Season followed upon season in the normal course of things after the strange disappearance of Angela Cleves, and then there was that first summer upon us when James and I found ourselves suddenly apart. My brother was seventeen-he had matriculated at Oxford and had elected to stay the summer in London, with occasional brief excursions to the Continent. He had rooms near Clement's Inn, from which one could glimpse St. Paul's-I had been up to his rooms just before the annual summer return to Quistern House, and I had thought it all terribly exciting. My elegant brother, the Honorable James Quist-Hagen, quite fitted his rooms, and James had seen to it that they lacked nothing. Of course, in this he had had the assistance of our father, who had settled a handsome yearly stipend on him. I was, naturally enough,, somewhat hurt that James preferred the fleshpots of London and the exotic attractions of the Continent to his sister and Cornwall for the summer, but I quite understood-he was getting on to be rather a man, and the prospect of spending a comparatively sober season with his sister and parents in Quistern House surely went against his developing grain. Had I been a man, I would undoubtedly have behaved precisely like James. Besides-and this surely must have been crucial-since the shocking disappearance of Angela Cleves, James and I had eschewed all manifestations of sex between us. I had no doubt that my brother had been satisfying himself in London, hut I had been forced to be comparatively celibate. At fifteen this celibacy had become most oppressive to a young lady who technically had remained a virgin, and for whom masturbation had become increasingly unattractive. I was, in short, the rumbling volcano ready to explode. But explode with whom? The answer was directly before me, of course-practically under my very nose.
The answer was-Oliver Harwell. This would be Harwell's last year of tutoring me-the following spring he would be finished. And now-now was his last summer with the Quist-Hagens. And he had never looked more attractive. His curly, lustrous grayish-brown hair was echoed in a most virile manner in his short but dense chestnut-colored beard that framed an open, rather squarish face. His gentle eyes were never of a more melting brown. And as for his size-that had always been impressive. Harwell was burly without being gross, barrel-chested without being bearish, big without being gauche-he had always moved with the most masculine grace. He had, of course, as I believe I have implied elsewhere, at all times comported himself with unassailable propriety and had seemed to me, as I think I have remarked, hopeless as a prospective male predator. That one time I had bared my lower limbs to him in the coach-and-four-the reader may recall I had been erotically drawn to him-had turned out to be quite unsatisfactory. So that it might well be asked why I thought there was any possibility that my libidinous needs-and, indeed, the termination of my virginity-might be taken on by Oliver Harwell? Why did I think that the imminent eruption of my sexual volcano could be served by such as Harwell? Why did I believe that that phenomenal bulge of his “basket” at his groin could either be inflated or deflated by Clarissa Quist-Hagen? that the answer to my erotic tension was under my very nose-in Oliver Harwell? What, in short, was I counting on?
Two things. The first was that I had turned heads sharply when I had visited my brother in his flat near Clement's Inn- but I had already established in my mirror that I had reached the first showing of my beauty. Aside from my mother, my milky skin had no equal. No emeralds could compare with the depth of green my eyes had. No stygian night could offer the purest, glossiest black with which my ebon tresses glowed. As for my breasts, they were large, saucy and with dark areolae; their exceptionally protrusive nipples, because the shape of the breasts tended toward the oblique, were pointed on the bias. My waist was easily spannable by a modest male hand, and my hips were a sudden bloom that tapered off into succulent thigh, muscular but shapely calf, the slimmest ankles and the most delicate feet. I was never at a loss for virile attention from the eligible males at the several balls my mother and father had now taken me to, but none of the raffish young blades I met on these occasions struck my fancy-but they did, by their foci, corroborate the manifestations of my beauty, and my beauty, therefore, must be bound to have an effect on Oliver Harwell. The second thing I counted on that would move Harwell to provide the ultimate embrace was my propinquity to my tutor without the intrusion of James. (I must at this point explain to the reader that my brother had never constituted an “intrusion” as far as I was concerned, but that he might well have been for Harwell; we would, in any case, soon see. The reader must also understand that I much rather would have had my brother James present in Cornwall than anyone else, Harwell not excepted. James and I had gone through our childhood together, and for this there was no substitute. I both loved and respected James, and envied him his total abandonment to living with such flair that still my heart, so many years later, now, aches for him as it never ached for my mother and father or, indeed, anyone else, with the possible exception of Hugh Kinsteares, a kind of shy counterpart of my handsome brother; but more of Kinsteares at a later date…eh?) Yes, I believed my nearness to Harwell, without anyone else in the conservatory where he instructed me, would in not too long a time precipitate him toward me. I would be able to do things to Harwell I had never conceived of doing when James was there-mainly out of deference to my oldest brother who was my docent everywhere…
So I thought. But time passed, and Harwell made not the slightest overture. I was becoming quite disgusted. Quistern House had a score of summer guests, with and without titles. Some of the men seemed quite prepossessing, and my mother, sweet lady, would bid me be forward. “It's very curious,” she said, “I've never known you to be shy.” I shrugged and held my tongue. My mother went on. “Several of the men have made quite proper inquiries about you, Clarissa. The Earl of Merlin-Chase, for example. And he has wondered why you have broken off conversations with him quite abruptly. Is there some pressing reason for your forwardness, Clarissa?” Yes, Harwell, Oliver Harwell, I said silently. “I can't imagine what it might be,” I told my mother earnestly.
