by Jaye Peaches
She held her breath. He shook her, alarmed by her sudden silence, and she gasped.
“Oh, my God,” she exclaimed. “I see stars. I feel... my legs.”
She was shaking from head to toe; the crippling impact of her climax had knocked from her the last threads of her strength. Withdrawing his cock from where he’d nestled it between her cheeks, he spun around, scooped her up, and carried her across the room to the truckle bed.
Sprawled across it, she lay in a state of stupor. He shook his head, somewhat delighted at her fragility even if it was working against him.
“You need stamina, lass. That was just a brief excursion. Tomorrow I’ll take you for a longer ride. Build you up. By Sunday, you’ll need your wits about you. I plan to make you wet and quivering all afternoon. The Lord says rest. I says fuck.”
With her half asleep, he undressed her, bathed her body, and fed her more hot milk and a piece of bread. She took it all without saying a word. After he completed the last tasks of the day—checking the barn door was bolted and the hens safe in the coop—he stripped off and lay next to her in the bed.
He spooned his naked body around her smaller frame. Side by side, flesh against flesh, his warmth smothering her, he sighed. He’d take her every day, twice a day if possible. She was gamely, keen, and courageous, too. For he was a strong man with a bottomless supply of energy; he needed only a few hours of rest to keep him invigorated.
He thought she was out of it.
“Will that be all for tonight, sir?”
He lifted himself up onto his elbow. In the moonlight that crept in through the window, he spied her wide-open eyes and full lips. He’d yet to kiss them. He probably shouldn’t. She was married.
But Lord Coleman would not touch her. Not like Matthew.
He lowered his lips, pressed them to hers, and exhaled. She tasted of butter and sweet almonds.
“That’s enough for tonight.”
She fell asleep against his shoulder, curled into a ball. He surrounded her with his arms and held her in a tight embrace.
Chapter Four
“Wake up, sleepyhead.” He tickled her bottom.
“No. Go away.” She burrowed her head into the pillow. “It’s too early.”
He whipped the covers off her. She twisted away, but not quick enough. The palm of his hand landed on her behind with a fearsome crack. She scampered out of the bed, nearly missing the second smack. From there, he harried her, crisscrossing her upper thighs and fleshy bottom with flicks and slaps. She danced on her tiptoes, scurrying about in a futile attempt to avoid Matthew’s determined wake-up call.
“Ouch,” she squealed as the stings amassed into a continuous burn. She gathered up her discarded clothes and hurriedly dressed.
Matthew ceased harrying her. He watched her, his arms folded across his chest, his legs astride. He said nothing. Words were not necessary with hands like his.
It was the beginning of a long day. Her stiff muscles had never stopped aching from her time with Maggie, and that was three days ago. What was she doing, letting an illiterate farmer treat her so? She could be back at Willowby Hall with a steaming bath and a pot of coffee. She might dine on pheasant and beef for dinner and breakfast would be at ten o’clock, not five in the morning. As for her list of chores, she had only to bark her orders at Willowby’s servants. They were her callused hands, her beleaguered back and tender calves.
She gobbled down her porridge, slurped on the brackish tea—the water supply fluctuated—and ate an apple on the way to the barn.
Betsy, her favourite cow and the easiest to milk, greeted her with a deep moo. She breathed through her mouth. The smell was still something she struggled to ignore.
Once she’d relieved Betsy of her discomfort, she cautiously approached Marigold. The brown cow kicked.
“Now, now,” she said softly. “It’s me. Dara. Just let me perch here.” She positioned the milking stool and pail. “That’s a good girl.”
She squeezed the udders and a jet of warm milk shot out into the bucket. Left, right, left, right. She had the rhythm and technique mastered. Three days of milking morning and evening and she was proud to tell Matthew that she no longer wanted to throw up.
