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imagineclaireandjamie · 7 years

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I would love a story about scandalized older jamie overhearing claire giving sex advice to the younger generation. Or maybe just a story with scandalized Jamie because those of are some of the funniest moments in the books.

To summarize the first part of Coke Bottles & Romance Novels—which was written a million years ago—Brianna, Roger, & Co. have returned to the 18th century with some 20th century gifts. Among them, is a romance novel for Claire, from Joe, which she intends to read to a scandalized Jamie.

(Many, MANY thank yous to @dingbatland for providing me with the wonderfully hilarious romance novel copy!)

Coke Bottles & Romance Novels, Part 2/2

My husband was a cultured man—a learned man, for all that, having received his education in universities, on battlefields, in the peaks of the Scottish Highlands and backcountry America. At 58, the iron cast of his world had been set, the lines of truth or falsehood drawn by his experiences—as concrete as a stone in his hands.

Ships were “evil vessels in alliance wi’ Satan.” Drunken men, while generally disagreeable, could be, “Easy money, aye?” for their generosity with information. The sky was blue, the grass was green, and if one could lend a helping hand, then it was one’s duty to do so.

Sex, too, had its own particular shape in his mind, though he (thank God) no longer took his cues from animals.

But of course, the world did not revolve around the beliefs of Jamie Fraser, however solid he might find them. As it turned out, ships were essential to the trade market, and drunken men were often liars. The sky was certainly blue and the grass certainly green, but I rather thought a distinction should be made between “helping” and “meddling.”

And sex—well. There was no defining that.

As if to prove this final point, Sacred Pleasure’s protagonists were performing acrobatics. Their boneless limbs had effortlessly folded and twisted, then disappeared altogether (“Wasn’t her leg just around his torso?”).

Jamie was vibrating beside me, questioning everything from the author’s diction (“Conquered her lips?”) to the logistical implications of sex in a closet.

“Sassenach,” he said, “you ken well how it is in a ship cabin! Ye canna expect me to believe that—”

“Hush!” I retorted, swatting away his protestations. “You can’t just interrupt a woman’s heaving bosom.”

I cleared my throat, and read on.

“Consume me, Rodney. Here. Now.”

“Aye, if he’s a snake, maybe,” Jamie grumbled, and I rolled my eyes.

“Perhaps Rodney and Harriet are quite flexible. And double-jointed, and—”

“Former members of the traveling circus?”

“Precisely.” I replied. “Now. Where were we?”

“Harriet’s consumption, Sassenach.”

“Ah. Yes.”

Harriet took a deep breath and pulled his surgical trousers down. She had never been so bold with a man, and it thrilled her.

Rodney recaptured her lips as she took his silky steel rod in her hand.

God, he was big!

He grasped her love jugs, and her nipples exploded with delight.

“Nay, it doesna say that!” Jamie cried, moving forward to snatch the book from my hands. “Yer making it up!”

Rather absorbed in the story myself, I evaded his swipe and reread the paragraph, pointing at the evidence with a poorly concealed smirked.

“I most certainly am not! It says it right here: ‘He grasped her love jugs, and her nipples exploded with delight.’”

Still disinclined to believe me, Jamie pried the book from my gasp, eyes moving quickly along the lines of text. At last, and with a grunt of contempt, it was confirmed that Harriet’s breasts were, indeed, of a particularly volatile sort. With a loud exhale through his teeth, Jamie took over the reading.

“You drive me mad, Harriet!” Rodney groaned, his quivering member pulsing in her hand.

He bucked his hips against her, and she let him go, eager to feel that length in her wet depths.

“Oh Rodney!” she screamed as he drove into her clunge, cleaving her. Her body opened to his love dart like a soft pink flower.

“Whoa-ho!” I snorted. “I wonder, which is better: a ‘quivering member’ or a ‘love dart’?”

“I’m partial to ‘clunge’ myself, Sassenach,” Jamie replied, though I thought his expression much more serious than Harriet’s ‘clunge’ deserved. Using his thumb as a place-marker, he studied the cover, scratching at his stubbled chin. “Is this really what ye read? Is this how lassies in yer time learn about—”

“I read the books for entertainment, Jamie. After all, you didn’t get your sexual expertise from Fanny Hill, did you?” I said, brow raised and hand crawling towards his leg. One finger, two fingers tapping against his thigh in silent suggestion. “That just comes with practice.”

“Aye, practice, aye,” he said, only half-listening.

To be fair, the author of Sacred Pleasure was rather…inventive with her descriptions of the human anatomy and sexual intercourse. It had more than earned its rightful place in Joe’s pantheon of romance novels, and I wondered if it was pilfered from the hospital’s collection or his own.

Brows knitted, Jamie reopened the book and turned the page.

“Hey!” I said. “Don’t read ahead.”

