Thanks for the interest in this fic and for the reviews.
No long author's notes this time. Just bear in mind that this is an erotic story; it is not an attempt at finishing Dickens' mystery (although things will tie up eventually). And it is about to contain a lot of sex.
Just one note: The Nuns' House is a boarding school where Rosa lived and studied. In this story she is over a year older and no longer a pupil, but still living there as a helper.
On the day of the lesson, John Jasper arrived at the Nuns' House at six minutes before ten o'clock. As he was shown into her parlour, Miss Twinkleton was taken aback to see such a broad grin on the face of the surly music master.
'Good morning, Miss Twinkleton. And how are all your charges today?'
"Good morning, Mr Jasper. We are all very well. And what finds you in such a generous mood?" she asked curiously.
"It is a fine morning," he declared. She glanced out of the window. It was raining. Jasper continued, "I am here for a lesson with Miss Bud. Is she ready for me?"
"I believe so. I am pleased to see you taking up your lessons with Miss Bud again. I do not know, however, how much longer you will be able to teach her here."
"Oh?" A sudden panic gripped him.
"As she is now eighteen, Miss Bud intends to move out soon, to seek accommodation elsewhere in the town, accommodation more suited to a young, independent lady. And, indeed, we have little enough room as it is."
His soul settled.
"Surely you will not kick her out into the gutter?" he smirked.
"Hardly into the gutter, sir. You know as do I that Miss Bud has a significant inheritance due her. But still, a young lady needs further security in life. And after the loss of poor Mr Drood ..."
"Indeed." He cut her off suddenly, his face darkening. "I should begin my lesson. Miss Twinkleton ... in my past experience, I find that Miss Bud sings best in lessons, when of course one is trying to release inhibitions and insecurities, without an audience. May I suggest you do not need to sit in on our lesson today? From a musical point of view it would be advantageous to her."
Miss Twinkleton visibly stiffened. "Mr Jasper, that is a highly unorthodox request."
"Surely not. I have been teaching Miss Bud for many years. And, as you yourself said, she is now an independent lady ..."
Miss Twinkleton tensed, but glanced over at the newly delivered Illustrated London News and large tray of cakes which awaited her. "Well, if Rosa is happy ..."
"It is Rosa who wishes it. She prefers it that way."
"I see." Miss Twinkleton managed a slight smile. "Very well. Mary will show you to the music room."
The maid led him out and Jasper paced after her rapidly.
Rosa was already standing by the piano, her back to him, when he arrived. She looked once at him, her face stern, before turning away to stare out of the window.
"Good morning, Miss Bud."
She gave no further acknowledgement. The maid glanced at them curiously before leaving and closing the door. They were alone.
"Where is Miss Twinkleton?" asked Rosa with affected coolness, her eyes trained outside.
"I suggested to her that you sing better without her company."
"And she agreed to this?"
"She trusts you."
Rosa spun around with an indignant laugh. "It is not me she has to trust, Mr Jasper! The rightful question is, can she trust you?"
His face became grave. "I do not care whether she trusts me or not."
She swallowed hard, then, with a slight exhalation of breath, Rosa moved closer to the piano. "Come then, let us begin."
He was confused. After all that had transpired between them in the cloisters, was he now to be treated so dismissively again? He approached her. She averted her eyes.
Jasper did not speak, simply stood a mere foot from her, his eyes searching her, his breath heavy with frustrated desire. He could have her now, force himself on her, but then her eyes looked sharply to his. He saw in them, suddenly and hypnotically, a dance which had never been present before. Gone was the harsh antagonism; it had been replaced by a teasing brightness which entranced him even more. His soul pranced chaotically.
He would play her game.
"The piano awaits you, Mr Jasper. Or have your fingers suddenly forgotten their purpose?" A pale eyebrow rose teasingly. His blood was so hot in his veins he could feel its frantic progress round his body.
Clearing his throat, he flicked the tails of his coat back and seated himself at the stool. "Rising arpeggios, Miss Bud. To 'ah', please."
She opened her mouth and began to sing, staring straight ahead. She did not have a voice which would ever gain her recognition, even in a shilling music hall, but he could listen to her soft, earnest, flat tones all day. With her his patience was infinite, something of which his choristers never benefitted.
While she sang, as all good singing teachers should do, his eyes never left her body, trained as they were on her mouth, her chest and her abdomen. However, whereas most vocal technicians would be watching for signs of breath control and vocal posture, John Jasper studied Rosa Bud with very different thoughts in mind.
