It was a cold, damp, foggy winter's night when I awoke from a bad dream a little after midnight in my bedroom. I had been out of sorts all day. I had shouted at our tutor, Mr. Oliver Harwell, for the simple reason that, as a prospective masculine predator, he seemed hopeless. I had snapped at Wittling, our aging butler, because he had not sent out one of our servants soon enough to catch the girl on the street calling for someone to buy her sweet lavender. I had been terribly out of sorts. There was an ancient sensuality foaming in my depths, something spiraling from the darks of my groin. I had attempted to masturbate before falling asleep, but it had been to no avail-it had not satisfied me… At any rate, waking, I flung aside the quilts and slipped into a bathrobe. As I look back on it now, how strange it is that someone so young should be pursued by a force so old. And at that point there was no adult I knew who would be willing to help me understand what was involved. Nobody at Hagen House comprehended the emotional and intellectual precocity either of my brother or myself, except Harwell, our tutor, who reported our mastery of the curriculum in the highest possible terms, but who lacked the judgment to convey the hothouse of our emotions to the Marquis or the Marchioness who were, after all, pretty much to the exclusion of all else, preoccupied by the London social whirl-the well-nigh endless series of balls, plays at the theatre, concerts at Covent Garden and, de rigueur, as I recall, attendance at Old Bailey, if possible, of the shocking trial of the dramatist, Oscar Wilde, whose alleged homosexuality was not considered a fit subject for converse in the presence of children. If Wilde and his putative peccadilloes had been mentioned in our presence, we would have been indifferent, for what we were fascinated by was our own libidinous explorations which required no wit, Irish or any other, to give them goad. Frankly, as I crossed to the window, I knew I was in the mood for the explorative.
The question was, who was to be its agent since the self-manipulative had at last turned out to be a crashing bore? Of course, my brother James came to mind, but at the moment, surely, he was rapt in slumber in his own bedroom at several removes from mine, and separated, further, by the room of our new-and last-governess, Miss Cleves.
Depressed, stirred by marvellously bestial longings implanted in the race coeval, doubtless, with the primeval slime, I scowled and furrowed my virginal brow. I scowled at the linnet hidden in the cage, songless and invisible because of the white cloth covering. I scowled at the faithful clock ticking on the mantel. I shrugged and turned my gaze to the scene outside beyond the garden and its rail. There was not much further that one could gaze-it was impossible to make out the other side of the street because of the fog. I could hardly make out the occasional hansom cab that clop-clopped by, the driver, perched on top to the rear, bundled practically to his mouth to protect himself from the bitterly chilling clime. I shivered in sympathy. Actually, I was warm enough-under my bathrobe I was attired in a thick woolen nightgown. The material scratched roughly against the pretences of my breasts, hardly more than slight rises on the topography of my chest. But the nipples… ah, the nipples apparently were ahead of their time-they were large and strongly denned and extraordinarily sensitive. As in a trance I lifted my hand and slipped it in to fondle the erectile tissues. The blood began to churn in my veins. I made some sounds deep in my throat and barely heard, then, a faint tapping at the door. When I became aware, I abruptly stood up, trembling. I crossed to the great oaken piece. “Yes?” I whispered. “James here,” a voice said. “Do hurry and open, Clarissa, or I shall catch my death.” I unbolted the door as rapidly as I could. It swung open easily and my brother slipped in, flailing his arms about his chest. “That damned draughty hallway,” he muttered, looking all the world-except for the lack of silver-blond hair-like a miniature edition of the Marquis, and I felt a heat spiraling from my groin. I shuddered. “Why are you shivering?” James said. “It was I who was out in the hallway.”
“Yes,” I said in low tones, “but mine is a different kind of shivering.” “Really, Clarissa?” He made as if to embrace me and I stepped aside, shaking my head. I reminded him of my sufferance of him here, and that there would not be anything drastically undertaken in my bedroom. “You are not supposed to be here, James,” I told him, “If it were found out, it would go hard on you. It would go hard on me as well…” I was fending off my brother not because I wished to or because I was fearful of discovery but because-while I wanted to explore the vibrant world of those energies seeming to have their core between my legs-I was somehow afraid that something monstrous might occur, that somehow I might be hurt.
“Nobody will find us out,” my green-eyed brother said petulantly.
Then he looked at me fondly and smiled, as if he quite understood my shyness. “Really, Clarissa, you need have no misgivings. I'm here only because something happened to me earlier today that interfered with my sleep, and I felt I simply had to tell it to the person closest me-my sister.” Here he smiled guilelessly and I was altogether taken in. At ten, sophisticated though I was, I was nevertheless ingenuous with respect to James, and my next words completely revealed my illusions.
