THE JOURNAL OF LUCY QUINCE__________ Gem Sivad___________

The Journal of Lucy Quince

Gem Sivad

Page 1

The Journal of Lucy Quince

Gem Sivad

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This book is a prequel to the novel, Intimate Strangers,

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This book DOES contain explicit and erotic story-telling

intended for the enjoyment of adult readers.

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The Journal of Lucy Quince

Gem Sivad

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The Journal

Lucy Quince

Gem Sivad

The Journal of Lucy Quince

Gem Sivad

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No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means,

electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and

retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are the

product of the author's imagination and are fictitious. Any resemblance

actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely

coincidental.

A GEM SIVAD, Ltd. PRODUCTION

www.gemsivad.com

Cover art ©

Alanna Coca

2009

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Re- Published: August 16, 2009

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The Journal of Lucy Quince

Gem Sivad

Page 5

Lucille McKenna
Boston, Massachusetts
April 8, 1866


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 my
adventure—at   least until I fill these pages.  I smile at how self-important
I sound.

It will be for my eyes alone.

Lucy McKenna~ on the occasion of her eighteenth birthday.

The Journal of Lucy Quince

Gem Sivad

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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 25.

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.

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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.

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Gem Sivad

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June 26, 1866

I blush to write these words. I did not know, I did not know. Should girls not 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 bathed also 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 wou

ld not let me retreat. “Please,” I asked him. “Could we talk for a minute?”

My voice was husky and my own fear colored my voice.

In answer, he buried his face between my breasts at the same time he rolled the

straps of my nightgown, down my shoulders. My arms were held captive as he explored
my flesh. 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.

“You talk,” he growled (it was the sound of a beast) and it brought forth a

response unanticipated. He recaptured my breast

—my teat—and bit it gently, while he

mumbled around it, “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

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the same time he suckled one and then the other, pulling strongly with his mouth.
Ambrose smiled, and 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 his tongue stroked first one peak, and then the

other. He cupped my breasts in his hands, as if they were precious jewels, and 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 affect 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.

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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, pointing the fine
fabric of the lawn 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, setting the bottle of cream on the rosewood
surface carefully. 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 made
love. 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…”

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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 mushroom head that leaked 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.

“God damn, Lucy,” he moaned. 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.

I loved this feeling of power. I withdrew and he collapsed back on the bed,

panting as his cock waved mournfully in the air. I smiled, and splayed his legs apart to

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delicately tongue and lick his balls. When I rolled one nugget gently in my mouth, I
tasted his musk

—his essence—and wanted more. I let my tongue travel down.

Ambrose gasped and froze as I followed the trail toward his anus. I could not

stop myself and urged his buttocks apart. He trembled and groaned my name aloud,
when I touched the crinkled bud with my tongue. When he grabbed me and pulled me
upward, I do not think it was from abhorrence.

I marked that as a place to explore later, and took pity on his waving cock. I

pushed him to the bed, straddling him and seating myself with one thrust. Ambrose lay
beneath me, holding still as I drove my body against his length, taking him deeper with
each movement of my hip.

I had enflamed my own passion and used his body now to assuage it. My power

burned both of us and he anchored my hips and followed my rhythm as I squeezed
internal muscles, licking him with the walls of my

—“What do you call this—this?” I

moved his hand to touch my woman’s place.

“Pussy, quim, cunt…” he groaned and then continued, flexing his hips so that we

danced

as we conversed, “hotbox…” he put his thumb on the nub of nerves that

screamed for attention. I bucked at his touch, taking him deeper so that my pussy lips
folded back and my female moisture bathed his groin. “That’s your clit, your sweet spot,
your nubbin’”. My hips rotated following his finger, and I ground my flesh against his,
hurting inside with painful pleasure

…

July 25, 1866

I have been unwell. I cannot cook, nor tolerate the smell of food being prepared. I

have hired a domestic. She is an older woman who will sleep in a room at the back of
the house. She is grim and disapproving and if I could have a different choice, she
would not be the one I would employ. However, when I posted a notice of employment
at the Mercantile in Eclipse, she alone applied.

My illness persists. I am very sad, and feel the loss of my father greatly. The

days are long and Ambrose is rarely home. At first he did not approve the
housekeeper. But, when I remained ill, he changed and made her welcome.

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Gem Sivad

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August 1, 1866

It is revealed why Ambrose accepted my employment of a domestic. I am with

child. It has made me both melancholic and restless. I am trapped.

There, I’ve said it. I had pretended inside that I would return soon to Boston. That

this was a segment of my life that I would look back on with interest, only a dream. I
don’t know how my mind fooled my sense and blurred my reality.

