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From: bradley_stoke@hushmail.com (Bradley Stoke)
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NNTP-Posting-Date: Tue, 21 Oct 2003 18:56:00 +0000 (UTC)
Subject: {ASSM} Blessed by Nature (Bradley Stoke) (MF)
Date: Tue, 21 Oct 2003 18:10:02 -0400
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Title: {ASSM} Blessed by Nature (Bradley Stoke) (MF)
Author: Bradley Stoke
Keywords: MF
Short Summary: Rose-Marie's complacent view of the world is 
challenged by her well-endowed gardener.



Story: Blessed by Nature (5,341 words)

Rose-Marie is truly blessed by nature. She is wealthy, she 
lives in a tropical paradise, she is free to live her life 
wholly in the nude, and the world order is exactly as it 
should be. But her composure is disturbed when she discovers 
that the insolent head gardener is a rebel from the British 
colony of Virginia.


For More : http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Bradley_Stoke/www
           


Blessed by Nature
=================



Rose-Marie felt truly blessed by nature, as she stood naked 
on the balcony of her father's palatial white mansion 
looking out onto her father's ornate garden. Not only had 
she the good fortune to have been born and to continue to 
live here in St Lucia, one of the most pleasant corners of 
the French Empire, but she also had the good fortune of 
possessing a wealthy father who had chosen the Edenist 
way of life. In fact, the garden, the island as a whole, was 
very much like the Garden of Eden to whose natural state 
Edenists aspire.  

Even had she not had the good fortune of birth, Rose-
Marie believed she would have chosen the life of an 
Edenist. Clothes would be ever such a burden. And of 
course, she, like most people on the island, owned no 
clothes at all. Those who did own clothes were those who 
happened to owe their own good fortune of living in St 
Lucia to the misfortune of their ancestors having been 
brought to the island as slaves, a barbaric practice which 
had persisted in some parts of the Americas until early in 
the twentieth century. But Rose-Marie refused to feel guilty 
for the sins of her forefathers. Guilt, as Edenists believed, 
was an outdated notion that merely prevented people from 
enjoying the moment.

Rose-Marie strode off the balcony and into the shade of the 
house. It wouldn't do to expose her skin to the sun too 
long. Skin cancer was the scourge of Edenism. Those few 
other places where a significant proportion of people 
followed the Edenist ideal, such as the British provinces of 
Queensland and New Zealand, the German Congo, the 
French island of Madagascar and the Dutch Philippines, 
these were all places in the sun, and the risk of melanoma 
had proven to be not at all friendly to European skin. The 
European empires may have been destined to conquer the 
world, but their people were better prepared to govern than 
to actually inhabit the lands they owned.

With a flick of her pale slim wrist, Rose-Marie spun the 
globe that took pride of place in her father's living room. 
An old globe, but so little had changed over the years. The 
world was still a third red, thanks to the dominance of the 
British and their provinces, colonies and protectorates. 
Half of Africa, two-thirds of North America (all but the 
bits the Spanish, Russians and French had managed to 
claim), most of China, all of India and, of course, the 
Antipodes. And after the British, the crown for second 
ranking empire fought between the declining Spaniards and 
Portuguese, the Germans (flush after their conquest of 
Japan), the Dutch and, most importantly, the French. Her 
people. Led by King Louis the Nineteenth. The only 
empire, apart from the heathen Ottomans, where the 
monarch still had real power.

Rose-Marie picked up a remote and pointed it at the huge 
television that dominated the living room. She flicked 
through the channels, most of which were beamed down by 
satellite. Inevitably most of the channels were in either 
English or Spanish. The French grip on the Americas was 
so very tenuous. Louisiana, Florida, Quebec, French 
Guiana and a handful of islands in the Caribbean. But 
better than nothing. She watched ten minutes of some 
pornographic film broadcast in French, bored by the sight 
of the scrotum and the penis shaft thrusting upwards into 
the anus of the slender young lady whose screams filled the 
living room over the muted electronic beat. Bare flesh was 
so commonplace in Rose-Marie's life that the presence of 
clothes on these pornographic actors seemed almost erotic. 
But the thought of sex still excited her. And she was so 
looking forward to seeing Yves who was due to visit that 
very afternoon.

