“Shall we both undress?” Ambrose suggested, tossing his waistcoat to a chair, soon followed by his shirt.
Her eyes drawn to his strong torso and well-shaped arms, Frances nodded and stood, untying the ribbon at the waist of her already- half-unfastened dress and allowing it to fall away. Her light petticoat followed. The summer air was warm, but still she shivered slightly with unfamiliarity and anticipation.
The sight of Frances standing there only in her stockings and garters seemed to have a powerful attractive effect, drawing Ambrose back to her within seconds, like a bee to a flower.
“Let me take those off for you,” he said, his voice cracking a little between his heavy breaths, as his hands covered hers.
Frances nodded and submitted herself to his knowing and unhurried caresses about her thighs once again. She made small involuntary sounds as he removed each embroidered cream garter and pushed down the silken fabric encasing her legs, raising each to his side in turn to remove their stockings all the way to her foot.
Then, Frances was in her husband’s embrace again, now pressing her own kisses onto the damp, naked skin of his chest as his hands roamed ever more freely over her graceful curves.
“These too,” Frances dared to whisper, her hand stroking the waistband of Ambrose’s trousers. “You must take them off."
“You want to see all of me?” he asked, flushed and panting but still careful of Frances’ comfort.
“I do,” she told him and then watched from the corner of her eyes as Ambrose unfastened and pushed away his trousers and undershorts, kissing her again as he did so.
The Duke of Westall’s manhood reared proudly between his thighs, a hard, hot rod of flesh against Frances’ belly as they kissed. It was only after several further kisses of sweet, heated incitement that Frances allowed her eyes to gaze fully upon her husband’s manly parts.
How strange and different to her own Ambrose’s body seemed, and yet how wonderful and compelling. Fascinated, Frances’ hands took in the shape of his face, his shoulders, torso and waist. Her husband was beautiful, if a man could be described so.
When Frances’ hand took hold of his shaft, Ambrose’s groan was so deep, and his body stiffened so much that she would have thought she had hurt him if his kisses and his words had not told a different story.
“God, it feels so good to be touched by you like that, Frances…”
Encouraged by Ambrose and by the sympathetic tingling in her own body, Frances stroked the whole throbbing length of him.
“I want…” she began to say and then closed her eyes blushing. “I want you to…”
“What do you want?” Ambrose murmured in her ear, his manhood throbbing in her palm. “I am already bound to give you all that you want from me. I promised I would, remember?”
Frances did remember, and she ached for him now, a hundred times more than she had when he made that strange promise to her.
“I want you to make me your wife,” she managed to say. “I want all of you.”
Lifting her off her feet with a hungry growl, Ambrose brought them both back to the rug.
“Then you shall have all of me,” he told Frances, rolling above her and kissing her deeply as she pushed breathlessly up against him, excited but fitful.
“I don’t know how,” Frances moaned. “I want to know.”
“You need only enjoy me,” the duke repeated his earlier assurances, stroking her parted and trembling thighs. “I shall show you the rest.”
For a while, there were only kisses, strokes and mutual panting. Then, the head of Ambrose’s substantial shaft found its way to Frances’ slick channel and rubbed there for further long moments while she sobbed with desire. A thrust of Ambrose’s loins finally carried half of that organ into her slit, where she wriggled upon it and cried out for more.
With slow, sure swirls of his hips, Ambrose gradually embedded the fullness of his rod, giving it to her inch by inch as Frances opened to him, until their hips rested against one another. Fully shafted for the first time, she moaned and writhed at the new sensations, the pleasure as powerful as that given from Ambrose’s tongue.
When he began to move, Frances could only move with him, desperate at each small withdrawal to bring him back into her again, pushing up her hips towards the pleasurable rubbing of her swollen bud.
The rhythm built slowly, powerfully and then inevitably, their bodies seeming to work together until Frances was overcome once more by ecstasy. Ambrose’s deeper groans merged with her cries this time, and she felt his organ throbbing deeply inside her own spasming flesh.
“Why did you not tell me it could be like this?” Frances sighed after yet another paroxysm of pleasure subsided and Ambrose withdrew from her body for a fourth time that afternoon,lowering her feet to the ground from where he had just taken her against the wall.
“Would you have believed me?” he asked, drawing her back to the hearth rug where he covered them both with a blanket from one of the chairs.
Laughing, Frances shook her head and snuggled into his arms. She felt pleasantly dazed, with muscles aching in strange new ways, and her thighs damp and sticky from their repeated congress.
“I could not have understood.”
