gaping open, my thumb surrounded by her long anal hair Within seconds, I was between her spread legs, my prick pushing against the bottom of her crack.
She had her head on her folded arms. I saw her cunt, sweet and small, nestled enticingly in the curly hair, and for a moment I pushed my rigid tool against it, parting it until only my knob rested in her damp vagina, her cunt's lips closing and opening around my bulb.
“M'lord?”
“Yes, wench?”
“I wish to lave your thumb with my tongue, m'lord?”
“Which thumb?” I teased.
“The one now in my asshole, m'lord.”
She loved her own excrement. I must admit, in all fairness, that her anal discharge smelled better than most; indeed, during passion's high dizzy heights I myself had sampled it, and found it to my liking.
“Do you want my thumb to quit your asshole?” I further teased.
“Yes, but you must replace it with your cock, m'lord. And use no lubricant or grease from the drawer of your bedstand, m'lord. I love the pain of your huge member tearing into my asshole, m'lord.”
“I prefer lubricant, wench,” I said, for sometimes it hurt my cock when I went into her-or some other asshole-in dry state, and for some days thereafter my prick has ached.
She wriggled her full buttocks in impatience, her voice coarse with lust. “Your prick, first, m'lord-deep in my asshole, please. And then your thumb between my legs, with my neck crooked so my tongue-”
She gasped in savage pleasure, for I'd suddenly without warning removed my thumb. I saw it brown and rather sloppy as it went between her legs. Immediately, her fair back bunched, the spinal column standing out, as she contorted to get my thumb within range of her wide damp tongue.
I felt her tongue lave my thumb. I felt her excrement leave my thumb. I heard her swallow happily, her larynx working. She actually purred, but not smoothly like a mother cat; her purr was broken, jagged and contained much bliss.
With my free hand, I obtained the open jar of lamb's grease in the drawer. First, I laved her asshole with it, smoothing the white cream over the brown ring, then, with my forefinger, I introduced the liquid into her asshole, spreading it around inside her anal ring.
She gasped around my thumb, now being sucked by her fair lips. I then greased my prod thoroughly, putting an especially heavy coat over my knob, and she moaned around my thumb, begging me to begin our foul proceedings.
“Stick me deep, m'lord. Give me all your cock, m'sweet. Drive your prick deep into my asshole, m'love!”
I caught myself, suddenly remembering the two coaches, four horses plunging through last night's fog, and the horse pistol-for had not Lady Haversock, supposedly cultured, supposed civilized, uttered the same banal entreaties, only begging me to put my dong deeper into her cunt, not her asshole?
Thoroughly greased, I placed my knob directly over her anus, covering it completely. My blood sang. Her asshole was very, very tight. Even after an all-night session with some bitch when she crawled into my bed the next morning her tight asshole always drew me to quick and complete ejaculation.
Now let us pause for a moment, gentle reader. Let me attempt to paint a verbal picture of this scene.
Outside the fair sun of England shines after a night of dense fog, stifling and cold. It streams through the high windows of my bedroom. In its bright light I look at the ass below me, my prick lying in its wide crack directly over the anus laced with long hair.
There are some even in these enlightened times who claim that anal intercourse is obscene and contrary to God's will. These idiots, fanatic with false religion, contend that each intercourse should be with one intent, and one only: to bring a child into his stupid world.
And they point out in fanatic wrath that asshole intercourse could not produce a child under any circumstances. And they further add that only those legally wedded in the church should be allowed, in God's eyes, to have intercourse, one with the other.
Were this latter true, there'd be little sexual intercourse in the world-at least in Fair England. I dare say that for each time the average man has sex with his wife he has ten times that much sex with strange women or concubines or mistresses.
Thus I stood on my knees, poised, cock ramrod stiff, ready to lance these fair buttocks. Soon my prick, sliding in this pleading anus, would spread those buttocks even wider, my testicles settling hard against her hairy cunt, directly below her asshole, of course.
But was I not forgetting some essential? Oh, yes, I was-and her choking voice reminded me, coming dim and hollow from under and beneath her spread thighs.
“Your finger, m'lord. Deep in my cunt, m'lord, playing with my clitoris-Oh, I have an orgasm, darling. Please, drive it into my ass, for your cock running along the bottom of my rectum also teases my vagina and womb.
“Oh, again I flow to your finger, m'love!”
I fear I rush my reader, therefore I shall for a moment digress on the finer points of anal injection-called by the uncouth Americans, god damn their bones, as
But there I was, poised behind these lovely wide buttocks, one finger in a flowing bowl of womanhood, the other hand around my penis, holding it stiffer yet to drive it deep in her opening and closing asshole that even now brushed and loved my knob, begging me to push my shaft to my rocks in her, deep and comforting.
Yes, dear reader, let us digress for a moment?
Episode Number Three
Let us for a moment, dear reader, discuss what the rude Americans call
First, let me analyze the thought of this day, here in this year of 1642 in England. Sir Frances Drake-God bless him-broke the back of Spain on the sea in 1588, thus throwing open the liberation of the West Indies to Her Majesty's fleet and British colonization.
Then the Good Queen Bess, God bless her virgin(?) soul, led us to higher heights, and now we face the bastard king, Charles First, son of a dog that he is.
During Bess, we lived strictly… on the surface, but underneath was much of what the church-goers such as Charles First call 'evilness,' for anything a churchman cannot understand he labels 'evil.'
Many good Englishmen-such as my ailing uncle — are leaving the Homeland, seeking the colonies- mostly going to what is known as the West Indies, for these islands are, in the main, ours now that we have routed the idol-worshiping, murdering, robbing Spaniards.
Our religious fanatics are going to what is called North America. That is good. England is then shut of them, as the peasants say. They can there make life miserable for the redskins, and God bless the latter.
For the fanatics are against anything that is enjoyable, and frown the most, of course, on illegal intercourse, which to me-and my sick uncle- seems utterly without rhyme or reason, for what indoor sport is more enjoyable than the act of sexual intercourse?
This bastardly Charles First is rotten to the core. (Were he to read these words to the Tower I would go, so I must keep this diary-if such it can be called! — secret until after my passing, at least.)
This evil man-Christian, he calls himself! — pirated my uncle's estate, one member in the king-bought and king-controlled government merely pointing a finger at my uncle and accusing him of heresy and out-of-wedlock sexual experiences, and thus my uncle's estate passed to the Crown… and his accuser who spoke falsely, knowing that his fabrication would bring to him my uncle's wealth.
All a friend of this low King need to do is whisper in the King's ear that so-and-so is immoral and so-and-so has lost his holdings without access to court or a jury of his peers, as we were guaranteed centuries ago by the
