The Private Life of Anne Boleyn

Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Anne was excited. After all the talk, she was about to have a practical demonstration at last, of a thing which she knew to play a central role in s****l life, particularly the s****l life of those who are not married, or at least not to each other. It was true that she had already had some practical experience of pricks. The Comtesse had been eager to introduce her to some basic facts. She had explained to Anne what a prick looked like, and felt like. She explained the response of a prick to being handled, including the phenomenon of ejaculation, which up till then had been for Anne a mystery. She had heard of such a thing, but had little idea of what it was, why it occurred and how it might be induced.

“What you must always remember, Anne, is that for a man the discharge of his p***s is the chief object of his life. The more frequently this can be achieved, and with the widest variety of company, the better he will be pleased.”

“It’s really that important?” Anne asked.

“Nothing more so,” said the Comtesse firmly. “And I think it about time you had some experience of what men set such value by.”

“Very well,” Anne said. “I shall be grateful if you can provide it.”

After a week, during which time Anne grew increasingly impatient, the Comtesse announced that she had found a suitable subject for the demonstration.

“It was essential that I did not select a man of quality,” she said, “for there might be a danger to your reputation if it were known that you were involved in such an act. In society secrets can never be kept for long.”

The Comtesse would no doubt have been put out to be told that it was women like herself, who spent much of their time in gossip, that endangered the reputation of young girls.

“And so I have procured a young man of the common people. I shall pay him for his participation and also for his silence.”

Anne was agog to know who the man was and when she would meet him. After several more days the Comtesse told Anne that the following afternoon they would go for a drive in the country. Anne pressed her for details, but for once the Comtesse said no more.

At 2pm. the next day the Comtesse arranged to meet Anne at the back of the palace. Standing in a courtyard was a coach and horses, and sitting up on top a single coachman. The Comtesse was already inside. Her arm appeared through the window of the coach, beckoning Anne. Once she was seated and the door closed, they set off.

“Where are we going?” Anne asked.

“Wait and see,” replied the Comtesse.

“And who is the gentleman we are going to meet?”

The Comtesse smiled but said nothing. The road entered a wood. After about ten minutes, the coach turned off down a track which eventually petered out. The coachdriver pulled up. The Comtesse got out, taking Anne with her.

“Where is the gentleman?” Anne asked, mystified.

“Come down, Jean,” said the Comtesse.

The coachdriver got down. He was a young fellow, well put together, with an intelligent face. He looked at Anne with an interest she thought verging on the impertinent.

“So, Anne,” said the Comtesse. “You have never seen a p***s up close. But now that is to be rectified. Jean, as I have already ascertained, has an excellent one, and he has volunteered to show it to you. Jean, lower your breeches.”

Boldly, with not a sign of shame, the coachman pulled down his breeches, revealing his prick. Not being quite sure what to expect, Anne regarded it with great interest. It was not quite as large as she expected, but as she watched it the thing appeared to grow in size. It also became stiff, sticking out at ninety degrees.

The Comtesse put out her hand and grasped it, holding it firmly. “We shall not attempt any refinements this afternoon,” she said. “There will be no use of the mouth, nor rubbing the prick against other parts of your anatomy, no smacking nor pinching or other forms of rough play. All these things have their place, but that is for another time. So, watch.”

The Comtesse held the prick with her fingers wrapped round it, then pulled them back. A flap of skin at the front of the prick slid back, revealing a head that was, in contrast to the whiteness of the shaft, a dark pink. Anne observed that there was a hole at the end. She remembered having heard that a man pissed from his prick, as well as using it for s*x. Doubtless that hole was where the stream emerged.

“Hold it,” the Comtesse said to Anne. Nervously she put out her hand and the Comtesse placed the prick in it. She found the thing pleasantly warm to hold, and also an interesting combination of hardness and smooth softness. Gingerly she began to rub it. Jean moaned softy.

“Could she not apply her lips to it for a little while?” he said.

“No,” said the Comtesse. “That was not what was agreed.”

Anne continued to rub it while examining it closely. She noted the thick veins just beneath the skin. At the base was a little circle of hair, and also what she knew were his balls, enclosed in a bag of wrinkled skin. She left off holding his prick for a moment to touch them, gathering his balls in the palm of her hand and gently squeezing. Jean gasped; was it with pleasure? Anne began to stroke the shaft again.

“What shall I do now, Comtesse?” she asked.

“Keep rubbing and watch what happens,” was the reply.

