The Belvedere.

Learning about herself.

Harriet inspected herself with the sun full on her naked body, turning one way, then the other, enumerating her finer points, but finding more to criticize than to be comfortable with. One breast was very slightly larger than the other, and was lower, but they were both far too big. She lifted them, inspected them and pulled them around as though to change something about them, but couldn’t. She couldn’t even change that too obvious, and large, pink birthmark, like a wine stain, under her left breast. He had seen that too. He had stared at that as though mesmerized by it but had said nothing.

Small breasts were more attractive.

He had kissed her on both of them, so they had attracted him, as that other more-private part of her had. He had not only kissed them, but had mouthed them, taking the entire n****e and areola of each breast into his mouth as he had sucked. She could still feel him doing that, and she groaned out loud in that memory. Everything he had done, had been done with slow deliberation and gentleness, and that was what had taken her by surprise. She had heard that men were always violent in their s****l tendencies, but he had been only gentle with her. She closed her eyes for a moment, recalling everything he had done to her, feeling her temperature rise again.

Everything had been pleasurable and exciting. Everything. And it should not have been. She should have been distraught. She should be that way now, but she wasn’t.

She had not backed away from him no matter what he had done, so she had invited it. She remembered pushing back into him as he had kissed and licked at her, even opening her legs wider for him so that he could get at her better. It had not been unpleasant, but quite the opposite. There was no mark on her breasts to show what he had done to them. He had held them too, though his hands, as large as they were—she recalled that about him—had barely covered them. Yes, her breasts were too large, yet they had excited him. Maybe her mother had been right about them.

She held and lifted her breasts; ungainly things, as she remembered him doing to her, but she did not get the same sense of forbidden pleasure from it. She undid her hose and then slowly peeled them off her legs as he had done to leave herself as naked as she had been with him. How could he have found any pleasure in kissing her in that hair, except he had parted the hair from her, and had been kissing her in there where it was soft and moist and warm. She could feel him doing it for her as he had stared at her between her legs, touched her, and even caressed her there as though by accident with the back of his fingers as he had untied those ribbons. She touched herself there too, touching herself as he had touched her, but the pleasure of his touch was not there.

There was a chair in front of her dresser. She turned it and lifted her foot onto it as she put her legs far apart and parted the hair from herself, as he had done. She stood close to her mirror, the sun shining full upon her as she pulled her labia apart to see herself better, but it did not feel the same.

He had kissed her there for several minutes. Why would any man want to kiss her there, or even do much more there, as he had done? Surely that was an act of depravity, yet it had not felt so wrong. Then, his tongue had done something with her along that groove. She had felt him do that, touching her in places that seemed very sensitive to whatever he had done. She closed her eyes, feeling the excitement wash over her again.

Not only his tongue, either. Later, his…that… other part (his ‘c**k’, you stupid girl! You had better be able to say it for what it is, considering what you did with it, with his encouragement), had been between her labia as he had lain back under her, and it had been sticking up between her legs, resting along her vulva immediately before he had lost himself onto her for the second time. She began to giggle but then caught herself.

And that first time? Had she touched him and caused that to happen the first time as he had spurted onto her? Yes, she had. Not just touched him, either, but had held him firmly as he needed her to do, and she had been guided by him to move it quite vigorously for him. She had behaved no better than those women she had heard about who had no shame or shyness with any man, as they lifted their dresses for him, and exposed themselves to him, encouraging him to be personal with them in every way as he ravished them mercilessly.

She pulled herself apart even more and inspected even closer. She had never done this to herself before and realized that she knew too little of her own body. She could see nothing. There was no damage; no blood. Nothing hurt.

Her hand-mirror was on her dresser. She picked that up and sat on the chair in the full sun with her legs wide apart as she held the mirror with one hand and parted herself with the other.

She investigated herself as she never had before. She was not sore, so he had not done her damage as she had expected he would. She could see that smaller orifice leading into her body and put the tip of her little finger into herself. She knew that he had wanted to push into her there with that proudly intimidating part of his but he had not done so. She was a snug fit upon her finger, as small as her finger was, so he had not managed to go into her there with that much larger item of his while she had rested, oblivious to everything, or he would have injured her; torn her.

This was something she had never done before. This part of her; her quim; her vulva, and her breasts had fascinated him, just as his part had held her attention but for a different reason, considering the damage and hurt it could do to her. She must still have a hymen somewhere in there but was not sure what that looked like. Yes, she was still a virgin by that particular definition, but she didn’t feel like one. She was no longer as innocent as she had been yesterday. She had been changed. He had done that to her.

There was something else there, caught in the hairs. She could see what appeared to be small, fatty globules, and there were also whitish flakes of something that had dried on her belly. It came off as she rubbed it, like flakes of dead skin. That was from him, and what he had left upon her when the fluid that had spurted out of him had landed on her.

He had ejaculated twice, no, three times, or was it four, that last time when he had been kneeling, and with him between her legs, expelling his sperm onto her there, and the time before the last time, it had run down into her hair and between her legs. Could any of it have gone into her? There had been a lot of it. Most of it had dried, but not that which had settled in those hairs and had been stopped from drying by her own moistness and warmth. The last time, her petticoat had caught some of it and was still wet. The rest of it had fallen to the seat behind her and had been soaked up by her dress.

The sun was warm upon her body. She sat closer into the window and put her feet onto the window ledge, and far apart, so that she could inspect herself even better in the full sun with the smaller mirror. She slowly touched herself within her labia trying to repeat those sensations she had felt as his tongue had done the same. She was moist, recollecting the excitement she had begun to feel, and her breath caught as she touched herself in a sensitive place, as his tongue had, but she did not feel the same pleasure now, as then.

How much of his sperm had he left there? There had seemed to be a lot of it erupt from him; enough to fill a table-spoon each time; or more like fill an egg cup full. Where had it come from? How would Mr. Read, (no, that was too formal after what he had done to her, and her touching and holding him), James, feel if he could see her now, and have known what she was thinking and even doing? Would he be as excited as he had become earlier? She had her legs wide apart as though to encourage the imaginary Mr. Read, to do anything with her that he wanted to do, to go into her there as she had deserved, to fu.. fu…, do that to her.

She could not even whisper that vulgar word in her brain, even though she was in the privacy of her own room and might have said it out loud without shocking anyone but herself. She had managed to say it in her mind once before (f**k! f**k! f**k! You stupid girl). It seemed the right, descriptive word. Love, was not any part of what he had done to her.

Then, she had recovered her senses and realized what was happening to her. But even then, she had not objected. Why not? How could she behave and think like this? This was not her, but how many times had she said that to herself as she had let him touch her breasts and kiss her where he had? Did she have no shame?

She sat up, aware of where she was and how she was sitting. Anyone across the yard outside, or on the hillside on a level with her window and a couple of hundred feet away, could see her if they looked up or glanced across to her window. Fortunately, the man had finished working on the stable roof there, or he would have been able to see her in this state, and in the full evening sun. She should not be so careless, but it had been an exciting thought. What would Mr. Read, James, have thought of her, had he been out there, watching what she had done? She wondered if he could be standing in front of his own mirror and inspecting himself the same way; holding himself, imagining touching and caressing her so intimately. Thinking of him going into her body there as he had wanted to do. Absurd thought! But nonetheless, intriguing. Part of her wished he were here now to continue what he had begun with her. No one would know.