by Pamela Morsi
"Tell me what to do and I will do it," she said. *
Gerald's brow raised in question. "Has marriage turned my lovely lady who gives orders into such a biddable bride?" he asked.
"I . . . why yes, I suppose," she answered him, i somewhat flustered.
"Then perhaps I shall be unscrupulous in what I ask of you," he said.
"Unscrupulous?'' she repeated the word. Her heart was in her throat. He had spoken in jest, she assured herself. It was only a silly joke. So why were her hands shaking and her heart pounding as they stepped into the privacy of her bedroom?
Gerald set the lamp he carried on the bedside table, illuminating the room that had been hers alone since the day that they built the house.
Her room, which she'd always thought of as basically Spartan and practical, suddenly appeared to her as a girl's room. The wallpaper was pink roses and the window shades were trimmed in lace. Gweneth, her doll, sat gussied up and ready for play upon the highboy. The gleaming four-poster captured most of her attention. It was not an overly large bed. Certainly it might accommodate two people, but when she had purchased it, she'd had no such thought in mind. This was her room, her things, her bed. And this . . . this stranger was here with her now.
Gerald moved behind to pull the heavy, ceiling-height walnut door closed. The metallic snap of the lock being engaged was inordinately loud. Cessy's throat went dry.
"We're all alone now," he said, a little too softly.
"Yes," she agreed.
"The two of us, man and wife, all alone," he continued. "And you, Cessy, you just promised to be my obedient bride."
"Well, I ... I ... of course, I just meant that . . ."
He was walking around her. Slowly walking around her as if she were some sort of specimen being examined. It was fear, genuine fear that welled up in her now. She didn't know him, not really. Her mind quickly ran through the stories he'd told about himself and his life. They were only pieces, tiny pieces, of what surely must have been a long and complicated life. She should have asked him more. More about himself and his past. They'd spent far too much time talking about life and the world and philosophy. She should never have married a man she didn't know.
Gerald continued to walk around her, looking her up and down as if she were something that he owned.
"I just meant," she continued more forcefully, "that I wish to be a good wife to you. I ... I have not said that I would do anything that you ask."
He stopped in front of her then. He folded his arms across his chest and regarded her critically.
"Cessy," he asked, "what is it that you think I might ask of you that you would not be willing to do?"
"What?"
"What is it? Tell me. What would you say no to?"
"I ... I don't know."
He continued to stare at her for a long moment.
"All right, then, what is it that you would say yes to?" he asked.
She clasped her hands together tightly to keep them from trembling. "I don't know that either," she admitted.
"I think perhaps you know more than you admit," he said.
His words surprised her, indeed shocked her. Did he think that she was not a virgin? Did he believe that she had been alone like this with another man? How could she tell him it wasn't so? She could never bring herself to utter the words of explanation.
"I've never ..." she began.
He waved his hand to hush her.
"I'm not saying that you are experienced in love, Cessy. I'm saying that you understand more about it, than you think you do."
Her brow furrowed curiously, unsure.
"Kiss me," he said.
With little hesitation she stepped forward to put her mouth against his own. It was a warm and sweet kiss. Not as intimate as some they had shared that afternoon, but very pleasurable.
"That was nice, Cessy," he told her. "That was very nice."
She smiled back at him, a little less hesitantly.
"Now," he said. "Please remove all your clothing and bend over the edge of the bed there. I plan to take you heifer style and we've wasted enough time on the pleasantries already."
"What?"
"You did hear me, didn't you?"
Her eyes widened in embarrassment. Cessy was totally scandalized. "I . . . I . . . you ... we can't . . . it's not. . . and . . . and . . ."
"And what, my biddable bride?" he asked.
"And . . . and I am not a heifer. And no, I will not!" she said, nearly choking with outrage.
Slowly, very slowly, he smiled.
"Are you laughing at me?" she asked, infuriated.
"No, Cessy, I'm listening to you prove me right."
She frowned.
"You do know what you do and what you don't want to do," he said. "And I hear you telling me so very plainly."
Her fear fading, her confusion magnified. "I . . . it's not that I don't . . . don't want to be intimate with you," she tried explaining. "But that . . . it's so unseemly and embarrassing and I could not simply just . . . just disrobe."
"Of course not," he agreed.
He reached out to take her hand in his own. She was still trembling, but the warmth of his touch reassured her somehow.
"Cessy," he said. "I am your husband. I have promised to love and honor you. As a husband, I will make demands upon you. But I don't want you to ever feel afraid of me. Cessy, you can always tell me no. About anything at anytime."
"Gerald I ... I am ... I am a little afraid," she said. "It's just all so fast and I'm not sure. I'm not sure that I . . . that I really know you."
"All you need to know, Cessy," he told her, "is that I am your husband and that I will cherish you."
"I'm sorry, Gerald," she said. "I suppose that I am hopelessly unsophisticated."
He grinned at her, seemingly delighted.
"Cessy, a person does not need sophistication to have good sex. This is one activity that is not at all confined to class."
He reached for her then, pulling her into his arms lovingly. "Romance is free and equal for everyone."
She nodded. "Yes, I suppose so."
