Messages travelled from her body to her brain. In her mind, those messages formed into words, and became realisation. I am swallowing him, they said, I am eating him whole. Like a preying panther, a haunting succubus, I am eating him, bit by delicious bit. The thought excited her and she moaned approvingly.
Nestling between her legs, the throb of her own craving intensified as his hands explored, divided and fingered her flesh. His breathing increased, his hips quickened tempo as they thrust against her, and his penis pulsated inside her. They clung together, fastened tightly as one; both breathing heavily; both thrusting hotly.
As he filled her with the seed of his climax she jerked against him, the wetness, the ripeness of her orgasm bursting like the juice of an over-soft peach.
Afterward’s she left him in his bed and went back to her own. She thought of what he had asked her to do and smiled. It would be good to see Phoebe so soon. It would also be good to make plans with her.
Because he was feeling better, and also because he could do with the fresh air, Carew had agreed to meet Prissy for a picnic. He’d looked for Oliver, hoping perhaps that he could see, if not talk to him before setting off. There had been no sign of the boy.
‘He hasn’t left has he?’ It was Gareth Rawlings to whom he directed the question.
The fact that his head groom and car mechanic had a smug look on his face when he answered was not lost on him. Although he had no real reason to be suspicious, he made a mental promise to keep an eye on him.
‘Gone to get his stuff from his aunt Phoebe.’ Gareth’s smugness became a smirk.
Carew frowned. The smirk had melted into a respectful smile by the time Carew had climbed into his two-seater.
‘Start her up, Rawlings.’
The broad-shouldered Gareth bent down at the front of the car and cranked the starting handle.
Carew eyed him dispassionately, but thoughtfully. Gareth was a good-looking young man. He had a hard body, a trim physique, and a handsome, though rough-moulded face. Yet he is a man, he thought to himself. I do not view him in the way I view Oliver. I do not react to him in the way I do that boy. What is it about Oliver? What is it about me?
He pulled his goggles down over his eyes and stared straight ahead as he pulled away. The breeze would blow his fears away. He liked driving the Bugatti. He didn’t normally use it on his excursions with Priscilla. For that, he preferred the Bentley and to have Imran chauffeuring him. Thinking of the three of them together lifted his spirits.
So much could be done in the back of the Bentley. He could strip Prissy off, show her nude to his driver, force her to bend her head to his trouser buttons, open them with her teeth, and pull out his penis with her lips.
At times, he had reversed the role and drove while Imran sat in the back with Prissy. While driving, he would watch all that went on via the rear-view mirror.
It was an interesting perception. He drove as he watched: was part of what they were doing having dictated their actions, yet was an outsider. Knowing he had thrown them together, made them perform like wooden puppets, gave him a certain elation.
Yes indeed. If Aunt Maude hadn’t gone off in the long black car and taken Imran with her, he would have had his Indian servant drive him over to Prissy’s. It would have been a foregone conclusion that on the way to a suitable picnic site, he would have had dictated the same scenarios he had dictated before.
Glutton was the word that came to his mind. He smiled.
‘No I’m not.’ It sounded almost convincing said out loud. The air was cold as he sped onwards. Autumn was coming on early and already the trees were adorned with colours of citrus and bronze rather than twenty shades of green. There was a crispness in the air but the sun was still warm and the road was clear ahead.
The Bentley was a sedan, totally enclosed with glass windows and a roof, a car suitable for all weathers. In the Bugatti, which was an open-top tourer, he always wore goggles, a leather cap, and a belted-up trenchcoat. It certainly wasn’t comfortable, but it was fun.
Through the goggles and the half-crescent windscreen, he narrowed his eyes and peered at the shadows of trees and hedgerows. He accelerated and felt the wind sting his face. The people he passed were mere blurs at the side of the road.
He hummed nervously as he drove. The boy Oliver was back, but his return brought insecurity as well as happiness.
