by Leslie Schmidt
“Do you require a bed warmer this evening, Sir?" my manservant asked as he helped me put on my coat for dinner. It was a bit of a joke-bed warmer-it was June and a pleasant sea breeze was coming through the open windows.
"That would be fine, Phillip," I responded as I checked my tie in the mirror.
"Of what sort?" Phillip had a suppressed smile on his face, he understood my eclectic tastes-as long as it was female.
"I leave that up to your consideration. I'm quite sure I will not be disappointed."
"Very well, Sir."
The last time I had challenged him thus, I had found a toothless 70 year old hooker in my bed. We had talked, she had told me her story, then I allowed her to suck me off before sending her home with an escort of Pinkerton Guards.
The dinner was the usual tedious affair. Primping dandies trying to impress me and the ladies, women who were just a little too full of themselves, seven courses of the meal followed by cigars and brandy for the men in the library and sherrywine and tarts for the ladies in the parlor. Around 11:00 most of the guests had left and I had an hour to spend with a couple of associates where we discussed a purely theoretical plan to acquire a competing railroad. I saw them to their coaches and had to promise one fellow attendance for a day of yachting to work out more deliberate plans. A visit to the privy and then, as I climbed the stairs to my apartments, I contemplated that 1892 would be an especially good year.
I bolted the door and turned up the lamp. A bit of blonde hair extended out from under the covers which were raised only slightly by the figure underneath. I pulled off my boots, then loosened the tie and cummerbund, not really expecting too much of a surprise. My jacket and britches were over the chair and my shirt on the settee, I stood over the bed, my manhood firming in anticipation.
I reached down and flung the covers back: I don't know who was more startled, the naked child at suddenly finding herself uncovered or me at seeing that she was, indeed, just a child.
I gasped for a breath as I took her in. She was on her back, looking up at me with light blue eyes, her face surrounded by cornsilk curls. Her chest was as flat as mine, small pink nipples, slightly protruding ribs and hips, and not a hair on her body below her ears. As I said, at first I was shocked but, then, upon seeing her unadorned gates, the small cleft extended up from between her thighs, I realized that my reaction was much more than surprise. A tension rose from my stomach and worked up into my tightening throat.
The little one smiled. "Mr. James said I'm to be your bed warmer tonight, Sir."
"Ah.....ah....what's your name, child?" I managed to choke out.
She sat up, crossing her ankles and sitting with her knees near her shoulders. "I'm Marie, sir."
I was both shocked and allured, repulsed and incredibly aroused by the idea of the young child that sat facing me, her head almost level with my loins (which were showing in no uncertain terms what I was feeling, in spite of the stern expression I was trying to force over my face).
"How old are you?"
"I'll be eleven in August, sir." She paused, "Please don't make me go, sir, my sister'll have my hide if she catches me sneaking in."
"And she won't notice you missing?" I was a little incredulous at this.
"No sir, she's working at the bar and thinks I'm upstairs asleep. I'd have to go right by her."
Now things sort of started to make sense. "Where do you live?" I sat down next to her.
"Sugar Bale Inn."
The "Sugar Bale" is one of the more infamous cat houses down on Canal Street. Obviously, Marie was being looked after by her sister who worked there.
"Besides," she turned toward me with a saucy look on her face and reached down, rubbing my thigh, "I kin make your bed real warm tonight."
Again, I was betrayed by my cock that swelled at the feeling of her soft and cool hands on my thigh. "Have you ever done this sort of thing before?" I asked.
She pulled her hands away and sat up straighter, looked down, her face was lost in her hair. "No sir, not really....but I've watched me sister and her boes enough....and the other girls...." her voice faded away.
I reach out and lifted her chin. She shook her curls away and glared at me. "You may stay with me tonight," I said as I turned and slid under the covers. With a giggle she lay down next to me, putting her hand on my chest and bringing her knee over my thigh. Then she pushed up and forward and kissed me.
At the same time, I ran my hand down her back and over her small buttocks. Her skin was wonderfully soft and smooth. Her knee found its way over my thigh and I was instantly aware of her soft sex, not covered with coarse hair, against me. My tool made another heave while, at the same time, I felt her tentative hand slide over it. Her tongue found its way over my lips and we kissed in a most intimate manner.
