“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.