Improper Relations by Juliana Ross Page B

week stayed for another hour to dust and polish.
    Just then, a feminine giggle told me that someone else had entered the library. It was Ida, one of the maids. She had worked at Bexington Hall for as long as I’d been here. Not one of the young ones; I would say she was in her late twenties. Pretty enough, with a jolly, round face, dimpled cheeks and ringleted blond hair that always seemed to be escaping the confines of her cap.
    Perhaps she’d come to dust; perhaps it had been overlooked that morning. But she’d brought no rags with her, nor any polish.
    Cousin Leo spoke, his voice so low that his words evaporated before I could catch them. The maid went back to the door and turned the key in the lock. Then she returned to stand before him, a bold smile on her face.
    I’ll never forget my amazement at what she did next. Dropping to her knees, she reached out and unbuttoned the fall of his trousers. Rather than smack her hands away or rebuke her, as any decent person would have done, he merely smiled. Smiled and let his head loll against the burnished leather wing of the chair back.
    She undid the buttons that secured his braces to his trousers, and with his help she pulled them lower, exposing the linen of his smallclothes. Those, too, she unfastened.
    It could not be happening—nothing in my limited sphere of knowledge or philosophy could have prepared me for this—but it must be possible, for I was watching it happen.
    I cowered in my hiding place, some fifteen feet above them on the gallery that ringed the library’s upper level. And I wrestled with my conscience.
    I knew I ought to cry out, alert them to my presence in some way, for my continued silence was reprehensible. It would be mortifying, for they would know I’d witnessed something illicit between them. But it must be done. I resolved to clear my throat.
    But Ida, knowing nothing of my deliberations, didn’t wait for me to make my presence known. Instead, she reached into Cousin Leo’s smallclothes and drew out his member. The sight of it was startling, for it was the first erect penis I had ever seen. My late husband had always worn a nightshirt on those nights when he came to me, and he had always doused the lights.
    I had felt one, of course, though not with my hand, only with the delicate skin of my inner thighs, which my husband had rubbed against most avidly before pushing inside me. I’m not sure how I would have reacted had Charles ever asked me to touch him there. Probably I would have done as he asked, for I’d known it was my duty as his wife to submit to his wishes.
    Curiously enough, Ida appeared to be enjoying herself. Her smile had not diminished; quite the contrary. She’d begun to stroke his member with her right hand, smoothing up and down the length of it firmly, while her other hand delved into his smallclothes. At this he lifted his hips from the chair, enough to allow her to pull his trousers even lower, and I could see that she grasped the sac that hung below his member, and was squeezing it tenderly.
    He was definitely enjoying her ministrations, for I could hear him groan now and again. He muttered something to her, a word or two only, but she said nothing in return. Instead she bent forward and licked the end of his member, which was swollen and a dark purplish-red that was ever so much darker than the pale, freckled skin of her hand. She licked it once, twice, and I thought I heard her laugh again.
    Then she licked up and down its length several times, giggling all the while, her hand squeezing the lower part of it, keeping up the mysterious rhythm she had established.
    He seemed impatient, his mouth pulled into a grimace, and after a minute or so he took her head and pushed it toward his lap. The frill of her cap obscured my view for a moment, so it was only when she drew back that I realized she had taken him in her mouth. She pulled back, her lips pursed tightly, then moved forward, again and again. All the while his hand