by P. F. Kozak
Then, she touched him. Without any warning or modesty, she gripped him in her warm hand. As she did, her pelvis slid forward on his knee and his fingers slipped inside her velvet lips. Her slippery juice coated his fingers as he traced the inner edges of her crevice. As she had yesterday, she rubbed his prick in the curve of her hand.
Peter nuzzled her hair, whispering, “Tilt your head back so I can kiss you again.” As her lips parted to receive his tongue, his fingertips found her clitoris. She moaned into his mouth as he massaged her nub, her hips undulating on his lap. All the while, her hand never stopped moving on his cock.
He kissed her roughly, passionately, thrusting his tongue into her mouth the way he wanted to put his prick into her cunt. Firm in his resolve to not take her this evening, he frigged her mouth and diddled her clit. The heat rising from her exceeded anything he could have imagined.
Pamela broke the suction of their mouths, practically panting. “Sweet mercy, Peter, I cannot stand it.”
Peter did not heed her call for mercy. “You will endure the exquisite suffering, Pamela, just as I am.” He continued rubbing her clit with his thumb as he slipped his middle finger inside of her, hitting her barrier. “It is true, then, you have waited.”
“I would not lie to you.” She squeezed his prick tightly. “You will break me with this. It is what I want.”
The movement of Pamela’s bum on his lap and the pressure of her hand on his cock brought Peter to the edge. “I am going to spend, Pamela. I cannot stop it.”
Pamela threw the hem of her petticoat over him and rubbed him vigorously through the cloth. Peter grunted loudly and thrust himself into the lacy folds. A dark stain formed as he spilled into the fabric. Even through her petticoat, she could feel the ropey veins pulsing as his organ emptied itself into her hand.
She held him until he began to soften. Taking a dry piece of her hem, she wiped him clean. She thought he would immediately cover himself. He did not. “Lie back, Pamela, and let me help you be more comfortable, too.”
Peter gently cradled her in his arms, helping her lie back. Kneeling on the floor beside her, he lifted her skirt and pulled her knickers down. She closed her eyes and gasped when his hand connected with her flesh.
“Have you ever spent, dear heart?” He pinched her nipple between his thumb and forefinger and squeezed while massaging her clit.
Clutching a pillow, she answered in a throaty whisper, “Yes.”
“By your own hand or another’s?”
“Both.”
“Will you tell me who?”
She opened her eyes. Even in this compromising position, she challenged him. “Only if you tell me whose hands have been on you!”
Without a doubt, the beautiful woman lying here, exposed and heated, could only be his Pamela. No one else would dare be this cheeky with him. “One of these days, my dear Pamela, your sass will get your bottom paddled. But as with the other things we will explore together, that will wait.”
Peter leaned over and captured a nipple in his mouth and suckled her. Pressing harder on her clitoris, he felt the hard core, that point of contact he knew to be as sensitive as his own prick. He focused on that secret button, circling and pinching.
Muttering incoherently about how she would soon die of need, Pamela lifted her hips from the sofa and rubbed against his hand. He watched with absolute fascination her abandonment to pleasure. She kicked off her knickers and spread her legs wide, arching her back to press into his hand. He saw the signs of spending closing in, and allowed her to rub as she needed. Within seconds, she grabbed his shoulders and lifted herself up against his chest, her bare breasts pressing into his skin.
“Sweet Jesus, Peter!” She dug her fingernails into his skin, piercing the flesh and surely drawing blood. He did not break contact with her clitoral nub, rapidly stroking it. She clung to him and spasmed, her chest flushed as deeply as the rose gown crumpled at her waist. Gasping, she fell back on the sofa cushion.
Peter waited until her breath came normally. Only then did he say what he felt in his heart. “Pamela, never in all my days of witnessing women in the throes have I ever seen such rapturous passion.” He leaned over and kissed her breast. With a trail of small kisses, he traced a path to her ear. There, he whispered to her, “If, after considering the implications, you decide it is what you want, I will be your first.”
