A/N: Haven't written a chapter for this story in quite some time, so I really thought it was time to give my Wilmot muse another whirl!

This chapter is deliciously slash. Please proceed with caution.

My eternal gratitude goes out to Nytd, for her beta goodness.

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Chapter 4 – You Will Die of This Company

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Few men have so much goodness as to bring themselves to liking what they loathed merely because it is their duty to like. We marry with indifference, to please friends or increase fortune. Indifference quickly and mercilessly proceeds to monotonous aversion, so much so that even the kindness and complaisance of the poor abused wife shall only serve to increase such aversion as time goes on.

Affliction is my beloved wife's sincerest friend, her frankest monitor, her best instructor, and indeed the only useful school that the woman was ever put to, as it not only informs her better of this world, but entertains her more than I, for I am crowded by men of wit.

Time has taught her well enough. She now distinguishes between truth and appearances, between solid and apparent good, has discovered the instability of marriage, and won't be deceived by the notion of relying on it. While most flatter her for her fortune, true admirers encourage her virtue, accounting it no little blessing to be tied to a leech, who only hangs upon her for their own advantage.

But a little time wears off all the uneasiness, and puts a man such as myself, in possession of certain thoughts of foreign pleasures, which until now, I have unkindly been kept a stranger to. The savory scent of salt-swollen cunt from a woman more concerned with reputation than hygiene rendered me incapable of sustaining an erection.

I roused my understanding, opened my eyes, and fix my attention to the only possible conclusion.

I am a sexual carnival, the only issue of a Cavalier father and a Puritan mother.

Thus, it comes as no surprise that my pintle could be so significant that it defines all the elements in the world around it. Everything is either a cunt, can be turned into a cunt, or bares no interest to me whatsoever.

Which brings me to a more unnatural act of uncleanness: sodomy, or so they call it. Some believe this sin was an abuse of sex against nature, and that such filthiness was only to be found amongst the beasts, for God hath ordained that only male and female should couple together, and not female and female, nor male and male.

Some go on to say that a sodomite should be placed in a tub, and have liquid and burning brimstone poured down upon him till he dies in a way which Heaven proves as punishment of such an unnatural sin. Or, if it may be thought of as a more speedy way to suppress sodomy, let every man guilty of this sin have his genitals cut off, and burnt by the common hangman.

This said by the same sort of men who make women drink claret until they piss white wine.

Good God! How I am overcome with shame and confusion! When I appear before the tribunal and judgment seat of Heaven, all secrets exposed and revealed, and a just punishment inflicted by an enraged pinhead, without any regard to quality or dignity, I will laugh with all the assurance imaginable, plead my guilt, and hope that my confession causes sweat to drip down their temples.

Perhaps it is because of my past dealings, that I'm more inclined to demonstrate my belief that a partner's personality and body could merely be reduced to a cunt, and used for solely for personal pleasure. Neither female nor male is of any particular importance except insofar as she or he can generate said pleasure.

To think, someone who could have been no better than the common linkboy was game for some pretty diversion for others like me.

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London knew what I was, what I had done, and what I continue to do. It was the boy's own fault; he had it coming.

The boy I speak of, of course, is none other than Billy Downs himself, a mutual acquaintance of the Merry Gang that would later die of my company. He was young, far, far too young; a tall, svelte, broad-shouldered beauty with thick lips and rough, tousled hair as black as a panther's pelt.

How dare he smile at me from across a darkened room, smacking his pretty wet lips, only to saunter off into the study without so much as a word?

He had it coming.

That afternoon in my study, I found myself pouring the wine as I pressed my shoulder against his arm, leaning in on him. He looked up and instantly pulled away.

I expected that; a good fuck wouldn't let himself be known so easily.

I brought the glass to my nose and inhaled deeply.

I could tell that I left him with a heart beating so fast that if anyone so happened to be nearby, they might have heard it. So, he continued on, sipping his wine like the gentry that he was, hands trembling from my presence.

