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A Perfect Honeymoon

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A Perfect Honeymoon  

 

Osgood waited until the bellhop had the door open before he picked Daphne up.  It wasn’t the standard over-the-threshold lift, the groom swooping the bride into his arms as if she weighed less than air.  They’d discussed it ahead of time; Osgood was a traditionalist, but no one wanted the evening to be spoiled by a thrown-out back.  So he stood behind Daphne and put his arms around her waist, hoisting her up like he was lifting an unwieldy piece of furniture.  Two steps forward, and he set her down in their honeymoon suite, having successfully completed the symbolic measure of carrying her forth into their life together.      

 

It had been a lovely wedding, though there had been a tense moment when the minister had asked if anyone present knew of any reason why these two should not be wed.  There were at least two people among the assembled guests who were privy to such knowledge, but thankfully they both decided to hold their peace.  

 

Osgood gave the bellhop a ten and then—seeing the bright, curious expression on the young man’s face as he considered the two of them—another ten.

 

“And please open the champagne before you leave,” he said, his eyes on Daphne, a private smile on his lips.

 

“Of course, sir.”  There was a moment of fumbling, and then a pop.  The bellhop gave them one more lingering look before he left, then smiled at them widely.  “Congratulations to you both,” he said, closing the door behind him.

 

Osgood poured champagne into two glasses and offered one to Daphne.  “Mrs. Fielding,” he said, raising his hand in a toast.

 

“Thank you, Mr. Fielding.”  Daphne smiled nervously and lifted the glass to her lips.  Nervous because—well, here they were, finally.  But not unpleasantly so.

 

She set her glass on the table and picked up the smallest of their bags.  “I’ll just go change into something more comfortable,” she said, walking toward the bathroom.  She sent him a promising look over her shoulder.

 

After she closed the door, she set the suitcase down on the counter and undid the clasps.  The sheer, lacy nightgown was right on top.  It was, perhaps, a little bit silly, given the illusion-shattering nature of what they were about to do.  But she was a bride, so she had a peignoir.

 

They hadn’t really spoken about it, but something had changed between them that night in the speedboat.  Taking off her wig, knowing that it was all about to come to an end, she’d felt relieved but also unexpectedly sad.  Like she’d lost something she hadn’t even known she’d wanted.  And then, against all expectations, it didn't come to an end.  A whole new set of doors had opened.  The idea that Osgood knew the truth and still wanted her…it sent a charge through her entire body, making her feel desirable and tender and strangely safe

 

So far, they hadn’t done anything more than kiss.  A few weeks earlier, Daphne had tried to take it further, half as a trial run for the impending wedding night and half because…well, there was only so much kissing a person could take.  But Osgood had moved her hand away, gently but firmly.  “Not until after we’re married,” he’d said.  “I respect you too much.”  And the hell of it was, he actually meant it.

 

Daphne undid the tiny buttons on the back of her wedding gown and let it fall to the floor.  Underneath was all the female scaffolding: girdle, bra, stockings, padding in all the right places.  She took it off and considered herself in the mirror.  She was still wearing the wig, which had been artfully styled by a hairdresser that morning.  Face softened by make-up.  Hairy chest, muscular shoulders and arms.  Penis and testicles, as much a part of her as her nose or her fingers.  The effect, overall, was surprising, a visual juxtaposition.  But not unattractive.  

 

Joe had slipped back into being a man as if it were nothing at all.  His time as Josephine seemed to have solidified something for him, brought things into focus.  Whereas for Daphne—and yes, she still thought of herself as Jerry, too, still thought of herself as “he,” but it was complicated—the view had shifted, the world becoming broken and refracted, like looking through the lens of a kaleidoscope.

 

She and Joe hadn’t spent much time together in the intervening months; she knew Joe was baffled and a little put out that his buddy Jerry hadn’t returned full-force at the earliest possible opportunity.  But he and Sugar had come to the wedding, and when the band started to play “Stardust,” Joe had approached Daphne and gamely asked if he might have a dance with the bride.

 

She’d let him lead, twirling her around the dance floor.  “This is still about the money, right?” he’d asked her at one point, searching Daphne’s face.

 

She met his gaze.  She couldn’t lie to him; she didn’t want to.  “Among other things,” she said steadily.  Joe studied her expression and then shrugged.  The song ended, and he bent her back in a low dip.  Before they broke apart, he surprised her by placing a gentle kiss on her cheek.

 

Daphne put on the negligee and took a breath before opening the bathroom door.  Osgood had changed into pajama pants and a smoking jacket; he’d turned the lights down and lit a pair of candles.

 

“Well,” he said, walking toward her.  “Aren’t you a vision?”

 

Daphne ducked her head, embarrassed.  She knew the nightgown didn’t leave much to the imagination.  No more polite fiction, no more half-pretending.

