by Josie Litton
At the first thrust, she cried out. “Oh, god! Yes! So big, so hard, so good!”
Ravenous in her demands, she slammed back against him, her inner muscles squeezing his rigid length mercilessly. Not that Charles gave any sign of minding; quite the contrary.
“Oh, fuck, yeah! So damn good!”
His shout rose to the lofty dome above the central hall where it bounced about among the painted cherubim and seraphim, creating a series of echoes that to the untutored ear sounded as though a whole bevy of gentlemen were on the verge of coital eruption.
That it was only Charles made no difference for he was, in this regard, more than a match for any number of less gifted males.
With his big hands holding her fast, his head thrown back and his lean hips pistoning, he came hard. The sensation of being filled to overflowing with hot, thick cum sent Gemma right over the edge. Her screams of ecstasy woke the birds some distance away in the aviary and set them to fluttering irately.
When all the shouting, moaning and coming was finally over--and the birds had begun to settle down again--the ardent duo were left slumped together in a tangle of limbs, destroyed garments and mutual satisfaction.
After all that, they might have been expected to do no more than drag themselves the rest of the way up the curving staircase, stumble into the master bedroom and fall into deep, restoring sleep. They did manage the first two. But such were the lingering effects of the evening’s entertainment that, having paused just long enough to throw off what was left of their clothes, they fell on each other once again.
Before you could say,
There was a young fellow named Lancelot
Whom his neighbors all looked on askance a lot.
Whenever he'd pass
A presentable lass,
The front of his pants would advance a lot.
which just to note in passing was Charles’ favorite poem, Gemma was entirely nude save for the diamonds and a strappy pair of stilettos.
Whirled around, facing one of the columns to either side of the tall windows, she felt a delicious frisson of expectation when Charles said, “Hold on tight, sweetheart. Oh, and bend over a bit, if you would.”
As thoroughly lubricated as she was, the prod of his cock into her bottom was less disconcerting than it otherwise might have been. Only a few shocked gasps escaped her before he was fully seated up her ass. Gripping the silken fall of her hair in one hand, he began moving with deep, steady thrusts.
“Touch yourself,” he groaned. “Stroke your gorgeous clit.”
Her heart was pounding riotously and she seemed to have forgotten how to breathe but Gemma obeyed all the same. Her husband grunted in pleasure and turned so that together they faced a full-length mirror.
His breath caressing the curve of her cheek, he said, “Look at yourself. Look how incredibly hot you are getting fucked in the ass while you play with your sweet pussy pearl.”
Gemma was not about to do any such thing. While she was far too honest not to admit that her husband’s attentions had grown on her, she still retained the proper modesty of a well-brought up young woman. Watching herself engaged in such activity was out of the question. It was wicked of him even to suggest it. She would tell him that at the first possible opportunity, she just had to catch her breath first and--
Oh, sweet scandalous heaven! By purest chance, she had happened to glance toward the mirror. The sight she beheld sent a surge of molten heat through her, releasing a further shower of sweet, creamy juice to anoint her inner thighs.
The woman in the gilded reflection looked like one of the attendants of Aphrodite that she had seen depicted in a book kept hidden away in the depths of dear old Mary Magdalene. Serving in the goddess’ temple, there to be fucked endlessly by her worshippers, she was naked except for the adornment of their offerings and utterly without shame. Her eyes were dark pools of unbridled lust. Her swollen, pink mound glistened wetly. With every flick of her finger over her engorged clit, her cunt throbbed ever more urgently.
“That’s it,” Charles grunted. “You’re close, I can feel it. Come for me, baby.”
He could think that she did, if that pleased him. But the truth was that Gemma came for herself, gloriously, magnificently and finally enough.
For the moment.
Appendix
Up, Up and Away
Mindful that his friends would require a period of recovery from their inevitable excesses at the Polo Club, Charles had arranged a pleasant outing on the final day of the house party.
When Gemma heard the particulars of what he had planned, she could scarcely restrain her delight. Climbing into a wicker basket to ascend thousands of feet over the English countryside did not daunt her in the least. Even better, the baskets were too small to accommodate more than a single couple in each, the sole exception being provided for Beaufort and the Fernsby girls. All the other guests paired off with Bernie happily accompanied by his friend from the club.
They were floating somewhere over southwest England in the vicinity of Stonehenge when Charles said, “It’s quite nice up here, isn’t it?”
Brushing back the strands of hair being blown about in the wind, Gemma replied, “It is. This was such a lovely idea. However did you think of it?”
He shrugged modestly. “Just came to me. Thought it was something you’d enjoy.”
