Phillip has no mind for such. I never should have told him all my tales.

'There were lovings, Phillip', I explained. He would not listen, though, and turned away. His cock was stiff sometimes when thus I spoke, but was not always so, and that amazed me truly. Was he jealous of my fondlings, pumpings, in my early years? I think not, no. His marbled, cold ideas of purity came in long strides before that sweet emotion could take flower.

The night was broken on his 'shame' of me-I who would have sported with him as he wished and paid my wifely homage to his bed. I blundered out, left him to his dry dreams, and naked to my stockings made to sleep in an adjoining guest room where a bed is ever ready for a visitor. Alas for my would-be fealty, I blundered into Richard in the dark, he with his nightgown on-and he whose hands had so impulsively sought to caress my bottom cheeks downstairs.

It was an accident, perhaps, that his out-reaching hand should brush my bush. Upon such small things are new destinies contrived. I choked an exclamation back, went past him quivering horn that faint touch and entered the dark room. He followed me. I dared not squeal or raise my voice-or so I told myself who sought to argue with the hypocrite in me. Or nay, I say the hypocrites in all of us. I jerked, I strained at Richard who had raised his nightgown as we fell in silent struggle on the bed, he fearing me to cry out, and I him to groan out too loud in the pleasures of forbidden fruit. Long did I struggle. Did I struggle long? I felt like the rebellious schoolgirl that I once had been who had to take the birch across her bottom first before she offered up her bottom sobbingly and took the mastering prick within her nest.

A score of times I must have whispered, 'Richard- no!', but oh, far-faint, mouth kissed, I then succumbed. I hear our nostrils hissing still as there we threshed, his legs between my own-an unreality at first, and yet spellbinding were the jets of come that then extolled my own fine spurts of love till we lay lax, tongues circling, coiling, twirling in the weak, soft aftermath that sweeps aside all barriers of guilt and makes the loins to work in sweet reprise.