“Really?” she said. She regarded me momentarily with a frigid eye. “I shall have to speak to your father about your social backwardness, Clarissa. After all, you are fifteen, and it's time we seriously contemplated your marital prospects.” “Yes, Mother.”
At which she regally swept from the room. But, unwittingly, she had given me an idea. Is there some pressing reason… The less-than-casual observer by this stage must of course have the question on his mind as to the true nature of my desire for Oliver Harwell. What made my need so sharp for him? I had become obsessed with him. More properly-as he examined me at length on the “dark” side of Shakespeare-I had become aware of my obsession with Oliver Harwell's size. He was, surely, the largest and most massive man I had ever encountered-but he was both majestic and gentle. His enormous hands could have choked the life out of me in a matter of moments. And when I pictured the dimensions of his genital equipment, I very nearly swooned… The probable size of them… Their filling power… They would-or, rather, a single element of them would-penetrate my velvety fossa beyond my wildest imaginings.
And I could play with them, depending of course on Harwell's sustaining power… I envisaged what must be, I thought, this Brobdingnagian center piece; and beneath it the great spheres of the spermatic function-they should be able to spurt practically endlessly… My face blushed furiously. I flung back the light bedcovers and explored myself-I was sleeping au naturel. I pincered one of my nipples and then descended directly to the pit that had an oily moistness. I parted the cleft and resolutely seized the minuscule phallus of the female-it was congested with the intensest of pleasure in a matter of moments; but I wasn't going to keep this up for hours-both Harwell and his pupil were due in the conservatory early the following morning. We were about to analyze the nature of the Revolutionary War the United States had initiated, with special reference to our-Britain's-bungling the matter. So, recognizing that I would need rest in view of the forthcoming sociological dissection, and in view, too, of a simple plan I had propounded to hook the so-far unassailable Oliver Harwell, I whipped up the cream at a furious pace between my thighs and crested in a warm viscid orgasm that I proceeded to smear on the inner surface of my thighs and on my black crotch hair. Part of the plan was not to take a bath until the following night, and to wear as little clothing as possible. I was ready…
The following morning was a glorious one in Cornwall.
There was a bracing sea breeze. I opened the mullioned windows of the conservatory and cooled, I hoped, my burning brow-I wanted to take Oliver Harwell completely by surprise. The sky was the serenest blue except, far out on the horizon at sea, for a hint of black cloud.
It was, possibly, a thundercloud, but I amateurly predicted that a storm would not ensue until well along in the evening. And I made a wager with myself that Mr. Harwell would be building a fire by that time. “Good morning, My Lady,” Oliver Harwell said, closing the conservatory door behind him. “Miss Quist-Hagen will do,” I said tartly. “I trust,” he said, “I am not overly tardy, Miss Quist-Hagen?” I glanced at the massive clock affixed to the wall.
“Not by a jot,” I said. He rubbed his massive hands together-I could imagine their chafing my breasts-and I nearly fainted there and then. “Excellent, excellent,” Harwell said jovially. “I think we ought to begin-” he was avoiding my eye and the fact that I had dressed as scantily as possible-“with a discussion of the economic aspects of the Revolutionary War. Have you read Malcolm Coyle on the matter?” “Yes, Mr. Harwell. There is little else to do in Cornwall in the summer. How does a virile fellow like you tolerate summers in Cornwall without a mistress or the like?” “I believe somewhere along the course of the years I've been teaching your brother and yourself I've mentioned I've been working on a tome of a book. It is an esthetic which I hope will be able to account, not only for our literature but for the world at large, for the Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky translations presently appearing.” “So your manuscript,” I said, “is the substitute for venery.” For the first time that morning, Harwell met my eye squarely. “If I may say so, Miss Quist-Hagen, I rather think you're being unnecessarily harsh…” I noticed my tutor beginning to sweat, if only because patches of sweat began to appear on my light costume. He was clenching and unclenching his great hands-I'd never seen Harwell do that at all.
Nor had I ever seen the man sweat before. And he rather nervously, I thought, kept running his fingers through his beard. I wondered what the beard would feel like next to my skin, and how I would direct Oliver Harwell once I had him at my mercy. Not in the least curiously, he was now sniffing the air like a bird dog. “It does seem a bit stuffy in here, doesn't it?” he said. “Extremely. That's why I opened the window. But the breeze doesn't seem to dispel certain strange odors. Tell me, Mr. Harwell, how frequently do you bathe?”
