Literary Love

by Gabrielle Vigot

  As soon as she neared her peak, she relaxed to prolong the pleasure, to prolong the thought of George. But his absence only frustrated her. She needed the satisfaction of his touch if she was ever going to find rest tonight. If only he were here lying upon her, nibbling at her bosom, stroking his member to and fro through her sheath, making sweet love to her.

  She squeezed the nub of her bosom, causing herself to sigh. She lightly tapped her pearl and then she began stroking it more and more until the intensity was too strong, too overwhelming. She needed her release, she needed it now.

  Her breath hastened.

  Her heart beat faster.

  “Oh, George, George … ” she repeated. “Come back to me.”

  Working hastily, she arched her back, lying with her legs open, and danced through the strokes while continuing to massage her bosom until an unstoppable electrical pulse shot through her loins.

  “Oh, George.” She thought of his tongue and a second later, she crested, slipping over the slope of desire.

  Electricity shot from the tips of her bosom through her loins and down to the very ends of her toes. Every nerve in her body was filled with pleasure. Though it was not for long. The sensation quickly ended. The moment her body relaxed, she became discontented again as her thoughts were driven back to her desire for George’s touch.

  Lying in the still of the night, Lucy noticed the nightingale left its nearby branch and had taken flight.

  There was a light wrapping upon the bedroom door.

  Lucy sat up in the bed, pulling her dressing gown down the length of her legs. “Yes?” she said quietly as the door opened.

  It was Anne, the servant who tended to her needs.

  “Miss?”

  “Yes?”

  “Are you quite all right?” Anne approached the bed.

  “Yes … no.” Lucy brushed her hands through her hair. She was frustrated, still quite unsatisfied.

  “I heard you cry, perhaps sighing again, were you?”

  “Yes,” Lucy admitted.

  Anne ran a hand along Lucy’s leg. “Is it George?”

  “Yes. I can’t get him out of my mind.”

  Anne slipped a hand under Lucy’s nightgown and felt her inner thigh, giving it a firm but gentle squeeze. “Let me help you.”

  “Would you? I’m so — ”

  “Lay back, dear,” Anne said, and she urged Lucy down.

  “Oh, George. How I do need him, but I’ve sent him away. Oh Anne, how could I do it when he’s only just come back to me? When we’ve only just found each other again. How will I live?”

  “Hush. Now where is the French toy I gave you?”

  Lucy rolled her head toward the side table. Her breath hastened as she anticipated more pleasure.

  Anne retrieved the manly toy and then with experienced hands slowly lifted Lucy’s nightgown to find her feminine form. Then she lowered the upper half of the gown to expose Lucy’s bosom.

  “What would I do without you, Anne?”

  “Hush now, there’s no need for words.” Anne gently massaged Lucy’s bosoms, circling the tips with her fingers until Lucy began to rock her hips to and fro.

  “Ah, George,” Lucy said.

  Anne squeezed the nubs of Lucy’s breasts and then ran the French toy across Lucy’s lips. “Open, dear.”

  Lucy opened her mouth and took the pleasure toy between her lips.

  “That’s right,” Anne said. “Think of it as your George, dear.” Anne slid the toy deeper and then withdrew it, running it across Lucy’s face.

  “I need more,” Lucy begged, arching her back and thrusting her hips forward.

  “Patience, my dear, you want to feel the release this time,” Anne said and then rubbed the toy down Lucy’s neck to her bosom. There, she circled the tips of her breasts to which Lucy panted with need.

  Anne laid the toy on Lucy’s lower stomach to taunt her and then grasped the nub of a bosom with her fingers while taking the other breast into her mouth. She suckled the breast and lightly pulled until she reached the tip.

  “Ah-h.” Lucy sighed with pleasure.

  Anne slid her tongue round and round the nub and then lowered her lips until she reached Lucy’s navel. There she circled her tongue, tickling and teasing Lucy further.

  Lucy strained with desire, begging to be touched lower on her enflamed body.

  Anne lifted her lips from Lucy’s navel and then slowly parted Lucy’s legs. Anne’s practiced hands, squeezed Lucy’s inner thighs, and then she secretly raised a hand and squeezed her own breast firmly before picking up the toy and rubbing it along Lucy’s inner thighs.