The prick was now of a considerable size. From close examination of herself, Anne had a sense of the dimensions of her cunny, having pushed a finger or two inside it. It did not seem to her that this thing, this p***s, would fit. Surely it was too big, both too long and too thick. And yet was that not what was supposed to happen when a man f****d you?

Suddenly, without warning, the p***s jerked in her hand. Jean made a groan and several ribbons of thick, creamy liquid shot from the end, falling onto the ground.

“You see?” exclaimed the Comtesse. “You made him c*m. Well done!”

The Comtesse put her finger to the p***s and scooped up some drops of the white stuff that was running down the shaft. She held her finger up to Anne’s nose. Anne made a face.

“Sniff and then taste,” the Comtesse ordered.

The odour was not particularly pleasant, Anne thought; both acrid and earthy. Tentatively she stuck out her tongue and tasted. The flavour was not strong; she wasn’t sure she could ever acquire a taste for it. But then, she saw no reason why the thing should spurt forth anywhere close to her face.

“Thank you, Jean. You may put it away now.”

Anne saw that the p***s had quickly began to shrivel. So that was it? The whole event had lasted only a couple of minutes. This was the chief object of a man’s life, to perform this brief act?

“I see from your face you are a little disappointed, my dear. But you must understand that I have shown you only the mere basics of the act. The refinements one may engage in are limitless, as you will eventually find out.”

“I hope so, Comtesse,” said Anne. “When will you show me some?”

“Do not be impatient, child. All in good time.”

Jean drove them back to the stables. Despite the perfunctory nature of what had happened, Anne was aroused. Her first proper sight of a prick had left her wanting more. When they got back to the stables Anne and the Comtesse dismounted from the coach and the Comtesse hurried away, muttering about an appointment with her doctor. Anne watched Jean unhitch the horse and take off its harness, then back it into its stall. On an impulse she entered the stables and approached Jean. He turned to look at her.

“You have a nice prick,” she said. “I should like to see it again.”

She would not have spoken to a gentleman like this, but a mere coachman could be so addressed. Jean gave a little smile and once more lowered his breeches. His prick was soft and drooping. Anne took hold of it and stroked it. Immediately she felt the hardness coming back. She pushed Jean up against the wall and pressed herself against him. “Kiss me,” she said.

Jean put his mouth to hers and slid his tongue between her lips. Anne had never felt such a thing. Instinctively she opened her mouth and his tongue moved inside. She sucked on it greedily. She could feel her blood pulsing in her ears, feel an urgency in her belly. No, lower down. She placed his prick on her dress, right against her pubic mound, moving it with her hand so that she could feel it rub against her cunny. She knew what she really wanted now, she wanted to raise her skirts and press his prick against her naked groin, against her cunny, and guide it into her. She ached to feel him inside. But Anne possessed an iron will, with which she controlled the impulses of her body. Certain acts, despite the acute pleasure she was sure they would give, would lead to disaster, to the destruction of all her dreams. Her ambition held her back.

But still, her dress remaining down, she rubbed herself against his prick, rock hard now. An idea came to her. Perhaps if she rubbed hard enough and long enough she could stimulate herself to a climax, in just the way she did when she was alone and playing with herself. She clung on to Jean around his neck, pressing her mouth harder against his, bending her knees to get traction against him, And then suddenly he groaned, his body tensed and she felt his prick shudder through her dress. She looked down. Below her belly her dress was wet. She could see his spunk clotted on her, already beginning to stain the silk from which her dress was made.

She pulled back in anger. “What have you done?” she cried. “You’ve spoiled my dress, you dirty boy.” She pulled at his shirt, trying to wipe the sticky white stuff off from her. But most of it had already soaked into the material.

Jean was red-faced. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I did not mean to.”

“You’ve ruined this dress,” Anne said. “And how am I to get back to my room without someone seeing my shame?”

She slapped him hard across the face. “I should have you whipped,” she said, “except that all would know what you have done.”

She turned on her heels and made off, holding her hand across her groin in the hope of shielding her soiled dress. She was angry, not only with Jean but with herself for getting carried away, for not having anticipated something like this might happen. In future she would remain in control.

Back in her room she stripped off her dress and called for Camille, her maid. She told her to sponge down the dress. Camille took it and examined it. Then she looked up at Anne.

“Please, miss,” she said. “I think the stain has gone through into your petticoat.”

Anne looked down. “Damn,” she said. Camille helped her off with the petticoat too, then put it to her nose and sniffed. Anne blushed furiously. It was obvious enough Camille knew just what had made the stain. She decided to brazen it out. Did it matter if her maid knew? Already she must suspect some of Anne’s behaviour.