After she had completed her exercises, she glanced down in dispassionate query; she knew the limitations of her voice and her music master's true opinion.
"Beautiful," he stated.
"You are a liar."
He smirked. "Oh no."
She looked at him with no discernible emotion. "Shall we continue?"
He reached into his case for some music. "The Oak and the Ash."
It was one of her favourites; she allowed herself a slight smile as he played the introduction.
"A North Country maid up to London had strayed, although with her nature it did not agree ..."
He watched her all the while, his eyes never leaving her. He was more than content to do so, but when she strained hopelessly to reach the high note his musical sensitivities at last rose to the fore. He snatched his hands away from the keys and glared up at her.
"No, no, no, your breathing is atrocious. What have I told you time and time again? You cannot release so much air while you rise to that note. Control. It is about control. From here." He slapped his own stomach, tightly held into the black brocade of his waist coat. Her eyes flitted to it. "Try again."
She did. Again, the note eluded her, considerably.
He stood up, his creative pique raised at her failure to respond to him. "No. Not good enough. From here." He put his hand once again on his abdomen, then suddenly grabbed her wrist and placed her palm tight upon him. He was honed and solid, he knew it, with a physique which came from years of walking off his frugal diet with miles every day to escape the devils which beset him. He noticed her eyes flare.
"Listen and feel." He opened his mouth and sang up the scale, his deep rich voice penetrating into her body. As he sang, the muscles of his abdomen hardened further. She pressed her hand tighter into him so that she could feel the hard heat through the cloth.
"Once more." He repeated the scale and moved in a step further. Her hand pressed harder against him so that he could feel the indentation of each finger.
His manhood was as hard as rock. Had she noticed? He wasn't sure. She was so close, her small hand still tight on his belly. Her eyes came to his. "Can you feel that, Rosa?"
She nodded, slowly, almost reluctantly removing her hand.
"Your turn."
He leant down to play her starting note but remained standing beside her.
This time when she sang the tone which emerged was weaker than ever.
Jasper moved behind her. "No." Now his words were poured, low and soft, into her ear. "Like this."
Then, with slow deliberation which he eked out as long as he could, he placed his hands on her waist and drew them round to the front, pressing them tight against her stomach.
Her body drew in air desperately, rising and falling fast against his hands.
"Sing for me," he whispered, his breath caressing her hair.
She tried; barely a sound came out. His hands gripped tighter.
"Try again."
She did. It was getting worse. He didn't notice; he didn't care. He hadn't heard a note. His cock was so engorged it was straining painfully for release.
He did not let go, but neither did he ask her to make any more sound. His hands held her so tight she could scarcely breathe, and then, with a barely concealed groan, he pulled her back so that she was brought up tight against him and his legs were engulfed in the deep materials of her skirt.
"Rosa," he slurred as his hot breath stirred her hair. Then his head descended and – oh longing – he brought his mouth down to the pale smoothness of her bare neck. She sucked in a sharp breath.
"What are you doing?" Her words did not sound amazed or horrified or scared, merely anticipatory. He gave her no answer, save for opening his mouth and breathing warm and moist onto her, allowing his lips to savour the sweetest taste of her flesh, skin for which he had longed.
Her breath hitched and he felt fingers curling over his hands. He expected them to tug him away, but with belly-curling joy they instead gripped onto his and pulled him in to hold her tighter still. He stifled a moan against her neck. This prompted her head to fall back, baring more skin. He devoured it, now letting his tongue flit out to taste the soft, peach-like flesh presented to him.
His cock was rigid, and instinctively he ground it against her. She pushed her backside towards him. Could she feel his urgency even through the layers of her clothing?
"Stop, stop this ... please stop ..." But even as she spoke one hand had reached up to tangle in his thick black hair and hold him hard against her.
"You see ... I was right," he said with a low rumble which vibrated against her exposed neck.
"No, no ... you are wrong. You are cruel and calculating ... you are a demon. You cannot do this ..." Her words, sighed out, lacked any conviction.
"You want me. Say it, Rosa, say you want me."
"I ..."
"Say it!" He opened his mouth and brought it down to suck hard on the tender join between her neck and her shoulder, his teeth grazing her.
"I ... I want you."
"Good girl."
All the while his hand had been pulling up her skirts and underskirts and reaching underneath. She did nothing to stop him. He remained behind her, allowing her to rest along his tall, firm length. He was well enough versed with the underwear of ladies, even fine ones, to make light work of its intricacies. He soon found the route for which his fingers were searching.
