tagHumor & SatireThe Dedicated Eroticist

The Dedicated Eroticist


Edward could feel the heat of Margaret's leg against his on the trap seat, even through the material of her long skirt and petticoats and his own trousers. He wondered if she could feel him too—and there at the shoulders too. He thought not, though, or that, if she could, she wasn't noticing. The ladies maid, Nancy, sitting reversed on the trap's back bench and clutching the picnic basket beside her, seemed more aware of where her back touched Edward's. She was trembling at the touch—or maybe she was just palsied. She was much too young to be palsied, though. She was a cute little trick, Edward thought.

His mind went back to his current plans of conquest, though. He'd been honing in on Margaret for months. He had decided that today, on the picnic down to Thrushington Lake, he was going to fuck her. She had played coy long enough. He knew she was game for it. He'd known ever since he'd been told—in twittered confidence, of course—that she was writing racy Romance stories for that Life of Bliss women's magazine. He'd read some of those stories, and they'd made him go hard, even if some of the prose was purple.

"Throbbing mass of manhood thrusting at the pearly gates" indeed, he thought. The woman was just a tease with him. She took cock; that was clear from the descriptions he could see under that florid prose she published. He made an excuse to pull back on the reins and, in so doing, brush her left breast. Touching the breasts, seemingly inadvertently, had always gotten his dick inside a woman before.

Nothing, though. She just sat there in the trap seat close beside him and stared down at the hindquarters of the horse.

It was a stallion, and not a gelding either, and what Margaret was staring at was what was hanging down between its hind legs.

Edward's efforts were for naught. Margaret, her attention riveted on that appendage between the horse's legs, was oblivious to him and to anything else other than the looming deadline for a Penny Passion pen name story due to Life of Bliss. She was feeling warm and moist . . . down there . . . just looking at the horse and considering it as a metaphor and thought maybe that the play on horse could be the hook for her story.

She might use the young, blond Lord Reginald, perhaps, a major conjured participant in her own time alone in her bed when she was pining over her lack of actual experience in these matters. She'd have him playing polo. The young daughter of his housekeeper, Pamela, who was visiting her mother at his country home and who he was being kind to by inviting her to watch him play polo would mistakenly enter his tent where he was dressing for the game and was shirtless and in his tight polo pants. She would be taken aback by seeing his powerful, muscled chest, tapering down to his flat belly and slim waist, and would stumble, almost swoon. Saving her from falling, Sir Reginald would hold her close in her arms and she could feel his manhood against her thigh. There would be some references to horses here, possible by writing the subtle image of her heroine standing next to Sir Reginald's obviously well-endowed horse before the match while looking up at the noticeably well-endowed Sir Reginald while he asks for her favor in the game—Margaret could work that out later. But her readers would get the point. Her faithful readers had learned to read between her lines.

They would kiss . . . deeply . . . without, of course, meaning to. But she would break away and flee the tent. Lord Reginald would be the deciding factor in winning the match, most certainly, and the blushing Pamela, never looking more beautiful, would cheer him on.

He, of course, would seek her out in his vast manor but not be able to find her until one of the serving men told him which chamber of the servants' wing she was sleeping in. He would arrive, at some point nearly naked, of course, but Margaret couldn't directly write that. There certainly would be a reference to horses here again, though. He would put a knee on the bed, hovering over her reclining body. His hand would touch her breast—which Margaret's readers would know sealed Pamela's fate—and brush aside the flimsy material of her night dress, revealing amply rounded orbs, heaving now as Pamela woke, her violet eyes wide open in shock.

The bed curtain would, of course, have to come down at this point, perhaps the reader's eye being taken up to the paintings of stallions hanging on the chamber's walls. The Life of Bliss editors would only let her go so far. But Margaret would hold the thought for when she was alone in her own bed that night. Then there would be no bed curtains to fall and she could be quite explicit in her dreaming of what the horse was a metaphor for. If only some handsome, blond, lord . . .

But no, damnation, she thought. She'd used Lord Reginald before, under the pen name of Constance Throbben. And Pamela too, for that matter. And even the horse metaphor within the context of a polo match. Damnation. She'd have to think up something else before the deadline.

