No Ordinary Princess

by Pamela Morsi

  Between her legs there was growing a strange, aching emptiness, that somehow could not be ig­nored. She squirmed beneath him, attempting to assuage the craving.

  As if he understood her distress, he clasped her leg behind the knee and bent it, parting her legs around his hips.

  She was closer to him then, much closer, and she could feel the hardness of his body against the softness of her own. Cessy needed to press against him. Somehow she needed very much just to press against him.

  Her nightgown constrained her and she jerked at it in frustration.

  "Easy, easy sweet bride," he whispered against her neck. "We'll get this thing off of you and it won't be in the way."

  She heard his words but when he moved away from her she tried to hold on to him.

  "Don't leave," she pleaded.

  "I'm putting out the lamp," he said. "And I'm getting rid of this blasted nightgown."

  He dispensed with the light with one energetic puff of breath into the top of its chimney. The room was immediately pitch black. Cessy heard him fiddling with the window shade.

  "What are you doing?"

  "Moonlight, Cessy," he said as he finally got it to retract into its roller. "I think they must call it honeymoon because couples see each other for the first time in moonlight."

  He was standing in that stream of glorious silver moonlight as she watched him peel off the thin cotton trunks and cast them carelessly to the floor.

  She could see him only in silhouette, but clearly he was as differently made as ever she had imagined a man to be.

  He pressed one knee on the mattress tick.

  "Let's get rid of this nightgown," he suggested softly.

  Cessy remained mute as he firmly grasped the hem of the last remnant of her maidenly modesty and slowly eased it up. Her body was prickling with thrills and quaking with anxiety.

  "Up," he ordered simply as he reached the top of her thighs.

  Like a trained pony she braced herself upon his strong shoulders and raised her bottom so that the gown slid under easily. A second later it was over her head and Gerald threw it behind him as if he never cared to see it again.

  She was half sitting, half lying on the bed. And she was naked. She tried to cover her breasts, but he held her back. Propping her up on her elbows, giving himself unrestricted access to her body.

  He explored her slowly, almost curiously. His hands left a trail of tingling sensation upon her skin. With one finger he made a circle around her right breast, as if staking out a claim. Then he took it into his hand, weighing it, sizing it.

  "You have pretty breasts," he said.

  "They are too small," she answered quickly.

  "No, I don't think so," he disagreed, exploring them in a seemingly dispassionate manner that some­how took Cessy's breath away.

  "They are firm and high and they have very long nipples," he said. "I like the very long nipples."

  To prove his words, he first placed a delicate kiss upon the very tip of one. Then he took it between his lips. With insistent pressure, gentle at first and then more lustily, his mouth pulled at the keenly aroused nipple.

  Cessy, overwhelmed by the sensation, threw back her head and cried out in gratification.

  "So you like this, my Cessy," he whispered to her as he moved his attention from the right breast to the left. "You like it when I lavish attention on your bosom. I suppose, dear wife, that we'll have to make it part of your evening routine. You brush your hair one hundred strokes and then I suckle you until you cry out my name."

  He did not need to help her a second time to get close to him. Deliberately, she parted her legs around him,„ pressing herself as closely as nature would allow.

  Gerald turned on his side and slid one strong thigh firmly between her own. That was better, it was much better. But it wasn't nearly enough. Cessy almost immediately began to squirm and wiggle against him. He allowed her freely to do so and even aided as he caressed the curve of her buttocks and urged her even closer.

  "This is my Cessy," he whispered against her neck. "This is my own, determined, aggressive Cessy. And I think that she wants me."

  "I want you," she replied, aching. "Oh please, please, I want you."

  He rolled her onto her back and got up on his knees. The loss of his body was tangible. Cessy whined and reached for him.

  "Wait, Cessy, I'm going to kiss you."

  "Yes, but . . ." She couldn't quite voice her need. But she scooted way down in the bed, attempting to capture his knee between her own.

  He resisted.

  "Oh, no, no more of that," he said, clasping one large hand upon each buttock and sliding her back away from him.

