Free Bound in Moonlight by Louisa Burton Page B

a warm and masculine look to the apartment. The walls were hung with original artwork by the likes of Aubrey Beardsley, Gustav Klimt, and a who's who of Pre-Raphaelites and impressionists.
    Inigo offered me some cognac, and when I said yes, not even caring that it wasn't yet noon, he ushered me into his bedroom, where the liquor cabinet was. He poured us each a generous serving in delicate lead crystal snifters that rang when we touched them together.
    I tossed mine back, wanting to be as relaxed as possible for whatever lay in store, but when he asked if he could take my clothes off, I felt a surge of panic. He must have seen it on my face, because he smiled and said, “Do you mind if I take mine off?”
    He stripped down very efficiently, then lifted his snifter and sipped it casually, as if he weren't standing there stark naked. I tried not to stare.
    â€œYou can look,” he said. “That's more or less the point.”
    I did look. His penis in its flaccid state was a weighty eight or nine inches long. I wanted to touch it, but I didn't have the nerve, so I was grateful when Inigo took my free hand and cupped it lightly around the shaft. I was surprised by how hot it felt, and how soft—although it didn't stay that way for long. It began to grow heavier in my hand, and longer and thicker as well. I was gripping that snifter so hard, it's a wonder I didn't snap the stem.
    I asked him the most inane questions (including, I admit, whether it hurt when he got hard), all of which he answered graciously and with preternatural patience. He showed me how men liked to be touched, and explained about the different kinds of strokes and caresses. It excited me enormously when I felt the tension increase in his body and heard his voice become huskier, and realized how aroused he was becoming. That his erection could rise as high as it did, given its weight, struck me as a miracle of hydraulic engineering. He told me the little drop of clear fluid oozing out of the tip was preejaculate, and that it was meant to ease the passage of the penis into the vagina, but that he usually needed an additional lubricant, like oil.
    Eventually he got me on the bed with him and finessed me out of my blouse, skirt, and corset, although I was still more than covered by the absurd array of undergarments we wore back then. Having my breasts caressed was incredible, especially when he unbuttoned my chemise and touched my bare flesh. The things he did to my nipples, first with his hands and then his mouth, stole the breath from my lungs.
    When he reached under my petticoats and encountered my drawers, he stripped them off, grumbling that they were pointless for women, and that he “went into mourning when they started to catch on.”
    I said, “Women have been wearing them for the better part of a century,” but then he started fondling me, and I lost my train of thought. I came hard, and then he got on top of me with my petticoats pushed up and thrust against me, that huge cock sliding up and down my slit until we were both thrashing and moaning and clutching at each other. He hunched over and let out a long, shuddery groan. I felt hot fluid shoot onto my stomach in a series of pulses, and it propelled me into another spectacular climax.
    After that, I let him completely undress me so that we could take a bath together. He read aloud to me from
The Autobiography of a Flea,
then knelt in the water and let me pull him off so that I could see him ejaculate, because I was so curious about the discharge of semen. I was surprised at how much there was, and how far it shot across the tub. It wasn't as creamy as Elic's, though—more like ordinary semen.
    We took our time washing each other with a soapy sea sponge. Inigo shampooed my hair, but wouldn't let me return the favor, saying he didn't like to have his scalp touched. I remember that, because it was so unusual for him to ask not to be touched somewhere. Inigo loved being