Alexandra Guy - A Maiden's diary

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.

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…