Alexandra Guy - A Maiden's diary

Because that, my dear man, is the way the female castrates the male.”

“Oh,” he said. “I'd no idea.” “I didn't think you had,” I said. “I think a woman trying to castrate you might well choke herself to death. I don't think I'll try-I'm far too young to die.” “I'm pleased.” “Will you be displeased if I return to Quistern House to consume some eggs and beef? You may accompany me if you wish.”

“Thank you, My Lady, but I think I'll muse the time away by waiting for you here. You will return?” “Oh, you may depend upon it, Oliver. You have shot me down. Consider me a trophy…”

Fortunately, I encountered neither my father nor my mother. They were being terribly civil to their guests by insisting upon showing them the countryside-the bleak bare valleys, the small rivers, the moorland, the furze and the heather. So, condescending bitch that I am, I played American by dropping into the kitchen and lunching with Mrs. Manyjohn, our housekeeper, and Wittling, our butler. After making them both quite uncomfortable-while I gluttonously devoured the provender-I had Mrs. Lingelhoffe, our cook, prepare an extra repast to put in a basket. I told her I was going for a considerable stroll along the shoreline, and that undoubtedly I would become ravenous.

I thought, of course, that Harwell would be terribly grateful.

He wasn't-he was rather human! “Is this how you intend to keep me in good working condition?” he inquired. I closed the door of the hut and faced him. “You had better eat what I brought, Mr.

Harwell, or I may very well throw it at you.” The massive man took me by the shoulders and kissed me. Christ, I thought, even this man's tongue trembles like a cock. I took his hand and laid it on my crotch. “It exudes both heat and moisture,” I murmured. “You had better eat quickly, Harwell.” The arrogant bastard ate slowly.

I tried to hurry him up by masturbating in front of him, even as he chewed upon a leg of chicken. He was relatively unmoved.

“Good show,” he said. I slapped his face. He put down the chicken, flung me over his knee and slapped my bare buttocks. I cursed him and farted in his eyes and he dumped me on the earthen floor of the hut. “Faugh,” said he. But he nevertheless finished the meal I had brought. And I had thought no man would ever recover from the ignominy of one of my farts. Harwell certainly was the exception. I became quite annoyed with him. I felt, due to our intimacy, that I had the right. I acted quite the bitch-I kept farting. He made no comment until he had done with eating. Then he again put me on his knee and rapped my arse. “Do you imagine,” he said, “that because you're of nobility you've the right to make a stench wherever and whenever you please?” He let me up and I flung off all my clothes and I stood there before him, my arms akimbo, my teats swinging, my nipples hardening. “I don't believe, Harwell, that I have to justify my actions to a mere teacher. You're damned fortunate we don't live in Tudor times or I think I'd have your head.” I grinned. “Instead, Harwell, I'll have your prick.” Before he could stop me-if, indeed, he really wanted to-I got my hand inside his trousers and around his bassoon and I jerked at it fiercely as I smiled crookedly, wantonly, shamelessly. His arms fell to his sides. I kept jerking. He started to say something but no words would come. His jaw worked and there was utter silence.

Then I laughed at him and kept jerking. He tried to pull away. I tightened my grasp and I pulled at his bullness with even greater vigor. Harwell paled. He shook his head. He staggered backwards. I kept with him. He crumpled onto the bed. I sat beside him and worked that thing of his. My tutor breathed shallowly. I took it in both hands. He groaned. He shook his head. I suddenly stopped jerking and his jaw went slack and I ran a finger lightly from the tip of his cock to the base and Harwell whimpered and the cream in his massive balls spurted forth through his tremendous nozzle and then I seized it again and oscillated its skin back and forth, back and forth as the cream shot at my teats and ran down my belly till I was all slippery with it and then I gently, very gently, lapped at his shrinking nozzle till it once again regained rigidity and, grinning blissfully, I hovered over it with my cunt and, moaning sweetly in my best coloratura, I engorged Harwell's frigger by sitting down upon it. My sensations traveled up my spine to my brain where they exploded. I half-closed my eyes. I was all vertical.

Harwell's fairly vertical frigger pointed everything up and down in me. It was a unique experience-vertical passion, and one accompanied by a feeling of intense superiority. I smiled condescendingly as I used Harwell. I was the queen and he the subject- and I rode him up and down. Rather like a steeplechase, I thought. His head moved from side to side-ah, I muttered to myself, he is completely will-less now, the colossus has awarded his plumbing piece all of his power, and it is all concentrated there now-and I have that power in my vaginal grip. I will put him through the paces, I told myself. To that end, I temporarily called a halt to my vertical admonitions-Harwell's shaft remained entirely enclosed. “Why do you stop?” my tutor asked. He raised a hand and pulled at one of my nipples. I slapped his hand away-and he was too much at the mercy of passion to make a contest of it. “You have enough of me without my teats,” I said.

“As for stopping, I want to prolong my sense of power-” “Bitch,” he said, swinging his body from side to side, attempting to uncouple.

But I was having none. I seized his shoulders and hung on. It turned out that he had overestimated his own powers of control. As he struggled and as I continued to enclose him, the friction on his pier proved to be too much to tolerate-because, suddenly, he breathed very noisily and arched his body. I was flooded. I felt his nozzle recede. I said nothing-I was frustrated and depressed and I made no attempt to conceal my feelings. Harwell embraced me tenderly-he knew what the trouble was and he hastened to rectify matters. He turned and, on his knees, showed me his arse. I was puzzled-surely he did not intend to lave my detritus. But my impression was radically altered in the moments that followed. His head and tongue sank between my legs and he went beyond that step to nibble at my yoni's buried treasure, so to speak, that small mass of tissue that responds wildly to the touch. After Harwell nibbled, he sucked. And, since I'd already been on the high plateau, it took me a very short while to attain the mountaintop. I did attain it, shoving my yoni at Harwell and sinking my own fingernails into my nipples. I screamed from ecstasy and locked my legs around Harwell's neck. He continued to suck and I kept on having climaxes. I counted five and then my thighs fell away from Harwell's neck -I was exhausted… He rose from my depths and, wordlessly, I wiped his face with a towel. He smiled, but there was something strange to it, something terribly sad. I asked him what the matter was.

He denied anything was the matter. On the contrary, he added, never had he known such physical bliss as he had had with Clarissa. We would have another go at it, he said, as soon as he could get his animal working again. His animal, I noted, was fairly shriveled.

But that was not what was concerning me. It was the sad look he had given me as he had surveyed my body from head to toe-as though he had wanted to engrave one final image of my body on his consciousness.

But I stopped thinking of that as a validity when-it was mid-afternoon by then-Harwell began squeezing his “pipe and balls” again. I loved to watch the male of the species playing with itself, handling its organ. And I loved to watch dogs in heat, the way their scarlet cocks slid in and out of that hairy protective piece of theirs-slid in and out, scarlet and glistening. Often enough in fantasy, I would take a dog prick in my mouth and make it come, whining and whimpering. And what would it be like, I would think, to be screwed by a dog with its lightning-like thrusts? But Harwell, at the moment, was far more persuasive than fantasy-his organ was fully erect. I've forgotten, now, how many times Harwell and I had sex that day, but that time was filled with it as we intermittently heard the lapping of the cove's waters and, more distantly, the smashing of the Atlantic at Cornwall's boulders. Finally-it was getting toward dusk-we mutually agreed that we had had our fill and that we'd best be getting back to Quistern House, or we would be missed. Harwell held me in his arms. “A few more minutes,” he whispered.