  "But . . . please . . ."

  "I said I am going to kiss you," he told her. "And you've got to trust me, Cessy, to know what is right for when."

  Her whole body was on fire. She was trembling from the need to be touched. But she did trust frim. He had given her so much pleasure, and if this was almost pain, Cessy vowed that she could stand it.

  "Kiss me," she said, raising her arms to accept his embrace.

  He took her hands and held them in his own as he bent down and placed his lips upon that part of her that so instinctively craved him.

  Cessy cried out in shock and momentary shame as she tried to pull her knees together decently. He would not allow it and held her open as he used his mouth and tongue upon her.

  It was wonderful, it was thrilling, it was almost frightening. Cessy tried to clamp down upon the feelings that swamped her. It was a wild abandon that began to override all her conceptions of sensuali­ty and propriety.

  Her hands, which only moments earlier she had sought to use for her own protection, were now buried in his thick dark hair, urging him on.

  When he raised himself to embrace her once more, every nerve in her body was at attention and she was as malleable as a wet dishrag.

  He kissed her and she tasted herself upon his mouth. It was startling, strange, and without any precedence in her experience.

  His hand replaced his lips in exploration. She could feel his fingers inside her, searching her, stretching her. His thumb intermittently working the small stiff nubbin partially hidden in her curls.

  "I think you're ready now," he told her. "I don't wish to hurt you, not a little, not at all."

  "I'm not afraid," she told him. "Hurt me anytime if it feels this good."

  He gave a very light chuckle and positioned him­self above her. Guiding her hand to his erection, his words were demanding but tender.

  "Put me inside you, Cessy," he said. "This is not something I do to you. It's something we do to­gether."

  His body was warm and smooth and Princess wanted him very much. She wanted to join with him, be part of him, to be bonded for life, to bear his children.

  A little clumsily she eased him into her entrance. He pushed forward, gently, firmly. His hands were everywhere, soothing, caressing as he pressed inward with slow, smooth strokes.

  "This is it,” he said softly. "Ill be easy . . . I'll be easy . .."

  She felt something give inside her. But there was no pain, not even a sting. Having overcome a tremen­dous obstacle, he began moving forward at a more rapid pace. Kissing, caressing, and cooing to her as he went.

  Then he was completely inside her. He filled her and was part of her, as deeply embedded in her body as he was in her heart.

  Inexplicably tears began to flow down her cheeks.

  "Cessy?" His tone was rife with concern. "Oh, sweetheart, did I hurt you? I'm so sorry. I didn't think I hurt you."

  "I love you," she said to him in answer. "I'm not hurt, I'm in love. I love you and I love your body in mine."

  "Oh, sweetheart," he whispered, relieved and al­most jubilant. "Oh, Cessy, I haven't even showed you the fun part yet."

  "You mean it's not over?"

  "Not by half," he answered, holding her face in his hands and smiling down at her. "And the best half is yet to come."

&nbs
p; As he began to withdraw, Cessy clasped her hands upon his naked buttocks.

  "Don't take it out yet," she pleaded.

  "Trust me, Cessy," he told her once more as he thrust back inside her, only to begin withdrawing once more. "Trust me."

  She intended to do just that, but the effect his rocking movement was having upon her prevented her from any further coherent speech.

  He was certain and sure, adjusting his rhythm to that which seemed easiest for Cessy. She began meeting and matching his pace. More and more sure of herself and her part in this dance of bodies and hearts.

  Her legs became restless as she sought to get herself nearer and him deeper. Understanding her need, he grasped her knees and wrapped her legs around his waist. It gave him more access and her more of him.

  The pace accelerated until she could not move at all. He thrust into her more and more rapidly and within minutes had her quaking, shaking, shrieking. As if the whole of her physical sensation was coalesc­ing into an ever-tightening spiral. Further. And fur­ther. And further. Until her body went for an instant totally rigid. Then the deep recesses of her female anatomy grasped and spasmed and clenched around him, pleasure filling and sparkling through her entire body as his essence spilled into her.

  "Gerald!"

