The Journal of Lucy Quince

Copyright 2012, Gem Sivad, LLC.

ISBN 978-1-3010-6578-3

www.GemSivad.com

Cover Artist

April Martinez

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Manufactured in the United States of America.

Writings from the diary of a post-civl war debutante as she gains carnal knowledge and leaves innocence behind. A short companion piece to Gem Sivad's
Quincy's Woman
and
Perfect Strangers
.

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

Dear Diary,

It is my birthday. I am eighteen and my father‘s gift is this journal. The War Between the States is at an end, and Papa says it will be safe for us to travel to Texas. We leave Boston tomorrow and he suggested that I use this book to keep a record of our journey. It is his dream, to own land and raise horses in that far away place.

Monday
~ I will note the things of importance—a history of our adventures—at least until I fill these pages. I smile at how self-important I sound.

It will be for my eyes alone.

On the occasion of my 18th birthday,

Signed,
Lucy McKenna

May 14, 1866

It’s already May. We are arriving in Eclipse, Texas tomorrow. The train was uncomfortable, the stage coach barbaric. I must remember not to think things can’t get worse—each time I do, fate proves me wrong.

May 16, 1866

This place is so different from Boston. There are no green lawns, or graceful houses. Everything is red dirt and wind. I hate it already. How can father think of moving us here?

May 20, 1866

Father and I met an interesting man today. His name is Ambrose Quince. We were in the bank, speaking to the Eclipse Bank President, Stephen Pauley, when Mr. Quince introduced himself. I was flattered to have the attentions of two men. I am practicing my coquetry.

Papa says he believes Mr. Quince has taken a fancy to me. I would never marry someone from here, not even a man like Mr. Pauley who resembles the men in Boston. I want to go home. Besides, Mr. Quince is much older than I am. He must be at least twenty-five.

May 25, 1866

Mr. Quince has assured Father that there are herds of mustang horses that run wild on his ranch, the Double-Q. Mr. Quince and his brother, Hamilton, own a great amount of property. Papa is very impressed with both of them.

We rode across the Double-Q ranch yesterday and Mr. Quince asked me to call him by his given name, Ambrose. I am not sure I should. We disagreed over my saddle. He said a lady’s side-saddle was a death wish. I pointed out that a lady would never straddle an animal.

Ambrose laughed aloud and my father blushed until his ears turned red. I thought it very rude that my words caused such amusement when that had not been my intent.

June 10, 1866

My father is dead. I cannot bear the pain. He rode out alone yesterday and did not return. I was frantic and after much reluctance on the sheriff’s part, convinced him to send a deputy to look for Papa. Mr. Quince and his brother joined the hunt.

They brought my father’s body back to me. He had fallen from his horse amidst a nest of snakes. I could not look at him. What kind of terrible place is this?

June 15, 1866

I want to return to Boston. My money is in the Eclipse Bank and I need only buy a ticket on the stage to start my journey home. Then I remember—I have no one waiting for me there—and no home to return to. Papa sold our house in Boston before we left.

June 18, 1866

Ambrose Quince has declared himself and asked for my hand in marriage. He held me in his arms and for the first time since Papa died, I felt safe. I don’t know what to do.

June 25, 1866

I am a married woman. Ambrose made me his bride today. I miss my father. He should have been the man giving me away instead of Hamilton Quince, who glowered through the ceremony.

I will be a wife by tomorrow morning. Ambrose speaks of making me his— I don’t know what that means and shiver nervously.

June 26, 1866

I blush to write these words. I did not know. I did not know. Should not girls be told how their bodies are to be used?

I bathed, donned nightgown, and sat in front of the tiny mirror on the side table, brushing my hair. I focused on how I would decorate his bedroom—no our bedroom—instead of the nervous tremors that filled my stomach.

Ambrose had also bathed before he joined me. I tried not to stare at him, but I had never seen a shirtless man before. A pelt of hair on his muscled chest caught my attention. Drops of water glistened there, as though he’d hurried through his ablutions, eager to join me. His hair curled wetly and I urged him over so that I could blot the excess water from his head.

He squatted in front of me and laid his forehead against my neck, kissing my shoulder while I dried him. I felt an unexpected tenderness for him and relaxed under the glide of his mouth as he nibbled and teased my flesh.

He untied the ribbon that held my peignoir closed, and brushed his lips across my flesh as it swelled from my bosom. “You mustn’t,” I told him.

“Today you became my wife, Lucy. Tonight, I will make you my woman.” I did not know if I wanted to be his woman. The way Ambrose looked at me made me doubt his intent. His eyes were burning with an emotion I didn’t recognize and his usual calm demeanor was interrupted by an excitement that frightened me.

He would not let me retreat. “Please,” I asked him. “Could we talk for a minute?” Fear made my voice husky.

In answer, he buried his face between my breasts while at the same time he rolled the straps of my nightgown, down my shoulders. My arms were held captive as he explored my body. I was shocked when his mouth closed over my nipple, even more so when he suckled, using his tongue and teeth to elicit stirrings within my body.

My womb clenched when he cupped my breast and gently bit the tip, growling around the nub, “You talk. I’ll listen.”

It was his ability to make me laugh that was my undoing. I had rarely seen Ambrose smile in the days of our friendship. I realize now it had been a one-sided courtship. But I giggled at the decadent brush of his words across my turgid peaks, at the same time he suckled one and then the other, pulling strongly with his mouth. Ambrose hummed with pleasure.