"We're here, Maggie," Lord Edward called out. "Lake Thrushington. Isn't it a marvel? You go ahead, Nancy, and pick us a very nice, private spot—well out of view of the road, if you will."

The blushing, red-haired young women scampered off her seat, bobbed a bow, and pulled the picnic basket off the seat. Her other hand involuntarily went to the bun at the back of her head where a burst of wind threatened to pull her hair down. With another smile at Edward, she moved down the hillside toward a grove of trees, saucily swinging her hips, setting the hem of her long skirt swaying, and putting the picnic basket she was carrying at her side into the same gentle back and forth stroking.

Margaret came out of her reverie and moved toward the edge of the trap bench. Lord Edward Hazelton lifted her out of the trap, holding his arm around her waist and her body close to his for several fractions of a moment longer than was necessary. She turned her face to him, and he leaned in for the kiss.

But she was looking above his blue eyes and finely chiseled facial features into his sunshine blond hair, where . . . he was about to lose his driving cap to the passing breeze.

"Your driving cap, Eddie. I do believe the wind will take it all the way to the lake."

"What, where?" the nonplused young man said, setting her feet down on the ground as he reached for the already tumbling cap no longer on his head with his other hand. The wind carried the cap farther down the hillside, toward the lake.

Margaret pulled away from him and looked down the hillside at the fluid motion of the hips of the ladies maid as she entered the grove.

He could be a visiting French knight, Guy de Sabre, at an English castle, where Katie, the serving girl, has waited on him at table. He has stolen a kiss from her in a dark passage leading to the kitchens, and she has broken away from him, taken a couple of steps, turned, and then come back to him for a return kiss before scampering into the shadows. He has ached for her all night. Not being able to find sleep, he remains slouched in a chair in his chamber, just in his underbriefs, his massive, muscular, wound-slashed chest heaving at the lingering taste of her kisses. He, of course, is polishing his sword. Margaret was sure her faithful readers would catch the metaphor in that, but to be sure she'd throw in all sorts of references to swords and sheaths and sword play and vanquishing and such. The next morning, Sir Guy would see Katie walking, saucily, downhill into the grove of trees where the castle's spring was to fetch water. He would move toward the grove himself, sword swinging heavily at his side. They would meet and embrace at the tree line and then disappear into the shadows so that Margaret's editor wouldn't have to cut what happened next out of the story.

But, balderdash, no, her editor had made quite explicit that they'd had more than enough French lover and castle stories of late.

Nancy was standing at the edge of the wood, no longer carrying the picnic basket, and waving. "Your Lordship, Milady, I think I have found the perfect spot."

Already half way toward the tree line, having caught up with his cap, Lord Edward turned and waved enthusiastically to Margaret, who waved back, if not completely enthusiastically—more distracted within her own world.

Margaret sighed and then was wracked with a thought. "Damnation, I must think of a new plot and new characters. I must get some sexual satisfaction out of this outing. I need to come away with a story." Setting a look of determination on her face, she moved down the hill toward Edward, who was standing there, getting hard at the very sight of the luscious young woman moving toward him.

Those stories of hers he read, he was thinking. She must be a regular firecracker with a man between her thighs.

Nancy indeed had found the perfect spot for a private picnic. The grassy knoll was relatively flat just at the fringe of tree cover, trees blocking sightlines from the road, and it tapered down and out in a panorama down to the banks of the lake.

Lunch, served by Nancy in fluid, graceful motions, shy smiles, and slightly swaying breasts, was soon dispensed with. Edward revealed that he had brought wine. No manner of enticement, though, would get Margaret to join him in a glass of that. She did, however, briefly entertain the idea of having her story's heroine compromised by wine. She quickly dismissed that idea, though, as wine drinking by a woman would be just too scandalous for the Life of Bliss.

Nancy was not nearly as difficult to entice to have a glass of wine, though. Edward didn't like to drink alone, he said. He wouldn't have brought the wine at all except to loosen up Margaret, and he thought—wrongly, it turned out—that if Nancy took a glass Margaret would do so as well. And perhaps Nancy taking a second glass would do the trick, although it didn't.

