produced the French postcard was shoved against a far wall. The dark blue velvet armchair in which she had sat while he stood fucking his cock faced the settee.
A slick slide of silk drawers pricked the hair on the nape of his neck.
Jack crossed the floor that was bereft of a rug—footsteps deafening over the pop of embers—and lifted the heavy chair, muscles cording with strain.
A low rustle wormed through his bones, a cushion depressing . . . a cushion shifting.
Jack set the velvet-covered armchair at the end of the settee, a heavy thud of wood impacting wood.
Pale flesh twisting on blue damask snagged his gaze.
Rose Clarring slid back on the settee, naked hips turning, heel digging into a cushion to gain purchase.
Heat licked Jack’s cheeks and gripped his cock.
Slowly she lay back, round breasts plumping, right knee rising, left knee falling over a blue damask cushion.
An inverted arrow of dark gold pubic hair framed swollen, dusky pink lips.
Harsh, solitary breathing—Jack’s breathing—sounded over the distant bong of Big Ben.
Rose Clarring exposed her sex as Jack had exposed his sex. The tiny fissure that was her vagina darkly shone between the folds of her vulva.
Eyes stripped of innocence caught his gaze.
Pearl earrings gleamed in the shadow of her hair.
A gift from her husband. Or perhaps a gift from her father.
Pearls for a virgin bride.
Tearing open brown paper, Jack held the dildo in his left hand while with his right hand he unstoppered the bottle of lubricant. Slowly, carefully, he directed the bulbous leather into the clear, slippery oil.
The crystal lip was far larger than the fissure of her vagina. Only the very tip of the dark leather fit inside the opening.
Jack set the bottle down by the bronze base of a hissing lamp. The sharp click of glass on wood reverberated over the crackle of burning coals. Walking to the middle of the settee—not quite touching her knee that angled off blue damask—he offered the dildo.
She gazed at the leather phallus for long seconds, dark lashes hollowing her cheeks. A glistening thread of lubricant slid down the thick shaft, as if the artificial glans was alive and cried with masculine need.
Slowly Rose Clarring reached up to take the dildo.
Electric heat jumped from her fingers into Jack.
Her gaze snapped upward, wide and vulnerable. Jack did not step back to afford her more privacy.
“I’ve always dreamed it would be Jonathon who would tutor me. That it would be he who introduced me to the delights of my vagina.” Bitter cynicism twisted her lips and scoured Jack’s skin. “But you are quite right, Mr. Lodoun. How can a woman expect a man to please her, when we women do not know what pleases us? When we do not even know if we are capable of taking pleasure in a ‘stiff prick’?”
Wetness streaked Rose Clarring’s cheek.
A matching tear leaked from Jack’s cock.
“Perhaps this is all a woman needs”—her slender fingers tightened around the artificial phallus until they were white-tipped from the pressure—“and passion does not exist save in the minds of love-starved women.”
They would both discover the answer before the night was over.
Brown leather protruding both above and below her fingers, Rose Clarring guided the dildo between the delta of her thighs.
The thick shaft divided dark blond public hair . . . was sandwiched in between the lips of a dusky pink labia . . . blotted out the small fissure of a vagina.
Jack stepped back and sank into the armchair.
The position afforded him a different perspective.
He could see the large artificial crown, the size of his own crown: It was shiny with lubricant. He could feel the collapsed opening of her vagina, unoccupied for eleven years: It glistened with unshed tears.
Brown leather notched pink flesh. Pink flesh swallowed brown leather.
The glans. The crown.
The shaft.
One inch . . .
Two inches . . .
Three inches . . .
The flesh of her vagina stretched to form a
A slick slide of silk drawers pricked the hair on the nape of his neck.
Jack crossed the floor that was bereft of a rug—footsteps deafening over the pop of embers—and lifted the heavy chair, muscles cording with strain.
A low rustle wormed through his bones, a cushion depressing . . . a cushion shifting.
Jack set the velvet-covered armchair at the end of the settee, a heavy thud of wood impacting wood.
Pale flesh twisting on blue damask snagged his gaze.
Rose Clarring slid back on the settee, naked hips turning, heel digging into a cushion to gain purchase.
Heat licked Jack’s cheeks and gripped his cock.
Slowly she lay back, round breasts plumping, right knee rising, left knee falling over a blue damask cushion.
An inverted arrow of dark gold pubic hair framed swollen, dusky pink lips.
Harsh, solitary breathing—Jack’s breathing—sounded over the distant bong of Big Ben.
Rose Clarring exposed her sex as Jack had exposed his sex. The tiny fissure that was her vagina darkly shone between the folds of her vulva.
Eyes stripped of innocence caught his gaze.
Pearl earrings gleamed in the shadow of her hair.
A gift from her husband. Or perhaps a gift from her father.
Pearls for a virgin bride.
Tearing open brown paper, Jack held the dildo in his left hand while with his right hand he unstoppered the bottle of lubricant. Slowly, carefully, he directed the bulbous leather into the clear, slippery oil.
The crystal lip was far larger than the fissure of her vagina. Only the very tip of the dark leather fit inside the opening.
Jack set the bottle down by the bronze base of a hissing lamp. The sharp click of glass on wood reverberated over the crackle of burning coals. Walking to the middle of the settee—not quite touching her knee that angled off blue damask—he offered the dildo.
She gazed at the leather phallus for long seconds, dark lashes hollowing her cheeks. A glistening thread of lubricant slid down the thick shaft, as if the artificial glans was alive and cried with masculine need.
Slowly Rose Clarring reached up to take the dildo.
Electric heat jumped from her fingers into Jack.
Her gaze snapped upward, wide and vulnerable. Jack did not step back to afford her more privacy.
“I’ve always dreamed it would be Jonathon who would tutor me. That it would be he who introduced me to the delights of my vagina.” Bitter cynicism twisted her lips and scoured Jack’s skin. “But you are quite right, Mr. Lodoun. How can a woman expect a man to please her, when we women do not know what pleases us? When we do not even know if we are capable of taking pleasure in a ‘stiff prick’?”
Wetness streaked Rose Clarring’s cheek.
A matching tear leaked from Jack’s cock.
“Perhaps this is all a woman needs”—her slender fingers tightened around the artificial phallus until they were white-tipped from the pressure—“and passion does not exist save in the minds of love-starved women.”
They would both discover the answer before the night was over.
Brown leather protruding both above and below her fingers, Rose Clarring guided the dildo between the delta of her thighs.
The thick shaft divided dark blond public hair . . . was sandwiched in between the lips of a dusky pink labia . . . blotted out the small fissure of a vagina.
Jack stepped back and sank into the armchair.
The position afforded him a different perspective.
He could see the large artificial crown, the size of his own crown: It was shiny with lubricant. He could feel the collapsed opening of her vagina, unoccupied for eleven years: It glistened with unshed tears.
Brown leather notched pink flesh. Pink flesh swallowed brown leather.
The glans. The crown.
The shaft.
One inch . . .
Two inches . . .
Three inches . . .
The flesh of her vagina stretched to form a
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