by P. F. Kozak
“Pamela, the smell of a brothel is full of a woman, that penetrating musk that only a woman can produce. Surely you noted it today, as you were in the very heart of Nellie’s world.”
Pamela lowered her petticoat to the top of her drawers. Before continuing, she quite emphatically stated, “Peter Rennard, you have spent years absorbing the nuances of a brothel. Obviously, the atmosphere appeals to you.” Pamela slowly, with excruciating unhurriedness, lowered her petticoat, taking her knickers with it. “Perhaps, that is what you really want.”
“Now who is being arrogant?” Peter did not take his eyes off the flesh being revealed to him.
“Stating the obvious is not being arrogant.”
The first glimpse of the chestnut hair covering her feminine beauty had come into view. Peter, without any sense of propriety, stared at the softness between her legs. “Pamela, it seems being a privileged child has caused you to miss your calling.”
“Which is?” The petticoat and drawers both fell to the floor. Pamela kicked them aside leaving her completely bare. She stood with her hands on her hips, challenging him, without the least bit of modesty.
“Which is…” Peter stood and exposed his engorged cock. “Which is being a déclassé trollop on the streets.”
Pamela’s face and chest flushed equally pink. “Do you know you are a son of a bitch?” Peter thought she might spit at him.
“Pamela Kingston, what kind of language is that for the daughter of Sir George to use?” Peter grabbed her and pushed her over the back of the same chair on which she had draped her dress. He gave her bare arse a resounding slap. “I think your father would approve of the spanking I am about to give you.”
Peter slapped her arse, with the intensity and voraciousness a starving man would bring to a wedding feast. Her voluptuous loveliness, bare and enticing, swept though him as would a gust of wind through autumn leaves. Pamela’s squeals, be they of ardor or pain, fueled his zeal for her flesh.
He slapped her with the palm of his hand, feeling the sting of his flesh against hers. She begged him to stop and take her, but he did not heed her cries. When he could no longer endure, he grasped her hips in his hands and wedged his prick in the crease of her arse.
“Dear God, Peter, please, put it inside of me. I want you inside of me.” She pushed herself into him. He held her firm.
“No, Pamela! I said not tonight and I meant it!” He thrust himself between her arse cheeks, and squeezed her breasts like a drowning man clutching a piece of driftwood. “I will spend against you, but not in you. It is not yet time.”
Like a man possessed by demons, Peter rubbed. He held Pamela’s titty and pushed his engorged prick into the crack of her arse. She arched her back and wedged him deeper into her bum.
“Peter, I’m dying!”
“No, sweet Pamela, you are living!”
Peter reached around to grasp her vulva in the palm of his hand. The sound that came from her neared a scream, but she swallowed it before it erupted from her throat. Pamela thrashed in his grip, but he held her. His cock, wedged in her arse cheeks, throbbed and pulsed, aching for release. But he wanted her to spend before he did.
He gripped her, the viscous evidence of her arousal coating his hand. Without regard to any decorum or modesty, she rubbed against his hand, her climax being the only thing that mattered to her. “Peter!” The demand and the plea in his name drove him to the edge.
“Pamela, I know what you want. You are my whore and my virgin. I will have you, you belong to me.” Peter wedged himself so deeply into her bum cheeks, he nearly penetrated her from behind.
“Sweet Mary, I am his!” Pamela pushed herself back into Peter, so forcefully the tip of his prick did find her arsehole.
She pushed back again, his rigid cock poking her more deeply. Peter squeezed the vee between her legs with the palm of his hand. Pamela shuddered and whimpered, “Peter!” Her naked body vibrated in his arms. Peter held her as she shook with the uncontrollable power of her own release.
As his passion for her seized him, Peter’s liquid fire moved. The desire he felt for Pamela spurted from him, coating the crack of her arse in his milky torment. With their bodies still pressed tightly together, back to front, Peter held her. He had his face in her hair, the fragrance making him giddy. His cream and her juice ran down her bum onto his trousers. He didn’t care.
