“A pity you could not nest in them, Harry. I would like to see her done that way; she has a pretty bush,” said Adelaide reflectively. We had kept the sisters for three days-then they were bidden home again by messenger. We left them at their gate. It seemed the proper thing to do. Their shadows chased each other's as they ran along the drive, then Norma turned and waved; Myrtle did not. Their cunnies still were virgin. We had followed orders on that point.
“She will be difficult still, the older one;” said Caroline. A valet opened the front door to them. We were alone again. I snapped the reins. The horses trotted off.
“I suppose-yes-I suppose,” I felt a wisdom on me greater than my years. I had taken both their bottoms side by side, for Caroline wished it so, withdrawing from the one and entering the other while they squealed, and Adelaide to one side with the cane in hand. “Were we rough with them?” I asked, as though to contradict my newfound “wisdom.”
“Do they look it?” Caroline asked abruptly. It was true that they did not. Once dressed again and tidy, they looked in the bloom of health. I sighed, said “No” and tightened up the reins.
“Myrtle will make a profession of objecting. How she would have kicked if you had got between her legs! I wanted to see that,” Adelaide said dolefully.
“She kept sobbing,” said I.
“Oh pouf, and enjoyed it all the same, despite pretences! Really, Harry, you are too easily taken in. Norma only squealed because her sister did. That Myrtle is a sounding-board for such. She may end up in a convent yet,” Caroline rejoined, though I did not think her serious. Indeed, by the time we were back she had changed her tune. “Another Aunt Lucy-that is what she will be,” she said. Recalling that remark in retrospect, I take it as a cue to entertain you-if indeed I do-with quite a different tale.
I believe that I have said somewhere, in this much piled-up and sometimes tangled manuscript (and if I have not, then I should have done), that a sobbing female makes a most delicious ride.
I do not speak (heaven forfend) of one who is in anguish, nor of one whose tears are bitter and ashamed. Tears that are petulant are otherwise.-“Made to be conquered should be written on their bottoms,” has been said with truth of those who do prove petulant but show no real despair. They cease to sob who have enjoyed. Those who cry afterwards must give one pause as to their futures. Myrtle had not done so, but on each renewal of presenting up her bottom to my prick had uttered up the selfsame plaintive cries as when we had begun-and this is counted as a mulishness.
But we were wrong. Our skills, such as we flattered ourselves to have, were not unique. It mollified us much to learn this, and it taught us more.
“She was feathered first-that first night when we took her back;” said Adelaide with awe. I know not how she learned, but listening servants put these things about.
Myrtles drawers were taken down and she was held, a feather put up underneath her quim and twirled about her button. Naturally she bucked and kicked, but under the relentless titillation could not help but come, her nipples being sucked the while. Then, glazed of eyes and helpless to resist, her legs were held apart and she received the throbbing member in her quim.
The lights were doused (“A nice touch, that,” said Caroline) and for long minutes she was thus held, shafted by his cock which pressed its root against her lovelips longingly. She twittered, feebly clawed, but then her thighs were slapped and she lay still. He pumped her slowly and she lay like a limp doll, moaning her soft despair into the darkened room until-by some unbidden alchemy of lust-she began to come again and spurted thrilling upon his urging prick. Whereat all changed.
“Oh do me, do me-do!” was heard her cry (where-from I suspected a servant's listening ears). Lips melted, tongues entwined, her bottom bucked with eagerness to the incessant surging of his tool. Myrtle was conquered and would never more say no.
“Where did we fail?” asked Caroline on hearing this recital.
“Yes, that's what I want to know,” I said, as if to bolster her.
“Aha, he has a bigger one than you,” said Adelaide. I smacked her bottom and she laughed. It taught us to be modest, at the least, of our “achievements.” There was feathering of girls thereafter, and much more besides, in our domain.
But to Aunt Lucy. She was thirty-seven-hence no fledgling-when she entertained two males at once. Unwittingly, I say, and yet it happened thus.
Aunt Lucy loved to cry and quite adored lugubrious occasions. She had a penchant both for weddings and funerals and would attend the latter dressed entirely and expensively in black, no matter if the deceased were a distant relation whom she had not seen for twenty years. It is needful to say, however, that one should not think of her as a small, withered eccentric. She was an imposing creature, firm and fine of body, and just the selfsame ripeness that Miss Withers has. Clothed, as she often was, in black, she gave no appearance of the forbidding, but rather one of greater attractiveness, for what could be seen of her skin appeared more the lustrous and shimmering white thereby.
I recall that there was whispered speculation as to whether she wore black all beneath. The ladies said she must; the gentlemen hoped she might. The legs of female drawers had become at this time shorter,” permitting several inches of gap between the stocking tops and the elastic gripping of the garment so that an alluring glimpse of thighs was seen, the most erotic vision being thus aroused.
One afternoon, then, Aunt Lucy returned from the funeral of a distant relative whom many opined she had not even met nor ever corresponded with. En route from the station, and alone, two gentlemen passed her carriage and saluted her. Aunt Lucy was, of course, weeping, and but saw them through a veil of tears.
