Brown voices at my ears, a tang of wine that moves around my gums.
“Her feet are still-the best of signs. She has not moved them half an inch. Come, lift your bottom to him, Miss-protrude!”
“Aaaah-oooh!”-yet now it sings but in my head. The sheen of heat is laid, my buttocks writhe. I count yet count not, bite my fingers not. Be not unseemly, Laura, in your pose. A scent of sperm is hazed upon the bed as once was hazed upon my own.
When the wrigglings ceased and we were done, when the wrigglings ceased, did it after turn to dust?
“I shall not hold her, Thomas, there is no need to hold her. If I needed to hold her she would not have come.”
“Prepare yourself, my dear. Lie back. Hold still, girl, hold still.”
Each word of his is splatted with the strap. I yield, moan, twist and buck, am lifted, slithered forward on the bed, and held in doglike pose between her thighs, her skirts drawn back. Her thighs are smooth as velvet, stockings taut, the lewdness of her crotch displayed, bereft of drawers.
“Now hold her in, my petal, slit to slit.”.
So sounds his voice. Our furs meet, merge and rub.
“Your tongue, my dear.” Her voice, too, softly furred. Her legs wind round my waist and hold me tight.
Thus did my aunt kiss me once, on the penultimate eve of my departure to be wed. Bearing a candle, she entered unto the darkness of my room, thin-veiled in silk and silent as a moth. Discarding then her robe and naked to her brazen bosoms, breasts of summer's fullness, belly smooth, she lay upon me, drawing up my shift. Be quiet, Laura, be quiet. Ever were the words thus. Open your legs now, let us rub. Hot tongue to my hot tongue, her lips to mine. Faint slither-squelch of slit to slit-I came, my bottom cupped, caressed, the cheeks held wide. He will come soon, my love, come soon. Let me prepare you. Ah, how dark the night, how dark! Rub, Laura, rub — come, darling, to my come. How oily you become, how slithery! Work, moan, and sob, my pet, he soon will come — cock to your bottom's heat. Ah, love, once more, oh yes, you come again! Now turn about and raise your gleaming orb. Wait in your darkling darkness, wait.
Would that she had stayed perhaps, but she stayed not. Drawing down the bedclothes to their full extent, she left me thus, mare-bottom-up, awaiting then his coming, armed for me, the shaft superior, full length and thick. And soundless in the night we threshed, but now…
My cheeks striated with the leather burn.
“Your tongue-come, be not shy-how soft your lips.” The gobble of her mouth to mine. Thrice more he straps and then my peach is clasped. By now in her mouth's darkness am I lost. Whispers of darkling dreams and curtains stirring. A low grunt and his crest seeks out the rim. Her arms enfold, my shoulders are as chained, heat-throbbing from the strap my bottom yields its ring of yielding to his urging-in, the veined shaft plugging now my plentitude until his balls hang plumlike to my quim.
Now is the moment of our merging moans, wet-lapping of my tongue to hers, my orb rotating to his penis surge, the stem near slipping out then plunging in to carve with arrogance its path of lust. Bounce-slap of flesh to flesh, his balls slow smack, my riding master takes his saddle well, my tight-fleshed channel sucking on his cock.
Am I the victim? Is the victory mine?
“Draw forth the sperm-clench, tighten, suck. Receive and you shall be replenished while the shaft itself falls limp.”
So my aunt instructed me. I understood perhaps, but never so well as upon this moment.
Thomas empties his balls. We are at full gallop. I receive the spurts, long spurts, the splashings and the dyings. Upon his withdrawal I am open for another.
“Is he done with-done with, done?” She feels the febrile movements, draws me down while yet his prick the ring slips and escapes. His weakling dribbling drips upon my thighs. I, gathered up, am cuddled in her arms. “Undress. Let me have you now. Do you want me to? I thought you at first to be a servant, having stolen your mistress's clothes. Part your lips again-let me slip my tongue in. You must be fucked before you leave. It is best thus. Are you in training still?”
“I believe not.”
“You may keep the drawings. You know you may keep the drawings. They were destined for you. Did you not have sisters who were ridden in the sight of you?”
“No. My aunt once-in the night. No.”
My dress, chemise are peeled. In turn she presents herself naked to her stockings. Her curves have a waxy firmness, her belly flat. A fine tuft sprouts between her thighs.
“The country girls are ever best. They may be ridden in the meadows and the secret haunts of gardens. Of occasion it is best to have watchers. You know better then your freedom. The males, then, are more easily aroused. Thomas-the wine. We have a guest to please. Stretch your legs and open them wider, my pet, while I lick your nipples. How prettily they bud, implore!”
Thomas undresses like a man who has a destiny to reach. His form is trunklike-penis lolling limp. I observe with curiosity his balls. Licking delicately at my nipples, she of the unknown name follows my eyes over the rims of my tits. The air falls flat and pale upon my eyes. I do not mind the watching. We are, in a sense, gemutlich. My bush purrs to her finger's touch. The wine poured, Thomas seats himself beside us. I observe him from the nipples to the thighs. The rest is anonymity.
“She is much like the girls, Thomas, is she not? When were you begun?”
I am sat up. We are sat up. My burnished nipples tingle and obtrude. My hair thrown back, I feel simplicity.
“Eighteen, or thereabouts.
Her laugh is brittle, yet we kiss. “A late coming you had of it, Laura. It was felt that you might flourish earlier.”
“There is patience. Is there not patience? Do you know my name-my name-my name?”
“Tish and tush, such questions! Drink your wine-lie back. Shall you be late in your returning? Where do you go?”
“It does not matter.” I will answer naught for naught. Pressed back, I laugh, survey the pair. His penis thickens in anticipation. “You know my name and yet not my becoming.”
“A boldness of response becomes you, if that is your becoming. You must learn more so to do. See how his cock now stirs with lust. Will you not invite it?”
Thomas stands beside the bed. His prick indeed thickens, growing as a plant might grow, yet visible in movement. I answer not, avert my face to hers.
“I am not Hannah.”
“You remember, Laura?” Her saliva oils my face and neck and yet is not distasteful. Recumbent as we are, my quim is stroked. I glide my hand to hers and feel its warmth, the exudations of her tremulous.
“I do not know. Perhaps. In the summer there were voices, in the summer. I heard the crack of whips. Mama was not perturbed. Hannah. The name is like the long breath of the dying.”
“Or the living, for she has not aged. When you come upon her you will know.”
Our breaths quicken, our fingers flourish. There are spillings, cries. The bed sags, receiving Thomas at my back. I, sandwiched in between, draw in their warmth. His cock upstanding to my bulb is pressed. His palms caress my tits, my mouth to hers.
“She offers not, yields not, yet yields. It is good. Sarah was such-being taken before Hannah, 'neath her gaze, yet held her pride. At the arching of her back and the seizing of her hair…”
His voice breaks. My neck is twisted. He in turn assails my mouth, roughing her hand away to stroke my pad, the lips soft, petulant beneath.
“Let it be so. You spoil everything, Thomas. We were but reminiscing-were at the beginnings of our avenues. There were larches, Laura. The girls rode beneath them, high in the saddles sitting, their backs straight.”
I hear little, for he is upon me, rod stubbing to my belly, shoulders pressed down, down into the pillow, thighs between my own. She moves, moves from us as a wraith as we wrestle, takes up a stool to brush her hair. I buck. His weight bears down too hard. His penis probe is at my lips, lovelips, the dell amid my curls.