Never mind. An hour with Prissy would put things right. As malleable and adoring as ever, Prissy would make him feel his old self again. She would bare her breasts for him, lay her belly naked before his eyes, and open her legs to reveal her pale, pink lips.
Oliver would be just a friend - a very close friend - but not a potential lover.
‘Prissy, Prissy, Prissy.’ Repeating her name affected him in the way of an incantation or a mumbled spell. Saying het name out loud made him concentrate on her and what he intended to do on the picnic. Already, he had orchestrated in his mind the scenario that would supplant the one in the car.
Behind him was the picnic hamper, stuffed with wine and a variety of choice food. There was cold meat, cheese, butter and crusty fresh bread. There was also a variety of fruit and a lavish bowl of cream tied up in a cloth.
He smiled at the thought of such simple, natural things, and of how they could be used to entice, tantalise and leave the flesh trembling with the dying murmurs of orgasm.
At his command, Prissy would sit there naked, the breeze teasing her nipples to the size of plump cherries. He, of course, would still be clothed and, like a harem slave, she would wait on him. They would eat the cheese, the meat and the bread off the plates provided and drink of the wine in copious mouthfuls from long-stemmed glasses.
Once a certain amount had been eaten or drunk, their mood would tense as their fingers touched. Her eyes would ignite with an intensity they did not normally own.
He would have her lay naked in the grass on her belly; study the curve of her spine, and the rise of her buttocks. Then he would tell her to roll over onto her back. More commands would follow. There were more contortions he would make her do, like kneeling with her hands clasped high behind her back so her breasts thrust forward, her legs slightly open so the breeze could ruffle her pubic hair and kiss the slash of pink flesh showing through. Then he would order her to get onto her hands and knees and ask her if she required dessert - fruit, perhaps?
She would say yes. Prissy always said yes to whatever he might ask her. With a knowing smile, he would insert a ripe, firm banana into her moistness.
She would moan, she would mew, but she would also tilt her buttocks and grip the fruit tightly with her muscles. Then, as he removed his fingers, she would thank him that the banana was still in her, gaze at him adoringly, and kiss his groin, his knees, and his feet.
Then he would tell her it was her turn.
He would lay back in the coolness of the grass and stare at the swallows wheeling and dipping for insects high in the sky. Golden-eared corn, poppies and cornflowers would nod within his line of vision. And all the time, Prissy would be undoing his clothes, kissing his nipples and running her hands over his body.
Once her hand had emboldened his stem and pulled it hard and upright from his trousers, he would tell her where he wanted the cream and strawberries applied; around his stem, on his stomach and his chest. Then, as she applied her own fingers to the fruit so firmly embedded in her body, he would get her to lick off every bright berry, every creamy dollop from his own. In time his body would be sticky with the residue of such a feast, and her mouth would be sticky with his own, warmer cream.
Just thinking about it made his rod stir from slumber and press against his trousers. This would be a good picnic, he thought to himself, very good indeed.
He smiled, hummed a little more confidently, and pressed the accelerator to the floor.
‘You are a s
illy fool, Carew Bentley Thompson,’ he said to himself. ‘You’re as much a man as you’ve always been.’ Then he swerved and braked as he passed a figure walking on the grass verge. His heart beat faster, his stomach muscles tightened, and his penis jerked in his pants. He let his foot up from the accelerator, pressed it down, then slowed and looked over his shoulder. The figure had gone. This time, he slammed the brake pedal to the floor. As the car squealed to a halt, a host of dust flew into the air. ‘Damn!’ His head hit the windscreen as he stalled. His recovery was quick. Half raising himself from his seat, he again looked behind him. Had there been someone? Had he seen who he thought he had seen?
Sweat gathered in beads on his brow. Perhaps I was imagining things, he thought to himself, or worse still, I might have knocked someone down.
It was no good. He just had to find out.
He grabbed the crank handle from beside the hamper and made an instant decision. The engine was still hot so it fired up easily.
