The Belvedere.

Now what is he doing?

He put his hand gently, but firmly onto her breast, and held her there. He did nothing more. She had not objected earlier. She could not object now, and it was not unpleasant, though it was far too familiar.

That part of his was sticking up even more now, touching her, pulsating more strongly with life. She closed her eyes for a few moments, no more than a minute, but then had to open them again.

His head was leaning against hers and his breathing was not as calm as it should be. He had his eyes closed for a moment as he snuggled into her neck and kissed her under her ear, moving even closer to her as though he could never be close enough. And all of the time he was gently caressing, massaging her breast. It felt interesting.

That part of his had become stiff again, straining against his skin as though he might burst out of it. He sighed and opened his eyes to look into her face.

He had a pained look in his eyes; a look of pleading even, but what was he pleading, and why? She had seen that look on his face earlier. He wanted her to do something, to say something, but what was she to do that she was not already doing?

She realized then, what it was he wanted of her.

No! Impossible! Not her.

‘Mother’? She rashly asked her mother about what was happening.

‘I can no longer help you, my love. It will be entirely out of my hands and yours if you touch that, and even if you don’t. Although I would say that you have nothing to lose whichever way it goes, and possibly something to gain if you do. I must admit that there is something worthwhile about the scoundrel despite what he did to you before. So why don’t you go ahead? Your fate was sealed even when you set out in such a mood as you did this morning you foolish girl. Yes, go ahead, touch him. Take hold of him. See what happens. Why hold back now? Yes, take hold of him. You know that is what he wants. He will show you what to do after that. They always do’.

Harriet stilled that voice. She would never dare touch him. This was the hell she had invited, but not any hell she had envisaged.

He took his hand from her breast and rested it upon hers. He was being gentle. But he had not been anything other than gentle, even when he had…. Their hands moved together as though they were magically joined, though he was not holding her hand. With his gentle guidance she reached over and touched him there, feeling that part leap in her hand as though it had a life of its own. He took a deep breath. He had not expected her to cooperate in this way so readily, and then she felt his warm breath flood over her in sudden excitement.

“Thank you.” He had been barely audible.

She knew what she should do (as all women soon learned when faced with this circumstance) and took a firmer hold of him (feeling an obvious response) but was not sure how she could do that. She could barely put her hand around it, and it was so hard, and warm. Hard, despite it being mere flesh. It even moved as though it had a life of its own. His hand settled over hers again, and held hers there, firmly upon him. He seemed to approve of her touching him. She did not understand any of it, but none of it seemed wrong. After all, this had been what fate must have decided would happen to her today.

How strange it felt. Erect. Hard. It was almost alive in her hand. He pulled her closer to him and kissed her, encouraging, showing her what he needed her to do for him there, but more firmly and steadily; approving of what she was doing to him. But of course, he would. He had no shyness whatsoever, but what man did? All men, wanted a woman to touch and hold him there, to do this for him. She remembered the scullery maid saying that about her and her male friend, and how exciting it had become for them both after that. Harriet had not understood it then. She did now.

She had a momentary flashback to when she had been a girl. She had been about ten, or maybe eleven. It had been just before the family had gone abroad with one of her father’s postings. There had been a boy. She had forgotten his name, but they had often played together as their mothers had talked.

Their mothers had made plans for them both when they grew older; they were aware of that. It had been something to do with marriage. They liked to play with each other, and the thought of them being married to each other did not strike them as unusual. Everyone got married. They had made their own plans as children will, along those same lines, and had kissed as they had seen adults do to show love for each other, even though they were not sure what love was.

They had been climbing a tree, out of sight of their parents, and she had slipped. Her dress had got caught on a branch. It had risen upon her body as she began to slip from it. She did not have far to fall. She had come out of it, and he had seen…. He had freed her then, stopping her from falling by holding her legs, and helping her down, leaving her dress and petticoat hanging on that low branch. She remembered that she had been crying, but not over loss of her dress, but at the scrapes she'd got, and a tear that she had heard on her dress, still up there. He had licked at her scrapes on her legs and her body to try and ease the discomfort, which soon faded. He had also licked at her between her legs, at a deep scratch there, as this man had done for her, but for a different reason. That boy had been curious about her there, too. It had not been as threatening then as it was now.

She had cried, not sure how she would dare return home without her dress. He had calmed her as best he could, giving her his shirt to cover herself, but she had sat upon it, and he had shown her that she should not be afraid to be without clothing.

