Chapter 12
Harry Goldthorpe was barely fifteen, a tall, good-looking kid with thick, curly, chestnut colored hair, a fresh complexion, and an exceptional physique marred by the deformity of a withered left arm—a severe handicap which excluded him from many sports and functions enjoyed by his small circle of friends.
Girls especially were repulsed by his affliction. The stunted arm ended in a shriveled claw of a hand that added considerably to the repellent aspects of the grotesque limb.
Harry was reasonably intelligent. There was nothing backward or retarded about his mental processes, but he was sullen and reticent, inclined toward chronic self-consciousness. Other kids mocked him mercilessly because of his deformity, reacting with the thoughtless cruelty and spitefulness common among the very young. At school he was the target for stupid pranks and bullying tactics, at play an object of ridicule exposed to jeering abuse, in consequence of which Harry had developed an acute inferiority complex.
But there was one vitally important factor concerning which Harry Goldthorpe experienced no self-consciousness at all, quite the reverse—the size of his penis. Even at that age his genital development was extraordinary, abnormally precocious. Harry did not particularly resent the additional persecution resulting from his exceptional endowment. He recognized the petty jealousy motivating the older boys who regularly assaulted him sexually, often in the presence of smirking girls, some of whom delighted in handling and mauling his private parts. Harry was strong, but at a decided disadvantage due to his disability, and it was an accepted form of lewd and amusing diversion to expose and play with Harry Goldthorpe's remarkable prick.
Inevitably, the pattern of Harry's adolescent sex life was continually disturbed and enormously affected. At fifteen he had a more profound sexual experience than many adults, most of it perverted and associated with compulsion or secrecy. It was hardly surprising that he developed strong, unnatural tendencies, and an unhealthy preoccupation with sex.
Sometimes he masturbated several times a day. His penis was the one part of his body about which he was insensitive, proud, often arrogantly boastful among a certain type of degenerate who tried to cultivate his friendship. Harry was not an easy boy to form an attachment with, except in sexual matters, then he emerged from his shell and, for a time, assumed a dominant role.
His penis was the essential core, the hub around which his whole drab existence revolved, a kind of safety-valve in some ways, an emotional outlet. Much of his time was spent in the woods, sometimes in the company of perverts and homosexuals, more often spying on the lurid antics of lovers. His room was cluttered with pornographic books and photographs, safe from discovery because he lived with his grandmother who was too crippled with rheumatism to climb the stairs.
Harry had five more months schooling ahead of him before going- to work on his uncle's farm, meanwhile he earned pocket money by running errands and doing odd jobs. The old barge on the disused canal was one of his favorite haunts, but for the past two weeks he had been fully occupied, for once, helping to paint his uncle's barn, a task that, although amply rewarding, had kept him out of the woods and away from the quarry.
On the morning when Paul West escaped from the gloomy hulk with Miss Garfield, and the recent occupants departed, driving recklessly toward the village and the coast beyond, young Harry, again free to follow his own inclinations, was sauntering through the pine-scented woods near the gamekeeper's cottage, blissfully unaware of the temporary invasion of his secluded retreat.
Harry was bored, listless. He slouched aimlessly along the fern banked path, swiping at wasps and flies. But his inertia vanished instantly when he heard a man's voice.
Harry pushed quickly into the bushes, and crouched. From his hiding place he saw the naked man and woman hurry past. Surprised, immediately inflamed by tremendous excitement, flushed with eagerness, Harry followed them, not daring to venture too close but impatiently thrusting aside obstructions that, even briefly, obstructed his vision, his glorious, guilty view of the woman's bare, bouncing buttocks and robust, quivering thighs.
Bubbles of saliva gathered and burst in the corners of the boy's loose mouth. He wanted to stop and divert some of his tense excitement into relieving the growing ache in his rearing, throbbing penis, but resisted the urge and hastened on, careful to avoid excessive noise, repeatedly clutching his genitals through the faded blue of his crumpled jeans.
He knew the tall gamekeeper well. They were not exactly on friendly terms. West had often evicted Harry from the private estate and warned him about coming back, and about associating with poachers. Harry was quite an accomplished poacher himself. The woman, Harry thought, seemed vaguely familiar. He had seen her in the village on several occasions, usually with a group of silly, giggling girls from— Harry chuckled. Yes, from Beechers College. He had got a good look at Prunella Garfield's face, and he remembered her. The crafty cunt, he thought, sneaking about in the woods without a stitch of clothing on, and with a man. Maybe she was a nudist. At least, she had picked the right character to open her gorgeous legs for.
