Her fingers were inside her, four of them, “Dear god you are not a virgin!” I declared. “Oh, perhaps you did the deed when I was unconscious,” she gasped, “Do you know I feel strange down below, as if a red hot poker has been thrust deep inside me,” she exclaimed. “Miss Rochester, Miss Rochester, stop!” the maid insisted. “My dear as long as you can lay back and spread your legs for me I shall be well content,” I confirmed, “And if you are indisposed no doubt Dawkins will lay for me in your stead.”
“Shall you Dawkins?” Miss Rochester asked anxiously. It was too late, with but three wheels and the fore one merely castoring a tree stump undid us completely and Miss Rochester was thrown out to land ignominiously on the grass with her skirts thrown up revealing a pair of surprisingly shapely legs and thighs and equally comely were the other parts on which a Gentleman is not supposed set his eyes. “Spoil sport,” she replied, “Come on Dawkins will take ages to catch us.”
“What?” I demanded. “Please believe me when I say I did nothing,” I pleaded. “Miss Rochester, I assure you my intentions.” I started to say but she had raised her skirts again.
