The man moves across the room slowly, his cockstand evident as it was the other day in the carriage.
“Does your green book explain how a man can please a woman with his mouth?”
He closes his eyes. Embarrassed again.
“Yes.”
“So then you know of what I speak. I will teach you how to do it. But first, I want you to see me bare.”
I am wearing a special type of dress that the whores use in London. I bought it when my friend, Evie Colley, a part-time lightskirt, part-time spy, explained the concept to me. The dress looks normal from the outside, but it can be undone by one person. More importantly, it can be undone by the person wearing it.
His eyes go wide.
“Have you ever seen a woman bare?”
“No,” he says, his voice trembling.
“You won’t touch me until I tell you. And you won’t frig yourself, do you understand?”
He nods.
He must be in agony. Poor man. I will allow him to spend. Eventually.
I unhook my dress from the front. I wear no chemise, so I am quickly naked except for my stockings.
I sit back in my chair.
I meet his gaze. He looks at me with ravaged eyes. His mouth hangs slack.
“God help me,” he curses.
“There is no God here, Mr. Saintsbury. Tell me. Do you plan to marry one day?”
“Yes,” he manages, swallowing hard. His eyes are still trained on my form, however—moving from bosom to quim and then back up again in the same circuit.
“What I am about to teach you, your future wife will appreciate immensely.”
He only staresat me.
I know I am comely. But his face expresses something beyond admiration.
“Get on your knees.”
To my surprise, immediately, the man obeys.
I spread my legs.
“Do you see my quim?”
He nods. I spread my legs further and part myself with my fingers.
“Here,” I say, “is where a man puts himself. Your cock will go here.”
I put one finger inside to demonstrate.
He lets out a moan that sounds like a near-sob.
“Hush,” I say. “I will let you have it soon enough. And here,” I say, moving my hand upwards, “is my clit. That is where a woman’s pleasure is centered. For most women anyway. Do you understand?”