“I consider, Miss Quist-Hagen, that that question ventures on matters of privacy I refuse to discuss.” “Ah, what a shame that my morality differs from yours. I haven't taken a bath for some three days.” I crossed to where he was standing, my black hair falling over one eye and my hips outthrust. I grinned broadly and, in the most vulgar manner possible, I raised one of my arms. Harwell managed a sickly grin. “Smell,” I said. “My Lady, I wouldn't dream of-”
“Rubbish,” I said. “If nothing else, you might dream of my armpit's output.” “I assure you,” he said, his face now pale, “that my conscious mind would reject such an odious consequence.”
“You don't care for my armpit, Mr. Harwell?” The big man squirmed. Big men usually don't, but I did have Harwell at a disadvantage and, furthermore, I did stink. However it was a stink that should have been sexually provocative and, evidently, it had had no impact of that kind at all upon the tutor. There was an acute strain in his voice when he answered. “Miss Quist-Hagen, I was hired by your father, the Marquis, to instruct you in certain disciplines, and that is all I can manage, for various reasons you need not be privy to. And, if you persist in this kind of behavior, it would be folly of me not to advise your father.” “Oh, la!” said I.
“There's a Revolutionary War going on.” “Miss Quist-Hagen, restrain yourself, please. That war was fought in the eighteenth century. We are now, at this instant, dealing with the Americans, the economic motivations behind the Constitution and-” “Mr. Harwell,”
I said in suddenly hollow tones. “What is it, Miss Quist-Hagen?”
He was suddenly at my side. I was swaying. I knew what was the matter. I'd been hoist by my own petard-my own body odors had proved to be too much for me to take without accompanying sexual play. I fainted. When I awoke, there was brandy at my lips. “Please swallow some,” my tutor said firmly. I swallowed some. The flames in my vitals rose higher. I lifted my head-I saw I was at one end of the long sofa. Mr. Harwell had suddenly moved to its middle. Good, I thought. Very good. “I hope,” I said, “you haven't called a physician.” “There was nothing,” he said, “that I couldn't handle. I went all through medical school, you know, and then gave it all up at the last moment for teaching and writing.” He sat on the sofa with one leg crossed over the other at the ankle. His basket, insofar as a target locus was concerned, had not discernibly faded or amplified. I was within touching distance, if I used my foot. As it was, both my feet were upon the sofa. His open squarish face with its utterly gentle brown eyes, now full of compassion, stimulated me as few others have. I would soon be nestling, I thought, against a vast, hairy torso. So, little by little, I extended one of my shoeless feet as if my idea were leisurely to rest that foot on Harwell's thigh.
Well, I did rest it there, momentarily. “Are you feeling better, My Lady?” “I will, Oliver, if you call me Clarissa.” And it was at that instant that I lightly jabbed with my foot to touch that mass of ruddy anatomy between Harwell's thighs -and at that moment upthrust against his tight pants was the clear outline of what appeared to be indeed a mighty cylinder. Harwell flung himself against the sofa's back, and a wide stain appeared on his trousers. He gasped, shook his head, arose and then knelt on the floor before me in an attitude of pure supplication. I was intensely excited-I kept gazing at Harwell's monumental column beating against the man's tight trousers, throbbing, the stain became wider and wider as Harwell had no choice but to ejaculate, if only because I myself had swung down my feet and continued to jab at his cannon, prodding it to more extensive liquid diffusions. All during this time Harwell was asking my forgiveness, fervently, on his knees, averring that he had entertained a passion for me for many years and had not sullied himself with other women at all-indeed, had not even indulged in self-pollution as he called it, to the extent that he had suffered a long time from nocturnal emissions. What had held him back from expressing this immortal love had been my brother James, of course. But even if James had not been present, Harwell went on, he would have been deterred by the Victorian attitude toward sex, fraught with prohibition and quite capable of criminal proceedings against a man avowing his love to a girl of ten. Even to a girl of fifteen it was- “Oh, shut up, Oliver!” I interrupted sharply. “And for God's sake I've had enough of your kneeling posture-please get up.” Bewilderedly, Oliver Harwell arose. I felt far from calm, but I was Clarissa Quist-Hagen, the daughter of a Marquis, who has all things under control-even men! “We will take a turn,” I said to the man whose height and girth was at least two-and-a-half times mine, “in the maze, and from there we can slip away unobserved. Besides, hardly anybody is about at this time of the morning. The guests are all asleep. Only our cook, Mrs. Lingelhoffe, must be awake, and a grumbling Wittling. The rest of the staff is just rising. We shan't encounter a soul if we go down the front stairs. In any case, we go to the maze and, when we leave there, we shall be in the clear. Do you make me out, Oliver?”
He had not a moment's hesitation. “All the way and let the odds be damned,” he said. Smiling now, he put a hand on my arm. “Clarissa, does our difference in station-in social status- affect you at all?”
