by Louisa Trent
While she pretended that Doyle was the one touching her, she did what he told her to do. Soon, her attended-to nipple was aching and her vagina was tightening and she was moaning through her open mouth.
When her juices ran down her leg, he said gruffly, "Turn over on your belly now, Lily."
"Oh, I cannot! That would be most unseemly."
"Do it, or this ends."
Though the positioning humiliated her, she went to her belly nonetheless. Anything to please Doyle.
"Now come up. Like a little doggie for me, sweetheart."
"That's a good girl," he coaxed, watching her get up on her straightened arms. "Now your bottom. A little higher, my pet." While she did as he requested, he went on conversationally, "This particular position is convenient for masturbation. It is also one of the positions a female might assume for rear entry and for anal intercourse."
She blushed furiously. "Nana said only face to face mating is allowed. She said, anything else is a perversion." She looked behind her at him, shocked. "You cannot mean to say that you practice perversions, Doyle?"
"That would depend upon my interest in the female," he said dryly. "Sometimes, I require total and exclusive possession of a woman's body: vagina, mouth, anus. I expect her to please me, and only me, in every way, conventional and otherwise. Now bring your bottom back towards me, little one. That's right. That's right. No one can see you, save me."
Wishing to please him and only him, and in every way, she positioned herself on all fours. Without a care as to her modesty, she pushed her bottom up high and opened her legs so he might have the full visual advantage, her small breasts bobbing, just the tiniest amount, when she did.
"Like so?" she asked.
"Like so," he answered, his voice gone very tense. "Now use your hand on yourself as I showed you."
"Something is happening," she cried after a while.
"Good. Good. Now rock forward, pressing your pelvis to the ground. Rub your sweet pussy back and forth against the ground, hard, while you continue to stimulate the clitoris."
She did what he said, rubbing and writhing, her hips hammering, her pelvis grinding, her bottom heaving up and down. A few minutes later, the same thing that had happened to her in the woodshed, that wonderful pleasure, happened again, and she was screaming quite loudly.
"You just climaxed," Doyle, her teacher, explained.
"Oh," she said, flipping over. "It was wonderful."
She sat up, cross-legged. No longer trying to hide her privates from him, as he had already seen all there was to see, she felt quite free.
Grinning from ear to ear, she said, "I think I like masturbation." She thought a moment. "Can a man do it too? "
"Yes, a man can and does masturbate, especially if he has gone without a woman for a length of time."
"How long a time?"
"That would depend."
"Depend on what?" she asked, impishly.
" On the man. And on the woman he has gone without."
She stored that insight away. "Can a man and a woman masturbate together?"
"If for some reason penetration is not possible--yes."
"What occasions do not allow for penetration?"
"If the woman is bleeding, for example."
"You mean her..." She looked down, suddenly shy. "Her time of the month."
"Call it whatever euphemism you will, but if a woman has the onset of menses, many men will not make a vaginal penetration."
"Will you?"
"Yes."
"Have you?"
"Yes. Many times."
"What is another occasion whereby masturbation substitutes for intercourse?"
"If the female is virgin and, for whatever the reason, wishes to remain intact for the marriage bed."
"Then--in that kind of situation--a man and a woman might masturbate one another?"
"Yes."
She licked her lips. "I would like to masturbate you, Doyle, and I would like you to masturbate me. A mutuality of pleasure would be lovely, don't you think?" she asked, uncrossing her legs and crawling to where he crouched on the ground.
She smoothed a palm over her tight breasts and aching loins. "Wouldn't you like to touch me, Doyle, the way I am touching myself? Wouldn't you like to teach me how to touch you? I am an apt student, eager to learn, and I shall never tell my master no." She fluttered her lashes. "Not to anything."
"Good. Go wash off your juices in the stream," he said, his face looking strained.
She jumped to her feet and held out her hand. "Come with me..."
"No. There is something I ... uh ... must do. Now go."
She skipped off into the water, turning back a few minutes later to see Doyle putting his astounding male part away and refastening his trousers. It was then that she realized that she did have some small affect on Doyle...
*
Looking back, Lily acknowledged she had been wrong to play the brothers off one another, wrong to flirt with both hoping to get the attention of one, but she had been wild and impetuous in those days...
She was neither now. And so when Doyle unbuckled his belt, she protested, "Doyle! I am here!"
He didn't turn away. "You have seen me naked before."
"But ... but that was years ago."
He shrugged. "I am the same man. You keep forgetting that, Lily. I am the same man now as I was then."
Naked and gorgeous, he said, "And you are the same woman."
She shook her head sadly. "Oh, but I am not."
His cock jutted straight out from his groin, thicker and longer, meatier than she remembered; the sack underneath looked heavier.
"I won't hurt you. At least, no more than you ask me to."
Trembling in fear--and in horrible excitement--she took a backward step. "I shall wait here."
With a shrug, he turned. Giving her an unobstructed view of his broad back and trim buttocks, he dove into the stream.
Removing her boots and hose, she sat at the rocky edge, dangling her toes in the water, coveting Doyle with slumberous eyes as he cut clean, athletic stokes into the cascading waterfall.