  “You’re ready?” Anne said in a low voice.

  “Yes.”

  Anne touched the toy to Lucy’s intimate petals, delicately rubbing it to and fro.

  Lucy sighed loudly, wanting more.

  “Not so loud, the others will hear,” Anne warned.

  Again, Anne began sliding the toy through Lucy’s folds, circling her pearl, but not touching it, but instead taunting her by making her wait.

  Lucy arched and sighed quietly.

  “You want more?” Anne teased, and surreptitiously slipped her hand under her own skirts to massage herself.

  “Yes, very much.”

  Anne lowered her lips to Lucy’s intimate folds and with delicate fingers opened her mistress’s petals. She ran her tongue languidly across Lucy’s pearl and through her petals, tickling and building Lucy’s passion as she continued to fondle her with the toy.

  “Oh, George,” Lucy sighed. “I need you.”

  Anne circled Lucy’s pearl with her tongue, stroking lightly, and with the toy, she probed at the opening to Lucy’s sheath.

  Lucy rocked her hips more urgently, and before she came undone, Anne slipped the toy inside Lucy’s sheath, but not deep, not yet. Anne moved the toy to and fro, faster and faster, while Lucy rocked more urgently until Anne slowed the pace and plunged the toy the length of Lucy’s impassioned vessel. Lucy moaned in pleasure.

  Once the toy was fully inserted deep inside Lucy, Anne rose up. The toy held firm in the depths of Lucy’s tight sheath. Anne returned her lips to Lucy’s bosom, on which she began to suckle. With one hand, she massaged Lucy’s stomach and around her hips and with the other once again reached under her own skirts to grant herself some of her own pleasure.

  Lucy felt the tingling sensation, shooting through her loins as Anne backed off, forcing her to delay gratification.

  “Ah-h.” Lucy sighed. “I need to feel him making love to me.”

  Anne returned to the toy and began to stroke it in and out, slowly at first and then faster, faster, and as Lucy became more aroused, she slowed the stroke, but only to delay Lucy’s gratification, all the while massaging her pearl with her tongue. Then Anne said, “Roll over, dear, I have something new for you.”

  With the toy firmly embedded in her feminine passage, Lucy obeyed and rolled onto her stomach.

  “Now raise up,” Anne said and then she moved Lucy so that she was propped up on her elbows with her bottom raised.

  From her pocket, Anne retrieved a second toy and quickly mounted the bed behind Lucy. “You’re going to like this and you should know these things so you can please a man.”

  With the new toy, Anne circled Lucy’s cheeks while also working the first toy inside Lucy’s sheath. Then Anne slid the new toy deeper between Lucy’s cheeks and began thrumming it back and forth.

  “Oh my,” Lucy said with a sigh. “That’s not the right — ”

  “But it is for a man or woman,” Anne said. “And it will intensify your pleasure, Miss Lucy.”

  Anne tapped the wetted toy to the new door, then pushed, slowly, but insistently.

  Lucy groaned as she took the new toy inside of her forbidden door. Though Anne was relentless and pushed the toy deeper and deeper inside, stroking in and out as she carefully and with skill guided it further inside.

  When the new toy was fully inserted, Anne began moving both to
ys opposite each other, gliding rhythmically through Lucy’s two openings of pleasure. To which Lucy sighed more and more as she began to appreciate the newest sensations of pleasure.

  “Touch your pearl, my dear,” Anne said, Lucy obeyed.

  Together, they pleasured Lucy, until she reached a newer, higher crest.

  “That’s right,” Anne said. “All the way,” and she rolled the toys round and round, deeper, and faster, and in and out, until Lucy was lost and unable to return.

  “I’m, I’m — ” Lucy breathed.

  “It’s only George,” Anne told her.

  At hearing his name, Lucy found her release — body quivering, quaking, and jerking.

  When she settled, Anne withdrew the toys and patted the still raised cheeks of Lucy’s bottom, then slid her fingers through Lucy’s wetted passion to pleasure her more.

  Lucy remained propped up on her elbows, unable to move, saying with a sigh, “How wonderfully pleasurable that was. I never knew that a man could … ” She flushed at what she’d learn, imagined sharing this newly discovered charm with Dear George.