“Well,” I said, “since we are brother and sister, there should be no harm in our snuggling under the covers. It's a terribly raw night and we would be very foolish to tempt fate by braving the draughts outside of bed.” Which was pure folderol, of course. I had already tempted fate. Actually, I had decided I wanted to be close to him, and that I would take the gamble of the possibility of being hurt. I need not have worried-at the last moment I disarmed him…
“That's very wise of you, Clarissa,” James said gravely. And, our mein terribly serious, we crept into bed, quite large enough for the two of us. After all, we were boy and girl! “What happened to you earlier today, James?” “What happened to me was Albertine,” he said after a pregnant pause, his voice weighty with significance. He put a light hand on my wrist. My pulse was a sheer runaway. “Oh?” I said. “In what way?” “Well, to begin with, Clarissa, I had to see Mother on some matter or another.” “Did you see her?” “No. Albertine was busy hanging some of Mother's things and told me Mother had gone to tea at the Duchess of Postings'. I told Albertine I was terribly disappointed-I didn't think the matter could wait.” “But it really wasn't that important, was it, James?” “No. I then simply wanted the opportunity of being with Albertine.” “Suddenly?”
“Yes. At twelve, Clarissa, one begins to see quite clearly how attractive some members of the opposite sex can be.” “But, James-” “Yes?” “Albertine's such a sweet little blonde.”
“Precisely. Very fitting, don't you think?” “Oh,” I said.
My brother's fingertips lightly played with my wrist. There was a wavering bubble in my throat, a certain sly tickle between my thighs.
I felt my nipples positively fluttering. “Well,” I finally added, “what did you tell her?” “I told her nothing, of course. I didn't have to. Albertine recognized that I was merely seizing on a pretext to be with her-” “And not with Mother.” “Exactly,” James said. I swallowed. There was something hard in my throat now.
Hard and tight. James brought my hand down to my thigh. “And then?” I asked. “Well, Albertine was at the closet, you know. I circled round to her until I could see the fine beads of moisture on her upper lip. You could tell she had begun to expect me.” “Oh, really, James-that sounds out of the whole cloth. Albertine must be all of thirty-five, and you're all of twelve. How could she have expected you?” He had drawn up my thick woolen nightgown. My own hand rested on my bare thigh, and his hand on mine. “I must explain, Clarissa.” “Do.” “There may be certain desperations the female experiences at thirty-five. Do you understand? Especially if the female has remained unmarried. She may feel driven. I'm not sure if you can follow this sort of thing at your tender age, Clarissa.”
“I may be tender but intellectually I am very advanced.”
“Enough to understand a thirty-five-year-old female?”
“James. At twelve, do you understand?” He tilted his black-haired elegant head and regarded me with the utmost seriousness.
“I think so,” he said. I burst into laughter. “Sssh!”
He frowned and put a finger to my lips. Impulsively, I kissed it.
In the dim light I saw my brother grin and then gaze at me with such a communication of oneness of spirit that I was warmed beyond measure. This was my brother, I thought with immense pride. He could do no ill. And with an impossibly diabolic innocence he shifted both our hands to his thigh. Which turned out to be his error. I made no demur. I merely gazed at him with an expression of pure surrender.
If impure, the surrender remained. “What did Albertine do, James?” “You mustn't think me vulgar, Clarissa.” Think him vulgar? I asked myself. On what account? The idea of vulgarity simply wasn't in my mind. On the contrary, I felt surpassingly comfortable.
It was with a sense of supreme security that I heard once again the clop-clop of a hansom-cab horse outside my window and gazed at the fog swirling against the panes of glass. Indeed, in no way did I think James vulgar even when, in the next instant, he guided my hand to grasp his quivering reed of generation. So overcome he apparently was, both with respect to my attitude of nonresistance and the sensation of my fingers fluting along his velvety potency, that he sighed gustily and lay his head back on the bolster. “Don't you think,” I said, “that I deserve to hear by now of your little blond Albertine?”