Harry grinned ruefully. He wished there were teachers like Miss Garfield at his school. He had often watched the big gamekeeper and Lady Gloria screwing, sometimes in the woods, usually at the cottage. They thought nobody knew about them, but Harry could have described every delightful curve and protrusion of Lady Gloria's mature body. At times he had been so close he could almost count the hairs on her luscious twat and the wrinkles round her fluttering asshole, and the gamekeeper's great branch held an awesome fascination for Harry that drew him back to the cottage at every opportunity. Obviously, he reasoned, Lady Gloria did not know that Paul West was shagging the teacher. The Garfield woman was new, Harry decided. He had never seen her and West together before. Trust West to find any hole that had hair round it.
The boy arrived at the lodge moments after West and Miss Garfield went inside. Crouching under the closed window, listening intently, Harry slowly raised his head until he could look into the room. The close-up display of the woman's plump nakedness caused a tightness in the boy's anus and the skin round his testicles. He clutched his organs convulsively, sucked in a noisy inrush of air, expanding his broad chest. The fingers of his withered hand hooked into his fly and jerked the buttons undone, his sound hand pulled his impressively large penis out.
He commenced pulling and rubbing the fat, circumcised organ, shaking it about, thrusting the broad knob against his clammy palm, staring avidly as West fondled the woman's body, delving into her most intimate parts, and she played with the gamekeeper's huge, thickening roll.
Harry's penis stiffened until its near-bursting dimensions distended the clutching funnel formed by his fingers. The fiercely beating prick was bigger than most men could boast, absolutely rigid, iron-hard. Harry could have come after the first few rubs, but he prolonged the exquisite, itching torment, judging control to a nicety, content to maintain the erection. Even when Miss Garfield crouched and took the pulsing glans of West's turgid member in her mouth, after considerable difficulty, and the boy's feverish excitement provoked severe trembling and drooling spasms, he still managed to control the flaming sap rising in his reddened, jerking cock, pausing in the torrid act of masturbation whenever the delicious feeling became more than he could bear.
He was so engrossed, so wholly captivated by the carnal activity beyond the latticed window, that he failed to notice Lady Gloria Mayne approaching until she was close to the garden gate. He promptly retreated into the bushes, confident that she had not seen him, and observed her take up the position he had vacated, chuckling quietly at the thought uppermost in his depraved young mind concerning Lady Gloria's reaction when she witnessed what he had been watching, but resentful of her intrusion. The moment she entered the cottage he resumed his crouching stance outside the window, neglecting to masturbate in his keen enjoyment of the scene being swiftly and dramatically enacted within the scope of his vision.
Wide-eyed, grinning, fingering his twitching penis, he saw the entire sordid incident, the whipping, the fight that almost immediately followed, everything. The impression on his mind when Lady Gloria urinated over Miss Garfield was etched deep, his feelings reflected in a combination of wild jubilation and utter astonishment.
He overheard most of what was said. Nobody noticed his grubby face pressed against the panes. When Lady Gloria disappeared for a time beyond the range of his vision, he concentrated on Miss Garfield and the gamekeeper. He did not realize that Lady Gloria was on the verge of leaving the squalid scene, and he was not prepared for her sudden, stormy departure.
He began masturbating again, wishing West would get stuck into the teacher instead of gaping at the doorway. Lady Gloria, emerging abruptly at that moment, saw him, saw the enormous protrusion of his incredibly large penis, the busily whanking fingers, and realized instantly what the boy was doing, and what he HAD been doing.
His lurking presence aggravated the savagery of her mood, but almost immediately anger was replaced by appreciation of the boy's penis, and her seething fury evaporated. She uttered an exclamation of mingled surprise and acute pleasure. In her present state of mind the gross appeal of that youthful phallus was more than she could endure.
Harry, alarmed, began to edge away. Lady Gloria opened her mouth to call his name, for she identified him instantly, but checked the impulse and made a swift grab instead, clutched the collar of his ragged coat. Harry struggled.
