moment and let me guide you…”
“Of course, Clarissa,” he murmured. It was perhaps ten minutes' walking time by the path which led along the slate cliffs that bent their dark hoods over the Atlantic-and then we had reached Gunnels Cove. Another path, this one overgrown with underbrush, led down to the abandoned fisherman's hut which James and I had refurbished. To the south, beyond the cove, the combers of the Atlantic crashed against the cruel, boulder-strewn coast of Cornwall.
From the hut we could hear the sounds of the boiling surf, but the waters beyond the hut in the cove were calm and clear… Once inside the seclusion of the hut, I turned ferociously to Harwell. My eyes were glazed, I knew, my mouth loose, with spittle forming at its corners. Harwell's usually gentle face was itself stiff with lust.
“Just let me get my mouth around it for a few moments, Oliver, and then I'll undress for you.” He nodded and fumbled with his trousers and then at last let them slip down about his ankles. I was so shattered with passion that I was unable to wait until he had stepped out of his trousers. I had dropped to my knees. I was trembling violently. I remember how the sun was pouring in through the window to one side, illumining the colossus now on a level with my mouth, and the two mighty spheres beneath-the factory capable of producing geyser after geyser. With a tortured cry-I had been imagining Harwell's cock for a long, long time-I slid my lips over the head of his cannon as far up as they would go and sucked. The cock throbbed with tremendous pulsations and my mouth was filled with sperm. I closed my eyes and swallowed. In a few moments Harwell lifted me up, stepped out of his trousers and started to undress me. I stopped him-I could do the deed much more quickly, and Harwell could be divested of his clothes at about the same time that I was…
“Do you like him, Clarissa?” Harwell asked gently. The “him” was at half-mast at the moment, with a few viscid beads at its tip.
“It would break down the walls of any resistant female,” I said respectfully. “But please remember, Oliver, that I'm still a virgin.”
“I will take the utmost caution.” “No, Oliver, not that.
Virginity has to be taken on a kind of threshold of brutality-you understand?” “I believe so, Clarissa…” I stood before him, then, naked to the pelt. I knew I was magnificent. I smiled slowly at him. He gazed at me for what seemed like endless moments, his eyes traveling in a leisurely fashion from the weightiness and fruitfulness of my biased breasts to the faint creamy bulge of my belly, and thence to the tight curls of my black Mount-of-Venus hair where his eyes lingered… I contemplated Oliver Harwell no less intently and, as I did so, his lingam, which had become relaxedly limp, began its flutterings of elevation. I sighed and asked Harwell to lie down on the rude bed in a corner of the room-to lie down and, for a few moments, make no attempt to touch me-I would do all the touching for a little while. “Of course, Clarissa,” he said, and did as I had bid him. He was indeed a big man, even lying down! He took up most of the space of the bed-we should have to disport in tiers. But what I wanted to do now was to caress his fantastic musculature, his sinews, his flesh-and to that end I sat on the edge of the bed. Nor would I omit Harwell's lingam. In fact, I decided, I would play upon his whole body, neglecting naught. I had no idea of how long I should devote to the caresses-certainly not too much beyond my yoni becoming a grease cup. The first thing I did was to blow a gentle air stream into Oliver's ears. My tutor grunted and gritted his teeth and, lo!- his lingam underwent a further erecting. But I would not depend upon his ears-they were mainly listening devices, touched up at various times to receive gentle air streams, the pleasure at once transmitted in two opposite directions simultaneously-to his brain and to his lingam. My tongue supplemented the air stream and, lo!-another height was gained by Harwell's rod and redeemer. I chuckled.
Harwell chuckled. I heard the roar of the boiling surf south of Gunnels Cove, but in the troughs I could make out the calm, gently lapping water of the cove. The boiling… And the lapping…
I fluttered my fingers over Harwell's bull neck, surprising for a man as tall as he. His throat worked. “Clarissa,” he said.
“Yes?” “You're worth all the long years' wait.” “Of course, Oliver. I'm a beauty.” Harwell was taking the whole circumstance with much too much seriousness, I thought. But what was I doing? Actually, under the guise of my being fond of him, I was presently conducting a kind of clinical testing and observation. If Harwell realized that, then he wasn't demurring. It was possible he felt he must defer to the daughter of a Marquis. Well, if he did, I did not give a good goddamn. All I wanted was to disport with Harwell's flesh and muscle and sinew, quite impersonally-it was there, wasn't it? And that was all that mattered. Harwell's there-ness was quite sufficient to destroy my virginity whether he loved me or hated me or was indifferent to my soul. The next thing I took care of were Harwell's hirsute armpits. They had the same chestnut-colored hair as his head. I tangled my fingers in their tendrils. His cock elevated a little more. I glanced at it.
