Improper Proposals (8 page)

Chapter Ten

I woke at dawn, so early that the tendrils of light creeping around the drawn curtains were yet pale and tentative, a match for my state of mind. I, too, felt uncertain, as strange and new as a butterfly fresh from its chrysalis. I had no regrets about what I had done, but I wasn’t fully at ease with it, either. To share such intimate moments with a man I didn’t love, a man I had resolved never to love, unnerved me. Had I just made the best decision of my life? Or the worst?

I turned my head to look on the man with whom I had made love just hours before. He was still fast asleep, his back to me, his head burrowed into the pillow. Inching closer, I pressed my body against his, fitting my breaths to the slower rhythm of his exhalations.

A rush of tenderness swept over me. I didn’t love him, but already I was tremendously fond of him, this dear, funny, attentive man who was now my lover. The pale skin of his shoulders was dotted with freckles, hundreds of them, and without thinking twice I began to kiss them, once per freckle. I had adorned no more than a dozen when, without warning, he rolled to face me.

“Good morning,” he whispered, setting a tiny kiss on the end of my nose.

“Good morning. Did I wake you?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Normally I wake to find Grendel staring at me, whining to be taken on his morning walk. This is much better.”

With that he grasped my bottom and, squeezing, pulled me so close that nearly the entire length of my naked body was pressed against his. His cock was already hard, I hoped because of me, though I did recall that men often awoke in such a state.

“Why do men wake up like that?”

“Because it’s the perfect way to begin the day. Don’t you agree?”

“But what if you are alone? Does it just, ah, go away?”

“Sometimes. Or sometimes I do this.” He drew back, just far enough that I might peer down between us. Then he grasped his cock in his hand and began to manipulate it with long, firm strokes, up and down, his eyes fixed pointedly on my breasts.

“Ohh,” I gasped, embarrassed by what I saw but also, I had to admit, wonderfully titillated.

“You made no mention of this in your outline. The art of self-pleasure, I mean,” he said, still rubbing at his cock.

“But the guide is for women,” I protested.

“And you think women don’t do this? Touch themselves and find release?”

“I suppose we do. Though I don’t...not really. Only once in a while. Not often at all.”

“Do you rub at your clit? Push the fingers of your other hand inside?”

“I would rather not—”

“I agree that it doesn’t compare to the complete act, as it were. But it can be memorable. Depends, of course, on what you’re thinking about. What do you think of when you masturbate?”

“I don’t know...to be honest, I don’t think of much at all, beyond the way it feels.”

“That’s the problem. The next time you masturbate—”

“Please, Tom, if you could refrain from using that word—”

“Touch yourself, then. The next time you do it, think about what we did last night. And think of what we’re about to do.”

“Aren’t we going to have breakfast, now that we are both awake? Or are you going to keep touching yourself until you, ah...?”

“Masturbation is well and good, but a beautiful, naked, passionate woman is lying in my bed, and she doesn’t have to catch her train for hours yet. So I’ve decided to fuck her senseless.
That
is what you are going to think about when you reach between your legs tonight.”

* * *

We parted late that morning, exchanging our goodbyes discreetly while still in the privacy of our rooms. Tom saw me settled in a hansom cab for the journey to Paddington Station, paying the driver in advance, then set out for his offices on foot. We would see one another in a month’s time, or sooner if I finished my Chapter any earlier.

I had always found the train journey home from London rather tiresome, for the line from Paddington to Didcot always seemed to stop at every hamlet, byway and crossroads en route, and today was no exception. I sat alone in my little first-class compartment, unable to read the book I had brought with me, uninterested in looking at the scenery that washed past my window.

I simply could not relax, for the ceaseless thrum of the train’s wheels and engine, which had often lulled me to sleep on past journeys, was acting as the most powerful stimulant imaginable. No matter how I sat, no matter how I well I cushioned my bottom, the unending vibrations seized on me and set me thinking of how I would pleasure myself when night fell.

