Chapter 19
Annabelle
That orgasm was the most intense of my life. I was so dismayed and surprised at the frustration of him denying me—no lover has ever dared to trifle with me in such a way before—and then the intensity of his words. I know I am undeserving of such ardor. But his ardor moves me all the same.
He needs to understand, however, that he isn’t in control.
If he refuses to believe me when it comes to my intentions, then he’ll at least see that I am the master between us. So that when I break him, he’ll know it was all my doing.
“Undress me.”
He obeys, making me stand and then undoing my dress, removing my petticoat, and stripping me down to my corset. He unlaces and removes it.
“Beautiful,” he says, palming my breasts, his cockstand evident through his trousers. “Absolutely perfect.”
I smack his hand away.
“No touching.”
I undress him then. Soon, he is completely bare.
“Lie down on the bed,” I command.
He complies without question.
Already, I am feeling better. More in control.
“There is no use using a letter,” I tell him. “You are too large. So if you are concerned with getting me with child, you will have to withdraw.”
“How?” he says, his brow furrowing.
“When you feel your spend coming you must remove yourself from me.”
“And where do I spend then?”
“Anywhere. On me. On the coverlet. Anywhere that’s not inside.”
I should not indulge this absurd concern of his.
Especially since it runs counter to my own intentions.
But I have little faith in his ability to withdraw with accuracy.
Especially not when I am in control. And perhaps this consideration to his concerns now will become useful if he becomes bothersome later.
After I have the child. A pretext through which I can assert that the babe is not his own.
He shifts nervously, his cock nevertheless looking almost comical in its hardness.
“I’m not certain if I will be successful. I am not always certain when I will spend.”
A shiver goes through me at his words.
“You can only do your best.”
“But what if I fail? What of the consequences?”
“As I’ve said, you needn’t worry about consequences. But if you don’t want to fail, then don’t.”
He nods slowly.
I lie down on him then, so that we are bare together, skin against skin. I kiss him, letting my tongue run over his lips until it makes contact with his.
When he tries to pull me closer, I push his hands away.
“You are not the one in control. Get on top of me,” I say, pulling him so that our positions are reversed.
Once more he obeys and is now poised over me.
“Are you ready?” I say.
“Yes. Please.”
I pull him closer and open my legs for him, guiding his engorged cock inside. I gasp a little as he slides into me. He is large—so large that it is almost uncomfortable at first.
“I am sorry,” he murmurs. “I know I am—too—”
“No, I cannot bear apologies,” I say, as my walls ease around him and I feel the beginnings of pleasure.
He withdraws from me slightly and moans. Then he pumps into me again. At the delicious slide of him, I bite my lip.
“Good. That’s very good. Are you in control of your spend?”
“Yes. I think so,” he murmurs. “Your—I don’t know what to call it.”
“There are many names. Cunt. Pussy. Quim. Countless others far more ridiculous.”
“Your pussy is heaven. Do you know that?”
“I have never had a complaint.”
He huffs, pumping in and out of me with slightly more speed. The pleasure begins to build.
“I don’t like to think of them—the other men you have been with.”
“I will not apologize for having had lovers.”
“I don’t mind that you have been with others. But I want to erase them from your mind. Is that a normal way to feel?”
He stops, to my dismay.
“No,” I say, the swell of him inside of me tantalizing and wonderful. I do not want him to stop. “It is not. Don’t stop.”
“Then I suppose my feelings for you are not normal. I think of seeing a man you’ve been with on the street and pummeling him with my bare hands.”
I hate that I feel pleased at the words. No man has ever said such a thing to me. He is attractive when he is threatening violence. But I learned that when he fired his gun above the angry mob outside my carriage.
“You are boring me, Alfred. I want you to fuck me. Now is not the time for worrying over other men.”
I flex my pelvic muscles to emphasize the point. He swears.
“Fuck me, Alfred. Make me come again.”
