by Juliana Ross
“What was that?” I asked, worried that I had wet myself.
“It’s good, I promise. Nothing to worry about. Your natural response, no more.”
He held me close, soothing me with soft kisses to my face, then reached across to the bedside table. When he rolled back, the little tin was in his hand.
“What is that?”
“A prophylactic. So you won’t fall pregnant.”
“I’m likely barren. I’ve never once conceived.”
“Best to be careful,” he said, turning away from me. I could hear him fussing with the object in the tin, but couldn’t see what he was doing.
“I ought to have put this on earlier,” he said, facing me again. A thin, almost transparent sheath covered his cock.
“What does it do? Does it collect your seed when you ejaculate?”
“Precisely.”
“I ought to mention it in the guide.”
“No more guide, not tonight. If you say anything more, I want it to be about the way you feel. For instance, does this feel good?” He nipped at my ear, the sensitive tendon that ran down the side of my neck, the valleys and high ground of my collarbone and bosom. “I could lose myself in these,” he muttered. “I’ve never seen such gorgeous tits in all my life.”
“I’m very glad you like them.”
“Like them? I adore them. If only you knew what I wanted to do to them. With them.”
“Tell me,” I urged.
“I want to fuck them. Rub my cock between them until I come. Sorry—that’s likely the filthiest thing you’ve ever heard.”
“I like it,” I said, astonished by how arousing I found such naughty words. “More.”
“I want to pillow my head on them and sleep for hours. Most of all I want to put you on your knees and fuck you from behind while I hold your tits in my hands. Feel them bounce with every stroke.”
Oh, God—the thought of it was so exciting, I thought I might expire. Why had he made no move to enter me? When would he enter me?
“I can’t wait. Please—”
I hadn’t even finished before he was pushing me onto my back, moving atop me so his knees were between mine. His weight resting on one hand, he guided his cock to my entrance and pushed firmly, gently, willing me to accept him.
“Lift your legs. Wrap them about my hips.”
I obliged and he slid in deeper, so full and hard inside me that I wasn’t sure I could bear it. His hips moved back, surged forward again, and he was inside, completely seated within me, and it was wonderful.
After all those months of solitude, all those nights alone in my bed, this was the chiefest pleasure I could imagine. This utter closeness to another living being. I wrapped my arms around him, tears springing to my eyes, grateful beyond anything.
He pulled away, just enough so he might look upon my face, and seeing his tender expression, I was seized by another rush of emotion. I wanted to curl up, hide away, savor every sensation, but I couldn’t so much as shut my eyes. His gaze burned so brightly, ablaze with excitement, and I knew without asking that his delight was my doing.
He reached between us, his thumb finding my clitoris unerringly, and he rubbed hard, coaxing a response that ought to have been impossible after the climax I’d already experienced. Never in my life had I experienced two orgasms so close together.
“Harder,” I whispered, and he obliged by thrusting faster, rubbing me harder, urging me forward mercilessly. With no warning I convulsed around him, my crisis so intense I had to bite back a scream. Instead I kissed him, fiercely, only pulling away so I might see his face when he came.
I knew the instant it happened—a moment of wonder, a hitch in his breath, then his eyes went glassy from the shock of it, unfocused and unseeing, as if ecstasy had drugged him senseless. He kept thrusting into me, softly now, his mouth at my temple, his lips whispering a single word of praise over and over.
“Beautiful.”
Chapter Ten
I woke at dawn, so early that the tendrils of light creeping around the drawn curtains were yet pale and tentative, a match for my state of mind. I, too, felt uncertain, as strange and new as a butterfly fresh from its chrysalis. I had no regrets about what I had done, but I wasn’t fully at ease with it, either. To share such intimate moments with a man I didn’t love, a man I had resolved never to love, unnerved me. Had I just made the best decision of my life? Or the worst?
I turned my head to look on the man with whom I had made love just hours before. He was still fast asleep, his back to me, his head burrowed into the pillow. Inching closer, I pressed my body against his, fitting my breaths to the slower rhythm of his exhalations.
A rush of tenderness swept over me. I didn’t love him, but already I was tremendously fond of him, this dear, funny, attentive man who was now my lover. The pale skin of his shoulders was dotted with freckles, hundreds of them, and without thinking twice I began to kiss them, once per freckle. I had adorned no more than a dozen when, without warning, he rolled to face me.
“Good morning,” he whispered, setting a tiny kiss on the end of my nose.
“Good morning. Did I wake you?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. Normally I wake to find Grendel staring at me, whining to be taken on his morning walk. This is much better.”
With that he grasped my bottom and, squeezing, pulled me so close that nearly the entire length of my naked body was pressed against his. His cock was already hard, I hoped because of me, though I did recall that men often awoke in such a state.
“Why do men wake up like that?”
“Because it’s the perfect way to begin the day. Don’t you agree?”
“But what if you are alone? Does it just, ah, go away?”