"Then you will trust me on this, won't you."
"Yes," she said a little more easily. He was still looking at her in that very disconcerting way. But somehow it was as thrilling as it was unsettling. "Yes, I love you and I will trust you."
"Then perhaps you can change into your night-clothes," he suggested. "Please make use of the dressing screen if you like. I have no wish to inordinately embarrass you."
"Thank you," she said. Cessy forced herself not to race to the partial privacy behind the dressing screen. She was still nervous, but the shocking fright he'd given her had somehow calmed her worst fears. He was tonight the same gentleman she had been so eager to wed today. He was Gerald Tarkington Crane, her husband and the man she loved.
"Oh!" she exclaimed, turning back in time to catch him removing his coat. "I forgot that you have no nightclothes. I will get you one of my father's nightshirts."
He shook his head. "Don't," he told her. "I never wear them."
Wide-eyed once more, Cessy slipped behind the screen. He didn't wear any nightclothes? Was she going to step out to find him totally naked and exposed? The very idea of it took her breath away.
With nervous fingers and a bit of clumsy contortion she managed to undo the buttons at the back of her dress and to get it off over her head. She divested herself of her petticoat and ruffle-laden camisole and removed her corset. Seated upon the dainty little dressing stool, she unhooked the laces on her shoes and rolled down her stockings.
Stripped down to only her chemise and pantalettes, Cessy eyed herself critically. Her figure had never been one to turn heads, but she had long since given up worrying about it. Her failure to develop a curvaceous bosom had led her to purchase her camisoles heavily ruffled. And her backside was effectively augmented with a horsehair bustle.
Tonight, without the enhancements of the fashion arts, the man she l
oved would see her as she truly was. It was daunting. She was not ashamed of how she looked. She looked exactly as God had made her, but on this one special night she couldn't help but wish that heaven had been a little more generous with those physical traits that men seemed to so appreciate.
Determinedly she rose to her feet and unhooked her spectacles. If there was ever a time when nearsightedness could be an advantage, the wedding night must be it.
Princess discarded her remaining "frillies" and pulled on her prettiest nightgown. It was sleeveless gauze with a profusion of delicate blue ribbon hanging from the shoulders. She began taking down her hair, but she had neither her brush nor her pin box. She bit her lip, considering her options. Should she step out from behind the screen with her hair half up and half down and go sit at her dressing table? Should she wind it back up as best she could and repin it? Or should she let it all down and comb it the best she could with her fingers?
She decided on the latter course, but then stood unsure because she had no mirror in which to judge her success or failure. Finally, raising her chin high and mustering her courage, Cessy walked out from behind the screen, determined to be unintimidated.
Gerald sat on the edge of her bed wearing only his gray, knee-length cotton trunks. He stood immediately, observing the refined amenities even in this very awkward private moment.
Even with her faulty vision, Cessy could see that his shoulders were tremendously broad for a gentleman. And his bare chest heavily muscled. Princess thought that he must be very athletic indeed to develop and keep such a splendid physique. His abdomen was as rigid and defined as a washboard. And his waist was trim and his hips narrow. Beneath the covering of his trunks, a pair of long, sturdy thighs and masculine hindquarters were evident.
Cessy's eyes were drawn to five small buttons on the front placard of his trunks. Five small buttons were all that remained of modesty. And the manner in which the gray cotton clung to him in that area revealed more than she was ready to allow herself to imagine.
"I must tend my hair," she announced in almost a frantic tone, turning from him to hurry to the dressing table.
She seated herself hastily, Her hands were shaking as she fumbled for her delicate silver hairpin box, causing her to spill most of the ones she carried.
A creaking of the floorboard behind her caught her attention and she glanced into her mirror to see Gerald had come up behind her. Wordlessly he took the round, plateback brush from her and began to draw it through her mess of tangles.
"Oh, you needn't do that," she told him. "I'm sure you're not familiar with ladies' hair."
"I'm familiar enough," he answered. "And I want to be very familiar with you."
His words soothed and skittered across her heart with much the same sensation as the Russian bristles that raised gooseflesh at the nape of her neck.
Cessy watched him in the mirror. He was intent in his task. Not overly gentle, but not hurting her either as he patiently unsnarled the length of her hair.
"It's pretty, you know," he said in a manner quite matter-of-fact.
"Is it?"
He held a handful up for her inspection. "It's thick and shiny and the color is nice."
"But it doesn't grow very long," Cessy told him. "I never cut it, but it continues to hang only to the middle of my back. Muna can sit on hers."
Slowly, sweetly he smiled at her.
"Why would she want to?" he asked. "Do her family's chairs lack upholstery? Perhaps we can speak to Maloof about it. I'm sure he will get them a very good deal."
Princess laughed then. That seemed to please him a lot. Gerald laid down the brush and she turned to face him.
He squatted beside her at eye level.
"Any more rituals that must be taken care of before we go to bed?" he asked.
"Aren't you . . . c-cold without a shirt on," she managed to choke out.
He took her hand and placed it against the bare skin of his chest.
"Do I feel cold?"
"No, not at all."
"Are you cold?" he asked as he took her chin in his hand and then allowed his palm to ease along the entire length of her throat.
