JACK OF DIAMONDS

iii

She ended up twisting her ankle and cried out in pain as she fell out of sight into the tall grass. They’d been playing a make-shift game of tag, and she’d turned in an effort to avoid him. That was when she fell. Artie ran over to her—panting—looking down at her for a moment before dropping to on one knee and reaching for her foot. She tried pulling it back, and he looked at her sternly.

"Do you want me to look at it, or shall I just leave you here until you sort out what you need to do?" he smiled.

She pushed herself up onto her elbows and met his stare evenly before finally relenting. He picked her foot up, holding it by the heel and squeezing her ankle gently, turning it slowly. She was still wearing her stockings, and the soft silk felt smooth in his hands. She winced in pain when he tried to rotate it, and he apologized. He felt another short spasm of pain rippling through her body when he rotated her foot in the other direction, but ignored it, moving his hand down along her instep and finally to her toes. He moved each toe, relieved to see that none were showing any signs of damage.

“I doubt if it’s serious,” he said, letting go of her foot.

“And you know this…how?” she asked, adjusting her coat and skirt. He watched her looking down the length of her leg, perhaps thinking about moving her foot, or at least putting some weight on it.

“You pick up all sorts of things over the years, if you pay attention,” he grinned, standing up and holding a hand out to her. She hesitated before reaching up to him.

“Such as?”

He smiled, pulling her toward him and letting her fall into his arms. “Such as? Such as the power of manipulation, or the benefits of a simple foot massage.”

“A foot massage?” she asked, testing her weight on the foot. She looked up at him suspiciously, obviously doubting him.

“There’s nothing better for a twisted ankle,” he said sincerely. “Have you never had one? Did you never twist your ankle when you were a young girl?”

“We were not permitted to run around in fields barefoot when I was a child,” she snapped.

“I'm glad to see you listened, because you’re not barefoot now, are you? Thanks to those stockings, I mean, but that’s beside the point. It pretty well explains how you twisted it in the first place, though, don’t you think?"

"What do you mean?"

“Silk stockings on the grass are like shoes on the ice. Look, I’ll help you back to the auto. Then you can sit in the back and I’ll drive you home if you want. You’ll have to explain how it happened, of course, as well as the fact that you have grass stains on your stockings. But we’d better get our story sorted out, because you know how your father-in-law detests scandal. Well, that's what Gerald claimed. Or, I can massage it for you—try to manipulate it, bring the swelling down—make you right as rain, as they say. It’s up to you.”

“Help me back to the auto,” she said, and for a moment he thought she was judging the distance and determining as to whether she could make the walk herself. Artie let her lean against him all the same as she tried to walk. He didn’t think it was as bad as it might have been—she really had been lucky—and he let her work out how much of his help she’d need. He slipped his arm around her waist all the same, his hand sliding up the thick material of her coat, where he could feel the swell of her breast. She looked at him and purposely moved his hand down to her waist.

“You can’t fault a guy for trying,” he smiled.

He let her lean against the automobile as he reached to open the rear door.

“Sit here.”

“The bench slides down,” she said matter-of-factly.

“No wonder the King likes this thing,” he laughed.

It took him a moment to figure it out, but eventually the seat slid down into a long bed. He helped Agatha sit down, and waited as she moved herself deeper into the carriage, all the while looking out the window—as if making certain no one would see her should they happen to chance by. Artie smiled as he sat down on the seat as much as he could, and picked her foot up; bending down, he took a closer look at it. There was little swelling he could see, and he imagined the pain would lessen the more she walked on it.

“Do you want me to bring you home?” he asked, looking up at her.

“Can you fix it?”

“Fix it?” he laughed. “I might be able to help keep the swelling down; nothing can fix a twisted ankle—and luckily it’s just a slight sprain—but all the same, you’ll have to keep it elevated and stay off your feet as much as you can.”

“What about the Ball?”

“Were you going to dance?”

“I had hoped to have at least one dance.”

“I’ll do what I can, but will not make you any promises. You need not do anything except lay back, close your eyes, and relax,” he said, readjusting himself so that her foot rested comfortably in his lap. He moved, closing the door and making himself more comfortable in the close confines of the Daimler's carriage, feeling her foot pressing up against his crotch.

