“I need to rub the wet lips of my pussy,” I groaned, “Up and down the hard length of your cock,” my voice squeaked and my knees shook uncontrollably as the eruptions began. Shock waves that started between my legs and in the pit of my stomach, swelled and reverberated into sets of rolling, bursting waves.
I gasped, “I need to feel you stretch and fill me,” my juices sprang, “And pump and pump until, oh God, until you… oh,” his beautiful face contorted and couldn’t speak as I went over the edge. I shook violently and my whole body was racked with streams, rivers of exploding flashes.
I saw the drips land on his face and I came again. This time I crouched. I couldn’t stay upright.
As I leaned forward with my hands on my thighs and my knees bent, I heard him moan.
“Okay, mister,” I moved back then dropped my knees either side of his head. Then I fell onto all fours. My face was over his cock. I said, “Your turn.”
“Oh,” he sighed, “No fair. I can’t cope with this.”
I chuckled, “No? Why’s that.”
“It’s too hard.”
“In detail.”
His cock jumped. He said, “But I could stretch my neck up and reach you.”
“Details.” I said firmly.
“I could slip my tongue into your lips. Taste your sweet flower. Squash your lips with mine. I could suckle your clit. Blow on it so softly and then flick the tip of my tongue around the hood.”
His breath was slow and hard. His cock lay heavy against his stomach. Twitching with increasing force. Softly I blew along the length of it.
“Oh!” he said, then, “I could open you up. Explore the walls and steep entrance of your canyon with my long, hard, agile tongue.” His cock reddened and pulsed as I felt my juices gush. I peered down to look up his body to his face. He was licking the juice I had sprayed. My back arced and my toes curled tight.
I blew on his balls and he came, twitching and spurting. I wanted to lick him so badly. I reached down to my lips and felt the heat, the wetness. I brought my hand to my mouth and licked it greedily, savoring the heady tang.
He scooped cum off his stomach and licked it off his hand. I had to stagger to the other end of the plane and sob. There was no way I could keep my hands off him after that. Definitely not if he was within reach.
“Which is worse, sis?” he called from where I’d left him. “If we do this, or if we don’t?”
Pub grub
CLARISSA, ROGER’S MOTHER, WASN’T A BIT like I had expected her to be. I wasn’t prepared for him calling her, ‘Ma-ma,’ for a start.
She lived in a sprawling old house covered in creeper, somewhere near the center of London. We picked our way up the overgrown path in her front yard and climbed the steep stone steps to the high stone porch. Roger pressed the large bell-push, but we didn’t hear a sound, so he lifted the huge iron knocker. Just then, a tiny, winkled woman in a black dress and white apron pulled the door open a crack and said, “We ain’t buying, and we ain’t selling. Go away.”
Then she screwed up her face and squeezed her eyes at us.
Roger laughed and said, “Millie?” The old woman’s head cocked on one side and her scowl turned to one of defiant accusation. “Mille,” he said, “It’s me. Roger.”
She squinted and stuck her face forwards. “Is it? I don’t believe you.”
He leant down towards her and she jumped in the air. “Young Roger!” and she flung her arms around his neck and hung off him. She squeezed tighter and shook, saying, “Ooh, young Roger!” dangling off his neck. Then she jumped down and said, “Who’s this?” as she jabbed her nose and a bony finger at me.
“This is my sister, Honey. Honey, this is Millie. Millie, allow me to introduce Honey.”
She snatched her hand back and tilted her head again as she screwed her face into a point. “Don’t look like no sister to me,” and she looked me up and down.
“Anyway,” she smiled as she turned back to Roger, “You aint got no sister.” And she clapped as she tugged him in through the door. He smiled indulgently and took my hand as he followed her inside.
She spun around, pointing at me again, “Not her. She’s a fraud. A fake. Her sweet smile returned as her head tipped back to look in his face, “You’ve been had, you have, by a counterfeit sibling. They’re everywhere.”
“No, Millie. She really is my sister, she isn’t a fake and she is coming inside with us.”
With a groan and a shake of her head, Millie led us into the biggest, most cavernous and the most eye-poppingly filthy kitchen that I have ever seen. Black pots and pans were piled everywhere. Towers of grimy plates and dishes teetered and every surface was layered with crumbs, scraps and wrappings of ancient food.
From the floor above was a sound like people moving furniture, very energetically. Millie grinned up at Roger, “Pot of tea, sweetie. I’ve got some nice cake. You’d like a slice of cake.”
She looked at me. “Not her.” And she looked back at him and said, “She’s too thin.”
