EXTRACT FOR
Farewell My Innocent
(Lizbeth Dusseau)
Chapter One
The summer of my nineteenth
year, I smoldered in the heat. Expectation, anticipation dripped from my pores
as the humidity soared. I rocked on the porch of the little house, fanning my
face with a pink, pleated, Oriental fan my friend Daisy brought me from San
Francisco the summer before. Fresh as a new magnolia blossom at I met a man at the USO. We danced. Preston Wilkes, a Yankee,
made my senses overload, and this smoldering body flame with some outrageous fire
I could not suppress. When I got home, I shed my clothes the minute I closed my
bedroom door. Facing the mirror, my hands went for the sensation like a hungry
animal seeking food. I lunched on the interiors of my cleft, wishing for
satiation I could never give myself. This body cawed like an angry crow, while
desire swooped in and landed on that little bud between the petals of my sex
and gnawed there. I saw how my eyes could seduce as the languid lids draped the
lusty devils. Why was I behaving this way, especially when it was a man I
wanted, not my own hands? And still, I couldn't stop. I pressed my naked
breasts together, seeing two pink nipples grow erect, looking a little deformed
in their rigid state of arousal. Bending my head, I kissed the flesh leaving
red lipstick marks on my skin as I coquettishly watched the sexual performance.
Oh! How mama and papa would revile me if they could see me
now. Even as I'd let the sensations flower, their disapproving eyes would peer
over my shoulder and attack me from inside the mirror, haunting specters of
discontent and condemnation, taking out their frustrations on me. I have always
been too feral to make them wholly pleased. My guilt-ridden conscience argued with my baser, animal
instinct. But the animal in me won-as it always has. Lost to my body, I fell
back on my bed, unable to look at my hands between my legs, doing gross things
there. Pinching my rosy bud, prodding the depths of my inner spaces, pitched
between the horror of my depravity and the desperation of denial, I groveled
unhappily. But I never stopped of my own accord. Only some untimely
interruption, the ringing of the telephone or the call of my mother's voice
would bring me out of my sexual revelry. That, or the completion of my episode.
Once the hot, painful spasm ripped through my belly and my hands swam in the
pungent liquid my vagina offered up, I could finally set aside my wickedness. The summer of my nineteenth year, I was lost in the paradox of
being a good girl and chasing my pleasure. I might have succeeded with my
virtuous pursuits, if hadn't been for my Yankee wolf, Preston Wilkes. He was my
savior and my demise, all wrapped up in the prettiest picture of manliness that
I'd seen in many months. When he combed his wavy black hair with his hand, I
thought of that hand running through my hair as it did the night we danced-how
I wished I hadn't cut my hair into a short bob just the month before. When Preston
bared his pure, white teeth in a big, broad smile there was a glint of mischief
in his eye, something nefarious and distinctly underhanded. I knew he was a
scallywag, up to no good, able to sweet talk virgins out of virtue; and yet he
stung my heart as much as he manipulated my wet and wanting crotch. He was
hardly a man I could sink my hopes into, but at nineteen, what woman cares?
Especially when a miserable war was taking all our fine, young men away to
distant battles and we were destined to spend our muggy summers languishing in
heat reading poignant correspondence from abroad, tossing in our beds at night,
fretful and unfulfilled. "Miss Stacia Beaureguard,"
he tipped his soldier's hat at me, while sauntering by my front porch one
afternoon as I fanned my face like a courteous lady. I blushed in an instant, recognizing my dance partner from two
nights before. The red flush of embarrassment crept up my neck until my cheeks
were hot. "How do you do?" I asked politely. "You mentioned that I could call on you?" he reminded me of
the easy promise I made in a moment of careless passion. Dancing is such
euphoria, and so sexual. "Indeed," I answered, squeamishly smiling. "May I invite you for a walk?" "You may invite me to do anything you like, Preston Wilkes,
but that does not mean I'll accept." "Then I'd be disappointed." His rash grin wore me down in a second, but I had to play hard
to get. I was not an easy woman, just a woman confused and filled with
unrequited sexual desire. "Yankee wolves should mind their manners around Southern
ladies," I declared with a touch of indignation, fanning my face a little
faster to keep him from seeing my true expression. "I heartily agree, especially since Southern ladies are such
delightful treats." "I am a 'treat', sir? To devour?" "No, ma'am. A treat is perhaps a bad choice of words. A
'treasure' would be stating my case better." He raised his eyebrows, wondering
if, perhaps, I was more taken with this adjective. "You are a treasure, a
confection to savor." "Are you trying to charm me with compliments?" "If that is possible. If I could charm you with poetry, I
would. But I'm not a poet, just a lonely soldier, who has discovered the most
beautiful flower in the bouquet." I giggled. He was funny. And the way he moved from the
sidewalk to my front porch, slithering his way closer like a snake in the
grass. I was moved. Smitten. My poor, aroused body kept screaming to be
defiled; of course that was just my private passion. No good girl would reveal
herself so easily to any man-even her husband would have to wait some time
before he'd see such a blatant display. "Preston Wilkes, you are a scamp." "But I am very sincere, Miss Beaureguard." "Humm," my thoughts were rife with
schemes, "then maybe we can walk to the park." He bowed graciously, as I pulled myself from the creaky wicker
rocker. "Mama, I'm going for a walk," I called into the black
emptiness beyond the screen door, and left with Preston Wilkes before I could
hear my mama's reply. One thing led to another...
