Well, I did rest it there, momentarily. “Are you feeling better, My Lady?” “I will, Oliver, if you call me Clarissa.” And it was at that instant that I lightly jabbed with my foot to touch that mass of ruddy anatomy between Harwell's thighs -and at that moment upthrust against his tight pants was the clear outline of what appeared to be indeed a mighty cylinder. Harwell flung himself against the sofa's back, and a wide stain appeared on his trousers. He gasped, shook his head, arose and then knelt on the floor before me in an attitude of pure supplication. I was intensely excited-I kept gazing at Harwell's monumental column beating against the man's tight trousers, throbbing, the stain became wider and wider as Harwell had no choice but to ejaculate, if only because I myself had swung down my feet and continued to jab at his cannon, prodding it to more extensive liquid diffusions. All during this time Harwell was asking my forgiveness, fervently, on his knees, averring that he had entertained a passion for me for many years and had not sullied himself with other women at all-indeed, had not even indulged in self-pollution as he called it, to the extent that he had suffered a long time from nocturnal emissions. What had held him back from expressing this immortal love had been my brother James, of course. But even if James had not been present, Harwell went on, he would have been deterred by the Victorian attitude toward sex, fraught with prohibition and quite capable of criminal proceedings against a man avowing his love to a girl of ten. Even to a girl of fifteen it was- “Oh, shut up, Oliver!” I interrupted sharply. “And for God's sake I've had enough of your kneeling posture-please get up.” Bewilderedly, Oliver Harwell arose. I felt far from calm, but I was Clarissa Quist-Hagen, the daughter of a Marquis, who has all things under control-even men! “We will take a turn,” I said to the man whose height and girth was at least two-and-a-half times mine, “in the maze, and from there we can slip away unobserved. Besides, hardly anybody is about at this time of the morning. The guests are all asleep. Only our cook, Mrs. Lingelhoffe, must be awake, and a grumbling Wittling. The rest of the staff is just rising. We shan't encounter a soul if we go down the front stairs. In any case, we go to the maze and, when we leave there, we shall be in the clear. Do you make me out, Oliver?”
He had not a moment's hesitation. “All the way and let the odds be damned,” he said. Smiling now, he put a hand on my arm. “Clarissa, does our difference in station-in social status- affect you at all?”
“Absolutely not,” I said. I had lied, of course. Oliver Harwell's social station was far inferior to mine, and I was under no illusions that I should be happy to exchange mine for his, either in marriage or by virtue of an affair. One does not lightly give up one's genealogy. He kissed me. He took me in his arms and kissed me.
It was magnificent, but I had to tear it in half. It was not enough for me to experience Harwell's body, clothed, next to mine, clothed. And it was far less than enough to feel through the material of his trousers a lingam-oh, those Hindus had words for it!-whose phenomenal measurements were at their zenith. “To the maze, my dear Harwell-to the maze!” We tarried in the maze long enough to exchange another kiss and for me to feel against my belly his monumental cannon. I put my hand down and I could feel the extensiveness and breadth of his artillery through the wet cloth of his trousers. My knees buckled momentarily and Harwell braced me up, taking the opportunity to tuck his hand under my skirt and to acquaint himself with the oily wetness there. Savage bolts of desire shook me from head to toe. “We don't have far to go, my sweet Oliver,” I whispered. “Give me up for the moment and let me guide you…”
“Of course, Clarissa,” he murmured. It was perhaps ten minutes' walking time by the path which led along the slate cliffs that bent their dark hoods over the Atlantic-and then we had reached Gunnels Cove. Another path, this one overgrown with underbrush, led down to the abandoned fisherman's hut which James and I had refurbished. To the south, beyond the cove, the combers of the Atlantic crashed against the cruel, boulder-strewn coast of Cornwall.
From the hut we could hear the sounds of the boiling surf, but the waters beyond the hut in the cove were calm and clear… Once inside the seclusion of the hut, I turned ferociously to Harwell. My eyes were glazed, I knew, my mouth loose, with spittle forming at its corners. Harwell's usually gentle face was itself stiff with lust.
“Just let me get my mouth around it for a few moments, Oliver, and then I'll undress for you.” He nodded and fumbled with his trousers and then at last let them slip down about his ankles. I was so shattered with passion that I was unable to wait until he had stepped out of his trousers. I had dropped to my knees. I was trembling violently. I remember how the sun was pouring in through the window to one side, illumining the colossus now on a level with my mouth, and the two mighty spheres beneath-the factory capable of producing geyser after geyser. With a tortured cry-I had been imagining Harwell's cock for a long, long time-I slid my lips over the head of his cannon as far up as they would go and sucked. The cock throbbed with tremendous pulsations and my mouth was filled with sperm. I closed my eyes and swallowed. In a few moments Harwell lifted me up, stepped out of his trousers and started to undress me. I stopped him-I could do the deed much more quickly, and Harwell could be divested of his clothes at about the same time that I was…
“Do you like him, Clarissa?” Harwell asked gently. The “him” was at half-mast at the moment, with a few viscid beads at its tip.
“It would break down the walls of any resistant female,” I said respectfully. “But please remember, Oliver, that I'm still a virgin.”
“I will take the utmost caution.” “No, Oliver, not that.
Virginity has to be taken on a kind of threshold of brutality-you understand?” “I believe so, Clarissa…” I stood before him, then, naked to the pelt. I knew I was magnificent. I smiled slowly at him. He gazed at me for what seemed like endless moments, his eyes traveling in a leisurely fashion from the weightiness and fruitfulness of my biased breasts to the faint creamy bulge of my belly, and thence to the tight curls of my black Mount-of-Venus hair where his eyes lingered… I contemplated Oliver Harwell no less intently and, as I did so, his lingam, which had become relaxedly limp, began its flutterings of elevation. I sighed and asked Harwell to lie down on the rude bed in a corner of the room-to lie down and, for a few moments, make no attempt to touch me-I would do all the touching for a little while. “Of course, Clarissa,” he said, and did as I had bid him. He was indeed a big man, even lying down! He took up most of the space of the bed-we should have to disport in tiers. But what I wanted to do now was to caress his fantastic musculature, his sinews, his flesh-and to that end I sat on the edge of the bed. Nor would I omit Harwell's lingam. In fact, I decided, I would play upon his whole body, neglecting naught. I had no idea of how long I should devote to the caresses-certainly not too much beyond my yoni becoming a grease cup. The first thing I did was to blow a gentle air stream into Oliver's ears. My tutor grunted and gritted his teeth and, lo!- his lingam underwent a further erecting. But I would not depend upon his ears-they were mainly listening devices, touched up at various times to receive gentle air streams, the pleasure at once transmitted in two opposite directions simultaneously-to his brain and to his lingam. My tongue supplemented the air stream and, lo!-another height was gained by Harwell's rod and redeemer. I chuckled.