Once they had both settled, he helped her to stand. Holding her naked body against him, he marveled again at this beautiful woman in his arms. “Pams, are you all right?”
“Oh, yes, Peter, I am quite all right. Perhaps a bit chilled at the moment, but certainly all right.”
“Come, stand by the fire.” He led Pamela closer to the fireplace. “There is an afghan coverlet on the chair in the corner. I’ll get it for you.”
“I could put my clothes back on.”
“Yes, you could. But I would much rather wrap you in a blanket and hold you for a bit longer.” Pamela waited by the fire while Peter retrieved the afghan. He wrapped the large blanket May had crocheted around her shoulders. “May gave this to me for Christmas two years ago. Do you remember?”
Pamela leaned back against him. “Of course I remember! She told me it took her the better part of a year to make it.”
Hugging her, Peter brushed his cheek against her hair. “I have used it several times when I slept here on the sofa.”
“Why on earth would you sleep on the sofa? Did you have too much gin to make it into your bed?”
“I suppose that is a reasonable guess, but it is not the true reason.”
“Then, why?”
Peter kissed the top of her head. “Because I didn’t want to sleep in my bed alone. Some nights, it is easier to stay here with my books.”
“Oh, God, Peter…”
“Pams, I am not one to wear my heart on my sleeve. But I want you to know, for as many times as I have tried, I have yet to meet someone I can abide.”
“May told me.”
“Did she now? And what does dear May have to say about the ladies who have kept my company?”
“Nothing about them, only about you. She said you have been in a sour state since Christmas last.” Pamela turned around. When she put her arms around Peter, the afghan opened, once again revealing her femininity to him. “Peter, May thinks it is because of me. Is she correct?”
Peter wanted to deny the observation, both to Pamela, and to himself. But as he looked at her loveliness and saw her unguarded eyes, her acceptance of him so forthcoming, he could not lie to her. “It is true that when you returned to school after your last holiday, I may have been a bit sour.”
“As I understand it, you went through companions faster than a cobbler uses nails!”
“We should retire for the night.”
“You are changing the subject.”
“You are correct.” Peter pulled the afghan closed around her. He knew the evening had to end before temptation bested him.
As he gathered her clothes, she stood quietly behind him. But Pamela would not be Pamela if she didn’t have one more thing to say. “Peter…”
“Yes?”
“Might I sleep beside you tonight?”
“No.”
“But why?”
The contradiction of her standing there wrapped in nothing more than a crocheted blanket and the naiveté of her puzzlement confounded him. “Pamela, I have explained, tonight is not the night.”
“But I only wish to sleep next to you. That is all.”
“I am not strong enough to lie next to you in the same bed and safeguard your virtue. Do you understand?”
“If you are determined to wait, I understand. But Peter Rennard, I am telling you right now, do not expect me to stay out of your bed once you return from your trip! You have offered me the invitation. I intend to accept it!”
“Pamela Kingston, I want you in my bed, but with your eyes open. This is not a game for children. If we stay this course, we will face considerable obst
acles. The speculation and gossip will not stop. It could compromise your reputation and my career. There is also the difference in our ages, the terms of your father’s will that precludes your leaving my home until you marry, and my management of your estate. All of this must be considered before you lay your head on the pillow next to mine.”
“Do you think I haven’t considered all of this?” Pamela held the afghan tightly in her fists. “I have spent many restless nights thinking about it all and have often cried myself to sleep wanting to be here with you.” Pamela’s voice caught. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. With staid control, she continued. “You sent me away, without even asking me what I wanted. In all the years I have been your ward, you never once asked me what I wanted.”
“What do you want, Pamela? I am asking you now, tonight, what do you want?”
“You. It’s all I have wanted for many years, even before Papa died. I want you.”
“Do you know why I sent you away, Pams?”
“Not until today. Nellie told me you wanted to protect me.”