I AM GOING TO HAVE A CHILD. I should be joyful, but the first thought I had

was of freedom lost. I cry at night…it is shameful, but I know I am not ready for this.

August 20, 1866

Ambrose is proud of me at last. I am with child. “This will settle you down.” Like I

was one of his cows to be herded, branded…milked. I shudder at the thought while he
rejoices.

December 25th~Christmas Day 1866

My belly is beginning to round with the child that grows within. I have felt stirrings

and last night I lay under Ambrose

’ hand, feeling flutters of life. I am disturbed by my

body’s changes.

My nipples are tight buds, so sensitive that the brush of my nightgown irritates

painfully.

I complained of this, and Ambrose whisked my gown off. “May all things be so

easy to fix, my lady,” he growled in that voice that makes me act harlot.

I am aroused, remembering. During my morning sickness (all day and night

also) we had not engaged in marital relations. I think Ambrose refrained because he felt
guilty for visiting such ill-health upon me. He is a lusty man but I certainly had not
considered enjoying the marriage bed during this time.

But the sickness is gone, leaving me with a wanton need to join with my

husband. When he removed my gown, I sprawled shamelessly, inviting his gaze.

He hurried out of his clothes, words unnecessary between us. His cock was full

and leaking fluid as he shimmied out of his pants. He stepped clear of all, pulled his
shirt over his head, and came down between my sprawled thighs, seemingly in one
motion.

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The hair on his calves tickled the sensitive skin on my thighs and I made a moue

of protest. “I’ll kiss it better.” He did that and more.

“I want to look at you, here. I want to watch your pussy change.” He thumbed

my nubbin and I hissed in pleasure.

“Look at you,” he crooned tenderly as he unfolded the petals of my womanhood,

and swooped to kiss and suckle the jewel on my crown. When I raised my hips to meet
him, he sucked my clit deeper and tongued the hot bud, threatening to drive me insane
with need. He stroked one, then two fingers inside of me, sucking on the nubbin until I
screamed and orgasmed into his mouth.

He buried his face in my folds, bringing me back to full arousal in moments. My

back braced against the headboard of the bed and I spread my legs for him and pushed
my pelvis against his chin, grinding my sensitive flesh against his teeth and mouth.

“Make me come again,” I begged him. My heat was not to be born. “Make me

come, Quincy, put the

fire out.”

He came over me then and shafted me until I screamed and screamed my

climaxes. I swiveled my hips catching the rhythm of his thrusts, tightening and flexing
around his cock until I felt the pulse of his seed spurt hotly inside. I was still enflamed
and needed yet more.

Ambrose withdrew and urged me toward his mouth. “All of us,” he growled, “I

taste all of us now.”

He buried his face in my pussy and ate at me, taking the combined essence of us

and drinking it from my body. I rode his face, holding onto the back of the bed while he
held my hips and suckled the climaxes from me. His hands squeezed my breasts, as his
mouth laved and nuzzled, teeth scraping my sensitive clit, tongue plunging deep into my
channel, chin riding against my engorged lower lips.

I moaned, hips jerking against his mouth as he suctioned around my channel,

and drew from me a spill of cum. He murmured praise against my lower lips, drinking
the proof of my need until I collapsed above him. Then, he tipped me so that his tongue
languidly cleaned the final drops of my release.

I was satiated, limp, when he rolled from under me and stretched so that his kiss

took my mouth and I drank our essence from his lips and tongue.

I heard myself give him words I had until then withheld. “I love you, Ambrose.”

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Gem Sivad

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He grunted and pulled me into his arms. I wanted to talk, he already snored

softly. “I’m calling you Quincy from now on. Ambrose sounds like an old fuddy-duddy.”
I whispered my intent to his sleeping form. The clock chimed one time in the hallway. It
was Christmas 1866.

“Merry Christmas, husband,” I murmured.

“Merry Christmas, wife,” he surprised me. I’d thought him asleep.

April 4th, 1867

The ground outside is white. A surprise spring snow blanketed all, while inside, I

became a mother. I gave Ambrose a son. We named him, Alexander McKenna
Quince, after my father.

April 8th, 1867

I am nineteen today. I look at this journal and know that inside is the story of

Lucy McKenna Quince and the journey that she has made this year.

Perhaps I will continue to write… perhaps not…

The Beginning…

Read the story of Ambrose and Lucy Quince in the novel

Intimate Strangers

Now Available from Liquid Silver Books

Published March 2009

The Journal of Lucy Quince

Gem Sivad

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GEM SIVAD

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