Here's the beginning of the M-ness. I'm definitely skirting the edge with this one. A little bit of a different situation for Charles and Elsie.

Disclaimer: Still don't own them, but if they ever go up for sale, I'll be first in line.

Charles had unfortunately just taken a sip of tea when Mrs. Hughes asked her rather surprising question. It burned a trail straight to his lungs, and he started coughing uncontrollably. Mrs. Hughes very helpfully and perhaps a touch too vigorously clapped him on the back repeatedly. By the time he was able to breathe normally again, he had almost convinced himself that he'd not heard the question that he thought he had. She stood by his chair with her hand on his back watching him with a distracting mixture of concern and amusement. When he straightened and looked over at her questioningly, she let her hand drop to her side, and he thought he spied the faintest of pink tinges to her cheeks. Once she'd assured herself he would be well, she moved back to the settee. He took another sip of tea which she gratefully allowed him to swallow before repeating her inquiry.

"I did not mean to startle you, Mr. Carson, but my question remains; do you not have needs as well?"

He should leave. This conversation was certainly not appropriate. He should just get up and walk out. They could each go to their own bed and in the morning they could pretend that this entire conversation had not occurred. That would be the proper thing to do, and Charles Carson always did the proper thing. Which was why it was so difficult to understand exactly why he did the polar opposite of the proper thing; he answered her.

"Yes; Mrs. Hughes. I have needs as well."

Her breath caught, and she stole a quick glance at him before finding the fire immensely interesting. "Then why do you not go to Ripon with the other men. I have never known you in the years that I've been here to make that trip with them."

He shifted uneasily in the chair. "I could go at any time."

She watched him curiously for a moment, "But you don't."

He met her eyes briefly before turning his own gaze to the fire. "No; I don't," he paused long enough that she was sure he was finished with the conversation, "Mrs. Hughes, there comes a time in a man's life that who one is with is more important than what one is doing."

He felt her eyes on him as he watched the fire, hoping that she would not ask the natural next question. Surely she could guess who he wanted to be with. After all, he was here with her, wasn't he? To voice aloud that he would rather be here with her drinking tea and eating biscuits instead of in Ripon fulfilling his baser needs was more than he felt able to stand. He was sure that the conversation and the evening could still be righted if she would not ask that question. At least he was sure until she made a comment instead.

"Women have needs as well, Mr. Carson."

She had said it so quietly that he could almost believe he imagined it until she met his somewhat stunned gaze levelly. He had heard exactly what he thought he heard, and she had meant what he thought she meant. Goodness, that fire was hot. He was smothering. Perhaps he should remove his jacket, or his tie, or his collar. He shook himself mentally and almost chuckled out loud. Disrobing in any way would most certainly not be a good idea.

As though he was being pulled irresistibly into a whirlpool, he continued the conversation, "And how do they meet those needs, Mrs. Hughes?"

She looked at him again, and he noticed how much darker her eyes seemed. Turning away from him to the fire, she answered softly, "We women learn to take care of ourselves."

His mouth was suddenly as dry as cotton, and he felt a little light-headed as blood rushed from his head to lower portions of his body. He closed his eyes against the images that suddenly filled his mind. Her hands touching herself, all the secret places he longed to explore. Imagining her at night, he could see in his mind's eye the tangle of the sheets as she sweated and writhed in them; her hands lifting the hem of her nightdress, trailing up her thigh to touch the moist curls between her legs. His imagination was so vivid that he could almost feel the moistness against his knuckles and the tickle of the curly hairs on his hand. She probably started gently, perhaps with one hand touching her breast, rolling her nipple between forefinger and thumb, just as he would wish to do, although he'd rather cover it with his mouth and roll his tongue over the tip. Then as she became more and more excited, she would gradually increase the strength and speed of her strokes until finally she would tense all over before falling limp. She would lie still and spent, maybe drift off to sleep only to wake later chilled and cover herself. Did she think of anyone while she touched herself? Did she imagine a man's hands or tongue covering her and probing all of the sensitive places? Did she whisper a name as she found her release? Perhaps it was his name on her lips just as he'd imagined it in a gasp against his ear.

~c-C-e~

Elsie couldn't believe what she'd just said, just implied. Never mind that it was true. It was not something that one discussed, but somehow when he admitted to her that he had needs it seemed to open up the conversation to anything. Their voices had softened so that surely no one but each other could hear this strange conversation even if the door was wide open, which it was not, or the grate was uncovered, which it certainly was not. And then, what he'd said, that who one was with was more important than what one was doing. Did that mean that he would rather be here with her drinking tea and eating biscuits than fulfilling his needs? She fervently hoped that was the case. He had been so quiet since her last comment. Glancing over at him nervously, she saw that his eyes were closed. Then his tongue darted out to lick his lips, and he opened his eyes to meet her gaze with dilated pupils. His voice was a harsh whisper when he said, "Women are not alone in taking care of themselves, Mrs. Hughes."

She stared at him dumbfounded for a moment before looking away to the fire. Her mouth went very dry and moisture rushed to other parts as she suddenly had a very real visual image of him touching parts of himself that she had wickedly imagined only in the darkest part of the night. She could very clearly see him slipping his hand beneath the hem of his pyjama trousers to touch himself. What did he feel like? She could almost feel his hot, throbbing length in her hand. She knew without even a sliver of doubt that he would be substantial, just as the rest of him was large and sturdy she knew that part of him would be as well. Besides, she thought almost giddily, everyone knew what they said about the size of a man's nose. When he touched himself, she wondered if he merely stroked hard and fast seeking release as quickly as he could find it or did he imagine a woman's hand on him; exploring the feel of him, the firmness and warmth under her hand. He might trace his fingers around the tip and then trail them lightly down to the base, gradually increasing in speed and strength until finally he grabbed himself firmly to finish with a few quick hard strokes. Was there a name that came to his mind and lips when he found his release? Perhaps he moaned out her name as she had dreamed so often. He would lie then, spent and still, drifting off to sleep and then waking later to cover himself and clean off the sticky evidence of his release.

Her breathing had quickened as she imagined this. She opened her eyes to see that he was watching with a strange expression on his face. She licked her lips, and his breath caught, eyes captivated by her tongue. When she withdrew her tongue back into her mouth, his eyes lifted to meet hers steadily, "Perhaps, Mrs. Hughes, we should help each other."

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