Erotic Fiction by Louisa Burton

Herewith, some members of Sir Francis Dashwood's Hellfire Club, infamous in the 18th century for their orgies and black masses, who appear in House of Dark Delights. The excerpts from the book that accompany the portraits are explicit erotic fiction, and like the other content on this site, are intended for adults 18 and over. For a more extensive excerpt, click here.

Lowering her voice, she said, “Come with me, Sir Francis. I know a place where we can be alone.”

Dashwood leaned toward her to trail his fingertips down her throat and over the soft swell of her bosom. “You're assuming we must be alone for this...possession to occur.”

            “I do not perform for the amusement of an audience, monsieur.”

            “The presence of others can be most stimulating to the passions,” he said. “Have you never enjoyed the sport of Venus in a room full of people?”

            “Never with such people as these. The notion of all these Lotharios watching and fondling themselves...” She shook her head. “I can't imagine I would take pleasure in it.”

            “They needn't know what we're doing, if we're discreet about it.”

            She cast him a dubious look.

            Smiling, he scooted his chair back and patted his lap. “Come.”

“Take a good look at her,” Charlotte said.

Elle did. “She is very beautiful.”

“She is the Chevalier d'Eon,” Turek said.

“Chevalier?” Elle said. “She's a man?”

“No one knows for certain,” Turek said. “There are countless wagers riding on her true sex. One can speculate on the matter through the London Stock Exchange. I've done so myself.”

From behind her fan, Charlotte said, “She is an intimate friend of King Louis's mistress, Madame de Pompadour. They say she spies for the king. I know for a fact that she's a lethal hand with the sword. She has won a number of duels, sometimes dressed as a man, and sometimes as a woman.”

Charlotte said, “'Tis a testament to Sir Francis's personal magnetism that he has lured men of such rank and accomplishments to the Hellfire Club. The Prince of Wales himself is a member. He's the one who just finished rousting Lady Cavendish. He doesn't know it, but he's being cuckolded by that dashing fellow Lili just larked, the Earl of Bute.”

“Cuckolded?” Elle said. “My English...”

Lili said, “Prince Fitz's wife, Princess Augusta, is Lord Bute's mistress.”

Pointing discreetly with her fan, Charlotte said, “We've got the Duke of Queensbury, the Duke of Kingston... The fellow with the sketchbook is William Hogarth, the painter. Those two young bloods playing in-and-in with Emily are the Marquis of Granby and George Walpole, heir apparent to the Earldom of Orford. That gundiguts over there combing his wig is George Bubb Doddington—rich as Job, and a bosom friend of the prince. And, of course, the gentleman sitting with Sir Francis is John Montagu, Earl of Sandwich and First Lord of the Admiralty. A rake of the first order, of course, wagers hundreds of thousands of pounds at the gaming tables. Loves to have his arse whipped, can't raise the old quimstake any other way, but he's hardly alone in that.”

“Le vice anglais,” Lili said. “I was astounded the first time I saw them bring out all their whips and birches and canes.”

The whoremistress clapped her hands twice, a signal to the girls to execute awkward curtseys, glancing at one another as if to make sure they were doing it right. From the way they jostled each other, it was clear they were unused to the wide, hooped skirts in which they'd been outfitted for their presentation.

Scanning them with a critical expression, Sandwich said, “Intact, you say?”

“Pure and unsullied, one and all.”

“We shall see.” Lord Sandwich snapped his fingers at the girl closest to him, a buxom beauty with coppery hair, and signaled for her to approach. “Come, come,” he said, pushing his chair away from the table so that there was room for her to stand before him.

“Step lively, Nadine,” urged Mrs. Hayes as she prodded the girl.

He gestured her closer until she stood between his outstretched, cat-stick legs. “I shan't hurt you.”

“He'd rather she hurt him—eh, Sandwich?” some wag remarked.

“Lift your skirts, then,” Sandwich said.

Nadine greeted that command with a blink of bewilderment.

Mrs. Hayes said, “They only speak the parleyvoo, your lordship.”

“Soulevez votre robe.” Indicating the girl's skirts, Sandwich flicked his hand, cloaked to the fingertips in frilly lace cuffs.

Nadine looked around at the raptly attentive audience, cheeks blossoming with color.

“I'll have that one,” someone remarked. “I do so love it when they squirm and blush.”

The congregants, their hoods still low over their eyes, filed out of their bank of misericord chairs and approached the sanctuary in a single file procession. The first man, whom Elic recognized from his stature as Lord Bute, withdrew his cock as he ascended the altar steps. He bowed to Dashwood, who said, “Corpus Satanus,” as he touched the wafer to the tip of the semi-erect organ.

“Amen,” responded Bute, who came to stand opposite Elic at the altar table as the second man approached Dashwood. Lowering his hood, Bute bent to confer a ritual kiss upon Lili’s quim, gliding his tongue along the pink flesh in a way that made her sigh with pleasure.

“Sanguis Satanas,” said Elic as he ladled a bit of brandy from the chalice into the little hollow of Lili’s navel. Bute lapped it up with evident relish, straightened, and said, “Amen.” Raising his hood, he stepped aside for the next communicant.

“Good show, Your Highness,” praised a bacon-faced fellow in a too-tight, fancily embroidered coat who'd come over to watch the bawdy tableau while working himself off. “Give her a taste of the royal cutlass,” he grunted as he thrust into a lace handkerchief. “Stab it in and twist it! Split the wench! Spank her arse! That's it, good and hard. Aye, that's it...”

“I, er, shan’t be lingering,” Archer said. “Just dropped by to, you know, make certain you’ve got what you need, see that the hall has been readied per your instructions.” He surveyed the majestic hall with its lofty, oak-trussed ceiling, polished wainscoting, and tall windows, blinking as he took in the various playthings set up among the settees and fainting couches: a spanking horse, a whipping frame in the shape of a St. Andrew’s cross, a set of stocks, a pyramidal ladder fitted out with restraints, a rack of assorted shackles and ropes, and of course the rampant black swan that served more or less as the Hellfires’ mascot. He stared at Lili’s translucent attire for a fleeting moment, met her eyes, and quickly looked away.

Lili followed his gaze to an easel near a window open to the night sky, where Mr. Hogarth sat painting a canvas based upon one of his earlier sketches, his oils, brushes, and solvents arranged on a table beside him. Hanging on the wall nearby was the slate on which the Hellfires’ steward, Paul Whitehead, would keep score of the members’ amorous accomplishments during the festivities to come.

Dashwood turned to one of his companions at the table and said, “Whitehead, you scurvy old bastard. Why don't you haul that withered arse of yours off that chair and lead us in that new song of yours.”

The song in question turned out to be a stately English hymn called “Lo! He Comes,” its lyrics replaced with an outrageously bawdy tale of a man on a quest to cure his impotence through ever more inventive sexual escapades. Those who knew the words sang them with gusto, while those who didn't howled with laughter.