The Gentlemen's Club Ch. 03byBane©
NOTE: This is the final chapter of The Gentlemen's Club.
Robert Higgins had a very deliberate way of doing things and required his home be kept in similar fashion; any object out of place, no matter how small, was cause for severe recrimination. On this, the day of his return, Sarah had gone to lengths to ensure that everything was just so.
She ran her eyes thoroughly about the single-room dwelling one final time, searching for anything that was in even the smallest way removed from its rightful place. She brushed away non-existent dust, arranged for the hundredth time her husband's bed stand, and ensured yet again that his bed coverings were perfectly laid.
The sound of harness, followed by a single horse bray, signaled to her that the time had come. Robert was home! She ran to the door, smoothing her pearl-colored dress while fluffing her petticoats, and running her fingers along her brilliant red hairline one last time to tuck any stray strands behind her ears.
The door opened and in stepped her husband, Robert Higgins. Sarah, as was the custom, stood waiting just inside the doorway. Having entered, Robert would drop his saddlebag and inspect everything, leaving no drawer unopened and no cupboard door shut.
Some fifteen minutes later Robert finished his inspection and, finding nothing wanting, turned his attention to Sarah.
"Sarah," he said, raising his arms for an embrace.
"Robert," she replied, stepping forward.
He patted her twice on the upper back before pulling away; it was awkward, the kind of forced embrace one man might give his brother's wife (if such an embrace were given at all), a perfunctory show of emotion Robert felt his wife needed far more than he himself.
"You've been well?" he asked.
"Yes," she answered slowly, averting her gaze. She really didn't want to talk much about her goings on during his absence; rather, she was far more interested in what he had done and what the future might hold. This was just as well, as Robert Higgins was not a man terribly interested in what his wife had to say.
"Very good, then. I must say, I'm very pleased with how things have gone the last two weeks. It certainly appears that my hard work has paid off!"
"Yes, it does."
"Well then, shall we eat?"
Sarah's heart raced at the thought. Would they actually be going out, to celebrate—
"I should very much like some biscuits and gravy. The paltry offerings available while traveling are hardly fit for a criminal! I'll be reviewing my papers," he said, brushing Sarah off with the back of his hand, literally shooing her away. "Tell me when it's done."
"Yes, of course," she answered, bowing her head slightly and going to the small kitchen, frowning. Biscuits alone would take over an hour to prepare…
"Ah, delicious, very good indeed."
Sarah never prepared such a meal for herself, it taking so dreadfully long; she appreciated that her husband enjoyed it, of course, even if he never once said thank you.
He was a man slow to appreciate, and slower still to compliment.
While they spoke off and on during the meal (Robert mostly talking, Sarah mostly listening), one thought kept nagging at the back of Sarah's mind: Robert never really says anything to ME.
He spoke at length of the hardships of traveling, of the dickering with various clients, of the seeming impossibility of attaining a quality meal in most back wood locales (though he had tried, evidently, as he never ran out of feeding troughs to disparage). He spared no criticism of his firm's handling of various affairs, everything from how cheap they were to their deployment of a 'special negotiator' to the especially unruly and uncooperative sellers. It seemed that some men were so attached to their property that they were simply unwilling to sell, no matter the price; after a visit by the 'special negotiator,' they seemed to find religion and often settled for a price lower than the highest number Robert himself had offered. It was very confusing, that, impossible to fathom how a man would sell later for a price lower than he was initially offered.
"Their loss, of course. Ah, the hour grows late," he said, gazing at his pocket watch expectantly. He turned to Sarah: "After you've cleaned up a bit, perhaps we should retire for the evening?"
The dishes would take another hour, plus cleaning herself afterwards ('after you've cleaned up a bit' being the operative phrase) would take at least half an hour more. She was in for a late night.
Perhaps, under the covers, she could chase with her husband that which she had been capturing alone the last few nights. This idea brought a curious little smile, a twisting of her lips at the corner that would have piqued the interest of any normal, red-blooded man.
