This would have disconcerted Brandon at any other time, but as the old proverb says, “a standing cock has no conscience,” and his only reply to her tears was to grasp one of her buttocks with each hand, and give a drive which sent his member up to the very hilt in her coynte. He had only just done so when his excitement, and the time he had lost in getting in produced their effect, and he poured into her vagina the warm flood which she would have been so glad to receive and mingle with her own love fountain, if the tool which was shooting the warm jets into her had come as a friend and not as an enemy.
A few seconds later and that enemy hung limp and diminished to a third of its size, and the two pink lips — now indeed bright red, partly from indignation and partly from friction — had closed against the robber the Paradise into which he would have liked to intrude again.
Brandon slipped off her, and hastily buttoned up his “fly,” keeping an eyes on the lady meanwhile to see that she did not jump up and make a dash for the “alarm,” but she was two broken-down, weak, and, ashamed for any act of that sort. She could only cover her face with her hands and sob hysterically.
Brandon, now that the excitement was over, was very much ashamed of himself. He felt that he had not only deprived himself of any chance of ever winning her love, but he had by committing a crime upon her, put himself at her mercy, and that it was in her power to send him to the hulks. Even if she did not, and was willing to forgive him, he knew that he had acted like a blackguard and felt little inclined to forgive himself, and as he looked down on the pretty, little woman lying there with her clothing still disarranged, he felt very much inclined to pick up the little revolver still lying on the floor, and shoot himself.
She continued to sob convulsively, and Brandon after arranging her dress, and covering up the traces of his misdeed, knelt down on the floor by her side and tried to comfort her, for like most men, he was not proof against a pretty woman's tears.
“Go away!” she sobbed through her fingers. “You are a bad, wicked man, and I hate you! What would my husband think if he knew it? He would kill me, and you too.”
“Yes, I know I am an awful scoundrel,” said Brandon apologetically, “but you will forgive me, darling, will you not? It was not my fault; but you looked so beautiful as you lay in my arms that I could not resist the temptation. It was very wrong of me I own, but I was carried away by my love. It was your fault too, you know,” he continued. “What man could be alone with the prettiest and most lovable woman in the world and not burn to possess her? It was not possible that I should not love you. Here!” he cried as he picked up the little revolver from the ground and held it towards her. “Punish me as I deserve. Death from your sweet hand would be delightful, and I should die with your memory in my heart.”
Few women are not open to flattery and Brandon's admiration was so evidently genuine that Mrs. Sinclair-for that was the lady's name-was touched. She began to reflect that though she had been cruelly wronged, the harm was not so very great after all. She was a married woman, and it was not the first time that a man's tool had visited her pretty little pouting coynte, and she had not therefore the loss of her virginity to deplore.
Besides, there were two other reasons which helped to make her inclined to pardon her ravisher. In the first place her conscience told her that she had rather encouraged Brandon, and that she had been on the point of freely giving him that which he had so roughly taken. Moreover she was of an ardent and amorous temperament, and though she loved her husband dearly, he was in delicate health and but rarely performed the act of love, and when he did, he was but poorly furnished, and his tool which was thin and short, had never penetrated to the bottom of her vagina. Her coynte still tingled from the friction occasioned by Brandon's long and vigorous shoves, and was considerably stretched by the huge engine that had so ruthlessly buried its whole length in her, but now the painful burning sensation caused by the forcible intromission had passed away, she felt a kind of pride and satisfaction to think that she had been able to accommodate in her little slit a huge tool which would have satisfied the most exacting and lustful.
She therefore pushed away the proffered revolver.
“No, no,” she said, “there has been mischief enough already. Because you have committed a crime it does not follow that I should commit a worse one.”
“Well then,” cried Brandon, pointing the revolver at his own head, “tell me you forgive me, or I will punish myself for having wronged the most beautiful and most adorable of women.”
She quickly caught hold of his hand, and wrested the revolver from his grasp.
“Yes, yes! I forgive you,” she murmured, blushing; “you have been very cruel and unkind, and you have hurt me very much — but it was partly my fault. I let you talk to me when I ought to have stopped you at once- and, and — I know you take me for a loose woman — and — oh, I am so miserable,” and she began to sob.
“No, no,” cried Brandon; “how could I think so, my darling. I am a brute, and my brutish passions got the better of me, but you are a pure, little angel.”
She smiled feebly through her tears, and he kissed her, but she pushed him away.
“I forgive you,” she said, “but I-can't like you. I believe you have broken everything I have got. I am so ill, and I am quite sore. I believe I shall die.”
“Oh, no,” said Brandon with a laugh, “ladies can take a lot of that sort of killing. You will soon be better.” He opened his hand-bag, took out a pocket-flask, and poured out some brandy and water. “Take a sip of this,” he said, “and you will be all right.”
She sat up, took the cup, and drank a mouthful or two. Suddenly a thought flashed across her mind.
“Oh, if the train were to stop now,” she said, “and people saw me like this. Everybody would know what had happened, and I should be ruined. Quickly help me to dress.”
She began to hastily smooth down her petticoats, and then going to her hand-bag she took out a comb and a hand-mirror, and began to arrange her hair.
She completed this to her satisfaction, adjusted her hat, and took a final look at herself. Brandon watched her admiringly, and would have liked to untidy her again, long before she had completed the process.
“I don't look very pretty,” she said, more to herself than to him, “my eyes are all swollen with crying. The next time we stop perhaps, I shall have time to go to the lady's waiting-room and have a wash.”
“And of course you would not come back again,” said Brandon rather bitterly.
“Of course I should,” she retorted quickly. “That is just like you men — you always go by what you think yourselves, and not what other people would think. If I were to change carriages now, the guard would know at once that I had some reason for leaving your company, and very likely tell lots of other people his suspicions. Whereas if I come back he will not know” — this with a sigh — “that I have any reason to complain of your conduct towards me.
“You are a clever little woman,” he replied. “I should never have thought of that.”
He tried to take her hand and kiss it, but she drew it away hastily.
“There is one thing you must promise me faithfully,” she said quickly. “I only consent to make the rest of the journey with you for the purpose of saving my reputation, but you, on your part, must give me your word of honour as a gentleman that you will not touch me, or, even speak to me unless I give you permission. Considering the outrageous nature of your-conduct towards me you cannot very well refuse, if you expect me to overlook your bad behaviour.”
“It is a hard thing to ask,” he replied dolefully, “and I can only hope that you will give me the permission of which you speak; but I am bound to obey your wishes.”
She bowed coldly, and did not speak, but retired to the corner in which she had at first been seated, and throwing her cloak over her, so as to hide her face, remained silent and motionless.
Brandon for his part sat in his own corner and tried to sleep, but the little figure before him, hidden under the Scotch plaid, prevented him from closing his eyes. He was one of those fortunate men who are known amongst women of pleasure as a “revolver,” and he would have loved to recommence the combat under changed conditions, for he was in hopes that before the long journey was over she would consent to give him freely the second time that which he had been obliged to take by force on the first occasion. He had, however, given his word, and was resolved not to break it, so he lay back in his corner and tried to doze, but he was not sorry when, half an hour later, the train slackened speed and then drew up at a large station.
AN UNDESERVED PUNISHMENT