“No need to let all the cold air in,” he smiled.

She looked up at him with a look of horror, and tried moving her foot; he could see the blood rushing to her face, and smiled at her, lifting her foot up and squeezing it with both hands.

“Your foot has to be elevated in order for the blood to properly flow. That’s when the blood slows, and the swelling goes down. The Chinese have been doing this sort of thing for years.”

“And how would you know that?”

“I told you, you learn all sorts of things if you pay attention.”

“Am I to assume you’ve been to China then?”

He smiled and shook his head.

“I learned it during the World War where a woman showed me the gentle art of massage.”

“A woman? Not the sort of woman a gentleman associates with, I take it?”

“I’ve never claimed to be a gentleman,” he smiled.

“Am I supposed to believe that a woman explained the benefits of having a foot massage to you?”

Again, he smiled. “I did not say she explained it; I said she showed it to me.”

He worked his hands along the sole of her foot, starting with a gentle rub that ran out in a slow circle. He manipulated her foot with both hands, moving himself closer and bending her leg; the hem of her skirt slid up her thigh and he could see the top of her stockings and the clips of her garter. He thought for a moment he could see a hint of her underwear. She could see him staring at her legs and made to reach for it, but he shook his head, telling her not to move.

“I supposed you’d like that,” she said, pulling her skirt down.

“When you work your hands into the bottom of the foot, you press your thumbs into the sole. You rub it at the same time. You press, you push, you rub; press, push rub. It’s really quite simple once you get a rhythm established. The longer you do it, the easier the patient feels. The swelling eases, the pain recedes, and a general sense of euphoria takes over.”

“Euphoria?”

“If you do it right.”

He readjusted himself again, and letting go of her foot, shook his hands to get the blood flowing. He smiled as he clenched and unclenched his fingers, all the while letting her foot rest against his crotch, letting her feel the outline of the erection growing in his pants. He picked up her foot and began massaging it again, harder this time, working along the base of her foot and running one hand over her heel, eventually sliding it up the back of her calf briefly, squeezing it, watching her eyes. She leaned up on her elbows and looked at him, then closed her eyes and lay back as his hands worked her ankle. He could sense her breathing pick up, and dropping her foot into his lap, slid both hands up her calf. He could feel her foot moving against his crotch, her toes bending as if they were searching on their own, his arousal increasing with her touch. He bent down, letting his hot breath wash over her foot as he slowly rubbed her calf in a gentle, circular motion. He leaned into her, letting her foot press up against his now erect cock while he stroked the length of her calf, up to her knee.

He could feel his cock under the pressure of her foot; she was still moving her foot against it. He slowly moved his hips so she might feel the full length of it, watching her. She opened her eyes and looked at him, and in that moment, he knew. He moved his hands up to her thighs, feeling the silky smoothness of her stockings, and catching her garter belt in his fingers, began pulling himself toward her. He slid himself up her body—a slow, sensuous crawl as his hands began sliding up her thighs, pushing her skirt out of the way. She gasped as he pressed his mouth against her mound, thinking he could feel her heart beating through the heat of her need.

He crushed his mouth onto her and let her passion rain over him as though it was a summer shower. She reached down, her hands wrapping around his head as she thrust her hips up to meet him. Suddenly she clenched her thighs around him, and with a determined move, forced him onto his back. She fought to remove her coat, and pulling up on her blouse slid it over her head without bothering with the buttons. Then reaching a frantic hand down, she pulled her underwear to the side—freeing herself—and began grinding herself against his mouth. She sat up, moaning, as he reached for her breasts, feeling the pucker of her nipples under the rough callouses of his hands. She leaned back, grabbing at his crotch, frantically massaging his erection through his pants. He began pulling at her clothes—her stockings, the clips of her garter belt, pulling at her underwear—while she fought to free him of his trousers. When she pulled him free, she moved down the length of his body and straddled him—pulling her underwear to the side once again. He could feel her hand guiding him, and the moment he was in, drove up to meet her rising passion. He smiled, imaging himself a thief in the night breaking into her room.