Alexandra Guy - A Maiden's diary

“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.

At the moment I was with Harwell. Then, somehow, reaching once again the peak of Mount Ovary, so to speak, where Harwell had plunged his sword, I was alone and yet not alone. I heard the furious surf of the Atlantic, and the gentle lappings of the waters in Gunnels Cove.

How absolutely magical it was, I thought, to be fifteen, and beautiful, and consentingly ravished of one's virginity… As my passions for the time being receded, I received from Harwell the cup that runneth over-as if from some fantastically turgid hose that, posted in periods, lashed my bottomless organs with the vibrations of a creamy fury… He breathed stertorously and lay heavily upon me between my legs. Constricting my vaginal walls, I made the last of his life stuff ooze forth. Harwell sighed. Then he was noble, positively noble. “My Lady,” he said, propping himself up on an elbow, his gentle brown eyes twinkling in that marvellously open, squarish face. “Yes, Oliver?” “The truth, Clarissa.”

“Ever,” said I. “Are your appetites assuagable?” “Not one by the other, Oliver. Just as one appetite is not famished by another, so one may not be appeased by another. Each of my appetites is free and clear.” My green eyes played over him roguishly. “What did you really want to know?” “Are you still hungry, Clarissa?”

I gazed at the huge, hulking mass of the man. “Keenly,” I said. “If I may be so indelicate, Mr. Harwell, the dismissal of my virginity has created a bottomless hole.” He blushed. I laughed. It amused me to see him ruddy all over. “I meant another sort of hunger, Clarissa. Such as the one for meat.” “Precisely.

For meat. Would you like to see me bare the teeth of my vagina?