Page 3 of How to Lose a Dowry in Three Bucks
He adjusted his position on the divan to give his watcher a direct line of sight. Angled the photograph to show off the French dancing girl flashing her puss. Spit in his palm to make his strokes sound slicker. So they’d carry and inflame the person regarding him.
Matthew chuckled, wondering if one of the new maids had stumbled into the library at the wrong time. He really shouldn’t use one of his own staff to assuage his lust…but if she begged hard enough, he might fuck her slick thighs and pet her cat until she pulled books from his shelves as she tried to take him inside.
Oh, that’s an image to inspire a man, he thought as he worked his palm over the head of his cock to mimic the feel of getting balls deep in a woman. Not that he often did, at his size. Mostly, he heard a lot of pleasured crying and begging when he got close. But all the way in? He groaned, imagining a rare treat for a man wielding a cock like his.
And then he made out the sweetest little mewl and the telltale sound of pretty little fingers working over a cunt.
Oh, fuck, that’s the good stuff, he thought, flexing his hips to buck into his hand and show that little squirrel upstairs how he’d like to plow her and plant a nut.
Matthew considered calling out to his mystery woman and ordering her downstairs, but this teasing was the most stimulating thing he’d done in ages. Discovering a lusty little slut in his own home was going to prove distracting in the best way.
He imagined stealing into the servants’ quarters at night, opening a door, and then railing a drooling, pleasured maid with his hand over her mouth so she wouldn’t wake the whole corridor. He knew a charwoman could work on her knees, and that the right one could be trained to handle his spend and keep his trousers clean. Why, he’d even consider tupping his widowed housekeeper, Mrs. Pugh, if she spread her thighs and really begged for his cock.
He laughed at the thought of the stern, steel-haired woman engaging in coitus. The only woman less likely to beg him for a fuck was his own houseguest, Miss Stafford. Now, that was a repressed woman, a real mouse.
Should she land a groom this Season, oceans of fabric would confront the poor man before he found her softer bits encased in metal drawers.
If Matthew wondered why he kept imagining Miss Stafford’s wedding night and what she might look like beneath her clothing, he quickly skittered away from such thoughts. In his mind, he was a normal man, thinking of a repulsive woman in ways that repulsed him. He wasn’t the problem.
Leaning back, he regarded the problem between his thighs. He needed to release, and the sensation would be so much better ifdone in the same room as the woman touching her cunt. Matt groaned, thinking of how the room upstairs would smell of her musk by now. Maybe he could array himself on a chaise, settle the mystery maid on his face, and then unload while he licked her to completion.
“Fuck,” he groaned, the feeling in his balls suggesting he only had so long until they insisted on release.
He had a choice: he could stay downstairs and let his little squirrel in the treetop remain a tantalizing mystery or he could rouse himself from his comfortable sprawl and potentially enjoy a very pleasant interlude. Potentially, a first pleasant interlude of many. He could spray this seed all over some game girl while bathing in the perfume of her cunt.
Well, that wasn’t a hard decision, Matthew thought, collecting himself from the divan and fastening his trousers only enough to keep them up as he walked.
At first, he was quiet so as not to send the girl scurrying, but then he realized that his steps on the stairs wouldn’t exactly go unnoticed. So he decided to have some fun with her.
“Fee-fi-fo-fum,” he bellowed from the first step. “I smell the musk of an English cunt.”
He paused for a moment and heard her movements become silent. If she was moving at all. She’d be a quivering, wet mess by the time he made it to her.Splendid.
“Be alive, or be she dead, I’ll open her pussy with my cockhead.”
It wasn’t Shakespeare, but Matt reasoned it was clever enough for a giant of a man with a hard cock, currently stomping up small library stairs for an erotic interlude.
Up and up he continued to that second level, to the alcove containing his squirrel. At the entryway, he popped open the button that had been keeping his trousers up, and withdrew his cock. He gave it a hard stroke and spoke into the room.
“If you want this cock, spread for me, little slut.”
He heard a gasp and the rustling of fabric. Matt hoped that wasn’t a sign one of his maids was about to burst out and start crying to Mrs. Pugh.
Nothing for it but to carry on, he thought as he rounded the corner.
At first, the sight before him made little sense. A woman had her dress rucked up and pussy on display, her thin legs spread wide and fingers working away at her wet little lips and nub. He moaned automatically and stepped between her thighs.
And then his scrambled brain put pieces together. He’d seen that dress print. And not on one of his maids, but at his breakfast table. He didn’t want to look up, didn’t want to confirm what he already knew to be the case, but eventually he had to. Had to let the last notch fall into place and seal his fate.
His eyes traveled past that high neckline and added ruffle, then settled on the face of Miss Sophia Stafford, his virginal houseguest who was currently working her cunny to sloppy wetness in his library after spying on him stroking his cock to a pornographic photograph card.
Her eyes met his, the lids at half-mast and her small mouth almost imperceptibly blushing and swollen. Her gaze moved down his body and landed on his cock, which he hadn’t stopped beating despite all rational sense suggesting he should secure his trousers, apologize, and flee.
And then Sophia licked her lips, all the while never ceasing the movements of her own hand.
“Oh, fuck,” he groaned.
Chapter 4
