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Subject: {ASSM} "The Bastard,  Chapter Two: Conquest"   (MF, rom, slow, oral, anal)
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The Bastard     (MF, rom, slow, oral, anal)

Chapter Two of Five: "Conquest"

by H. Jekyll

*  *  *  *  *

Copyright 2005-2006 by H. Jekyll. All rights are reserved. Do not read
this if you are either under the legal age to read sexually explicit
stories, or you live where it is illegal to read such stories.

An earlier version of "The Bastard" appeared at Ruthie's Club. An
illustrated and formatted version can be found there.

The only reason to stay in on-line life is the ability to meet
interesting people. Please write with criticism, praise, or

H. Jekyll story archives:
Alt Sex Stories Text Repository
Ruthie's Club (
StoriesonLine (

*  *  *  *  *

Chapter Two: Conquest

The new life was Elizabeth, but I didn't know it yet.

"He hated me." It was lamentable, her meeting with Robb. That was good
for me.

This was the next time I saw her, in a coffee shop just around the
corner from her place, with a kosher bakery and sidewalk tables.
Picture her face, wind-chapped cheekbones, a wool peasant sweater, the
sky only partly cloudy, a beret pulled far down while she sipped
cappuccino. I was happy because women who need you are vulnerable.

"I can't believe that. Tell me what happened."

"You know him. I don't. I just want to know what I did wrong."


"Well, he was there with two other people. I started to play but he
stopped me after a few bars and began correcting me!" She looked half
humiliated and half angry. She shook her head. "I had to play the same
passage over and over and he kept pointing out things. One of the
others, the woman, asked me why I held the bow like I do, and suggested
I change it. Edward, I hold it the way you're supposed to! It's not
something idiosyncratic about me!"

She sighed and looked away. I waited.

"Then Mr. Rennick brought out sheet music and made me work on that. He
never let me finish anything! Finally he said they didn't have any
openings. He gave me the name of a teacher and told me to see him."

She stopped again.


"Well what was I doing there? Am I that bad? They could have told me
straight off they didn't want me, but they let me think I might have a
chance!" I shook my head, sympathetically. "It was the worst experience
in my life!"

It's dicey, Ed. Be careful how you handle this. She might be wrong. Or
she could have blown it. She's feeling rejected, not thinking the
experience through. Don't answer right away. Talk her through it. Get
the details. Get the whole picture, so you can be her hero, her
confidant, the man she thinks about in the evening. Ready? Go.

"How much time did they give you?" That much?

"And who else was in the room?" It's what I thought.

" And who did Robb send you to for lessons?" I know of him. It's okay.
Almost certainly. Let her know. Yes. This will score big with her.
You're on your way in, Ed Hyde.

"Okay. Okay. I see. Elizabeth, I think they liked you."

"You weren't there, Edward! He hated me!"

"Have you ever seen `A Chorus Line'?"

"This isn't Broadway."

"It's still show biz, schweetheart. People can be cold."

"He hated me!"

"Look, I can find out. Do you mind if I call him?"

"No! I couldn't stand that."

"Just to check. He doesn't know we're having this conversation. I'll
bring it up in the middle of something, an off-the-cuff question."

"What if he really did hate me?"

"Don't you want to find out?"

She paused. "I don't know."

In the end I sent Robb an email. "Do I get lunch? The divine Ms.
Peabody thinks you hated her. Ed."

He answered that evening. "you get lettuce wraps and peanut sauce, ed
-- a few months working with georgie s. and she'll be good to go -- and
tell your friend this business ain't for sissies."


So now there was movement. You could feel it. Immense power. Momentum.
Unstoppable. Panzers moving across the countryside, though I have no
idea of the significance of that particular image. I got an enormous
hug when I gave Elizabeth the news, and I parlayed it into a series of
little kisses. And the rush continued. In the end, getting to fuck
Elizabeth Peabody was far easier -- and quicker -- than I had expected.