"Quiet, you little fool!" Lady Gloria hissed. "I won't hurt you. I know you—you're Harry Goldthorpe. Don't be afraid. It's all right. Ssssh! Don't let them hear. Move away from the window, into the bushes. Hurry!"
Wondering, hesitant, Harry obeyed. His mouth was dry and he was torn between anxiety and the urge to exploit the situation to his advantage, for the blonde's interest in his penis was too obvious to be confused with any other motive.
Lady Gloria led him deep into the bushes, then paused. She turned, clutched the boy fiercely, with a vibrant hunger, in a way that quickened his pulses and sent the blood surging through his veins.
"Don't be afraid," Lady Gloria repeated huskily. "I saw what you were doing back there, and I understand."
"You-youdo?"
"Of course. All boys do it, don't they? But very few have a lovely cock like yours. You do have a beautiful prick, darling. Let me hold it. Here—give it to me, in my hand. There. Isn't that nice? Now listen to me. You were spying. Oh, I don't mind. But you must have heard everything."
Harry nodded in agreement. His apprehension was slowly yielding to torrid excitement and chronic amazement.
"I didn't mean any harm, Lady Gloria," he blurted. "I only wanted to see what they were doing, and—" "I know, Harry. I understand."
She squeezed his penis, forced the foreskin right back. Harry, feeling awkward and embarrassed but ecstatically thrilled, squirmed rapturously.
"You're old enough to know that people say and do the most awful things when they are upset," Lady Gloria said. "And especially when they are all worked up the way I'm aroused right now. God! If I don't have sex soon I shall go mad. Help me, darling."
The boy stared vacantly, writhing under the sweet torment created by the slow, frictioning movements of the woman's left hand on his stiffening penis. He started to tremble violently.
"Me?" he questioned. "Help you?"
"Yes, darling. With this."
She pulled his prick, kissed him on the mouth, probing her fluttering tongue between his teeth, against the roof of his mouth. She placed her other arm round his shoulders, drew him closer* "I know you can help me," she whispered hoarsely. "You like what I'm doing, don't you? Sex is nice. You've been with girls, haven't you? Lots of times. But girls are silly. Have you ever had a woman, Harry? Somebody like me? Wouldn't you like to see my body, darling? To feel my breasts, see me naked, like that fat bitch? Wouldn't you like to put your lovely cock in my soft, warm cunt and fuck."
She moaned, inflamed by her own obscenity, grasped his proud organ spasmodically.
"You can, darling!" she exclaimed. "You can. I'll show you everything and let you do everything, anything you want. But you must promise never to tell a living soul, or breathe one word about what you've seen and heard. Promise?"
Her clutch on his cock tightened still more. Harry nodded vigorously. He did not fully understand. He did not need to. At that moment he would have agreed to anything. Girls had played with his penis often, frigged him, urged on by mocking, derisive friends, secretly longing to feel its throbbing length in their grubby slits but lacking the courage for actual intercourse, afraid of ridicule, of consequences, of screwing with a cripple, even of the Herculean phallus itself. But nobody had ever spoken to Harry with such crude, intense feeling, or handled his penis with such masterful, wanton experience.
The wonder of it fogged his brain. A rich, aristocratic lady, sweet-smelling, beautiful, elegant, with practically every male in the district trailing after her with his tongue, or his prick, hanging out, and she wanted him to make love to her, Harry Goldthorpe, the village freak . . . She must be mad, but whether she was insane or not, what she was doing to him was excruciatingly delightful, and if that was what she wanted she would get no argument from him.
Emboldened, awakening at last to the vital reality of the bizarre situation, the boy put his hand inside the torn blouse and felt the heavy, palpitating mound of a warm, soft breast. The startlingly intimate contact seemed to burn his palm and the tips of his fingers, as if the woman's flesh was red-hot.
Lady Gloria gasped, moaned, ferociously pushed the white oval against his hand. She kissed him again, frigged his hard young penis faster, sweeping the foreskin right back, then fully forward.
Harry's other hand groped, found the split in her cord pants, intruded, avidly clutched the moist, quivering folds of her vagina. He uttered a desperate cry, repeated it when she released his shuddering prick, but she was merely unfastening the side zipper fastening the pants. She pushed them down, tugged feverishly to get them past her hips, then kicked them partly off and stood with the crumpled garment clinging round her left ankle. She wore neither panties nor brassiere. The sweetly rounded orbs of her bottom came together tightly, emphasizing the crease and putting dimples and hollows in the luscious cheeks.