The routine of the day was fixed around his tasks. How he had coped before her arrival was a mystery. Between the two of them, they had plenty to keep them occupied. For all his grand talk, the opportunities to fulfil her other duties was limited to a brisk spell in the evening after supper. While she might prefer the comfort of the bed, Matthew was happy to have her against the beam. She undressed, bent, and was told to hold on tight to the oak column. Her fingernails were already ruined, so digging them into the grain made no difference.
He pounded her. That was one word that came to mind. There were others. Pummel. Rammed, almost, like one of those medieval battering rams that broke down doors. He liked the rear approach, unlike their first time when he faced her. As he had said, he wasn’t a lovemaking kind of man.
While she might be a lady at Willowby Hall, in the home of Matthew she was turning into something far more wanton and unbecoming of her status. She refused to think of the words her mother would use to describe her. She liked to think of herself as his ‘lass’ or ‘girl,’ although she was neither of these things. She was a fully formed woman and perfectly capable of walking out the door, saddling up Mary, and riding home.
A week after she had arrived, she was still with him, and she was not planning on going anywhere.
The yearning to stay was stronger than ever. Her need for that thing that he kept out of sight was growing, not diminishing. She wanted that thing to do all kind of wickedness. Every time he nudged it deeper into her bottom hole, depositing his virile seed inside her, she pleaded with him to go further. He had not heard those pleas because she kept them in her head and never spoke them. She was ashamed by the humiliation from which he derived his pleasure. Ashamed not of the deed itself, but that she craved for him to do it.
Lord Coleman was a fool. He could have had her like this, if he wanted, and she might have even overlooked the age difference and come to find some place in her heart for him if he had bothered to try. Instead, it was Matthew, a plain farmer, who had won her.
* * *
One of the hens died in the night.
“The new ‘un frightened her to death,” joked Matthew. “She was old.” He plucked the feathers before the fireplace and then arranged the carcass on a rotisserie, which he turned from time to time between puffs on his pipe.
She’d been with him over a week. It felt like a lifetime. Life with Matthew had become so swiftly and easily routine and comfortable. The busy days, the constant chores, which for now had not been too taxing, kept her distracted from her worries about Lord Coleman and her future with him. She suspected Matthew was being kind to her and that she was expected to do more than milk the cows and keep the house clean. Maggie had taught her the basics. Time would tell if she would be capable of learning anything more arduous and challenging. She needed to bake more than bread at some point.
He sucked on the pipe and a stream of smoke rose above his head. “What would you be doing if you were not here with me, Dara?”
She paused in her sewing—buttons on his shirt—and thought about what little time she had spent at Willowby Hall. It was easier to recall her life at her parents’.
“Embroider.” She pricked her finger and winced. He chuckled. “Tapestry, not buttons and shirts. Go for walks in the wilderness of the park and visit the temples, grand follies that Father had built. Capability Brown, you’ve heard of him?”
Matthew shook his head.
“He turned our garden into a huge park with deer and an artificial lake. Papa invites anyone and everyone to tour around in their carriages. Lord Coleman... he doesn’t have much of a garden. And I read.”
She missed reading.
“Books.” He lay down his pipe and sprang to his feet. “You shall have books.” He left through the smaller
back door. Behind the cottage were the outhouses, a small granary and dry storeroom, which had been built on a plinth to keep the vermin out.
He returned a few minutes later with a small wooden chest. He blew off the cobwebs and dusted it down with his sleeve. “Here, take a look.”
She raised the lift cautiously. Inside were several tomes, mostly small books, a few that would fit in her palm. She browsed the titles. They were the kind of books read by women. Books about nature. Travel diaries of ladies. A bible. Several collections of poems, including Shakespeare’s sonnets, which she’d read under Miss Bramhall’s tutelage, and a copy of Gulliver’s Travels.
“I’ve never read this.” She opened the pages and the thin leaves felt like tissue paper. The books were old.
“Read it.”
