She rolls away from me, reaching towards the little box on top of her nightstand. When she comes back towards me she is holding a translucent length, almost like a small stocking.
“Let me,” she says, slipping the device over my cock.
She smoothes the letter onto me. It appears to fit, although a little tightly.
“It fits better than I anticipated,” she says, with a frown. She seems displeased, which I don’t understand. Surely, she cannot want a child. But perhaps she merely thinks I am being overly cautious.
My cock looks strange through the letter. I can see that the device is not quite big enough for me and I wonder if I am really that large compared to other men.
“I am too large perhaps. I will hurt you.”
She laughs.
“Women dream of a cock like yours, Alfred. You will not hurt me. Especially since I have been with men before.”
“If you are certain.”
“If I scream, you can be certain it is not from pain.”
I look at her and she is smiling. A true smile. The smile that guts me.
“Do not worry,” she says, putting her hand on my chest. “Are you ready?”
She has already touched me in so many ways.
In truth, though this threshold is the one that everyone speaks of, it feels no more consequential than that first time I entered her carriage.
I am already a different person than I was then. But, still, I know it is a step I cannot take back.
But it is useless to protest. I made my choice. And there isrelief in that.
It is hard to feel reluctant or regretful when Annabelle kneels before me totally bare.
God, she is beautiful. Her hair hangs down loose over her shoulders, light and slightly wavy. She looks like one of the sinful beauties from a Rossetti painting. Except she is more bountiful than those women. I have always found women’s breasts particularly tempting—in the past, the glimpse of the cleave between a woman’s bosom was enough, in certain circumstances, to make me hard. And Annabelle has glorious, large breasts. To me, they are perfect in every respect. And then the soft swell of her stomach, the light-dark hair between her thighs—she is too much.
“Yes,” I pant. “Please.”
She straddles me as she did before, but this time we are both totally bare. It is much, much more intimate. Through the letter, my cock strains to reach her, but she has not lowered herself onto me yet.
“Are you sure?” she says, looking down.
Her beauty is heartrending. I do not understand how other men were allowed such favors and did not perish. Although perhaps they did. I have no proof that they didn’t.
I realize, suddenly, that I need to speak.
“Yes.”
Her brows knit.
“You must be certain,” she says, irritation lacing her words. “You will not go to your future bride a virgin. You must live with that.”
I almost laugh. With Annabelle above me like this, the pale notion of a future bride means little. I don’t care. Not when I can have her now. If I care later, at least I will have the vision of the exquisite, incomparable Annabelle deLacey about to lower herself onto my cock to satisfy me until the day I die.
“I said yes.”
Something flashes in her eyes—triumph perhaps.
But then it is gone.
