From the Top Shelf - In a Mist, Chapter 16

The story so far:
Chapter 1	Chapter 12
Chapter 2	Chapter 13
Chapter 3	Chapter 14
Chapter 4	Chapter 15
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11

Lennox is becoming increasingly aroused and frustrated, and Elizabeth also seems ready to consummate their relationship. So let us proceed to the climax.

Chapter 16 - In which Lennox's lust becomes all-consuming, with disastrous results.

Shortly after midnight, Elizabeth crept into his room. The light was still on and he was sitting upright in bed, listlessly turning the pages of a novel, trying unsuccessfully to rid his mind of all those erotic images of her that were preventing him from sleeping.

"Sir?" she murmured, offering him, as before, the little pink jar of Pond's cold cream. Her lips trembled and parted soundlessly, rounding into a perfect 'O' of supplication.

He felt his penis stiffen beneath the bedclothes. Standing there before him in all her girlish defencelessness, she was his for the taking.

"Very well, Elizabeth. Take down your pyjamas and lie across the bed."

Without a word she lowered her pyjamas to her knees, exposing her sweet little pubic mound with its clustered grove of blonde curls. When she saw how greedily his eyes were devouring her most intimate parts, she blushed and turned away, so that her well-whipped bottom came into view.

Her daintily pouting cheeks were a blazing patchwork quilt of ridged cane weals and lingering spank marks.

He could stand it no more. Clambering out of bed, heedless that his prick was now fiercely erect and poking out incongruously through the slit of his pyjamas, he suddenly seized the startled girl round the waist and, lifting her up, deposited her upon the bed.

"Kneel - with your legs wide apart!"

Alarmed at the brutal terseness of his words, she obeyed. He pushed her head down onto the bed so that her crimson welted buttocks were well raised. The dark deep cleft between them gaped invitingly.

He unscrewed the jar of cold cream and commenced rubbing the cream vigorously into Elizabeth's proffered arse cheeks. As previously, he began at the outer extremities and systematically worked his way inwards towards her soft peachy love nest. She gasped and moaned as his slippery fingers tickled and toyed with her engorged clitoris. His index finger continued to torment her thus,while his second and third fingers relentlessly worked their way inside the petals of her labia, encountering an even greater lubricity than before.

Blind to everything but his desires, he tore off his pyjamas, knelt on the bed behind her and, clasping her buttocks, thrust his rampant prick directly at her virgin slit.

The slumbering house reverberated with Elizabeth's sustained shriek as, prising her bottom cheeks apart, he brusquely entered her, piercing her hymen in one savage thrust and sinking his rigid tool deep inside her.

His pent up arousal, that had been accumulating ever since he first set eyes on the girl, proved impossible to control. It was over almost as soon as it had begun. As Lennox discharged his hot, sticky spending in the depths of Elizabeth's womb he groaned aloud in despair - not only at his own ineptitude but because of the way his blind unreasoning instinct had led him to betray everything he held in trust.

Trapped as in a swirling mist by his animal passions, he had in a few moments of utter abandonment, despoiled an innocent girl of her honour and sullied his professional career for ever. The shrinking agony of detumescence came upon him and he buried his head in the pillow beside the girl and wept silently. While Elizabeth drifted into a deep sleep of contentment, a cold dark shroud of guilt and self-loathing began to wrap its suffocating coils around him.

Grey-faced and haggard, he slunk from the bed well before dawn and, without waking his slumbering pupil, silently dressed and left the room. Downstairs he penned a note to his employer tendering his immediate resignation, omitting, for the sake of Elizabeth, to specify the cause. He fabricated instead a hasty excuse about having to attend to some urgent family matter back home.

He apologised humbly for the great inconvenience his sudden departure would cause and asked that his personal belongings be forwarded on by rail to Yorkshire.

With one last lingering glance at the mellow honeysuckle-clad walls of Lymchurch House, especially the balcony above the porch where he'd had his first glimpse of Elizabeth, he set off briskly - but with a very heavy heart - on the long walk to the railway station. The first cold light of dawn was starting to filter through grey clouds above the chalk downs.

He caught the first available train, a slow one that stopped at every station between Lymchurch Halt and London Victoria. Late that night saw him once again on the windswept moors of his native Yorkshire. Filled with tearful, bitter self-recrimination he made a solemn vow to himself never to undertake the tutoring of girls again.

A couple of months later, having secured a post at a boys' boarding school in the Lake District, Arthur Lennox was idly scanning the society columns of The Times when he gasped in shock. There, in small print, was an entry announcing the marriage of Elizabeth Harker of Lymchurch House, West Sussex, to Colonel Terence Montague: heir to a title, with a chic mews cottage in Chelsea and large estates in Buckinghamshire.

So she hadn't wasted any time, Lennox reflected with pangs of jealously leavened with genuine gladness at his former pupil's new-found happiness. Chuckling wryly, he thought to himself: I hope he is not one of those weak-kneed chinless wonders, like some blue-blooded members of the aristocracy, and that he is man enough to smack her bottom soundly whenever she deserves it - otherwise he will never keep Elizabeth in order.

The following March, nine months practically to the day after he'd so abruptly said farewell to Lymchurch House and its occupants, Lennox learned from the same newpaper that Mrs. Elizabeth Montague had given birth to a baby boy, "two months premature," so the entry said, "the boy to be christened 'Arthur' after a very dear friend of the family on the mother's side."

Lennox spent that evening closeted in his room. Slumped in a shabby brown leather easy chair, sipping morosely at a full tumbler of Scotch whisky, he gazed pensively at the opposite wall while constantly playing and re-playing on the wind-up gramophone by his side, his worn but beloved record of "In a Mist" , the haunting piece of subdued bluesy melancholia that had so enchanted his dear Elizabeth on that rainy June morning in the summerhouse at Lymchurch.

Lost in a bittersweet mist of reveries - that is where we must leave Arthur Lennox for the present moment.

Well, that's a bummer.


But wait. There's more. Next week.