“Eh?” he said with an air of distraction. He was very gently squirming about beneath the covers as I kept a firm grip on the badge and brag of his masculinity. “Albertine.” “Ah, yes,” James said, nodding. “Albertine. You recall I observed I circled round to her.” “Yes.” I squeezed him encouragingly. His jaw dropped but he managed to continue. “Then she asked me what I wanted in a strange, choked sort of voice. Her blue eyes were like skylights. You do agree that Albertine's a lovely creature.” “Oh, quite. Did you tell her what you wanted?” “I wasn't sure myself, Clarissa-not there at the closet full of Mother's things, full of frills and flounces, furbelows and silken giddinesses-” I trailed a fingernail around the base of my brother's pulsing machine, and his whole body stiffened. “Clarissa,” he said. “Yes?” “I-” and he broke off. He tried to twist his body and slip his hand back to my thigh but somehow he couldn't manage it-the strength seemed to have left him, or it had become concentrated in one area alone. My own head was pounding but I remained in control. At the head of my brother's stiff shaft I discovered a slight moistness and thought I would devil him a bit further. I applied the oiliness to the length of his cock.
James's fingers clutched at the bedsheets. He breathed shallowly and I watched him like a bird of prey. I leaned over him as I bent his prick back against his groin and jiggled the spheres beneath. His eyes all but started from their sockets. I relented, then. I did want to hear the rest about Albertine. I let his purveyor of seed rest lightly in the palm of my hand and told him to go on with his tale of Mother's personal maid. He swallowed and composed himself as best he could. “You're quite certain you want me to continue?” he said.
“Yes,” I said firmly. “Well, Clarissa, how could I possibly tell Albertine what I wanted-there at Mother's closet? It seemed a sacrilege, somehow, there with Mother's things. Anyhow, I did mumble something, but it was unintelligible, and I stood there, shaking, really out of control-a most distressing sensation for a boy of twelve! Albertine came very close to me, she said she couldn't make a word out of what I had said. The scent she was using made me dizzy-I swear it, Clarissa!” “I don't doubt you, James.” “Thank you.
In any case, there I was, in a vertigo. The closet began to spin about me. I threw out my hands and found them at once entangled with Albertine. She made a soft cry and together we tumbled to the floor of Mother's closet. I think I went mad, then, to find myself so close to her blondness. I felt compelled-nay, obligated-to reach the heart of her and, after several ineffectual forays during which Albertine tossed and threshed, I managed it. It was a fantastic discovery, Clarissa!” “How do you mean?” “She's positively matted-the curls grow practically to her navel-she's marvellously wooly. Terribly dense, the whole locus, but even so it could not conceal her swollen outcroppings, so to speak. She cursed me in French as I learnt very quickly how to handle them. Then she tried to push me away, alarmed that we might be found in so compromising a position in an unlocked room. I refused to be pushed away. Albertine struck at me and with one hand I fended her off while with the other I kept my purchase to become the recipient of the increasing distillations produced by the powers of her sweetest orifices. We continued to wrestle although I was at a distinct disadvantage, and rapidly becoming more and more frustrated. “Not so Mademoiselle Lassez, no, not our Albertine Lassez…” My own head was awhirl when James paused. I gazed down at him. Even in the dimness, his was the most handsome countenance I had ever laid eyes on. There was something silkily sensual to his face, even as there is to mine-or was, I should say. And, curiously, gazing at him was something like gazing into a mirror, so much did we resemble one another. At any rate, I continued to curve my fingers around the sinew of his virility. Occasionally I tightened my grasp, occasionally I lightened it-all in a rhythm. I sensed that if I continued to apply myself in this manner, James could do me little harm, even if I wanted him to, which would always be a danger. My brother sighed gustily at my ministrations but, at my insistence, resumed his account. “As I said, I was becoming rapidly more frustrated. Albertine, on the other hand-as Harwell puts it to us about satellites in our physics lessons-was approaching her apogee while ostensibly she continued wrestling with me. Her breathing was labored and her skin was highly flushed. Even as she was contending with me, she gave me the sickliest kind of grin. I think I could cheerfully have put her out of this life had I not been so intent on gaining my own satisfactions. These, however, Albertine continued to deny me. Furious, I was about to withdraw my hand from the palpitations of her quintessential velvet and give her a rousing mauling with both my hands, slap her about, if necessary, to prepare her for a skewering-when, suddenly, she suspended combat, thrust at my dabbling digits with her hips, shivered convulsively, arched, twitched and fell away from me. Trembling, I vowed to myself I would take her then and there. I hoisted all her layers of petticoat, exposed her to the belly- thick blond mat and all-and was about, I swear, to lose my virginity and violate Albertine, when the voice of our housekeeper was then heard, and not from afar. Mrs. Manyjohn was calling for Mademoiselle Lassez and was obviously nearing my mother's room. It was then that I cursed in fluent English and rapidly disengaged. I told Albertine I would hide in the closet whilst she disposed of Mrs.