“Absolutely not,” I said. I had lied, of course. Oliver Harwell's social station was far inferior to mine, and I was under no illusions that I should be happy to exchange mine for his, either in marriage or by virtue of an affair. One does not lightly give up one's genealogy. He kissed me. He took me in his arms and kissed me.
It was magnificent, but I had to tear it in half. It was not enough for me to experience Harwell's body, clothed, next to mine, clothed. And it was far less than enough to feel through the material of his trousers a lingam-oh, those Hindus had words for it!-whose phenomenal measurements were at their zenith. “To the maze, my dear Harwell-to the maze!” We tarried in the maze long enough to exchange another kiss and for me to feel against my belly his monumental cannon. I put my hand down and I could feel the extensiveness and breadth of his artillery through the wet cloth of his trousers. My knees buckled momentarily and Harwell braced me up, taking the opportunity to tuck his hand under my skirt and to acquaint himself with the oily wetness there. Savage bolts of desire shook me from head to toe. “We don't have far to go, my sweet Oliver,” I whispered. “Give me up for the moment and let me guide you…”
“Of course, Clarissa,” he murmured. It was perhaps ten minutes' walking time by the path which led along the slate cliffs that bent their dark hoods over the Atlantic-and then we had reached Gunnels Cove. Another path, this one overgrown with underbrush, led down to the abandoned fisherman's hut which James and I had refurbished. To the south, beyond the cove, the combers of the Atlantic crashed against the cruel, boulder-strewn coast of Cornwall.
From the hut we could hear the sounds of the boiling surf, but the waters beyond the hut in the cove were calm and clear… Once inside the seclusion of the hut, I turned ferociously to Harwell. My eyes were glazed, I knew, my mouth loose, with spittle forming at its corners. Harwell's usually gentle face was itself stiff with lust.
“Just let me get my mouth around it for a few moments, Oliver, and then I'll undress for you.” He nodded and fumbled with his trousers and then at last let them slip down about his ankles. I was so shattered with passion that I was unable to wait until he had stepped out of his trousers. I had dropped to my knees. I was trembling violently. I remember how the sun was pouring in through the window to one side, illumining the colossus now on a level with my mouth, and the two mighty spheres beneath-the factory capable of producing geyser after geyser. With a tortured cry-I had been imagining Harwell's cock for a long, long time-I slid my lips over the head of his cannon as far up as they would go and sucked. The cock throbbed with tremendous pulsations and my mouth was filled with sperm. I closed my eyes and swallowed. In a few moments Harwell lifted me up, stepped out of his trousers and started to undress me. I stopped him-I could do the deed much more quickly, and Harwell could be divested of his clothes at about the same time that I was…
“Do you like him, Clarissa?” Harwell asked gently. The “him” was at half-mast at the moment, with a few viscid beads at its tip.
“It would break down the walls of any resistant female,” I said respectfully. “But please remember, Oliver, that I'm still a virgin.”
“I will take the utmost caution.” “No, Oliver, not that.
Virginity has to be taken on a kind of threshold of brutality-you understand?” “I believe so, Clarissa…” I stood before him, then, naked to the pelt. I knew I was magnificent. I smiled slowly at him. He gazed at me for what seemed like endless moments, his eyes traveling in a leisurely fashion from the weightiness and fruitfulness of my biased breasts to the faint creamy bulge of my belly, and thence to the tight curls of my black Mount-of-Venus hair where his eyes lingered… I contemplated Oliver Harwell no less intently and, as I did so, his lingam, which had become relaxedly limp, began its flutterings of elevation. I sighed and asked Harwell to lie down on the rude bed in a corner of the room-to lie down and, for a few moments, make no attempt to touch me-I would do all the touching for a little while. “Of course, Clarissa,” he said, and did as I had bid him. He was indeed a big man, even lying down! He took up most of the space of the bed-we should have to disport in tiers. But what I wanted to do now was to caress his fantastic musculature, his sinews, his flesh-and to that end I sat on the edge of the bed. Nor would I omit Harwell's lingam. In fact, I decided, I would play upon his whole body, neglecting naught. I had no idea of how long I should devote to the caresses-certainly not too much beyond my yoni becoming a grease cup. The first thing I did was to blow a gentle air stream into Oliver's ears. My tutor grunted and gritted his teeth and, lo!- his lingam underwent a further erecting. But I would not depend upon his ears-they were mainly listening devices, touched up at various times to receive gentle air streams, the pleasure at once transmitted in two opposite directions simultaneously-to his brain and to his lingam. My tongue supplemented the air stream and, lo!-another height was gained by Harwell's rod and redeemer. I chuckled.
Harwell chuckled. I heard the roar of the boiling surf south of Gunnels Cove, but in the troughs I could make out the calm, gently lapping water of the cove. The boiling… And the lapping…
I fluttered my fingers over Harwell's bull neck, surprising for a man as tall as he. His throat worked. “Clarissa,” he said.