His gaze softened as he studied her. Without the slightest hint of what he was about to say, he declared, “You’re really quite remarkable. Did you know that?”
Truthfully, she had never thought of herself that way but she could see how he might have come to such a conclusion. Since escaping the clutches of dear old Mary Magdalene, life had presented her with a non-stop series of challenges. With no choice other than to embrace them or crumble, she had thrown herself into whatever came her way.
Overall, the results had proven pleasing which, of course, encouraged her to be even more daring. The giddy spiral of liberation seemed intent on taking her ever higher, making her present occupation especially suitable.
“I think it may be just that I’m glad to be where I am now as opposed to where I was.”
“You didn’t care for school?” Charles asked in surprise. “But you like to read. I thought people who liked to do that always did well at school.”
“That may depend on where one goes,” Gemma suggested tactfully.
She knew her husband had been at Eton, then done a stint at Cambridge. But she harbored no illusions as to what that meant. Breeding and family name went a great deal further than any tendency to pound the books which, at any rate, was considered boorish.
“Dear old Mary Magdalene has a rather…specialized curriculum,” she said.
He nodded. “People do say that there’s nothing like a Mary Magdalene girl. Only the very best graduate from there.”
“The best what?”
“Wives, of course, or…”
According to what Gemma had learned, about half the girls who completed their studies at MM married and generally very well. As for the rest, they became…
“Companions?” she suggested tactfully.
He looked relieved that she didn’t refer more directly to certain arrangements that Society was supposed to frown upon but never actually did.
“Yes, that’s a good word. After all, not every gentleman is able to marry according to his inclination. I was very fortunate in that regard.”
Aware that she risked being undone by this evidence of his affection, Gemma sought a distraction. “Would you like me to tell you a little about dear old Mary Magdalene?”
He perked up at once. “By all means. I love a good story.”
“Well, then, why don’t you pop that champagne you had the foresight to bring along and I’ll begin?”
School Days
Part One
As told by Gemma
(and interrupted by Charles)
I arrived on my first day at the Mary Magdalene School for Young Females not at all
sure what to expect.
Leaving my family home to venture into the wilds of Northumberland had been more than a little daunting. That my parents had chosen to spare my feelings, so they said, by not telling me where I was going until shortly before my departure only increased my unease. Added to that, all through the journey, I was aware of missing my younger sister, sweet little Cerise and my dear friend, Tillie Fenster most terribly.
No doubt, I would have protested the plans that tore me from them were it not for my father’s furious pronouncement that if I refused to attend one of the very few schools for females that he considered worth spending a quid on, Cerise would be sent in my place. As I was quite determined to spare her that fate, I went along without further protest.
I did find some consolation in the thought that I was not alone. All the new girls gathering in the vast stone reception hall of the manor situated on the bleak moors above Muggleswick looked as uncertain as myself, if not even more so. Several were crying piteously and a few could even be said to be wailing. Later, I realized those were the ones better informed about what lay ahead for us all.
The Headmistress, Dame Aurelia Ratwitz of the Most Honorable Order of Ste. Constance and Ste. Fidelia--was having none of that. With a sharp crack of her staff of office against the stone floor, she instructed us all to disrobe at once.
“You mean get undressed?” Charles interjected. “Right there in the main hall?”
He had never been very good at listening for extended times, that is much beyond a minute or two. The tendency of his mind to leap ahead--or in some direction--coupled with his natural congeniality predisposed him to conversation. His tutors at school had learned to accommodate that rather than deal with the tricky task of correcting a future marquess.
“Indeed,” Gemma replied. “There was no getting around it. As I was to learn, at Mary Magdalene the ‘dress’ code does not necessarily involve being dressed.”
“Oh.” His eyes glazed over slightly, absorbed by the image of naked young women dashing about the campus on their way to and from classes, pony tails swaying, books clutched to their ample bosoms...
Gemma took the opportunity for a sip of champagne before she continued.
I obeyed, as did the others, with the utmost reluctance. When we all stood, naked and shivering in the dank chill of the hall, the Headmistress instructed us to line up by twos and face the examiners.
These were half-a-dozen of the female faculty, formidable women not inclined to indulge the slightest disobedience. Nor were they idle at their job. We were all promptly weighed and measured before being ushered onto stainless steel tables where we were quite alarmingly poked and prodded.
All the while, various observations rang out and were duly noted down: Breasts too small, thighs need toning, maidenhead not intact. That last young woman was ushered out hastily only to appear in the dormitory several days later with her hymen restored, if not her actual innocence.
“What now?” Charles’ contemplation of the indignities inflicted on nubile female bodies gave way to surprise. “They can do that?”
