One Wicked Night

by Noelle Mack

  Then I stood up and let her turn around. Her lips were slightly parted and I freed my cock with haste, thrusting it in­side her willing mouth, telling her to suck and suck hard. Play­fully obedient, she did, sliding her tongue over the sensitive front of my rod and holding the bottom two inches clasped in her fingers, pumping assiduously. I was at the point of climax when I pulled out, surprising her. She opened her eyes and gave me a dreamy look.

  "On your knees, my girl.”

  Again she obeyed, scrambling off the chair to the thick car­pet on the floor. Her black hair tumbled over her shoulders and breasts as she settled down but only partway, so that her mouth was level with my cock and balls. She looked up expectantly, not sure of what I wanted, but trusting me all the same.

  "Open your mouth again.”

  She did and I came a little closer, holding my cock fully in my grasp to keep it away from her eager tongue. It was my balls that needed a good licking. She began at once, instinc­tively knowing what I wanted, doing the honors with her silky tongue, giving me a warmly sensual bath. The sensation, once I forced my cock to wait, was most pleasurable. I wanted it to go on for a while longer. As she had spread her body for me, I wanted to spread for her. But over her. Above her. Dominant and fully male, with my hugely swollen cock brushing her face, until my balls filled her mouth and the sensual bath from her expert tongue began again.

  "Get on the bed, Xavi.”

  She wiped her wet lips with the back of her hand and grinned at me. Certainly ball worship was more easily done when the one who licked could lie beneath the recipient of the licking. Bare and beautiful, she clambered onto the bed and lay on her back, reaching out her arms to me as I joined her. We shared an embrace and kissed lightly, then turned head to foot. On all fours, I parted my thighs and let her wriggle up until her head was between them. I no longer held onto my cock. It ex­cited me deeply to know that she could see nothing at the mo­ment besides my cock and balls over her face, about to descend, and that she wanted to give me as much oral satisfaction as I craved. With a deft fingertip, she took a clear drop of hot fluid from the head of my cock, popping it into her mouth and tast­ing me with a satisfied sigh.

  My dear Xavi reached up to play with my balls as my shoul­ders dropped down and I rested my head upon her thigh, aroused by the fragrance of her still-excited pussy and wanting to look at it as she licked me. I eased down and felt her take the heavy sac fully into her mouth. It felt deeply satisfying to be tongued so well, and once I was wet, she applied her sensual in­genuity to increase my pleasure, tightening her lips around one ball and letting the other slip out, then reversing it.

  Lost in the feeling, I suddenly lost the sense of being domi­nant, even though I was still on top. And I lost the sense of being male, realizing to my unspoken surprise, that my mind was capable of encompassing both sexes. I allowed myself to imagine—I was not so overcome as to say so out loud and cer­tainly I was not in a position that encouraged conversation— that this was what it was like to be a woman with a woman. No penetration. No rough handling. Nothing but a soft, wet mouth upon one's private parts, making the sort of love that left not the slightest trace of the delight it provided, one lover truly drinking in the other with the utmost tenderness. Had I been born with a cunny I would have wanted this more than anything.

  Murmuring incoherently against Xavi's thigh, I let the fan­tasy of Sapphic sex take hold of my imagination. As if she could read my mind, she brought her hands up to my arse, kneading my buttocks in much the way I liked to do hers at times. She continued to tongue-tease my balls. The muscularity of my body did not allow for the voluptuous pleasure I always took in the softness of her flesh, but what ran through my mind as she stroked and caressed me more than made up for it.

  Fully male as my body was, my thoughts at that moment were indeed those of a woman. I wanted only to yield for a lit­tle while, to be passive, to lie upon the bed and receive whatever my lover would give.

  As it happened, my balls were out of her mouth—she was fondling them gently now, playing with me somewhat absently. I lifted up and turned around to stretch out beside her for a few minutes, cupping her breasts, arousing her again, whispering that I wanted her to keep her cunny on my face while she sucked and stroked me to orgasm.

  Xavi only nodded.