Peter dropped the bundle of Pamela’s clothes onto the sofa. He walked over to where she stood, opened the afghan, and let it fall to the floor. He put her hand on his stiffening prick. “Do you feel this? When I would sit beside you on the piano bench in your father’s house, this would happen. When you would grab me around the neck and give me a hug hello, this would happen. Even when you slid down the banister and nearly knocked me flat, this happened.”
He picked up the afghan and again placed it around her shoulders. “You were seven years old when I met you. I watched you grow, and mature into a lovely woman. I struggled with these unholy feelings even before your father died. Yes, I sent you away. I had to. If I hadn’t, your maidenhead would have been broken long ago.”
Wiping the tears from her face, Pamela asked, “Can you see me for what I am now, Peter? Can you see how I want to be with you?”
“What I see is the most beguiling woman I have ever known.” Peter took her hand. “Come now. Let us retire for the night. We have a shopping trip tomorrow.”
Chapter Twelve
Pamela unfolded the telegrams and laid them out across her bed. Peter had sent one every day, with the first one arriving on Monday, saying only that he had arrived safely. Each day, the messages became progressively more poetic. On Tuesday, he quoted from the “Song of Solomon.”
“Thou hast ravished my heart. I sleep, but my heart waketh: it is the voice of my beloved that knocketh, saying, Open to me.”
On Wednesday, he used the words of Francois duc de la Rochefoucauld.
“Absence diminishes little passions and increases great ones, as wind extinguishes candles and fans a fire.”
On Thursday, Shakespeare.
“Love is a smoke rais’d with the fume of sighs;
Being purg’d, a fire sparkling in lovers’ eyes;
Being vex’d, a sea nourish’d with lovers’ tears:
What is it else? a madness most discreet,
A choking gall, and a preserving sweet.—”
And on Friday, the words were his own.
Dearest Pamela—Matters in hand, new agent hired,
farmland preserved. Will return tomorrow, arriving on
four o’clock train London Bridge. Meet me.
Until then my love. Peter
Of all the beautiful words he had sent, none meant more to her than the last four. Touching the last line with her fingertip, her heart filled with promise and hope. Peter would be home this afternoon. Tonight. It would surely be tonight. He had promised.
She went to the cupboard and took out the peignoir and negligee Peter bought for her a week ago. The moment she saw it at the shop, she swooned. The clerk told her it had been imported from a Parisian couturiere, the price reflecting that exclusivity.
Pamela had never seen anything so elegantly beautiful and feminine in her entire life. The layers of creamy silk fell to the floor, ending in a crinkled ruffle, edged in lace. Embroidered pearls decorated the sleeves and the peignoir closed with satin-covered buttons. The sheer negligee underneath had a scandalously low neckline, with hardly enough gauzy silk to cover her breasts.
Bringing to mind the flimsy negligee she had seen in Nellie’s boudoir, Pamela watched Peter as he looked at it. Wondering if he also thought of Nellie’s dressing gown, she brought it to him for his opinion.
He examined it closely, saying he wanted to be sure the workmanship and material warranted the high price. But, as his hand lingered on the gown, his reaction became evident. He quickly closed and buttoned his coat, to hide the ridge growing against his leg. Calling the clerk over, he asked that Pamela be allowed to try it on.
Seeing herself in the looking glass wearing this ethereal gown, Pamela knew that no matter what the cost, it had to be hers. She would wear it for Peter, and he would not be able to refuse her.
When she told him it fit her well, he immediately asked the clerk to wrap it up with the dress she decided to buy. She wore that dress today, to meet him at the train. The peignoir and negligee would be worn later tonight.
They had spent the entire day together, shopping and sampling sweets at three different bakeries. Peter could not have been more of a gentleman, seeing to her every need and buying her anything she wanted.