Damn the morality, damn the promise to Sir George, damn his very soul. Peter wanted her in his bed.
Go to Chapter Eight
“Peter, I want to do things with you and explore with you.”
“Do you want to explore the things you read in The Pearl?”
“Yes, and things I’ve read in a book called Fanny Hill. Do you know it?”
“John Cleland, 1749. Yes, I know it. The fact that you know it intrigues me.”
“Why?”
“Because it tells me your curiosities have matured, and so have your cravings.”
“Peter, tell me what you like to do. I want to please you.”
Far beyond caring about propriety or morality, Peter wanted more from her. “Pamela, how much do you want to please me?”
“More than anything, Peter. I swear to you, that is the truth.”
“I very much like watching beautiful women disrobe. Will you let me watch you disrobe, everything except your petticoat?”
“Even my drawers?”
“Even those.”
“Will you take me tonight?”
“No. As I told you, that will not be in a library. But we can explore, as you have asked.”
“Will you let me see you, too?”
“What would you like to see, dear heart? Tell me outright. You’ve certainly read enough to know the words.”
Pamela closed her eyes and took a deep breath. When she opened them, she looked directly at the bulge in his trousers. “I want to see your prick. I felt it yesterday, but I want to see it.”
Peter found her willingness to be both intoxicating and irresistible. “I am certainly willing to show you what you wish to see, on one condition.”
“What is that?”
“That you not take your eyes off of it while you disrobe, so you can see the effect you have on me.” Peter opened his trousers and for the first time, exposed himself to Pamela. His prick throbbed in his hand as he stretched it the full length for her to see.
Pamela reached out to touch his organ. He grabbed her hand and kissed her palm. “No, Pamela. No touching. Until I say so, you can only watch.”
Peter scrutinised her carefully, to see if she showed any signs of timidity. In answer to his unspoken question, she stood and began undoing the buttons of her dress.
“Are you going to open your shirt, so I can see your chest?” Pamela had always been a straight arrow, speaking her mind in any situation. He had never considered she would also be this way about matters of the flesh.
“If you wish.” As Pamela opened her dress, he took off his tailcoat and vest. “Do you want it open or completely off?”
“Open. It is what I saw when I woke from my faint. I thought I might have dreamed it.”
“You did not dream it, dear Pamela, just as I did not dream your hand touching me when you woke.”
“Will you let me touch your prick again, like I did yesterday?”
“Perhaps.” He stroked himself as he adjusted his organ on his belly. “Or perhaps I will have you watch me stroke myself.”
Pamela stepped out of her dress, leaving her in her camisole and petticoat. “Do you want me to continue?” Her eyes never left his prick, which had thickened even more while watching her.
“Your bosom is lovely, Pamela. I have always wanted to see it bare. Please show me.”
She took hold of the camisole and pulled it over her head. Her breasts tumbled free. Peter’s cock twitched as he drank in the beauty of her plump bosom. She surprised him when she asked, “Do you like them, Peter? Do my titties please you?”
“Yes, Pamela, your tit
ties please me very much. But what sort of common language have you grown accustomed to using?”
She stood there proudly, defiantly, with no sign of modesty or embarrassment. “It is language appropriate for your sitting there touching up while staring at me!”
Peter felt the laughter in his belly before it came out of his mouth. It took a moment to compose himself. She remained standing in front of him, a perfect marble statue of beauty and grace. “My dear Pamela, not only are you a beautiful woman, you are an absolute delight. You are quite right. It is language appropriate to the situation.”
“Then I shall use whatever language I deem appropriate to what we are doing.”
“What language will you use when you take off your knickers for me?”
“Whatever comes to me.”
Pamela lifted her petticoat from the back, obscuring Peter’s view. She undid the string holding up her knickers and they fell to the floor. After stepping out of them, she kicked them aside. “Do you want to see my privy parts?”
