Caroline

CHAPTER ONE

When I was a child I thought of such lanes as led towards our house, or crossed the countryside around, as ways out of the world into another world. At night I conceived of huge doors closing at the ends of them, of carriages, carts, and hawkers' barrows waiting for the dawn that they might open up again.

Children entertain such mysteries. I have often thought that the world is more real in childhood than obtains when we are older, for in growing older we cloak the world in thought and make it other than it is. A child will say “I,” and yet it merges its identity with others and so better enjoys the fruitfulness of all. Upon reaching one's middling years, or long before, there comes a consciousness of conflict in oneself. One wishes to be others and yet not, and is in the very centre of a tug-of-war. So often does one hear another say, “I am not myself today,” or they may say, “I do not like myself-oh, would that I could change!” or again (and most often in the case of women), “Tomorrow I shall be different; I shall be more myself; I shall be better than I am today.”

I-older now-am both myself and yet another whom I do not know. I have gazed at my reflection in mirrors- many mirrors and in different rooms-and wondered at the being who stared back at me and to whom my only relationship, as I felt, was one of wonderment, a sense of being awkwardly disturbed that I had materialised in quite another guise to what I thought, looked how I did not think I looked, hair tousled where I thought it smooth, an alarm of creases faint upon my brow.

Once, in moment of exquisite terror-such terror as is flavoured by the condiments of deep excitement and a quivering in the very soul-I stood before a mirror in my mother's room, which mirror being on a stand allowed a full length view, and asked myself, “Who am I, then?” So piercing is the question to oneself that my toes curled painfully and I could not bear to meet the blank reflection of my eyes.

Had my mother entered her boudoir then, I believe I might have run to her, though being seventeen I was too old for cuddles. Even so, there were brief occasions when, seemingly for no reason whatever, she would suddenly hug me to her and I would be conscious of the largeness of her breasts and the sweet, melting look in her eyes.

I was more about the house than my father who, when he was not in London on business, would do much shooting and riding. I did not care much for this, but my sisters, Adelaide and Bertha, did and would ride on white stallions which he preferred them to have instead of mares. I knew not why. He taught them to take horse as men do with the saddle in between their legs, my mother objecting and saying it was most unladylike and that she feared our neighbours would see. Often enough in Spring and Summer the three would ride out together after breakfast, not returning until lunchtime, flushed and bright.

Mother would not allow them to take lunch until they had bathed, which they did together to save water and to be quick while father strode about, smoked a cigar and snapped his crop against his legs. I thought my mother of an ill mood at such times, but later I better understood. Bertha was twenty and a strapping girl, rich in her curves and with a sultry lower lip. Adelaide, two years younger, but senior to me by eighteen months, was much the quieter of the pair and slimmer but well-formed. Their splashing together in the bath reminded me always of the sea-sound and the waves that lap upon the beach. They would laugh and splash each other. Mother would call out to them to be quiet. They heeded her, but then would start again. Mother would sigh and say, “I know no end to it.”

Father would take his paper up and read and not reply to her. I thought it rude of him, but adults then were a whole world apart.

Bertha married at the age of twenty-one-not to the pleasure of Papa. He birched her when he heard of her intent, but she grew the more rebellious. Several times at night I heard him go into her room and heard the silky swishing of the birch and Berthas cries. Mama would disappear and lock her door when such occurred, sometimes with Adelaide and sometimes not. My younger sister objected and would sometimes have herself let out and take herself, not speaking, to the morning room until Bertha's cries grew softer. Then would a silence fall that seemed both fearsome and awesome to me. After Papa at last emerged, Bertha would go to bed and no one would speak to her until the morning. Even then, Mama was still put out with her, though not on account of her intended betrothal, so I felt.

Adelaide took a suitor not long after. “A weed of a man,” I heard Papa call him-speaking to Mama. He did not birch her, though, and still they took their rides together. When Bertha visited, Papa would not receive her husband but would speak with her only in his room where she would stay for half an hour or so and come down all a-bubble, for her birching days were done.

Bertha and Adelaide remained very close after their marriages, but that period between them did not last for long. Several months following Adelaide's wedding, Bertha was transported with her husband to India where he joined his regiment. “Our salad days are over.” Mama said, and wept a little. Adelaide was quieter and did not often visit us. My mother worried and, one morning, asked me to go and see her and to take a basket to her of cakes and such.

I did not want to go, fair as the morning was. It was a long ride, I said, and the basket would be difficult to carry.

“Take the pony cart, Harry, and do not be lazy,” Mama said. I kicked about the house, but then decided that I ought to go or would hear nothing else all day. From cook I took the basket and some beer to refresh myself on route. I preferred it then to wine but have no taste for it nowadays.

It had been a month since I had seen my sister. There was a fondness between us that always was restrained-I believe because Papa was watchful of our ways. The journey took two hours. I loitered on the way, had oysters at an inn and passed the border into Kent at noon. I thought of my doors of childhood as I rode the lanes and almost wished to be a child again, though out of boredom rather than desire.