  “Sleep well, dear.” Anne then patted her bottom and urged Lucy down to the mattress.

  Lucy compliantly slumped down to her stomach, feeling the intense reverberation of her release still flowing through entire of her body. Anne covered her, and by the time she left the room, Lucy was already halfway to sleep.

  Chapter XVIII: Lying to Mr. Beebe, Mrs. Honeychurch, Freddy, and The Servants

  Windy Corner lay, not on the summit of the ridge, but a few hundred feet down the southern slope, at the springing of one of the great buttresses that supported the hill. On either side of it was a shallow ravine, filled with ferns and pine-trees, and down the ravine on the left ran the highway into the Weald.

  Whenever Mr. Beebe crossed the ridge and caught sight of these noble dispositions of the earth, and, poised in the middle of them, Windy Corner, — he laughed. The situation was so glorious, the house so commonplace, not to say impertinent, and the company of a chosen few had become so very amusing to him. But as to the house, the late Mr. Honeychurch had affected the cube, because it gave him the most accommodation for his money, and the only addition made by his widow had been a small turret, shaped like a rhinoceros’ horn, where she could sit in wet weather and watch the carts going up and down the road. So impertinent — and yet the house “did,” for it was the home of people who loved their surroundings honestly. Other houses in the neighborhood had been built by expensive architects, over others their inmates had fidgeted sedulously, yet all these suggested the accidental, the temporary; while Windy Corner seemed as inevitable as an ugliness of Nature’s own creation. One might laugh at the house, but one never shuddered. Mr. Beebe was bicycling over this Monday afternoon with a piece of gossip. He had heard from the Miss Alans. These admirable ladies, since they could not go to Cissie Villa, had changed their plans. They were going to Greece instead.

  “Since Florence did my poor sister so much good,” wrote Miss Catharine, “we do not see why we should not try Athens this winter. Of course, Athens is a plunge, and the doctor has ordered her special digestive bread; but, after all, we can take that with us, and it is only getting first into a steamer and then into a train. But is there an English Church?” And the letter went on to say: “I do not expect we shall go any further than Athens, but if you knew of a really comfortable pension at Constantinople, we should be so grateful.”

  Lucy would enjoy this letter, and the smile with which Mr. Beebe greeted Windy Corner was partly for her. She would see the fun of it, and some of its beauty, for she must see some beauty. Though she was hopeless about pictures, and though she dressed so unevenly — oh, that cerise frock yesterday at church! — she must see some beauty in life, or she could not play the piano as she did. He had a theory that musicians are incredibly complex, and know far less than other artists what they want and what they are; that they puzzle themselves as well as their friends; that their psychology is a modern development, and has not yet been understood. This theory, had he known it, had possibly just been illustrated by facts. Ignorant of the events of yesterday he was only riding over to get some tea, to see his niece, and to observe whether Miss Honeychurch saw anything beautiful in the desire of two old ladies to visit Athens.

  A carriage was drawn up outside Windy Corner, and just as he caught sight of the house it started, bowled up the drive, and stopped abruptly when it reached the main road. Therefore it must be the horse, who always expected people to walk up the hill in case they tired him. The door opened obediently, and two men emerged, whom Mr. Beebe recognized as Cecil and Freddy. They were an odd couple to go driving; but he saw a trunk beside the coachman’s legs. Cecil, who wore a bowler, must be going away, while Freddy (a cap) — was seeing him to the station. They walked rapidly, taking the short cuts, and reached the summit while the carriage was still pursuing the windings of the road.

  They shook hands with the clergyman, but did not speak.

  “So you’re off for a minute, Mr. Vyse?” he asked.

  Cecil said, “Yes,” while Freddy edged away.

  “I was coming to show you this delightful letter from those friends of Miss Honeychurch.” He quoted from it. “Isn’t it wonderful? Isn’t it romance? most certainly they will go to Constantinople. They are taken in a snare that cannot fail. They will end by going round the world.”

  Cecil listened civilly, and said he was sure that Lucy would be amused and interested.