“No, Millie, it would be lovely but, maybe next time. I’m here to see Clarissa. Is the old girl about at all?”
The creaking from above reminded me of Mother’s afternoons when she would leave a note on the dining room table, saying, simply “Headache.”
“Oh, she’s about.” Millie squinted at a big old black station clock on the wall. “She’s about another half an hour I should say.” Roger frowned. Millie nudged him and grinned, “And she’ll be about a hundred and fifty quid,” her eyes sparkled, “For the three of them.”
“Well, Millie,” Roger beamed his irresistible smile, the old crone almost swooned, “We’ll wait for her in the Old Pig & Scratchett. Would you tell her when she’s…”
She nodded, “When she’s unentangled. Disencumbered. Yes, of course I shall. But you must come back,” she stood on tiptoe with an angelic smile. “Without her.” She jabbed her finger at me.
Roger took my arm as we left. He turned and waved as we went down the steps. I turned to wave, too, although mainly in the hope that it would please Roger. I saw Millie’s radiant, snaggle-toothed smile twist into a skewer-like stare and she flicked her fingers at me.
The Old Pig & Scratchett was a traditional English pub. Low, wooden beams, an uneven wood floor, stepped on several levels and tiny leaded windows that let in very little light.
I asked Roger, “Do you you think they serve food?”
“Yes, but you’d be better taking your chances with some of Millie’s.” We both laughed as the huge, round back of the landlord turned and he lowered his ruddy face to growl, “What’ll it be?”
“Do you have herbal teas?” I asked him.
“No.” He grunted.
“I’ll have a scotch,” said Roger, “A large one.”
“Me too.” I said.
We drank our whisky’s at a wood table in a dark corner. When we finished them, Roger went back to the bar. The landlord was leaned on the bar and looked faintly annoyed when Roger asked for two more whiskys.
The door creaked open and a small, round, rosy-cheeked woman bustled in. She hurried straight up to Roger and practically jumped up into his arms. The landlord looked at her, then at Roger and said, “Might have known it.”
Roger brought her and three large whiskys to the table.
“Clarissa, I want you to meet Honey.” She raised an eyebrow and looked me up and down. “Honey, this is Clarissa, my mother.”
“Delighted, I’m sure.” She said, but she didn’t take my outstretched hand.
Roger and Clarissa caught up some and we had more whisky. She talked about the weather while we had more whisky. Then, over another round of whisky, she got around to the painful and acrimonious business of the handyman, her separation and divorce and Roger’s parentage.
“Could it be that I am Lord Chatterton’s son?” As he said it, I couldn’t tell which answer he was after.
“The old bastard used to take whatever he wanted anyway,” she said, �
��So it was pretty hard to tell. Yes, though. It’s true.”
“That Hardforth, the handyman, is my father?”
“Well,” she reached over to stroke his face. He allowed her, but I could see that he wasn’t comfortable. “I can’t say for sure if that’s true, but he and I did have a, you know, a thing.”
“And so, I may or may not be a by-product of your ‘thing.’”
“Oh, no, darling.” She looked genuinely shocked, “Oh, you think you weren’t wanted. No, you mustn’t think that. We all wanted you. You weren’t unwanted, not a bit of it.”
“All?” He looked startled.
“Yes, darling, poppet. Your father wanted you, obviously. He needed a son and he wasn’t getting any younger. Hardforth wanted you because,” she hesitated, “Well, he was quite smitten with me, and he wasn’t averse to what he called ‘sticking it to the ruling class.’”
“Was that his sole reason for heroically impregnating the whole of the downstairs female staff.”
“Oh. Chatterton told you that did he? Well, yes. He said, ‘Can’t help if me natural drives assert me principles in the one go.’ Which was sort of poetic, in an earthy kind of a way, don’t you think, darling?”
Roger looked sideways at her. “Not especially, no.” After a moment he said, “So are there many other credible candidates for the honor of being my father?”
“Well, no. Not really.”
“Not really?” he stormed, “In my experience, ‘not really’ usually means ‘yes.’”
“It’s all spilt milk now, dear,” she looked at me. Heaven knows why. An appeal for sisterly solidarity, perhaps. “But there was a DNA test.”
“So,” Roger was fighting back his anger now, “What was the result.”
She took a nip of her whisky, “Don’t know, dearie. Your father wouldn’t tell me.”
“My father or not, as the case may be.”
“Now, dear, he’s always treated you like his own son, whatever the rights and wrongs.”
“Yes, just as any poor, mistreated wretch that his son would have been, had one been so unfortunate as to have actually been his.”