“I’m no’ reading ahead, Sassenach.” Jamie leaned back, rubbing his index fingers in slow circles against his temples. “I’m trying to imagine it. D’ye think it’s even possible to make a woman’s nipples explode?”

“Where there’s a will, there’s a way.”

Jamie regarded me sideways, a grin beginning to stretch across his face.

“And d’ye wish I had the will for that, Sassenach?”

“Not that particularly, no. Though if you do, I’m sure I could muster some gratitude for the effort. Not sure my nipples could though. Having been blown to bits and all.”

Jamie looked at the far wall, tilted his head. I found his thoughtful silence somewhat disconcerting (and my nipples did too, to be honest), but decided not to dwell on the images probably flashing through my husband’s mind. I brought the book closer to my nose and continued to read.

“Harriet! Harriet, my one true passion!” Rodney called out, gasping as his body convulsed with love.

He rested his forehead against hers for a moment, and then pulled away. “I must leave now. I have a surgery.”

“Well, I hope he washes his hands,” I snorted.

“Aye, dinna want her exploded nipples to cause an—” Jamie paused, searching for one of my words, “infection.”

Harriet’s shock was cut off with a hot, heavy kiss. “Stay here. I’ll be back.”

“Is it so different, then, where ye come from?” Jamie asked me then, voice reflective and distant.

I left Harriet and Rodney to their post-coital tension, only to find my husband’s intent stare.

“Why, yes…” I began, slowly, hesitantly. Quite frazzled by the look in Jamie’s eyes. “The fundamentals are the same, of course. We’re all anatomically identical, whether we’re from here or there. Of course, some are more, err, well-endowed than others…” I paused, dropping my eyes to let him know he was, in fact, one of the blessed. “But we’ve all got the same parts in the same places. Unless 18 century men have sprouted an extra organ in my absence.”

“If you’d kept at yer tonics and potions after the Rising, Sassenach, I’ve no doubt you’d have given someone an extra ball, at least.”

“If it were that easy, I should think I’d have every male tenant knocking at my door.”

All at once, a fact of memory struck me. This happened occasionally, as I recalled certain events and places of my past—natch, my future—that would have no meaning for those in my present century. I laughed to myself, and Jamie moved closer.

“Something funny?”

“Nothing,” I said, still stifling a giggle. “It’s only, just—where I come from, there are means of…male enhancement. For those who aren’t as endowed as the others.”

Jamie’s eyes widened in disbelief.

“An aphrodisiac ye mean?”

“No, not quite. Aphrodisiacs enhance sensation. I mean…the physical size of your, err…”

Despite the myriad of terms at my fingertips, sexual eloquence seemed to be failing me. “The penis. But the instrument I’m referring to is called—well, you can’t laugh, Jamie.”

“A man’s cock is never a laughing matter, Sassenach. Verra sensitive, they.” He rubbed a hand over his jaw. “An instrument, ye say? That doesna sound verra nice.”

I wrinkled my nose, recalling the strange contraptions as I’d seen them: once, in a catalogue meant for the neighbors. And another time, photographs brandished at a faculty party after too much drink. All steel and hard lines.

Jamie was right—hardly an invitation for the so-called ‘sensitive.’

“It’s called a penis pump. Throughout the first half of the 20th century, they were used strictly for medicinal purposes. To help impotence, and such.”

Jamie nodded somberly.

“But then the 1960s came around, and people began using them for their own recreational uses…I saw quite a number of patients who didn’t know what the bloody hell they were doing. Ended up in the ER.”

Jamie’s bubbling laughter abruptly ceased at the idea of penile injury, and he laid a protective hand over his own member. “Are there…a lot of things like that? Then?”

“Sex toys? A couple. There was the beginning of a sexual revolution during that time,” I replied, and I could see the questions already brewing behind Jamie’s eyes. Anticipated his response. “No, I never used any myself.”

Whether this was a comfort or a disappointment to him, I couldn’t tell, but he seemed suddenly forlorn over the notion of these differences between mankind’s past and future sexuality.

“Does this…excite you? Worry you?” I asked hesitantly, standing. “Would you rather bed me then than bed me now?”

“It’s just that,” Jamie said, smiling and pointing at the pages of Sacred Pleasure in my hand, “it is a wee different in your time than in mine.”

“That’s hardly proof,” I retorted. “20th century writers have just been forced to use their imagination. All those that came before…” I paused, squinting to read the jacket cover, “Ms. August, here, had used all the normal terms already. She had to get creative, I suppose.”

“Aye, ‘creative’ is a certain way of putting it, Sassenach. I dinna think she’s much succeeded, but I’ll grant Ms. August some credit for trying.”

“You mean ‘grasping my love jugs’ isn’t an accurate representation of all bedroom activities?”

