“NEE-HEE!” Miss Withers squeaked. We had her then-prick up her bottom and a sleek tongue to her cunt. Then Caroline reached up and held her waist while I began to pump. Ah-how I pumped! Miss Withers' bottom smacked against my belly as I did. My prick was tightly-squeezed. Perhaps a pearl of come exuded from the tip, for she was lubricated soon enough, her fine arse made to swing between the pair of us, all three a-panting, moaning as we worked. I cupped Miss Withers' tits-her nipples stiff. They dangled on my palms like melons ripe, the skin so silky and so swollen up.
“Ah, she is taking it-the lovely. What a bottom she has!”
I could not help myself. My wife's tongue flicked beneath my balls. She had a mouthful of us both. I bent upon Miss Withers-kissed her neck, the reaches of her velvet cheek, but could not reach her mouth. I hated her for that, and yet she yielded then, permitted me to move her bottom back and forth.
“The darling-she is coming! Bugger her, my pet!” gargled my wife. Miss Withers' fingers twisted up the pillow tight. Her head drooped, lips apart. I seized her mouth at last. O wondrous passion of that kiss as then I came-her bottom screwing into me, her tongue a serpent round about my own. I pulsed, I jetted out my cannonade deep in her bum and felt her squirming joy, her warm saliva trickling in my mouth, and on and on the icy fire of it until I quivered in her and was spent.
I straightened up and held her thus. She wriggled just a little and was still. Then Caroline slid up from under her, affording me a very salty kiss.
“Oh, darling, you're still in her! Take it slowly out. The treasure that she is-I knew she would!”
Out came my stricken slug of flesh. It hesitated at the rim, was squeezed once more and then fell limp. Miss Withers had been conquered, so it seemed. She slumped and hid her face and closed her eyes. I felt the throbbing of her bottom in my balls, collapsed with a deep sigh upon my back and let my leg fall over hers.
“Oh, don't! I did not want to, but you made me,” so she moaned, and even Caroline then looked bemused. The would-be comfort of her hand was shaken off, and up Miss Withers sat, an ooze of come squeezed to the sheet, as afterwards I saw.
“You want to go home?” My wife's tone then was stiff. She rose and put her nightgown on. I slid my leg away, drew up the sheet. Miss Withers clambered out of bed. I regretted even then the departure of that globous bottom from my clasp.
“I will go home.” Her voice was soft. It spoke of raindrops rather than of flowers. The scent of sperm was all about the room. I thought it heady; she did not.
“I will see to a coach; your own has gone,” said Caroline. She drew a peignoir on and trotted out-the hostess to the last, salt-rimmed her lips. Miss Withers slowly gathered up her clothes. I was not there: a ghost from her dim past. I watched her dress. Her drawers were still downstairs, that pleased me at the least. She dressed with an untidiness that did not, though. I did not want her anymore; I did not want. Lacing her boots at last she went downstairs. The muffled voices-different now-came up to me. The front door slammed. I heard a coach depart. Then Caroline returned.
“A scandal will there be?” I asked.
“I have told her there will not-or she will be the loser of it, that I'd see to, mark my words. I told thus. She understands. But now embrace me-take my lips to yours.”
Naked again she came into my arms. We kissed and whispered sultrily and then were still. Home is a haven when it can be thus. I felt her nipples, twiddled them about.
“You liked it, though?” she asked and sighed.
“Not much.” I told the truth and yet in part I lied. The power of womanhood is such as lures one even in dismay. “At least, she'll not forget this night,” I said.
“And yet will place no value on it. What a fool! Her husband-to-be will turn to looser women. That I tried to warn her of.”
“It does not matter.”
“No. I know. There are such-dry as husks. They have no juice. I swear that when she came she did despise herself or thought it some strange accident.”
“It does not matter, dearest. How you tried!”
“I did; I know I did. I thought it best for her. She will not even twiddle her own cunny so she said. Oh god, what a drab place the world becomes with such as she.”
A sigh. The night grew warmer then. We lay together quietly, and we slept.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Love is continual, but lust is not. One who eats sugar night and morn will soon lose his palate for it. I betray my middle age, perhaps, in speaking thus. The young are merry in their randiness and stir us still, but even so we leave the creamiest cakes upon the plate sometimes, to be nibbled later. Anticipations are a perfect aphrodisiac. If Caroline and Adelaide did not have as great a taste for females as they do for males, all would be different.
“We are collectors,” Caroline will say with pride. In the Somner household, we were members of a “club,” or so to speak, and sported in the rules. Adelaide-having once passed her trials and having been seen to be corked- was not seen thus again. Both Lord Somner and I possessed her at our whim, but privately thereafter. When the girls were to be breached, they went sedately up the stairs and were seen to in or on their beds. A “creamed bun” always attracted me. I have had both Caroline and Adelaide after they had been corked, and found them passionate for more. Or the girls would toy with us in pairs; that too was known. A bedroom door once closed was kept thus until the male appeared again, a little more wan than when he entered.
There were times when jealousy obtained with me. I muffled it. Lewdly, I did not mind provided that Caroline told me of her adventures afterwards, doing so in such exquisite and well-wrought detail that I became-as she well knew-quite dizzy with desire for her. A sensation that she or Adelaide were to be ridden, or wished to sport together with another male, would come over me and I would leave the house, take horse, and ride across the fields. Ever the images would bring me back, though, and I would find their bottoms or their cunnies moist.
“You have been fucked,” I would say with an intensity of fear and thrills to Caroline and she would often hide her face and smooth her belly into mine. “Yes, or no-I had it up my bottom, anyway,” she sometimes would reply, and then would quickly add, “There is a new girl coming soon. Her cheeks have been opened only once; you have to help me train her, pet.”
That always diverted me; she knew it did. My prick would stiffen up despite myself. Her lips would part and tongue come in to mine. I could feel the marks of the birch sometimes upon her bottom as we kissed. “Why do you?” I would ask. I rarely birched or strapped them then, but now do so just for the fun of it.-“Because it makes me naughty,” she would say; and then with husky laugh would add, “I want another one up there, so give me yours.”
“You know I hate you.” Oh, so often I said that. Her eyes would hide and she would nod again. Often enough upon a landing this was said, her door half open and her ruffled bed in view. Stiffly she would draw me back within and kick the door to with her foot, as if demandingly.
“You will not resist,” she would say. Her tongue was liquid fire; her thighs would show.
“Stop it; I hate you,” I would often choke.
“His balls slapped underneath my pussy. Oh, I feel so naughty when they do; I cannot help myself. He makes me anyway; you know he does. Now, make me, too.”
“Bitch! Dirty bitch!”
“Yes, call me names. I like it when you do. Come hate, come love, you always shall possess me and you know it's true.”
O shimmerings of love when such is said! We would melt within each other's arms, begin a litany of true amour. I have had my cock up in her bottom while we laughed, the sun upon us through her window pane, her passage spermy but still gripping tight. It is still so; I have no remorse for it. A tinge of jealousy can be the salt of love, but one must count the grains each day and see they do not mount, or all is spoiled. I have mounted other maidens in her sight and hence cannot excuse myself. Hypocrisy is practised more by males than women. We pretend to good deeds, even to outrage, the while we lift another's skirt, returning home then to accuse our wives of wantonness.-“And with such self-esteem, and that's the canting part of it,” says Caroline. I grin, say yes, and then pretend propriety I do not feel and certainly have not exhibited.