Rose-Marie wandered back out onto the balcony, her 
fingers still a little sticky from where she had been feeling 
herself while watching Robert Rou, fuck Raquel Raymond 
on the television, and returned her bored gaze to the 
garden. A bright blue and yellow parrot flapped across 
between some trees. A pair of grey squirrels chased each 
other up and down the trunk of another tree. The fountains 
burbled. The tails of the stone dolphins rising inward to the 
central spout while more water flowed from their open 
mouths. In the distance, a huge tanker was carrying oil 
from the British province of Texas to Europe, the hub of 
civilisation and culture. Two black servants were building 
an outhouse. Naked, of course. As was required of all her 
father's servants. And there, pushing a wheelbarrow, also 
naked, was a young white man. It could only be the new 
head gardener. No white man would do menial tasks 
otherwise.

There was a small breeze coming across from the ocean, 
which caught Rose-Marie's long blonde hair and briefly 
lifted it up off the curves of her buttocks. She brushed her 
fingers through her hair and studied more closely the figure 
of the gardener. Nicholas Noakes, her mother had told him 
he was called. One of those strange English names where 
all the consonants were sounded, even the final 's'. He'd 
come from the British province of Virginia, somewhere 
near the city of Alexandria. There weren't many Edenists 
amongst these people. Protestants mostly. Puritans many of 
them. The most fiercely loyal of all the provinces of the 
far-flung British Empire. So loyal that the Congress of the 
British Empire was housed on a tall square building on the 
coast of the East River in New York, the administrative 
capital of British North America. An empire as vast as the 
British couldn't be governed solely from London. 
(Although if this were true, how come the king in Paris 
was thought capable of governing an empire that covered 
more than a tenth of the world?) 

However, what most took Rose-Marie's gaze was not just 
the curious fact that Nicholas was that oddest of all sights, 
a white man in a manual occupation, but that he was 
sporting the most enormous penis she had ever seen. Even 
from this distance, it obviously hung quite low, swinging 
and flapping against his rugged hairy legs. Rose-Marie had 
seen many penises in her life. Many many many. And 
some, such as Yves', she'd had the pleasure of exploring 
very carefully. Her fianc,'s penis was a fine example. 
When erect it must have been twenty centimetres long or 
more. And inside her cunt? It certainly felt big enough. 
But then, Yves' was almost the only penis that had 
penetrated her. At least, the only one to do so more than 
once, those wild undergraduate parties excepted. But how 
could a penis as big as Nicholas' be anything other than 
painful to any vagina it penetrated. 

Rose-Marie felt her crotch again. She knew the answer, of 
course. She had seen enough pornography over the years to 
know that anything was possible. Though Yves quite 
simply did not have the stamina of a porn star. And most 
men of her acquaintance were similarly less well endowed. 
She herself was too thin, her bosom too small, her anus too 
resisting, for her to ever consider pornography as a career.

A maid knocked timorously on the door to the balcony. 
Rose-Marie smiled at her. She was definitely not of porn 
star material. Her large floppy breasts. Her rough hands. 
And that docility shared by all the servants she'd ever met. 
"What is it?" she demanded of the maid.

Her head bowed, the white cap on her head the only 
clothing she wore, but enough to denote her status. "If you 
please, ma'amzelle," she said in her Creole French, "There 
is a gentleman to see you."

"Is it Yves?"

"It is, ma'amzelle."

"Well, don't be such an idiot with formality. Just bring him 
in!" Rose-Marie cursed the maid, watching her brown 
buttocks wobble heavily as she turned away to escort her 
fianc, into her presence. Servants were so stupid! But so 
necessary. Almost a half the population of the French 
Empire was directly employed in domestic service. The 
dynamism of the industrial state had not been kind to other 
forms of unskilled or semi-skilled employment. 

After Yves had arrived, and he and Rose-Marie had 
exchanged kisses, her fianc, leaned back, his hands on 
Rose-Marie's hips and admired her. "Mon Dieu! You are so 
beautiful. I am truly a lucky man."