 

Osgood took Daphne in his arms and kissed her, lightly at first and then more deeply.  They were old pros at this by now.  You wouldn’t know it to look at him, but the man had a talented tongue. 

 

Osgood’s arms tightened around her waist, and she tilted her head back as he began to plant soft kisses on her neck.  He moved one arm, running his fingers lightly up and down her spine; he nipped at her earlobe with his teeth.  Daphne moved back a little when she felt herself starting to respond.  Pushed her hips in the opposite direction of where they wanted to go.  They were too close together; the fabric of the nightie was too thin.  But Osgood reached behind her as he deepened the kiss.  Put his hands on her backside, pulled her in close.  And there it was, the feeling she’d been imagining: their two cocks, hard, pressed against one another.

 

"My beautiful wife," Osgood murmured, pressing his lips to her ear.  She felt her cock twitch, precum making the fabric of her nightgown cling to her erection.

 

“Shall we move to the bed?” she whispered.

 

She let him lead her across the floor, lie her down across the satin sheets.  There was something relaxing about this, letting him make the choices.  As Jerry, she’d never minded being the one in charge; it was just the way things were, and it was what girls expected.  But it turned out she liked relinquishing control.  Surrendering to touch and sensation.  Letting him take care of her.

 

Osgood sat down next to her on the bed and spent a minute just looking at her.  She resisted the urge to curl into herself, to hide herself from his gaze. 

 

Daphne had been prepared to stay covered throughout the proceedings, whatever “the proceedings” turned out to be.  But Osgood was already raising the hem of the lacy chiffon gown, pulling it up past her hips.  He reached out tentatively, ran a finger up her cock, feather-light.  He smiled when he felt the slickness at the tip.

 

“I can feel you,” he said, looking down at her.  “You’re so wet for me.”

 

Daphne was afraid she might be blushing.  "Just for you," she said.  She sat up and removed the nightgown the rest of the way, then got to work on her husband’s clothes.  As she unbuttoned his velvet jacket, slid it over his shoulders, he bent his face to her chest.  She gasped softly.  No one had ever…well, of course no one had.  What kind of girl would even think about touching a guy’s nipples?

 

Once they were both naked, she rolled on top of him, covering his body with her own.  For a few moments, they moved together, thrusting to find the right friction.  Then Daphne paused and looked down at him questioningly.  They hadn’t discussed how this was going to go.

 

Osgood licked the palm of his hand, reached between them to grasp Daphne’s cock.  He knew, god, he knew just how to touch her.

 

“I like…” he said, then stopped and closed his eyes.

 

She kissed him tenderly.  “Tell me,” she said.  “Anything.”

 

He took her hand and sucked on two of her fingers, then met her gaze with a shy smile.  “I like a woman who…takes the lead.”  He guided her hand down, past his cock, underneath his balls. 

 

“I can do that,” she said.  She ran a wet finger over the puckered skin, pushed as gently as she could.  Her finger slid right in, and she sucked in her breath in surprise.  He was slick there; he’d…done something to prepare himself.

 

“Daphne,” he moaned.  “My sweet wife, my lovely girl.”

 

"I'm glad we waited for this," Daphne whispered.  She hadn’t done this before, but it seemed pretty clear-cut.  She lined herself up, holding onto herself with one hand and pressing until she was in.  Osgood’s eyes widened, and she had to stop moving to keep from coming too soon.

 

“Like this?” she asked, and he nodded.  God, the way he looked at her.  She began to rock her hips softly, moving in and out of him a fraction of an inch at a time, watching the effect it had on him. The power of it, the unprecedented intimacy…it amazed her.

 

They moved faster, too excited to make it last.  She reached down to pump his cock; he wasn't the only one who knew how a man liked to be touched.  He was twitching beneath her, letting out small guttural noises.  Their eyes locked for a long moment.  He reached up and pulled off her wig.

 

“Oh, god,” Daphne whispered.  She was close.  “Will you…will you call me…?”

 

“Jerry,” Osgood said, no more than a breath in her ear.  The word pulsed through her like an electric shock, and she came, groaning and jerking.  Almost immediately, he was there with her, spilling over her hand with a soft sigh.

 

She pulled out slowly, and they lay side by side, panting.  “A pleasure, Mrs. Fielding,” Osgood said, leaning over to kiss her once more.  He got up and went to the bathroom to fetch a wet cloth.  She let him clean her off.  

 

Osgood blew out the candles.  Daphne slipped back into the nightgown, but left the wig on the bedside table.

 

“Tomorrow morning,” Osgood said, pulling the sheet up over the two of them.  “I’m going to order room service and feed you strawberries and cream with my fingers.”

 

In her last moment of wakefulness, Daphne thought that sounded lovely.