before, and suddenly saw it alone, you'd be frightened or you'd laugh. That is the effect absinthe has, my dear, and that is why it drives men mad. Three nights I sat up all night drinking absinthe and thinking that I was singularly clear-headed and sane. Then the waiter came in and began watering the sawdust. The most wonderful flowers, tulips, lilies and roses sprang up and made a garden in the cafe. 'Don't you see them?' I said. Obviously, he did not." Oscar smiled. "The question to you, my dear, is: Are you ready to see the tulips in the sawdust?"
It was a challenge. A gauntlet being thrown down, but to be fair, she had tossed it first.
"Tulips are my favorite, Oscar. How did you know?" Helen answered.
Once again he threw his head back and laughed. John simply frowned.
"Very well then, we shall join you momentarily in the parlor. Ladies first, of course," Oscar said, indicating the door.
Constance looked worried, Marzia appeared positively titillated, and Helen had the distinct feeling that pride might come before the fall.
The group gathered in the parlor. Constance sat on one of the crimson couches looking nervous. Marzia and Helen sat together on the other across from her, a large oval table between them. After a moment the men came in carrying trays of heavy, crystal glasses, several bottles of the emerald liquid, a bowl of sugar cubes, and decanters of fresh water.
Oscar and Bosie took charge, setting six crystal glasses on the table in the center of the drawing room. John picked up the silver spoons, each perforated with tiny holes, and suspended them over the rims of the glasses. So he had done this before, Helen thought. Fleetingly she wondered what other activities John had participated in that she had no knowledge of.
Bosie took the bowl of sugar cubes and placed a single cube on top of each spoon. Oscar and John took the water and poured it slowly over the crystalline objects, allowing the sweet mixture to drip into the bright green spirit below turning it a milky jade and filling the glasses to the brim.
When they were done, the men handed each of their companions one. "Are you sure about this, Helen?" John asked her. She nodded.
"Cheers!" Oscar said joyously. "May you see a sunset tonight, my loves. Or in your case my dear Helen, a field of tulips." He took a sip and smiled. Then another. The rest followed suit.
The liquid was sweet, cooled by the clear water, and tasted like licorice. As they drank, they spoke of art, politics, and literature. And as they talked Helen finished her glass, and then another and another and felt her senses suddenly become…illuminated. Conversation ceased. The air grew heavy and hot. The gas lamps lighting the room brightened. The colors of the crimson couch and her scarlet dress shimmered. Her skin tingled and teased as tiny bubbles played up and down her arms. She looked down to realize that it was John, lightly stroking her hands, her arms, her legs. Helen looked over and saw Oscar doing the same to Constance on his left and Bosie on his right. With one hand he had loosened Constance hair, running his fingers through the long, brown strands as she sat still, eyes closed. With his other hand he reached into Bosie's lap and unbuttoned the young man's trousers, pulling out his cock. He held it in his hands, stroking his shaft up and down. Bosie closed his eyes and smiled, turned, and kissed Oscar on the mouth, his tongue teasing Oscar's lips as he reached over and unbuttoned his trousers as well, doing the same.
The sight of it should have been shocking, unprecedented, yet Helen couldn't think clearly, couldn't pull her eyes away. Oscar looked over at her and smiled as Bosie slipped off the crimson couch, knelt in front of Wilde, took his cock into his mouth and began sucking him, moving back and forth, his penis moving in and out of Bosie's mouth. Helen watched in rapt attention as Oscar closed his eyes, reached down, and slipped one hand on Constance' gown, kneading her breast. Her eyes were still closed, her expression numb. The other hand he held atop Bosie's head, urging him forward.
The room spun like a carousel, with dancing lights surrounding her. Helen turned her head away and suddenly John was there kissing her so deep, so long, and so hard she thought she might suffocate. A kiss had never felt like this before, like an explosion of taste and color, so full and rich she began to laugh at the utter joy of it.
When he pulled away to move down to her neck she glanced behind him at Marzia who leaned against the edge of the couch to make room for John and gazed at them, her dark brown eyes wide, a smile on her full, red lips. With one hand she pulled the top of her lavender gown down and caressed herself, pulling and teasing her nipple. With the other she slowly lifted the bottom of her dress, revealing nothing underneath but hose and garters and her naked center. She began rubbing herself, the wetness glistening like diamonds in the gaslight, her eyes never leaving Helen's as John continued to kiss Helen's neck, working his way down to her breasts, pulling her gown down over her top and sucking her.
Helen closed her eyes at the sensation, modesty not even a concept that existed any longer, running her arms up and down his back. With sudden clarity she realized he was wearing too many clothes. She pushed him off of her, pulled his jacket down and off, undid his vest, his shirt, and left him naked from the trousers up. The feel of his skin on her hands, her breasts was like fire. Nothing had ever felt this vibrant. She felt like she was flying, and the more he touched her, the higher she flew.