A short, whispered conversation between Edward and Nancy resulted in Nancy blushing and smiling shyly and then scampering down the hillside to the rim of the lake, leaving Edward and Margaret alone on the picnic blanket.

Margaret was sitting and staring off into space, dreaming of what Edward was moving to do, Edward hoped. He stretched out beside her and put an arm around her backside, inching it in closer and closer to an embrace over the passage of the next several minutes. At the same time he had a stalk of wheat that he was languidly running along her bare arms. The sensation of being tickled was connected with arousal in a woman, he had read somewhere—in the Life of Bliss, he thought. Maybe even in one of Margaret's pen name stories. He would be running it along anything he could make bare on this young woman as soon as he could manage it. He already had the hem of her skirt three-quarters of the way up her calves. He cursed the fashion of stockings going up to the knees, but he looked forward to the victory of seeing her bare knee caps in the near future, followed by the arousing milky white flesh of her plump thighs.

She didn't seem to notice what he was working on at all. She was staring off into space. Her lips were moving, but he didn't have the slightest notion what she was thinking or not saying.

He wanted to think she was wondering why he didn't just get on with it, like one of those swashbucklers in those stories she wrote. What he could do, he thought, was just to run one hand up under that skirt, grab her by the cunt, and find her clit with a finger, while holding her in place with the embrace of the other hand and taking her mouth in his. Once he'd been able to palm a woman's muff, they were ready to give in to him, in his experience. Her stories showed her to be highly passionate and experienced. Her current coolness, he was convinced, was just a tease, to make the act that much more pleasurable.

She'd struggle a bit, for appearances sake, while he was working her cunt with his hand, but once he'd swung over her and pinned her to the ground with his dick, she'd being begging for it. They always did. He wasn't compared to a horse for nothing. He hadn't met a woman yet who didn't want to sheath and feel the strokes of his sword—once he had gotten it inside her.

He was building up to make his move, was on the very cusp of doing so, when Margaret abruptly stood and called out down to the lake. "Mind you, don't go so near the water, Nancy. You'll fall in."

Edward's attention was diverted to Nancy, down at the edge of the lake, dancing languidly to some tune she no doubt was humming to herself. She had taken her overdress off and was swaying around in her petticoat. At hearing her name called, she looked up the hillside and waved, her plump, bare arms moving slowly in the air. She reached up and undid the bun on her head, letting her rich, red-golden hair flow down around her shoulders.

As she laughed and waved again and then turned her face toward the lake and resumed her dancing, Margaret got lost in the image of the red-golden fair cascading down around the young woman's bare shoulders. There was a metaphor there that she sometime used in her stories. The undoing of the hair as symbol of the willing undoing of the virgin. How long ago had she used that in a story, she wondered. She must work that into the current story. Her mind worked on that for several minutes.

When she looked up, she realized she was alone on the picnic blanket. She let her gaze go down to the lake—and across it to the other shore, where she started to form a tableau of the huntsman and the princess he came upon, bathing, naked at the edge of the lake. Her mind started to form a story, a fresh one she was sure. One that would surely work.

She hadn't let her gaze fall to the nearside shore of the lake, where Nancy was reclining, Edward's arm under her back, lifting it a bit, Nancy's torso arched back and her cheek brushing the ground, her hair flowing out in all directions. Her bodice was open and Edward was feasting on her breasts. Her legs were spread and bent, her feet flat on the ground. Her petticoats were gathered up above her dimpled bare knees, seen as enticing orbs of flesh above her black knee socks. Edward, trousers laying on the ground beside him, was crouched between Nancy's thighs. His bare buttocks cheeks were expanding and contracting, undulating back and forth, between her thighs. In other, plainer words, he was fucking her with deep strokes.

The expression on Nancy's face made clear that she fully understood what the metaphor of a horse meant when applied to a man.

Margaret kept on spinning the tale of the huntsman and the princess in the mind behind her blind eyes. It was a good one, she decided. She'd use that. She somewhat regretted having to give up on the idea of the young, blond Lord Reginald and the references to horses, but she wouldn't discard that altogether. She would use that tonight when she was all alone in her bed, wishing for her own Lord Reginald and seeing what she could do to pleasure herself without him.

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