  “Isn’t Romance capricious! I never notice it in you young people; you do nothing but play lawn tennis, and say that romance is dead, while the Miss Alans are struggling with all the weapons of propriety against the terrible thing. ‘A really comfortable pension at Constantinople!’ So they call it out of decency, but in their hearts they want a pension with magic windows opening on the foam of perilous seas in fairyland forlorn! No ordinary view will content the Miss Alans. They want the Pension Keats.”

  “I’m awfully sorry to interrupt, Mr. Beebe,” said Freddy, “but have you any matches?”

  “I have,” said Cecil, and it did not escape Mr. Beebe’s notice that he spoke to the boy more kindly.

  “You have never met these Miss Alans, have you, Mr. Vyse?”

  “Never.”

  “Then you don’t see the wonder of this Greek visit. I haven’t been to Greece myself, and don’t mean to go, and I can’t imagine any of my friends going. It is altogether too big for our little lot. Don’t you think so? Italy is just about as much as we can manage. Italy is heroic, but Greece is godlike or devilish — I am not sure which, and in either case absolutely out of our suburban focus. All right, Freddy — I am not being clever, upon my word I am not — I took the idea from another fellow; and give me those matches when you’ve done with them.” He lit a cigarette, and went on talking to the two young men. “I was saying, if our poor little Cockney lives must have a background, let it be Italian. Big enough in all conscience. The ceiling of the Sistine Chapel for me. There the contrast is just as much as I can realize. But not the Parthenon, not the frieze of Phidias at any price; and here comes the victoria.”

  “You’re quite right,” said Cecil. “Greece is not for our little lot”; and he got in. Freddy followed, nodding to the clergyman, whom he trusted not to be pulling one’s leg, really. And before they had gone a dozen yards he jumped out, and came running back for Vyse’s match-box, which had not been returned. As he took it, he said: “I’m so glad you only talked about books. Cecil’s hard hit. Lucy won’t marry him. If you’d gone on about her, as you did about them, he might have broken down.”

  “But when — ”

  “Late last night. I must go.”

  “Perhaps they won’t want me down there.”

  “No — go on. Goodbye.”

  “Thank goodness!” exclaimed Mr. Beebe to himself, and struck the saddle of his bicycle approvingly, “It was the one foolish thing she ever did. Oh, what a glorious riddance!” And, after a l
ittle thought, he negotiated the slope into Windy Corner, light of heart. The house was again as it ought to be — cut off forever from Cecil’s pretentious world.

  He would find Miss Minnie down in the garden.

  In the drawing-room Lucy was tinkling at a Mozart Sonata. He hesitated a moment, but went down the garden as requested. There he found a mournful company. It was a blustering day, and the wind had taken and broken the dahlias. Mrs. Honeychurch, who looked cross, was tying them up, while Miss Bartlett, unsuitably dressed, impeded her with offers of assistance. At a little distance stood Minnie and the “garden-child,” a minute importation, each holding either end of a long piece of bass.

  “Oh, how do you do, Mr. Beebe? Gracious what a mess everything is! Look at my scarlet pompons, and the wind blowing your skirts about, and the ground so hard that not a prop will stick in, and then the carriage having to go out, when I had counted on having Powell, who — give every one their due — does tie up dahlias properly.”

  Evidently Mrs. Honeychurch was shattered.

  “How do you do?” said Miss Bartlett, with a meaning glance, as though conveying that more than dahlias had been broken off by the autumn gales. And aside from the troubles of the family, Charlotte and Mr. Beebe shared a more meaningful glance of their own.

  “Here, Lennie, the bass,” cried Mrs. Honeychurch. The garden-child, who did not know what bass was, stood rooted to the path with horror. Minnie slipped to her uncle and whispered that every one was very disagreeable to-day, and that it was not her fault if dahlia-strings would tear longways instead of across.

  “Come for a walk with me,” he told her. “You have worried them as much as they can stand. Mrs. Honeychurch, I only called in aimlessly. I shall take her up to tea at the Beehive Tavern, if I may.”

  “Oh, must you? Yes do. — Not the scissors, thank you, Charlotte, when both my hands are full already — I’m perfectly certain that the orange cactus will go before I can get to it.”

  Mr. Beebe, who was an adept at relieving situations, invited Miss Bartlett to accompany them to this mild festivity.

  “Yes, Charlotte, I don’t want you — do go; there’s nothing to stop about for, either in the house or out of it.”