It had always been like this for her, her yearning for this one man. Doyle had never been a pretty boy. He was rough and he was strong and he was powerful, all hard sinew and muscle; he was rugged enough for the harshness of this primitive place. There was no question that he was fiercely dominant and masculine, but he also had a fiercely protective and nurturing side. After all, he had raised two lads to manhood, caring for them, loving them. Once, before the world had turned upside down, he had been protective of her too.
As his arms cut precise and economical strokes in the churning white rapids, Lily wondered about the two sides of Doyle Donovan.
And she also wondered about the two sides of herself.
For the past ten years she had thought of herself as frigid, as cold as the water in which Doyle swam. She had thought that, because of what had happened the night of Frank's death, she was incapable of deriving physical pleasure from a man. But she wasn't feeling very cool now; the sight of Doyle's naked body was quite, quite warming. She was deriving a great deal of physical pleasure just from looking at Doyle's splendidly naked body.
She smiled to herself.
Doyle suddenly stopped swimming and began treading the clear water. "Why the dirty grin?" he hollered.
"No reason," she yelled back, but knew she was blushing.
"Must be something. Your color is high."
He swam over to the stream bank. "Come here."
When she leaned towards him, he felt her forehead. "You feel hot."
She wasn't just hot, she was burning up, and she didn't need him to tell her so. She thought pettishly.
Her crankiness much improved when he scooped up a palm of icy cold water, pulled the shirt collar away from her nape and let some droplets trickle down her neck. The water slid down her bare back, cooling her feverish skin.
"You might get heat stroke," he explained, and loosene
d the shirt from the waistband of her form-fitting, buckskin leggings.
She could not take off her clothing and go skinny-dipping, for that would have implied an active consent on her part, an honest mutuality she was incapable of. But she had worn no chemise under her shirt, no drawers under her trousers. Suspecting he would demand this of her, she had made it easy for him.
She sat passively as he cupped his hand in the water again and washed his cold fingers over her back, under her arms, across her ribs, stopping at the swell of her breast.
Without a 'By you leave' he reached both hands up under the shirt and covered her hardened nipples, the tendons in his wide wrists tightening as he kneaded her flesh.
When she moaned, his hands dropped away.
"Take the shirt off, Lily," he said with his usual authority. "It's getting in my way."
The waterfall was a secret place, isolated from any other hiking paths. But even if that had not been the case, even if privacy had not been virtually guaranteed, the thought of refusing Doyle never entered her mind. It never had. The entire town of Bar Harbor might have watched for all she cared as she pulled the too-heavy shirt over her head and placed it in a neat square beside her.
Her bared breasts, with their embarrassingly red and elongated nipples, begged for his attention.
"Lean forward some more," he coaxed.
Doyle had large hands, she a small bosom. The disparity would be blatantly apparent if she did what he ordered. She hesitated.
Lillian Hill was not up to Doyle Donovan's womanizing standards. She never had been. Doyle had droves of ladies just begging for his time, and the ladies invariably chosen to make time with him were buxom. She would surely suffer the comparison.
But with little vanity, less pride, and absolutely no willpower when it came to Doyle, she slanted forward in her crouch and offered him up her breasts.
As expected, her paltry offering was swallowed up in his palms.
"I never could resist your dainty proportions," he mused.
He had resisted her well enough ten years earlier, and even better a decade since!
"You still like it hard?" he asked.
She had no reply, as she no longer knew what she liked, or how she liked it. Her only preference was Doyle. Not that he waited for a reply, anyway. He pulled an engorged nipple ungently into his mouth, and suckled her hard, just the way she needed him to.
The pressure inside her built. Then Doyle bit the end of a nipple.
"Oh, yes," she cried, loving the rasp of his teeth.
No help for it, she began to roll her hips back and forth complimenting each tug he made.
When rolling became writhing, her breast was dropped from his mouth. The red tip glistened wetly in the sun, the teeth-marks he had left behind already showing signs of bruising.
She rubbed at the achy nipple.
"It hurts?" he asked.
"Yes. Thank you."
Tonight, when she was alone, the marks on her body would cause her to remember Doyle and his lovemaking.
"Lower your trousers, Lily," he said, chuckling. "Just to the knees. You needn't take them all the way off, not this time."
Without argument, she unbuckled the belt at her waist. Raising herself up, she dropped her trousers to her knees as Doyle had instructed.
"Stay," he commanded as she started back down into the crouch.
As instructed, she held herself in the kneeling position.
Doyle once again cupped some cold water in a hand and washed it over her belly.
"Your body is too hot," he said.
Moving lower, he combed his cold, wet fingers through her pubic curls.
"Christ, this is pretty. Fiery."
A digit sampled her outer folds, but didn't enter.
"Wet too," he apprised her unnecessarily.
Black eyes lifted. "You know what I wish, Lily. Don't play coy."
She never had been coy with Doyle. The very idea was ludicrous.
She opened her legs.
"Start slow," he said. "One finger at a time."