led to a stroll about the park... to a stroll through the woods where I got
kissed ... to a ravishing in the hayloft of the barn at the back of mama's
property. He came to see me every day with a little more interest, more desire,
and more explicit determination to press his cause. Mama's old barn was the
evitable conclusion to our dance with lust. I got kissed some more, his hands running over the exterior of
my blue print dress, over my breasts and down my thighs. I was in tears with
shivers of ecstatic pleasure extending from the top of my head down through my
shoulders, though my breasts, into my groin where they churned up all that
simmering fire. I grappled awkwardly with his clothes, while he with effortless
ease undressed me down to my embroidered underwear, then laid me out along the
bed of straw. "Raise your arms above your head," he told me in a breathless,
but insistent tone. My fingers were itchy, wanting, yet afraid of touching
him-a man-anywhere private, or even anywhere at all. But now, he prevented me
that choice, the privilege of getting beyond my apprehensions and living out
the pictures that nightly played like motion pictures in my head. He bared my breasts, kissing them with such fervency that he
left hickeys on the undersides. He suckled hard, so I was shrieking in my muted
voice, almost orgasmic without his laying a hand on my privates down below.
Moving back to my lips, he nibbled his way to my navel and spent some time
lapping that tiny fissure. My nether regions replied involuntarily, seducing
him lower, rising and falling, undulating, begging. Compelled by forces I'd
never felt before, I reached down to push his head lower, knowing nothing about
oral sex, knowing only that I wanted his tongue deep between my thighs. "No, Tacy," he pushed my offending
hand back, scolding, "if you don't behave, I'll have to tie them up." Ooo, my entire body jiggled
nervously, happily, hearing him speak with such resolve. I gladly obeyed even
though the urgent need in me was mushrooming like summer thunderclouds, and my
lover, Preston Wilkes, was deliberately denying my body its climactic end. "Please," I begged him, as he hovered over my torso and teased
my seeking pubis below with brutally soft caresses. "Beg more, luscious one," he snickered as he played me, and
dove back in to kiss each nipple and draw it out until it popped from between
his teeth. I breathed in feeling sensation roll through me to the ends of
my fingers. I grabbed for a railing above my head as my body began to thrash
from side to side. Preston held me down, and finally submerged himself between
my open thighs. My underwear torn away, his face went for the mound, parting
the silky brown hair and opening the lips to my pulsating organ of pleasure.
The tickle of his tongue made my spasms begin. My back arched as I held on to
the rail feeling bound there, jerking, flailing my belly on air, Preston
working the little crevice into such a state of frenzy that I hardly felt him
rise up above me, expose his erection and plunge it with force into the virgin
territory. I drowned my shriek of surprise with another rapid explosion, and
then got fucked hard by a cock that hit my cervix and broadened my insides for
what lay ahead-days, weeks, months into my future. Did I love him? I vowed I had to since we'd just had sex, real
sex, no fantasy. I would love him forever. He lay next to me exhausted, panting and sweaty, as was I. "You make a man work for it, Tacy Beaureguard," he sighed big. "How's that?" I wondered. He shook his head, but was unwilling to tell me more. "Seems you make me work for it, and I can't even touch you," I
complained. "There are reasons for that," he answered. "Desire feeds on
anticipation and frustration. Your body already wants more," he teasingly
noted, as he ran a warm smooth hand along my naked belly and watched me shiver.