I took her to Salem. That's `witch-haunted Salem' for the tourist
trade, and she was a complete tourist. I couldn't believe she had never
been there. It's so her kind of place. Of course she was happy to go
with me. It was sunny when we left Boston but there were clouds to the
West and the breeze was starting to kick up, so it was going to have
the right atmosphere. It was already chilly by the time we arrived.

I was careful. We didn't hold hands on the way up, or in the kitschy
museums or the restaurant where we had lunch. I didn't push anything.
She liked the little shops, especially the witchy and New Age ones. "If
you like these, what about Nathaniel Hawthorne's house?"

"That's here?"

"Are you sure you're from New England? I bet you've never seen the
Miskatonic River either." She got that joke. "We'd best hurry. It might
rain." I checked the tourist map.

The house was perfect for her, as old as lust and full of shadows,
especially so with the clouds now coming in low on the wind and the air
turning cold. You could imagine witchcraft and demons about the place,
and curses, and timeless romance. You could imagine anything. I could
imagine Elizabeth sighing while I played with her body in a
17th-century attic. The sky fell just before I took a photo of her
under the moss-covered roof at one of the doors, so her hair flew and
she had to shiver against the wind. I told her how exotic and lovely
she was there, how other-worldly. I showed her the pic so she could see
it was true.

"You haven't read `The House of the Seven Gables'?" Again I had a hard
time believing it. "You belong in a story like that, full of mystery
and romance and ghosts." 

Whoa! That's romance novel dialogue. Unless she's a complete innocent
she'll laugh at it. 

But she didn't. That should have told me something.

I pulled her away from the house, out into the sky. Of course her hand
was cold and she was glad for me to take it. We walked into
legitimately old places, away from the tourists, away from the main
streets, down lanes where people still live in houses built in the
1600s, across alleyways, got lost, somehow looped by the bay where the
water was choppy and there were whitecaps, and finally wound up back in
the tourist district, near the statue of the Puritan that people
mistake for a witch.

We held hands almost the entire time. From time to time, really heavy
gusts would hit us, and Elizabeth would hug her arms to her front and
huddle against them. During the second one I gave her a bear hug and
blocked the wind with my body, and she leaned into me until it passed.
We did it again. She laughed during it. She sounded childlike, joyful,
while we stood firm against the spirits of the wind. The next time I
gave her a sneak-attack kiss to surprise her. The time after that, she
waited for the kiss. After that we walked with our arms around each
other between gusts.

On the way home she fell asleep. I could tell she was nodding off.
"That's okay," I told her. "I'll wake you if we ever we get back to
town." She smiled and said "No, I'm okay," but a few minutes later she
was out, her cheeks red from the wind, her legs splayed open, her knees
and inches of her thighs teasing me. I thought I could slide my hand up
between them, but I wasn't stupid enough to let *it* take control right


"Wake up, Elizabeth." It was already dark because of the overcast, so
dark the street lights had come on, but the clouds broke at the horizon
and red light poured over us.

"I'm awake. Isn't it beautiful?"

"Mm-hmm. Would you like to stop for a bite?"

"Let's go to my apartment. I can fix us a quick meal." So I was being
invited in. "Is that okay?" She sounded like she was afraid she had
offended me.

"I'm honored."

She lives in an old, completely ordinary apartment building. The hall
floors are covered by those tiny hexagonal tiles you see in almost all
such buildings, and there are the plaster walls covered with
seventy-two layers of ivory-colored paint. Her apartment, though, is
something else. It is an Emily's home, tiny and chill, with dark wood
floors and wainscoting. She had added wall-hangings, cloth carpets,
small nineteenth century prints, candlestick holders, and dark wood
furniture to match the floors.

