Chapter 11

From this day on, there had been more kissing than actual teaching and learning during their so-called 'lessons'. And then in their makeshift 'study', with their books opened before them, more words of desire and passion than of reading passed between them. Her hands strayed oftener to his thigh than to the pages, and his hands found themselves at her bosom more often than to his quill and parchment; love drew his eyes to look on her face more than reading kept them on his texts. Their desires left no stage of lovemaking untried. They entered on each joy all the more eagerly so that they were previously almost inexperienced, and also were therefore less easily sated.(1)

When after a couple of days into their new... relationship? – no, she told herself, it wasn't really a relationship, not in the way people meant this word; their agreement? Well, they didn't explicitly agree on anything, not in the spoken form anyway. It was rather a tacit agreement. So, she resumed her previous train of thought, when for the first time since they had become physically intimate she didn't achieve ultimate pleasure, she made the most of it to observe and study his face as he climaxed: the contorted features, the wide opened mouth as if to let out a silent long shout, his head thrown back while his neck and spine were arched, the becoming rosy colour on his cheeks, his eyes screwed tightly shut... all this made an absolutely fascinating and unforgettable sight.

A very instructive one, too: it showed her the power they had on each other and taught her much about the similarity between men and women. And to reciprocate the teaching, once he had recovered she in turn instructed him on how to 'serve' her with... well, other parts of his being. And like the dutiful servant and the eager pupil he was to her, he willingly did.

After a few weeks she noticed with great shame that her attention was no longer as much on her studies and her education as it should have been, and also that the care she used to give to Branson's actual lessons nearly disappeared: before, she used to always prepare something, a text, a subject, a point to debate with logics, she wrote down some guidelines for her lesson and really put her attention and care in it. Now she just improvised, grabbing a book or a roll of parchment at random, and simply repeated what whoever its author was had written. What tutor worthy of the name would do that? In other words, she was simply botching up the task, now.

All that because her mind was entirely obsessed with lechery and lewd thoughts. Because her mind was crowded with reminiscences of their previous trysts and anticipation for the next one. Because he had invaded her mind and the thought of their passionate embraces was now taking precedence over philosophy and her love for logic. Her hunger for him had become stronger than her thirst for knowledge.

Shame, shame, shame on you, her conscience was chastising her, for neglecting the care of your mind in favour of the needs of your body. For giving in to sloth because of lust.

She sighed.

But apart from this slightly inconvenient piece of guilt nagging at her at the back of her mind, Sybil was feeling absolutely wonderful about the new turn her life had taken a few months before. Now that Mary had given birth to a healthy son, had survived the childbirth and had fully recovered from it, the whole family and household was over the moon and their whole attention was on young George Crawley, future Earl Grantham – as late as possible – and on his mother. Sybil was again as free to come and go unnoticed as when she first met Branson.

She recalled that day: who would have thought, back then... She had been hardly more than a little girl, and he had already been a grown man; or at least, she had seen him as such... Yes, who would have thought. That had been the very first time she had ever hitched up his tunic, she reflected, but with absolutely no ulterior motive at that time.

Well, times change and little girls grow up.

But with Mary being now fully recovered, Sybil knew she would have to be more careful. Still, she was very happy and relieved at Mary's recovery; she didn't wish her sister any ill, quite the contrary.

So yes, things were wonderful; this new part of adult life she had discovered in the stableman's arms was absolutely wonderful. She couldn't even bring herself to be too sorry about neglecting her studies; or his, for that matter.

Over the last couple of weeks, Sybil had noticed that Branson sometimes spoke during the course of the act or of the foreplay. Well, not really 'spoke', but said little things, sweet nothings, more on impulse than anything else, nearly unconsciously, without overthinking these; most of the time it was things like 'you're beautiful', 'so sweet', 'you're amazing', 'I've missed you so much', 'you're wonderful', or simply 'oh M'lady'.

At first it had seemed a bit strange to her, all the more so that Branson wasn't really loquacious in the other aspects of his life, as far as she had noticed him interact with others. Or with herself. And Sybil, for her part, wasn't the talkative sort in these 'special moments'.

But the first time he called her by her first name in the heat of the moment, only her fist name, not 'Milady', not 'Lady Sybil', but her fist name only without any title or mark of her rank, it made her get off and fly high above the earthly world. Just 'Sybil'.

And he noticed the effect it had on her, the sly little fox! From this day on, he sometimes moaned her first name during their foreplays, and she strongly suspected he was doing it on purpose, the tease! But when he panted "Sybil" on the climb to pleasure or cried it out on the brink of it, she thought it was just spontaneous: they weren't then in a state of mind that was clear enough to overthink those things.

But apart from during their intimate sensual moments, he never addressed her by first name only, of course: it just wouldn't be seemly. He was the servant and she was the master, he was the pupil and she was the tutor. That was the way the world worked. The order of things...

By the way, and just out of curiosity, what was Branson's Christian name? She'd have to ask him some day...

Yes, things had been going blissfully well, until a certain afternoon in their shed. To do justice to their commitment to things of the mind, they had actually been studying Saint Augustine's Confessions for one hour before hands decided on their own to sensually explore, and caress, and stroke, and fondle.

And after some time they found themselves partially naked in the middle of discarded quills and parchments, with their limbs passionately intertwined, sweating and occasionally kissing as he was setting the pace on the scale leading to seventh heaven.

Good... good... feels really good... was all what Sybil's mind could think at this precise moment.

In the middle of the heat rising and growing, higher and stronger, of the burning tickling in their loins intensifying, in the middle of panting and clutching at each other's bunched up clothing, in the throes of passion and between two thrusts of his hips, he blurted out:

"Oh Sybiiiil... 'love you!"

Good, good, good, soooo gooo– ...WHAT?!

To Be Continued

1. "Her studies allowed us to withdraw in private, as love desired it, and then with our books open before us, more words of love than of reading passed between us, and more kissing than teaching. My hands strayed oftener to her bosom than to the pages; love drew our eyes to look on each other more than reading kept them on our texts. [...] In short, our desires left no stage of lovemaking untried, and if love could devise something new, we welcomed it. We entered on each joy the more eagerly for our previous inexperience, and we were the less easily sated." Historia Calamitatum, by Pierre Abélard.