The Adventures of Clarissa Hardy

by Chloe Gillis

  Cover

  Title Page

  The Adventures of Clarissa Hardy

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  Chloe Gillis

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  Omnific Publishing

  Los Angeles

  Copyright Information

  The Adventures of Clarissa Hardy, Copyright © 2015 by Chloe Gillis

  All Rights Reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.

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  Omnific Publishing

  1901 Avenue of the Stars, 2nd Floor

  Los Angeles, California 90067

  www.omnificpublishing.com

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  First Omnific eBook edition, April 2015

  First Omnific trade paperback edition, April 2015

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  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

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  Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

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  Gillis, Chloe.

  The Adventures of Clarissa Hardy / Chloe Gillis – 1st ed

  ISBN: 978-1-623422-01-1

  1. Erotica—Fiction. 2. Romance—Fiction. 3. Flapper Era—Fiction. 4. 1920s—Fiction. I. Title

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  Cover Design by Micha Stone and Amy Brokaw

  Interior Book Design by Coreen Montagna

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to my husband,

  for all the reasons you might suspect.

  Prologue

  The Discovery

  THIS MORNING I made a truly extraordinary discovery when I had taken a break from writing. Sitting at the computer for hours on end can get you “all stove up,” as my grandmother used to say. The kids were in school, my husband was at work. It was just the dogs and me. Ordinarily, when I get to a difficult place in the manuscript, I shut the computer top and go outside to work in the garden or mow the lawn or do errands in town. I glanced out the window. No outside work today. It was pouring down rain, one of those soaking rains of early spring that sets the seeds to germinating, the flowers to blooming, and turns the grass the lushest green.

  The struggle with the manuscript had left me feeling worn out and lethargic. Yet I had to move around. I decided to go up into the attic and look for a couple of paintings that I knew had been sitting up there for ages, waiting to be brought down and hung. Now, finally, because of some recent renovations to the house, I had just the place to put them.

  I went upstairs, the dogs trailing behind me. The attic door was in the hall on the second floor and had a tendency to stick, so I gave a mighty pull. It opened reluctantly, and I carefully climbed the steep, narrow stairway. At the top, I pulled a long string and the single light bulb flicked on, illuminating several generations of boxes, books, bureaus, and worn out sporting paraphernalia of all kinds. It was junk or treasure, depending on your outlook of the day. I scanned the topography and saw the paintings across the room. One was laid across a low rafter that braced a gable roof. The other was propped up against the wall just below it.

  “Wouldn’t you know it!” I groused to myself as I began the trek to retrieve them. I know that in some households, things are put away for posterity in a particular manner. They are neatly wrapped, tenderly tucked into boxes, and carefully labeled to assure positive and swift identification should they ever be needed in the future. Not so in our house. Unwanted things were stuffed. If we were feeling so inclined, they were stuffed into boxes, like old clothes, and then the boxes themselves were stuffed into the maw of the attic. There was no system. There were no walkways left to leave easier access to the stuff at the back. It was just one big pile of crap. Who knew how many generations had stuffed. The house had been in my family for at least two hundred years. And it did seem that the Stuffing Gene had been dominant through each generation.

  It was a large, old attic. I crept over the rubble slowly so as not to fall through the piles of boxes. I’d never be found if that happened. The dogs wisely stood at the top of the stairs, watching. At last, I reached the objects of my expedition. I tucked the larger picture under my arm and extended my free hand to fetch the smaller one from the rafter. At that moment, the box upon which I teetered collapsed on one side and I was thrown forward into the gable. I stopped my head from cracking into the eave by dropping the painting and rolling over on my side. I ended up in a heap against the outer wall with a loud, “Oooff!”

  The dogs must have thought it was hilarious because they began to wag their tails and the little one barked hysterically. Slowly I sought to regain my feet and my booty. When I reached up and grabbed the outer eave to pull myself up, my fingers touched something. It felt like a block of wood, but there was something else. Curiosity made me forget any injury I might have sustained. Keeping my head low, I scrambled to a half-standing position and peered under the eave. There was something there. I reached in with both hands and gently lifted it out.

  “Oh, my!” I said aloud. It was a wooden box, a very beautiful box. In the dim light, I could make out some carving.

  Slowly I made my way back over the moonscape of boxes, bags, and detritus and stood under the light. The box was of a smooth, dark wood, like walnut or a darkly stained oak. It was hinged with tiny iron hinges and an ornately wrought iron clasp. On the lid was carved the figure of a reclining nude woman, another nude behind her brushing her hair, and a nude male seated on the floor, leaning back against the reclining woman. They were rendered in a very Aubrey Beardsley manner, surrounded by intricately scrolled patterns. I have never been able to quite separate Art Nouveau, Art Deco, and Arts and Crafts, but the carving, if original, put the piece somewhere in that period.

  Carefully, I undid the clasp and raised the lid. Inside were papers. Perhaps they were letters. What a treasure! I made my way to the stairs, turned off the light, and went back down to my desk.