The house had a blank look as I took the driveway to it-that blank look that lonely country houses often have when the sun sheens the windows and makes them glitter white, or gives a dullness to the glass. A gardener doffed his hat to me and stirred his fork along a border where some rhododendrons showed their thick, plump growth. The maid who let me in was thin and pale as if the sunlight always skirted her. Mistress was lying down, she said, but Miss Caroline would receive me in the drawing room.

I wished to ask who Miss Caroline was, but one does not ask an unknown servant that. The etiquette on such a matter being strange, and I no expert at such things, said I would announce myself, put my hat and basket down and went straight in.

Ah, what a vision rose to greet me as I parted the waves of the two doors! I saw the most exquisite creature, scarce more than my own age and dressed in white and pink, a ribbon in her nut brown hair that tressed her shoulders in long waves. Her nose was small and straight, her eyes were huge. I remember noticing immediately how small her waist was and how svelte her hips-how prominent her breasts were for her years, how lovely were her lips.

We were soon introduced. Without staider adults present, it is always easier.

“Adelaide is well?” I asked.

“Oh, yes, indeed-that is to say… Harry, I must speak with you-strangers as we are, you will not mind? May we have wine? I am more the visitor than you,” she smiled and swept her skirt behind her legs and sat.

“Of course, of course.” I almost stammered in my haste and rang the bell and gave my lordly orders. In a moment we were sipping at our glasses and my eyes were lost in hers.

“I do not know how to…” Caroline began. I asked if I should go upstairs to Adelaide. Not yet, she said, twisted her glass this way and that and finally let out a sigh. “If Bertha-forgive me, Harry-were here, she could be told. It is easier to tell a woman than a man. Adelaide is well in body-is not ill, I mean-but so depressed I know not how to comfort her.”

“You may tell me. Can you not tell me?” I touched her finger with my own, at which she smiled an angel smile.

“If I do not look at you, Harry-and you must forgive me if I do not-and if I say it quickly… Well… Her husband has not touched her ever. That is the truth of it. Please will you fill my glass again? I feel so embarrassed to have said, yet you are of her family, are you not?”

I could not rise quickly enough to do her bidding, but in my haste spilled a little on her skirt and blushed and stammered out apologies, rubbed with my hanky, felt her thigh beneath.

“Do not worry. I can change my dress. I brought my things, you see. Her husband has been gone this past week on some business. Never has he kissed her even on the mouth, you know!”

“Go on,” I said. I took my seat beside her on the sofa which itself was strange, for normally I would have taken, out of politeness, a slightly distant chair.

Caroline bit her lip-looked both amused and shy. “What you will think of me, I do not know, to speak like this,” she murmured. Daringly I took her hand, so warm, so slender and so finely boned, yet sensed a strength in it as well.

“Whatever you say it will be as if heaven itself had uttered words,” I said.

“Oh, Harry, really? Well, I told you, did I not. I mean he does not, never, not in bed or… Can you understand? I swear that in this moment she would receive no one but you. Will you not comfort her and put your arms about her? That is what she needs. A moment only. I, a mere woman, cannot provide the manly comfort of a male. A moment of repose, a few kind words perhaps to praise her-that is what she needs. Say that you will.”

Ah glory, how her fingers tightened into mine! Such a look of sweet beseeching in her face! Our faces neared each others, then drew back as if we both had called upon a kiss but feared to take it then and there.

“I will do anything for you, Caroline!”

“Oh! Is that a promise? We shall see! Carry out your duty, Harry, and I will consider that. I may even call you to my own aide, too, and even before I'm married. Do your duty by her-that is all I ask. Come-I will take you up to her. She is so quiet. I want to bring her spirits back.”

“Of course-yes.”

Even then I did not comprehend the devilment in her-what was to be. Adelaide I had always thought of, I suppose, as pure. As we reached the landing, Caroline drew me in a corner and motioned me to be quiet. I saw upstairs, beyond, and through the banisters, the half open door of Adelaide's boudoir.

“Will you kiss her Harry?” came her whisper. We were then so close that I could feel the hard melons of her tits against my coat. “Like this?” she asked before I could reply, then tilted up her face and sleeked her tongue within my mouth and moved her sultry lips all over mine so that with a dizziness I clutched her tight and made her thighs to press against my own. Indeed, so delicious, so bizarre, was the moment-and one of such ecstasy as I had never known before-that my cock rose on the instant and pressed against her belly, and she felt it there, while the absurd thought struck me that Adelaide might have disappeared and that Caroline was in her place.

“Yes,” I gasped, though kept my own voice to a whisper, too. Her tongue moved then again. I all but swooned, so luscious, moist and peachlike was her mouth.

“Promise-for this is what she needs,” she said. I felt her tummy move against my prick and saw the pleased light in her eyes that she had brought me up so quick.