It amazed me to see him enjoy himself pleasuring me—because it was pure bliss that he gave. He coaxed me away from shyness. “Nothing between a man and wife is wrong, Lucy,” he assured me when I protested the liberties he took with my body.

I watched him in the mirror, as he tongued and stroked first one peak and then the other. Then, perceiving that I gazed at our image, he held my breasts so that I might better see and, cupping them as if they were precious jewels, he nibbled a trail inward, teasing me with want, before he took my nipple again.

I cannot write the rest of our wanton actions that make me blush remembering.

July 2, 1866

I have been a wife, Ambrose’ woman, for a week…the hours of darkness are spent learning new ways to find pleasure in the marriage bed. If all things were thus, life would be wonderful. Alas, daylight on the Double-Q ranch is not so joyful.

After my night of first passion, Ambrose woke me the next morning for breakfast. I was mortified to learn that he expected me to cook it. I don’t know how.

July 15, 1866

I write today because I have no one to speak to but you, Dear Diary. Ambrose and Hamilton are gone from the house and I am alone. The men are at a camp in the foot hills, rounding up strays and herding them to the closest water. It has been a dry summer. ~

There, I’ve practiced speaking like a ranch wife. Ambrose says I need to converse about Texas and how the climate and the customs influence our livelihood. I’d rather think about redecorating the house. It is very plain.

I went into Eclipse yesterday. I put my side-saddle on one of Ambrose’s horses and rode to town. He was angry that I’d not asked permission. I am not a child.

He said, “My house, my rules, and you’ll obey.” Ha! Ambrose Quince is very dictatorial. But I have found a way to make him soften his rules.

Last night he was insatiable, urging me into new carnality. We had argued earlier about my social visit off the ranch, and I’d told him about the household goods at the Mercantile and my intent to use my money at the bank to buy some decent furniture.

He was upset with me, but I didn’t know why. He left in the wagon and didn’t return until hours later when he presented me with a rosewood vanity that had flowers carved around the lavish mirror. It is a beautiful piece of furniture, as fine as anything I’d seen in Boston, with small panels for hidden treasures tucked away, and a key that locks the middle drawer.

His gift reminded me of how my father had spoiled me. The thought was vaguely disturbing as I looked at my husband, sprawled naked on the bed, watching me brush my hair. I had arranged it so that I could see his reflection as I performed my bedtime ablutions.

I lifted one of the bottles of hand cream I now had a place to put, and massaged the scent into my arms and neck. Then boldly, I stroked lower, rubbing my breasts with the rose scented balm that soothed my skin. Our eyes met in the mirror. I followed his gaze to my own reflection that revealed nipples peaked and pebbled, showing wantonly through the fine veil of my nightgown.

“Come here,” he called me to join him. He moved to the edge of the bed and sat stroking his shaft as I slowly obeyed, carefully setting the bottle of cream on the rosewood surface. I went to him, stopping between his thighs. He lifted my hand and kissed my palm, then bit it lightly. I felt my sex flex and squeeze, desire tightening my belly and lower regions.

“Wrap your hand around him,” Ambrose held my hand to his manhood and for the first time, I investigated him. He had taken to leaving a lamp burning when we conducted out intimacies. I looked with interest at his organ. Outside—silken steel, soft over hard—a paradox in nature. Ambrose shifted my hand under his, teaching me to stroke him …up and down…up and down.

A white liquid seeped from the slit in the end of his ruby flesh. The bed was bathed in candlelight and I avidly perused his body.

“What do you call this,” I squeezed his manhood to let him know what I questioned.

“Cock, rod, dick, pecker, hard-on…” he groaned under my ministrations, moving my hand lower. “And these are my balls, sack, nuts…”

I explored him, gently running a finger along the seam of his sack—two nuggets were inside. His cock grew as I rubbed him and gently squeezed.

“Taste me,” he ordered. I could not believe what he proposed. Put my mouth on that plum-like head leaking fluid? I tried to back away.

But, he was inflexible. He put his hand on the back of my neck and brought my mouth, my lips to his engorged flesh. I touched the head with the tip of my tongue and felt him shudder wildly. For a moment Ambrose lost his control.

The thought of ruling Ambrose Quince for even a moment brought my lips round his member, sucking on him as he did upon my nipples. He strained upward, arching into my mouth to give me more. I found that I like the taste of it; he called the fluid that came forth, his seed.

I watched Ambrose as I took him with my mouth. For the first time since my father died, I was in control. This man, who had taken-over my life, now surrendered his will to me. It was a heady aphrodisiac. I took more of him, sliding his flesh tentatively back, working my tongue along the bottom, then the side. When I breathed in, he slid deeper and I swallowed, tickling the head of his cock with the back of my throat.

“Damn, Lucy,” he groaned. I had made Ambrose Quince whimper. I swallowed again, watching him writhe with pleasure. I grasped his hips and shifted my position, sinking to my knees on the floor.

He held my head to him, as though afraid that I would stop his torment. I could not. The feel of his flesh in my mouth excited all of me. I pressed against his thighs, pushing against his cock, wanting him farther, deeper, trying to breathe around his flesh and take more.

My mouth watered, filling with saliva as his flavor burst upon me. It was my turn to be voracious. I hollowed my cheeks, making a hot tunnel and was rewarded by the feel of gooseflesh rise on his thighs. One hand stroked him there, and I reached down and pulled his legs father apart.

I buried my face in his flesh and took him into my throat as I pressed nose against groin. I should have choked, strangled; instead, I urged him deeper—licking, massaging, swallowing.