  Breathless with anticipation, I lifted the papers out. They were in remarkably good condition, and written in a clean, clear hand. I leafed quickly through the pile. Some of the pages were handwritten, but some were typed on obviously very early manual typewriters. Some of the paper was writing paper, but some of the pages were mismatched, as though the writer used whatever was available to get the story told. I shook them gently into a loose pile and picked up the first page. I read, “Clarissa Hardy Saves The Day.”

  “Oh, my!” I exclaimed aloud to the dogs. “It’s an old manuscript!” How wonderful, I thought. Who could have written it? There was no name that I could see anywhere. Well, I thought to myself, I’ll read and maybe the writer will give up his or her name. Maybe I found a real masterpiece! My imagination began to run a little wild. What if I had discovered an old F. Scott Fitzgerald or early Ernest Hemingway!

  Whether the author had been male or female, I couldn’t tell, but the hand was clear and precise. I began to read.

  Clarissa Hardy Saves The Day

  Clarissa Hardy was a girl of her time. She was what they called, a true flapper. She was lithe and trim and wore her blond hair in a chic bob. The fashions of the times looked good on her. She was built like a reed. She smoked (when her mother wasn’t watching) and she had been known to swear here and there (when her father wasn’t around). She was also a girl of means, albeit nouveau, enjoying life from the comfort and security provided by her father’s successful paper mill. She lived with him, her nervous, society-conscious mother, and her younger brother in a huge house built in the rather gaudy Victorian style si
tuated high on a hill overlooking the river, the canal that harnessed the power of the river, and the paper mill that used the power to make the Hardys rich.

  Clarissa had just graduated from a fine finishing school for girls. “A fine institution for the complete education of your young woman,” the brochure had read when her father had set the material in front of her one morning and announced that this would be where she was to spend the next two years.

  Clarissa had thrown a tizzy, having just fallen in love with Eddie O’Malley, the son of her father’s banker. She had had her first kiss and she wanted more kisses. She wailed and cried and refused to go, but in the end, go she did. Eddie wrote her long, passionate letters declaring he would love her always and shower her with kisses, if that was what she wanted.

  It was indeed what Clarissa wanted, and, on her last holiday home from school, she and Eddie sneaked into the back drawing room one evening when they had returned from a dance before everybody else. He pinned her up against the wall, and his hand stole up under her dress. She felt his fingers prying between her legs. There was nothing to do but open them…

  Wait! What was this? What kind of manuscript did I discover? Was it some sort of vintage erotica? Some private stash of porn? Those Victorians had a reputation for such things. Fingers prying? This discovery had my attention. I moved myself, the box, and the manuscript to the couch. Curling up in a comfortable position, I pulled the throw over me and continued to read in earnest.

  Part One

  Clarissa Saves the Day

  …EDDIE POKED AND PRODDED, driving Clarissa to distraction as she wriggled around, trying to guide him to the spot between her thighs that felt on fire. It was one of the most wonderful feelings Clarissa had ever experienced, and yet, she knew it would be this way, just from that first kiss. She loved those intimate touches. She had experimented with herself, but this was much more intense, much more exciting. There was a feeling building inside her right now that nearly made her swoon to unconsciousness. She must have Eddie’s finger now!

  Impatiently, she reached down and took his hand, drawing it between her legs. She was becoming wetter and slipperier by the second. At last he seemed to find the place and tentatively pushed his middle finger in.

  “It’s all hot. Hot and wet!” he gasped.

  Clarissa ignored him, squirming to be closer to his hand. “Farther,” she whispered. “Push it in farther.”

  He had his face buried in her neck. Lifting his head, he said, “What?”

  “I said push it in farther!” Clarissa was becoming agitated. Clarissa arched her back. She had never had even her own finger inside of her, but suddenly, it was all she could focus on.

  “My cock is getting hard,” he gasped into her ear. “Feel it!” He withdrew his hand and put it on the bulge in his slacks.

  Clarissa had an idea. Why not? “Stop!” she hissed. He looked at her like a beaten dog. “Just for a minute. Here, come over here!” She led him to the big sofa, sat down and leaned back against the arm, hoisting her dress as she did so. She was naked underneath, with only her garter belt and stockings on.

  “Hurry,” she said. “Hurry. Touch me there. Put your finger inside me.” She opened her legs. Eddie looked at her dumbly. The aching burn between her legs was nearly unbearable. “Now, Eddie, before they all come home!”

  Suddenly, Eddie sprang into action. Tentatively, he ran his fingertips shyly over her cunt. His fingers slipped between the lips. Clarissa gasped. “Feel me,” she whispered hoarsely. “Inside.”

  Eddie did as he was commanded and pushed around with his finger until Clarissa felt it slip inside her. She gave a little squeal. Eddie pushed it in deeper. Clarissa began to writhe.

  “Yes! That’s it!” she cried out, but suddenly Eddie pulled his finger out of her. Her eyes, which had been squeezed shut, popped open. Eddie had dropped his slacks to the floor.

  “Open your legs,” he gasped.

  Clarissa needed no such encouragement. The throbbing between her legs was nearly unbearable. She spread her knees and Eddie knelt between Clarissa’s milky thighs. She watched him as he took his turgid cock in both hands, and guided it into her.

