When he comes, his groan fills the tiny shed, and his shoulders shake beneath the white shirt and the fine tailcoat he’s wearing. There’s something decadently naughty in doing this so quickly and secretly while we’re both clothed. I love the slow suction of my pussy around his cock as he pulls out, as if my body wants to clutch him and keep him inside.
“I promised you a taste.” He sticks his little finger into the slit his cock vacated and swirls it around. I gasp and shiver as a wave of pleasure rolls through me.
“Take it,” he commands, holding his wet finger near my mouth.
I suck submissively, tasting the mingled salty tang of his cum and my arousal. “I like it.”
“As you should. Now tighten that little hole and keep my cum inside,” he tells me, and I clench my cunt in response.
He straightens his clothing and helps me fix mine as well. Then he blows out the lantern and carries me to the barn. Once I’m back in the chair, he pushes me to a different vantage point in the room and brings over the padded footstool.
Leaning close to my ear, he whispers, “Keep that cum safe.”
As he starts to pull away, I grab him by his bearded jaw and hold him there. “I’m going to touch myself tonight,” I whisper. “I’ll think of you when I do it.”
His breath quickens, and as he walks away, he subtly adjusts his trousers.
For a moment I sit alone, a smile playing over my lips. I can feel the ghost of his shape inside me. My clit feels swollen and warm, like a few clever touches would drive me over the edge. It’s the most pleasurable torture I’ve ever experienced.
How did he and I slide so quickly into such debauchery? And why does it feel like exactly what I needed?
Someone shrieks from across the room, and several people move hastily, like ripples driven outward by the plop of a stone in a pool. Instruments squawk as the music halts. There’s another cry, and then Beresford throws open the same side door that he and I used earlier. He seems to be shooing something toward the exit, and then he slams the door quickly.
“Nothing to be alarmed about, my good people,” he says, raising both hands in a calming gesture. “Simply a mouse. Not surprising in a space that used to be a barn. It’s gone now. Let’s have the music again, shall we? And more wine!”
After some muttered exclamations, the alarm fades and people resume dancing and drinking. A few minutes later, two women hurry past me, and I catch a bit of their conversation.
“If that was a mouse, I’ll eat my best bonnet,” one of them says. “It had spines along its back, and a lizard tail.”
“Maybe it was a lizard,” her companion suggests.
They move on, but my heart feels like chilled stone. I’m instantly certain that the creature who incited the commotion wasn’t a lizard or a mouse, but a demon. Something I summoned.
Either Beresford didn’t get a good look at it, or he lied about what it was.
Apparently Mama and my sister recognize the telltale signs of a summoning, too. They both make their way over to me with brightly anxious smiles.
“Shall we head home?” Mama asks. “You need your rest.”
“If you two are having fun, we can stay,” I tell them.
“No, no,” Anne assures me. “We’re ready to go. It’s for the best.”
Beresford accepts our farewells with a polite bow and says, “Come again sometime,” with a significant look at me and a very slight emphasis on the wordcome.
My family and I don’t discuss him or the summoning on the way home. Anne and Mama chatter about the gentlemen they danced with instead. They each seem interested in particular men out of the group. For my mother, it’s Justice Oellin, and for Anne, to my surprise, it’s Henry Partridge.
“I didn’t think he was the kind of man you would prefer,” I venture.
“He isn’t.” She sighs. “He’s smart and sweet and kind, and I enjoy spending time with him, but I’m not attracted to him physically, not one bit. And that’s important, isn’t it?” She looks anxiously at our mother.
“It is,” Mama replies. “Even if your partner isn’t objectively the most beautiful person, you should find them physically attractive on some level, if sex is important to you. Otherwise you’re condemning yourself to a life of dissatisfaction.”
“That’s what I thought,” Anne says glumly. “If only I could put Henry into Roman Montelimar’s body… that would be perfect.”
“Roman?” I ask. “That skinny, tall fellow with the dark eyes and the long braids?”
“That’s the one. He’s much prettier than Henry, but he kept flirting with other women all night, whereas Henry is quite devoted.” Again she sighs, louder this time.
