Miss Peach's late night visit.

Dear Sir Williard,

It is morning at last. I am in my suite, afraid to face my hostess and her family downstairs at the breakfast table. It was Miss Peach who interrupted my musings about saving the reputations of the daughters of New Thames last night. Once again she caught me in a most immodest state of dress, while writing in my journal I was wearing nothing more than a light robe over my boxers and undershirt. In spite of my lack of clothing I was excited at being able to finally speak to Miss Peach in the privacy that I needed. I invited her into the library and guided her to the plush arm chair by the reading lamp, I turned the wooden chair by the desk so I would be facing her as we talked.

Miss Peach bubbled merrily about her dinner companion, and his lofty ambition to bed the lovely young woman only a third his age. She was surprisingly nonplussed by the most improper advances of the lecherous neighbor, laughing as she repeated some of his thinly veiled comments and described how twice he rested his hand on her thigh and finally had taken her hand and pressed it to his groin. I reacted in more and more alarm as she recounted each of his actions and when she told me that he had done with her hand I jumped from my seat outraged by the man's licentious boldness. At the time, the hypocrisy of my actions was lost on me, but now in the clear light of the morning sun I feel sick at what a weak-willed fool I am.

I listened to her good-natured mocking of Sir James for a few minutes and gradually I came to realize that the young women of this planet are better prepared to deal with the attention of the males species than the females that I knew from Earth, and returned to my seat pulling it closer to Miss Peach so I could tell her of my hope to repair the damage that I had done to her. I must tell you the conversation did not go as I had foreseen.

"Why would I want to do that?" Asked Miss Peach when I told her of my plan. Sir Williard, I tried for several minutes to convince my lovely guest that she could still lie on her wedding bed with an intact hymen. She didn't seem to care that it was the right of her future husband to breach her as I had, and that gentlemen find the physical proof of their bride's virtuous nature to be of utmost importance. "That's absurd!" She laughed softly. Even when I explained to her that a husband could easily think that a bride who does not bleed on her wedding night might have been compromised dozens of times by many different men before she came to his bed, I'm afraid your Lordship, that this otherwise exemplary model of British womanhood did not understand the seriousness of the situation.

"Why should the groom be encouraged to fornicate freely for the years before his marriage while his bride is locked into a state of virginal innocence?" She asked me with a teasing grin, and giggled openly as I stumbled through my explanation that the man needed experience to ensure the successful consummation of nuptials with his young wife. All the time we were speaking I found myself more and more discomforted by the nature of this late night rendezvous as well as the swelling of my member in my trousers. By the time the topic turned to the intimate wedding night of a groom and his virgin bride I could not help but be distracted by the memory of my experience with this lovely maiden. It was with a now familiar mixture of shame and pride that I recall the pleasure of plucking this English rose and the way she moaned with passion as I rocked into her newly breached passage.

Miss Peach seemed to sense my distraction with a worldly experience that I know for a certainty that she could not have, and before I could protest she straddled my legs and lowered her soft form into my lap. I could feel the heat from her inner thighs on my legs and when she leaned forward to whisper in my ear my face was pulled against the soft skin of her throat and breasts. All of my best intentions sizzled into ethereal vapor when she rocked her sex against the hardness trapped between our bodies and breathed into my ear.

"Wouldn't a man prefer a wife who knew exactly how to please him?" She asked as her hand found the buttons of my boxers and began to free my erection from its confinement. "A wife who cries out in pleasure as her groom enters her instead of pain?" Now, in the light of day, I can formulate several rational counters to her arguments, but at the time all I could think of was how much I'd like to find a wife like her to warm my bed every night. "Perhaps it would make more sense" she continued "in our modern society, for the bride to learn all the skills needed for the pleasure of the wedding bed while her groom concentrates of the affairs of business, politics and warfare." By this point she had my erection in her small soft hand, and with her gently squeezing the throbbing member I found I could only grunt in agreement and pull at the ribbons that held her white nightgown closed in the front.

"Perhaps, we young ladies should have a school where we are taught just how to fulfill the needs of our future husbands." Her round breasts were free and I plunged my face between them only half listening to her outrageous suggestions. "We'd need a strong man to direct us ..." Miss Peach paused as I sucked on of her nipples into my mouth. "... to show us what our husbands would really want ... what they'd need ..." Her vision of a alternate future began to register in my mind as she squirmed on my lap and pulled gently on my flesh. "An experienced teacher to guide a class of nervous young virgins ..." I could picture the empty classroom next door filled with nubile teens that needed a man's firm instruction "... and turn them into women who knew every way to satisfy their husbands."

My sincere resolve to resist this very temptation was long forgotten, I stood suddenly and pulled her to her feet. "Oh, I'll teach you my little tease." I assured her as I pulled her after me. "I'll show you exactly what a man wants."