One Wicked Night - Noelle Mack

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was capable of encompassing both sexes. I allowed myself to imagine—I was not so overcome as to say so out loud and certainly I was not in a position that encouraged conversation—that this was what it was like to be a woman with a woman. No penetration. No rough handling. Nothing but a soft, wet mouth upon one’s private parts, making the sort of love that left not the slightest trace of the delight it provided, one lover truly drinking in the other with the utmost tenderness. Had I been born with a cunny I would have wanted this more than anything.

      Murmuring incoherently against Xavi’s thigh, I let the fantasy of Sapphic sex take hold of my imagination. As if she could read my mind, she brought her hands up to my arse, kneading my buttocks in much the way I liked to do hers at times. She continued to tongue-tease my balls. The muscularity of my body did not allow for the voluptuous pleasure I always took in the softness of her flesh, but what ran through my mind as she stroked and caressed me more than made up for it.

      Fully male as my body was, my thoughts at that moment were indeed those of a woman. I wanted only to yield for a little while, to be passive, to lie upon the bed and receive whatever my lover would give.

      As it happened, my balls were out of her mouth—she was fondling them gently now, playing with me somewhat absently. I lifted up and turned around to stretch out beside her for a few minutes, cupping her breasts, arousing her again, whispering that I wanted her to keep her cunny on my face while she sucked and stroked me to orgasm.

      Xavi only nodded.

      I lay back and watched her swing her fine big arse around so I could see her cunny snugged between her thighs. Well, I was a man, after all, and a strong one, able to lift her and position her over my face even when I was lying down. And I did.

      With her sex only inches away from my lips, the female scent of her intoxicating me, my unusual fantasy took hold of my mind once more. As she took my cock into her mouth, fellating me with uncommon skill, I imagined it as a clitoris, tiny but exquisitely sensitive. A woman making love to a woman would never choke on such a dainty morsel. That thought made my poor cock grow longer and stiffer, but Xavi moved back just enough to keep control.

      Indeed, she was completely in control. Without telling her I had completely surrendered. Perhaps she chalked it up to a sensual languor on my part, perhaps she enjoyed the change from my usual vigorous performance. Xavi’s hands reached around and underneath my body and clasped my buttocks, squeezing rhythmically. A soul-deep sigh escaped me.

      Lying on my back instead of on my hands and knees over her prone body, my buttocks were no longer tensed and hard. Blissfully, I allowed her to manipulate my arse, her hands between me and the bed, rolling just a little as she did so, taking with silent joy the subtle pleasure I had given her so often.

      She continued to suck my cock and I knew I was very near climax. As tenderly as she, I spread my hands over the feminine arse so near my face, pulling her hips to me, pushing my face between her soft buttocks.

      Xavi shifted position so that my tongue could explore her delicious cunny and tease her clitoris as well. No two female friends were ever so amorous as we were that day, and no ladies ever enjoyed their secret pleasure as we did. If she guessed what I was thinking as I came in her mouth and she in mine, my darling did not say. But I had not dreamed such dreams until Xaviera Innocencia became my lover, and I have not since. She awakened my deepest sexuality and I am grateful to her for that. So much of what we did ended up in the little book—it is an unbearably poignant reminder of our time together. It shall be the very last thing I throw into the purifying flames.

      Did I mention that she was a storyteller in her own right? Yes…yes, looking back over these hastily scribbled pages, I see that I did. Drinking brandy in the hours after midnight is unwise. I find that the pen grows heavy in my hand. I would rather read…and let memory speak for me…

      2

      My sexual awakening…

      Since I swore never to reveal hers, I will assign a name to the lady who taught me of love: Anne Leonard. She was the older sister of a boyhood friend of mine, whom I will call Thomas, who was away at the time.

      A third son with no prospects, he had been sent suddenly to the West Indies at the age of twenty, which was my age at that time. All the other expendable Leonard males had perished there of yellow fever, leaving the family’s interests and property in rack and ruin. Thomas had been instructed to rebuild and reinvest, or marry an heiress with a plantation. Neither seemed likely. As a preventative against disease, or so his letters said, he downed a half-pint of rum daily and stayed away from the whores, dallying instead with a French planter’s rich young widow.

      His family had asked me to come for my every-other-year visit all the same. I missed my friend but not overmuch. To my utter astonishment, I was soon invited by Anne to keep her company as she went about her ladylike pursuits. No one thought anything of it. I had been a friend of her brother’s for so long.

      Unchaperoned, we were free to wander, and while away the long days of a Devonshire summer together. I was happy to carry her hat and her sketchbook and watercolors to whatever far field she wished to paint. But being alone so often changed the nature of our relationship. I had loved her long, but in the way of a shy boy, yearning and hoping, that sort of thing.

      In our weeks together during that pleasant sojourn in the country, I came to know her much better. Her wit, her intelligence, her sunny temperament and golden beauty captivated me anew. I was besotted. But inexperienced as I was at twenty, I did not dream she could think of me as a lover.

      Yet it began to dawn upon me that Anne looked often in my direction when she thought I did not see. True, I had grown taller since she had last seen me at the age of eighteen, a transformation she seemed to appreciate, although she did not comment upon it. But her gaze lingered upon my face, and a smile, upon her lips, as if having to look up at me now amused her a great deal.

      She had scarcely seemed to notice me in the years before, dismissing her brother and me with an affectionate comment and a flick of her skirts should she encounter us in the halls of the manor house where the family spent the halcyon months of summer. Of course, she had much to do and took great pleasure in managing the household, her parents being long dead, when not pursuing her creative interests. Anne was capable as well as charming, and the staff instantly obeyed her every command.

      Being politely ignored is an excellent stimulus to love, especially for an imaginative boy who was prone to silent but whole-hearted admiration of the female sex (I blame my mother, who was lovely and kind, and died far too young). Anne was the first woman who aroused me, before I knew what the word meant. How would I have known? I was years younger.

      By the time I turned eighteen, matters were not much better. I remained essentially innocent and yet…not. I was extremely aware, as a male of that age will be, of all the women around me. In my fumbling, foolish way, I still adored Anne, not openly—I never mentioned it to Thomas. Her brother would have thrashed me thoroughly had I confided my fondness for the older sister he pretended to dislike.

      No, two years before he sailed away to the palm-fringed shores of Jamaica and the welcoming arms of the French widow. He and I satisfied our sexual curiosity by following the prettier female servants about and playing pranks, until the butler intervened and threatened to tell Lord So-and-so, Thomas’s guardian. We had no wish to attract the notice of his lordship, a strapping man with a volatile temper. At the manor and in London, miscreants got what he thought they deserved: a good birching.

      Thomas and I avoided him by staying out-of-doors, preferring the meadows where we could ride and the brooks where we swam naked, throwing our clothes upon the bushes. And then we found a better hunting ground for female flesh: the lawns where the household linens were spread upon the grass to dry and whiten in the sun. We climbed the trees at the edge, the laundrymaids quite unaware of our hidden presence. It was the work of a moment for us to select a leafy branch that would bear our weight and straddle it to spy upon them.

      They often stripped down to their shifts as they toiled, happy enough to work in the fresh air and get away from the house—most had grown up on the surrounding farms—where they could gossip freely.

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