  She screamed out his name in wondrous gratifica­tion and complete, earth-tilting satisfaction.

  Chapter 12

  Cessy Calhoun, Tom thought to himself as he tiredly observed his sleeping wife in the faint light of early dawn, had the finest twachel he had ever encountered in his entire life.

  He quietly pulled down the window shade so that the rising sun would not awaken her.

  Many women were beautiful. Some had curva­ceous bodies. Some had pretty eyes. Some were charming and witty. Some could sing so beautifully, they put the birds to shame.

  But of all those traits and talents a woman might have, Tom could not imagine one more sure to please a husband than the natural ability that his new bride had shown last night.

  He leaned over the bed and gave her a tiny kiss on the forehead. He didn't want to wake her, but some­how he couldn't leave without the gesture. Sweet, the thought came to him. She was so sweet. And she was such pleasure.

  And he had to leave. Cedarleg would be expecting him at the rig. He couldn't just not show up. He'd have to tell him something, make some sort of explanation.

  Tom Walker had to very permanently disappear. But he couldn't just vanish without a word. There would be too many questions. The path of sophisti­cated Gerald Crane would surely never cross the acquaintances of ordinary Tom.

  So he quietly made his way out of her room and down the stairs into rooms that were wallpapered in fine silk and trimmed with polished walnut. There were sounds of breakfast preparation and conversa­tion emanating from the back part of the house. Practicing amazing stealth, Tom managed to attract the attention of no one. The front door was too accessible and the porte cochere too close to the kitchen. So he eased out the little-used French door in the sun parlor. The exit put him in a completely private part of the garden. With no windows to observe the area, it was a perfect place for a thought­ful person to contemplate the nature of the universe. Or for a wily person to enter or exit the house without notice.

  Once he cleared the danger of the yard, he put the white picket fence behind him in a single leap. He could walk more quickly through the awakening town and think more clearly about his new wife and his unexpectedly fabulous wedding night.

  Tom was whistling happily. She'd been nervous, what bride was not? But her strong-minded nature helped her. She was willing to take charge and not be afraid of her sensual appetites.

  Tom shook his head almost disbelievingly at the strangeness of life and fate. Princess Calhoun was not favored in many ways to catch the attention of gentlemen. Except the one guaranteed to make her husband inordinately content.

  She was, of course, completely unaware of her talent. And clearly there was no way for him to tell her. No polite language existed for such attributes. And a husband couldn't even suggest that she was beyond the compare of his former bedmates, since a husband could never admit there had ever been former bedmates.

  Tom thought of all the foolish men who had passed over Cessy Calhoun, never giving the drill sergeant in skirts a second look.

  "Stupid fools,” he said aloud. Though he was honest enough to number himself among that way­ward number.

  He, like all the others, was more nearsighted than Cessy would ever be. Cessy Calhoun was not only totally lovely in heart and mind, she was more sexually satisfying to him than any innocent bride should be expected to be.

  He grinned broadly. And she was no longer Cessy Calhoun. Now her name was Walker, or rather it was Crane, he corrected his thoughts hurriedly. His Cessy had married Gerald Crane. His brow furrowing, Tom found that reality did not sit as well with him as he thought that it would.

  Still, she was his wife and after today he would forever more be Gerald Crane. Tom Walker was going to cease to exist altogether and completely.

  By the time he made it to Pusher's Camp, his good humor had returned and he was whistling once again. But his song abruptly faded when he saw Ma Pease standing outside her living quarters and got a glimpse of her concerned face.

  "Oh, thank God!" she called out when she saw him. "He's home, Winthrop!"

  Tom rushed forward with concern. The old woman hugged him as if he were the prodigal son.

  "What's wrong?" he asked.

  Ma wasn't given an opportunity to answer.

  "Where in the devil have you been all night?" Cedarleg demanded as he came charging out of the tent. The tool pusher's expression was livid. "Don't ye know you about scared poor Ma to death!"

  "I . . . ah . . ." Tom was at a loss for an answer.