The first thing I noticed was her cello. It was resting on a stand with
the bow hanging behind it, in front of a little gas-log fireplace that
she lit, in a living room that was hardly an antechamber. She went
around the place lighting candles everywhere. I couldn't be sure -- not
yet -- if she was making it romantic for me, or if she always kept it
like that, like an Emily would. I went to use the bathroom while she
began preparing dinner. It shouldn't have surprised me to find two
candles burning in front of the mirror. They made me want to leave the
lights off entirely.

Back in the living room I brushed my fingers along the body of the
cello. The finish was so old it was textured instead of perfectly
smooth, and the fire shone only dimly on it, reddish, dark gold, in
auras that shifted with the flame. When my arm touched the bow it swung
back and forth.

Elizabeth had arranged her music in a little shrine -- the cello, the
chair, and the sheet music stand placed around the fireplace. It fitted
the rest of the apartment, the whole thing being archaic and isolated.
She could come home, I thought, and close the door on the horns and
sirens, the stores and the people, the T, the noises of the city, to
her own little magical place. Was it the arrangement of someone who
didn't want to notice how alone she was, or who wanted to imagine she
was part of some enchanted world where she wasn't alone? Had it ever
been shared with outsiders? It affected my imagination. I could see her
playing the cello before the fire, practicing a tender melody to hold
off her loneliness and -- for the moment -- being content.

"Edward..." She stuck her face through the doorway. "Will you open the
wine? The tilapia's almost ready."

At the table she held a tiny bit of fish on her fork, a few inches
above her plate, and watched me take my first taste. "Is it okay?"

"Yes. It's wonderful."

"Is it spicy enough for you? Sometimes I don't use enough."

"It's fantastic." Now I couldn't add salt.

"I hope it's not too bland."

"Elizabeth, the heavens will tremble to the taste of your tilapia, and
stars will sigh in sorrow because I get to sup."

She smiled and looked down at her plate. "You're teasing me."

"Uh-huh. But it really is good eats." She had fresh cut pears, and had
made a small salad of greens and sliced almonds and canned tangerines,
and had prepared a wild rice dish. It was very good, even the wine, but
she only picked at hers. "Aren't you hungry?"

"Oh, I'm ravished."

When she realized what she'd said looked down again. 

My, my! Is that on your mind? Time to change the subject, to let you
off the hook for now, to let you get comfortable with the idea.

"How old were you when you first knew you had it?"

"What? Had what?"

"It. Talent. On the cello. The hands. The feel for it. When did you
know you were so good at it?"

"Oh, I'm not that good."


She started. 

Be a little more careful, Ed. Try again.

"Excuse me, but you know that's not true. You have *it*."

She stared at me a moment.

"Well. I was about fifteen. The school strings program needed a
cellist, and I was only second violin, so I volunteered. I loved it
from the very first time. It feels different--the position and heft of
it, and it has such a wonderful timbre. For the first few months I used
the school's old cello, and I even loved it."

Bingo! She changed right in front of me--her face, her voice, everything
about her. There wasn't time enough in the day for her to tell me about
her instrument. We cleared the table while she told me how she'd
finally mastered vibrato, how it had come to her over a weekend. While
I washed and she dried, she told me how much trouble she'd had
developing calluses, how she'd broken a blister and bled during a
school concert, and how she has this thing for Yo-Yo Ma. 

Hell, I have this thing for Yo-Yo Ma! We all do. Miss Elizabeth
Peabody, you are a complete music geek. Can we talk about sex, instead?
Will you take it up the ass for me?

When she stopped for a breath I asked her,

"Play something for me."

She froze. "Oh, you don't want to hear that." The air came out of that
balloon quickly enough.

"Yes I do. Come on." I took her hand and pulled her into the living


"It's waiting for you."

"No, Edward."


"Play what?"

"Anything. Some solo."