The crank handle landed next to the picnic hamper as he climbed back in the driving seat. Twisting the steering wheel this way and that, he turned in the middle of the road, shunted back, shunted forward, then back and forwards again. The wheels squealed as he sped back to where he thought he had seen a familiar figure in familiar clothes, trudging at the side of the road.
When he assessed he had reached the correct spot, he stopped, eased himself up from the driving seat, and looked along the grass verge in both directions. There was no one. The breeze fumbled at the cluster of hawthorn and other low bushes beyond the grass verge and caught his attention. Nothing there either. He looked again, then looked away. With a sigh, he sank back into his seat.
There was no one and he should be feeling relieved. But he wasn’t. His mind was more confused than he cared to admit.
‘Damn!’ He hit the steering wheel with both gloved hands. ‘Damn you, boy. Damn you for not being a woman!’
Angrily, he thrust the long arm of the gear change into drive and, kicking up another cloud of dust, raced onwards. Determinedly, he forced himself to concentrate on what he would do to Prissy at the picnic and what she would do to him.
By the time he got to the vicarage, the sweat that beaded his brow had turned cold.
The vicarage itself was square, built of grey stone, and had long-faced windows with green frames. Like Prissy, it was functional more so than alluring.
‘Here I am,’ cried Prissy. ‘All ready for you.’ She had on a dress in her usual style - flowers, birds and pretty pastel colours. Unlike most of the women he knew, her hair was long and caught up in too formal a bun at the nape of her neck.
Carew looked her up and down, then gave her a hard stare. ‘No you’re not. Let’s go back inside shall we.’
Prissy took on her own special look that seemed to say she was a little put out but willing to compromise. As always, bending to Carew’s will, she went back into the hallway of the vicarage, then turned round to face him.
‘What do you want me to change, Roo darling?’
‘Don’t call me that, Prissy. I don’t like it.’
‘I’m sorry, R-Carew.’
He didn’t give her time to think. He had an urgency in him that needed attention. Not just an urgency to have sex, to reach a sexual climax that would send blood into his penis and semen into her womb. He wanted more than that. He wanted proof of his own masculinity, of his ongoing ability to master, to manipulate.
‘Take off your underwear.’ He saw her eyes open wide. Her mouth followed. ‘Well. Go on.’
She started to reach for the stairs.
‘No.’ Carew’s reaction was instant. ‘Here. Take your clothes off here.’
Prissy looked around her at the dark oak panelling, the neatly hung coats and the blue and white Chinese vases. For an instant, Carew was half expecting someone to be hiding there, leaping out from between the coats to lecture them on the sins of the flesh. Her father would be the most likely candidate, his surplice flying, a book in one hand, and a candle in the other.
It was pure imagination. Carew confined it to the back of his mind as he concentrated on what Prissy was doing. She was real, and what she was doing was real.
With quick, darting fingers that were as at home with a pair of knitting needles as they were with an erection, Prissy unbuttoned her dress. Like a hushed whisper, it fell to her ankles. Beneath the cotton dress, her slip was pale blue satin edged with cream lace. The slip followed the dress and her camisole and knickers were revealed - white rather than blue, and silk rather than satin. They were unadorned with lace; plain, but well cut.
Her arms, which were white and devoid of plumpness, hung at her sides as she awaited some favourable comment, or impulsive touch.
Carew gave none.
‘Those too.’ He leaned against the hall stand and crossed his arms as he watched her slip her thin straps off her shoulders and slide her camisole down to her waist. As her bosoms bounced into view, a smell of lavender came to his nostrils and his penis stirred. He guessed she had applied sweeping lines of perfume beneath her breasts and around her nipples in the hope that he would nuzzle her there - and take her breasts into his mouth. He might very well do that. But, of course, only if it pleased him to do so.
Another smell mingled with that of the lavender. It infiltrated slowly and brought Oliver again to his mind. He would not admit openly or to himself that it confused him, but his body acted independently of his mind, and his penis hardened against his belly.