  The interior of the Pease tent was lit by the faint golden light of a kerosene lantern. Dawn was well upon them now, and Tom was certain that Cedarleg should be at the well already. But the old man showed no hint of preparing to go.

  "When we awakened and realized you hadn't come home," Ma began, "well . . . you must know what kind of thoughts went through my head."

  Tom honestly had no idea what kind of thoughts went through her head. Except for his boyhood with Reverend McAfee, no one had ever cared where he went or how long he stayed.

  "Why didn't you come home?" Cedarleg asked. "We pictured you lying crippled or killed on one of those hills out there."

  "No, I . . . I . . . well, I got married yesterday."

  "What!" two astonished voices exclaimed in unison.

  "The girl that I've been seeing, well, I told you I was thinking about asking her, and she said yes. So we eloped."

  "Just like that?" Ma sounded somewhat affronted. "Without even your family and kin to stand up with you?"

  "I haven't any family," Tom answered.

  "Well, by God, you got us, don't you?" Cedarleg said. "Did you think we wouldn't want to be there to wish you happy?"

  "And to get a look at your gal," Ma said. "Make sure she's healthy and fit enough for being a wife."

  "She's a fine wife, Ma," Tom assured her. "I'm sure that you would like her."

  "Well, we'll see if we do," she answered. "Where is she now?"

  "Why . . . she's at home," he said. "At her family's home. In Burford Corners."

  "Is she packing up her things?"

  "Ah, no," Tom answered. "We're going to live there."

  The momentary anger the two had obviously felt about his failure to return home faded as Ma and Cedarleg enthusiastically began to accept the news that Tom had gotten married.

  "So when she said yes, you just made a run for the preacher?" Cedarleg asked, chuckling at the image that created.

  "Poor girl," Ma said with sympathy. "Once you'd set your heart on her, she didn't have a chance."

  Tom didn't feel it necessary to respond to that, and only managed to escape by hurrying inside the tent to change into his work clothes.

&n
bsp; Ma had saved him a slab of ham and a half-dozen biscuits. He was very grateful and thanked her effu­sively.

  "I'm starving this morning," he admitted.

  "Worked up an appetite last night, did ye?" Cedar­leg teased.

  Tom chuckled, not deigning to reply. Ma sharply scolded her husband for his teasing.

  "So you're going to set up housekeeping there with her family," Ma said as she poured him the last of the coffee.

  "Why, yes," Tom answered.

  Ma nodded thoughtfully at his words. "I'm not a believer much in young couples living with their kin, but I can see that it might be necessary for a while. Until you get some money saved up and get on your feet."

  "Her family has a nice house and plenty of room," Tom assured her.

  "Well, that is probably better than one of these tents," Ma said. "Especially for a new bride who is still trying to find her way around things."

  "Yes, I'm sure you're right," Tom agreed.

  "After your shift is finished you can bring her over," Ma said. “I’ll fix the best supper the two of you ever ate and we'll all get to know each other better."

  Tom blanched at her words. "Oh, no, Ma, I can't," he said quickly.

  "Why ever not?" Cedarleg asked.

  "Because . . . because this is my last shift. I've come to quit my job."

  Cedarleg stared at him as if he'd lost his mind.

  "Quit your job? What are you thinking of, son?" he asked. "Now that you've got a wife to support, you're going to need it more than ever."

  "I'll work today," Tom said. " 'Cause I know you can't get a replacement that quick. But then I'm done. I'm . . . I'm going into her family's business."

  "What kind of business is it?" Ma asked.

  Tom was momentarily struck dumb. Always he planned his lies and his excuses with great care. But he'd made no provisions for what to tell Ma and Cedarleg. He'd not thought he'd have to tell them anything. He had gotten to know them and actually begun to care about them. Still, he planned merely to walk out of their lives and never look back. Obviously that was not going to work.

  "Yeah, son? What kind of business is it?"

  He couldn't answer oil. The only family in the oil business in this part of the state was King Calhoun. It had to be something respectable. Something that paid good wages. Something that a man would give up the drilling rig for.