“Yes?” “You're worth all the long years' wait.” “Of course, Oliver. I'm a beauty.” Harwell was taking the whole circumstance with much too much seriousness, I thought. But what was I doing? Actually, under the guise of my being fond of him, I was presently conducting a kind of clinical testing and observation. If Harwell realized that, then he wasn't demurring. It was possible he felt he must defer to the daughter of a Marquis. Well, if he did, I did not give a good goddamn. All I wanted was to disport with Harwell's flesh and muscle and sinew, quite impersonally-it was there, wasn't it? And that was all that mattered. Harwell's there-ness was quite sufficient to destroy my virginity whether he loved me or hated me or was indifferent to my soul. The next thing I took care of were Harwell's hirsute armpits. They had the same chestnut-colored hair as his head. I tangled my fingers in their tendrils. His cock elevated a little more. I glanced at it.
“Splendid,” I said. “I wish I could take it home with me.”
“I don't believe,” Harwell said softly, breathing shallowly under my ministrations, “that the phallus in our society is accredited as a household deity, whether minor or major. But perhaps among the peasants, among the poor-” “Snob,” I said, interrupting him. I hoisted myself onto the bed and squatted over Harwell. His jaw became very slack. His face screwed up in what seemed like agony. “What's your trouble, Oliver?” I asked as I dangled my teats over his barrel chest. Then I took one of my nipples and rubbed it lightly over one of his. Harwell moaned. “The trouble,” he said, “is that your squinting eye piece down there is winking at me.” “It's my virginity trying to make light out of the whole matter. Bear with it, Oliver-be compassionate; it is the last fold of a girl's flesh that belongs to childhood…” I felt his barrow-like biceps and nodded approvingly-they would squeeze out a good deal of my adolescence. I savored his tough belly, purposely skipped my fingers over his now fully extended and rigid pier, and felt the thews of his thighs…
“Well, My Lady, what is it worth in precious metals?” I toyed with his chest hair and stared at the hoary hangings of fishnet from the ceiling. Curiously, I was getting hungry. The question in my mind, would I first want to satisfy my sexual needs, or would my food hunger establish primacy? And I thought I might as well be candid about that to Harwell. The reaction might be very interesting…
I told Oliver I had no idea of what I might be worth in precious metals, and then I added, “I'm hungry, Oliver.” I said it rather petulantly, realizing under the circumstances I might infuriate poor Harwell. I very rapidly discovered that one did not experiment with Harwell, at least not under these conditions. He reared on one elbow and with one hand seized a teat- belonging to me-and squeezed. I heard a ringing in my ears. Then he twisted the same teat. I screamed and heard a whole variety of musical instruments: cymbals, clashing; piccolos, shrieking; bassoons, piteously bleating; trumpets, sobbing. And they were all Clarissa Quist- Hagen's… I hunched up against the wall. Harwell merely sat up in the bed and towered over me. His expression was one of sardonic concern. “How are your hunger pangs?” “I was jesting, Oliver. And even if I hadn't been-” “Yes?” “A fifteen-year-old girl has appetites.” “Has she?” “Very strong ones,” I said. “Insatiable, possibly?” Harwell said.
“Perhaps.” “Let us see. Lie down, My Lady.” “So?” “Yes.
Now draw up your legs.” I did so. I had a frisson-the man had gotten to be completely in command. He was touching me now. Tenderly.
But I was going mad. I knew there was a white gummy secretion and that Harwell was spreading it evenly. His machine was monstrous once again-like an enormous ruddy log. Suddenly I wanted the whole thing buried in me, like treasure. Where I could lock it up. And constrict it. And loosen it. There was no hunger in my belly now. The hunger had sunk to the juncture of my thighs. The juncture ached. I had to be stuffed full. There was only one man in all of Cornwall who could do that in this instant. Oliver Harwell. I guided him. He would make a permanent passage. Through this concourse would follow all subsequent men. But first he had to tear my hymen asunder. I gritted my teeth. I gritted my thighs. I gritted my heart. I practically gritted my whole body, and then I shouted at Harwell, “Strike while the cunt is hot!” He permitted himself one great bellow of laughter-and then struck. I thought I saw all the nocturnal constellations become inhabitants of the day. I thought I had been lanced all the way up to my heart.
Curiously, even my arse felt sore. Well, I suppose there was a lot of regional sympathy. In any case, I was no longer a virgin.
“All right,” I said grimly, “we wrenched the gate open. Now, Oliver, let's see what you can do with the pump.” All this, mind you, in my impeccable theatrical English which Harwell had patiently instilled in me. “To the hilt!” I cried. “Full tilt ahead!”
Oliver Harwell obeyed. He sank his shaft in me to the roots.
Its roots. To his roots. To mine. I groaned with surprising satisfaction, the groan, I thought, of an archangel. I doubt if any subsequent male ever occupied my space so thoroughly. I believe I was stretched to the limit of my sheath. I told him to hurry.
