I came home one day when I knew Beatrice would be alone. She was trying to mend clothes at the table, but I would not let her be. I kissed her lovely neck and let my hands wander where they might. I sought out her bare skin and the delicious curves of her body. Indeed, I played a coy game, pretending to acquiesce when she protested—kissing less, touching more, and then visa-versa in turn.

Beatrice offered less resistance than on previous occasions. Threats and entreaties availed her not. She admonished me and bid me to stop, yes, but then let me continue anyways. She pretended to ignore me and feign indifference, but our intimacy clearly affected her. Beatrice’s pretty face grew flushed, and her chest rose and fell like she’d been running up stairs.

“William, I must do this!”

“I want to help,” I said, though I knew nothing of needlework. Standing behind her as she sat at the table, I bent and gave her a hug. Unable to restrain myself, I cupped and fondled her breasts. My caresses were exceedingly tender, and indeed I barely touched her, but her response was immediate. A shiver of excitement shook her, and her nipples hardened beneath my palms.

An anguished shriek followed, and with such, Beatrice leapt up, took her mendings with her, and left the room. I, of course, pursued, upstairs and down, until, after another spate of fondling, she grew tired of the chase, gave up, and sat herself on the sofa in the garden parlour.

“Now you just leave me be!”

I sat and sidled closer. She ignored me. I put my hand on her leg. She knocked it aside. I put it back again, again, and again. As a game, this was proving a lot more tiresome for her than for me—a few more iterations and she let me leave my hand where it lay.

She tended to her sewing, or at least tried to—not pretending, for she was intent upon her work, and yet distracted and dreamy to the point of trance. Her eyes especially drew me on, liquid, shining, and focused on something I could not see, clearly exquisite yet far away.

I leant in, and between soft kisses on her neck and cheek, I whispered my love to Beatrice. It was true. I found her unbearably beautiful and told her as much. She liked to hear it too and, as I complimented each and every one of her adorable features, my hand progressed further under her skirts and up her thighs to the very hem of her knickers. My fingers slipped beneath the loose-fitting material.

Moved to action, she took hold of my arm. “Please take your hand away.”

Beatrice appeared very much affected, under a spell as they say—bewitched, languid, and short of breath. Upon making her demand, she kissed me full on the lips. Her kiss was sensuous and lingering, and it seemed she must tear her lips away to stop. I think she meant this as consolation rather than any acquiescence since she held my arm tightly throughout. However, that did little to alter my close proximity to her sex. I could easily access her most private parts and did so even as we kissed, slyly seeking out her most intimate nooks and crannies. My index finger insinuated itself as deep as I dared, whilst my thumb settled into the tight valley atop her quim.

At this, Beatrice grit her teeth and gave a sort of grunt. As for my part, I felt moisture in her cleft—a slippery wetness. I wiggled my thumb and a look somewhere between agony and amazement crossed her face.

“Oh, oh! Dear boy you must not.” Her voice was hoarse, almost a croak.  

But I did. Slowly, I pumped my finger, a rocking motion, barely moving, just a little in and out. I had never felt such a thing—an aroused and wanton vulva in my grasp, and I marvelled at the warmth and squishiness I found therein.

“Oh, dear God. Such wickedness.” Beatrice looked everywhere but down in her lap. She glanced at her sewing, as if she might take it up again, around the room, and then up at the heavens, imploring. Her hands let go of my arm and went out to either side, grabbing at the sofa’s upholstery to brace herself. “Oh please… No.”

Her reactions guided my attention. I learned on the job. My thumb, slick and slippery, slid over and around the tiny bump at the top of her slit. Again, and again. This was what had the most effect. This was what made her pull faces and her body shiver and squirm. I told her once more how gorgeous she was.

She remained silent, lying back with her eyes closed. Her lips were lustrous and parted, and she breathed deeply. I felt her tense up, and thought she might be about to rise and flee. Instead, she relaxed, but then moments later tensed again.

Beatrice looked me full in the face, with a peculiar expression, her beautiful eyes at first wide open, dilating with pleasure at my touch, then closed. "Oh ho—oh!” she went, almost a moan, followed by a prolonged sigh. "Ooh, do—oh take away—oh! Your hand, William dear. I feel quite strange—I must go and lie down!”

She did not get up. My hand was not removed, if anything I increased the frequency of my ministrations.

“Oh, nooo!" Beatrice’s thighs opened slightly. Her eyes clenched tightly closed. Her face became even more beauteous, and her lips formed an O-shape… “Oh! Oh! Oh!” she went, each exclamation more impassioned than the one preceding. At the last she gave a quiver, and groaned aloud, “Ooohhh!” She shuddered fitfully, once, twice, more, and again before going quiet.

After a brief respite, Beatrice pushed me off, jumped up, and rushed upstairs. I was stiff as a poker, and so worked up that I could not help but touch myself. I was wet and sticky too, in a slightly similar although quite different fashion, and it took only the merest of motions with my fingers—I spent then and there, in my trousers, spurt after spurt. This, I realised, was the same in almost every respect to the experience I had just provided Beatrice.