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We wished each other good-night, exchanging rooms as agreed, and acting upon my advice, De Vaux extinguished his candle, for fear of Mrs Levenson coming in too soon. I waited to hear him piddle and get into bed, and then undressing myself, hastily crossed over to my darling.
She was lying propped up by the pillows, reading Ovid's Art of Love, a book I had seen in the library, and during the evening had recommended to her.
'Dear Mr Clinton, I thought I was to come to you.'
'No, my precious,' I said, 'the bed is too narrow, and De Vaux sleeps so lightly he might hear us.'
As I said this I lifted the bedclothes lightly off her, and found that with natural bashfulness she had gone to bed in her drawers.
'Off with those appendages, my love,' I said.
'Oh, Mr Clinton, don't be indecent; my modesty forbids.'
'Julia,' for I had ascertained her name, 'take off those stupid hindrances to love's free play, or wait, let me take them off for you.'
And you would have laughed to have seen me executing this feat, for I lingered so long around her cunt every time I approached it, that it took me a good five minutes. All this time Julia was fairly on fire, for the sight of my huge prick, as upright as a recruiting sergeant, would have excited Minerva herself.
'Now, my darling,' I said, 'let us have a little eccentricity. I understand both you and your husband want a youngster; now just tell me, does he ever have connection with you except in the old-fashioned way - belly to belly?'
'Never Mr Clinton. How can there be any other method?'
'Good God,' I said, 'what venal innocence. Look here, my pet, kneel down as if you were praying for a family.' She did so.
'Now, clutch the iron rail at the foot of the bed, and put the top of your head hard down on this pillow, as if you were going to try to stand on it.'
'My dear Mr Clinton, why all these preliminaries? I'm dying for it.'
'You shan't have long to wait, my pretty one.' For as she had minutely obeyed my instructions, her fair, round arse towered high in the bed, and I could just see the little seam of her vagina peeping at me from underneath.
Dragging back my foreskin until my best friend's topnut stood out like a glistening globe, quivering with excitement, I cautiously approached her, for I would have it understood, gentle reader, that tyros in cohabitation should always be cool when engaged in this particular style of sport.
'Straddle your knees slightly, my sweet one,' I whispered.
'For God's sake hasten, Mr Clinton, this delay is killing me.'
Drawing back once more to allow the candlelight to play on the spot, so that I could not miss my mark, I thrust forward, and got the tip well placed for the final rush, but Julia anticipated me by suddenly squatting backwards, and for the moment I thought my bollocks and all had gone in. Then commenced one of the most memorable fucks in my life's long record, and certainly one of the most pleasurable. Every time I felt the inclination to spend I purposely stayed myself on the threshold of bliss in order to prolong.
At last, after Julia had saturated me three times, and was beginning to get pumped out, I brought all my forces to the charge, and giving several decisive lunges, which meant mischief, I fairly bathed her womb in boiling sperm, and the way that solid queen-like cunt closed on my prick, and held it as though we twain were one flesh, convinced me that the estate of Oatlands would in less than a year be en fête, and the joybells of the old village steeple would ring out to tell of a birth at the Manor House.
In the meantime, what had been going on in my own bedroom? It had fallen out precisely as I had predicted.
Hannah had sneaked upstairs, and had slid into my bed, and De Vaux, without speaking, had fucked her with the dash and genuine passion born of a three years' forlorn hope.
Nor did he discover his mistake even after it was all over, for having in his ecstasy shagged her twice in ten minutes, he allowed her to escape, merely whispering in her ear that he hoped she had enjoyed it.
Hannah, on the contrary, had found out the imposture the moment she got De Vaux's prick in her. She had never felt but two, the coachman's and mine, and De Vaux's, although long and sinewy, was no match for either of ours in point of build; still it was better than not being fucked at all, and as De Vaux's ardent imagination was riding Mrs Leveson, the servant got all the benefit, and not only prudently preserved her incognito, but lifted her brawny arse in such rare style that De Vaux was more than satisfied.
In the morning I went in to see him before proceeding downstairs; he shook hands with me cordially.
'Did she disappoint you?' I asked, with feigned innocence.
'My dear Clinton, she's a perfect angel, and you're a trump.
Leveson came back the next day, and I never got another chance of landing Mrs Leveson, who had fallen enceinte by me, and presented her husband with a son and heir nine months to the day.
De Vaux fondly imagines the kid must be his, and I am quite willing that he should continue to think so, but every time Leveson compares dates he thinks of his night's stay at Hull, shakes his head, and mutters that 'it's damned extraordinary', yet he wouldn't consider it at all extraordinary if he knew as much as we do, reader. What do you think?