between us for an hour or so. It is an understood thing, in our particular conventions, that I do not attend alone upon females who have visited us. Caroline relented, however-though grudgingly at first-and hit upon a solution. There being a young gardener who had worked on and off about the place, she had him come to us and closeted herself alone with him.
He emerged looking rather awed, and after a longer interval than I thought was needful. He had agreed to present himself to Miriam, apparently, and was to call himself Charlie.
“I gave him three sovereigns for his future trouble, though no doubt Miriam will reimburse him, too,” said Caroline. I regarded her that old thrill of jealousy that I had previously known and have never quite lost even now.
“Presumably you took pains to discover whether he is fit for his future duties,” I said stiffly.
“By proxy, as it were,” she replied and laughed at my discomfiture, adding quickly, “Or at least, Adelaide did so and I had a look. She brought his standard up, but did no more than that. Really, my love, considering the license that I give you…”
“Because you like watching,” I said tightly.
“Yes, I do. And participating,” was her cool reply, “But since your moral attitudes have changed of a sudden then we will do no more entertaining.”
At that, she turned and went upstairs and closeted herself in her room. My sister had meanwhile gone out to guide the new “Charlie” to his destination. An awful silence followed. Women can be devilishly clever at this sort of game and have more patience for it than men do. Half an hour of continuing silence passed. I smoked a cigar, drank whisky, fretted. She would not open the bedroom door until I ascended. I knew that. Was she smiling up there, or were her lips still tightly pursed, and worse, would she tell Adelaide of my “childishness,” as she is wont to call it?
I gathered myself together. I suppose I knew the role I had to play and ventured slowly up, making each footfall sound as though I regretted it yet found it necessary. Entering the bedroom, I found her lying over the side of the bed in an indolent posture, her legs dangling and her gown a little ruffled up to show her knees.
“I suppose you want me to birch you,” said I, at which she covered her eyes by casting her forearm across them.
“Because I had a good look at his cock,” she said, and said it in a doleful tone.
“Caroline, turn over. Present yourself.”
She obeyed, though with every sign of reluctance and lay upon her belly with her bottom orbed in readiness while I took the birch down from the top of a wardrobe where if often lies in readiness. I turned and bared her bottom, for she wore no drawers. The perfect majesty of her cleft globe never ceases to thrill me. The skin is faintly gingery where her plump, firm cheeks inroll.
I swished her lightly and she squealed. I had no intent to hurt her, and she knew it well.
“Did you handle it, Caroline?” I asked sternly.
“Just a little to feel how stiff it was. I felt his balls as well, oooh-ah!”
The birch had swept across her bottom once again. Her predilection to be tingled up in this respect has never left her. The inheritance of girlish training always holds.
“You would have let him mount you, had I not been here.”
“Perhaps, yooo-aaar!”
It was a slightly harder cut.
“Tell me you wanted him to fuck you, Caroline.”
“I didn't, no! theeee-ooooh! All right-I did!”
“You wicked, wicked girl!” I knew it not to be true, and so did she, but in a moment thus it does not matter. All females have a Miriam inside them, though it does not subjugate them, make them act by rote as was the case with the lady who was the unspoken subject of this erotic interlude. I swished her once again, her bottom churned enticingly, the pink streaks showing clear across the lustrous bulb. I passed the birch from one hand to the other, reached down and felt the throbbing, silky warmth.
“Wh… wh… what are you doing? oooh! You shouldn't put your finger there!”
“Be quiet, my dear. Your growing amorousness is evident to me. It is time that you were spermed. Be still, I say, and keep your bottom up! Come, girl-now move your legs apart!”
“OH-WOH! It's naughty! No! You mustn't no!”
SMACK! SMACK! I made her blatant cheeks to quiver then, contracting to the splatting of my palm. She mewed, she whinnied, as I felt her sticky quim, the ridging of its lips in her excitement so desirable.
“OOOH-HOOO! I'm… m… mustn't let you-and besides, Mama may come!”
“Be quiet!” I growled. My stiffened prick was out, the knob presented to her queasy slit. I felt the curls, the plumpness, oiliness. She bucked and twisted, but I held her hips and nubbed my knob within her honeypot. Her head snapped up; she beat upon the bed.
“Don't, don't! Oh, it's too big! nooo-hooo!”
I clamped my palm across her mouth. Such roughness is requisite now and then, and Caroline-in such a mood-finds it exciting, as I know. One slewing motion of my cock and it was buried to the hilt. Her bottom rolled its sleek, hemispheres against my belly, then was still. She gurgled and I loosed my fingers just a little. Then I got my loins to work. She snuffled, hissed her breath out through her nose.
“Come on now, Caroline-come on!”
“WOH-WOH!” she whimpered, but her stockinged thighs then strained against my own, her legs held straight, her ankles splayed. I drew her back. Her hands strained at the coverlet, then rested on the bed's rolled edge. The nutcracker action of her cunt worked rhythmically round my prick. “Oh-ho, Papa!” she moaned, but then was quiet and let me take possession of her dell until I creamed her thoroughly with long, thick spouts of come, and we fell forward with my pulsing prick embedded still.
“Was it nice?” I asked as she then bore my weight.
“Yeth,” she lisped, in concert with her mood.
“Did you really?” I asked. I referred to the young gardener, as well she knew. The question was unnecessary: as obsessive as dear Miriam is!
“Of course, I didn't-no. Oh, not with him!” she teased.
What foolish games we humans play!
CHAPTER NINETEEN
I am told that I write too much about myself, and this by Caroline who watches over my manuscript like a mother at a cot.
“If I write too much about you, my dear, people will say that you are lewd,” I joked.
“Let them say it to my face,” she replied.
“I only jested,” I called out, but she was gone. Her talent for showing disfavour that I know not to be real is still quite strong. Women do have a way of saying things that is totally unfair, and which is known to be, and yet makes one examine one's own soul. One comes up from all their accusations with a mite of truth so small as to be barely visible-yet it instills a sense of guilt in one.
Very well-I succumb. I have been pretending to myself, perhaps, that I shall later write another volume of Caroline and Adelaide, but the chore would overcome me. I shall find no publisher, in any case, and would not wish to seek one.
“What if you do not? It keeps you quiet,” is said. Affectionately, I think. At least I hope that to be true. I am blessed with a large member and a willing heart and have no talents other that I know of, or would boast to have.
The period of this particular and rather bizarre little tale was just prior to the memorable occasion-that which changed my very life-when I first entered their beds. Desiring to emulate her Mama in a piece of mischief, Caroline had contrived a plan which rested on an encounter with a lonely, seeking male-the which, for a girl as attractive as was she was by no means difficult. She accomplished this in a coffee house in the nearby market town where sipping her beverage, she was the subject of a number of admiring male eyes.