Robert seemed more intent on reviewing his papers…
Sarah was exhausted. She'd spent all day cleaning, arranging, and preparing for her husband's arrival. Once he had arrived, she had actually worked harder, preparing his meal, cleaning up afterwards, putting away his personal effects, and washing herself in preparation for bed. She almost felt she'd rather just go to sleep even though it now meant, after her husband's return, moving to her own much smaller cot situated at the foot of her husband's bed.
Clean, she crawled up into his bed, wearing only a shift—the thinnest, smallest one she owned. It was not at all like the nightgowns she usually wore to bed, thick and cumbersome garments that she wrestled up and bunched uncomfortably about her waist whilst performing her wifely duties. This smaller, thinner garment permitted a view of her body, something she had never before offered to her husband.
This was but the first of a great many things she intended to do for him that she had never done before.
Lying beneath the covers, Sarah nearly shivered with anticipation. For several nights now she had (shamefully, but not so much that it prevented her) masturbated before going to sleep. The very first night she hadn't even made it to bed but instead used the tip of her finger and, with just the slightest touch, had a miniscule orgasm while kneeling against her bed frame, visions of Master Collins and his approval filling her mind. The second night she had slid between the sheets and covered herself completely; beneath the covers, pitch black, she had thought of Mr. Winthrop's tongue, dancing around so delicately, and achieved a much more robust release, one she was sure had lasted at least two or three seconds. The next day—the last before her husband returned—all she could think about was the coming night, the sure knowledge that she, Sarah, would be experiencing a certain self-induced pleasure, wriggling purposely beneath the sheets.
That night she thought, not of Master Collins, or of Mr. Winthrop, but her own passion as she manipulated herself, a concentration focused on her finger and the feeling that if she just barely brushed the side and rubbed down, in a very particular way, she might reveal the most outrageous feelings she had ever known. She did, it was, and she most certainly had.
Of course, this self manipulation did not come without consequence. Thinking back, she could never remember being specifically told that it was wrong to touch herself, she had just known. And yet, was it wrong to give herself such pleasure? Surely she provided this for her husband! If it was not wrong for him, why should it be so for her?
Wasn't she allowed to enjoy the physical act?
She felt that, certainly, she was! And she had decided that she WOULD!
Still, in her prayers (which she no longer delivered kneeling beside the bed) she failed to mention these personal, ah, indiscretions, feeling that eventually the time would come. It didn't matter that He knew all—she preferred very much not to think of Him looking down upon her as she furtively moved her fingers around underneath the covers.
A shuffling about indicated that her husband was coming to bed. Sarah was very nervous; for the first time, she was actually looking forward to performing her wifely duties. She hoped that he would be pleased with her choice of garments. She felt the bed shift as he sat on the edge and watched his back as he blew out the candle.
The room was very dark. He lifted the edge of the covers and slid beneath, lying precisely beside her lengthwise, the same as always. She knew what came next—he would slink around and down, placing himself between her thighs. That was the point, the parting of her legs that usually saw her disconnect and concentrate instead on many other things than that which her husband was preparing to do.
Tonight she accommodated him, spreading her knees and parting her thighs. Instead of closing her eyes or looking away she searched for him. Even though it was dark, her eyes were becoming accustomed enough so that she could see a dark shape hovering, a slight twinkle of starlight reflected from his eyes. He paused a moment, weight on his knees, with a hand on either side of her waist supporting his upper body.
It had never occurred to her to even question what he did as a husband, she having had no reference point for comparison. Now, twisted though her experience was, she knew that men touched women (sometimes cruelly), caressing, stroking, twisting and, occasionally, squeezing almost uncomfortably in all the places that women were round and soft and full. She had spent so many years hiding her body, even from her husband, that she failed to notice his failure to notice, an observation she was wholly unable to comprehend.
She heard him muttering under his breath, words she couldn't understand, and felt him shuffling around. He's lowering his drawers, she realized. As always she merely laid there, arms at her sides, waiting for him to do what he would—only this time with the tiniest flicker of desire deep within her breast.