I could not speak, I knew not what to say, but blurted of a sudden, “Yes, but if…”

“Caroline-who is that?” my sister called. I started back, but my young queen held my hand.

“It is Harry, darling. Are you feeling better now? May we come in?” All this said in a rush and before I knew it I was turned about, taken up the next short flight and drawn into the bedroom.

“Harry? Oh, it's really you!” Adelaide lay underneath a sheet. The other bedclothes were pulled down. Her drawers, chemise, her shoes, her gown, lay on the floor close to the end of the bed. The sheet was drawn up to her chin. Conscious of my straining prick that bid to burst my trouser cloth, I knew not how to stand.

“Darling, what a blessing he has come! May he not kiss you? Let him do.” At that Caroline gave me a nudge. My knees banged at the bed and I half fell, clutched at a pillow and leaned over Adelaide.

“Harry?” Her voice was both bemused and soft. I knew not anything to equal such a moment-knew not what to do nor how to act.-“Are you all right?” I asked. My bending posture hid my rampant cock.-“Yes. Kiss me if you will.” Her arm came up and looped about my neck. I brought my face down to her own and kissed her nose and then her cheek.

“I will fetch wine,” said Caroline and then was gone.

“Has she told you? Lie beside me, do. Kick your shoes off or they will spoil the sheet,” Adelaide murmured and her head sank down, her arm released from round my neck as if she were too weak to hold.

“Dear Adelaide, what is it?” Foolishly I asked, untying both my laces.-“Take your jacket off. The buttons else will rub me. Do lie down. Has she not told you, Harry, told you all?”

Uneasily and yet with wonder then I slid beside her. Through the sheet I saw the upward rising of her breasts-how the white cotton flowed, delineating belly, hips, the junction of her thighs.

“Yes,” I said. I felt a breathlessness. My chest was tight. Her head came to my shoulder, rested there. She took my arm and brought it over her waist.-“It is bad of him, Harry, is it not? Kiss me at least. I need such comforting.”

“Of course.” I moved my mouth too awkwardly to hers. Her lips parted at the meeting of our mouths. In that moment of sweet warmth and succulence I could scarcely tell whether it were she or Caroline, but then she twisted her face away, flushed not a little and stared at the window.

“Harry, you have never kissed me before-properly. Did you not want to?” she murmured. Still she would not look at me. I choked on a reply that had no words. Again her face turned to mine, her lips apart. Tip of pink tongue I saw and small, white teeth. Her nostrils pinched. She had a strained and passionate look.-“Do it properly-I feel forlorn,” she whispered, but at that moment Caroline returned, bearing a tray, the glasses tinkling on the silver plate.

“Wine before kisses-it will make them taste the better afterward,” she laughed. I sat up guiltily. My sister clasped my hand, my knuckles pressed to her warm hip. I felt a desperation in her touch, perhaps excitement, but I did not know. “Adelaide, sit up. Your wine will spill,” Caroline said and extended first a glass to her.

“I can't. He'll see me,” Adelaide replied, but even so she sat up, clasping the sheet up to her chin. Her back was bare. I saw the small, tight, polished globe of her bottom splurging on the sheet and felt a quiver in my stiffened prick. She took the glass and pressed it to her chin. A smile passed between the pair and then was gone.

Caroline sat opposite, upon the other side, with Adelaide between us, perky in her posture, sitting up.

“Oh, what's to that?” said Caroline, “It does not matter. Has he not seen your breasts before?”

“Of course he hasn't-no,” my sister said, then uttered a small shriek as Caroline swiftly grabbed the upheld sheet and ripped it down. I saw the sleek pale of her belly and her navels whorl. Another inch-a further shriek-and Adelaide's pubic bush was displayed, curls crisp and tight, and in her jerking drops of wine had fallen in the thicket there. “Oh, please! No, Caroline!” Adelaide exclaimed, but the sheet was gripped. She could not draw it up again. Her tits were melons, jutting and snow-white, crowned with brown berries.

“Drink your wine. And you, too, Harry. Hurry now!”

“Oh, Harry, she is such a naughty thing, she… ow!” my sister squealed, for even in the instant that she finished off her glass at one quick gulp so Caroline bore her down, took the glass away from her and let it roll away beneath her feet.

“He has not kissed you properly ever-has he?” Caroline demanded.-“Stop it, do!” squeaked Adelaide, but showed no strength to struggle or get up, head dented in the pillow and her nipples up. Caroline's right hand but rested on her shoulder and was light. “Kiss her, Harry, on the mouth, for I have somewhere else to kiss-where wine has spilled,” laughed Caroline. So speaking she dipped her face right down and brought her open mouth upon my sister's bush, the warmth, the springiness of curls, soft shimmering of skin upon her belly's gentle curve.

“Ha… Ha… Ha… Harry!” Adelaide moaned out-and then my lips were deep into her own, my cock a-throbbing up against her hip.