“Thank you.” She placed it on the table. Who did they belong to? Not him, for sure, but they were kept in a strongbox and obviously of value, so why hadn’t he sold them? She opened her mouth to ask, then noticed he was not looking at her. He was far away and lost in thought. The book came with memories. She opened the front of the book. There was a bookplate bearing a name; however, most of it was obliterated by a stain. All she made out was ‘Barraclough.’ It was a familiar kind of name, but she could not place why she knew it.
She snapped the cover shut. He took the chest and left it against a wall, covering it with a loose piece of sacking.
While the chicken cooked, she read. By the time the skin was crisp and brown, she had devoured the first few chapters. Matthew had cooked the potatoes and turnips, leaving her be. She was grateful for the interlude in her duties. They dined at the table. She complimented him on the roast. He raised his tankard and swallowed the contents in one go, acknowledging her gratitude with nothing more than a smile.
Tomorrow was Sunday. The day of rest and for her, the promise of more carnal lessons.
* * *
The morning was no different to any other. Chores were done, the floor swept, the rugs shaken out. She admired the poppies in the fields and the birdsong from the quartet of thrushes on the roof. There was no mention of church. He was either godless or he had no time to walk to the parish church, wherever it was. By midday she assumed he was not in the mood to tarry with her. From out of the barn, across the sun-baked yard, he walked straight to the trough of clean water—the one they used—and stuck his head in the cold water.
“Brr,” he said upon rising up. He shook out his hair, spraying her with water. She giggled.
“You’ve made your shirt wet,” she said.
He was only wearing his loose shirt, the one she had managed to sew the buttons back onto. She followed him into the house and poured him a brew from the pitcher of ale. He sat on the rocker and knocked the ashes out of his pipe. While she wiped the crumbs off the kitchen table, he watched her, his eyes hooded, his expression unfathomable.
“There’s bread,” she reminded him.
He shook his head and pointed to the spot between his knees. “Put a cushion here.”
“By your feet?”
“Aye. Between my feet.” He settled back into his seat and poked the bowl of his pipe, pushing the tobacco down with his fingertip. “And take them clothes off too. Did you think I’d forgotten the day?”
She was mindful that haste on her part would be unladylike and give too many insights into her mind. Instead of rushing to undress, she made a fine show of peeling off her layers, rolling down her woollen stockings—they’d appeared as if by magic one morning on the end of the bed—and unlaced her bodice. She shimmied out of the repaired chemise while swaying her nubile hips from side to side. Matthew merely puffed on his pipe, as if unimpressed.
With her clothes somewhat scattered, she chose a plump cushion and dropped it between his feet.
“Now kneel,” he said quietly. “No fussing.”
The calm expectation that he would be obeyed caused her knees to bend without thinking. There was ample space between his thighs for her, but all the same, she felt trapped.
“Undo the buttons.” He sucked on his pipe and blew out a smoke ring.
Her fingers were trembling badly. She knew he referred to his breeches. His shirt was already partially open and revealing the fine ribbing of his stomach and the mantel of his chest. Dear God, she thought, such musculature belonged on a Herculean statue in her father’s grand vestibule.
He drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair and raised his eyebrows at her delay. She fumbled with the buttons of his trouser flap; she had to feel her way round the obelisk hidden beneath. The sight of it, so close to her face, was both startling and evocative.
“Go on, touch it. Ring that dainty hand of yours around it.”
She hesitated. He took her wrist and delivered her hand to the shaft. “There,” he said. “It’s not going to bite.” He laughed jovially. There was a joke there that she was missing.
There was a weight to it. She curled her fingers around it, feeling it stiffen at the merest touch, and the stupendous heat it emitted. She was perplexed. What seemed so hard was soft and velvety on the outside, and the skin moved with her hand while the rod trapped within was unyielding and hard as a rock.
“Aye,” he said, as if to acknowledge her unspoken observations. “Squeeze it.”
She pressed her fingertips and thumb together and he let out a tiny moan.
“Both hands,” he said.