“Not just yet. We must prolong the ache. Then the release is much sweeter.” Peter picked up her knickers from the floor and caressed his organ with the damp material. “These are lovely, as is your petticoat. Either is enough to turn any cock to stone.”
“Is your cock stone?”
“Come here. You can see for yourself.”
Pamela came over to Peter. Bending over to examine his cock, her breasts fell forward. Peter caught them in his hands and squeezed them together. “You have glorious titties, Pams.” He took hold of her hands. “If you hold them together, you can feel my cock between them.”
“Show me how.”
Peter slid to the edge of the cushion. “Kneel in front of me and lean over.” He positioned his cock between her breasts. “Now, use your hands to squeeze them together and hold my cock between them.”
Pamela’s face rested against his belly as he frigged her cleavage. As he thrust into the soft flesh, she kissed his belly. He thought he would go mad with desire, the feel of her so close to him nearly making him lose control. He pushed her away.
“Peter, have I done something wrong?”
His breath coming in short gasps, he steadied himself. “No, my sweet lady, you have done nothing wrong.”
“Then what is it?”
“Pamela, I am feeling such an intense longing for you. I will not take your chastity in a fit of lust.”
“What can I do, Peter? Please let me do something.”
“There is something, if you are willing.”
“Tell me. I am willing.”
“Have you ever spent?”
“Yes.”
“By your own hand?”
“Sometimes, before I sleep.”
“Lift your petticoat and touch yourself now until you spend, while I do the same.”
“But you will see.”
“As will you.” Peter saw her indecision. “Pamela, listen to me. If I touch you, I may lose control and do more than either of us wants to do tonight. If we spend by our own hands, we have intimacy while protecting your chastity until the time is right.”
Pamela nodded and stood in front of him. Slowly, she lifted her petticoat. Peter followed the hem of her petticoat up her thighs, until finally, he saw the first wisps of curly chestnut hair. Pamela stared at him, watching him watching her.
His arousal grew more apparent as his breathing changed. In a hoarse whisper, he asked for more. “Tuck your petticoat into the waistband, show me everything, Pamela. I want to see.”
With a stance worthy of a seasoned streetwalker, Pamela tucked the garment up high, revealing all of her privates to Peter’s hungry eyes. His hand pumped his organ with increasing speed. He watched her fingers graze the hair between her legs, and then disappear into her secret place. She rubbed delicately at first, but as her own fire grew, the speed of her hand soon matched his.
“Peter, I am so close.” In complete abandon, she squeezed her own breast and pinched her nipple, harder than he ever would have. The other hand worked furiously between her legs, which she had spread wide apart.
“Let it happen, Pamela, let yourself find release.”
“Oh, sweet God in heaven!” She clutched the chestnut triangle between her legs full in her hand and thrust her pelvis forward. Her fingers closed so tightly around her breast, they were sure to leave bruises. No less than three times did she thrust herself forward, each time moaning in lustful delirium.
Peter grabbed her knickers and covered his prick just as his cream sprayed out of the tip. The hunger for his Pamela had finally found release.
Pamela sat down on the sofa beside him. Peter waited until her breath came normally. Only then, did he say what he felt in his heart. “Pamela, never in all my days of witnessing women in the throes have I ever seen such rapturous passion.” He leaned over and kissed her breast. With a trail of small kisses, he traced a path to her ear. There, he whispered to her, “If, after considering the implications, you decide it is what you want, I will be your first.”
Damn the morality, damn the promise to Sir George, damn his very soul. Peter wanted her in his bed.
Chapter Eight
Pamela rolled over in her bed and looked at the clock on her night table. When she saw the time, she bolted out of bed. Running to the window, she saw the carriage disappearing down the street, with Peter inside.
She couldn’t believe she had overslept, and that no one had awakened her. What if, with the new day, Peter pushed her away? She wanted to see him, to reassure herself that the door they had opened the night before had not slammed shut again. Of course, he had to leave at his scheduled time. He had an appearance in court that morning. But why hadn’t he sent Lucy to wake her?