He obeys, dipping in and out of me, creating a wonderful tension. His cock is a perfect fit, not just because of its size, but because of something else. Something ineffable.
When the tension has built and built and I need release, I reach down and touch myself, knowing I need that stimulus so soon after my other orgasm. He groans at the sight.
“I am close, Annabelle. I should withdraw”
“Not yet,” I say. “That is an order.”
He has stopped moving. I touch myself and feel myself stretched by him at the same time. The combination is utterly perfect.
I want to come while he is still inside of me—and I do. I cry out and my sheath clenches over him, as if it is trying to draw the seed from him.
I hope it does.
He exclaims and withdraws suddenly. He spills over my thighs and the hair over my quim, soaking my clit in his warm seed as I come. The unexpected sensation is so intimate and so sensual that I gasp.
“I am sorry,” he says. “I’ve made a terrible mess.”
Damn, he managed to do it. He actually withdrew.
Well, we have time. But it will become a problem if he truly becomes proficient in the art.
“No apologizing,” I say, gritting my teeth. He probably thinks that I truly hate the apologies. And I do in a way, but not because they repulse me.
I reach for the cloth beside my bed and quickly clean myself. I do not feel the need to do so for my own sake, but I can tell the sight of the mess mortifies him. He is still innocent enough to be alarmed by that.
“Come here,” I say, pushing him back on the pillows. “Rest.”
I hadn’t meant to suggest that he should embrace me, but he does anyway. He pulls me to his chest and I rest my head against him. I shouldn’t allow it, but I do.
“Tell me,” I say. “How do you spend your time? At the vicarage?”
I ask the question for something to say, feeling for some reason that we should speak. Talking is intimate, but silence seems, perhaps, even riskier.
“I often try to imagine what you do there. And I cannot fill the picture.”
He gives a soft chuckle.
“Well, the usual things you would expect. Writing sermons. Correspondence. Whenever I can, I read a novel.”
“Your green book.”
“Not just that one. Regular novels. I enjoy them very much.”
“Do you?”
“Yes, very much.”
“I enjoy them on occasion. Although I prefer ones with erotic content,” I say lightly. I am also partial to stories of horror and treachery and murder—but never love stories. I know too much about the limits of human love to enjoy such trash. “Who are your favorite writers?”
“I have many, really. The Brontes, Mrs. Gaskell, Trollope, and Thackeray. Dickens, of course. Bulwer-Lytton. Wilkie Collins, I must admit.”
“A sensation writer! Your father would be appalled, I’m sure, until he discovered your green book.”
“If he knew of my reading, yes. But I have worked to keep that proclivity a secret from him. He would disapprove. And that is without knowing about the—green book.”
“Would he really object to something so harmless?
“He is a strict man. And I have been trained all my life to be a credit to him.”
“Was your father harsh with you?”
“I suppose he would think not. And for many years, I would have said his strictures were necessary. But now I am not so sure.”
“Because you have found that you have not burst into flame for experiencing an orgasm?”
I should not mock him. But I cannot help it.
“Perhaps,” he says. “My father gave me many books as a boy and young man on how not to despoil myself. When I was caught doing so, he called me depraved and made clear that self-abuse was off limits. Although release at night, unconsciously, was not blameworthy. It is nature’s way of giving relief, the books made clear. ”
“Do not call it self-abuse. Abuse has nothing to do with it. And such a provision would not have helped you. You cannot spend in that fashion.”
“No. Never. I used to pray for it. But it never happened. And so I had to—I had to find occasional release.”
“Of course you did. No one could blame you for that.”
I cannot believe that Alfred listened to such nonsense from his elders.
“I was never proud of myself when I did so. But once a month, or once a fortnight if things were desperate, I would—I would make myself come. Just to have relief.”
His pathetic story has my core pulsing afresh.
“Come,” I say. “I want you again.”
He pauses. I wonder if he senses that I am cutting our conversation short.
Maybe I am.
But talking about the past is not how I want to spend my time with him.
“Then you will have me,” he says into my ear.