“Nigel,” you say, still in disbelief of how things have turned out, “I don’t know how to say this, but—”
“You need to marry me so your life is not in ruin?” Nigel says hopefully.
“Ah…yes.” The words are barely out of your mouth before he drops to one knee and slips a ring onto your finger.
“Marry me! Please! If you please! My darling!”
“Yes…fine. Sure. Nigel, have you just been carrying a ring around—”
“On the off chance that you might ever be inclined to marry me? Yes, my love, I have! Let us away so you may meet Mama!”
You journey to the country in a swift carriage while Nigel excitedly describes all his relations and how much you will like his country home. You cannot much focus on his talk, but when you do, you are surprised to find yourself laughing at his good-natured sense of humor. When the carriage finds itself caught behind a simple farmer’s cart, stuck in a muddy track, you are impressed by how helpful and kind Nigel is in response. Instead of feeling inconvenienced, he strips off his fine shirt to reveal a pleasing, surprisingly muscular body and then proceeds to deftly free the cart from the mud, sending the happy farmer on his way to market.
Once you arrive at his country home, you are fussed over by his sweet mama, who is delighted to meet you and puts you up in their house while you plan a hasty wedding. His family is entirely delightful, and you think that being a parson’s wife might not be such a terrible fate. Your heart warms as you realize that you shall help the poor and make some small difference in the world.
One fine afternoon, when Nigel, his mother, and the rest of the family have gone to town on various errands, you find yourself entirely alone in the house. You are dizzy at the prospect of things going well in a way you never anticipated.
“You look happy, my lady,” says a calm voice. You start and then turn to see Nigel leaning against the doorway, smiling in that plain, happy way of his.
You return his smile. “I thought you were in town this day.”
He laughs, reddens, and looks down at the floor. “Yes, I…I said I was going to town so I could have some time to myself so I could…to…um, I…”
“What, Nigel?” you ask. Your interest is piqued.
Nigel searches the ceiling for his words. “Well, I thought if I said I was going to town, you might go out walking for hours on end, as you like to do, and I could have time to myself in the house alone to…practice.”
“Practice what?” You cock your head to the side and lock eyes with his. A flush burns across the bridge of his nose. He now searches the floor for his words.
Finally, he lifts his eyes to yours and speaks. “Our wedding night.”
An inexplicable fire burns through you. Nigel takes a tentative step toward you, and you are shocked at the little race your heart runs as he does so. You take your own tentative step toward him. He emits the gentlest hush of a gasp. The sound makes the hair on the back of your neck, as well as your nipples, stand at attention. Nigel notices, and a pleased smile plays at his lips. How had you not noticed until now how fine they are? They are barely parted, but the little space between them makes you want to explore what is inside.
“Do you wish,” you find yourself asking, breathlessly, as you take his hand and run it slowly, loosely, barely over your face and side, “to practice with me?”
Nigel tilts his head back as you stroke his neck and emits an unselfconscious moan of pleasure. “Yes, my lady.” He takes your hands and kisses the tip of each finger, one by one. Then he flicks his tongue against each tip in such a delicate fashion that your body riots with the tease of it. Gently, he guides your hands down his throat, to the buttons clasping his shirt. You understand his meaning and begin to unbutton them.
“Please, my lady,” he says, his voice straining with desire. “I always practice this part slowly, to make it last.”
You nod, feeling heady, and slowly reveal his chest. When you have reached his navel, he takes your hands again. “My turn?” he asks.
You stare into each other’s eyes, taking in this new side of your personalities. He seems so different, yet is still the same Nigel. Just one who is now, very tenderly, just barely, licking your ears, brushing his lips against the line of your neck, warming your very care with every moan he emits, just because he has the privilege of slowly lowering your neckline to reveal your—
“Glorious body,” he says, drinking you up in wonder. “Oh, my lady, you are beautiful.” Now it is your turn to moan as he flicks his tongue over your nipples, kissing each one with a fierce, rhythmic tenderness he must have studied from the moon and the ocean tides. Within moments, he has your body burning up and your sex shimmering with desire.
