“Oh Emma, Pemberley grows so cold in the winter,” Elizabeth said over tea.
“Pemberley?” Emma inquired, biting into her buttered scone. “Or Pemberley’s master.”
“Pemberley’s, well, Pemberley’s bed, to be frank.”
“Ah.” A smirk crept up the side of Emma’s alabaster cheek. “Pemberley’s master’s master, then.” Lizzy sighed.
“Darcy grows tired of me. I simply cannot rouse him to anything. He grows tired of my touch, so much so that now even I have grown tired of my touch.” Elizabeth looked up suddenly and covered her mouth, aghast at her monstrous disclosure.
“My dear Lizzy, I have never known you to be so prudish. This is a lady’s greatest secret, and if we cannot share it with each other, with whom can we? At times a woman must take matters into her own capable hands.”
“Oh Lizzy, everyone does it. Good heavens, my fingers are positively arthritic!”
“Emma!” Elizabeth giggled into her gloves, her face crimson with the flush of iniquity.
“If a man cannot meet a woman’s need,” Emma continued, “the woman must knead—”
“Enough!” They devolved into fits of laughter, petticoats aflutter with their puckish prattle. Elizabeth regained control and smoothed the heavy folds of her skirts. She sipped her tea and thought again of Darcy. Outside the snow fell soft and thick, scrupulously erasing Pemberley’s grounds. In her present state, Elizabeth could view the white snowfall only as a reminder of her newfound and unwelcome innocence. If only she could be bold like Emma. Elizabeth did so admire her brazen nature, quite unlike her own these days. But perhaps, she thought, this was capable of amendment.
“Tell me, dearest Emma. What do you do to make, oh you know, you and Mr. Knightley’s rest less…restful?”
“Finally, the proper enquiry.”
“So go on, and try not to look quite so superior.”
“Dear Lizzy, this is not superiority but sagacity. You have much to learn from me, you are so newly wed. Tell me, are you forward in approach?”
“I suppose not, but Darcy, he has so much pride. I feel my approach would seem an affront to his manliness.”
“Oh to hell with men and their manliness!” Emma exclaimed, blowing steam from her teacup in ghosted gusts. “Particularly if one’s manliness cannot rise to the occasion. How can one learn if not by trial? Tell me, has Darcy had much experience before you?”
“Oh, we’ve never discussed it in full, but I presume that twenty thousand pounds a year has afforded much experience.”
“See, a man is allowed years to experiment before marriage and yet a woman is fit for it only if untouched. Now, then, is your belated occasion.” Emma rose and knelt next to her friend, still holding her teacup. She began to blow it slowly toward Elizabeth, the steam twisting and licking up Elizabeth’s neck. Emma watched her resolve not to move or to look or even to acknowledge this happening. And yet, her bosom pressed against its constraint as her breath grew heavy.
“Does he often touch your face?” She drew her fingers up, following the trail of condensation. She felt Elizabeth tremble, and she blew softly in her ear.
“I can—cannot, I have not…” Elizabeth stumbled over her words, unsure whether she should or even wanted it to cease. “Not since Charlotte.”
“This is instructional.” Emma pressed on. “Consider it a lesson, yes, and you are my pupil.” She continued to trace Elizabeth’s face, down her cheek and across her slight jaw line to where she slowly impelled Elizabeth’s face to face her own. Emma drew her slender fingers up to Elizabeth’s lips, just barely pulling them apart until she could feel hot breath pour out of the supple pucker.
“Emma, I—” but Emma pressed still further on.
“Does Darcy touch you here?” She pulled her finger down Elizabeth’s neck and blew a steady gush of breath in its trail. “Or here?” She continued across Elizabeth’s collarbone, down her open chest, and fingered the ruffle along the top border of her dress. The tips of Emma’s fingers brushed just barely across and below the fabric to the milky skin beneath, and Elizabeth’s breath quickened, deepened, pressing her bosom still further against Emma’s touch. “Does Darcy touch you here?” With a sudden motion, Emma pulled down on the restrictive cloth, and Elizabeth’s right breast fell into Emma’s palm.
“Oh!” Elizabeth exclaimed as Emma began caressing her smooth curve, kissing it lightly on the side as she rolled her fingers around and over and then, lightly, squeezed Elizabeth’s nipple, eliciting a low moan. Suddenly Elizabeth pushed Emma away. “Give me a moment.”
Emma sat back with nonchalance and resumed sipping her tea. Elizabeth sat for a second before deciding and, then, with one fluid motion, undid the strings in the back, her dress and corset collapsing into her lap. He breasts fell forward as Emma resumed, taking both into her hands and running her tongue along the side and around the nipple, circling then spiraling before flicking her warm tongue over and back and over and back until she felt it stiffen between her lips. Elizabeth grabbed Emma’s head, twisting her fingers into the soft, blonde tresses and then pulling involuntarily as Emma’s hand brushed up her leg, just under the petticoat.
“Oh!” Elizabeth pulled Emma’s hair tighter as she felt her delicate fingers slide up her thigh, which she spread as Emma crept nearer. She whimpered unwittingly and shook her head back as Emma pressed into her warm folds, spreading and massaging until Elizabeth felt as though she was being filled with a thick, warm ocean. She melted into Emma’s touch, her face and chest and legs nearly pulsating with heat. She closed her eyes still tighter as Emma slid into her before pulling up Elizabeth’s petticoats and running her tongue along the inside of her thigh until her face was buried between sprawling legs—
Darcy walked in. Elizabeth pulled Emma up but was otherwise immobile. Emma’s head rose confidently and she said, “Oh, hello, Darcy. Would you care for some tea?” Darcy’s eyes flashed ravenously, but he stood there, silent, transfixed on the spot. Emma took this as permission to continue, and Elizabeth followed suit, any mental protestation overwhelmed by sheer physical craving. But still, she watched him, trying to decode his enigmatic countenance. And yet, even as his face remained stoic, Elizabeth watched the fabric of his pants grow taut as his large member began to grow. Emma continued, tonguing every recess until Elizabeth nearly drew blood biting her lip.
Darcy walked over, unbuttoning his shirt until it gaped open, flapping beside him as he approached and knelt beside Emma. He pulled her back
and looked at her, hard, before gently nudging her away to take control. He unbuttoned his pants and pulled Elizabeth’s dress clear over her head, running his tongue from her thigh up her stomach to her breasts, circling her nipple before grabbing her face and crushing his lips against hers.
“You must go now,” he growled to Emma, who stood up and pressed down her skirts with a grin. She walked to the doorway and watched for a
moment. Darcy’s large, heavy organ fell from his pants, where he grabbed it in his left hand and began stroking it as he descended between Elizabeth’s legs then up, twisting her nipple in his taut mouth as he slowly teased her with the head of his engorged member. Emma watched as he pressed entirely inside, Elizabeth’s hands clasping around him as he entered her, their moans sounding as one euphonious note.
With that, Emma turned and left, pleased with yet another successful arrangement. Elizabeth and Darcy were both ever sensible of the warmest gratitude towards Emma Knightley who, by bringing her to new terrain, had been the means of uniting them once more.