“Let us escort you, ma'am, in your distress,” was called by one, and so they rode alongside her carriage until her house was reached. Upon helping her to descend, the one who had called noticed what fine ankles she had and was much taken-as was his companion-by thoughts of all that lay above, and all appealingly so framed in black. She was not unknown to them, of course, and hence their offer to accompany her within “in her distress” (I put that not unkindly-she believed in tears) was quickly accepted.
More sobs sounded as the hall enclosed them first and then the drawing room. Servants who came were quietly shooed away by one of her escorts or the other. She wished to be quiet, said they, and hushed their tones, arranged her on the sofa and removed her gloves and bonnet while the tears streamed down her cheek-fetched port and raised it to her lips. She drank and sobbed in equal measure it was said.
“Come, oh warmhearted one, do not be so distressed,” said one who sat beside her on the right while the other cozened her on the left, caressed her thighs and felt the gap between her stocking tops and knicker-legs, this she appearing not to notice, so was said.
“My dearest one,” the other murmured, as if they had long been lovers. Making her lean back-and no great effort to it in her tearful state-he brought her soft, moist mouth beneath his own (“a little slobbery,” he said of it) and let her bubble on against his lips while his companion raised her skirt.
“What are you at?” she moaned but neither kicked nor struggled over much as her black drawers were exposed and the fulsome rims of her white thighs were lavished with salutations by a lapping tongue.
What are you at? How many a room has rung to this preposterous cry! It is indigenous to what are lately called the “suburbs,” I believe, and is frequently said by those who make no move to draw their clothes down once they have been ruffled up. It is a disguise to cover up confusion when desire obtains on both sides, but more shyly on the one than on the other.
“It were best to have her resting on the bed,” was said.
Her legs were lifted, heavy as they were. The other took her underneath the arms, and thus they carried her slung haplessly between them through the hall and up the stairs, she all the time a-sobbing but making no great cry-was like a great big floppy doll, they said, and mumbled as a sleepy child might while she was undressed, found to be all in black beneath, and this a wondrously voluptuous sight. Indeed, finding her so subservient, the gentlemen shed their trousers and handled her with teasing gentleness, the one drawing on her nipples while the other licked her honeypot.
Then was she fucked. I find it best to say it plain. One sheathed his cock in her and brought her to a point of liquid pleasure, she a-crying softly all the time, but lying lax to let him have his will. A splendid mount she proved to be, said they. The other took the first one's place and loosed his own spermatic flood after much heaving.
“What are you doing?” several times she moaned, but otherwise was silent. Then all three lay in those recumbent attitudes that follows satisfaction. Her face was turned this way and that between the pair to exchange kisses and her cunny tickled up again. “I am undone,” she sobbed without conviction, but she made no move to rise and was handled as easily as might a sleepy baby be, turned this way, that, her nether charms examined just as much as her plump mount.
“A curious lady. One would not have too much of her. In bed she is too indolent, accepts all that might be done to her, protrudes her tongue upon command and whimpers when her bottom is well fiddled with. Indeed, old chap,” was told to me, “in the very midst of the most ardent play she confessed to feeling thirst the while that both her holes were being teased. I then”-he continued-“fetched some wine. We made her drink it from the bottle's neck while sitting up. She souses well-I will say that of her, and left us but a mouthful each. Our cocks being ready, we then placed her on her back again. Her legs spread easily enough. “Oh, not again!” she moaned. Her well-soaked cunt, though, received us both once more and then we tucked her into bed and left her to her dreams. She said naught as we left, hurled no remonstrances, was quite quiescent, sobbed a little still, but curled up like an infant with her back to us as we retreated. A week passed ere we thought to visit her again. She proved once more to be handled as quietly as might be and permitted us to perform on her again. Deuced strange. One takes them as one finds them, though, dear boy.”
“Indeed,” said I. I felt no great astonishment at the story. Such ladies make bizarre excuses to themselves, I do believe, which is to say that they were made to or could not resist for fear of servants knowing. A grass widow, as she was, one cannot doubt that she enjoyed what she received. The gentlemen concerned were wise not to extend their visits on the first or second time. A lady who may be handled, as they said she might, but who has nothing to discourse of afterwards, proves dull eventually.
“And wisely so,” says Caroline, “for she may not want to involve herself too much. We have as many weapons in our armoury, my pet, as you.”
I would say they have more, in fact, but would not dream of confessing it to her. The coda to my tale of Aunt Lucy is one that I gained in a most roundabout way via a maid of the household whom a sovereign loosed her tongue.
Aunt Lucy was a tippler on the quiet. One might have gathered that, of course, from the brief mention of her guzzling of the wine. Perhaps it allayed her tears, or even sometimes brought them on. Whatever the case, she lent herself to a most libertine occasion shortly after her first triple bout. Edwin, her son of callow years-a subaltern in early training-took leave with a friend of his one day and arrived home unexpectedly to hear her sobbing gently up above.