“Sometimes. Or sometimes I do this.” He drew back, just far enough that I might peer down between us. Then he grasped his cock in his hand and began to manipulate it with long, firm strokes, up and down, his eyes fixed pointedly on my breasts.
“Ohh,” I gasped, embarrassed by what I saw but also, I had to admit, wonderfully titillated.
“You made no mention of this in your outline. The art of self-pleasure, I mean,” he said, still rubbing at his cock.
“But the guide is for women,” I protested.
“And you think women don’t do this? Touch themselves and find release?”
“I suppose we do. Though I don’t...not really. Only once in a while. Not often at all.”
“Do you rub at your clit? Push the fingers of your other hand inside?”
“I would rather not—”
“I agree that it doesn’t compare to the complete act, as it were. But it can be memorable. Depends, of course, on what you’re thinking about. What do you think of when you masturbate?”
“I don’t know...to be honest, I don’t think of much at all, beyond the way it feels.”
“That’s the problem. The next time you masturbate—”
“Please, Tom, if you could refrain from using that word—”
“Touch yourself, then. The next time you do it, think about what we did last night. And think of what we’re about to do.”
“Aren’t we going to have breakfast, now that we are both awake? Or are you going to keep touching yourself until you, ah...?”
“Masturbation is well and good, but a beautiful, naked, passionate woman is lying in my bed, and she doesn’t have to catch her train for hours yet. So I’ve decided to fuck her senseless. That is what you are going to think about when you reach between your legs tonight.”
* * *
We parted late that morning, exchanging our goodbyes discreetly while still in the privacy of our rooms. Tom saw me settled in a hansom cab for the journey to Paddington Station, pay
ing the driver in advance, then set out for his offices on foot. We would see one another in a month’s time, or sooner if I finished my Chapter any earlier.
I had always found the train journey home from London rather tiresome, for the line from Paddington to Didcot always seemed to stop at every hamlet, byway and crossroads en route, and today was no exception. I sat alone in my little first-class compartment, unable to read the book I had brought with me, uninterested in looking at the scenery that washed past my window.
I simply could not relax, for the ceaseless thrum of the train’s wheels and engine, which had often lulled me to sleep on past journeys, was acting as the most powerful stimulant imaginable. No matter how I sat, no matter how I well I cushioned my bottom, the unending vibrations seized on me and set me thinking of how I would pleasure myself when night fell.
Even worse, when I alighted at Didcot and went in search of Farmer Granby, who had promised to bring his donkey cart to collect me, I discovered that the open seam at the junction of my drawers had somehow twisted and become caught between my legs. No matter how I twitched at my skirts I was unable to dislodge it, and before I could visit the ladies’ restroom, I was hailed by my neighbor. The entire four-and-a-half-mile journey passed in a blur of unrequited, agonizing need, my clitoris rubbed nearly raw by the lurching of the wretched cart.
I bid Farmer Granby goodbye in the most perfunctory manner and, once inside my cottage, the door latched behind me, I reached under my skirts and tore at the offending garment, desperate to be rid of its irksome touch.
I stood, one hand buried between my legs, the other clutching at my kitchen table, and I resisted the nearly unbearable urge to give in. It would be better if I waited until nightfall. Far better, I told myself, for I would be at my leisure to think of Tom and how he had made me feel, and would not be bent on gratifying myself quickly, mindlessly. I removed my hand and straightened my skirts.
All that afternoon and evening I busied myself with chores and gardening and correspondence, even finishing off the entirety of my mending, one of my least favorite tasks. The hours crawled by with implacable slowness, the clock on my mantel deaf to my unspoken entreaties. Would it never be eight o’clock?
At half past seven I admitted defeat and ascended to my bedchamber. I cleaned my teeth, brushed out my hair and put on my nightgown. I doused the lamp and climbed into bed. I pulled my nightgown up past my waist. And I let myself remember.
“What do you want now?” he had asked me only that morning. “Shall I play with your tits? Or do you want my hand between your legs?”
“Both,” I answered, and he obliged, sucking and licking and nipping at my breasts until my nipples were hot and engorged and nearly crimson in color. My clitoris was treated every bit as attentively, though he didn’t allow me to climax from the touch of his hand alone.
He did let me squeeze and pull at it his cock, and then, when he was ready, he had me open the little tin, unwrap a fresh prophylactic and roll it slowly, carefully, down to the base of his straining member.
I moved to recline on the bed, thinking that he would wish to kneel between my widespread legs as he had done before, but he caught at my shoulder and held me still.
“Not this time. This morning I want you to ride me.”
“As one might ride a horse?”
“More or less. Sit astride me now, your weight on your knees. Yes. Now rise up.”
As I lifted myself, he reached between us and lifted his cock away from his belly, straightening it so the tip just grazed my entrance. Satisfied that it was well aimed, he set his hands on my hips and pushed me down until I was full to bursting of him, my bottom nestled atop his stones, the curls of my pussy tangled with the hair that surrounded his privates. He had impaled me, firmly and certainly, and the effect was both overpowering and delightful.