Manyjohn, which would then give me the opportunity of slipping out of Mother's quarters unobserved. I then exacted a promise from Albertine to rendezvous in the south wing, but she never appeared there. I therefore found it impossible to sleep, Clarissa-and I believe you understand why…” My brother's voice trailed off. His eyes closed. I kept fondling his still flexible instrument and then I whispered, “I should like to, James, but we really mustn't.” “I know,” he said. “I really couldn't, anyway, not so long as you continue to have him in your grasp-that quite disarms me.” “Only that?” “Well, I suppose one really shouldn't do it to one's sister, although, as our histories show us, the royal lines did do incest in various parts of the world. One thinks of the Egyptians, for example,” he finished sadly. “The Egyptians did various things,”
I said. I drew back the foreskin from the glans of James's pre-doughty reamer. My nipples felt as though they were sparkling. “Did they, Clarissa?” James's voice held a note of irony as he lay stretched out quite passively. “Such as what you're doing?” “Such as.” “I guess they showed it in their bas-reliefs-half an arse at a time.”
“Oh, James. Really.”
“Clarissa-” “Yes, James?” “You've learnt a great deal from those Egyptians. The head on your shoulders knows exactly what to do with the head on my prick.” I giggled. “Two heads are better than one,” I said. Then I pulled at one of them. The owner groaned. I ran a finger from head to root at first slowly, then swiftly, then slowly again. It became as hard and as elevated as a catapult. “You are going to launch something, Clarissa,” James said in a very low tone. “But this projectile will explode on the moment of launching.” “Mmm,” I said. “You are a mad Egyptian,” my brother said. Egyptian-Cornish-English-it did not matter. I was now beside myself. I flung back the bedcovers, chill or no chill. As far as I was concerned, my bedroom had become as torrid as the tropics. If there were certain consummations I could not accomplish with my brother, there were certainly alternatives. To that end I divested myself of my nightgown, and once again took hold of James's spice-shaker. James looked up at me and said with something like awe, “You will have an extraordinary body, Clarissa. It is already fantastically lissome and sweet, all milk-and-ivory. You are indeed beautiful, my sister.” It was then that I flung all caution to the winds, wherever they were. Well, perhaps not all caution. What I did do was to rub my feverish nipples-first one, then the other-along the base of James's vaulting pole. Said pole was throbbing. I saw it mark off time by the battering it took from its blood supply. So for the first of many times in my life I went berserk. It would happen again and again at the sight and feel of the male phallus, whatever its dimensions. My brother's at twelve was certainly no massive engine. It was no colossus commanding the female harbor. On the other hand, for the lad's age, it was a most respectable size. Now I took it in both of my hands. I squeezed it gently. James smiled. I squeezed it roughly.
James winced but smiled again. I slid the skin of the pulsant thing back and forth, back and forth as I groveled to my belly and rested my chin on my brother's thigh so I could watch the cock's responses close at hand as I manipulated it. I wanted very badly to take it into my mouth and lightly chew on it, so to speak, without any further processes of digestion taking place, but I thought I would lose my sanity if I did so. I therefore contented myself with the use of my hands. At which James seemed quite satisfied. He drew long shuddering breaths. I thought I would enhance the proceedings by bringing up the subject of our new governess-the last we were to have-Miss Cleves. “What do you think of her?” I asked as I pulled rhythmically at his shaft. “Angela Cleves who sleeps blissfully, we trust, in the adjacent room?” “Yes,” I said, pushing the flesh away from the tiny aperture at the tip of the creature's pointed head and noting that some white ooze had anointed it. Once again I utilized the lubricant but this time I much more vigorously massaged James's organ. His hips bucked. “It's impossible,” he said, “to give you an opinion about anything so long as you're intent on bringing me to the point of no return.” I murmured my apologies and diminished the frequency, whereupon James turned and said, “All Rome will fall before its due if you go too slow. Moderation, my dear Clarissa, moderation… All I so far appreciate about the Cleves woman is her flaming red hair.” He seemed to be disgusted and I asked him why.
“Well, the Cleves woman promises some interest-I like her emaciated type. Emaciated in the waist and belly and arms, but pouting up those prominent breasts. I suspect very full thighs from the amount of voluptuously curved leg she's shown. But, Clarissa, we don't really need another governess, we're a bit too old for it, I think. It's simply that the Marquis and Marchioness want to keep us children for the longest while possible-almost as if that will ensure them from getting any older. The subject's terribly depressing. But not Angela Cleves, I think. She seems all salt and pepper and I look forward to drinking from her well-she can take care of my thirst at any time!”