The boy almost sobbed with relief when she recaptured his straining cock. He was confused, utterly bewildered, surprised and agreeably shocked beyond anything he had ever experienced, and at the same time delighted, shaking with eagerness, panting, incredulous, becoming more adventurous as excitement grew and vague fears vanished, and the exhilarating sensations gathered in his virile loins.
The woman tugged his fly fully open, handled his testicles, eased them out so that they hung free. She massaged the wrinkled bag, probed beyond, into the cleft of his bottom. Her darting tongue demoralized the boy, and he relinquished the clutching quim.
He put both hands on her bared buttocks, pressed the cheeks, squeezing gently as if afraid she would repulse him and then, when she murmured lewd encouragement, indulged in a frenzied bout of kneading and gouging, pulling her flesh out of shape and working the tips of his fingers deep into the hot, clammy recess.
Lady Gloria clung convulsively, blurting passionate pleas, vulgar entreaties that removed the last remaining shreds of Harry Goldthorpe's control and completed his transformation into a lusting, panting young animal.
"Fuck me, darling!" the woman exhorted fiercely. "Fuck me, damn you! I want your lovely cock between my logs, right inside my hot, shivering cunt. Can't you feel it, darling, all hot and wet and throbbing? Not there, you idiot! Lower. That's it. There. Like a soft, furry pussy. I'll help you, darling. It's what you want too, isn't it? Oh, you clumsy little bastard! No, darling. I'm sorry. You hurt me. Here, let me."
She conveyed his turbulent penis urgently to her pelvic gash, rubbed the hard knob in the tense slit below the bush of blonde hair, voiced desperate instructions.
"Push, darling. Push hard. Ah! That's right, Harry. It's nearly in Ooooooh! Darling! It's IN! Right in. Oh, lovely! Keep pushing. Yes, in and out. Faster! Ooh, yes! That's wonderful!"
She co-operated, rotating her hips furiously, driving the willing but amateurish prick further into the clinging sheath, cried out sharply as if in physical pain with the seething, clawing torment of intense, flooding orgasm.
The boy, brashly confident now, kept jabbing and thrusting awkwardly, whimpering as the concentrated fury gathering in the jerking tip of his embedded penis seemed to suck the very sap from the roots of his swollen balls. Lady Gloria, only partly sated, sank down on the ground, pulling him down on top of her, ignoring his bleating protests, spread her legs wide and quickly guided his jerking organ back into the slimy maw. Harry, able to perform more adequately, resumed the assault with renewed vigor.
Lady Gloria, sighing deliriously, drew her knees up, began raising her buttocks off the ground to meet each frantic lunge, and maintaining rhythmic co-ordination, gasping as the plunging prick rammed right in. Already she was experiencing the swiftly mounting ecstasy of another emission, and urged the boy to greater efforts, uttering frightening moans and animal noises in the tempestuous moments before Harry, tongue protruding and head lashing wildly back and forth, his spine arched, spunked simultaneously with the bitter-sweet completion of the woman's fiery, pungent orgasmic deluge, then held her tightly with his hot face buried against her throat, and wriggled his belly against hers until his dwindling penis slipped out.
Delighted, Lady Gloria hugged him.
"You darling!" she praised. "That was divine. Grade, but quite charming.. You really are a sweet boy, Harry. And you won't find me ungrateful. You must think me quite mad, behaving in this awful manner. Now that it's over 1 feel terribly awkward."
"I think you're smashing!" Harry declared. "I've never done it before, not with anybody like you. Not with a real woman. Girls are stupid, and they make fun of me because I've got a withered arm. I don't have much to do with girls."
"I won't make fun of you, darling. You've got something those village louts would give their eye teeth to have. 1 must go. You must come home with me. I'll give you a nice lunch, and some money. Would you like that?"
"Sure would. Can we do it again?"
"Eh? Not right now, dear boy, although I appreciate your enthusiasm. But soon. Very soon."
"Tomorrow, maybe? Here, in the cottage? .Old West won't be using it."
"No, he won't." Lady Gloria's expression hardened. She pushed the boy off, rolled over, got to her feet, pulled the torn riding pants up and fastened the zipper. She watched Harry clamber off his knees. He buttoned his fly, looking sheepish, suddenly shy, fumbling. Lady Gloria ruffled his hair.