She nodded and began to masturbate, just the way he had showed her all those years ago. She hadn't self-pleasured in ten years, having felt no sexual desire, but she had once been very skilled at the activity. Especially with Doyle as her audience.
While he watched, she opened the outer labia wide enough for him to see, as he had taught her to, and delved her folds with a ladylike fingertip.
"Move the digit all the way in and all the way back out," he ordered. "I need to see your honey."
Gazing at his ever-tightening features, she moved her finger in and out between her legs.
"Now show me."
She held out her glistening finger.
"Very nice," he complimented.
His mouth came down on the digit, his tongue licking her body's moisture.
"Add a second finger," he said. "Let me hear the wet sounds your vagina makes, see your honey rolling down your thighs, smell your scent in the air."
She added a second finger, her small breasts bouncing in rhythm with her flexing digits, her pelvis bumping and grinding, her vagina sounding sloshy wet, drips of fluid seeping down her leg.
She was coming.
Lest she risk Doyle's censure, she added the third and final finger.
With difficulty. Despite what everyone thought of her sexual past, apart from this, apart from masturbation, she was an innocent. Three fingers did not make for a comfortable fit.
"Tight," he pronounced, noting her three-digit squeeze, noting her discomforted expression. "Considering your voracious appetite for men, I must say that I am surprised. A lover should be able to get his whole fist up there by now."
She thought of having Doyle's large hand inside her vagina, and a pained scream of release broke from her throat.
For the past ten years, she had lived an independent and professional life as an art teacher. The prospect of Doyle's complete possession--the restrictions he would surely impose upon her--should have appalled her.
Strangely, she wasn't appalled at all; she never felt more free, more herself, than when she was with Doyle.
"While I finish my swim, you may occupy yourself however you would like."
His dark eyes narrowed on her very pointed, very red nipples.
"You may pull up the trousers. Don't fasten them, however. And Lily, no shirt."
She nodded, and wiggled into the tight trousers, but left them agape; her pubic hair was wantonly visible within the open placket.
Picking up the discarded shirt, boots, and hose, she returned to where they had set up a temporary camp of sorts, and stretched out on a sun-warmed rock. Exhaustion caught up with her and she was soon fast asleep.
The nightmare began the same way it always did, with Frank...
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
An enormous shadow fell across her face, blocking out the sun, and Lillian still refused to open her eyes.
"Wake up! Nightmares are worse than no sleep. If you tire yourself out with exercise today, I promise you will sleep better for it tonight."
"No," she whimpered, but her lids opened a sliver to peek at the hand moving on her bare shoulder in almost a caress.
"I heard your moans all the way to the stream. You neither sleep nor eat. When spoken to, you jump like as a flea on a dog's hindquarters. This has to end."
She struggled to an upright position, her bare breasts shifting, and righted her straw hat against the sun's glare so that she might properly see him.
Doyle had dressed, but his hair was still wet. The dark curls fell neglectfully over his forehead.
"Did I ... say anything?" she asked, wishing she might run her fingers through his curls.
"Why? Do you talk in your sleep?"
She clasped her arms around her bent knees, lest she succumb to the temptation of Doyle's wet curls, and laughed, a thin, wobbly miserable laugh. "Yes, I often talk aloud at night. Good thing, I sleep alone."
His eyes raked her face.
"You don't sleep with your fiancé?"
She bowed her back, cat-style and her small breasts were squished against her knees. Her cramped muscles protested but the heat from the sun felt good on her too pale skin.
Changing the subject, she asked. "How was the swim?"
"Fine," he said. "Now, do you or do you not sleep with your fiancé?"
"Doyle, really! Female artists are answerable to the same societal pressures as are every other woman. There are conventions to be observed, conventions one must not fly against."
"What of all those 'Boston marriages' I keep hearing about?"
She giggled. "Dunce! Those are between two women."
"Lesbians?"
"But, of course. And they are only tolerated, never spoken of in polite conversation. But to flaunt a heterosexual relationship, as you suggest--never! I would lose my teaching position. No, I share a brownstone in a collaborative with some female artist friends in Boston's Back Bay."
His brows twitched. "This is interesting..."
"There is absolutely no hanky panky between us, nor are there any overnight male visitors."
"He is a man, this Charles of yours? And you are engaged. He must fuck you..."
"No, he does not fuck me, as you so eloquently put it. And if you must know, Charles is no longer my fiancé; I wrote and broke the engagement."
"Good!" He smiled. "As a reward for your honesty, I think perhaps I shall give you your present now. You will find it in my bag. I remember how much you hate fishin'. The gift will occupy you while I am busy."
Lily rose to her knees. Then stood. But her trousers, though tight, were loosened at the waist, and so low on the hips that the leggings dragged in the dirt.
She took a step and went no further; something had her stuck.
She turned back, and saw that Doyle's boot had come down on one drooping trouser leg. If she wished her gift, she must free herself, and to do that, she must forsake her only covering.
"Your choice," he said, mildly.
She walked out of the trousers.
"Is it in this one?" she asked, kneeling naked--save for the straw hat--before the bags.
"Lily, your knees," he prompted, his voice stern but kind.