Prissy’s eyes met his as she undid the buttons ‘at the waist of her knickers and slid them to her ankles. Her belly was white, but firm. So were her thighs and, due to an order whispered down the telephone only two or three hours previous, so were the lips of her sex. For once, he felt moved to grant her a compliment.
‘How innocent and naked you look.’
Prissy went pink and she giggled her thanks.
Hesitantly, her right hand reached for her garter which was pink with darker red bits that looked like hanging cherries. ‘Shall I...?’
She never finished her sentence.
‘Leave them,’ ordered Carew. ‘Now put your dress back on.’
Prissy stared, then giggled.
‘Oh, R-Carew. How jolly naughty.’
This escapade was something Carew was determined to enjoy. Not that it was any great deal to have Prissy walking without underwear with just her cotton dress covering her nakedness. Because it must obviously thrill her, it thrilled him too. But, he countered, such a scenario could be embellished to thrill even more. An idea came to him.
‘I need some cigars.’ He tapped lightly at his breast pocket, careful not to disturb the ones he always carried with him.
Innocent, gullible Prissy fell for it immediately. ‘Oh, you silly. Why didn’t you say? You could have had some of dear Daddy’s.’
He smiled, and patted her hand. ‘Thank you, but I prefer my own.’
The tobacconists was in the High Street. The baker’s van was parked fifty yards beyond the tobacconists, and the greengrocer’s cart was twenty yards beyond that and on the other side of the road.
Carew swerved and braked at a spot forty yards before the tobacconists.
‘Come on. We can walk the rest of the way.’
Prissy’s lashes flickered and her teeth bit nervously into her bottom lip before she said exactly what he was expecting her to say.
‘But what if the breeze should lift my dress?’ Her voice was hushed and slightly nervous.
‘Then what a view the butcher, the baker and the candlestickmaker will get.’ In an unfamiliar show of affection, he kissed her on her cheek. When she smiled, he knew he had done enough to mould her to his wishes. As always, Prissy would do everything he asked of her.
He could tell she appreciated him holding her hand as she walked with
him to the tobacconists. Her palm was moist and her fingers twined more tightly with his as the breeze lifted her skirt. It billowed outwards and only slightly upwards, not far enough to expose her naked thighs and hot divide, but enough to take h breath away and make her fear for her decency.
An excited shiver trickled down his spine as he imagined how her flesh was reacting to this exposure. In his mind, he attempted to list each area of flesh and: its likely reaction. Her senses, he guessed, would be tingling, her stomach tightening as the fresh air circulated over her hairless mons and her round buttocks. Consider her vagina, he said to himself, number one on his list. It would be seeping with honey dew, her nipples hardening as the material of her dress rubbed against them. She would be considering the fresh air, the breeze, even the dust rising from the pavement, and likening such things to how a lover would touch and take her.
He smiled and sighed, aware of a dull ache hanging before his thighs. Just imagining such things caused a heat and hardness to invade his own loins.
The doorbell jangled loudly as Carew gently pushed Prissy into the dark confines of the tobacconists where the heavy scent of best Virginia, South Carolina and Punjabi seeped into senses, clothes and skin.
Carew had a sardonic smile on his face as he asked for his usual. Prissy gave a sudden gasp and stared up at him open-mouthed.
‘Don’t worry, madam,’ said the tobacconist who was a small man with wire-rimmed spectacles and a receding hairline. ‘The quality of the product far outweighs its price, though I must admit, it is one of our more expensive lines.’
Prissy blushed, but made no comment.
Carew kept his amusement under control, but couldn’t resist using words that would mean one thing to the tobacconist and something completely different to Prissy.
‘Don’t be shocked, Prissy darling. The best results always come from giving that little bit extra. Open the purse a little wider and dig to the very bottom of it. The result is well worth the effort.’
Obsession Page 24