Otherwise I'd be coming all by myself. I didn't want to be lonesome up on the sublimities, you know. Lonesome. It was becoming lonesome, after all, I realized as Harwell sweatingly pumped away. James was gone. The summer guests were crashing bores. I wanted to get back to London, even during the thoroughly repellant summer season. I was too dependent out here in Cornwall. I had no idea what Harwell would do next-in the long run. In the short run I quite knew what Harwell was about to do. There was frenzy on his face. He wanted to get rid of that. And the only way to do it now-get rid of the frenzy now-was to increase the pace of his pumping. What he would do a few days hence, I had no idea, and thus I was dependent on him to that extent. Such thoughts be damned-I owed my tutor my closest attention… Really. Because Harwell was astonishing. I had hoped for that-from the man who eliminated my virginity. Harwell had not only eliminated it; he had uprooted it and was presently replanting it with his own stake. The pleasure therefrom was like a series of interlocking rings -and I could have sworn they were making a kind of silver music. I suddenly arched against Harwell. My entire genitourinary complex felt as though it must disattach itself and go flying off somewhere. It did disattach itself at last, I was convinced. And now it was flying. The rest of my body followed the genitourinary system-the whole of me was flying. Harwell's lingam and my yoni-clasped and sailing through the heavens on the peaks of endless fountains… Had I known that fucking would be of such a sublime order, I would have permitted my brother entry long long ago.
In the early years. Not now. It was too late, now. If James and I had a sexual relationship now, it would be too terribly serious. I felt a passing sadness about my brother-even as Harwell was ploughing me stem to stern. Females are like that, you know. In moments of the most intense rapture the female can quite clearly think of the lamb en brochette she will prepare for the evening meal. I was at one with Oliver Harwell, and thrust my swollen teats and nipples up at him so that he might feast and I enjoy his feasting-the while I entertained my passing sadness for James. Elegant, green-eyed James, a wizard at finding the honey of life even at its most commonplace. Now: requiescat in pace -I shall miss him to the day I die… But there was Harwell's mighty prong. He was gliding in and out of me with such rapidity that I thought this is what it might be like to have a dog mount one. I thought of a dog mounting me and I went absolutely berserk. I whipped my hips around like a dervish. How much more of a dervish I might have been had I been able to foresee the future and Sir Lawrence Terstyke and the matter of his hounds… No matter.
At the moment I was with Harwell. Then, somehow, reaching once again the peak of Mount Ovary, so to speak, where Harwell had plunged his sword, I was alone and yet not alone. I heard the furious surf of the Atlantic, and the gentle lappings of the waters in Gunnels Cove.
How absolutely magical it was, I thought, to be fifteen, and beautiful, and consentingly ravished of one's virginity… As my passions for the time being receded, I received from Harwell the cup that runneth over-as if from some fantastically turgid hose that, posted in periods, lashed my bottomless organs with the vibrations of a creamy fury… He breathed stertorously and lay heavily upon me between my legs. Constricting my vaginal walls, I made the last of his life stuff ooze forth. Harwell sighed. Then he was noble, positively noble. “My Lady,” he said, propping himself up on an elbow, his gentle brown eyes twinkling in that marvellously open, squarish face. “Yes, Oliver?” “The truth, Clarissa.”
“Ever,” said I. “Are your appetites assuagable?” “Not one by the other, Oliver. Just as one appetite is not famished by another, so one may not be appeased by another. Each of my appetites is free and clear.” My green eyes played over him roguishly. “What did you really want to know?” “Are you still hungry, Clarissa?”
I gazed at the huge, hulking mass of the man. “Keenly,” I said. “If I may be so indelicate, Mr. Harwell, the dismissal of my virginity has created a bottomless hole.” He blushed. I laughed. It amused me to see him ruddy all over. “I meant another sort of hunger, Clarissa. Such as the one for meat.” “Precisely.
For meat. Would you like to see me bare the teeth of my vagina?
Because that, my dear man, is the way the female castrates the male.”
“Oh,” he said. “I'd no idea.” “I didn't think you had,” I said. “I think a woman trying to castrate you might well choke herself to death. I don't think I'll try-I'm far too young to die.” “I'm pleased.” “Will you be displeased if I return to Quistern House to consume some eggs and beef? You may accompany me if you wish.”
“Thank you, My Lady, but I think I'll muse the time away by waiting for you here. You will return?” “Oh, you may depend upon it, Oliver. You have shot me down. Consider me a trophy…”
Fortunately, I encountered neither my father nor my mother. They were being terribly civil to their guests by insisting upon showing them the countryside-the bleak bare valleys, the small rivers, the moorland, the furze and the heather. So, condescending bitch that I am, I played American by dropping into the kitchen and lunching with Mrs. Manyjohn, our housekeeper, and Wittling, our butler. After making them both quite uncomfortable-while I gluttonously devoured the provender-I had Mrs. Lingelhoffe, our cook, prepare an extra repast to put in a basket. I told her I was going for a considerable stroll along the shoreline, and that undoubtedly I would become ravenous.