“How terribly generous of you, James,” I said dryly. “I do think I'll finish you off-now.” “Clarissa, please-let's prolong it a bit more.” “I'm too excited,” I said. “Really. Touch my nipples, James, and see.” He reached to them and took them between his fingers, one at a time. The nipples were hot and febrile. He clamped his mouth about one and sucked. I went mad. I pushed and pulled at his little cannon. He writhed, my nipple still in his mouth.
I dug a fingertip into the base of his organ on the underside. He let go my nipple. His head thrashed back and forth on the bolster. His eyes were shut. Then, as I stroked his apparatus wildly, teased it beyond endurance, rolled it, slapped it against his groin, wrenched at it, wiggled it, glided it along my belly, slid it along the as yet shallow cleavage of my immature teats, twisted it, nestled it under my armpits, flopped and fluttered it-his whole body tensed and made something of an arc. “Clarissa-” “Yes?” “I'm going to-ah, ah, ah…” And, all at once, my cupped hands were flooded with my brother's thick white stock. So inflamed I became by the sight of it that, believe me, I needed no further stimulus. I became a strung bow myself and quivered to an unbearable degree-or, better still, a brilliant bell struck to make the highest possible chimes that did more than ripple through me. I felt as if I were wrenched, torn, ripped and stormed. I gritted my teeth to keep myself from screaming, and the wild thought careened through me that, if I could react like this to something seen, what might I not do when experiencing the actual coupling in the flesh? So caught up both James and I were in our respective ecstasies, that we did not detect the opening and the closing of my bedroom door to which I had neglected to rethrow the bolt. We were not aware that a third party was present just inside the door until we heard that husky vibrato with which we were to become so familiar. “Good evening, children,” she began. It was Miss Angela Cleves, our new governess, in a quilted robe that effectively concealed her high breasts and scimitar hips. Her flaming red hair, of course, was quite lost in the gloom. “Or, should I say good morning?” James and I at this point were sitting bolt upright in the bed and realizing we had made complete asses of ourselves. I tried, nonetheless, to save the day-or, what was left of the night. With as haughty a mien as I could muster, I said, “Miss Cleves.” “Yes, Clarissa?” “I'm not in the habit, Miss Cleves, of having my privacy so grossly maligned as you have just done. I am afraid I shall have to ask you to go. You were assigned quarters, were you not?” Miss Cleves admired my gall and told me so. And she added, “Your precociousness is beyond question. We shall have to do something about that, Clarissa. But is there trouble with your brother? He seems inarticulate.” “I beg your pardon?”
James said stonily, looking straight ahead of him. “I said,” Miss Cleves repeated, “you seem inarticulate.” “I am not in the habit,” James said, falling in with my supposed stratagem, “of discussing my aptitudes with governesses, thank you. And I most definitely join my sister in asking you to go.” “Do you?” Miss Cleves inquired, and she burst into a merry laugh. “I do indeed, in my capacity as heir-apparent of this house.” He continued to gaze stonily ahead of him. “Then I'm sure,” Miss Cleves said, “the heir-apparent will not in the least mind if the Marquis is advised that the heir-apparent was entertained by his sister in her bedroom.”
James was silent. I was silent. Miss Cleves had just bound us hand and foot to the Quist-Hagen traditions of honor. You see, if in an interview with the Marquis the allegations of Angela Cleves were in opposition to the testimony of my brother and myself, Miss Cleves would be the loser-even though we would have lied. Because our word would be taken rather than Miss Cleves'. But, by our standards of honor, we were enjoined from fabrication and were under the obligation of telling only the truth. At last James spoke.
“The heir-apparent would mind if Miss Cleves so advised the Marquis.” In all justice to her, Angela Cleves gave not the slightest hint of triumph. “Thank you, James,” she said gravely.
“And I believe that none of us will regret this nocturnal chat, now that I am assured of your complete cooperation. James-” she turned to him-“if you are ready, I will be most happy to accompany you to your bedroom. It is quite late-I suggest that all of us could use some sleep.” His eyes downcast, grumbling under his breath, James slipped out of my bed and into his slippers. He preceded Miss Cleves to the door and opened it for her. Smiling, she glanced up and down the corridor and then beckoned to James to follow her. He did so and I shut the door. It goes without saying that, in a fury, I slammed the bolt home, admitting to myself at the same time that it was far too late for bolts to be of any value unless they came from the blue.
Miss Cleves, I thought, had the upper hand. The question was, how would she use it?