"All right, darling," she promised. "Tomorrow. We'll do it properly, in bed. I'll really give you a thrill, young Harry. Oh, but you're lovely. Come along." She gripped his sound arm lightly.
"Remember," she cautioned. "Not a word. I've got your promise?"
Harry nodded. Lady Gloria kissed him, moved through the bushes leading him by the hand.
Paul West picked up the broken lamp, straightened his back.
"I'm glad that's over," he said. "I wouldn't want to go through a similar experience. I expected Gloria to be a bit cut up, but I never thought she would explode like that. I intended to go up to the big house and see her, and explain. She didn't give me a chance."
Prunella Garfield inspected a bruise on her hip. The twisting movement distorted the cleft of her bottom, making one cheek seem larger than the other.
"I won't ask awkward questions," she whispered hoarsely. "At least not until I can talk properly. Not about her. I assume that was Lady Gloria Mayne? But I said no questions. It's perfectly obvious, anyway. But I would like to ask what you intend to do now?"
"Go to Milford Haven," West answered. "I've got chance of a partnership in a timber business. You 11 come with me?"
"If you want me."
"You know I do. Why do you think—?"
"All right then, just so long as you're sure. So long as I know you want me that's all that matters."
"You're not bothered by what she said?"
"Not particularly. Maybe she was right. Maybe it won't last. I'm not a child, Paul. I don't believe in miracles. I've been very stupid, perhaps wicked. But I'm not incapable of understanding, or adjustment. I'll do my best to make you happy. I'll be anything you want me to be for as long as you need me. After that—"
She shrugged.
"My life here is finished," she added. "I believe that much of what she said, even if I didn't personally consider it would be quite intolerable for me to remain at Beechers after what has happened, involving the dean, and those dreadful girls. If they ever came back, how could I face them? How could I face the dean? No, Beechers is a closed book. It doesn't really matter where I go now, so long as it's with you, Paul, far away from Rexford. Hadn't we better put some clothes on? If Lady Mayne comes back, or anybody ..." 1 West nodded. He indicated a closet.
"There are some things of hers in there," he said. "Take your pick—Gloria won't miss them. She's had good value for everything she's given me."
Miss Garfield did not answer. She went through into the bedroom.
Shortly afterward, bathed and refreshed, wearing a light grey tweed suit and shoes with stiletto heels, and a smart, matching hat, Prunella climbed into the gamekeeper's Landrover. She was laughing at something West had said. She looked youthful, vitally alive, a different person altogether.
Paul West came out of the cottage, slammed the. door, checked to see if his billfold was in the inside pocket of his olive-green sports-jacket.
Prunella was having difficulty lifting her leg high enough, because of the tight skirt, to enter the vehicle. West, responding to her appeal, approached and afforded her the support of his muscular shoulder. On the pretext of helping her by pushing at her protruding buttocks, he put his hand up her clothes and felt right up to the velvety softness of her vagina. He grinned when she bucked violently.
"Don't forget you don't have any pants on," he reminded her. "That's one item Gloria never left behind for the simple reason she never bothered to wear any when she came up here." .
"You're a horrible man, Paul West," Prunella Garfield admonished. "But I love you."
She laughed, squirmed, eased her quim away from his disturbingly active hand and sat down, blocking the approach to the inviting fissure and tucking the skirt under her thighs.
"I'm rather sorry for her," she intoned huskily.
"Don't be. Feel sorry for yourself, school teacher, because when we get away from here and we're clear of Lord Mayne's estate I'm going to stop this truck and belt some prick into you until your eyes come out on stalks."
Miss Garfield poked her tongue out sarcastically.
"Is that a threat, darling?" she asked. "Or a promise?"
West swore. He slammed the door, walked round the vehicle and climbed behind the wheel, started the powerful motor.
"One for the road," he said, and kissed her, keeping the clutch pedal depressed and the handbrake on. Miss Prunella Garfield sighed happily, responded, parting her lips to receive West's questing tongue, and detected in that fierce, probing contact a wealth of promise, an assurance for the future which, however uncertain, would, she knew, be amply rewarding.
And with that conviction at the back of her mind, Prunella was perfectly content.