"And I a lucky woman," agreed Rose-Marie, studying him 
from the tangled black hairs on his chest to that penis of his 
that she loved so well. But as she looked at it, her thoughts 
wandered to the recently held vision of Nicholas' manhood. 
And it wasn't just the penis that was so much more striking 
on this Virginian. As she could see, past Yves' shoulder, 
where the gardener was addressing the two black servants, 
Nicholas had a truly impressive man's body. Muscular and 
firm. Buttocks that pinched in as he walked. A swell of 
clean firm muscle on his forearms and shoulders. And 
lightish brown, almost red, curly hair on his chest and at 
the base of his swinging, hypnotically attractive, penis.

Yves could see that his fianc,e's gaze had strayed. He 
turned his head around, swivelling his body to take Rose-
Marie by the waist. "I see you've got a new gardener."

"Yes. He's British. From the province of Virginia."

"Oh! A Yankee. Strange lot. Don't make very obedient 
servants. But they have lots of initiative. Mind you, he has 
a well-built figure, hasn't he? Very well hung! The better 
for shafting the American Indians."

"They're called 'Native Americans' now."

"Political correctness. Pah! Where will that take the world? 
Start questioning the order of things and all hell will be let 
loose. All that fanciful talk of independence for the 
colonies and universal enfranchisement. Isn't it enough that 
women can vote, provided they are of sufficient status? 
Isn't it enough that the natives can have a say in the 
government of their territories?"

"Oh, Yves! Stop with the politics. You know how much it 
bores me. But that gardener. Look at how his dick swings. 
It must be a real monster when it's erect." Rose-Marie 
playfully stroked Yves' more modest penis, pleased to 
watch it swell and grow beneath the afternoon sun. Yves 
kissed her on the cheek. 

"Not in front of the servants, ma cherie. Let's go indoors. 
To the couch."

Rose-Marie giggled and pulled her fianc, by his steadily 
swelling penis into the main living room, past the huge 
piano that filled the far end of the room, and onto the sofa 
that stretched out by the huge unlit fireplace and the 
equally huge television screen. As always, when Yves' 
prick was erect, all he wanted to do was to push it into his 
fianc,e's vagina and release its contents. Rose-Marie was 
in less of a hurry. There were several hours they could 
spend together until the evening, when they'd be expected 
to dine with her mother and listen again to a litany of 
complaints about how her father was always away on 
business and how insolent the servants were becoming in 
his absence.

She knelt on top of Yves as he lay down on his back on the 
enormous sofa, one leg dangling over the side and a 
cushion supporting his neck. Her arse was in his face, 
while her lips found their way to the tip of Yves' now fully 
erect penis. But even fully erect, it seemed to be only the 
length of Nicholas' penis when limp. This made her feel 
strangely weak with desire. A kind of moistness eased out 
of her vagina, even before Yves' tongue reached out and 
licked at its folds. Rose-Marie took the shaft of Yves' penis 
in the grip of her right hand, while supporting her weight 
on her left hand, and pulled and tugged on it, admiring the 
veins that pulsed through the skin that pulled off the glans, 
and stretched her body backward. No evidence now of that 
long foreskin which was one of Yves' most striking 
characteristics. And then her mouth on the tip. It had taken 
Rose-Marie a while to get used to the taste of Yves' penis. 
At first she had found it strange. The peculiar male odours. 
The different feel on her tongue of the smooth shiny glans 
and the main body where the hairs persisted almost 
halfway up its length. And, of course, the testicles. Or at 
least the taut scrotum pulled by the tension of the penis's 
stiffness. Another taste again. And many more hairs to get 
tangled in her teeth. But Rose-Marie loved it now. She 
truly loved cock. And today she wanted to know it so much 
better. 

However, Yves was hungry to get inside her. His prick was 
slippery, damp and twitching. The muscles around the top 
of his thighs shuddered with anticipation. His fingers 
probed and twisted inside Rose-Marie's arse and vagina. 
His tongue slobbered in an uncoordinated but effective way 
over her clitoris and her pussy lips. 

"Merde! You're as wet as a species of fountain! You must 
really be wanting it. Come on. Let me in your doorway." 
Yves rubbed her lips with his fingers, stimulating Rose-
Marie to gasp in a passion, squeezing her cheeks on Yves' 
prick.

"Not yet, mon amour! Just a bit longer!"

"Oh come off it, ma petite! Let's just do it!"

