The Pleasure Quartet by Vina Jackson Read Free Book Online Page A

. I . . .want . . .’
    I surface from the sheets to understand her better.
    ‘Inside me . . .’ Iris gasped.
    I froze. ‘Are you sure?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Really?’
    ‘Absolutely.’ I knew what she meant. It was something that until now we had shied away from. Like a border post for which we didn’t carry a valid passport.
    I returned to the moist darkness that lay between the bedcovers and the sweet embrace of her thighs.
    My fingers journeyed towards her opening and its humid warmth.
    I inserted one and then another, and finally a third until it felt as if I was filling her.
    Iris responded silently, a vibration rushing across her stomach as she pulled the badly crumpled sheet away from the top of her body and uncovered her slight, delicate breasts. My fingers delved
inside her, wading through heat and juices. Her plaints grew in intensity. I attempted as best I could to synchronise my fleeting movements within her soft walls with the inhale-shudder-exhale-grow
limp rhythm of her mounting orgasm, slowing, accelerating, forever delaying the moment. Stimulating her knowingly, timidly, fiercely in turn.
    We had played with each other in this way before, but I had never delved so far inside her and so fully, somehow, it felt as if she was opening further and further to my exploration.
    A thought rudely intruded in my mind. Would this be how a man’s penis would similarly enter her, a woman, any woman, me? I closed my eyes to banish the image, but it persisted.
    As if telepathically connected to me, Iris opened her lips. ‘More . . . please . . .’
    ‘I can’t,’ I pleaded.
    ‘You can,’ she said.
    I wasn’t a man. Never would be. Whenever Iris was making love to me, I was content with her tongue, the feel of her breath against my skin, the knowledge electric of her affection. Had no
need for actual penetration. But again I couldn’t banish the image of the hard cocks we had witnessed by the sea at the Ball, and how the recipients of their favours and thrusts had so often
ecstatically responded. I wanted to know how it would feel.
    ‘It will hurt,’ I said.
    ‘I know,’ Iris replied. ‘That’s what I want. No pleasure without pain,’ she added, her voice a thin trickle of sound, reaching me in a strangled tone from its point
of origin in the heart of her throat.
    I swallowed hard. Reached as discreetly as I could manage for the small tub of Vaseline that I kept on my side, below the bed, in case we ever needed it. Flexed my fingers at the breach of her
lower lips, bunched my hand into a fist as compact as I could manage it, and slowly began to push against her opening. We both had small hands but I still couldn’t believe I could insert mine
inside her, without breaking her, tearing her badly, even with the additional lubricant. There was resistance at first, and I began to hold back, but Iris sensing my hesitation forced her pelvis
forward to meet my hand’s assault.
    Micro inch by micro inch, my hand buried itself past her labia, seeking out her heat, the folds of her outer skin merging with the pink irregular waves of her inner walls as I slowly slid in.
Any moment now I was expecting Iris to scream out with pain, but she remained silent, apart that is from the rising rhythm of her moans.
    ‘Tell me when to stop,’ I asked.
    Iris remained silent. Lost in her private nirvana. I felt the outer reaches of her opening almost click. My hand was swallowed whole.
    It felt as if I had lowered a part of me into a raging fire.
    I was inside her up to my wrist.
    What did I do now?
    ‘Move a little,’ a breathless Iris begged me, aware of my uncertainty.
    I thought I had been in charge of the situation, but now Iris was taking over.
    I obeyed.
    Turned my buried hand one way and then the other. It fitted her like a glove.
    Her whole body shuddered in an instant and she came with a terrible cry of joy and relief, and my captive hand felt as if it was washed over by a tide of wet fire while held in the