ARABELLA Read Free Page A

of lips to one's own in a manner that will communicate to the reader—even to myself. I who hold the dear memories of a thousand such moments of ineluctable bliss can frame them more closely in my mind than mere words can draw. The words provide but a sketch, the frailest outlines of reality. I trouble myself too much about it, perhaps. To Elaine I appear to possess a mastery of prose such as she can never attain to. Time and again in the years that have since passed after that first night of voluptuous discoveries, she has asked me again and again, “What did you write about it?”—referring of course to whatever event had last occurred. She has been party to almost all I have written, her eyes positively glowing as she has perused my diaries, while for myself I have fretted openly to her that I have failed to capture the fleshly bliss.
    “Oh, if I could but write like you, I would write very naughty books,” she has oftimes declared.
    I have never been flattered by her praise, however. I know my faults, my shortcomings, the midnight wrestlings with words upon which I afterwards gaze with disappointed mien. However, I digress again and must return to the first ruffled bed in which we found ourselves alone and palpitating.
    My nest throbbed. Our bodies were sticky together. With a sigh Elaine rolled off of me, though still continuing to cuddle and caress me. That I made no bones about letting her do so—and even returned her lascivious touchings—was the full sign that I had been drawn at last into my future realm. Hot-nippled as our breasts were, they rubbed together where our nightgowns had been drawn up to our armpits.
    “Tell me now. What did you see? Who was it?”
    I giggled foolishly, still somewhat naive as I was. That long night was however to temper me much in my attitudes and ways of thought. I recall not what I replied for I durst not tell her—as I then thought—that her own Papa was one of the participants. Indeed, in my own ridiculous fashion in those first moments of aftermath, I thought she would not believe me or would be shocked. Such veils of unknowing were soon to be rent from me. Persistent in her questioning and never ceasing to keep me thoroughly aroused between my thighs, Elaine at last after many hesitations and denials on my part, drew from me by simple methods of elimination of names the identity of Mrs. Witherington-Carey. Indeed, I bit my tongue and hid my face upon uttering the name. However, to my uttermost surprise, my cousin remarked with a charming laugh, “She is quite a beauty, is she not? How did he have at her? Were her drawers full down?”
    “Oh, she had none on,” I replied, realising for the first time that the lady had worn no such garment. Even as I spoke my breath was bubbling out again for upon Elaine's wicked forefinger as my dell was, I was yet about to come again.
    It was over the table, I said. Who was the man, she demanded to know. Do not make me tell, I begged. At that she laughed and rolled me under her anew.
    “I know—it was Papa. Oh, he has a big one!” she declared, to my perfect astonishment.
    “Oh, it was Papa, then. What a big one he has!”
    “Ah, Elaine!”
    She had me exactly as she wanted. I was lost to her entirely. Raising my legs of my own accord, I wound them round her slim waist. Her words sang in my brain even as we kissed and rubbed and rose anew to a peak of bliss.
    “How...how do you know?” I gasped, for all manner of thoughts were now raging in me.
    “You sillykins, you do not know much, do you? Oh, you naughty thing, you are making me come again—is it not lovely?”
    I could not but agree. The word painted but a ghost of the sensations I was prey to. The thorns of our nipples seemed to spin about one another's. Our lips indulged in the most lascivious kisses. The curls of our quims became matted with our merging spendings.
    “We will do everything together, shall we not, Arabella?”
    “Yes,” I choked, though I knew not