“Nay, Sassenach. When I take ye, I dinna cleave ye like a piece of meat—though ye are tasty, if ye dinna mind me saying so.” He eyed my backside with appreciation, and I swerved away to obstruct his view.

“I object to your objectification of me, James Fraser,” I replied. “So tell me, oh ye of such highbrow literary taste—

“Sassenach,” he interrupted, getting to his feet with a provocativeness that spoke plainly of his intentions. Saunter notwithstanding, there was an equally blatant indication further south, and I gladly met him halfway. “Ye asked me, just now, which I’d prefer: 18th century sex or 20th century sex. Mind you, I’ve no’ had the pleasure of bedding a lassie in the 1900s, but…”

I laughed quietly, standing on my tiptoes to nip at his earlobe.

“I’ve been denied that privilege as well. No 20th century women ever made it to my bed, I’m afraid.”

For a man who once told me he’d spent the better part of an evening memorizing Fanny Hill, I was surprised to see the tips of his ears turn pink. Still, his mouth curled up at the side, and I felt his pulse, quick beneath my lips when I pressed them to his neck.

“Ach. I didna mean that, Sassenach. I only meant as I should ask you the same question. You being the expert, in such things as life, then and now.”

I broke away from him and offered a contemplative frown.

“Which is better, you ask…Sex in the 18th century or in the 20th?”

Jamie nodded, a current of expectation surging through him—a response, I thought, that showed a considerable (and much-deserved) amount of confidence in his sexual prowess.

Hoping to tease him, I took my chin in hand and began pacing back and forth.

“Such a quandary you’ve put me in, James Fraser. How will I ever choose?”

He rolled his eyes. A few more moments of half-hearted debate—and with the first seeds of doubt crossing Jamie’s face—I finally turned back.

“Dear me,” I said, smirking, “I’m still positively torn. Perhaps with a bit of persuasion…”

Quick to the bait, Jamie snaked his arm around my waist.

“I’ve been told I can be verra persuasive, Sassenach.” He pulled his body to mine, his hardness pressed in perfect demonstration against my thigh.

I, for one, was not wholly unsupportive of his methods.

“Oh,” I purred. “I can see that.”

“Can ye now?” Eyes gleaming with mischief, Jamie promptly dropped to his knees, hands making a gradual climb up shins, my thighs, until they stopped at my…

“Ahhh,” I moaned, relishing the feel of his fingers, moving in slow but deliberate strokes.

“Is an answer coming to ye yet?”

At the rate this was going, I wagered I would likely come before any coherent answer presented itself. Seeking balance, I ran my fingers through his hair and tugged.

“I think…I think I could be persuaded a little more.” I threw my head back and moaned a second time. “I’m a proper 20th century woman, after all. My opinions are hard-earned.”

I awaited a lewd joke, but Jamie was already pushing me onto the bed, advancing on his knees and lifting my skirts.

“Aye, and I’m a proper 18th century gentleman, Sassenach—I respect my lady’s needs.”

Grabbing me by the buttocks, he pulled me hard and bodily towards him, tongue finding the perfect spot.

I needed no further persuasion.

Sometime later, we lay in a gasping tangle of limbs. Had I any question as to the superiority of the 18th century, I was now confidently in favor of laces, bum rolls, and stockings.

But at the sight of Sacred Pleasure on the bedside table, I felt a pang of sympathy for its buxom heroine, who was the victim of more than Eloise August’s outrageous euphemisms.

The hell of it was: real love was beyond clever wordplay, creative positions, titillating toys, and forbidden locations. Never bound to a time or a place.

What the novelists could never describe was the feeling of my husband’s mouth on me, a butterfly’s touch against my dew-dropped skin. The understanding that, regardless of where or when we were, Jamie would be there, always. The century was hardly relevant—it was the hands that healed you, the lips that worshipped you, and the soul that met yours in the long, quiet hours of the night that truly mattered.

“D’ye really think there’s a difference?” he asked, breathless but returning to that same question.

“As long as it’s with you? No. Surely not.” I inhaled deeply, skin still tingling. “Jamie, that was…”

“Aye,” he said, laughing softly. “D’ye hear that, Sassenach? I dinna ken if that’s my heartbeat or yours, but it’ll wake the whole Ridge soon enough.”

I rolled towards him, seeking the sureness of solid flesh, as I found my footing not in our bedroom or by the height of the moon, but through Jamie’s heat next to mine. I rested my head against him, the synchronized rise and fall of our chests lulling me towards a satiated sleep.

“My heart or yours?” I mumbled, nuzzling his shoulder. “Is there a difference?”

I felt him smile into my hair.

“Nay,” he whispered. “Surely not.”

#;mod liv #coke bottles and romance novels #in which claire describes penis pumps #i haven't tried to write like gabs in a long time so pls forgive

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