Even worse, when I alighted at Didcot and went in search of Farmer Granby, who had promised to bring his donkey cart to collect me, I discovered that the open seam at the junction of my drawers had somehow twisted and become caught between my legs. No matter how I twitched at my skirts I was unable to dislodge it, and before I could visit the ladies’ restroom, I was hailed by my neighbor. The entire four-and-a-half-mile journey passed in a blur of unrequited, agonizing need, my clitoris rubbed nearly raw by the lurching of the wretched cart.

I bid Farmer Granby goodbye in the most perfunctory manner and, once inside my cottage, the door latched behind me, I reached under my skirts and tore at the offending garment, desperate to be rid of its irksome touch.

I stood, one hand buried between my legs, the other clutching at my kitchen table, and I resisted the nearly unbearable urge to give in. It would be better if I waited until nightfall. Far better, I told myself, for I would be at my leisure to think of Tom and how he had made me feel, and would not be bent on gratifying myself quickly, mindlessly. I removed my hand and straightened my skirts.

All that afternoon and evening I busied myself with chores and gardening and correspondence, even finishing off the entirety of my mending, one of my least favorite tasks. The hours crawled by with implacable slowness, the clock on my mantel deaf to my unspoken entreaties. Would it never be eight o’clock?

At half past seven I admitted defeat and ascended to my bedchamber. I cleaned my teeth, brushed out my hair and put on my nightgown. I doused the lamp and climbed into bed. I pulled my nightgown up past my waist. And I let myself remember.

“What do you want now?” he had asked me only that morning. “Shall I play with your tits? Or do you want my hand between your legs?”

“Both,” I answered, and he obliged, sucking and licking and nipping at my breasts until my nipples were hot and engorged and nearly crimson in color. My clitoris was treated every bit as attentively, though he didn’t allow me to climax from the touch of his hand alone.

He did let me squeeze and pull at it his cock, and then, when he was ready, he had me open the little tin, unwrap a fresh prophylactic and roll it slowly, carefully, down to the base of his straining member.

I moved to recline on the bed, thinking that he would wish to kneel between my widespread legs as he had done before, but he caught at my shoulder and held me still.

“Not this time. This morning I want you to ride me.”

“As one might ride a horse?”

“More or less. Sit astride me now, your weight on your knees. Yes. Now rise up.”

As I lifted myself, he reached between us and lifted his cock away from his belly, straightening it so the tip just grazed my entrance. Satisfied that it was well aimed, he set his hands on my hips and pushed me down until I was full to bursting of him, my bottom nestled atop his stones, the curls of my pussy tangled with the hair that surrounded his privates. He had impaled me, firmly and certainly, and the effect was both overpowering and delightful.

“Good girl,” he muttered. “Now I want you to ride me.”

“I’ve never ridden a horse, Tom. I don’t know how.”

“This is easier. Raise yourself up, just a little, then drop back down again. Then do it again and again. That’s it.”

It really was just that straightforward. I eased myself up and down, his cock holding me wonderfully steady, and soon I found that I could rise almost to my knees without losing him. I loved the upward sweep, as I pulled away, but even better was the moment when I sat back down and hungrily claimed his cock again.

At first he was content to watch, his hands at my waist only to guide me. He seemed entranced by my breasts, which I set to bouncing with every downward thrust, but which were partially covered by my unbound hair. This he remedied quickly, gathering the locks together and sweeping them down my back, but having set his hands in motion he was no longer content to watch.

I faltered in my rhythm when he took hold of my breasts, for he held them just loosely enough that my nipples might rub against his palms as I rose and fell. The sight of my breasts in his hands was quite as exciting as the actual sensations he provoked, and before long I was so overcome that I felt near to fainting.

“Touch your breasts for me,” he ordered, abruptly removing his hands.

“But you—”

“Do it. And open your mouth.”

I did so, intending to question him again, but my words were muted by the insertion of his right thumb.

“Suck it,” he said.

Again I complied, though it surprised me that he would find such a thing enjoyable. But it was only the means to an end, for shortly thereafter he removed his thumb and set it, suitably wet, directly on my clitoris, which was already so swollen that it sat proud of the little hood under which it normally hid.

“Don’t stop fucking me, Caroline. Not even when you come,” he warned.