  I lay back and watched her swing her fine big arse around so I could see her cunny snugged between her thighs. Well, I was a man, after all, and a strong one, able to lift her and position her over my face even when I was lying down. And I did.

  With her sex only inches away from my lips, the female scent of her intoxicating me, my unusual fantasy took hold of my mind once more. As she took my cock into her mouth, fellating me with uncommon skill, I imagined it as a clitoris, tiny but exquisitely sensitive. A woman making love to a woman would never choke on such a dainty morsel. That thought made my poor cock grow longer and stiffer, but Xavi moved back just enough to keep control.

  Indeed, she was completely in control. Without telling her I had completely surrendered. Perhaps she chalked it up to a sen­sual languor on my part, perhaps she enjoyed the change from my usual vigorous performance. Xavi's hands reached around and underneath my body and clasped my buttocks, squeezing rhythmically. A soul-deep sigh escaped me.

  Lying on my back instead of on my hands and knees over her prone body, my buttocks were no longer tensed and hard. Blissfully, I allowed her to manipulate my arse, her hands be­tween me and the bed, rolling just a little as she did so, taking with silent joy the subtle pleasure I had given her so often.

  She continued to suck my cock and I knew I was very near climax. As tenderly as she, I spread my hands over the feminine arse so near my face, pulling her hips to me, pushing my face between her soft buttocks.

  Xavi shifted position so that my tongue could explore her delicious cunny and tease her clitoris as well. No two female friends were ever so amorous as we were that day, and no ladies ever enjoyed their secret pleasure as we did. If she guessed what I was thinking as I came in her mouth and she in mine, my dar­ling did not say. But I had not dreamed such dreams until Xaviera Innocencia became my lover, and I have not since. She awakened my deepest sexuality and I am grateful to her for that. So much of what we did ended up in the little book—it is an unbearably poignant reminder of our time together. It shall be the very last thing I throw into the purifying flames.

  Did I mention that she was a storyteller in her own right? Yes... yes, looking back over these hastily scribbled pages, I see that I did. Drinking brandy in the hours after midnight is unwise. I find that the pen grows heavy in my hand. I would rather read... and let memory speak for me...

  Two

  My sexual awakening...

  Since I swore never to reveal hers, I will assign a name to the lady who taught me of love: Anne Leonard. She was the older sister of a boyhood friend of mine, whom I will call Thomas, who was away at the time.

  A third son with no prospects, he had been sent suddenly to the West Indies at the age of twenty, which was my age at that time. All the other expendable Leonard males had perished there of yellow fever, leaving the family's interests and property in rack and ruin. Thomas had been instructed to rebuild and reinvest, or marry an heiress with a plantation. Neither seemed likely. As a preventative against disease, or so his letters said, he downed a half-pint of rum daily and stayed away from the whores, dallying instead with a French planter's rich young widow.

  His family had asked me to come for my every-other-year visit all the same. I missed my friend but not overmuch. To my utter astonishment, I was soon invited by Anne to keep her company as she went about her ladylike pursuits. No one thought anything of it. I had been a friend of her brother's for so long.

  Unchaperoned, we were free to wander, and while away the long days of a Devonshire summer together. I was happy to carry her hat and her sketchbook and watercolors to whatever far field she wished to paint. But being alone so often changed the nature of our relationship
. I had loved her long, but in the way of a shy boy, yearning and hoping, that sort of thing.

  In our weeks together during that pleasant sojourn in the country, I came to know her much better. Her wit, her intelli­gence, her sunny temperament and golden beauty captivated me anew. I was besotted. But inexperienced as I was at twenty, I did not dream she could think of me as a lover.

  Yet it began to dawn upon me that Anne looked often in my direction when she thought I did not see. True, I had grown taller since she had last seen me at the age of eighteen, a trans­formation she seemed to appreciate, although she did not com­ment upon it. But her gaze lingered upon my face, and a smile, upon her lips, as if having to look up at me now amused her a great deal.