I thought, of course, that Harwell would be terribly grateful.
He wasn't-he was rather human! “Is this how you intend to keep me in good working condition?” he inquired. I closed the door of the hut and faced him. “You had better eat what I brought, Mr.
Harwell, or I may very well throw it at you.” The massive man took me by the shoulders and kissed me. Christ, I thought, even this man's tongue trembles like a cock. I took his hand and laid it on my crotch. “It exudes both heat and moisture,” I murmured. “You had better eat quickly, Harwell.” The arrogant bastard ate slowly.
I tried to hurry him up by masturbating in front of him, even as he chewed upon a leg of chicken. He was relatively unmoved.
“Good show,” he said. I slapped his face. He put down the chicken, flung me over his knee and slapped my bare buttocks. I cursed him and farted in his eyes and he dumped me on the earthen floor of the hut. “Faugh,” said he. But he nevertheless finished the meal I had brought. And I had thought no man would ever recover from the ignominy of one of my farts. Harwell certainly was the exception. I became quite annoyed with him. I felt, due to our intimacy, that I had the right. I acted quite the bitch-I kept farting. He made no comment until he had done with eating. Then he again put me on his knee and rapped my arse. “Do you imagine,” he said, “that because you're of nobility you've the right to make a stench wherever and whenever you please?” He let me up and I flung off all my clothes and I stood there before him, my arms akimbo, my teats swinging, my nipples hardening. “I don't believe, Harwell, that I have to justify my actions to a mere teacher. You're damned fortunate we don't live in Tudor times or I think I'd have your head.” I grinned. “Instead, Harwell, I'll have your prick.” Before he could stop me-if, indeed, he really wanted to-I got my hand inside his trousers and around his bassoon and I jerked at it fiercely as I smiled crookedly, wantonly, shamelessly. His arms fell to his sides. I kept jerking. He started to say something but no words would come. His jaw worked and there was utter silence.
Then I laughed at him and kept jerking. He tried to pull away. I tightened my grasp and I pulled at his bullness with even greater vigor. Harwell paled. He shook his head. He staggered backwards. I kept with him. He crumpled onto the bed. I sat beside him and worked that thing of his. My tutor breathed shallowly. I took it in both hands. He groaned. He shook his head. I suddenly stopped jerking and his jaw went slack and I ran a finger lightly from the tip of his cock to the base and Harwell whimpered and the cream in his massive balls spurted forth through his tremendous nozzle and then I seized it again and oscillated its skin back and forth, back and forth as the cream shot at my teats and ran down my belly till I was all slippery with it and then I gently, very gently, lapped at his shrinking nozzle till it once again regained rigidity and, grinning blissfully, I hovered over it with my cunt and, moaning sweetly in my best coloratura, I engorged Harwell's frigger by sitting down upon it. My sensations traveled up my spine to my brain where they exploded. I half-closed my eyes. I was all vertical.
Harwell's fairly vertical frigger pointed everything up and down in me. It was a unique experience-vertical passion, and one accompanied by a feeling of intense superiority. I smiled condescendingly as I used Harwell. I was the queen and he the subject- and I rode him up and down. Rather like a steeplechase, I thought. His head moved from side to side-ah, I muttered to myself, he is completely will-less now, the colossus has awarded his plumbing piece all of his power, and it is all concentrated there now-and I have that power in my vaginal grip. I will put him through the paces, I told myself. To that end, I temporarily called a halt to my vertical admonitions-Harwell's shaft remained entirely enclosed. “Why do you stop?” my tutor asked. He raised a hand and pulled at one of my nipples. I slapped his hand away-and he was too much at the mercy of passion to make a contest of it. “You have enough of me without my teats,” I said.
“As for stopping, I want to prolong my sense of power-” “Bitch,” he said, swinging his body from side to side, attempting to uncouple.
But I was having none. I seized his shoulders and hung on. It turned out that he had overestimated his own powers of control. As he struggled and as I continued to enclose him, the friction on his pier proved to be too much to tolerate-because, suddenly, he breathed very noisily and arched his body. I was flooded. I felt his nozzle recede. I said nothing-I was frustrated and depressed and I made no attempt to conceal my feelings. Harwell embraced me tenderly-he knew what the trouble was and he hastened to rectify matters. He turned and, on his knees, showed me his arse. I was puzzled-surely he did not intend to lave my detritus. But my impression was radically altered in the moments that followed. His head and tongue sank between my legs and he went beyond that step to nibble at my yoni's buried treasure, so to speak, that small mass of tissue that responds wildly to the touch. After Harwell nibbled, he sucked. And, since I'd already been on the high plateau, it took me a very short while to attain the mountaintop. I did attain it, shoving my yoni at Harwell and sinking my own fingernails into my nipples. I screamed from ecstasy and locked my legs around Harwell's neck. He continued to suck and I kept on having climaxes. I counted five and then my thighs fell away from Harwell's neck -I was exhausted… He rose from my depths and, wordlessly, I wiped his face with a towel. He smiled, but there was something strange to it, something terribly sad. I asked him what the matter was.