It was perhaps the hardest thing I’d ever done, for he rubbed me to climax in seconds, and when it burst upon me, my first instinct was to fall forward and clutch him tight in my arms. But to do so would surely interfere in Tom’s pleasure, so I’d hardened my spine, held my breath, and ridden him until he was caught up in the same net that had captured me, his entire body racked by wave after wave of ecstasy.

Hours later, alone in bed, I thought of how I had ridden Tom that morning, how he had groaned and grunted and cried out beneath me. How he had been by turns so tender and then so domineering.

I thought of him as I let my forefinger tickle at my clitoris, circling around it lightly, just as he had done, then deepening the pressure until my eyes rolled back in my head and my fingers hurt and my arm was seized with cramps. And still I did not relent, not until the abyss opened before me and I fell, gasping out his name, wishing against hope that I might open my eyes and find him next to me.

More than anything, in the instant, I wanted Tom. With me, his hands upon me, his wicked, bright eyes glittering with the sure and certain knowledge that he had taught me well.

Chapter Eleven

It was intolerable that I should wait an entire calendar month before seeing Tom again. I threw myself into my work, body and soul, neglecting all but the most necessary chores in my haste to complete another chapter.

Mrs. Jones, who came every other day to do my heavy cleaning and laundry, was horrified by my fervor. “You’ll work yourself into an early grave, Mrs. Boothroyd, that you will,” she warned. “It’s unnatural to be so many hours at your desk. Leave off, now, and eat some dinner.”

I submitted to her motherly attentions rather ungraciously, though I had to admit she was right in one respect. If I worked myself into an illness, I should be delayed longer—and even another day would feel like a calamity. So I ate the soup she made and took an extra mug of beef tea upstairs to my desk and promised her I would put down my pen no later than six o’clock each night.

It was also the case that the Chapter on which I labored was my favorite yet, or perhaps its subject was simply the most arousing. It concerned some of the many positions that a couple might adopt when engaged in lovemaking. While John and I had not been particularly adventurous when it came to such things, I had particularly fond memories of those occasions when we experimented with less typical positions, and I hoped that I could persuade other women, and through them their husbands, to do the same.

Tom and I had already investigated one such alternative, when I had ridden atop him, and after spending a number of pages describing it, I moved to my particular favorite, which was when a woman knelt or lay prone, and the man penetrated her from behind.

The merits of such a position are manifold.
It furnishes your husband with a fine degree of control
,
allowing him to tailor the intensity of his movements to your mutual desires.
It gives him the freedom of his hands
,
which he may then use to caress you further
,
or to steady you if his movements become especially vigorous.
If your husband is a large or heavy man
,
it frees you from any apprehension of being crushed or overpowered by his superior size.
Last
,
and perhaps most notably
,
it offers the thrill of the illicit
,
for it strays from the commonplace just far enough to feel forbidden—perhaps even naughty.

I had no direct experience of other variants, though my imagination recommended any number of possibilities. I had heard that the act might be achieved while standing, for example, but as I was ignorant of the precise mechanics I left off describing it for the time being.

I completed my pages in only ten days, a record for me, and heard back from Tom by return post.

30 October 1870

My dear Caroline
,

Pages received.
Once again your work is splendid.
Let us meet at Brown’s Hotel
,
same suite of rooms as before
,
at five o’clock this coming Friday.
Tell the clerk at the front desk that you are Mrs.
Ross and he will furnish you with the key.
If you think to be delayed or cannot make yourself free for the journey to London
,
please advise by telegram.

T.C.R.

It was already dark when I arrived at Brown’s on Friday, my exhaustion from the long journey melting away as soon as I stepped out of the hansom cab. I wore the darkest and most opaque of my veils, fearful of being recognized, though I was acquainted with few people in London and fewer still who might be found in the lobby of such a grand hotel.

I approached the front desk alone, having declined any assistance with my single, quite small valise, and cleared my throat to gain the attention of the clerk.

“Good evening, madam. How may I assist you?”

“My name is, ah, Mrs. Ross,” I said, the lie slipping easily from my lips. “I believe—”

“Yes, of course. Mr. Ross said you would be arriving. He is already upstairs. Do you still require a key?”

