Miss Mabel, a story in six parts Part 4. Playing at kittens, part one. North London, September 1858. ‘Arthur dearest, what does ‘playing at kitt...ns’ mean?’ It was in one of our snatched moments together. Mabel was on my lap, and her hand was creeping softly inside my trousers, seeking for the instrument that, once she had encountered it, seemed seldom far from her thoughts. In that position the hoops of her semi-crinoline gave me easy access and my hand, likewise, had found its way to. But this time sleep is nowhere in the plans.She is in front of me.Sitting on the floor.Her long legs are curled under her.Her long beautiful thighs are exposed by the short miniskirt she is wearing.I stare at her upper thighs for a moment, wondering if she is wearing any panties, but sensing from the warmth I feeling coming from her that she is wearing nothing at all under the skirt. Knowing that if I were to run my hand to the top of her thigh, to the real source of all that warmth, I'd pull. More

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