“I say-what is to do? Lets go and see,” his friend exclaimed, whereat Edwin experienced a sense of unease, for knew his Mama's ways so far as tippling was concerned and would have ventured up himself, but his friend insisted-with all signs of solicitousness (and, I do not doubt, a certain curiosity) upon accompanying him.
Somewhat inevitably they found the lady abed, naked and half uncovered. Down beside the bed a bottle lay. The room reeked both of perfume and of wine, the curtains were drawn to. An air of voluptuousness swam in the air.
“Oh, it is you again!” Aunt Lucy uttered, blinking at the pair, and mistaking them in a moment of bibulous drowsiness for the gentlemen who had entertained her but a week before.
“Mama?” asked Edwin nervously, though feeling a little stirred by the sight of her mammalian beauties, as was his friend.
“Am thirsty. Fetch me water-no-champagne,” the lady uttered and then turned her back on them, disturbing the loose bedclothes as she did.
The young men retreated. “I say, what an arse she has on her!” commented Edwin's friend, for they had viewed it half-uncovered as she turned.
“WHAT a cad you are, Simpson!” responded Edwin and was said to have blushed fearfully.
“The devil of it, though, she has a lovely one. Champagne-I say, what a jolly good idea!”
Edwin's Mama was not so drowsy as they thought, where hangs the tale, though for myself, I thought her opportune. It chanced that a valet of the house bore the same name as Edwin's friend and she-supposing the two were the same (for she had seemingly but blinked at them for a fraction of a moment in her bleary state)-heard their murmurs on the stairs and called after them for Simpson to attend upon her rapidly.
“I will do it, Mama,” called Edwin, only to be admonished through the door and told that it was not his place- the which he took, of course, in quite a different sense to what she had intended.
“I say, your dear Mama must have taken a shine to me, what?” uttered Simpson who plainly had a letch on him to view that magnificent posterior once again. Hence despite the most embarrassed protests from Edwin 'twas he who bore the bottle and the chalice-so to speak-upstairs again while Edwin fiddled in the drawing room. These sounds and movements being observed, the maid in question listened from a cubbyhole and heard the selfsame moans of pleasure as emanated from above as Edwin did who fretfully strode back and forth. The bed squeaked. Slaps and smacks were heard-slobbery kisses, little grunts and groans. The lady was being injected once again, and no doubt held the bottle in her hand while Simpson gallantly took saddle in between her thighs.
A half hour passed and then he reappeared.
“Edwin, I say, I must begone,” he uttered hastily and made his exit, murmuring all the things one does on making such departures. Have we not all found it wise to do so now and then?
Edwin, 'twas said, remained a-pacing and then decided to go up. In turn, I was about to say, but I would not slander the dear chap who was all to bits and pieces at the happening. The maid-sensible girl-removed her shoes and followed him, hid in a linen cupboard near the room where a voluptuous act had just ensued.
“Pray, Mama, have you been assaulted?” Edwin asked.
“I? I am constantly under assault, my pet. Have you been here long? Where have you been?”
“That beast Simpson, I shall fight him for this!”
“Simpson? The valet was not here. Some stranger, dear. They are all strange, the strangers, are they not? Come, comfort me. How I am put upon!”
“Dearest Mama, where is your nightgown, where your clothes?”
“I do not know, I do not know. No, do not pull the curtains, for the light shines in my eyes too strongly. Help me up.” She hiccuped, Edwin bleated, then a silence fell. A sucking sound ensued.
“I think she had it in her mouth, sir, that I do,” the maid said.
“She kisses soundfully-so I am told,” said I. The silly girl should have ventured out and peeped. How rarely such things happen when one wants a full, precise report!
“Well, I don't know, sir. Anyway, there was mumblings, and she give a silly laugh or two, said 'Oh, you naughty boy,' and things like that.”
“Things like that?” I was beginning to regret the departure of my sovereign from my hand to hers. She clutched it tightly; almost purposefully, I'd say.
“Yes, sir. I think he had a feel. She said, “No, don't. Help me to put my drawers on, Edwin-fetch them from the drawer. Oh!'
She gave a gasp and then I heard her smack him and she laughed. Said he were sorry, that he did, and then I heard him move about. He said, 'Oh, let me.'-'No,' she says, 'not yet.' There was more suckings-kisses if you like-and then she told him to go down. I peeped and looked. His cock was up all right. I saw it in his trousers, sticking up.”
“Well, then, they didn't do it, Alice.”
“No, sir. But he has a feel of her and she of him. Bertha, she's heard them at it several times. Tells him to keep his pecker up, she does, keep it in reserve for her. She teases him to madness, the poor boy.”
“She made it up, you fool, all for a sovereign,” Caroline opined.
“Perhaps,” I said. I believed the first half-not the second part. It was not in Lucy's character at all. One goes on instinct in these things.
Besides-she would have cried and cried… And Alice had not mentioned that.