"Well, I guess." She sat on the cello chair and adjusted it, took the
bow, tightened and rosined it, took the cello from the stand. I stood
next to the fire, leaning against the mantle. She was looking around.
"I know! Bach's `First Suite for Cello'. The Prelude is wonderful." She
looked for the music. Once she found it she futzed with the tuning,
doing this and that, and I found myself cocking my head at her and
raising my palms in a question shrug. Finally, she started. But she
made a mistake. She started over and made another mistake. I was
certain I had her. Second date!

"You think that's gonna get you off the hook?"

She began again, and yes, it was as good as the other night. It was
better. She played the same way, her left hand moving up and down, her
fingers almost ectoplasmic. So maybe I could like a ghostly woman.
Elizabeth would glance at the sheet music and then half close her eyes,
but she really didn't need to look. Like the other night, I could feel
it. She was right about the timbre. The cello is warmer than the
violin, but its solos are so damn somber. They sound as though they're
waiting for all the other instruments to come back and cheer them up.

After the first few notes I recognized the music. The Bach `Prelude' is
an Emily sort of piece, rich and sad, with the performer alone in the
world, waiting for something, offering the barest hint of a promise of
something. Or a hope. A hope of what? Of love?

It was time.

I leaned away from the wall and walked around her to where I could see
the sheet music, as if that interested me. She played through this, but
the moment I put a hand on her shoulder she stopped. I had barely
touched her.

"Keep playing."

She started at the place she'd stopped, but now she stared at the sheet
music. Or at least she stared toward it, away from me, as though trying
not to show she was aware of what I was doing. I moved my hand to her
cheek. She concentrated on the music. Playing. Concentrating. Playing.
There was color in her cheeks. I moved both hands to her shoulders,
right at her neck, and she kept on, showing no notice whatsoever. I
leaned down and touched my mouth to the top of her head and held myself
there. The only way I could tell she felt this was from the way her
shoulders went tight.

It was when I bent over further and kissed her ear that she stopped
again. She was panting. I kissed her cheek. I moved a hand under her
chin and raised her face upward, and twisted around to kiss her mouth.
She kissed me back. Her breathing was uneven. I stepped around in front
to kiss her better.

"Wait." She gasped it. "I can't."

"Can't?" Could I have miscalculated?

"Not like this. Wait." She broke away from me so that she was leaning
toward the stand and she placed the cello on it. She was careful. She
loosened the bow and hung it and then finally turned back toward me and
stood up. "Okay." Only then was I able to kiss her properly.


I didn't touch her body, not for the longest time. We kissed in front
of the little fire, changing the pressure and the suction and the
motion while we did it, touching the tips of our tongues, then sliding
cheeks across each other. I pulled her to me with my right arm and used
my left hand to touch her cheek, eyelids, her neck, her mouth. At one
point we pulled back and I trailed my middle finger across her lips and
she sucked it in. I let her suck it for a minute, pushing it in and
then pulling it part way out. Her eyes never left my face. I let her
fellate my finger, or was I finger-fucking her mouth? It doesn't
matter. It was to let her know I liked how it felt and liked what it
represented. Now I could take the next step.

I pulled my finger out and placed my hands on her breasts, over her
blouse. I just touched the tips. Her breasts are oval and soft, all
natural, what there is of them. I grasped the tips and squeezed a
little, and she closed her eyes.

"Loosen your hair." I didn't let go of her nipples.

Elizabeth opened her eyes half way, to look up at me through her
lashes, shyly. She raised both her arms to pull the pins out. She
didn't step back or try to break free, and I squeezed her nipples the
entire time. When the pins were gone she shook her head and ran her
hands through her hair to spread it and take out the tangles. That
finally pulled one of her breasts free, so I had to catch it again, and
while I hunted it Elizabeth's hair fell below her shoulders and over my
hands, dark, smooth hair, almost black in that room, but with reddish
tints from the fire, all curls and waves from the braiding, making her
look almost like another person. I released her breasts and grabbed her
hair in my fists, close to her head, pulled her to me, and kissed her

"My God, you're a lovely woman."

