Free One Final Night by Scarlett Rush

over again. I hadn’t been concentrating on the other movements but I remember feeling them, and the image of the soldier scrunched up at the foot of the bed is instant. I don’t see him as an officer, more another filthy private who has no business taking these liberties with a woman of such beauty and grace as the Comtesse.
    ‘He feeds on me! Sucking and drinking and slurping!’
    She sounds far too well-to-do to be talking of such indecent things. Her voice comes just to my ear once more, but I can indeed hear other, lewder noises coming from below. The image changes to the filthy private’s face pushed into the Comtesse from the rear, the tongue greedily pushed right into her to lap up her flow. It strikes me that he must be mere inches from my own entrance by now, and I wonder if the warmth I feel there is from her or from his breath. If she is affronted by his boldness, she doesn’t show it. Instead, she rubs her crotch harder and faster to mine, more like a dirty minx than an aristocrat.
    ‘His hands are on me, squeezing and opening me up,’ she whispers, still just for my benefit. ‘He has pushed his face right in.’
    When she is not speaking she is immediately back to kissing my neck, putting her tongue-tip in my ear, nibbling and sucking the lobe; all to keep me shivering. The sounds of her faltering sighs are so enticing. Any fatigue has been chased away. I feel utterly alive, buzzing with the realisation of my naughtiest dreams, basking in the spellbinding combination of her soft femininity and downright licentiousness. I need to hold her.
    ‘I think he has spat upon me – I can feel the trickle going all the way down. Oh! Now his fingers are sliding into me – two, I think. They are so thick it is hard to tell. They are swirling around inside me. His tongue – it is back. His fingers are still in me but he is using his tongue too. Ah, mon dieu ! He is licking me there !’
    I start to shake again. It’s not just the rub of our crotches, but also the dirty images one as apparently respectable and proper as her is able to conjure. This climax is different from the others. It’s less jarringly intense and perhaps all the more wonderful for it. It’s a long, slow fizzle that refuses to die out. I bask in it and let her words carry me on.
    ‘I can feel his hard, fat prick now. He is sliding it up and down me, where his fingers have just been. He is getting it wet and ready. Now he’s moving it up, up where he has just been licking! Oh God, I think he plans to use me there! He feels so big too – I’m not sure I can take it! Will you hold me open for him?’
    Such an act seems too rude to visit upon one such as her, yet all the while this sophisticate, this paragon of etiquette and decency, this Comtesse , is grinding her bare crotch against mine in her unbridled excitement. She clearly wants it. I am worried he might hurt her. I pull my hands free from their loops; with this action goes the last pretence that I am here under sufferance. I reach down and grip her rear. It is full and very soft. I try to recall any prior clues to its size, but then her dress had a built-in frame to accentuate this feature. I ease her apart and almost immediately she tenses and grips my flesh, her nails digging in. She bites down on my earlobe but checks her force, so it’s no more than a sharp nip.
    She remains tense for over a minute, holding her breath. Her grip hurts, but I don’t mind. Eventually she lets out a long sigh, so I assume he has forced his way inside her. ‘He is so big,’ is all she can say.
    She shudders and whimpers in my ear. Perhaps it is Patrick behind her, going against all class principles to fill her. I want to find out. I move my hand across her behind, still ensuring I keep her open. I burrow down to find the base of him. I feel the heat and the hardness of what he is yet to bury inside her. It is big but it is not Patrick, that is for certain. I’m sure it feels massive within that