And so reluctantly, Rose-Marie let herself be turned around 
and penetrated. It wasn't that it wasn't enjoyable. And today 
it seemed to last ever such a long time until Yves' penis 
exploded inside her, the thick creamy sperm bursting free 
and dampening her thighs and crotch. But it still seemed 
too soon. And the penis was such a small sorry sight when 
it had expired. Rose-Marie studied the shrivelled shell, 
with its foreskin creeping back up to resemble the teat of a 
condom. A small puddle of creamy white dripped out of 
the pursed mouth. 

"Where are we going this evening, ma cherie?" Yves 
wondered.

"Le Jardin Rouge, I guess."

"Again? We went there just two days ago."

"I told Celine we'd be there. We can't disappoint her."

Despite Rose-Marie's best efforts in tugging and licking 
Yves' penis, there wasn't to be any more sex that afternoon, 
except the variety supplied by satellite television. More 
energetic well-endowed couples. But even these pricks, 
belonging to professional porn stars were less impressive 
than Nicholas'. Normally, only ten minutes of this kind of 
stuff was enough to bore Rose-Marie, but today she was 
especially curious of the genitals on display. 

Dinner was precisely as dull and tedious as Rose-Marie 
had expected. Just how much mileage could even her 
mother make of the stain she'd found on the tablecloth? 
"It's not as if the servants have got much else to wash!" 
complained Rose-Marie's mother, whom her daughter 
sometimes guessed was not a natural Edenist. Despite 
plastic surgery, age had not been kind to her. Her small 
breasts were already almost flat and her brown tanned skin 
was prematurely cracked and lined. Rose-Marie hoped that 
she'd weather better. Too much direct sun on her mother's 
skin perhaps.

Le Jardin Rouge was kicking tonight. A DJ from the North 
American mainland was there, bringing some vital vinyl 
from Miami and New Orleans. The dance floor was a 
heaving mass of bare flesh. Penises and breasts swinging 
and swaying and shaking with the pulsating electronic 
beats, the occasional English voice articulated over the 
rhythm. In music, as almost everything else, the British 
flaunted their world dominance. Why couldn't French 
musicians ever use the mother tongue? 

Although Celine was there, with Ren,e, Mathilde and 
Jacques, it was Yves who had most of Rose-Marie's 
attention. She was determined to show her friends just how 
close the two of them were. None of her friends were 
engaged yet. Soon she'd be married and she and Yves 
would have their own home. Perhaps an apartment over the 
beach. And then Yves would work for his father. Or even 
go into politics. Rose-Marie pulled herself up onto her 
toes, pressing her bosom against Yves', and then sliding 
down so that his erect penis, brought to life by the drugs, 
could slip into her vagina. She smiled at Celine, who was 
stroking Jacques' penis, proud to show her how very close 
she was to Yves. And the music was still pumping. Slower. 
More romantic. More sensuous. As she slid up and down 
on Yves' shaft, angling herself so that Celine would have 
no doubt of the fact of Yves' penetration, struggling to fight 
off his natural inclination to pull her to him in such a way 
the view would be obscured. And their tongues and lips 
enmeshed in passion.

And then, the end of the evening, sperm still on Rose-
Marie's upper thigh and in her pubic hair, and even a small 
smidgeon of dried semen on her knee, and a last good night 
kiss, before the taxis took them back to their different 
homes. As the taxi pulled into the drive of her father's 
mansion, Rose-Marie caught a glimpse of a muscular 
figure strolling through the moonlit garden. Despite the 
excitement of the evening, the sweat and sperm sticking to 
her hot bruised body, her heart still audibly jumped as she 
regarded Nicholas' prick, swinging from side to side as he 
strode along the paved walk-ways, examining the flowers 
under his care.

Rose-Marie was driven by curiosity the following day to 
look at her father's head gardener more closely. With all 
the fuss about skin cancer, she tended not to stay in the 
garden very long, unlike her mother, who, in any case, 
rarely emerged from the small conservatory near the 
artificial lake. She could see Nicholas bent down with a 
trowel and a garden fork, examining some bulbs just by the 
small copse at the far end of the garden. Rose-Marie 
wandered over to him.

"Hello," she said in the imperious tone with which she 
addressed the servants. "You're the new gardener, aren't 
you?"

Nicholas turned his head round to look at her. From where 
she stood, Rose-Marie could just about see some of his 
prick, but most of it was hidden by the shadow of his 
knees. "I am. And who might you be?"

