between her legs and turn off the shower.
The feeling of guilt returned as she briskly toweled herself dry with a large fluffy Jaquard. Enough is enough! She couldn't be spending day and night playing with herself not just because a couple of weird, excitingly erotic dreams had turned her on. She wasn't a nymphomaniac, for heaven's sake — but it was apparent that she needed her husband's long, stroking penis badly.
She combed out her long, silky blonde hair before the mirror, letting it drape loosely over her still taut breasts, and smiling wantonly as one sweet pink nipple peeked coyly out of the strands in the reflection of the looking glass. 'Mmmmm,' she said to herself as she turned and opened the closet to select her clothing. She was going to be primed and ready when Neal did return all right; maybe after the way she had reacted to oral loving in her dream, she would allow him to try it on her in actuality and see if it felt as good as she thought it had last night!
She picked out a simple pair of culottes to wear, a satiny but warm covering in a colorful paisley print. She slipped on a white bra which lifted her breasts and gave them support, but kept their creamy smooth upper portion bare; she preferred her bras like this, for they were more comfortable on her full figure. Bikini panties were all the rage, and she selected a matching white pair that barely covered her pubic mound and curly blonde hair, but she had tight buttocks that were just right for the skimpy brief. Then the culottes, and she zipped up the one-piece pantsuit with the large gold zipper which ran from her pubic triangle to neck. There was a large gold ring in the zipper fastener, which made the effect provocative. After all, she wanted to dress well after her self-inflicted orgy.
The house was quiet. Incredibly quiet, the way only a large, deserted enclosure can be. The stillness almost had a sound to it, a muffled heaviness which almost hung oppressively, mysteriously, and not at all with a sense of comfort about it. Sharon Court slipped out of her room barefoot and padded down the long narrow, shadowy hall toward the stairs. She recalled the fleeting and misty dream of running down this same hall last night, running blindly with horror at her heels, terror behind her and closing in fast.
How silly! Now, in the early morning hours, with only the faint rays of the violet dawn rolling across the heathered moors and seeping through the draped, arched windows, everything was normal. Quiet, but normal. She took her time, studying the large portraits on the walls, checking the little plaques nailed to the ornate gilt frames to see who the ancestors were that once lived in stately Marlowe Manor. She was dutifully impressed, as many an American is when faced with traditions dating back nearly six hundred years.
There was Archibald Marlowe, a lean and gruff old man in court clothes of Edward the First, who had given the Marlowes the land grant. And Heronimous Clydesdale Marlowe, who had been thrown in prison and nearly beheaded by Cromwell with King Charles; and Mortimore Marlowe, who sailed with Nelson, and died in Egypt of some plague; the family Grand-dame, Lucrecia Heliotrope Marlowe, who had married into the family, outlived her husband, Antipeter, and who later amassed the great fortune which still was the basis of the wealth today; the twins Danial Jerome and Steven Milton Marlowe, who had both joined the Hell-Fire Club, of which Sharon was unfamiliar, and later went to the Colonies to seek their fortunes… They were all there, proud and haughty. Mark Marlowe, with his dark good looks and suave bearing was indeed a fine heir to the traditions and lineage of the great Marlowe name.
Sharon paused beside the carved oak banister, and looked down the wide sweep of the stairs, down the wide marble landing and the archway leading to the dining room and the broad library beyond. The young innocent wife frowned slightly. She recalled the dinner, the tremendous, almost sybaritic feast clearly. And the lazy complacency afterwards as she sat in the library and listened to Mark talk politics, and the soothing effects of his modulated speech and the Grand Marnier… then what? How had she gotten to her room? Certainly not by the means she had dreamed; that was impossible to conclude in the light of day. She shook her head. It had all been too confusing. Perhaps she had fallen asleep or become drunk and was led upstairs, comatose.
She would ask Lena later, if the opportunity arose. She descended the stairs, intent of forgetting her troubled night and on seeing what the rest of the Marlowe estate was like.