He had taken off all of his own clothing to show her that he was not shy to be that way with her. It had calmed her but had created more questions. She had seen much more of him then, than she understood. When she had settled down, he had climbed the tree to recover her dress, hanging barely four feet off the ground. They'd sat together for some time as she had recovered, but she had not put her dress back on, nor had he dressed.

Not long after that, they had done much more together. She had been curious about those obvious differences between them. He had gently touched her little conical protrusions starting on her chest and had been curious about everything he could see between her legs, wanting to touch, to see more, to investigate her and to ask questions, which he did.

He had asked her if she would like to touch him and to hold him in turn and, being adventurous and curious, as well as trusting him, she had, just as she was holding this man, now. But they had been only children, and she had been shy, but not so shy as she had become in later years. She also remembered that boy being big and hard in her hand even then. Maybe it had not been a dream as she had thought, but she had put it from her mind as though it had not happened.

Before they got dressed and parted, he persuaded her, that as they had now been naked together, and had seen and touched each other personally, that they should marry. It was expected of them as it was expected of adults who did that to each other. They had promised to be together forever, and ever, and then they had kissed again to seal their bond. He had then carved their initials on that tree to punish it for holding on to her dress, but at the same time, had been thanking it.

She had never seen him again after that and was not sure that she had ever known his name, but she must have done.

Her mind returned to the present.

Yes, that part of him had changed. It had grown more in her hand, and was still growing, leaving even more of its sheath behind with the skin pulling tight upon him as she moved it. He was helping her grasp him more firmly, and to move him more quickly. It was mesmerizing. His breath was so warm too, and he seemed to be breathing in a more labored way, with it catching in his throat and he was even groaning.

His p***s seemed to have a life of its own, and changed as she watched it, becoming even harder and stiffer.

He groaned and held her closer as he gasped and pushed hard into her hand. At the same time, a stream of a whitish fluid gushed out of him, pouring in a small fountain, landing upon her hand, her arm, her legs, and her body, sticking there and running. There were several pulses of it rising up almost to her face. She laughed nervously in surprise, but did not pull away in revulsion, though not understanding, at first, what had happened. She was not sure how she should respond, or whether she should say anything. She slowly stopped what she had been doing for him. What she had done did not feel wrong. She decided she should ignore it, and everything about him, and what he would do with her now, and focus upon getting warm, as she leaned into him as though approving of what had happened, and continued holding him as he wanted with him in turn holding her breasts so gently and tenderly as though to thank her. Everything about him, about any male, was strange to her, but she was learning. Her life had changed, but she had decided that she wanted him in it, in some way. He had been only gentle with her up to this point. There was no reason to think he would change.

She could not ignore that part, even though it seemed to be relaxing and shrinking again, with more of that fluid still leaking from him onto her hand. She closed her eyes. She could not be compromised any more than she already had been.

He must have detected her concern and puzzlement over what she had seen, and what he had done.

“Thank you for your help.” He was thanking her again. “You have no idea how necessary…” His words trailed off. “I will explain what happened, later. I am helpless not to respond in this way when I am close to you.”

He had thanked her, but for what? And then he said something about being sorry for what had happened and his lack of self-control again. He seemed to lose that quite often. And he had called that part, ‘him’, as though it were another person. She dared not say anything. Men should never be encouraged, as she had done, and were strange. They were unlike a woman. But that might not be such a bad thing.

Harriet could feel his warm breath on her neck as he continued to pull her closer into him, with his hands touching her everywhere. He was kissing her under her ear.

It was not so threatening or bad, and not as hurtful as she had heard it would be when a man and a woman brought their bodies together in such an intimate way for him to… ejaculate as he had. She could feel that the fluid that had come from him was slippery on her leg, her belly, and on her fingers.

The rest of it seemed like a dream. Not a bad dream but a strange and unusual one. Her fatigue from her walk, and losing so much warmth, as well as fighting her own panic over what was happening, caught up with her, and she wanted to sleep, now that she was getting warm and was comfortable, held in his arms with him touching and holding her breasts, and she, holding him in turn. The threat to her seemed to have diminished, along with that part of his.

He moved his hands upon her from time to time, checking her warmth, as well as touching her in other places too, including her breasts, which he was always loath to leave, but he was gentle with them. Control of her life seemed to have passed into the hands of this man. Could it have happened so easily? Did he know?

Of course he knew.