Jonathan Richardson - Confessions Of An English Traveler

I had a sudden idea. My left hand left the cleft of her buttocks, reached out, caught the extra pillow. I then lifted her and put the pillow under her buttocks, thereby raising the plane of her cunt.

Now my cock drove straight down. She spread her legs wider, evidently hoping thereby to open her cunt more; nonetheless, she could spread her opening no more. My prick still lay with half the knob in her.

The thought came that I should have lubricated her and my prick thoroughly before attempting this entrance, but I realized it was too late now. If I took my knob from her she might decide to quit this affair. I have made that mistake in my life of cocksmanship. Bodily contact means much. Sometimes when bodily contact is missing the urge suddenly abandons a woman.

Therefore I had to blunder through or perhaps lose all, and what cocksman wishes to lose the great chance of breaking a maidenhead-something many men never, never accomplish in their long lives of moving from one cunt to the other.

Her breathing sounded harsh and deep and expectant. In a silent way she implored me to enter her and make her a woman, as the romantic novelists label breaking a maiden's veil.

Frankly, I could have roughly entered, forcing my cock in, but this I did not wish to do, for to have done so would have pained her and made her angry-and I wanted to pierce this small cunt time and time again.

I planned party after party with this delectable little female with her almost impenetrable vagina. Therefore I entered the cunt slowly, wriggling my cock, threading my bulb through her cunt's hairy lips-and finally my knocker was inside her cunt's lips, and the rest of my long round prick could easily enter, for once the knob is in the hardest part has been accomplished.

I felt my cock's tip push against something closing the door to her vagina. My heart sang with happiness. Fine sweat coated my sac. She had told me truth! My knob pushed against her tight virginal membrane!

She breathed, “The first cock to enter my cunt,” and she smiled without opening her eyes. Hers was a contented smile, the smile of a woman who soon will get a man's cock to his balls.

She was also getting under wild passion's wild sway. Never when normal would she utter the words cock and cunt. Passion was revealing her true evil nature. No woman in the world can curse and talk as filthy as the parson's wife.

My bulb pushed her membrane. Evidently this pained for her lips went tight and bloodless as she murmured, “Break the fucking thing, m'love. What kind of a cunt am I, anyway? Here I have the number of years I have and I still have my fucking maidenhead. Break the shit out of it, m'love!”

This I did not do, at this time, and the reason was simple: I wanted to feel a strong hard maidenhead on the end of my cock, a thing few men in life accomplish.

For most females, when receiving the cock for the first time, strangely show no maidenheads, which may seem odd to the amateur cocksman but to an old tried and seasoned prick this is not an oddity.

The veil is usually punctured with fingers or bananas or something entering the vagina in lieu of a prick. The usual excuse is that the membrane of virginity was broken 'while I was out on a horseback ride,' which is one of the baldest lies a female can concoct, but the human female seldom, if ever, tells the truth, even to a husband who has paid all her bills and kept her in idleness and comfort all her years.

Evidently Lady Haversock apparently had done no horseback riding. The irony of this struck me for soon her ladyship would be 'ridden,' my hard cock sliding in and out of her white-rimmed cunt.

But first, I must break this maidenhead. Great joy was in me, surging through my flesh. I was being handed one of the greatest opportunities a man can ever attain. And then, what was the sound I had heard?

Was the bedroom door slowly but surely being opened? My prick in her cunt to behind my knob, my bulb pushing against her delectable maidenhead, I looked back over my right shoulder, and what I saw made my cock suddenly wilt and my heart jump with fear.

For there, horse pistol in hand, stood the heavy set middle-aged Lord Haversock, his eyes slitted as he attempted to probe the darkness.

All that saved me from being slaughtered on the spot was the fact that the stupid lord could not see well in the intense gloom of the room, his eyes not yet accustomed to picking out and seeing objects clearly… something my eyes could do.

“Who's in here with my wife?” the lord rasped.

His words bounced from wall to wall. His startled wife opened her mouth to scream; my flat hand came down, stifling her possible yell. Within a second, I was on my feet, moving swiftly and silently as I scooped my clothes from a chair, many feverish thoughts running through my head.

Lord Haversock was supposed to be away from his bed for at least one night, yet here he stood with pistol in hand. Why had he returned? Or, had he ever departed? Had he laid a trap for me?

Had he suspected somebody would sneak in to have sex with his lovely young wife? I had come in under dark to the lady's window, the trees hiding me in the night.

Had a servant seen me sling a leg over his wife's window? And had that same servant somehow contacted Lord Haversock and so informed him?

“I daresay, who is in this room?” his lordship thundered.

Already, I had slipped through a side door into another room, hoping I'd not forgotten a bit of clothing. Dismay surged through me, mingling with fear. I packed no sidearm. I had been on the verge of shattering a maidenhead, a great honor. I had not broken that maiden's veil.

I had been false to the cocksman's code. This falseness consisted of two elements: I had not consummated my sex session and I had stupidly allowed myself to be caught in a married female's bed by the said female's irate spouse.

I slid up a window. Naked, I dropped to the ground. My bare feet were in a flower bed. I looked about. I saw nobody. I made a dash for the heavier darkness of the trees some thirty feet distant.

Then rang out the female voice. “He goes this way, m'lord. And the sonofabitch is naked, m'lord. Come, come, come-with your pistol!

I come, Mattie, I come!”

Luck favored me. The housemaid-or whoever yelled-had no arm. I tore naked for the brush. My stage and driver were on a far street, awaiting my return. I dressed as I ran.

I discovered I had left my bottom underwear in my lady's room. Well, it held no identification, so that was just as well. I realized I heard no shot. Evidently Lord Haversock had not killed his wife. He had the right to kill her for her deceit, too.

When I came to my carriage I was walking and breathing normally. I climbed into the box and called up, “Home, John,” and my man said, “With pleasure, m'lord,” and the carriage rattled off, my four gray steeds making clattering hoof-sounds on the ancient stone road.

My head was now clear. I did some constructive thinking. I had nothing to fear unless m'lady got frightened and revealed my identity to her husband. He then had the right-under this stupid king-to shoot me on sight, even with my back turned to him.

He could challenge me to a duel, too.

Suddenly my driver called down, “M'lord, another carriage approaches from the rear and comes in very, very fast.”

I parted the window curtain. Fog had swooped down, as it does in London, without a moment's notice. You couldn't see your hand in front of your face.

“How do you know another carriage comes? You cannot see like the cat, can you?”

“No, but I hear good. And this is Charing Cross Lane and many carriages have been robbed here by hard driving bandits in coaches, m'lord.”

He was right. Periodicals lately reported many robberies here on Charing Cross Lane. “Use the whip,” I ordered.