I doubt if any subsequent male ever occupied my space so thoroughly. I believe I was stretched to the limit of my sheath. I told him to hurry.
Otherwise I'd be coming all by myself. I didn't want to be lonesome up on the sublimities, you know. Lonesome. It was becoming lonesome, after all, I realized as Harwell sweatingly pumped away. James was gone. The summer guests were crashing bores. I wanted to get back to London, even during the thoroughly repellant summer season. I was too dependent out here in Cornwall. I had no idea what Harwell would do next-in the long run. In the short run I quite knew what Harwell was about to do. There was frenzy on his face. He wanted to get rid of that. And the only way to do it now-get rid of the frenzy now-was to increase the pace of his pumping. What he would do a few days hence, I had no idea, and thus I was dependent on him to that extent. Such thoughts be damned-I owed my tutor my closest attention… Really. Because Harwell was astonishing. I had hoped for that- from the man who eliminated my virginity. Harwell had not only eliminated it; he had uprooted it and was presently replanting it with his own stake. The pleasure therefrom was like a series of interlocking rings -and I could have sworn they were making a kind of silver music. I suddenly arched against Harwell. My entire genitourinary complex felt as though it must disattach itself and go flying off somewhere. It did disattach itself at last, I was convinced. And now it was flying. The rest of my body followed the genitourinary system-the whole of me was flying. Harwell's lingam and my yoni-clasped and sailing through the heavens on the peaks of endless fountains… Had I known that fucking would be of such a sublime order, I would have permitted my brother entry long long ago.
In the early years. Not now. It was too late, now. If James and I had a sexual relationship now, it would be too terribly serious. I felt a passing sadness about my brother-even as Harwell was ploughing me stem to stern. Females are like that, you know. In moments of the most intense rapture the female can quite clearly think of the lamb en brochette she will prepare for the evening meal. I was at one with Oliver Harwell, and thrust my swollen teats and nipples up at him so that he might feast and I enjoy his feasting-the while I entertained my passing sadness for James. Elegant, green-eyed James, a wizard at finding the honey of life even at its most commonplace. Now: requiescat in pace -I shall miss him to the day I die… But there was Harwell's mighty prong. He was gliding in and out of me with such rapidity that I thought this is what it might be like to have a dog mount one. I thought of a dog mounting me and I went absolutely berserk. I whipped my hips around like a dervish. How much more of a dervish I might have been had I been able to foresee the future and Sir Lawrence Terstyke and the matter of his hounds… No matter.
At the moment I was with Harwell. Then, somehow, reaching once again the peak of Mount Ovary, so to speak, where Harwell had plunged his sword, I was alone and yet not alone. I heard the furious surf of the Atlantic, and the gentle lappings of the waters in Gunnels Cove.
How absolutely magical it was, I thought, to be fifteen, and beautiful, and consentingly ravished of one's virginity… As my passions for the time being receded, I received from Harwell the cup that runneth over-as if from some fantastically turgid hose that, posted in periods, lashed my bottomless organs with the vibrations of a creamy fury… He breathed stertorously and lay heavily upon me between my legs. Constricting my vaginal walls, I made the last of his life stuff ooze forth. Harwell sighed. Then he was noble, positively noble. “My Lady,” he said, propping himself up on an elbow, his gentle brown eyes twinkling in that marvellously open, squarish face. “Yes, Oliver?” “The truth, Clarissa.”
“Ever,” said I. “Are your appetites assuagable?” “Not one by the other, Oliver. Just as one appetite is not famished by another, so one may not be appeased by another. Each of my appetites is free and clear.” My green eyes played over him roguishly. “What did you really want to know?” “Are you still hungry, Clarissa?”
I gazed at the huge, hulking mass of the man. “Keenly,” I said. “If I may be so indelicate, Mr. Harwell, the dismissal of my virginity has created a bottomless hole.” He blushed. I laughed. It amused me to see him ruddy all over. “I meant another sort of hunger, Clarissa. Such as the one for meat.” “Precisely.
For meat. Would you like to see me bare the teeth of my vagina?
Because that, my dear man, is the way the female castrates the male.”
“Oh,” he said. “I'd no idea.” “I didn't think you had,” I said. “I think a woman trying to castrate you might well choke herself to death. I don't think I'll try-I'm far too young to die.” “I'm pleased.” “Will you be displeased if I return to Quistern House to consume some eggs and beef? You may accompany me if you wish.”