  She had scarcely seemed to notice me in the years before, dismissing her brother and me with an affectionate comment and a flick of her skirts should she encounter us in the halls of the manor house where the family spent the halcyon months of summer. Of course, she had much to do and took great pleasure in managing the household, her parents being long dead, when not pursuing her creative interests. Anne was capable as well as charming, and the staff instantly obeyed her every command.

  Being politely ignored is an excellent stimulus to love, espe­cially for an imaginative boy who was prone to silent but whole-hearted admiration of the female sex (I blame my mother, who was lovely and kind, and died far too young). Anne was the first woman who aroused me, before I knew what the word meant. How would I have known? I was years younger.

  By the time I turned eighteen, matters were not much better. I remained essentially innocent and yet... not. I was extremely aware, as a male of that age will be, of all the women around me. In my fumbling, foolish way, I still adored Anne, not openly—I never mentioned it to Thomas. Her brother would have thrashed me thoroughly had I confided my fondness for the older sister he pretended to dislike.

  No, two years before he sailed away to the palm-fringed shores of Jamaica and the welcoming arms of the French widow. He and I satisfied our sexual curiosity by following the prettier female servants about and playing pranks, until the but­ler intervened and threatened to tell Lord So-and-so, Thomas's guardian. We had no wish to attract the notice of his lordship, a strapping man with a volatile temper. At the manor and in Lon­don, miscreants got what he thought they deserved: a good birch­ing.

  Thomas and I avoided him by staying out-of-doors, prefer­ring the meadows where we could ride and the brooks where we swam naked, throwing our clothes upon the bushes. And then we found a better hunting ground for female flesh: the lawns where the household linens were spread upon the grass to dry and whiten in the sun. We climbed the trees at the edge, the laundrymaids quite unaware of our hidden presence. It was the work of a moment for us to select a leafy branch that would bear our weight and straddle it to spy upon them.

  They often stripped down to their shifts as they toiled, happy enough to work in the fresh air and get away from the house—most had grown up on the surrounding farms—where they could gossip freely. They laughed like hoydens when they discussed the male visitors to the manor, comparing the size and might of individual cocks. Their strong, shapely bodies meant they were considered fair game by men down from London. If one were to believe all that they said, it was understood that they had their pick of the pricks and took their pleasure ac­cordingly.

  One broiling day the laundrymaids wore less than usual and so did we, having left our shirts down by the brook, and our socks and shoes as well. At eighteen we were no longer boys and more than old enough to be uncomfortably stirred by the least glimpse of feminine skin. We rode upon our individual branches and swung our bare feet as we struggled to see. De­spite the heat of the day, the laundrymaids had brought out a demijohn of ale and were livelier than ever, and their chatter was spirited. Thomas, on a lower branch, had a better vantage point than I. "Look at her, " he whispered.

  The laundrymaid in question had high, full breasts and pert nipples that showed pink under her chemise, damp and clinging with the moisture of the linens she had carried out to lay upon the grass. I think her name was Lucy—well, the name will do for my purposes if it was not. She wore a tattered petticoat that revealed her bare arse now and again as she bent over. Thomas craned his neck trying to see more.

  Feeling playful—and, I supposed, emboldened by the ale—a new laundrymaid grabbed the hem and lifted the petticoat to Lucy's waist, displaying her gloriously naked behind, which was as round and firm as the rest of her. Lucy only laughed. "Kiss it then," she said to the other girl.

  My boyhood friend gasped and nearly fell off his branch as the other maid dropped to her knees and pressed lusty kisses on both of Lucy's bare buttocks and added a few stinging slaps for good measure.

  The other three or four who were watching screamed with merriment. It was all in play, but extremely stimulating for two untried youths. Still, we could not let go of the branches we clung to in order to soothe the unbearable ache of lust. The two women, giddy from the heat and the ale and who knew what else, wrestled each other down to the grass and rolled about in mock battle. They were laughing, but gripping each other's arse cheeks hard as they pretended to fuck, forcing thighs between thighs and pressing excited pussies together, leaving wet stains upon shift and tattered petticoat alike.

