When I was in Boston I would have occasion to meet many of the finer families, including the cherished and sheltered young women. Like all cherished and sheltered young women, they chafed a bit at their bonds, demurely of course. I met one such girl, Rose Whitcomb of the Standish Whitcombs, a fine old family. The master of the house was in the iron industry having many furnaces in Pennsylvania in a city named after a famous Prime Minister.
(Editors Note: Probably Pittsburg, named after William Pitt the Elder, 1st Earl of Chatham and Prime Minister of England under George III)
I had been invited to a tea one pleasant spring afternoon. Just as it was at the manor in England, a wealthy bachelor drew the attention of mothers, especially mothers of marriageable girls. Mrs. Whitcomb fell into this flock with a girl of seventeen, Rose's older sister Clarice. But it was Rose that captured my heart. She was fifteen, with alabaster skin, green bewitching eyes, a fine nose, and hair the color of the sienna earth. I was entranced from the moment I laid eyes on her. Her sister seemed a pale palimpsest from a second rate artist.
Of course, I hid this as best I could from the mother. I walked Clarice around the lawn, talking of nothing important. I asked if I might pay my respects some day and was extended an invitation to do so. I waited the appropriate time and called on the Whitcombs. Mrs. Whitcomb was only too happy to see me. Clarice was summoned and we spent some time in the garden, under the watchful eye of a Miss Haversham, the wizened spinster governess to the family.
The Whitcombs or more likely, Mrs. Whitcomb, invited me to a small luncheon at their summer place on Cape Cod. There was a morning train that ran down the cape where guests would be picked up and driven to the beach house. An afternoon train would take us all back to Boston in time for dinner. I knew the service well since I owned thirty percent of it.
The summer weather was fine, with high clouds and a soft offshore breeze keeping the air cool enough even in the sun. Several people had brought bathing clothes and they frolicked in the ocean. I have never been much of a swimmer and stayed up on the sun porch looking out at the revelers. Mrs. Whitcomb served lemonade. It was then that my chance occurred. Rose, she of the auburn tresses, happened onto the porch. I rose and greeted her, inviting her to sit for a while. She agreed to sit. We talked and I could see an intensity in her eyes that I had come to recognize. Her visit was not at all chance.
“Rose, I think it is not all chance which brought you here,” I said.
She looked around. We were the only people on the porch and though in sight of others and therefore not alone, we were in effect alone. “Would you think me terribly forward if that were so?” she asked.
“That would depend on your ultimate designs,” I said smiling.
“Mr. Northam. I have no designs,” she said.
“Ah, then you are the only single woman in the Americas who does not,” I responded.
She blushed, then asked, “Do you have so many women after you, Mr. Northam?”
“And their mothers.”
Rose laughed gaily, “Yes, Mama wants to get Clarice married this year.”
“When do you purpose to marry?” I asked her. I could have used the ring but this game was fun and I proposed to play by her rules, at least for now.
“Are you proposing?”
“That would not yet be proper, Miss Whitcomb. But perhaps I could see you in the city?”
“Please, Sir. Drop by any time,” she smiled.
“And be diverted to Clarice,” I said.
“Oh, yes. Mama would certainly do that,” she agreed.
“I hope I am again not too forward, but perhaps you could call on me,” I said.
“I can’t see how…” She paused and thought weighing the improprieties and her desires. Her desires won out. “Perhaps I could slip away some time,” she said quietly.
“I would like that,” I said.
Mrs. Whitcomb swept onto the porch from the house. “Oh Rose, you must not bother Mr. Northam.”
“No bother, Mrs. Whitcomb. Rose was just asking my opinion of marriage. I was telling her of my own desire to find the right life partner. So difficult it can be. Rose was telling me of Clarice’s fine singing voice.” I knew of Clarice’s predilection to burst into song, with her mother conveniently at the piano, whenever suitors were abroad.
“Oh yes, Mr. Northam. Next time you are visiting you should hear her sing. She has a wonderful voice.” She smiled at Rose, happy that her daughter seemed to be furthering the family interests and went in.
“Mr. Northam, you are wicked, teasing Mama about Clarice’s singing,” she said, smiling in delighted unity of purpose.
“No, my dear, simply experienced. When you have had the same thing happen many times, you learn what to say.”
“Have you ever been married, Mr. Northam, with all your experience?” she asked.
“No. I was in love once, but she was older than I and refused me,” I said.
“Oh, and what happened to her?” Rose asked.
“She passed on. It was years ago,” I said.
“I am so sorry. I feel a fool now,” Rose said.
“Not so, my dear. I never regret giving or receiving love. What is to regret?” I asked looking quite intensely at her. She had no chance to answer.
Clarice rushed out onto the porch, obviously sent by Mama. “Rose, Mama wants you.”
Rose gave her sister a very un-sisterly look, except so many sisters give each other such looks, and went in. The rest of the afternoon was spent locked in conversation with Clarice. I left on the first afternoon train back to Boston.