Seconds later the bed began shaking, rocking quickly back and forth. Sarah herself remained untouched. He's… he's touching… himself, she realized with shock. He's touching himself! She reached back in her mind, searching those dark moments she had tried so desperately to ignore, trying to remember a time when he… no, it couldn't be! A dawning realization struck home: He's never touched me before!
Meanwhile Robert continued, the bed rocking more frantically now. It had been less than a minute since he began when he paused and grunted, muttering again incoherently. Sarah noted dully that a warm wet sticky substance splashed onto her thighs. Her husband grunted twice more, followed by the discharge of more ejaculate, before he sighed, quickly shucked his drawers up and rolled over to the side. He none too subtly reached back and pushed her shoulder—Sarah immediately understood it as a dismissal, that it was over, and she moved down to her cot at the foot of his bed.
Seconds later Robert Higgins snores filled the room.
Sarah wiped herself with a rag before nestling deep into her cot. As she pulled a quilt up to her chin, many thoughts at once crowded into her mind: Was it always so? Had he never, in all their years of marriage, touched her? Was this… The most difficult thought of all: Was this why they had no children?
Have we never consummated our marriage?
Sarah wasn't able to sleep for a very long time.
The next day Robert was at the firm long hours, not returning home until well past seven in the evening. Sarah, ever dutiful, had dinner prepared, and they ate it in virtual silence. Robert again spoke of the firm, boring her with many esoteric legal details that held no interest for her. The few times she tried to speak he brushed her off or ignored her, as if she were simply another piece of furniture or, worse, a mere boarder whose job it was to take care of his many needs.
Yes, a boarder, that described their relationship almost perfectly, Sarah realized.
Tonight, she would take drastic measures.
Tonight, she would get his undivided attention.
Robert was sleeping, snoring loudly as always, when Sarah (again wearing the very thin shift) climbed up into his bed and slid underneath the sheets. This was the scariest part, pressing her advantage.
She was sure there was no shortage of men—based on her experience at The Visum—who would welcome, even crave, this sort of attention. She hoped her husband would be receptive.
She was prepared to become his Wife.
Safely in bed without waking him, Sarah began by slowly stroking his side, dragging her fingertips up and down his flank. Soon enough she placed her hand beneath his nightshirt and began rubbing his back, pressing her thumbs into tight muscles.
He groaned softly—evidently what she was doing was working—and rolled over onto his back.
"What… what are you… doing?" he asked groggily.
Sarah didn't answer, instead transferred her attentions to his stomach, running her fingers through thick curly hair and up to his chest. Her husband would never be confused with a workman; his muscles were ill-defined, more suited for walking and riding than for any sort of heavy lifting. Still, she gave them all her complete attention, treating him as if he were the hardiest of labor men who, sore from a long days work, required extensive rehabilitation before doing it all again the following day.
As she moved down Sarah gently tugged his night trousers down over the hips and past his knees, an act that took more courage than she had imagined. She carefully avoided looking up, not wanting to be distracted and not wanting to provide him a point to complain or resist.
Finally it was done—her husband lay on his back, trouser-less, and she knelt between his legs, a position neither of them had experienced in their lives.
From her kneeling position she looked up and saw, for the first time, her husband's penis. It was neither disappointing nor impressive; rather, it appeared the same as Master Collins, albeit noticeably smaller. In her mind the size didn't register—surely, like anything else, they came in all shapes and sizes?
It was rock-hard, a thick veiny appendage that seemed to hover, the tip not touching his body as it wavered back and forth. It twitched randomly, a jerk that seemed almost involuntary.
The tip glistened, as if a single drop of fluid had leaked from within. She took the shaft of it in her hand and squeezed tentatively, exploring the feel and function in a way she knew would not have been possible only weeks before.
A full moon, arcing across the sky, moved into the window corner and flooded the room with soft white light. Sarah, rigid penis in hand, looked up and saw her husband staring back at her, an unreadable look on his face. He said and did nothing, merely lay there.