She wound her way through the many rooms, not hearing a sound except an occasional creaking of old wood resettling after the night coldness. She wound herself eventually outside, on the wide marble back verandah with its colonnade of stoneware and ivy, and the shallow three steps which led to an English formal garden of box hedges and grass and flower beds. She walked down and started among the hedges; the dew watered her toes and the close-cropped spongy grass tickled the bottoms of her bare feet. She meandered, letting a contentment flow around her as the preceding events which had so upset her faded in their importance. She thought a couple of times about Lena and Mark and yes, even the dwarf Wafto, but in the solitude of the garden she was happy to be alone for awhile, and really wasn't concerned that they weren't up and about yet.
If she had but known where the three of them were, the young wife would surely have been horrified. In the master bedroom, which was at the end of the long second-floor hall, in the opposite wing to Sharon Court's bedroom, the three lewd plotters lay exhausted. The night had been long, their games together rituals of pagan lust and perversion, and they were spent of energy and desire.
Mark Marlowe lay on the round, scarlet-coverlet, bed. He was naked, as the other two were, and he was propped up against the headboard, his legs spread wide, his penis limp and glistening against his testicles. Lying next to him was the similarly pleased Lena. She was on her side, propped up on one elbow, her black hair draped over the pillow, her eyes and nose level with Mark's genitals. Her other hand rested on his knee and her fingers toyed with his penis, trying to make him hard once more. Already the collected pools of cum from many orgasms by both Wafto and the head of Marlowe Manor lay in her vagina… but there was always room for more. Lena was a lustful, insatiable woman; she would have had it no other way.
Wafto was standing by the window. He had pulled the heavy crimson drapes aside partially to let in the morning sun, and he smiled as he looked out of the wavy, hand-blown glass of the small panes, out upon the formal garden beneath. He said: 'It's morning. Do you want coffee or breakfast?'
'I'm full,' Lena replied. 'I'm full of you and Mark.'
Mark chuckled lewdly. 'I see you're still hungry, my dear. Let me rest a few minutes, and then we'll see if I can satisfy you for a little while longer.'
'It's good to have you with us again, Mrs. Alvaro,' the obsequious hunch-back servant said, his knobby back still to them. 'We always have so much fun together. When does your husband arrive?'
'Day after tomorrow. And he'll bring along that handsome man, Neal Court. I hope by that time, we'll have transformed his pretty little innocent wife into a hot raving little piece of tail.'
'Have no fear. After last night…' Again Marlowe chuckled. 'The way she ran from us she looked as though her fanny was on fire.'
'Don't laugh,' Lena warned. 'Perhaps you were wrong and she didn't get enough marijuana. Perhaps she will remember enough this morning to know it wasn't some dream but that it actually happened. Then we will lose her, her and that luscious man of hers.' Her mouth trembled and a moistness formed around her lips with the sheen of anticipation. 'I bet he'll be good in bed; I can't wait to find out.'
The ugly, toad-like drawf turned his head slightly and leered over his deformed shoulder at the luscious woman sprawled on the rumpled round bed. 'She was completely out of it, Mrs. Alvaro. If the marijuana she smoked wasn't enough, I can assure you that the potion in her Sherry did the trick.'
'It had to be for her to let you fuck her,' Mark said. 'And kiss her cunt and put your overgrown cock into her mouth. Goddamn, I wish I'd been there to watch!'
'Watch? Hell, you'd have joined right in, you sadistic beast.' The glitter in Lena's eyes told all; she, too, would have been party to the actual rapine perversions that had been performed on the naive Mrs. Court. Would have been — and was planning to just as soon as possible.
'What is the next move in our plan, Master?' Wafto asked, turning back to the window, moving the drapes a little more so he could view the expanse of moors and the gardens. 'We have to move fast if we are to have her at our mercy in two days.'
'Anxious to have another go at her, aren't you, my little fiend,' Mark chortled and shifted his body so that his hardening prick could be better attended to by the teasing hand of the black-haired harlot beside him. 'Ahh, that's it, Lena. More, more. Suck it, if you like.' Lena Alvaro dipped her head and slipped her lips over his turgid penis, licking his great shaft and its head with her tongue. Mark said: 'To answer you, Wafto, it depends on how Mrs. Court reacts to everything that happened to her. She's a sexy little girl, she is, so that I think her reaction will be.'