Last night, they made an ineffective attempt to put themselves in order before leaving the library. Peter suggested, with utter devilment, that since the help had settled in for the night, they might dash up the stairs as they were. He bundled her dress and drawers with his tailcoat and vest. In only her camisole and petticoat, she ran for the stairs. Peter followed in his open shirt, their clothing tucked under his arm.
He handed her the dress. Then he kissed her good night in a way he never had before, revealing his passion once again. The lacy petticoat provided the thinnest of barriers between her and the hard ridge that grew in his trousers. He declined the invitation to come into her room, bidding her a good night and sweet dreams at the door. Only after she had hung up the dress did she realise he had not returned her knickers. She giggled, wondering if he had intentionally kept them.
Since Peter had already left, she took her time dressing. It being Friday, she knew Peter would have more time tomorrow to spend with her. She couldn’t help wondering what that might mean.
When she opened the cupboard to select a dress, she saw Lucy had done a fine job of organizing her clothing. After some thought, she picked a blue day dress, with a ruffled bodice. The rest of her clothing should be arriving today, with the other things she had shipped. It would be good to settle in and truly establish something of a daily routine.
Lucy knocked softly on her door. “Miss Pamela, are you awake?”
“Yes, Lucy. You may come in.”
“Miss, May sent me to fetch you. She wants to make sure you eat something this morning. If I might say so, she still seems a bit cross with you. She says Master Rennard told her this morning that she has to watch you put the food in your mouth and swallow it, he did!”
Pamela smiled. “Did he say anything else?”
“Yes, miss. I thought to wake you and he told me not to disturb you. He wanted you to rest after not feeling well yesterday.” Lucy reached in her pocket and took out a small envelope. “He also said to give you this after you got around.”
Pamela took the envelope and opened it. What she read made her heart leap.
Dearest Pamela:
I am pleased you are able to rest so well after our evening together. I, too, slept most comfortably.
It seems as though we have rounded a corner with one another. Perhaps over dinner this evening, we might further discuss this unexpected turn of events and what it means for both of us. I would also suggest that perhaps tomorrow, we do a bit of shopping. Would a new dress or other finery please you? Perhaps some lingerie would make you smile.
I will be home by mid-afternoon.
Until then,
Peter
Folding the note and putting it back in the envelope, Pamela turned to see Lucy watching her. “Miss, is everything all right? You have a queer look, you do.”
“Oh, yes, Lucy, everything is quite fine, quite fine indeed!”
Lucy smiled. “Very good, miss. You might fancy knowing Master Rennard whistled this morning.”
“He whistled? I don’t understand.”
“A merry tune, miss, as he sat for his morning meal. In all my days in his employ, I have never once heard him whistle.”
“I didn’t even know he could whistle!”
“Nor I, miss. He seemed mighty cheerful, he did.”
“Thank you for telling me, Lucy.” As Lucy picked up her petticoat and camisole from the floor, Pamela blushed. “Those will need to be laundered, Lucy. I should have put them in the basket when I dressed for bed.”
“Yes, miss.” Lucy shook the petticoat. “Your drawers, miss, should they be laundered? They’re not here.” Pamela’s face went from warm to hot. “Oh, miss!” Lucy turned away, to hide the giggle that she forced herself to swallow.
Pamela considered how much she should share with her chambermaid. “Lucy, do you gather Master Rennard’s clothing to be laundered?”
“Yes, miss.”
“My drawers may be with his.”
Lucy’s eyes met Pamela’s for only a moment, but in that moment they exchanged an awareness of the other. “Yes, miss. I understand.”
Pamela picked up a copy of The Pearl from the stack sitting on top of her books. “When you go to Master Rennard’s room to gather his clothes, could you please leave this on his pillow? He will know it is from me.”