Having taken matters into her own hands to this point, Sarah saw no reason to stop and moved her face and mouth towards her husband's engorged member. As the tip of it pressed against her lips, Robert Higgins looked straight up and closed his eyes.
Sarah took it all into her mouth, a task much easier than it had been with Master Collins. Her husband's member had a way of shivering, as if it were a volcano threatening to erupt at any time. The familiar trickle of seminal fluid, not unpleasant, leaked into her mouth, a slick substance that aided lubrication as she alternately raised and lowered her lips wrapped snugly around his throbbing manhood. After an especially copious burst, followed by a single pelvic thrust, she felt, for the first time, her husband's hands on the side of her head, lifting her away from the task she had set herself about.
"What is this?" he asked. "What are you doing?"
His words were harsh; she might have been a petty thief, caught in the act red-handed.
"I… that is… I'm…"
"You've never done this before. Where did you learn it?" An accusation.
Sarah didn't respond.
A full minute of silence, during which neither of them spoke or moved, followed.
Robert broke it.
"Is this what you want?" he asked, grabbing her shift and yanking sideways, tossing her on her back. "Is it?" he repeated, jerking down viciously and ripping the thin garment lengthwise. He gazed upon her naked breasts, large and full, quivering palely in the moonlight. "How about this, then?" he asked hoarsely, closing his fingers around one enlarged nipple and twisting uncomfortably.
"No," she whispered. "I…"
"I see," he said, now grasping the entire breast and squeezing as if wringing out a soaked washcloth. He manipulated her hefty breast with his hand, pinching and squeezing, exploring for the first time his wife's momentous bounty.
It wasn't the gentle, loving moment Sarah had imagined it would or should be; rather it was a nearly mechanical exercise, one in which he now used both hands, and he squeezed so hard he seemed determined to feel every single fiber contained within her substantial mammary glands. She knew that these should feed her children one day—but tonight her husband was selfishly handling them in a way she found very unsettling. She squirmed uncomfortably, flinched as he took both nipples between his thumb and forefingers and began pulling them simultaneously.
It seemed not to please him but, instead, to trigger some other, darker motivation. "I think you should finish what you started," he said darkly, an edge to his voice. Releasing her tortured nipples he laid back down on his back. The air was thick with expectation.
Sarah, still on her own back, slowly sat up.
"Robert, you don't understand—"
"Suddenly shy?" he asked.
She didn't answer; instead, she leaned over his torso, taking his length in one hand while gazing down upon it with an entirely different perspective than she had moments before. She hesitated—this was not what she had wanted.
Not at all.
"Go ahead then. Your wickedness knows no bounds! Are you to act a whore's part without finishing?"
"No," she whispered, lowering her head slowly.
"Let's be about it then," he replied, a new and wholly unexpected tone entering his voice. Sarah turned her head quickly, searching his eyes.
Robert Higgins position on all of this was clear: his face held a mixture of disgust and contempt—a look he reserved for the lowest of the low, but now squared directly at his wife.
Sarah turned her face away and lowered it. As her lips closed over the broad engorged phallic tip, she felt almost exactly the same as she had, weeks before, while kneeling before Master Collins. That this should be her husband, that she had initiated the act herself, and that she felt the irresistible pressure to finish it only exaggerated her shame.
"That's it," her husband whispered, lying perfectly still. "I only ever treated you with honor and respect! But this," he said, careful not to move or assist in any way his wife's depraved debauchery, "is this what you wanted? Is it?" he repeated as he felt Sarah's teeth graze his shaft.
Single-minded, she didn't respond. Eager to finish, she moved a bit more quickly, bobbing her head up and down smoothly. Her husband's words, painful though they were, failed to interrupt her task.
Robert couldn't believe his wife was taking him in her mouth, sucking hungrily as if she were very thirsty. "You'll drink," he whispered. "Suck," he commanded, "Suck!"
Seconds later, it was over. Without warning Sarah felt a surge of hot semen flood her mouth; it was very tart, causing her to gag a bit.
"Drink it! Quench your thirst!" Robert said, rolling his eyes into the back of his head.