"It's July,” she answered.
"So it is."
His big brown hand continued to caress her, tracing her collarbone and easing under the lace of her neckline.
"What are you doing?"
"Just being friendly, Cessy," he told her.
"It . . . this doesn't seem very friendly," she said.
"You don't like it?"
"No, no, I ... do like it," she admitted somewhat breathlessly.
"I know you do," he said.
"How could you know?"
"From these," he said, using both thumbs to oh-so-gently pluck at her nipples.
Cessy looked down at the turgid points visible through her nightgown and gasped. She raised her hands to cover herself, but he took her wrists in his own and held them fast.
"Don't cover up," he begged. "I like looking at you."
Princess felt the flames in her cheeks. She could not look at him. She could not meet his eyes.
"Can't you tell that I like it?" he asked. "Look at me, see if you can tell that I like it."
He cupped her chin in his hand and forced her to face him.
"Look at me, Cessy," he told her. "Mine are as hard as your own."
She did look at him. His bare, masculine nipples were beaded up to tiny points. He drew her hand to them. He closed his eyes, swallowed deliberately, and gave a long sigh as she touched him.
Princess felt a surge of unexpected power with the reaction that she had provoked.
"Feel how tight they are,” he said.
"Yes," she answered, her own voice a faraway whisper.
"They are much like yours. Just by touching each other here we can always tell if the other partner likes what we are doing."
Cessy nodded, nearly entranced by the strange, pleasurable sensation of simply stroking his skin.
"But it's much easier for you to tell," she said. "Because mine are so much bigger."
He opened his eyes then, his gaze sultry and enticing.
"Well, if there is ever a question in your mind about it," he said with silky softness. He grasped her wrist once more and eased it downward. "Then you can just bring your hand down here for a verification."
A tiny squeal escaped from the back of Cessy's throat as she touched Gerald. Only a thin layer of cotton separated her hand from the most private parts of his body.
"Is that hard enough for you?" he asked.
She sat frozen and immobile for a thousand hurried heartbeats before she realized that he no longer pressed her hand against him. It was she herself who clutched him so intimately.
Cessy jerked her hand away and jumped to her feet. She tried to step around him, but he was right there. He wrapped his hands around her from behind and held her fast.
"Don't run from me," he whispered against her hair. "Don't run from me and don't be afraid. I'm going to make it wonderful for you, Cessy. I promise it will be as fine and sweet as any wedding night any woman ever had. You deserve nothing less. And I can give you that."
“I'm being so silly," she said, attempting to regain control of herself. "I ... I want this, I want you. It's just all so strange and so . . . scary."
He nuzzled the hair away from her neck and teased her with little nips and kisses.
"Maybe that is because there is something inherently scary in seduction."
The last word was spoken in a whisper and it nearly took her breath away.
She raised her hand, perhaps instinctively, to protect herself from the sensual assault that his mouth made upon her flesh. But ultimately she buried her fingers in his hair, reveling in his touch and urging him on.
"I'm your wife, Gerald," she told him, as calmly as she could manage. "I don't have to be seduced."
As an answer he turned her to face him and brought his mouth to hers. But he did not kiss her, he
allowed his tongue to trace the definition of her lips. His words were a soft, warm whisper, so close and intimate.
"Perhaps a bride on her wedding night does not, by necessity, require being wooed and won," he told her. "But my Cessy, I want you to have the whole experience, all of it. I want you to never be able to imagine that our first night together could have been more exciting."
"I don't really want excitement," she assured him. "It's the excitement that is so frightening. I just want some . . . some tenderness."
"Oh, Cessy," he promised. "I will be so tender with you."
As if to prove it, he kissed her then, sweetly and civilly. And it was oh-so-seductive.
"Lay down on the bed, Cessy," he said softly. "Lay down and let me lay down with you."
Cessy would have been happy to comply if she had retained the strength to move. Somehow her limbs had turned to jelly and her brain to mush. It was Gerald who lifted her to the bed and eased her down on pressed cotton sheets. And it was Gerald who stretched full-length atop her.
"Oh! Oh dear!"
"Am I too heavy for you, Cessy?" he asked.
"No . . . no."
"Do you want the light out?"
"No ... I mean yes, yes, please," she said.
"Whatever you want," he told her.
But he kissed her instead of turning to the lamp. It was a kiss like none other he'd given her. It was a kiss of more than his lips, it was his mouth, his arms, his hands, his whole body.
The nearness of him was familiar and welcome, yet the feelings he evoked were new and enticing. His hands moved along her body with ease and comfort. But in the wake of their touch her skin began to tingle and her insides to quiver.
He teased and tasted her from the corner of her mouth, along her jawline, to the flesh of her throat and beyond.
He nuzzled his face against her thinly clad bosom. And then showed her, by toying her nipples with his teeth and tongue, that he was aware of her pleasure in his touch.
She bit down on her lower lip to stifle the moan that rose from her throat.
His hands were not idle, one moment stroking her thigh, the next caressing her breast.
Cessy wrapped her own arms around his bare shoulders, burying her fingers lovingly into his thick, dark hair.