“No, thank you. Not if my, ah—not if Mr. Ross is there. Thank you very much.”

I moved across the lobby and up the stairs, my footsteps slow, my resolve faltering. Was this what I had become? A woman reduced to lies and deceit in order to meet with her lover? A woman who claimed a husband when she had none and, even worse, had no intention of acquiring one, not even if she were found out and decried as the basest of fornicators?

I was at the door, my heart was racing in my breast, my brow was damp with perspiration, and every ounce of good sense in my body was telling me to walk away. Instead I raised my hand and knocked.

He opened the door immediately, almost as if he had been hovering behind it, impatient for my arrival. I looked at him, offered the smile he deserved, and my doubts began to wither. Tom wished me no harm. Tom would not hurt me. And as long as we hurt no one, how could this be a sin?

“Good evening,” I said, setting down my valise and shutting the door fast, taking care to engage the deadbolt.

“Good evening. Let me take your things. Are you cold? Hungry? I didn’t want to ring down for dinner until you arrived.”

“I’m fine. Very glad to see you again.”

“And I you.” He bent his head, likely meaning to offer me a soft kiss of greeting, but I could not bear for him to be gentle with me, not now, not when I was so uncertain. I rose to my tiptoes, flung my arms around his neck, which was no easy task given his superior height and the tightness of my bodice, and opened my mouth under his.

He pulled me close, filling his hands with my skirts, pulling my gown all out of shape, a growl of almost animalistic desire rising in his throat.

“Which one?” he asked, breaking our kiss so he might set his forehead against mine.

“Which what?”

“Position. Which position do you want to try? I think I can guess, based on your pages, but I want you to tell me. I want to hear you say it.”

“On my knees,” I whispered in his ear.

He unfastened my bodice in seconds. He stripped it away, cast it aside, and then he pushed my skirts down, past my hips, until I was free of them and my petticoats and my crinolette.

He removed my corset cover and my corset. And then, faltering a little, he dragged at the ribbon of my chemise, spreading its gathers wide so he might push the garment low over my shoulders, then lower still until my breasts were bare.

“Get on your knees.”

“Here? You don’t wish to move to the bedchamber?”

“I don’t wish to wait that long. I’m not certain I can,” he muttered, all the while pulling and pinching at my nipples.

Although I was still half-dressed, I dropped to my hands and knees, feeling very glad I had bolted the door, and equally glad there was a lush Oriental carpet beneath me. The plain oaken floors of my little cottage would have been too hard for such play.

He knelt behind me, still fully dressed, which struck me as odd, and not a little amusing, since Tom was forever walking about half-clothed, his coat and waistcoat discarded, his shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows.

“Let me get this bloody French letter in place,” he said, and despite my curiosity I forced myself not to look behind. It was better to wait, my limbs trembling, my eyes squeezed shut, and think of all that would happen next.

Though he was breathing heavily, his hands were steady as he reached between my legs, between the open crotch of my drawers, and drew his forefinger along the seam of my pussy. I was so wet that my folds parted easily for him.

A long, hissing breath escaped him. “This excites you?”

“Yes.”

“What do you like about it?” This, as he let the weight of his cock press against my bottom. A promise of what was to follow.

“I...I don’t know. Perhaps because it feels so illicit?”

“Have you seen animals rut like this?”

“I live in the country. Of course I have.”

“None of us wants to admit we’re animals. But that’s all we are. Strip away our clothing, set us on our knees, and we’re animals again.”

“I suppose,” I said. “Tom, please—”

“Tell me what you want,” he insisted, still rubbing his cock against me in that annoying way. Would he never be done with teasing me?

“I want you to rut with me,” I burst out. “Will that do?”

He laughed. “Yes, it will do.”

He pulled his cock back, far enough that it might fall into place at my entrance, and pushed forward, his hands gripping my hips to hold me steady.

What was better? For him to enter me all in a rush, so abruptly that he knocked the breath from my lungs? Or was it better to savor the moment? To know, with each insistent inch, that he would not stop until my body, my thoughts and my dreams were full of him?