I blushed, embarrassed again by forces I could not control. "I think I'll bind
you next time." "Oh, you think there will be a next time?" I was quietly
piqued. "Little lady, there will be many more times. Forever doesn't
begin to describe what we'll have together." "Ooo, Preston Wilkes, I'd say you're
making rash statements, and that could get you in trouble." "Aren't I supposed to honor your virtue by marrying you?" Of course, he was. But I wasn't certain if that's what I
wanted. I liked the thought of being in love and having sex whenever it suited
me. But this romance was developing all too quickly. And what didn't please me
at all... he'd be running off to war in a few weeks, and I didn't like being the
girl left behind. We were married two weeks after our first night in the
hayloft, in a small ceremony at the front of papa's great big church. I wore
white, despite the fact that I was no longer a virgin. No one knew but Preston
and me. Wartime weddings were filled with melancholy. I shed my tears, but
watched my groom's great comforting smile and listened to his whispers. "It
won't be long, we'll have years of hayloft trysts." I giggled, my spirits
lifted, while my family sobbed waving goodbye when we boarded the train. They
were flustered but resigned, even happy that their Southern belle had found a
husband to love her, hopeful that he was the cure for my slightly wanton,
ever-troubling temperament. He would never be forgiven for whisking me away
from my Southern roots and kin, transported miles north into the hostile cold
of enemy territory. But such feelings had to be put aside now. Married women
belonged with their men. Preston and I honeymooned at the beach, in a small house where
the water came up almost to the door, and there was a little boat docked in the
tiny bay. I watched the sun rise over the water at dawn after a night of sex,
and slept all morning. The second night of our honeymoon, Preston tied my hands above
me with rope after I refused to keep them off his delicious muscles. "I want to touch you, darlin'" I
purred so sweetly in his ear, I was sure he would let me play with him just as
he played with me. "Not until I tell you to," he answered my complaint, taking my
wrists and tying each one with a scarf he found in my suitcase. "Why not now?" I wondered. "You are a sexual novice, love. It's my job as your husband to
teach you about love and lust." "And you're highly experienced, I presume?" He grinned. "I am a Yankee, is that not explanation enough for
a good little, Southern girl?" Oh, my! I thought to myself, "How many women..." I
started to ask the question burning in my thoughts. He shook his head and frowned, placing his finger over his
lips, "Shush." "All the women before you are just shadows in the background,
my love. They mean nothing now that I have you." I trusted such sincerity; his words were seamless comfort for
a scared young wife. I looked down at my undulating body, stretched out on the
bed, legs spread wide, thinking that I must be whorishly inviting. "And do all
new husbands teach their wives this way?" I considered aloud. "Tying them to
bedposts?" "I have no idea," he quipped as he moved on, tying off my
right ankle. "But I imagine that new husbands teach their wives the kind of
sexual practices that they prefer." So many questions filled my brain that I could hardly pay
attention to my body's excited response. "Why do you like me like this?" He snickered as he stood back admiring his work. Seeing his
new wife bound to the four corners of the metal bed frame, I could tell he was
aroused. "Everything in you vibrates, darling. Your being roars from the
containment. You arouse me, Stacia," he climbed
beside me and kissed my lips. My arms naturally struggled to be free, but there was no way
out of the bondage, except for Preston to untie me. I was at his mercy, my hips
moving in wild abandon, just as they would move against his hips so wildly when
we danced. "Touch me, Preston," I begged. His stare was magnetic. I couldn't take my eyes from him as
his gaze darkened and he backed off the bed. "In time," he answered. A shadow seemed to fall over his face and yet the late
afternoon sun was still streaming through the window. In the haze of dust that
filled the beam, his body glimmered, curiously. He stood before me with just
his pants on. The muscles in his bare chest rippled beneath his skin as he
moved, even slightly. I invited him to me with all the alluring expressions I'd
used on him before, but he wasn't moving. Instead, reaching to his side, he
took something from his bag on the floor, then rose to his full height again
and approached me like a phantom out of that afternoon stupor of sun and humid
air. My eyes shot open wide in horror seeing the thin shaft of a riding crop
clutched in one fist. He held the handle firmly, letting the other end rest
inside the palm of his other hand, while tapping it in that palm as if he were
carefully considering his next move. The very end of the riding crop was a
tassel of tiny leather thongs tied together in a knot. I imagined how the bite
of them would sting against the flank of a horse, but I never imagined that my
husband would be using anything like this on me. Even as Preston snapped the
crop against my thigh, I was innocent of his intentions. But the truth
unveiled, I shrieked, cringing in fear. "What are you doing?" |