“Splendid,” I said. “I wish I could take it home with me.”
“I don't believe,” Harwell said softly, breathing shallowly under my ministrations, “that the phallus in our society is accredited as a household deity, whether minor or major. But perhaps among the peasants, among the poor-” “Snob,” I said, interrupting him. I hoisted myself onto the bed and squatted over Harwell. His jaw became very slack. His face screwed up in what seemed like agony. “What's your trouble, Oliver?” I asked as I dangled my teats over his barrel chest. Then I took one of my nipples and rubbed it lightly over one of his. Harwell moaned. “The trouble,” he said, “is that your squinting eye piece down there is winking at me.” “It's my virginity trying to make light out of the whole matter. Bear with it, Oliver-be compassionate; it is the last fold of a girl's flesh that belongs to childhood…” I felt his barrow-like biceps and nodded approvingly-they would squeeze out a good deal of my adolescence. I savored his tough belly, purposely skipped my fingers over his now fully extended and rigid pier, and felt the thews of his thighs…
“Well, My Lady, what is it worth in precious metals?” I toyed with his chest hair and stared at the hoary hangings of fishnet from the ceiling. Curiously, I was getting hungry. The question in my mind, would I first want to satisfy my sexual needs, or would my food hunger establish primacy? And I thought I might as well be candid about that to Harwell. The reaction might be very interesting…
I told Oliver I had no idea of what I might be worth in precious metals, and then I added, “I'm hungry, Oliver.” I said it rather petulantly, realizing under the circumstances I might infuriate poor Harwell. I very rapidly discovered that one did not experiment with Harwell, at least not under these conditions. He reared on one elbow and with one hand seized a teat- belonging to me-and squeezed. I heard a ringing in my ears. Then he twisted the same teat. I screamed and heard a whole variety of musical instruments: cymbals, clashing; piccolos, shrieking; bassoons, piteously bleating; trumpets, sobbing. And they were all Clarissa Quist- Hagen's… I hunched up against the wall. Harwell merely sat up in the bed and towered over me. His expression was one of sardonic concern. “How are your hunger pangs?” “I was jesting, Oliver. And even if I hadn't been-” “Yes?” “A fifteen-year-old girl has appetites.” “Has she?” “Very strong ones,” I said. “Insatiable, possibly?” Harwell said.
“Perhaps.” “Let us see. Lie down, My Lady.” “So?” “Yes.
Now draw up your legs.” I did so. I had a frisson-the man had gotten to be completely in command. He was touching me now. Tenderly.
But I was going mad. I knew there was a white gummy secretion and that Harwell was spreading it evenly. His machine was monstrous once again-like an enormous ruddy log. Suddenly I wanted the whole thing buried in me, like treasure. Where I could lock it up. And constrict it. And loosen it. There was no hunger in my belly now. The hunger had sunk to the juncture of my thighs. The juncture ached. I had to be stuffed full. There was only one man in all of Cornwall who could do that in this instant. Oliver Harwell. I guided him. He would make a permanent passage. Through this concourse would follow all subsequent men. But first he had to tear my hymen asunder. I gritted my teeth. I gritted my thighs. I gritted my heart. I practically gritted my whole body, and then I shouted at Harwell, “Strike while the cunt is hot!” He permitted himself one great bellow of laughter-and then struck. I thought I saw all the nocturnal constellations become inhabitants of the day. I thought I had been lanced all the way up to my heart.
Curiously, even my arse felt sore. Well, I suppose there was a lot of regional sympathy. In any case, I was no longer a virgin.
“All right,” I said grimly, “we wrenched the gate open. Now, Oliver, let's see what you can do with the pump.” All this, mind you, in my impeccable theatrical English which Harwell had patiently instilled in me. “To the hilt!” I cried. “Full tilt ahead!”
Oliver Harwell obeyed. He sank his shaft in me to the roots.
Its roots. To his roots. To mine. I groaned with surprising satisfaction, the groan, I thought, of an archangel.