“There is a lot of it,” said Camille with a smile. “He must have been a virile fellow.”

Anne was still blushing, but calmer now. “Yes,” she said. “And it was the second time this afternoon he had done it.”

“I wish I could know such a man,” Camille said.

“Do you not have a young man, Camille?” Anne asked, suddenly curious.

“No.”

“Why not? You are pretty.”

“I do not trust them. To a girl like me, men are nothing but trouble. They want only one thing, and I will not give it.”

“There are ways that avoid the danger,” Anne said.

“But they are messy,” Camille said, holding up the petticoat. Both girls giggled.

Anne was seated on the bed. Under her petticoat she wore white silk stockings and a white silk corset that nipped in her waist, though fell short of her bosom and reached down no further than her hips. She was aware that under her petticoat her belly was bare. She saw Camille looking at her. Anne took her servant’s hand and pressed it to the base of her belly.

“Would you like me to do it for you, miss?” Camille said. “I’ve done it many times with girls.”

Sometimes in her dreams Anne would see images of pretty girls, naked, bathing in a stream or at their toilette. Around the palace there were many paintings of such scenes. It had happened that, in bed at night, awaiting sleep, her hand slipped between her legs and instead of the thoughts of men which came usually to her, she would imagine naked girls disporting themselves. But she had never touched a girl in real life. Now, she wondered why not? What could be safer, and more pleasurable?

“Take off something first,” Anne said. Camille was a pretty girl. She had pink cheeks and a rosy mouth and blonde curls, and as far as could be seen her breasts were full and her bottom nicely rounded.

Camille got to her feet and began to undress. Anne watched carefully as she stripped first to her petticoat and then removed her bustier. Her breasts tumbled out, pink at the n*****s. Neither girl had worn anything but petticoats below the waist. Anne had heard a rumour that courtesans, those women whose fortunes depended on being both fashionable and available to those who could pay, were beginning to wear culottes underneath. Why, Anne did not understand. Perhaps she would discuss the matter with the Comtesse. Anyway, Camille was now naked but for her stockings; these she retained.

She pushed Anne gently back onto the bed, with her feet still resting on the floor. Camille lifted the legs and moved them apart. Then she knelt between them and bent down, pressing her mouth to Anne’s cunny. In her innocence Anne had never yet imagined anyone doing such a thing; that mouth and cunny should meet seemed unnatural, indecent. But the pleasure was immediate. She knew she was wet, very wet, but Camille seemed to enjoy lapping at her juices. Anne spread her legs further. She felt wanton. She ran a hand through Camille’s hair, then grasped it, pressing the girl’s head closer.

Camille was indeed experienced. She began with enclosing Anne’s cunny in her mouth, sucking on it, gently at first then more firmly. She drew the lips of the cunny into her mouth and licked them with her tongue. Then, having run her tongue up and down the lips, Camille slid the tip between them, seeking out the inner recesses. Anne gripped her head harder. Camille’s tongue found the little nub at the top and began to circle it, licking at it coaxingly, encouraging it to grow and harden. Anne made noises in the back of her throat. No one had ever given her such pleasure before. Though she could excite herself with her fingers, they had not yet learned the subtlety which a tongue could express. Then, after the licking, once the c**t had grown large enough, Camille sucked it into her mouth, her lips fastened around it, holding it in place while the tongue continued to lap at it. The feeling was so exquisite that Anne could not silence the squeals of delight that rose to her lips. Her legs began to writhe, her n*****s hardened, her breath came shorter. “Oh please,” she moaned.

Camille had enough confidence to make the girl wait for a while, holding her back, poised at the edge of the cliff over which she was about to plunge. Then, as Anne whimpered for release, Camille took pity and sucked the c**t harder and Anne lost all control, her belly contracting, her legs shaking as the orgasm possessed her. At last it died down.

“My god,” said Anne. “Why did no one tell me?”

Camille smiled. “Did that please you, my lady?”

Anne stroked her face. “More than anything that has been done to give me pleasure ere yet. You have a talent, Camille.”

“I enjoy it, my lady. I should be happy to do it for you at any time.”

“I may never want anything else,” Anne said with a satisfied smile.

Anne asked Camille give her a bath. While she lounged in the scented water, Camille soaped her body, paying particular attention to the most intimate parts. Anne wondered if she should ask for a repeat of what had just happened. But she decided it might not be good to let Camille see just how much she enjoyed it. The girl might try to take advantage.