Ambrose Chamfleur was a typical fellow, or an especially fine example, but unbidden she wondered if a certain Mr. Ritchie might be even bigger. Sofia, however, appeared to be more than delighted with the size of her husband’s appendage, because she was stroking it in a clever, rhythmic action.
“Dear me, monsieur, what on earth is this?” she murmured, her slender hand apparently untiring as it rode her husband’s gleaming, ruddy length. “I swear it’s quite a monster and I don’t have the first idea what to do with it.”
Ambrose Chamfleur’s broad face looked strained, but almost angelically beautiful for such a large, bluff man. His mouth worked and his hips moved and shuffled where he sat on the bench. Pulling his wife closer to him, and cupping one of her rounded breasts, he whispered something guttural in her ear.
Sofia’s eyes shot wide, but she licked her lips. “Sir, you are scandalous, and a lecherous, low-minded rogue!” The words should have been an expression of outrage, but she was chuckling and smiling. And still licking her lips.
“And if I do that for you, Monsieur Chamfleur—” the clever hand twisted, and Sofia’s thumb seemed to be doing something most dexterous underneath the tip of her husband’s cock “—what will you do for me, in return?”
Again, a husky whisper that Beatrice couldn’t catch, even though she strained her ears to hear it.
“That seems most equitable.” Sofia’s smile was slow and fond, and for a moment, she closed her husband’s hand tightly around her breast, swaying as if the pleasure of it was so acute she was about to expire. Then, in a swift, sudden move, she sprang to her feet, and sank to the ground, her beautiful emerald-green skirts, so at one with her environs, spreading around her as she settled gracefully on her knees.
As she descended, her husband opened his thighs to let her in close.
Botheration! I can’t see!
It suddenly seemed the most important thing on earth to observe the proceedings, and despite branches and fronds of various dripping plants and shrubs almost slapping her in the face, Beatrice edged stealthily around the grotto for a better perspective.
When she achieved it, she clasped her gloved fist to her lips.
Sofia Chamfleur was sucking her husband’s shaft! And thoroughly enjoying it if all her little “mmms” and slithery-liquid sounds of appreciation were to be believed.
Beatrice watched. And watched. And the first shock turned to utter fascination.
I wonder what he tastes like? Is he sweet? Or salty? And what’s his texture? He looks smooth and silky and shiny, even on the length she can’t take in….
Beatrice’s knowledge of men’s bodies and their sexual workings came only from certain volumes she’d studied in the library at Westerlynne, after attacking the lock on the secured cabinet with hairpin. There hadn’t been time to peruse them in as much depth as she would have liked to, but even with only that rudimentary information, it was easy to deduce how much a man like Monsieur Chamfleur enjoyed this act. It must be seventh heaven for any man, pressing the most sensitive part of his anatomy into such a well of heat and moisture and being kissed and licked and sucked by his beloved.
Sofia Chamfleur seemed to be having a fine time of it, too. Despite the fact that her smooth and pretty face was deformed around her husband’s prodigious member, she was attempting a smile and her handsome eyes were sparkling.
She loves to please him.
Reluctant to even think about him now, Beatrice realized that even at her most self-deluded moments, she would never have wanted to kiss Eustace this way. Tommy, probably yes, but Eustace, never! The very idea made her shudder and her skin crawl.
But I’d kiss you, Mr. Ritchie … I’d kiss you.
The idea was preposterous. Ridiculous. Unthinkable. But before she could prevent it, another image sprang into her mind, clearer by far than any risqué photograph.
Instead of the happy Sofia Chamfleur on her knees in front of her beloved Ambrose, Beatrice saw herself, kneeling and sucking enthusiastically, her lips stretched and shiny around the even bigger organ of Edmund Ellsworth Ritchie.
This time her fist didn’t go to her mouth. This time, she couldn’t do anything and was in no danger of uttering a sound. It was as if a giant hand had pushed her sideways, not physically but psychically somehow. The thoughts and images were too shocking for her numbed brain to process, and yet at the same time, she seemed to feel Ritchie’s cock against her tongue.
Licking her lips compulsively, and still half observing the Chamfleurs, Beatrice suddenly experienced the strangest phenomenon. It was as if time itself were slowed down and all thoughts and actions were taking place at a snail’s pace. Her arms fell limp to her sides, and glancing lower inch by inch, she watched the cords and ribbons retaining her fan, her tiny evening reticule and her dance card begin to slide inexorably down the satin slope of her gloved arm and hand.
They’re going to clatter when they land and the Chamfleurs will know I’m here.
In the midst of that thought, she felt less worried about being discovered than she did about disturbing her friends’ pleasure.
What a shame if he doesn’t reach his peak inside her mouth.
But even as these weird observations passed through her mind, and her belongings proceeded at their attenuated pace toward the tiles, another hand, not hers, swept down and caught them.
Who was this prestidigitator, this illusionist? This person who snatched her around the waist at the same time, securing her against him with his other strong hand.
She hadn’t even realized she was falling.
“Hush.”
It was hardly more than a sigh, but she knew the voice, the strength, and the scent of his exquisite shaving lotion. As she breathed it in, her knees were jelly. She couldn’t stand.
The arm around her middle tightened as she sagged, pressing her corset against her body, restricting and controlling her.
“Come along.”
Again, the low voice hummed through her flesh, making the entire length of her torso vibrate where it pressed tight against him. There was no question who it was. It was as if she’d been waiting for him to join her. Somehow waiting since before she’d ever even met him.
Half carrying, half guiding, he began backing her away from the little scene on the bench. The Chamfleurs were completely absorbed in their pleasure, but as Beatrice’s fan swung on its cord, it brushed a palm frond and made it swish and rustle audibly.
Beatrice’s last impression of the jungle grotto was Ambrose Chamfleur glancing her way, smiling briefly, then moaning like a wild animal as his eyes rolled up in crisis.
As soon as they reached a safe distance away from the daring husband and wife, Beatrice tried to struggle against Ritchie’s grip on her then stopped fighting him again, just as quickly. Why give the creature the satisfaction of knowing how much he infuriated her? Especially when there was another distraction it was impossible to ignore.
Against the side of her hip, a sturdy knot