There was room enough for them to sit one above each other. The head of his manhood was capped by a sheen of smooth skin and a tiny slit, from which seemed to seep a morsel of his elixir. He reached toward her, forgetting his pipe in the other hand, and tangled his fingers in her loose hair. Slowly he drew her head down and forward.
“Part them pretty lips,” he said softly. “Open them wide and lick it.”
She shivered from scalp to toe. There was a definite part of her that wanted to simply get up and walk away. She assumed this was her innocence still battling to maintain itself. But she had abandoned that naive creature for him, and as the tip of her tongue touched the glans, she decided virginal Dara was gone forever. With a firm grasp on the lock of hair, he guided her to move, speaking softly, telling her what to do with her tongue, her lips and where to kiss, how to stroke his downy balls with her hands while sucking his sweet fiery pole. She had much to learn about pace, and guile of both mind and mouth when working in partnership. It took more than physical endurance to please him; he expected her to be creative and comprehensive in her oral skills. She had to decide whether to tease the line of his tempered veins with her tongue or draw the generous bulb deeper into her mouth, and consume it until it knocked against the back of her throat. She choked a few times, but he was not unkind to her. When she gasped for breath, he released her head and allowed her to inhale deeply, before demanding her resumption. Demand not with his voice or rough hands, but simply with the wilting stare of his commanding eyes.
With her confidence growing, her ignorance diminishing, he shifted from holding her hair to combing his fingers through her strands, twirling the locks, occasionally tugging on one. He settled back in his seat and smoked, and with her working hard to please him, he responded with husky moans between plumes of exhales.
Was there any pleasure for her? She did not think it possible at first to feel anything other than what filled her mouth. Yet the shivers had become quivers of delight, springing forth from her belly, up into her breasts, and down into her sex. There was a strange sense of satisfaction in satisfying him as much as herself. If there was joy, she felt it keenly, but she could not achieve completion without his touch.
He cupped her chin in his palm and eased her head up. “Well done. Go have a drink.”
She washed his taste down her throat and into the pit of her belly. It was a good taste and unique, and nothing that matched anything she had tasted before in her limited experience.
She turned, discovering he had moved. The rocker was shifted aside and in its place was a kitchen chair, the sturdiest
one that he used. With no arms and a straight back, its purpose alarmed her slightly, especially when he sat upon it with an expression bordering on stern. He patted his knee. His member, the focal point of his body, had not lost its potent erection.
“Straddle me.”
She stared at his mammoth thighs and the girth of his upright cock. “I can’t.”
He smiled. “I’ll help you.” He held out his hand.
She took it and hooked one of her legs over his broad lap. He ringed her waist and lifted her bodily, until her legs were positioned either side of the chair. Then, without letting go, he lowered her. The head of his cock pushed aside her slippery folds with ease. She was poised and nervous. He possessed a strength that might cower her, but she realised she could put good use to that sturdy frame. She pressed her hands down onto his thickset shoulders and balanced herself, uncertain whether she should sink or rise above him. He squeezed her hips and shifted his knees upward. With ease he entered her, and with a further jerk of his hips, she was impaled successfully.
She gasped, feeling the stretch, the forced opening. He pinned her down, requiring her to stretch and give until the full measure of his cock was embraced by her taut tunnel. There was no room for escape for her, but neither for him, unless he threw her off.
“I feel it in my belly,” she stammered.
He relaxed his grip. “I feel wet cunt.” He cocked his head to one side. “Your eyes are watering.” It was an observation, not a question or a reason to stop. “Ride me.”
“How?” She was stuck upon his lap.
He cupped his hands under her bottom and lifted her up as if she was as light as a feather. “Like this.” He lifted her, and she came close to losing him, then once more she was thrust down. She understood that vigour was required.
She arched her back and rose onto tiptoes. The movement was delicious, frictionless and breath-taking. Gaining momentum, she did not need his guiding hands or support. Using the full span of his hands, he caressed her back from tailbone to nape, down her chest and under her breasts. A broad grin struck his face.