“Apparently. She was quite lovely with excellent prospects so it wasn’t as though they would send her away.”
“Even so…seems a bit dishonest.”
“Only if you think that sort of thing should matter in the first place,” Gemma said and went on.
Students at dear old MM are held to the highest standards of personal grooming. As new arrivals, we were found sorely lacking. Several hours in the treatment rooms were sufficient to persuade me that the most successful interrogation techniques involve hot wax and hair removal. Later, of course, I would become accustomed to that and much more.
At last, we were permitted to don the school uniform--white angora sweater, blue-and-white plaid skirt, white panties and ankle socks, and brown penny loafers. The shortness of the skirt, regulation length ends at mid-thigh, offers scant protection from the chill breezes that habitually blow through the halls even in the height of summer. This proved to be a particular problem on panty-less days.
“On what?” Charles asked. “Sorry, I got stuck on the skirt.”
Patiently, Gemma explained. “Some days, we weren’t allowed to wear panties.”
“Why not? Not that it’s a bad idea, necessarily. Probably quite stimulating, good for the circulation, that sort of thing.”
“I think it was more about denying us control over even the smallest and most personal aspect of our lives and bodies.”
Charles thought for a moment. Slowly, he frowned. “Oh, I say…that doesn’t sound good.”
“It isn’t but it was far from the only problem involving the uniform. The soft, silky fibers of the sweater--always in direct contact with the skin as bras were forbidden--had the effect of keeping one’s nipples constantly stimulated.”
“No bras,” Charles murmured. “Constantly…” He threw back the remainder of his champagne and stared fixedly at Gemma’s bosom.
In deference to the cool air to be encountered at altitude, she was wearing a Ralph Lauren pleated leather skirt with a matching flight jacket and aviator white silk blouse. The jacket was open, revealing the hard pebbling that drew his avid gaze.
“I love your nipples,” her husband murmured, “sucking them, licking them…love how you moan and your back arches…”
He took a step closer, his intent clear. The basket swayed.
Gemma was undeniably tempted but wasn’t quite done telling her story. Holding up a hand, she asked, “Don’t you want to hear the rest?”
“What? Oh, yes, of course. Do carry on.”
He really did have excellent manners, she observed, when he cared to make use of them.
By the time we were all finally presentable, it was evening. I had foolishly skipped lunch earlier on the train and was dreadfully hungry, not to mention sorely in need of rest. But the day was not yet over. We were required to attend a lecture delivered by Headmistress Ratwitz.
Gathered in the great hall, we all tried to listen as the she strode back and forth across the stage, occasionally smacking her staff for emphasis while instructing us in the philosophy of the school. Most significantly, she stressed the fundamentals upon which Mary Magdalene has built its reputation.
To quote from the brochure which we were all required to memorize, “It is the founding principle of the School that the proper role of the female in society is to devote herself to the well-being and satisfaction of the male, and to defer to him in all matters, accepting his rule with gratitude and humility.”
Sadly, this was not a subject in which I had any great interest. My inclination lay more in the fields of political science and history. That was to get me into some difficulty in the years that followed.
At long last, we were permitted to retire for the night. The dormitories at dear old Mary Magdalene offer few comforts. Deliberately so as the school manual stipulates that students are not to be spoiled by such extravagances as proper mattresses, sufficient blankets and so on. But after all that I had endured--and the prospect of more to come--I could have slept on rocks. Indeed, by morning, I felt as though I had done so.
Charles frowned. “I’m beginning to see why you didn’t care for the place.”
Pleased by his dawning perception, she nonetheless made light of it. Sympathy was not what she was after. Rather she wanted the slow build-up of outrage that might, with a bit of clever handling, be turned into action.
Accordingly, she said, “I imagine Eton has its own rituals.”
“Yes, of course, paddling, bug eating, the usual. But all that naked, hungry business is surely overdoing.”
“Don’t forget the waxing.”
His gaze darted to the cleft of her legs concealed by the snug leather skirt. “Have to admit, I’m rather fond of you like that.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“All smooth and bare, so sensitive…”
Some instinct for self-preservation stirred inside him. Distracted though he was, he
eyed her cautiously.
“Do you believe all that about men being the superior sex?” her husband asked.
“You have your uses,” Gemma replied. Cupping his balls through his trousers, she gave them a firm squeeze.
Marital relations while dangling in a basket beneath a hot air balloon had its challenges. It helped, of course, that her husband was so strong. He held her easily, both feet off the floor, legs spread wide with her knees draped over his sinewy forearms as she bounced vigorously up and down on his cock.