“Good girl,” he muttered. “Now I want you to ride me.”
“I’ve never ridden a horse, Tom. I don’t know how.”
“This is easier. Raise yourself up, just a little, then drop back down again. Then do it again and again. That’s it.”
It really was just that straightforward. I eased myself up and down, his cock holding me wonderfully steady, and soon I found that I could rise almost to my knees without losing him. I loved the upward sweep, as I pulled away, but even better was the moment when I sat back down and hungrily claimed his cock again.
At first he was content to watch, his hands at my waist only to guide me. He seemed entranced by my breasts, which I set to bouncing with every downward thrust, but which were partially covered by my unbound hair. This he remedied quickly, gathering the locks together and sweeping them down my back, but having set his hands in motion he was no longer content to watch.
I faltered in my rhythm when he took hold of my breasts, for he held them just loosely enough that my nipples might rub against his palms as I rose and fell. The sight of my breasts in his hands was quite as exciting as the actual sensations he provoked, and before long I was so overcome that I felt near to fainting.
“Touch your breasts for me,” he ordered, abruptly removing his hands.
“But you—”
“Do it. And open your mouth.”
I did so, intending to question him again, but my words were muted by the insertion of his right thumb.
“Suck it,” he said.
Again I complied, though it surprised me that he would find such a thing enjoyable. But it was only the means to an end, for shortly thereafter he removed his thumb and set it, suitably wet, directly on my clitoris, which was already so swollen that it sat proud of the little hood under which it normally hid.
“Don’t stop fucking me, Caroline. Not even when you come,” he warned.
It was perhaps the hardest thing I’d ever done, for he rubbed me to climax in seconds, and when it burst upon me, my first instinct was to fall forward and clutch him tight in my arms. But to do so would surely interfere in Tom’s pleasure, so I’d hardened my spine, held my breath, and ridden him until he was caught up in the same net that had captured me, his entire body racked by wave after wave of ecstasy.
Hours later, alone in bed, I thought of how I had ridden Tom that morning, how he had groaned and grunted and cried out beneath me. How he had been by turns so tender and then so domineering.
I thought of him as I let my forefinger tickle at my clitoris, circling around it lightly, just as he had done, then deepening the pressure until my eyes rolled back in my head and my fingers hurt and my arm was seized with cramps. And still I did not relent, not until the abyss opened before me and I fell, gasping out his name, wishing against hope that I might open my eyes and find him next to me.
More than anything, in the instant, I wanted Tom. With me, his hands upon me, his wicked, bright eyes glittering with the sure and certain knowledge that he had taught me well.
Chapter Eleven
It was intolerable that I should wait an entire calendar month before seeing Tom again. I threw myself into my work, body and soul, neglecting all but the most necessary chores in my haste to complete another chapter.
Mrs. Jones, who came every other day to do my heavy cleaning and laundry, was horrified by my fervor. “You’ll work yourself into an early grave, Mrs. Boothroyd, that you will,” she warned. “It’s unnatural to be so many hours at your desk. Leave off, now, and eat some dinner.”
I submitted to her motherly attentions rather ungraciously, though I had to admit she was right in one respect. If I worked myself into an illness, I should be delayed longer—and even another day would feel like a calamity. So I ate the soup she made and took an extra mug of beef tea upstairs to my desk and promised her I would put down my pen no later than six o’clock each night.
It was also the case that the Chapter on which I labored was my favorite yet, or perhaps its subject was simply the mos
t arousing. It concerned some of the many positions that a couple might adopt when engaged in lovemaking. While John and I had not been particularly adventurous when it came to such things, I had particularly fond memories of those occasions when we experimented with less typical positions, and I hoped that I could persuade other women, and through them their husbands, to do the same.
Tom and I had already investigated one such alternative, when I had ridden atop him, and after spending a number of pages describing it, I moved to my particular favorite, which was when a woman knelt or lay prone, and the man penetrated her from behind.
The merits of such a position are manifold. It furnishes your husband with a fine degree of control, allowing him to tailor the intensity of his movements to your mutual desires. It gives him the freedom of his hands, which he may then use to caress you further, or to steady you if his movements become especially vigorous. If your husband is a large or heavy man, it frees you from any apprehension of being crushed or overpowered by his superior size. Last, and perhaps most notably, it offers the thrill of the illicit, for it strays from the commonplace just far enough to feel forbidden—perhaps even naughty.
I had no direct experience of other variants, though my imagination recommended any number of possibilities. I had heard that the act might be achieved while standing, for example, but as I was ignorant of the precise mechanics I left off describing it for the time being.
I completed my pages in only ten days, a record for me, and heard back from Tom by return post.
30 October 1870
My dear Caroline,
Pages received. Once again your work is splendid. Let us meet at Brown’s Hotel, same suite of rooms as before, at five o’clock this coming Friday. Tell the clerk at the front desk that you are Mrs. Ross and he will furnish you with the key. If you think to be delayed or cannot make yourself free for the journey to London, please advise by telegram.
T.C.R.