“Thank you, My Lady, but I think I'll muse the time away by waiting for you here. You will return?” “Oh, you may depend upon it, Oliver. You have shot me down. Consider me a trophy…”
Fortunately, I encountered neither my father nor my mother. They were being terribly civil to their guests by insisting upon showing them the countryside-the bleak bare valleys, the small rivers, the moorland, the furze and the heather. So, condescending bitch that I am, I played American by dropping into the kitchen and lunching with Mrs. Manyjohn, our housekeeper, and Wittling, our butler. After making them both quite uncomfortable-while I gluttonously devoured the provender-I had Mrs. Lingelhoffe, our cook, prepare an extra repast to put in a basket. I told her I was going for a considerable stroll along the shoreline, and that undoubtedly I would become ravenous.
I thought, of course, that Harwell would be terribly grateful.
He wasn't-he was rather human! “Is this how you intend to keep me in good working condition?” he inquired. I closed the door of the hut and faced him. “You had better eat what I brought, Mr.
Harwell, or I may very well throw it at you.” The massive man took me by the shoulders and kissed me. Christ, I thought, even this man's tongue trembles like a cock. I took his hand and laid it on my crotch. “It exudes both heat and moisture,” I murmured. “You had better eat quickly, Harwell.” The arrogant bastard ate slowly.
I tried to hurry him up by masturbating in front of him, even as he chewed upon a leg of chicken. He was relatively unmoved.
“Good show,” he said. I slapped his face. He put down the chicken, flung me over his knee and slapped my bare buttocks. I cursed him and farted in his eyes and he dumped me on the earthen floor of the hut. “Faugh,” said he. But he nevertheless finished the meal I had brought. And I had thought no man would ever recover from the ignominy of one of my farts. Harwell certainly was the exception. I became quite annoyed with him. I felt, due to our intimacy, that I had the right. I acted quite the bitch-I kept farting. He made no comment until he had done with eating. Then he again put me on his knee and rapped my arse. “Do you imagine,” he said, “that because you're of nobility you've the right to make a stench wherever and whenever you please?” He let me up and I flung off all my clothes and I stood there before him, my arms akimbo, my teats swinging, my nipples hardening. “I don't believe, Harwell, that I have to justify my actions to a mere teacher. You're damned fortunate we don't live in Tudor times or I think I'd have your head.” I grinned. “Instead, Harwell, I'll have your prick.” Before he could stop me-if, indeed, he really wanted to-I got my hand inside his trousers and around his bassoon and I jerked at it fiercely as I smiled crookedly, wantonly, shamelessly. His arms fell to his sides. I kept jerking. He started to say something but no words would come. His jaw worked and there was utter silence.
Then I laughed at him and kept jerking. He tried to pull away. I tightened my grasp and I pulled at his bullness with even greater vigor. Harwell paled. He shook his head. He staggered backwards. I kept with him. He crumpled onto the bed. I sat beside him and worked that thing of his. My tutor breathed shallowly. I took it in both hands. He groaned. He shook his head. I suddenly stopped jerking and his jaw went slack and I ran a finger lightly from the tip of his cock to the base and Harwell whimpered and the cream in his massive balls spurted forth through his tremendous nozzle and then I seized it again and oscillated its skin back and forth, back and forth as the cream shot at my teats and ran down my belly till I was all slippery with it and then I gently, very gently, lapped at his shrinking nozzle till it once again regained rigidity and, grinning blissfully, I hovered over it with my cunt and, moaning sweetly in my best coloratura, I engorged Harwell's frigger by sitting down upon it. My sensations traveled up my spine to my brain where they exploded. I half-closed my eyes. I was all vertical.
Harwell's fairly vertical frigger pointed everything up and down in me. It was a unique experience-vertical passion, and one accompanied by a feeling of intense superiority. I smiled condescendingly as I used Harwell. I was the queen and he the subject- and I rode him up and down. Rather like a steeplechase, I thought. His head moved from side to side-ah, I muttered to myself, he is completely will-less now, the colossus has awarded his plumbing piece all of his power, and it is all concentrated there now-and I have that power in my vaginal grip. I will put him through the paces, I told myself. To that end, I temporarily called a halt to my vertical admonitions- Harwell's shaft remained entirely enclosed. “Why do you stop?” my tutor asked. He raised a hand and pulled at one of my nipples. I slapped his hand away-and he was too much at the mercy of passion to make a contest of it. “You have enough of me without my teats,” I said.