"Here, child, let me look at you." I rolled her off of me, on to her back and pulled the covers down. Her skin was a translucent white, underneath I could see a spider web of blue veins. I reached across her and ran my fingertips over one of her small pink nipples and was pleased to see the aureole contract while the small bead swelled and rose above its rose colored surroundings. Looking lower, her stomach was straight and muscular, two rounded ridges extending from below her ribcage, eventually being lost in the flat plane of her belly. This progression was only broken by the indentation of her navel and, farther down, the rise of her sex. Here, the small hillock was bisected by the crevice of her coming womanhood, a divine crease which provided the gates to these most alluring parts. I rose up next to her and, with gentle fingers, spread these to revel the inner ridge with, at its end, that small nub, the 'little man in the boat' that is the object of a woman's pleasure.
My little evening's diversion spread her thighs for my inspection and, with this movement, the inner gates drew apart, opening for my view the soft pink of her inside and, to my surprise and joy, the sight of a small reddish maidenhead. For some reason that I cannot fathom (for I would never have done such faced with the furry furrow, often unwashed and usually smelling, which most women present) I leaned down and ran my tongue along the child's cleft. I was rewarded by a sudden intake of breath, then a girlish giggle.
"My Sir!" she exclaimed, but her movement, a small involuntary thrust of her hips betrayed her real feelings. Again I licked her child sex, this time she did not protest but again drew in her breath as, simultaneously, she thrust her hips. I felt her clitoris, a hard nub, with my tongue and she gasped. After three or four more forays along this soft way my bedwarmer was rocked by a climax, she gasped for breath as she pushed my face against her sex, her thighs wide, her knees out beyond my shoulders.
My own sex was screaming for release as I sat back up, then stepped off the bed, only to pull her knees off the edge and kneel between them.
With a look of fear she said, "Be gentle, sir. I've not done this before."
"I know, child," I said.
Using a trick learnt from other encounters with virginal females, (all at least 5 years advanced of this girl) I took a small bottle of whale oil from below the bed table. Usually it is used to provide a clear bright light for reading, but it has other uses. Spreading a small amount over my enraged manhood, pulling back the foreskin and lubricating the bulb, I assured that I would pass with the least resistance.
I pulled her small inner lips apart with my thumbs, then guided my tool to the opening. A look of fear crossed her face when she felt my rod at the gates.
"Shhhhhh," I said as I pushed lightly. She raised her knees up so her inner thighs were against my arms and, as I increased the pressure, she grasped my arms just above my elbows.
I pushed harder and a small squeak escaped her lips as the head of my penis slipped inside her and then, as there was a sudden release of pressure and my tool burst through, sunk deep into the child. She threw her head back and hissed at the pain.
Now my shaft was buried half inside the small child sex, a red line of blood appearing around it. I held there deep inside her, as the initial pain passed from her brow. Then, slowly, I started moving. First, just a fraction of an inch inside her vice like sex. Then, with more determination, I started moving back and forth. My penis was stained red, some of her blood ran down onto the sheets, but she seemed resigned to my pushing inside her.
Never, had I felt such and exquisitely tight entrance, this combined with the smoothness and the wondrous sight of the uncovered, innocent, immature female sex being violated by the actuality of full manhood built within me an exigency of passion that I feared I would swoon with the culmination.
Quite suddenly the child shrieked out as she was crushed by a wave of bliss. With my next thrust, I exploded within her, my seed erupting deep within her child-womb, gushing again and again deep inside her. We swam together, she now clutched against my chest, her tears wetting my shoulder, her innocent body speared upon me, her legs wrapped around my waist, clinging to me.
We remained there, clutched together on the floor next to the bed for several minutes. A breeze from the window was cool on my wetted back and I felt her shiver. "Climb into the bed, child," I said and I was rewarded with a marvelous glimpse of her gates below her rounded ass, all now a little stained with darkening blood and the clear whitish emission of my evenings entertainment. I blew out the lamps and turned in, wrapping around my bedwarmer and suffered contented and happy dreams.
Late the next day she was escorted by Phillip and a clutch of my Pinkertons back to the establishment of her residence where her continued presence as my bedwarmer was negotiated.
It was a year before I detected the first swellings of her coming womanhood, the earliest light strands of the mane that would cover that part which I so enjoyed unencumbered access to. Today, she is the apprentice to my household dress maker, helping in the manufacture of the servants' uniforms and maintenance of the linens. She no longer warms my bed (there is a marvelous dark-headed eight year old and a negro six year old who provides that service) but I see her often and we hug warmly on those occasions.