He laid down on top of her, sucking her breasts, Helen running her fingers through John's hair. It felt like pure silk, so soft, so clean, her fingers felt like they were dancing.
"Come now, John," She heard Oscar's voice vaguely in the distance. "Give your lady a real kiss."
Helen turned her head and opened her eyes just wide enough to see Bosie still on his knees in front of Oscar, Wilde gently petting the top of his hair. The two men were watching them, Bosie wiping his mouth with Constance' scarf. Constance was rolled up in a ball on the edge of the sofa as far away from them as possible, whether asleep or unconscious, Helen couldn't tell.
John looked up at Helen with an expression she'd never seen…couldn't place…then pulled her roughly sideways so she was sitting up against the couch, dropped to his knees, yanked her gown and undergarments over her hips, and dove his head underneath her, plunging into her center with his tongue, licking her, biting, her, sucking her, thrusting in and out of her with his fingers, his tongue, making her moan and grind against him.
"That's it old boy," Oscar said as Bosie sat on the floor in front of him, still silent, stroking his own erection as he watched them. Helen heard a rustle beside her and turned to see Marzia, pleasuring herself as she gazed at John making love with his mouth to Helen. Slowly, the dark Italian leaned forward, took hold of Helen's hand, and kissed it. She moved closer, pressing her lips against Helen's cheek. Then she took Helen's chin in her hand, turned her head to face her, and began raining light kisses, like snowflakes, Helen thought, on her chin, her lips, her eyes. She moved to her lips and kissed her gently, opening her mouth, inviting Helen in.
"Let her love you, Helen," she heard Oscar say softly from afar, somewhere in a field of flowers, the scent so beautiful and sweet it made her smile. "A passion for pleasure is the secret to remaining young my dear. You are far too beautiful not to share."
Helen did so, tentatively, feeling for the first time the soft kiss of a woman's lips on hers. Marzia tasted like cinnamon and citrus and spice, soft and delectable. She opened her mouth wider to grant her further access, growing braver and hotter as John continued to work on her below while Marzia invaded her mouth with her tongue above, exploring Helen's cheeks, her teeth, her tongue.
Suddenly, the rush of sensation began building inside of Helen, her hips began to buck instinctively at the sensation of John's mouth on her, his hands spreading her legs wide. Marzia's hand flew faster to her own center, massaging herself as she plunged into Helen's mouth even deeper, mimicking John's action below. With a sudden crash Helen came, shuddering, her entire body convulsing. John continued licking and sucking her drawing out her orgasm as long as he could while Marzia did the same, sucking on Helen's tongue, pulling Helen into a state of sheer bliss. Nothing existed but sensation. Nothing but feeling and light and sound.
John looked up, his task complete, wetness glistening across his lips and chin and saw Marzia kissing Helen, and a sudden rage enveloped him. He stood up, yanked Marzia off of her, and threw the woman to the ground.
"Get away from her you filthy whore!" he shouted. Oscar laughed. Bosie, who continued to stroke his taut cock, sat quietly smiling. Constance didn't move.
Helen sat up, dizzy, spinning, shocked at John's sudden outburst, his tone, his violence. Marzia lay sobbing on the Persian rug. Bosie crawled on all fours to her side, took her into his arms and consoled her. "There, there, darling. I shall help you out." He lifted her up, sat her on her knees and hands, and thrust into her from behind.
John watched them for a moment mesmerized, turned back to Helen, pulled her up roughly, then pushed her down on the carpet in front of him and unbuttoned his trousers, releasing his cock. The colors of the rug, pinks and greens and reds and blues, spun in Helen's head. Suddenly she too was on all fours, the thick wool chafing against her hands and knees. She was facing Oscar, Bosie, and Marzia, and John was behind her. With one sudden thrust he entered her and she gasped. He leaned his naked chest across her back, wrapped one arm around her waist, and with the other he yanked back her hair and growled.
"You are mine, Helen. MINE! For all eternity!"
He thrust into her again and again and again, growling and cursing as he did so. She closed her eyes, starting to break from the trance of the absinthe, hearing Marzia's moan of pleasure as Bosie poured himself into her. Soon John followed, coming so hard it shook Helen to the core, making her tumble after him, her mind exploding with light and pleasure and, for the first time, something new…
Pain.
The carriage ride back was silent. Unlike the journey there, the two sat as far away from the other as possible, neither one saying a word. As they approached Helen's home, John turned to her.
"Helen, darling," he begged. "Please, say something…"
She waited a moment then turned and looked at him, her eyes glistening and red. "We were rutting like animals, John," she said through clenched teeth. "Like animals!" Her voice broke. She put her hand to her mouth and twisted away, looking out once more through the carriage window at the dark summer night.
John watched her, the loose blonde curls trailing down her back as beads of sweat danced along her skin. What had Oscar said to him in the hallway before they left?
"Sin is a thing that writes itself across a man's face, John. It cannot be concealed."
Tonight she had seen his sin, but only just a little…
END