It was but two days later that Rose came to my house. The butler let her in and after calling me, discreetly vanished. I led her to the parlor and we sat. “I am so glad you have come, Rose.”
“Yes, perhaps I should not. I fear mother would be displeased,” she said.
“Perhaps. But women often do things in private that they would not in public,” I said.
“Mr. Northam,” she said.
I laughed, “Not just that. I meant visiting gentlemen, for conversation.”
“Have you had many such visitors?” Rose asked.
“Indeed, I have, Rose,” I said.
“Sir, are you a Don Juan?” she asked, both titillated and scandalized by the thought.
“No, I am sorry to tell you. I am no Don Juan. The Don left women unhappy and ruined. I hope to leave women happy,” I said.
“Are you one of those people who believe in free sex like the Oneida Community I have read of?” she asked, her interest aroused.
“You have unusual reading habits, Rose,” I said.
She blushed, “Mama would be unhappy. I hope you won’t tell her,” she said.
“Of that you can be certain. And what is this Oneida Community?”
“Well, it is said that all of the men and women lie together, indiscriminately, even unmarried. That young men lie with the older women until they learn to withhold their seed so that the women do not come with child and can continue to lie with men all of the time. Once the men learn that, they can lie with any woman, They say that the unions can last one hour as the men withhold their seed,” Rose said.
I could see all of this lying together had Rose in a state, her cheeks were flushed and her hands were not still. Yes, like any young woman, Rose desired this lying together with all her soul.
“I am not of that community, but I can see how the women would greatly enjoy such long unions. But I was much influenced by the French philosopher, Voltaire. He argued most persuasively that sex between a man and woman is natural whatever their marriage condition,” I said.
I could see that Rose was ready to tip, but her upbringing had inculcated so much fear of sex that she could not do as she wanted. I called forth the power of the ring, “Rose. I would have you lie with me and I would have you enjoy it. You have been told many lies about sex. Come learn to enjoy the pleasures it brings, as I can see you so much want.” There was a crescendo as the power of the ring filled the air with its hum, then died away.
She stood, “Yes, Mr. Northam.”
“Jeremy, please.
She took my hand, “Yes, Jeremy.”
I led her up the stairs to my bedroom. “I may not last an hour, my dear. But I do propose to please you.”
“How long will it last?” she asked anxiously.
I laughed, “We will see. We will see. Long enough, I hope.”
In my bedroom, I pulled her into my arms, kissing her.
I determined to make it last for sweet Rose. She of the passionate readings about this free love Oneida Community deserved to reach her peak. Clothes were once again strewn about. I noted that little Rose seemed to revel in her nakedness. She was as Bohemian as I but trapped by the time and place as well as her gender. As we fell onto my large bed, her hand sought out my shaft and she inspected it lovingly. “I’ve not seen one before,” she told me. Her hands slowly stroked the shaft watching as the skin moved over it. She softly cupped the balls below, weighing them.
I realized the girl had a natural inquisitive nature. “Do you know the French style of love?” She shook her head. “It is with the mouth and lips.”
“You are joking,” Rose said.
“Not at all, my Dear. Here, I’ll show you. I shall give you French love and I hope you will return the pleasure. If you wish to, use your lips and mouth on my shaft.”
She looked at me as if I were crazed, but that would change. I pulled her over me, her feet to my head, but our bodies aligned, one of the positions I had read in the French manual. That put her face right next to my staff. It was natural that she should touch it, and she did. Her legs naturally fell on both side of my head, bring my face right to her sex. I kissed her sex, making her cry out in surprise.
After her initial surprise, she no longer cried out, but instead began to moan, as I parted her womanly folds and worked over her with tongue and lips. I knew Rose was most appreciative of my ministrations when I felt her lips cover the end of my staff and her tongue lave it. The girl was inexperienced and so could not bring me to completion, but I soon had her there. She flooded, bucking around on my face, before I let her roll to the side, breathing hard and flushed.
I moved around and lay between her spread legs, my staff finding her wet and ready. I lanced into her, quickly setting a good pace and fucking young Rose until my own spending.
After, we lay on the bed, both sated with pleasure. I looked upon her naked body. At fifteen, she was ripe and near perfection. I marveled at my good fortune, not for the first time and not for the last. Rose was full of curiosity, and her nature made her seek answers. I showed her the illustrated French book. She was scandalized and excited. She also became quite experienced at French love giving me many climaxes and I would return the pleasure to her. She told me later, after she married, that her husband was scandalized she knew of such things, but he knew of them as well. She said she had learned of them in reading while he blushed to admit his experiences were rather more practical and he had to seek her forgiveness for his sins and suspicions.
Such are examples of my adventures during this period with members of the fair sex. There were many I suppose. I have lost count of all of the women. I wish I had kept a journal for the memory fills after so many years and the ephemeral is washed away with the changing tides.
Copyright Rod O'Steele © 2007