There was the wave upon wave of titian hair, there was the faintly slanted gray of her eyes in the piquant face in its slightly off-center pixie triangle, and there were her breasts-high, long, pointed, swollen, their nipples protruding further than mine. I started to sweat. James could not contain himself. With a hoarse cry he advanced upon Angela and with both hands seized one of her breasts and took long, slow sucks upon it. Angela threw back her head and laughed. James did not for a moment pause. I stood there transfixed. As James continued to have at her teat, Angela seized his now rigid cock and gently brushed it against the dense reddish fleece adorning her Mount of Venus-brushed it against and then jabbed it at herself almost as if she were triumphally planting a standard on the mountaintop. James groaned. My knees trembled. And thus Angela brought us to the bath whose steep sides we proceeded to climb over-there was a picture: three bobbing posteriors mounting the ornate tub which, large though it was, nevertheless forced us into rather close quarters. But by that point none of us minded in the least. Laughing immoderately, shrieking, squealing, a-chatter with chuckle and gasp, we took turns soaping each other and ourselves, James by that stage so hypersensitive that, as Angela ran the soap along his male regalia, the breath caught in his throat, his face suddenly paled, he leaned back against the side of the tub, his prick high and quaking and catapulting forth great gushes of thick white juice. An expression of savagery overtook Angela's face and she engorged all of James's organ in her mouth, her throat working convulsively as she pulled and swallowed… pulled and swallowed.
Seeing she was thus engaged, I took courage in hand and thrust one, two and then three fingers into her turgid vulva obscured by the soapy waters. Her gray eyes bulged. As far as she possibly could within the confines of the bathtub-and she was on her knees in the soap-bubbled water as she laved at and sucked my brother's reamer-she spread her freckled thighs for me. I knelt before this redheaded beauty and dug. Dug viciously. With all the suppressed cruelty of a ten-year-old who had been surrounded with convention and taboo. With the cant and the sham of the times that permitted the adult male of the species to enjoy bloodletting by watching bare-knuckled prizefighters maul themselves half to death… I was a child of the times. The times that had other children work in factories fourteen hours a day. I was incomparably more fortunate. And what, pray, what was I doing now? I shall tell you, in all candor. I was the Lady Clarissa, punishing my inferior, Miss Angela Cleves. Therefore, dear reader, I dug at Angela's vulva. At her vagina. Now she was thrashing in the bathwater. She had released my brother, who now watched us incredulously. She looked at me with terror and hatred, but was powerless. The bliss had her helpless. Spittle formed at the corners of her mouth-I had found that special, ultrasensitive protuberance of the female, the clitoris, and I was stroking it, jerking at it, pushing it, squeezing it with all the cunning at my command.
Angela's breathing was stertorous. James continued to watch us, his own machine a-dangle and hopping from time to time like a little bird on the end of a leash. Our governess gazed at me with venomous rage, which her ecstasies kept at bay. It was not that she was not being erotically satisfied, but that she felt her ignominious secondary position-and to a ten-year-old girl at that! Admittedly, a ten-year-old far in advance of her chronological age, but vastly the junior of Cleves. But Cleves was a female of extraordinary spirit. She had no intention of remaining in a secondary position. Her breasts jiggling from the effort, she took a purchase on the rim of the bathtub and by main force pulled herself upright-even as I never missed a stroke. I grinned wickedly at her discomfiture-I was relishing every second. But Angela Cleves shook her head and, with a steely grip, seized my hand-although, like some mechanical thing, her hips, that had been thrusting at my fingers before, continued to thrust. She took a deep breath. “Children,” she said. “Yes, dear governess,” James and I mockingly chanted in unison. “We will dry ourselves and proceed to the bedroom.”
“Yes, dear governess.” Once we were back in the bedroom I did a superb piece of acting. If I may say so, this was probably the first instance of the showing of my histrionic abilities. The motivation? Very simple. Although I was a child, I was nevertheless a Lady, the daughter of a Marquis, and I wished to prove to Cleves that I was quite capable of maintaining my superior position. What I did was the following-nothing complicated but, as it turned out, highly effective. James, alert to every shading of my moods, waited, intuiting that I had the situation well in hand and that we would take the play away from the redhead on the ground that the pleasures of the aristocratic blood took precedence over those of the working class.
I sat on the bed, daintily picked up a stocking, raised one leg high into the air and fell back, as though I were about to roll on my stocking from that stance, thus taking the first step toward absenting myself from Miss Cleves' quarters. With a strangled whimper of lust, the voluptuous redheaded woman advanced upon me in all her seductive nudity-she had stared for a moment at my position on the bed, with one leg altitudinously elevated, and what that had revealed of my outer and inner ramparts pinkly pouting among the black foliage.
“You little beast,” she hurled at me. “I will teach you to mock me-even in my presence!” She had no idea of what was to transpire. She did not notice, for instance, that the fine club of my brother had once again become poised. Simulating alarm, I raised the other leg, crooking it at the knee, and dropped the stocking.
“Oh, la,” said I, “whatever have I done?” Cleves' words were quite lost and unintelligible as she dropped to her knees-I had made certain to comport myself at the edge of the bed-and buried herself headfirst in my ebon coppice, her tongue darting furiously. I felt a huge victory-Cleves had genuflected. She was practically prostrate before me. I raised myself to my elbows and then sat up, a liquid fire engulfing my vitals because of the knowing lavings of my governess. I caressed the back of her neck and several times rudely pushed at her head so that she might search me out more thoroughly.
Then I nodded at James and he winked. I dropped once again to my elbows and, very slowly, began pushing myself away from the edge of the four-poster-pushing myself toward the center of the fresh sheets.
As I did so, Cleves never for a moment relinquished either her labializing of my rima pudendi or her rapid tongue inserts between the labia majora pudendi and the labia minora pudendi, laving the clitoris and foraging into the vagina (my dear reader, please to keep in mind that, while at the time of the instance described above I had no idea whatever of the proper names for the anatomy in question, I did learn them later in my frigid period to understand myself better, an account of which you will find later in my narrative). I tell you quite frankly, I would have surrendered then and there to the Clevesian ministrations and forgotten my noble blood entirely had it not been for my loyalty to my brother who had contrived to whisper to me, while the busy redhead was nibbling at my clitoris-which almost drove me mad-that if I got Cleves onto the bed, he, James would be in a position once and for all to have done with his virginity. So be it, I told myself. Now the redhead and I were roughly in the center of the four-poster. As she had at me with her little pointed tongue, her rump was high in the air. Her hands tortured my nipples.
My own breathing was shallow. I shut my eyes. I began to buck.
Then, suddenly, my genital system felt as if it had been stove in-Angela's teeth had cut into the tissues because the woman had been lunged at from the rear. I whined. Actually, the pain was short-lived because of the overriding zest that soon claimed me. It had been James, of course, who had come upon Angela from behind. As the head of his penis established contact with the tip of her womb, Miss Angela Cleves uttered an unearthly cry. Momentarily she raised her secretion-smeared face and twisted her head to cry to James, “You dirty little monster!” I supposed she was paying some sort of lip service to whatever remained of her conscience, because once again she applied her physiognomic lips to my vaginal ones, and once again I was flying a sortie of rapture while my brother plumbed Cleves from the rear-then I heard her groaning at my slit. He was being quite cruel to her but she deserved every shred for blackmailing us. He hung on to her breasts-literally hung on them-while he glided in and out of her, plunged in and out of her. She made pitiful nasal sounds which I intercepted and broke by shoving her face into my luxuriance and wrapping my thighs around her neck. I came. James came.