On the matter of Charles with his stiff sinew and foul mouth
I was to wear no undergarments so Charles could have immediate access to my vagina whenever he wished. He called his stiff sinew a prick. And his member was just that - designed to prick deeply into the very center of a woman. And Charles acted as if his member was a weapon that I needed to resist. That was part of the appeal for him and by extension for me in all our rendezvous. Like this morning, in the pantry:
"Stay still woman" Charles ordered, as he snuck behind me, and lifted my skirt. "Damn, you have no undergarments? Are you a whore? Only whores expose their privates!"
"No," I pleaded. "My doctor informed me to aerate my privates, sir." His hand was now roaming over my backside, my anus, my cunt. I was aroused but still dry. It was an issue with my uterus.
"I'm sure your doctor has his motives for having your cunt out to dry," he hissed, moving his fingers into the other folds of my cunt, and exploring my lips. I was on fire, but dry as sand. "Your doctor wants you to expose your cunt so he can wet it with his seed, to lubricate your cunt with his pearly shower."
"I don't know of such matters, sir," I pleaded again. "I simply do as I'm told."
"Good, you little whore." He hissed. I felt him lining up his member to my slit. He would soon take me, and say the most atrocious words during the act. That was a large part of the appeal of these games.
"I'm about to take your cunt," he explained, placing the head of his cock snugly against my vulva. "My prick is long, and it will churn up your bowels, and no doubt cause you great discomfort. You are not to complain or react with displeasure. For I am paying you," and he placed a few shilling on the shelf next to my head. "And if I am displeased, I will return these shillings to my pocket."
He moved inside me. My cunt was dry and that aroused him greatly.
"Damn you, whore!" he hissed. "Bend over further. Loosen that cunt up! How does a whore have a tight, dry cunt?" He was having problems getting inside me. This aroused him deeply.
"Sir, it's too long. It's too deep... and I have a problem with moisture."
"Shut up!" he screamed. "If you offer yourself for money, then you have to take what comes." He grew more frustrated. "I wanted to fuck you from your round bum, but that is ruined now. Get down on the ground."
I complied. He lay on top of me. My dress came up to my neck, nearly smothering me. He smelled of tobacco, brandy, and pine trees. He must have just returned from his afternoon walk. He poked and poked me.
"For the love of God whore, loosen up!" and he smacked me on the check. It was not a light smack. It would leave a red mark. "Get those legs up!" I lifted them to the small of his back. It was not enough. He smacked the other check, hard. I lifted my legs high in the air. They pointed to the ceiling. He found my perch and pushed in his prick. He did not last long. His rough manner in both actions and words caused the seed to boil in his bollocks. He began to pump widely. I felt him so deeply inside me I almost cried out for him to stop, but a part of me enjoyed his movements. His lustful energy was a tonic. It both intoxicated and sickened me.
"You're making me spend, whore," he screamed. "Deep in your cunt. And you'll take every drop it, by God" and he let out a long and anguished scream. How could he not, given the words he used, given his physical exertions. Once he had pumped every drop in me, true to his demented words, he lay still. He moved a hand to my face, and tenderly caressed both cheeks that he just struck. That would be his only acknowledgement of our little game. He got up, hitched up his pants, and left me on the pantry floor. I moved my hands to my drenched and ravaged cunt. I was certainly wet now.
"Were you fucked my dear?" my husband asked me from his bed. He was twenty-five years older than me, chronically ill, and arranging for lovers was his sole diversion. I told him yes, that Charles had roughly taken me, and I explained the details. He lifted my nightgown, ran his hand down my belly, to my flaming red bush, and into my lips. He felt the moisture.
"Quite a randy lad," he commented. "Excellent flow. He obviously knows what works for him. That is half the job of being a man. But you must tire of his rough ways. Charles has been called away to London. But his cousin is replacing him in two days. Paul is his name. I think you will enjoy his exertions. Perhaps it will be more to your delight."
"Oh, Charles is interesting, don't get me wrong Donald," I told my husband. "His fixations are mesmerizing. It just takes a great deal of work. I'm not as young as I used to be!" My husband ran his hand in my cunt, drawing out the seed, using his finger to strum my boy in the boat, the tiny member at the head of my portal. And I came deeply, and wondered what this lad Paul would bring to our pantry door!
On the entrance of Paul and his baptism in sucking upon whirligigs, etc.
Initially, he brought nothing either to my door of pleasure or the pantry door. He was a lad indeed. I was nearly ten years older; he still had the floss of boyhood on his upper lip. But later, when I introduced him to the amorous arts, I realized he was more than fully equipped as a man. He used that equipment in ways that I found ill advised. We will get to that shortly.
He was a bookish lad, and he sat on the bench in the garden, with a tome of heavy prose that seemed too world weary for a boy of his age. He had a dark brow and his slim body. He was handsome in the way of all youth. I doubted he would remain so in the years to come. I was lucky to encounter him now. After playing the harlot to Charles for three weeks, I could play the wonton matron with Paul. I had no doubt the change of pace would be good for my womanly nature. After three days, I approached Paul and informed him what I wished to do.
"But madam, you are married?" he answered. He was not shocked. He simply stated my matrimony as a fact. He was a dreamy boy, but he had a practical side. I explained to him my particular set of circumstances, and my husband's desires to alleviate them, and my particular amatory inclinations.
"Madam, you are old enough to be my mother," once he said that, I acted cross in order to get an advantage over him. It worked. He grew red and stumbled over his words.
"It is very simple, Paul," I explained to him, sitting closer to him, and placing a hand boldly on his slim knee. "You are a lad, just touching manhood. Give yourself over to me, and I will usher you into full manhood. And stop calling me Madam. Call me Emma. We shall get to know each other very intimately soon."
"But Madam... Emma," he stumbled, I was torturing the boy, no doubt. "I have only had physical intercourse with, well with boys my own age. I fancy boys." It took him much courage to impart that. I appreciated his candor.
"Well, have you ever been around girls? Or ladies?" He nodded that he had not. "You see, all you've had are those unwashed lads - and I'm sure the ones you've had 'physical intercourse' with are quite girlish looking boys. It is quite unnatural to not be around the opposite sex as you grow to manhood. Things get all twisted around. I will untwist them. Tell me what you did with the last boy you were with?"
"Well, he took me into his mouth," he told me quietly. I felt as if a door was opening in my womb. I was hanging over an abyss and adored the sensation. "It may surprise you Paul, but I have had many a man's member, let's just call them cocks, in my mouth. And men in no uncertain terms always explain to me, on the completion of that primal act, that my ministrations are far better than any woman who has ever done it before - and certainly better than some pimply public school boy!"
He was shocked, but he was looking me directly in the eyes, because I had gotten myself quite worked up. I slide my hand up the inside of his legs. I was not surprised to find his cock standing stiff. He had no idea what he wanted!