“Do you want your ecstasy now, my lady?” he asks, his breath catching as you pull him in for a deep kiss. He lets his lips, wet with yours, slide gently over your mouth as he pulls away slightly to speak. “Or do you want to wait, and see what else I practice?” He slides his hands around your waist, down the small of you back, and ever so gently draws you closer.
“Show me,” you respond, and he brings two of his fingers to your mouth.
“Take these into your mouth, as if they were…my manhood,” he instructs, and you do as he asks. He watches your face, and his eyebrows arch in such pleasure that you find yourself ready for anything he proposes. “Now, my lady, will you lift your skirt? Slowly, so I can watch your beauty unfurl?”
Heavens, are you happy to oblige. He delicately leans you back on the settee and watches with reverent desire as you reveal yourself to him. Once you do, he slides his fingers inside you, slow, teasing, deep. He watches your face, notes the arch of your back, the tension in your knees, the grip of your fingers. He charts your response, as well as his course, accordingly, until you see nothing but pale fire before your eyes.
“There is more, my lady,” he says, his voice ragged and all the more beautiful for it. Somehow, despite the waves of complete pleasure overcoming you, you want more. “Do you want more?”
“Oh, I want more, Nigel.” You arch your back again, and this time he gently slides his lush, long manhood over your wet sex.
“I love hearing you say my name,” he gasps, sliding over you again, and then gently, teasingly, he gives you a taste of him. The pressure, the surprise, the desire makes you want to grip him and drive him into you, again and again. He keeps sliding over you, making you long more and more. “I love the way you smile. I love thinking about you undressing for bed. I love thinking about easing those clothes off your beautiful body and kissing every inch of you. Of making love to you, and watching your face change as I bring you pleasure.”
“Make love to me.” As you speak the words, he fills you with himself. And oh, does he bring you pleasure. Again, all you see are sparks and stars.
“There is more, lady,” he gasps between moans of pleasure. More? Oh, this Nigel has such stamina. “If you want it—”
“I want it.” You shift yourself on top of him, sliding up and down to play a sensual symphony on his magic flute for your rapt audience.
“I want you.” He kisses you, deep, as deep as he is inside you. “And sometimes I practice…I imagine…you this way.” He gently tips you onto your knees and slowly begins thrusting his goodness into your valley, making your flowers bloom, over and over.
“There is more, my lady,” he says.
“YES.”
He pauses. “Do you wish me to take you roughly now, my lady?”
“Yes,” you say and grip his forearms. He releases a ragged scream of delight, and then releases his full force into you. He is so hungry for you, so lusty, and you are so closely entwined that you feel every flexing muscle, every breath, every shudder. Your bodies are silk ribbons, woven together, smooth as water undulating in a deep well of desire. Together you bend like young trees in a storm, limber and strong. He flips you and dips you and together you are acrobatic air, water, earth. You climax screaming his name, becoming stardust.
After you recover some sense of yourself, you turn to face him. He is half draped on the settee, half on the floor. His eyes are full of you.
“Where,” you finally manage, “did you learn all that?”
Nigel Frickley smiles. “I…I had a professor at Cambridge whose, um, wife, took quite a shine to me. She and her husband had an, um, arrangement where they were free to do as they wished as long as it was…discreet. She was a very demanding and thorough educator. With inventive techniques.”
Your eyes widen in shocked delight.
“Are you angry, my lady?” he asks, worry coloring his strangely beautiful face.
“Not at all, Nigel,” you say. He breaks into a wide smile.
“Wonderful!” he cries. “Now I will have to come up with something new for our wedding night. Let us sneak some wine before Mama returns and we must be respectable!”
He bounces out of bed to fetch the carafe. You lie back in satisfaction and sigh with happiness. You resolve to send a ham to the professor’s wife every Christmas from now until your end of days.
Life is good. It is very, very good.
The End