It's a wonderful line. Would Bill Hamilton ever think of it? And it's

Elizabeth reached to take my hands from her hair. When she had them she
turned, holding on to one, and without looking back led me into her
bedroom. I thought it again: Second date!


A CD played in the background the entire time.

Elizabeth's body fit her face, and the furniture, and the music. She
has black, perfectly triangular pubic hair that I plunged my face into
as soon as I could. I could tell right away she hadn't experienced this
before. She kept staring down at me, looking worried, moving her hands
randomly at her side, just off the bed, as though she didn't know what
to do with them. But Edward Hyde isn't easily dissuaded! I worked her
hood and then her clitoris, and finally Elizabeth lay her head back on
the pillow and began to pant again and move her hips. I think she had
three little, rolling crests. I could feel her body change, especially
her belly get hard and jerky, and she'd vocalize, making louder "O"
sounds before going back to panting.

"Come here." I'd crawled up to her face. She had that dreamy
post-coital look, but she didn't just lie there. Down she crawled, and
sucked me right into her mouth. This was nice, but I wanted it right. I
pushed her face off me and knelt up. "Do it this way." Elizabeth rose
to her knees and bent herself at the waist. She sucked me in. Her hair
fell onto my penis, almost hiding what she doing, so I gathered it and
held her by it. She began again, down and up. It was almost a bobbing,
a slow bob. She wasn't very good. She didn't know how to suck or how to
keep her teeth off me, but it didn't make any difference. I was close
anyway. I began moving my hips and hissing, whispering, "Yes. Like
that. Like that."

But she pulled back again, off me entirely. She pushed her hair back
with her hands and looked down at my prick. "Do it all the way,

Push the point. Make the effort.

"I'm sorry. I can't."


"I've never done it before. I'm sorry."

"I'd like you to try. You feel wonderful."

"I'm sorry." She turned her face away. "Are you disappointed?"

"My God." I pulled her up and kissed her. "In you? Elizabeth! I'll take
a little disappointment to be with you." 

Damn, I wanted it! Fuck it all! It was almost enough to make me push
her too far. Instead I pushed her only a short distance, down, onto her
back, and knelt between her legs, then lay on top of her and kissed
her. She kissed back, and we were all lips and tongues for a moment
before she broke the kiss off and panted up at me.

"I know men like it."

She was back on fellatio. 

Drop it, Elizabeth. Don't bring it up if you're not going down. 

She panted some more and put a hand on my cheek. "I don't want to
disappoint you." She hugged me as hard as she could and burrowed her
face into my neck. "Maybe another time? I'll work on it. Is that okay?"

It was hard to work free, she has holding me so tightly. "Here,
Elizabeth. Here. Later is fine. We have world enough and time. Let's do
this." I lifted off her a little and felt for her vagina. She was
slippery. I took my penis and put the head to her opening and pushed.
Ahh! The first contact, the flower being pushed open. The best contact.
I watched her while I did it, and her eyes closed completely. 

Elizabeth, you're a delicate flower yourself, almost untouched by man.
I'll touch you and change you. I'll enslave you.

Later, after we had dozed, I turned to see the clock. Elizabeth stroked
my back. "Can you spend the night? I have an extra toothbrush."

Sorry, Elizabeth. There will be bigger disappointments than your new
lover departing after sex, leaving your bed empty. Much more profound
ones. Please accept this tiny regret. "I can't. I have an early
appointment." Of sorts. But then I never stay. Only if the party is
going to continue.

"On Sunday morning?" She was playing with my hair, looking up at me.
She still had hope.


"Is it in a church?"

"Not nearly as much fun." Not for the client. Much more for me. I
dressed and left quickly. Yes, I gave her a good-night kiss and told
her I would call. I drove to my apartment, got on line, and ordered a
floral delivery. A single, long-stemmed, red rose would be perfect. The
card would read:

"To Preludes. Yours, Edward."

That should hold her for a few days.

-End of Chapter Two.

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