  Then I caught a glimpse of an approaching figure at some distance, a young woman in a hat and full-skirted gown and re­alized it was Anne. She was too far away to see what was hap­pening, but her steps were brisk and there was not much time.

  "Make them stop!" I whispered to Thomas. "Your sister is coming!"

  He looked frantically to where I pointed and swore under his breath, then dropped from the tree, advancing upon the laundrymaids. As he was clad only in breeches, a manly fire in his eyes, they stopped what they were doing at once. The two clasped in playful lust, rolled apart and scrambled to their feet, shrieking with the others as they all ran off, leaving the sheets and pillowcases neatly spread upon the grass. As Anne came closer, she spied her brother, half-naked and barefoot, and her eyebrows drew together in a puzzled frown.

  "Where is your shirt, Thomas? And your shoes?" she asked him, looking about as if expecting to find a female similarly un­clothed.

  "Down by the brook, " Thomas said. "Edward and I were swimming.” He glanced upward unthinkingly to where I sat, still straddling the branch, wishing there were some way I could vanish.

  Anne looked up at me and smiled. Her hat fell off her head as she did so, taking the hatpins with it. Thick tresses of dark blond tumbled down her back.

  "What are you doing up there?"

  "Ah—picking plums, " I replied hastily.

  She laughed lightly. "In an oak tree?"

  "No wonder there were none.” The gravity I tried to instill in my youthful voice only made her laugh more.

  "Come down, Edward.”

  I obeyed and landed on the grass not too far from Thomas. Anne had put on her hat again, for which I was grateful. To ap­pear thus undressed before a woman I secretly worshipped was embarrassing indeed. My smooth chest, my lean body, which was just on the verge of growing tall, would not impress her in any way. I wanted desperately to seem a man in her eyes at that moment and not a youth.

  But she was not paying attention and the brim of her hat concealed her gaze. She spoke softly to Thomas about some trivial matter, and I listened in silence, enjoying the sound of her voice. My groin tensed as I imagined her speaking to me in so intimate a tone.

  Visions of the buxom laundrymaids and their wanton play swam in my mind. The two who had entwined their thighs and grabbed each other's bums were a stimulating contrast to the demure Anne. Yet her much more modest attire was no less stimulating. It was as if I could see underneath...

  Then—damn my overheated brain!—I entertained a wicked fantasy of Anne chastising Lucy with her guardian's birch, met­ing out punishment upon quivering buttocks with measured patience. Yes—the second girl would hold up the tattered petti­coat ag
ain and the others would hold Lucy still, watching with avid eyes—I forced the exciting thoughts away. We English find too much enjoyment in whipping, perhaps, but done right and lightly, it provides considerable pleasure to the giver and recipient.

  I waited for Anne and Thomas to finish talking, and finally she turned in my direction, head lifted so I could see her eyes at last. Swiftly she took me in from head to toe, and the intensity of her gaze made me feel positively hot all over. The midday sun had moved lower in the sky, behind the tall trees Thomas and I had climbed, so there was no reason for the sensation of warmth that afflicted me.

  My eighteen-year-old cock, ever alert if seldom satisfied, stiffened to its full length, restrained by the old breeches I wore that were somewhat too small for me. Anne immediately looked away. I noted the deep blush that tinted her cheeks, and my humiliation knew no bounds. I told my unruly member to soften and it eventually obeyed.

  Not soon enough, Thomas and his sister finished their con­versation, and she turned to bid me adieu. She kept her eyes firmly fixed upon my face. My only response was a nod. If she had been able to read my mind... ah, what would she have thought?

  Two years later, during the summer of my initiation at her gentle hands, she seemed to have forgotten all about our en­counter on the lawn. From her point of view there would have been very little to remember, of course. The fantasy that had come unbidden to my mind soon faded away, to be replaced by a thousand more—I learned to masturbate often but always with her in mind, no matter where I was.

  Even though Thomas was away in Jamaica, it was a rare gift to return at twenty to the house where I had spent so many happy days with him, for I now had Anne. I very much en­joyed playing the part of her devoted servant during our ram­bles.