Two things immediately troubled Rose-Marie. First of all, 
he didn't stand to attention like a servant should. Secondly, 
he didn't address her with due deference. "I'm Rose-Marie 
de Rouen." No change in the man's quizzical expression. 
"Monsieur de Rouen's daughter." Still no change. "Your 
master."

"'Master'?" Nicholas laughed. "I'm sorry my French is not 
very good. You mean 'employer'."

Rose-Marie was puzzled. What difference was there? "Yes, 
employer."

Nicholas glanced up and down at her, taking in her pale 
pert breasts, her slender thighs and the mound of her 
crotch. "So what is it you want, miss? Do you want to help 
me in the garden?"

Rose-Marie gasped. The impertinence of the man! She? 
Work in the garden? "Well, no. I just thought?"

"If you do want to help, there's a lot that needs to be done. I 
could do with some assistance, you know."

This wasn't going as Rose-Marie had hoped. Not that she 
was especially sure where it ought to be going. Why had 
her curiosity brought her out here? She refused to be drawn 
on Nicholas' line of discussion. "You're from Virginia. In 
British North America. You're British, aren't you?"

Without standing up, with one hand still on a the trowel 
and his elbow leaning on his knee, a glimpse of long tail in 
shadow between his legs, and a smile that addressed her 
with none of the servility that Rose-Marie expected, 
Nicholas smiled but without warmth. "I prefer to think of 
myself as Virginian. And I would like to be in Virginia 
now if I had the choice."

"Then why aren't you? Is it because you're a keen Edenist?"

"Edenist? No, Edenism is just one of those romantic, 
utopian ideals that decadent empires become keen on when 
they have no better ideas for change. I'm not an Edenist. It's 
just no big deal not to wear clothes all day. And as a way 
of life, it's no more radical than being a vegetarian." 
Nicholas sighed. "I don't live in Virginia because my home 
province doesn't want me to."

"Why's that?"

"You really don't know, do you? I'm a believer in 
American Independence. Like many people in British 
North America, I'm not satisfied with home rule and 
representative government. I want full self-determination. 
Independence from the British yoke."

Rose-Marie was very puzzled. She really had no notion 
what Nicholas was getting at. "Do you want Virginia to 
leave the British Empire? Perhaps join the French 
Empire?"

"French Empire? Why would I want to exchange the 
tyranny of Westminster for the tyranny of Versailles? What 
an odd reason to be expelled from the land of one's birth!" 
Nicholas stood up, and as he did so, Rose-Marie gasped. 
He was a tall man, but not exceptionally so. His chest was 
broad, his skin was brown, but shiny from the thick layer 
of sun cream that covered it, and between his legs, Rose-
Marie just couldn't help peeking, it was such a huge piece 
of meat, the foreskin not quite joining over the eye of his 
glans, the head of which she could glimpse, and testicles 
proportional to the penis they served. 

With difficulty, she averted her gaze and looked into 
Nicholas's light blue eyes. This was the first time she'd ever 
properly seen his face. The curls of his hair covered half 
his ears. Freckles covered his round cheeks and his 
smallish nose. And his teeth were broad and white, but 
smiled without too much humour. Rose-Marie struggled to 
defend her opinions. "I just don't understand what you 
mean by 'independence'. Every country in the world is in 
one of the big empires. British. French. German. Ottoman. 
Dutch. How else could it be? In the modern world, no 
country can be strong enough to survive unless it is part of 
a stronger more powerful economic and political unit."

"Nonsense! It's just the Europeans running the world for 
their own benefit. None of the empires would exist if it 
weren't in the interests of the Europeans. Taxing the 
colonies to finance the huge navies and the armies of civil 
servants. The world would be a better place if the colonies 
and the provinces of all the empires were independent and 
governed for themselves."

"But there would be war and chaos. The European empires 
have kept peace for more than two hundred years. There 
has been no major war since the Wars of Religious 
Freedom?"

"Except when the Germans invaded Japan and Korea. Or 
when the British and Germans divided up the last remnants 
of China. Or when the French massacred the rebels in 
Haiti. Or don't these conflicts count?"

"Well, no. They don't. No Europeans were killed. Well, not 
many of them."

