There came then shufflings from below and murmurs, protestations, whispers from my wife. Laggard the footsteps came, but still they came. I heard a smack or two and knew that Caroline was chiding her for sloth. “Don't want to”-“Yes, you do,” was heard. Plainly Miss Withers had reverted in her years. She put up her behaviour as a young girl might. They passed the study, and I peeped, and saw her glorious bottom bared and cupped upon my wife's warm palm.
I must truncate my tale. I bear too much on detail here perhaps and stir impatience. Naked I found them both, enclasped between the sheets. Miss Withers gave a cry and hid her face. I slid within the bed and sandwiched her between our vibrant forms, my prick hard-pressed against her bottoms bliss. Caroline's arms were clasped about her waist. I pushed the sheet down to reveal their forms, the vaselike curving of their hips, the jellied jiggling of their wondrous tits whose nipple kissed together as they hugged.
“How lovely she is! May we not keep you?” teased Caroline to her and rolled her on her back.
“Please, no, do not!” Miss Withers quavered, but her eyes were dull and hid the fires within.
“Open her legs the more and get between,” husked Caroline.
Miss Withers, gasped, she bucked, she would have closed her thighs. Her swollen gourds were underneath my chest. Her nipples burned to me, her belly wriggled, slithered all in vain. My knob probed her cuntlips and slid in.
“We shall have to birch her in the morning, dearest; what a naughty girl!”
I could not answer. God, how tight she was! I slid my palms beneath her bottom's lustrous orb and cupped the cheeks. Her fists beat on my back, her mouth avoided mine-she gasped and moaned. I gripped her wrists, thrust them above her head. A rippling of my loins-my cock was sheathed, our bellies close together and her tits a-rolling under me. She bucked still, moaned her moans; I held her thus, reached for my love's warm bottom, fondled it. Our voluptuous victim sobbed and bit the pillow twixt her teeth, my kisses raining on her velvet cheek.
“Oh no, no, no!” her cries went on.
“Come darling, give it to him-work your cunt upon his prick,” soothed Caroline and nipped Miss Withers' ear, then rolled her tongue within and licked her neck, her own warm bottom jiggling to my thumb.
The tears rolled slowly from Miss Withers' eyes and yet I felt the eager clenching of her cunny on my cock as in and out it surged. Her bottom rolled a little to my palms. I found her rosebud, worked my finger in, making her breath hiss out, her back to arch.
“Kiss me! Sperm her while you kiss me-oh, don't wait!” gasped Caroline.
I then was at my peak already, grazed my pubic hairs upon Miss Withers, and with a momentous moan lauded her cunny with my spermy flood, pulsed on, pulsed on, and spat my liquid treasures deep within, my tongue and Caroline's together as I did in rapturous abandon at our toil. Sinking, I held Miss Withers, would not let her stir until the last thick, pearly drops had entered in. She quivered, flushed and bit the pillow more. Her belly shimmered once and then she came, spurt upon spurt upon my well-sheathed tool. I felt her wetness and the sparkling there around my encased knob. My finger worked up deep within her bottomhole and then slipped out.
“A good girl-was she not?” purred Caroline. I had for once no words to say-rolled off Miss Withers and lay quiet, though felt a joy to have her fleshy hip to mine and placed my hand upon her thigh and soothed her quim, so juicy to my fingers then.
“Want to go home,” Miss Whithers whimpered, turned to Caroline again and let her bottom bulb against my leg.
“No,” Caroline said softly, held her tight.
Such women are not infrequent. Despite their cries, their kicks, they are eventually docile. There is a certain pleasure in docility, but it lasts not. Some girls, when taken up, act thus. Even the severest training will not somehow bring them on to clasp one's neck and heave their bottoms to one's will, to answer tongue with tongue. They know not how to kiss, or are not minded to. Their mouths are rubbery and soft, but have no fine responsiveness. Their eyes are dull, their fingers loosely clasp one's arms. The are obedient and yet not amourous.
Yet curiously they drive one on to try to overcome their laxity. I have heard this so from others, too, recalled their tales as I lay there, fingering Miss Withers' bottom lazily. “They are bovine; they take the cock and suck it dry, then lie there quiet, bemused, in some far cloud of their own making,” so one said, and added pensively, “They seem scarce to know what passed or what one has done with them. Their bellies ripple while they're being fucked, and yet they seldom come. One birches them the more and puts it in again. It does no good. Their arses are invariably ripe, and that's the waste of it. Some have the body of a goddess, yet are cold as marble. There's no teaching of them-not at all, dear boy.”
The fellow was right. Miss Withers was one such. To fail to yield such treasures lustfully I count as a dire sin. The deuce of it-their very laxity spurs on the cock to prove its point, yet all in vain. The champions colours are ignored by them. “I shall liven her up,” it is said of such by bold, brave souls, and yet they never do, they never do. Cocks limp, they sigh and take to port again, or douse a whisky and may even try the citadel once more to stir the flames where no fires burn. One tries again, again-and that's the oddity of it.
My cock stirred at such thoughts. I turned and pressed it up against her lustrous bum. She squirmed, cried out, was held between us. Prising her plump cheeks apart, I had my knob a-throbbing at her brown-rimmed ring, and gritting teeth a little, urged it up. Her head jerked back and bumped my forehead as she did. My arms met Caroline's around her waist.
“No-no-my god, no!” came Miss Withers' cry.
“Be quiet, you naughty girl,” from Caroline. Such teasing, though, has little more effect than does the prick itself. There is a deadness, surely, in their souls, and yet such females are penetrated all the more to try and make them flower. The challenge is for every male to meet. He cannot help himself, alas.
“Come-yield your bottom to me, woman!”
“Nooo!” she moaned and wriggled like a fish in our embrace. By then I was embedded a full inch in her tight, slowly-yielding anus that so hotly clenched itself around my pego with its stiff demand.
“Yes, dear, sink back on it. Take it right up you, sillikins,” breathed Caroline.
“Don't woh-woh-want to! Oh, such wickedness! How dare he put it up my… oooof!”
I rammed her suddenly. I wished to feel the sweet ballooning of her cheeks against my belly, fleshy, round and warm pulsating out its joy to take a cock. Her heels kicked to my shins; I had her though. The cork was in the bottleneck-my balls nudged underneath her sticky quim.
“Now let her be,” I grunted out to Caroline, shifted my posture, drew the woman up with me and brought her slowly on her knees, my prick still buried in her fundament. Caroline made to hold her neck. I uttered sternly, “No!” She caught my mood and smiled and then lay back, her legs spread wide, dark bush against pale skin, one knee up-bent and pressing to my thigh.
“Yes, darling, she needs a cock up her bottom,” whispered she.
“no-oooh!”
“Be quiet!” I thundered to Miss Withers who, at that let head and shoulders droop, her warm arse mounding tightly into me.
“I shall-I shall-I'll die of this!” she moaned.
“No young girl ever has, and nor shall you. Now, roll your bottom, woman, or I'll cane you-that I will!”
“Oooh-Hooo, you beast!” and yet her cry was soft. I felt the working of bumcheeks to my skin, the squeezing of her muscles deep within, and knew indeed how tight a cork feels in a bottleneck.
“Tickle her cunny, Caroline.”
“My love!” Lithe as she is, my wife spun round her feet against the headboard of the bed, then serpent-like slid underneath Miss Withers till her mouth came under her moist quim.