He made a particular point of taking her to an elegant lingerie shop. Apparently, the shop mistress had become accustomed to gentlemen bringing in young ladies to buy intimate apparel, for she hardly blinked an eye when Peter helped her select new drawers. He also picked up several other bits of finery for her, all with lace and satin.
By late afternoon, Pamela’s energy waned. Peter noticed she appeared peaked and suggested they go home. She didn’t want the day to end, but her belly didn’t feel quite right. Once back at Piccadilly, she discovered her ailment. Her cycle had come upon her, earlier than she had anticipated.
That evening, she found herself indisposed. She cried when Lucy brought a hot-water bottle to her bed. She had so wanted to spend the evening with Peter, but simply could not. Sitting with her for a short while before she fell asleep, Peter explained that, never having lived with a woman, he knew little of such things. He asked about her ailment, about her discomfort and about her timing. After explaining they would speak more about these matters on his return, he kissed her good night and told her to sleep.
He left the following morning. This time, he awakened her to say goodbye, kissing her gently and promising to return as soon as he could. Pamela spent most of Sunday in bed feeling unwell. By Monday, the worst had passed and by Thursday, her menses had finished.
She spent the week resting and organizing her things. With all of her belongings in their proper place, she truly felt as though she had come home. Reading in the library helped to pass the time. In there, she felt close to Peter. By week’s end, she even took her meals with his books.
Last night, she slept on the sofa under the afghan coverlet he had wrapped around her a week ago. She lay awake for several hours, thinking of him and the ache of his loneliness. The palpable emptiness of being alone eased when she was curled up on the soft sofa, surrounded by his books. She understood why he slept there.
In a few hours, Peter would be home. After serving Pamela her luncheon, May began preparing dinner. Once she’d eaten, Pamela made a nuisance of herself in the kitchen. She wanted to know every detail of the meal. All of Peter’s favorites had to be included. She wanted dinner served in the library at half past six, no, better at seven.
Grumbling that the next thing would be the wedding cake, May turned to go to the stove and ran right into Pamela. Shaking a wooden spoon at her for getting in the way and for being a bother, May chased her out of the kitchen.
That was when she decided to go back to her room and read the telegrams again. While reading them, Pamela suddenly realised she’d forgotten to tell Jack when to bring round the carriage. She heard the water running in the toilet and knew Lucy must be there.
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br /> Going to her door, she yelled down the hall, “Lucy?”
Lucy came into the hall. “Yes, miss, is everything all right?”
“Quite all right, Lucy. I forgot to tell Jack to bring round the carriage at half past two.”
“He knows, Miss Pamela. You told him yesterday when Master Rennard’s Friday telegram came.”
“I did? I don’t recall.”
“You seemed a bit flustered, miss. You said at two. Then you figured that would be too early for a four o’clock train and changed it to half past two.”
Pamela felt her face flush. “I suppose I am excited about Peter coming home.”
Lucy grinned. “I would say so, miss.” Lucy had a pile of clean towels in her hand. “As long as you have your door open, let me put a fresh towel by your washbowl.”
“Lucy, that won’t be necessary…”
Before Pamela could stop her, Lucy walked into her room. There, on the bed were all the telegrams and her lingerie, in full view. “Miss Pamela, oh, my heaven!” Lucy stood by the bed and stared down at the peignoir. “That’s the most beautiful gown I’ve even seen!”
“It is lovely, isn’t it?”
Lucy brushed it with her hand. “My word, it’s all silk, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“You’re thinking of wearing it tonight, ain’t ya?”
“Yes, Lucy, I am.”
“Does the mister know you have this?”
“Yes, he bought it for me last Saturday.”
“I knew something special had happened when I found your clothes in the library on Saturday morning last. Did he break ya, miss? Is that why the curse came on you early?”
“Lucy!”
Doing an awkward curtsy, Lucy muttered, “Pardon me, miss, if I spoke out of turn.”
“” No, Lucy, you didn’t speak out of turn. I thought Peter had my dress under his arm when we went to bed. I didn’t know you found it.”