"I see," sniffed Nicholas. He shook his head as if in 
despair. "I thought you Edenists might be a bit more 
enlightened. All this back to nature thing. The tradition of 
Rousseau and Thoreau. But clearly, more than being 
Edenists, you are just French Imperialists. Now, excuse 
me. I have work to do."

Nicholas knelt down by the flowerbed, and busied himself 
with his trowel. Rose-Marie stood by, feeling hurt and 
embarrassed. This wasn't right. Servants don't behave like 
that. Even if they did come from the British Empire. She 
hovered there, her skin burning hot from inside. Hotter 
even than it would have been from just the Caribbean sun. 

"You can't just talk to me like that," she struggled to say, to 
keep her dignity intact. "My father wouldn't like it!"

"The fuck what your father likes!" Nicholas exclaimed in 
English, a language Rose-Marie understood perfectly well. 

"He'll go mad if he hears how impertinent you've been," 
snorted Rose-Marie. "Servants don't talk like that. It's not 
right!"

Nicholas sighed. He rolled his eyes slightly and wearily 
stood up. Again Rose-Marie's eyes were drawn towards 
that penis of his. And, she wasn't sure, but didn't it twitch a 
bit? "Look, Rose-Marie de Rouen, let's not be silly about 
this. In Virginia, things are different to here. There aren't 
servants. There are employees. It's a free country. Where 
everyone can vote. Even if the majority of the population 
are so misguided as to prefer to pay their taxes to a 
government in North West Europe. It's not easy for me to 
behave in the way that your servants do."

Something melted inside Rose-Marie. The combination of 
this man's impertinence and the authority he managed to 
command despite his lowly status, and the sight of his 
penis, nearly twenty centimetres of flesh, and still not erect. 
And dominating her vision wherever she looked. And 
somehow rooting her to the ground when she knew she 
should just leave. And telephone her father. And get him to 
dismiss this insolent foreigner and his radical ways. She 
attempted to say something; to articulate something 
through the cloud of her confusion, when, without knowing 
how or really what caused it, she suddenly broke into tears.

"Oh! For heaven's sake!" Nicholas swore, in English again. 
"Stop crying, will you. It's not as if I've hit you or 
anything."

Rose-Marie sobbed. "I don't know why you talk to me like 
that. I only wanted to speak to you. I didn't want to?"

Nicholas's voice became softer. He put a consoling arm 
over her shoulder. "Look, come on. Perhaps I was a bit 
harsh with you. You French. So damned emotional. Come 
over here. Let's sit on the bench."

Rose-Marie heard Nicholas' words, but nothing was clearer 
to her senses than the sensation of that firm strong hand on 
her shoulder. So warm. So powerful. And then the two of 
them were sitting on a bench, facing out to sea, past a view 
of palm trees and scrubby bushes, punctuated by the 
chirrup of cicadas and the rustle of leaves in the warm sea 
breeze. And as Rose-Marie's head was bowed, an arm 
around her silently heaving shoulders, she was looking 
directly at Nicholas' penis. And yes, it was twitching. Only 
a little. But it was firmer. Stiffer. And visibly larger.

"What is it like in Virginia, where you come from?"

"The skies they go on forever. They're blue and clear. With 
little fluffy clouds. And the clouds catch the colour of the 
light. You don't see that here." Nicholas stared towards the 
distance. "And there are lots of stars at night. It's so 
beautiful. The most beautiful skies in the world."

Rose-Marie placed a hand on Nicholas' thigh. He was 
clearly moved by his memories. She could feel the brush of 
his penis against the back of her palm. The light hairs on 
her arm rose slightly, even though it was very warm. Her 
breath became shorter and her heart beat violently in her 
chest.

"Why! You're shaking, Rose-Marie. What's wrong with 
you?"

Rose-Marie shook her head. She wasn't at all sure what she 
could say. She let Nicholas hold her more closely against 
his chest, feeling the brush of his hair against her skin. And 
then, with an impulsiveness that surprised her, she put her 
hand on Nicholas' penis and squeezed it.

"Hey! What are you doing?" Nicholas asked, but not 
resisting her.

"I don't know. I don't know. It's just? It's just? Mon 
Dieu!  Mon Dieu!" She pulled herself onto Nicholas' face 
and showered it with kisses. 