“Well, you should be grateful. If he had another son, he’d almost definitely have left everything to him, you know that, I’m sure.”
“That’s right. In fact he does have this wonderful daughter,” he lifted a hand in my direction, “And he now wants to leave everything to her.”
“I know dearie,” She turned her face to me, “But, honestly,” she put her hand on top of mine, “There isn’t too much of him shows in you. In fact, you do seem quite nice, really.” She crinkled her eyes as she smiled and patted my hand, “For an American.”
Roger asked her, “So, Ma-ma, where is Hardforth now, do you know what happened to him?”
“Oh, yes.” She looked down and blinked two or three times. When she looked back up she said, “No, he died in what was said to have been a shooting accident.”
I said, “I didn’t know you had those here.”
“On the country estates they do, dearie. Have ’em all the time. This one involved the Earl of Ruttington. Discharged a shotgun and the unfortunate Hardforth got in the way.”
“How awful.”
“Yes, dearie. It was awful for Lady Ruttington, too, as she got in the way of the other barrel. Neither of the deceased parties nether garments were recovered it seems.”
“So,” Roger asked her, “I don’t suppose you have any idea what happened to the results of the DNA tests?”
“Why, yes, darling. I know exactly where they are. Lord Chatterton made a big show of putting them into the Louis the fourteenth armoire. Most valuable single piece of furniture in the country, he told me it was. One of the family’s most sacred heirlooms.
“There’s a secret panel behind the second drawer that you can only find if you twist the right front leg anti-clockwise. He was delighted to tell me the secret, just as he was having me evicted from Wimbush Park. Since the armoire is deep inside the house, he knew that I would never be able to put the knowledge to any use whatever.” She held up her empty glass, “Shall we have another?”
A Helicopter to Wimbush Park
THE HELICOPTER HUNG AND BANKED UNDER the whirling, chopping blades. We rose over endless green hills, glistening silver lakes and rivers and thick mottes of dark green trees.
We flew out of London and over the English countryside for nearly three hours until at last we crested a high ridge and, spread out before us was a huge formal park with orchards, tennis courts, lawns, hedges and flowerbeds, all groomed and manicured to perfection.
All of it rose up a gentle, elegant slope to the ornate castellated roofs, the hundreds of gleaming windows, and the magnificent pale gothic arches of a sandstone mansion.
We landed on the lawn. As one apparently does not. A white-haired butler burst out of the massive paneled doors and down the wide stone staircase, waving a white-gloved hand in the air.
“Wait, wait, you can’t land here. Not on the lawns, you don’t have permission, wait.” He came rushing at us with the vigor of a much younger man. “Wait, oh, wait,” then he stopped and he looked at Roger. “Wait, it’s not true, is it?” He seized roger by the shoulders, “Is it really you, young master?”
Whithers, the old family butler showed us courteously up the long staircase, in through doors that would have looked oversized on many a cathedral and into a wooden, vaulted hall.
Then we were guided into a plush study, thickly carpeted and furnished with heavy, leather padded mahogany chairs, polished desks and bookcases, from the floor to the paneled and painted roof.
Withers sat us at a table by a stone fireplace and brought cut crystal glasses, a sparkling decanter of port and another of cognac. “I’d offer you a meal but there’s nobody expected, young master. I was going into the village later to have some fish and chips.”
Roger asked after Whithers and the other servants. The old man shook his head. “All laid off. All except for me, Tariq, the gardner and blacksmith and little Polly Saunders, the kitchen maid. Not even a cook or a housekeeper now. If someone’s coming, we get agency staff.”
Roger asked Whithers to sit, but he said, “Pshaw” and would have none of it. They talked about the house, the village, the local news and then Roger brought the subject around to the armoire.
“The Louis XIV armoire, young master? Wonderful piece. Almost inestimable value, they did say. Marvelous, intricate marquetry. Stood in the Trellis Hall since it came from the Chateau de Versailles, in sixteen and seventy six, young master A wonder to behold.”
“So, thank you Whithers. I’m very glad to hear all of that. And where is it?”
“The Trellis Hall, sir?”
“Well, yes, where is the Trellis Hall.”
Whithers looked at him, astonished, “Why, it burned down sir. There was an incident when Lord Wimbush last visited, seven years hence. ‘An entirely carbonized conflagration,’ I believe the fire marshall said was.”
We both stared at him with our mouths open. Eventually Roger said, “So, the armoire burned in the hall.”
Captain Charming (Tales of 1001 Flights) Page 21