  “Open it for me,” he said desperately. She spread the lips of her cunt for him, exposing the orifice. He groaned as he pushed into her, and she gave a little yelp when he began his shaky thrusting. She heaved her hips up to meet him. It was beginning to feel so wonderful! Then his face contorted, his eyes rolled back in his head. He made an awful noise, and his whole body shuddered and jerked.

  “Eddie!” Clarissa whispered hoarsely. “Keep going! What’s wrong?”

  Eddie withdrew. Clarissa felt the now limp cock slip from her still throbbing, still begging cunt. “Nothing’s wrong,” he said matter-of-factly. “I’m done.”

  “Done?”

  “Yes. That’s what happens.”

  “I’m not done,” said Clarissa peevishly. “I’m not done in the least!” In fact, she was mightily disappointed.

  “You must be done if I am.”

  Well, this was not what Clarissa had envisioned at all. There went her virginity, not that it had ever meant that much to her, but she had thought it would be more fun to lose it. She had always thought of it as a sort of send-off, like breaking a bottle of champagne on the bow of a newly christened ship. Something like that. Not just a few gyrations, and then nothing but a mess between your legs. She would have to see what to do about it. Maybe Eddie was not up to the job. She was fond of him, though.

  Clarissa’s was a buoyant character. She managed a smile, sighed, and said, “Oh well, we shall just have to practice, Eddie. Get yourself together and wait in the hallway like we’ve just walked in. I have to go freshen up. You’ve managed to wrinkle my beading!”

  That was four months ago. Clarissa mulled the incident over in her mind and wondered whether Eddie could have improved. She had also done some research. At school, she had snuck into the nurse’s office and studied the anatomy books. Some of it had been quite shocking, but it fascinated her.

  However, the biggest victory of her education had come when it was her turn to clean the headmistress’s office. All the girls had to perform one menial task each week, just to build character and to understand the social order of the classes. On a bright Saturday morning two weeks before graduation, Clarissa reported to Miss White’s office. Miss White was a tall woman, ramrod straight, and stern. She would not accept a half-baked job.

  “Miss Hardy,” she said in her faintly English accent, “you are to dust and sweep thoroughly. And by dusting, I mean take the library ladder and make sure the bookshelves are done properly. The spines of the books should all be shining! Sweep the floor and wash the windows.”

  There was a knock on the door. “That would be Miss Harris,” said Miss White. “We are going to my apartments for our Saturday lunch. I will be back at three o’clock sharp to check your work.”

  Clarissa could always set her mind to a job. She wasted no time thinking about how much she would rather be playing tennis, but instead accepted the task as a means to an end and began her work.

  Her discovery came as she carefully stood on the library ladder and struggled to reach the top shelf with her feather duster. Clarissa could see a stubborn cobweb hanging from a large volume just out of her reach. As she was not a tall girl, she had to stretch to reach the cobweb. In doing so, she nearly fell off the ladder. She made a mad grab for the shelf, and the large volume tumbled to the floor. When Clarissa looked down at it, her eyes grew wide with surprise. The book had sprung open. It was not a book at all, but a box. Its contents were strewn on the floor.

  Clarissa descended the ladder and stooped to examine the items. The book-shaped box contained two smaller books, what looked to be postcards, and two objects she could not identify. One of the objects was a smooth, cylindrical thing about six inches long. It was made of soft rubber and possessed what appeared to be a handle. The other object was a strand of what looked like big pearls, but
they were set and knotted about two inches apart on a fine, smooth chain of gold. She replaced them carefully in the box.

  Clarissa picked up the small volumes and the postcards. She read the titles on the book covers. One was Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure, and the other was a small volume with the intriguing title of The Romance of Lust.

  Curious, Clarissa sat down on the carpet and began to scan one of the books. Her eyes opened wide with wonder and delight as she read. Here was a wealth of the information she had been looking for! And told in such a delightful manner.

  Clarissa felt a tingle between her legs. She picked up the postcards. They depicted half-nude women in comprising positions with nude men. She reached up under her skirt as she examined the pictures, rubbing herself, enjoying her own wetness. Finally, she was so excited, she had to set her book aside and give herself over to her climax, which she accomplished quite satisfactorily.

  After that, Clarissa frequented Miss White’s office as often as possible when she knew there would be nobody around. By the time she left school, she considered her education complete.

  Now she found herself back home. Eddie was returning from Harvard next week and Clarissa dearly hoped for an improvement in his lovemaking. In the meantime, there was nothing to do but go over her wardrobe, weed it out, and wait for her best friend Bonnie Lovell, a teacher at the public school, to be out for the summer.

  Clarissa was sorting out her summer dresses and deep in thought about the effectiveness of Eddie’s cock when there was a knock on her bedroom door.

  “Come in,” she said pleasantly. It was Nan, the upstairs maid.

  “Visitor for you, Miss Clarissa,” she said.

  “Why, who is it, Nan?”

  “It’s your friend, Bonnie,” answered the maid in an urgent whisper. “And she is some upset! She’s crying, she is!”

  Clarissa let the dress she was holding fall to the floor. “Crying! Oh, dear! Send her up immediately, Nan!”