He denied anything was the matter. On the contrary, he added, never had he known such physical bliss as he had had with Clarissa. We would have another go at it, he said, as soon as he could get his animal working again. His animal, I noted, was fairly shriveled.
But that was not what was concerning me. It was the sad look he had given me as he had surveyed my body from head to toe-as though he had wanted to engrave one final image of my body on his consciousness.
But I stopped thinking of that as a validity when-it was mid-afternoon by then-Harwell began squeezing his “pipe and balls” again. I loved to watch the male of the species playing with itself, handling its organ. And I loved to watch dogs in heat, the way their scarlet cocks slid in and out of that hairy protective piece of theirs-slid in and out, scarlet and glistening. Often enough in fantasy, I would take a dog prick in my mouth and make it come, whining and whimpering. And what would it be like, I would think, to be screwed by a dog with its lightning-like thrusts? But Harwell, at the moment, was far more persuasive than fantasy-his organ was fully erect. I've forgotten, now, how many times Harwell and I had sex that day, but that time was filled with it as we intermittently heard the lapping of the cove's waters and, more distantly, the smashing of the Atlantic at Cornwall's boulders. Finally-it was getting toward dusk-we mutually agreed that we had had our fill and that we'd best be getting back to Quistern House, or we would be missed. Harwell held me in his arms. “A few more minutes,” he whispered.
“All right,” I said. In the dimming light there was something quite romantic to the fisherman's hut-the nets, the hurricane lamps, and even the porthole windows the builder, once a seaman himself, probably, had affected. “You like the place, Oliver?” “Very much,” he said. Impulsively I said, “It's yours if you want it. Take it.” “Thank you, Clarissa. You're much too generous-” “I'm rarely generous. You know that. But I'd like you to have this hut-to work in, live in, as long as you like. Nobody will disturb you.” But Harwell very graciously declined, pleading that it was too far from London. I agreed with him about that. Still, even so, I had misgivings at that point I had the feeling that something dreadful was about to happen. “Please hold me tight, Oliver.” “Of course.” “There's something awful that's going to happen to me,” I said. “Nonsense,” Harwell said. “Anyway, both good and bad things happen to everybody in their measure. And the happening is unpredictable.” I rubbed my cheek against Harwell's.
“If,” I said, “Darwin can sort of predict backward, and account for all species, even insects, why can't he predict frontward and describe what species will be, or won't be?” “Why can't he, indeed?”
Harwell said. “A perfectly sensible question, Clarissa.” He regarded me glowingly, possessively. I liked the look of possessiveness, which made me feel infinitely better. He added, “Why don't you do a paper on it, Clarissa? You're quite capable, you know. It's too bad you can't go on to Oxford or Cambridge.” “Father wouldn't hear of it, even if it were possible.” “He believes in the superiority of the male, I suppose,” Harwell said. “Not so much the superiority,” I said, “as the gulf between the sexes, bridged only by coition and that only transitorily. What do you believe, Oliver?” He took his arms away from me to light his pipe. He smoked for a moment or so and then said, frowning, “I will tell this to you, Clarissa, that I've told to no other living soul. Please keep it entrenous.” “You have my word, Oliver.” “You asked me what I believe in, Clarissa. I'm afraid the answer is-in nothing.” I looked at him in astonishment. “Nothing?” I echoed. “Nothing,” he said dourly, puffing slowly at his pipe, his brown eyes hooded. Again I felt an awful dread. I asked myself what, indeed, I was to believe in if this quite superior man-who was a master of the English tongue, of the Greek, Latin, German and French tongues, who was equally at home with the Principia of Newton as he was with the religious sonnets of Donne-believed in nothing? Although the air was warm, I felt chilled and depressed. “We ought to be getting back,” I said.
“Have I offended you in some way?” “No, no, Oliver. It's just that I'm fifteen-very advanced, I know, beyond my years-and yet shaky.” “All of adolescence is shaky,” he said. “I remember my own.” “Yes,” I said abstractedly as we dressed. I looked around the little hut as if for the last time. I even glanced out of one of the porthole windows at the cove. In a sense I contented myself with the thought that the waters of Gunnels Cove would remain calm long after Oliver Harwell, long after my mother and father, and long after my brother and myself. It would take me, now, at least half an hour to traverse the path to the cove from Quistern House to see if the waters were indeed still calm. Well, that is too much of a journey for an old lady who is temporarily out of lovers. I'll defer the trip until I have myself a man. Which shan't be too much of a wait for the Marchioness of Portferrans… eh? Incidentally, no storm had broken, either above Quistern House or Gunnels Cove.