Anonymous - Caroline

I recall that there was whispered speculation as to whether she wore black all beneath. The ladies said she must; the gentlemen hoped she might. The legs of female drawers had become at this time shorter,” permitting several inches of gap between the stocking tops and the elastic gripping of the garment so that an alluring glimpse of thighs was seen, the most erotic vision being thus aroused.

One afternoon, then, Aunt Lucy returned from the funeral of a distant relative whom many opined she had not even met nor ever corresponded with. En route from the station, and alone, two gentlemen passed her carriage and saluted her. Aunt Lucy was, of course, weeping, and but saw them through a veil of tears.

“Let us escort you, ma'am, in your distress,” was called by one, and so they rode alongside her carriage until her house was reached. Upon helping her to descend, the one who had called noticed what fine ankles she had and was much taken-as was his companion-by thoughts of all that lay above, and all appealingly so framed in black. She was not unknown to them, of course, and hence their offer to accompany her within “in her distress” (I put that not unkindly-she believed in tears) was quickly accepted.

More sobs sounded as the hall enclosed them first and then the drawing room. Servants who came were quietly shooed away by one of her escorts or the other. She wished to be quiet, said they, and hushed their tones, arranged her on the sofa and removed her gloves and bonnet while the tears streamed down her cheek-fetched port and raised it to her lips. She drank and sobbed in equal measure it was said.

“Come, oh warmhearted one, do not be so distressed,” said one who sat beside her on the right while the other cozened her on the left, caressed her thighs and felt the gap between her stocking tops and knicker-legs, this she appearing not to notice, so was said.

“My dearest one,” the other murmured, as if they had long been lovers. Making her lean back-and no great effort to it in her tearful state-he brought her soft, moist mouth beneath his own (“a little slobbery,” he said of it) and let her bubble on against his lips while his companion raised her skirt.

“What are you at?” she moaned but neither kicked nor struggled over much as her black drawers were exposed and the fulsome rims of her white thighs were lavished with salutations by a lapping tongue.

What are you at? How many a room has rung to this preposterous cry! It is indigenous to what are lately called the “suburbs,” I believe, and is frequently said by those who make no move to draw their clothes down once they have been ruffled up. It is a disguise to cover up confusion when desire obtains on both sides, but more shyly on the one than on the other.

“It were best to have her resting on the bed,” was said.

Her legs were lifted, heavy as they were. The other took her underneath the arms, and thus they carried her slung haplessly between them through the hall and up the stairs, she all the time a-sobbing but making no great cry-was like a great big floppy doll, they said, and mumbled as a sleepy child might while she was undressed, found to be all in black beneath, and this a wondrously voluptuous sight. Indeed, finding her so subservient, the gentlemen shed their trousers and handled her with teasing gentleness, the one drawing on her nipples while the other licked her honeypot.

Then was she fucked. I find it best to say it plain. One sheathed his cock in her and brought her to a point of liquid pleasure, she a-crying softly all the time, but lying lax to let him have his will. A splendid mount she proved to be, said they. The other took the first one's place and loosed his own spermatic flood after much heaving.

“What are you doing?” several times she moaned, but otherwise was silent. Then all three lay in those recumbent attitudes that follows satisfaction. Her face was turned this way and that between the pair to exchange kisses and her cunny tickled up again. “I am undone,” she sobbed without conviction, but she made no move to rise and was handled as easily as might a sleepy baby be, turned this way, that, her nether charms examined just as much as her plump mount.

“A curious lady. One would not have too much of her. In bed she is too indolent, accepts all that might be done to her, protrudes her tongue upon command and whimpers when her bottom is well fiddled with. Indeed, old chap,” was told to me, “in the very midst of the most ardent play she confessed to feeling thirst the while that both her holes were being teased. I then”-he continued-“fetched some wine. We made her drink it from the bottle's neck while sitting up. She souses well-I will say that of her, and left us but a mouthful each. Our cocks being ready, we then placed her on her back again. Her legs spread easily enough. “Oh, not again!” she moaned. Her well-soaked cunt, though, received us both once more and then we tucked her into bed and left her to her dreams. She said naught as we left, hurled no remonstrances, was quite quiescent, sobbed a little still, but curled up like an infant with her back to us as we retreated. A week passed ere we thought to visit her again. She proved once more to be handled as quietly as might be and permitted us to perform on her again. Deuced strange. One takes them as one finds them, though, dear boy.”

“Indeed,” said I. I felt no great astonishment at the story. Such ladies make bizarre excuses to themselves, I do believe, which is to say that they were made to or could not resist for fear of servants knowing. A grass widow, as she was, one cannot doubt that she enjoyed what she received. The gentlemen concerned were wise not to extend their visits on the first or second time. A lady who may be handled, as they said she might, but who has nothing to discourse of afterwards, proves dull eventually.

“And wisely so,” says Caroline, “for she may not want to involve herself too much. We have as many weapons in our armoury, my pet, as you.”

I would say they have more, in fact, but would not dream of confessing it to her. The coda to my tale of Aunt Lucy is one that I gained in a most roundabout way via a maid of the household whom a sovereign loosed her tongue.

Aunt Lucy was a tippler on the quiet. One might have gathered that, of course, from the brief mention of her guzzling of the wine. Perhaps it allayed her tears, or even sometimes brought them on. Whatever the case, she lent herself to a most libertine occasion shortly after her first triple bout. Edwin, her son of callow years-a subaltern in early training-took leave with a friend of his one day and arrived home unexpectedly to hear her sobbing gently up above.

“I say-what is to do? Lets go and see,” his friend exclaimed, whereat Edwin experienced a sense of unease, for knew his Mama's ways so far as tippling was concerned and would have ventured up himself, but his friend insisted-with all signs of solicitousness (and, I do not doubt, a certain curiosity) upon accompanying him.

Somewhat inevitably they found the lady abed, naked and half uncovered. Down beside the bed a bottle lay. The room reeked both of perfume and of wine, the curtains were drawn to. An air of voluptuousness swam in the air.

“Oh, it is you again!” Aunt Lucy uttered, blinking at the pair, and mistaking them in a moment of bibulous drowsiness for the gentlemen who had entertained her but a week before.

“Mama?” asked Edwin nervously, though feeling a little stirred by the sight of her mammalian beauties, as was his friend.

“Am thirsty. Fetch me water-no-champagne,” the lady uttered and then turned her back on them, disturbing the loose bedclothes as she did.

The young men retreated. “I say, what an arse she has on her!” commented Edwin's friend, for they had viewed it half-uncovered as she turned.