Harwell chuckled. I heard the roar of the boiling surf south of Gunnels Cove, but in the troughs I could make out the calm, gently lapping water of the cove. The boiling… And the lapping…
I fluttered my fingers over Harwell's bull neck, surprising for a man as tall as he. His throat worked. “Clarissa,” he said.
“Yes?” “You're worth all the long years' wait.” “Of course, Oliver. I'm a beauty.” Harwell was taking the whole circumstance with much too much seriousness, I thought. But what was I doing? Actually, under the guise of my being fond of him, I was presently conducting a kind of clinical testing and observation. If Harwell realized that, then he wasn't demurring. It was possible he felt he must defer to the daughter of a Marquis. Well, if he did, I did not give a good goddamn. All I wanted was to disport with Harwell's flesh and muscle and sinew, quite impersonally-it was there, wasn't it? And that was all that mattered. Harwell's there-ness was quite sufficient to destroy my virginity whether he loved me or hated me or was indifferent to my soul. The next thing I took care of were Harwell's hirsute armpits. They had the same chestnut-colored hair as his head. I tangled my fingers in their tendrils. His cock elevated a little more. I glanced at it.
“Splendid,” I said. “I wish I could take it home with me.”
“I don't believe,” Harwell said softly, breathing shallowly under my ministrations, “that the phallus in our society is accredited as a household deity, whether minor or major. But perhaps among the peasants, among the poor-” “Snob,” I said, interrupting him. I hoisted myself onto the bed and squatted over Harwell. His jaw became very slack. His face screwed up in what seemed like agony. “What's your trouble, Oliver?” I asked as I dangled my teats over his barrel chest. Then I took one of my nipples and rubbed it lightly over one of his. Harwell moaned. “The trouble,” he said, “is that your squinting eye piece down there is winking at me.” “It's my virginity trying to make light out of the whole matter. Bear with it, Oliver-be compassionate; it is the last fold of a girl's flesh that belongs to childhood…” I felt his barrow-like biceps and nodded approvingly-they would squeeze out a good deal of my adolescence. I savored his tough belly, purposely skipped my fingers over his now fully extended and rigid pier, and felt the thews of his thighs…
“Well, My Lady, what is it worth in precious metals?” I toyed with his chest hair and stared at the hoary hangings of fishnet from the ceiling. Curiously, I was getting hungry. The question in my mind, would I first want to satisfy my sexual needs, or would my food hunger establish primacy? And I thought I might as well be candid about that to Harwell. The reaction might be very interesting…
I told Oliver I had no idea of what I might be worth in precious metals, and then I added, “I'm hungry, Oliver.” I said it rather petulantly, realizing under the circumstances I might infuriate poor Harwell. I very rapidly discovered that one did not experiment with Harwell, at least not under these conditions. He reared on one elbow and with one hand seized a teat- belonging to me-and squeezed. I heard a ringing in my ears. Then he twisted the same teat. I screamed and heard a whole variety of musical instruments: cymbals, clashing; piccolos, shrieking; bassoons, piteously bleating; trumpets, sobbing. And they were all Clarissa Quist- Hagen's… I hunched up against the wall. Harwell merely sat up in the bed and towered over me. His expression was one of sardonic concern. “How are your hunger pangs?” “I was jesting, Oliver. And even if I hadn't been-” “Yes?” “A fifteen-year-old girl has appetites.” “Has she?” “Very strong ones,” I said. “Insatiable, possibly?” Harwell said.
“Perhaps.” “Let us see. Lie down, My Lady.” “So?” “Yes.
Now draw up your legs.” I did so. I had a frisson-the man had gotten to be completely in command. He was touching me now. Tenderly.
But I was going mad. I knew there was a white gummy secretion and that Harwell was spreading it evenly. His machine was monstrous once again-like an enormous ruddy log. Suddenly I wanted the whole thing buried in me, like treasure. Where I could lock it up. And constrict it. And loosen it. There was no hunger in my belly now. The hunger had sunk to the juncture of my thighs. The juncture ached. I had to be stuffed full. There was only one man in all of Cornwall who could do that in this instant. Oliver Harwell. I guided him. He would make a permanent passage. Through this concourse would follow all subsequent men. But first he had to tear my hymen asunder. I gritted my teeth. I gritted my thighs. I gritted my heart. I practically gritted my whole body, and then I shouted at Harwell, “Strike while the cunt is hot!” He permitted himself one great bellow of laughter-and then struck. I thought I saw all the nocturnal constellations become inhabitants of the day. I thought I had been lanced all the way up to my heart.
Curiously, even my arse felt sore. Well, I suppose there was a lot of regional sympathy. In any case, I was no longer a virgin.
“All right,” I said grimly, “we wrenched the gate open. Now, Oliver, let's see what you can do with the pump.” All this, mind you, in my impeccable theatrical English which Harwell had patiently instilled in me. “To the hilt!” I cried. “Full tilt ahead!”
Oliver Harwell obeyed. He sank his shaft in me to the roots.
Its roots. To his roots. To mine. I groaned with surprising satisfaction, the groan, I thought, of an archangel. I doubt if any subsequent male ever occupied my space so thoroughly. I believe I was stretched to the limit of my sheath. I told him to hurry.
Otherwise I'd be coming all by myself. I didn't want to be lonesome up on the sublimities, you know. Lonesome. It was becoming lonesome, after all, I realized as Harwell sweatingly pumped away. James was gone. The summer guests were crashing bores. I wanted to get back to London, even during the thoroughly repellant summer season. I was too dependent out here in Cornwall. I had no idea what Harwell would do next-in the long run. In the short run I quite knew what Harwell was about to do. There was frenzy on his face. He wanted to get rid of that. And the only way to do it now-get rid of the frenzy now-was to increase the pace of his pumping. What he would do a few days hence, I had no idea, and thus I was dependent on him to that extent. Such thoughts be damned-I owed my tutor my closest attention… Really. Because Harwell was astonishing. I had hoped for that-from the man who eliminated my virginity. Harwell had not only eliminated it; he had uprooted it and was presently replanting it with his own stake. The pleasure therefrom was like a series of interlocking rings -and I could have sworn they were making a kind of silver music. I suddenly arched against Harwell. My entire genitourinary complex felt as though it must disattach itself and go flying off somewhere. It did disattach itself at last, I was convinced. And now it was flying. The rest of my body followed the genitourinary system-the whole of me was flying. Harwell's lingam and my yoni-clasped and sailing through the heavens on the peaks of endless fountains… Had I known that fucking would be of such a sublime order, I would have permitted my brother entry long long ago.
In the early years. Not now. It was too late, now. If James and I had a sexual relationship now, it would be too terribly serious. I felt a passing sadness about my brother-even as Harwell was ploughing me stem to stern. Females are like that, you know. In moments of the most intense rapture the female can quite clearly think of the lamb en brochette she will prepare for the evening meal. I was at one with Oliver Harwell, and thrust my swollen teats and nipples up at him so that he might feast and I enjoy his feasting-the while I entertained my passing sadness for James. Elegant, green-eyed James, a wizard at finding the honey of life even at its most commonplace. Now: requiescat in pace -I shall miss him to the day I die… But there was Harwell's mighty prong. He was gliding in and out of me with such rapidity that I thought this is what it might be like to have a dog mount one. I thought of a dog mounting me and I went absolutely berserk. I whipped my hips around like a dervish. How much more of a dervish I might have been had I been able to foresee the future and Sir Lawrence Terstyke and the matter of his hounds… No matter.