At first Nicholas was obviously puzzled. His penis was 
being stroked and tugged, while lips and tongue were 
wetting his face. His eyes looked around him with some 
disconcertment. And then his natural decisiveness 
reasserted itself.

"Rose-Marie. Not here. In the copse."

"Yes. Not here. Not here. What am I thinking?" murmured 
Rose-Marie, but continuing to cover Nicholas' face with 
the saliva of her tongue. And her fingers rolled beneath the 
base of the penis and grasped Nicholas' testicles. So hard. 
So firm. Exactly like the shape of two hen's eggs. Soft and 
unresisting. Hard and pliable. And pulsing with sexual 
potency. 

"Into the copse! Hurry!" Nicholas breathed, standing up 
with difficulty as his huge penis stretched out in front of 
him, twitching and struggling into life, pulling the foreskin 
clear of the glans, at an angle now almost perpendicular to 
his waist and still growing. The skin pulling and pulling, so 
that his testicles were dragged along the penis's length, 
away from the hairy base and the soft hairs of his anus. 
Rose-Marie let herself be guided by Nicholas' guiding arm 
across the lawn and into the shadow of the copse, speckles 
of light coming through the dense imported leaves, onto 
the soft mossy ground.

And it was on this ground, surrounded by the debris of 
discarded tree-bark and pine needles and slightly damp 
moss and ferns, that Rose-Marie lay spread out, conscious 
of Nicholas' tongue and lips and teeth chewing and licking 
and sucking on her labial lips, her clitoris and entering her 
lower mouth. While her tongue and eyes concentrated on 
Nicholas' powerful manhood. Now fully erect. Forty 
centimetres or more in length. Full and erect. The glans 
itself almost as big as many men's penises were when limp. 
She could get her lips around the purple bulging pulsing 
glans but not far down the rest of the penis. The bluish 
veins pulsed against her tongue and the insides of her lips, 
as she pulled her mouth up and down on its length, feeling 
it brush against her tonsils, almost making her cough. So 
hard. So warm. And so powerful. And now so slippery. As 
her spit slid down its length, spotting the reddish brown 
pubic hairs.

And eventually, and only when Rose-Marie was ready, so 
very ready, her vaginal juices spitting out like fat from a 
fire, a dribble of saliva worrying its way into her anus, 
then, and only then, as she gasped, delirious with passion 
and desire, Nicholas penetrated her vagina. And it slid in, 
at first, so easily. In. In. Slightly out. In. In. Slightly out 
again. There was a strange sucking, slapping, slurping 
noise as the body fluids that lubricated the genitals slid and 
slobbered against each other. And then, slightly at first, and 
then increasing, a slight worrying and then escalating dull 
pain, as Rose-Marie lost a new virginity that she hadn't 
known she had. 

Rose-Marie didn't know in the confusion of her passion, 
where time dissolved into desire, where her senses 
enmeshed with her desire and ecstasy, what it was that 
made her cries of passion so loud and vocal. Was it the 
pain? Was it the pleasure? Was it even really pain she felt, 
but just a heightened pronounced feeling of passion. And 
she exploded into orgasm once. Twice. Thrice. And then 
how many times? At first minutes between each peak of 
passion. Then more rapidly. More frequently. Like a 
concertina of ecstasy. And then even after she knew that 
Nicholas had released as much sperm as he could. And his 
penis had shrivelled inside her, but still large enough to 
stay there. Even then, when she knew it should be over. 
One more time of passion. And orgasm. And then another. 
And then collapse. Perhaps even a brief loss of 
consciousness.

After this, Rose-Marie never spoke to Nicholas again. It 
would not be right. His dangerous opinions. His insolence. 
And of course she was betrothed and had no wish to harm 
what would soon be a successful marriage by any 
foolishness. But whenever she strode the garden, her 
parasol up to keep the skin cancer at bay, hand in hand 
with Yves, puffing away at his cigar, she would glance at 
Nicholas, his penis swaying as he strode across the lawn, a 
rake and a shovel over his shoulder and a pannier in his 
hand, she would always feel that warm, familiar passion 
between her thighs. A passion that often took Yves by 
surprise, but curiously seemed to cement their love.



For More : http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Bradley_Stoke/www

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reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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