Jasper turned his head to glance at her face. She was staring determinedly ahead, her mouth parted a little, her soft breasts rising and falling rapidly. But she was passive in his hands, allowing him to quest deeper towards the enticing warm heat of her core.
He said nothing now, but allowed his regular fall of breath to warm her as his fingers found the slit in her drawers. Her breath caught and her eyes flashed, but still she was compliant.
Her thighs were slender and slight and he worked as tenderly as he could higher and higher. Jasper was impressed with his own restraint. Years of longing were coming to fruition, and at this point, despite his erection paining him with need, he wanted only to feel her come undone on his fingertips.
He touched soft curls, downy and giving, and his eyes almost closed in wonder, but he forced concentration to reassert itself and instinctively moved down until the hairs thinned and he felt at last warmth and wet. Her. Rosa.
He exhaled long and low against her neck. Parting her carefully, he slid one finger down between her folds. It was not difficult. She was so wet it took even him by surprise. His fingers could barely differentiate between the soak of her lust and her flesh. But dragging his finger back up, pressing flat and long through the valley of her womanhood, he grazed that tight nub of flesh he sought.
Rosa sucked in a sharp breath and her eyes darted about, unseeing.
One hand clasped her skirts up around her waist while pulling her tight into him and her hand now dropped to it and held him there, her fingers digging almost painfully into his muscled forearm even through his sleeve.
Jasper began concertedly to build her pleasure.
He had imagined this girl every day, every hour, for longer than he could admit, imagined entering her, imagined bursting into her, imagined losing himself in her, but now that he had her, he wanted only to give, only to render her helpless on him. He could tell from the sheer look of bewildered bliss on her face that she had never climaxed before; the secrets of a woman's body were more difficult to discover unguided. And now it was him, John Jasper, guiding, dictating her discovery, rendering her helpless. A swell of such powerful euphoria swept through him he clasped her yet harder to him, causing her to gasp.
His fingers were assertive yet nimble, teasing and circling then rubbing hard when he knew he'd raised her to the next level of anticipation.
She dragged in a ragged breath and her eyes fluttered shut. She was lost. A smirk ghosted over his features as his fingers continued to plunder the ever-dripping wetness of her sex. That kernel of flesh, that key to her pleasure, had hardened and swollen to such an extent that he knew it would take little more. He rubbed concertedly now, harder and harder, in regular circles.
"Rosa ..." he hummed against her humid skin, "My Rosa Bud ... now you shall bloom."
She gaped, her eyes open but blind, and he heard a slight gasp of amazement dragged sharply into her. And then she was jerking under him, her body juddering as pleasure, for the first time, ripped through it suddenly and ferociously. Still his fingers plied her until he was sure the last ripple of rapture had passed through. And then she slackened.
With a final deep sigh, Rosa slumped in his arms, panting gently.
Reluctantly, but determinedly, Jasper withdrew his fingers and released his tight hold on her, pushing her skirts with dismissive insouciance back into place.
She was leaning on the piano, staring ahead of her, her mouth slack, her face a picture of wondrous revelation, of epiphany. Slowly, after long seconds had passed in silence, she raised her head to look at him, and for the first time ever did so with complete acceptance, with respect approaching awe. His soul lurched rapturously, but with determination, he bent down and gathered his things. Her expression shifted into one of regret, regret which was only there due to her realisation that he was departing. Smug satisfaction coiled through his insides.
"That concludes your lesson for today, Miss Bud. Until next time."
And suppressing the raging lust which threatened to upend him, he turned and walked from her.
-xOx-
Pacing back to his rooms, Jasper slammed his door fast, leaning heavily back against it, and immediately pulled his still-rigid cock out of his breeches and dragged his hand, heady with the scent of her, over the engorged flesh, hard, painfully, not stopping, pumping himself with violent certainty, his face twisted, until he spurted erratically with a groaning heave over the wooden floor of his chamber.
Then, pouring himself a large whisky, he threw it down his throat, his neck muscles swallowing hard and fast. John Jasper contemplated taking himself to London, but for once the compulsion was not there. His fix had come from an entirely different source. Opium merely placed an elusive, transitory cover over his gaping void of need. Rosa filled that void.
He slumped in his chair, his cock at last sated and limp, and smiled. Guilt and confusion and emptiness were subjugated. All was good.
Oh, Mr J, you are good. More soon. x