Until he gave in.

I am a fine Eau de Barbade, in flesh and blood, one that intoxicates spirits without vitiating taste, and so much superior to common draught in every particular way that one need not blush for being drunk by my presence. Those who've fucked me languish for their daily dose, which they have been so long used to, just as Charles did for his three daily flasks of claret.

The first time, he trembled at the thought of taking all of me, of giving all of himself. And I knew that was exactly what he was going to be doing.

For a moment, he lifted his head, and stared down at me with those wild green eyes, and I enjoyed the way his thick black hair fell around his savage face; the way his muscles flexed in his shoulders and arms; the perspiration that trailed down from his neck. I needed to taste it.

I lapped at it with my tongue, until his own lips traveled down to feather over my hard nipples, raking his teeth over one and then the other.

Another thing I gave him freely: my pleasure. In a way, Billy Downs didn't have to worry about how to please me, he poured the last few years of loneliness and dire need of satisfaction into every touch.

I sipped at my wine as he sucked greedily at my cock head; his hands stroking my shaft with silken heat. His mouth was like ecstatic fire licking over flesh.

I couldn't help but laugh a little as my cock throbbed in anticipation. "Such a fine gentleman you turned out to be." I caressed his cheek. "Oh yes, a fine one, indeed."

He didn't like that, I could tell. Nevertheless, he couldn't keep from sobbing from the pleasure; the feel of my cock penetrating him slowly. I was barely buried inside him when he flung his head back at the incredible pleasure racing through him.

Nothing mattered but the pleasure.

The boy's love for my vigorous and wanton cock was so powerful that our rendezvous followed each other with astonishing rapidity. We were frequently shut up together for hours at a time; it seemed impossible to calm the violence of our passions, for even in public, and in presence of the female domestics, he caressed me in the most lascivious manner. I didn't too much care for that.

In the long list which I could produce of my lovers, if I'd followed sequentially, I could prove that I was no sooner disgusted with women, then I had recourse to that of men. There was scarcely a man about court who admitted that he had adopted a taste for his own sex.

Billy knew this.

He had it coming.

Having retired to my private rooms one evening, and having found myself at liberty, I rang the bell, and Billy, who was in waiting, made his appearance. The moment he entered the room, I took him in my arms and kissed him with rapture.

He broke away with annoyance and began to pace fiercely around the room.

"You once told me I'd grown into quite a fine English gentleman," he spat. "I do a hundred different things a day and like none of them. I yawn in the faces of the women I talk to, eat and drink with men I have no friendship for, live in the drawing room, flatter awkwardly, rally worse, and in short, make none of my actions conducive to the pleasure or profit either of myself or anybody else. You are in part responsible for this."

I took into consideration what he had said, eyeing his poise scrupulously. "If you regretted less what you have lost, you should be less indifferent to what you possess." I found a sort of pleasure in scolding him. "Consequently, you would be better pleased with yourself, and of course, more industrious to please others."

But as things now stood, he looked upon me as his dwelling, feeling the inconveniences of these other animals as I did those of Italian inns, hated all their filth, and would no more make friends of the one, than I would my home of the other.

"I must bid you adieu. It's three o'clock and I am quite undressed." Downs smiled at that, so did I. "I expect the Lords any moment for dinner."

Downs stiffened as I walked by, catching me by the arm. "You are to your company, just what you are to your food: you can sit down to what I am sure you could never hunger after. You cannot swallow what does not please your taste and digest what one would imagine must have made anybody sick."

"Don't imagine I am modest enough to think myself such a sort of dish, for it is the least of my thoughts," I replied sharply.

"If I could, I would not only to have you always at my table, but would eat of no other."

I turned to him, swirling the wine in my glass as I pursed my lips.

Downs whispered through clenched teeth. "My dear, dear creature, I am yours."

I brushed my lips lightly upon his and took his mouth again, breaking away rather abruptly. "For now."