“How do you feel? I’m not hurting you, am I?”

“No,” I gasped.

“I wish I’d stripped off your drawers. Then I’d be able to see all of your pretty bum while I fuck you.”

“Tom—”

“Sorry. I shouldn’t say such filthy things to you.”

“I don’t mind. I...I like it.”

“You do? Do you want to know what I see?”

Oh
,
my goodness.
“Yes.”

He thrust in and out of me slowly, carefully, without any particular sense of urgency. “The slit in your drawers is wide, so I can at least see your pussy. It’s pretty. Very pink. Very swollen. So tight around my cock.”

“Will you not touch me? Between my legs, I mean.”

“In a minute. First I want to fill my hands with your tits.”

He arched over me, his breath hot against my nape, and filled his hands with my breasts, squeezing them hard, pressing them together, widening his fingers so my nipples might slip between and be surprised with pinches.

He suddenly pulled me up and back and set me firmly on his lap, as if he were a chair of sorts. Pinioned by his cock within me, restless for more, I pulled at his right hand, drawing it down over my belly, setting it atop my clitoris.

“Make me come,” I whispered.

“Greedy girl. You truly can’t wait any longer?”

“No.”

“Very well. But look down. Look at my hand. Tell me what you see.”

“Your hand...it’s covering my pussy, pressing on it. Ohh...”

“Go on.”

“You’re petting me there. So soft. You’re tracing around it, drawing circles. It feels so good.”

“I’m glad.”

“It’s so swollen. I can see it. And your finger...it’s rubbing, so hard, so fast...”

“Shall I make you come?”

I couldn’t answer, couldn’t speak. So intense—the feelings were so strong, and they were rushing toward me, the world collapsing, and all that was left was his finger on my clitoris, the heat of his cock within me, the sound of his voice in my ear.

I was coming and coming, the sensations lasting for longer than I thought possible, and Tom’s voice, when I could once again hear, was very indistinct. “What? I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

“Forward, Caroline. On your elbows.” His hands urged me down, set me in place, and then he grasped me by my hips and fucked me with the fervor of a man who was about to come. He fucked me so hard that he pushed us across the carpet with every stroke, the soft wool abrading my arms and face, but I didn’t care.

“Caroline, I...oh, God...”

He bent low over me, his entire body shaking with the force of his orgasm, and wordlessly sighed out his relief and gratitude.

I could have stayed there forever, sheltered by his body, safe beneath him, but after a few seconds he kissed my shoulder and withdrew from me. I sat up, my arms shielding my breasts, and watched as he removed the prophylactic from his still-hard cock, wrapped it in a handkerchief and stuffed it in his coat pocket.

“I do hope I remember to retrieve that before my valet does,” he commented with a wry smile. “Are you alright?”

“Yes. Feeling very naked.”

“Do you want to get dressed, or shall I take off some of my clothes?”

“The latter, please. But perhaps we ought to have our supper first.”

“There’s no law that says one has to be dressed to eat. Let’s make a picnic of it. We’ll eat in bed, shake out the crumbs, and make love before we go to sleep. Does that suit you?”

“It does indeed.”

He was quicksilver, this lover of mine—one moment the smiling, cheerful, gentle Tom that most people knew, the next instant all growling and forceful and utterly certain of himself, of how he could make me feel, and of what he wanted from me as his lover.

Had anyone else ever seen the hidden Tom, perhaps the true Tom? Had he shown this part of himself to his previous lovers? To his beloved Cecilia? Of course I would never ask, never dream of inquiring about the women who had shared his bed before me. Yet I couldn’t help but wonder: what had drawn him to those other women? And what, in the end, had driven him away?

Oh, God—what was I doing? I had to stop thinking about such things, for they were none of my concern, and they never would be. When I had agreed to our affair, I hadn’t reckoned on how fond I would become of him, and now, now that I felt so drawn to him, I was in danger of acting very foolishly.

I would not allow myself to care for him. I would end things before I lost sight of what I wanted, what I needed. I would walk away, content with my memories, and be grateful for what he had given me. I would ask for nothing more.

I would not allow myself to care for him.