The Highwayman's Lady

by Ashe Barker

  She nods, and snuggles closer to me.

  I do not correct her description of my nefarious career as being in the past. It is starting to occur to me that perhaps she may be right.

  “I should go back to my room. It is very late. Or early.” As though to emphasise her point, the clock on the upper hallway strikes three. “The servants will be up and about within a couple of hours. It would not do for me to be discovered here or observed sneaking back to my chamber. I must go.”

  She is right, of course, though I find I do not wish her to leave. Still, there is no help for it.

  “I shall accompany you back.”

  She leans up on one elbow, shoving the tangled mass of light brown curls from her face. “There is no need, really. I know the way.”

  “I shall come with you,” I assert, ending any further argument on the matter.

  A few minutes later I drop a light kiss onto her lips in readiness to leave her at her door. “Next time, I shall come to you.”

  “Yes, sir,” she murmurs, lifting her face for another kiss. I oblige her, then step back.

  “Get some sleep, Imogen. I shall make your excuses at breakfast.”

  “You have had no rest either, Gray.”

  “Ah, but I am accustomed to being up and about half the night. You are not.” I tilt my chin in the direction of the door that stands ajar behind her. “Now go.”

  She obeys me, slipping into the chamber and closing the door behind her. I turn and make my way back along the hall, well pleased with my night’s work. Not only have I succeeded in reconciling Imogen to my presence here, I have also managed to penetrate that tight little arse. This achievement will prove invaluable when next I need to discipline her.

  * * *

  Another month has passed and Imogen continues to flourish. Pregnancy suits her; she grows more beautiful with every day.

  And every night. It is my habit to wait until the house settles, then make my way to her chamber. Imogen is always most welcoming—and demanding. She is submissive when I desire it, spreading her thighs at my command and climaxing most obligingly when directed to do so. She particularly loves to kneel at my feet, my cock in her mouth and will swallow my seed with swift, gulping movements of her throat. She is the most perfect of mistresses and I look forward to a long and mutually rewarding liaison with her should she opt to remain indefinitely at Kirkleven.

  For myself, I am giving some considerable thought to returning eventually to the colonies. I might even manage to convince Imogen to accompany me across the ocean. I would be safe there, sufficiently distant from the scenes of my crimes to successfully elude the king’s justice. I could start over, forge a new life in that vast, untamed land.

  These fond imaginings fill my head as I slip quietly into Imogen’s chamber to find the lady herself perched at the head of her bed, propped up against a pile of pillows. She retired early this evening so I fear she may be overtired. No matter, we shall enjoy each other’s company even if I do deem her too fatigued for the energetic bed sport I so enjoy. I like to think I can still bring her quivering to orgasm and she need hardly move a muscle.

  “Good evening, Gray. I have been waiting for you.” Her smile is soft, shy almost.

  I pause to lock the door. We are unlikely to be disturbed, but I prefer to take no chances. I cross the room to join her on the bed. “You left the dinner table before dessert. Are you quite well, Imogen?”

  She nods. “I could not face a pudding and I dislike wine these days. I preferred to read for a couple of hours.”

  I lift one eyebrow in an expression I hope reinforces my insistence that she bear my wishes in mind. If she were ill or at all indisposed, I would expect her to tell me.

  She smiles at me, her expression warm and open. “I am well. Truly. Apart from a rather troublesome tingling between my legs, which I am hoping you might be able to calm for me.”

  “Calm, Imogen? Are you sure that is what you desire?”

  “Eventually, yes. But first…” She kneels up and shrugs off her silk wrap. The sheer nightdress beneath does little to conceal her luscious breasts, plump from her advancing pregnancy. She slips the narrow straps down her shoulders and the upper portion of the garment falls to her waist.

  “Are your breasts still tender, love?”

  “A little, but I want you to touch me. Hurt me.” The final two words are whispered as she lies back down on the bed.

  I roll her swollen nipples between my fingers and thumbs, pressing just hard enough to elicit a whimper. I would usually be much firmer with her but it does not take much these days. My little Imogen adores pain, though it is up to me to set our limits since I fear she will not. I continue to press and tug on her hard peaks as she writhes under my hands. She lifts her hips and shoves the crumpled nightdress down her legs, then kicks it away. Her knees are bent, her thighs spread wide. I see her cunt, the moisture there glistening. Unbidden, Imogen slides her hand between her legs and rubs her quim. She reaches further, curling one slender finger inside herself, then a second. As I watch she eases a third digit into her cunt and proceeds to stroke in and out. Her eyes are closed, her head flung back in her joyful abandon.

  “Lick me, Gray. Please.”

  “Where? Here?” I bend forward to lave my tongue around her right nipple.

  “Ah, yes, that feels so good. But no, my clitoris, if you please.”

  I work my way lower, kissing a route across the mound of her abdomen then down to the smooth shaved area between her legs. I reach her clit and dance the tip of my tongue across it, loving the way it swells before my eyes.

  “Hurry,” she whispers, “I cannot wait, sir.”

  I would usually be stern. In my experience pleasure is heightened by the anticipation, but not now. These days I seem quite unable to deny Imogen anything. I bend to my task, working the firm bud between my lips and my tongue to bring her shuddering to her release.

  As her tremors die away Imogen rolls onto her front and eases herself up onto her knees.

  “You may sleep, if you prefer. You must be tired.”

  “No, sir, not especially. Or at least, I would prefer it if you would fuck me first.”

  “I daresay I might oblige you, but I wonder if we might try something a little more adventurous, given your obvious enthusiasm for the cause.”

  “Adventurous?” She peers at me over her shoulder. “What do you have in mind, Gray?”

  I lounge behind her and trail my fingers leisurely through her damp folds. The moisture coats my hand and I smear it across her buttocks and into the valley between.

  “Ah,” she murmurs, “there. I see.”

  She may think she does, but I have novel tidings for her. For now though, I content myself by easing two slick fingers into her arse. The sphincter loosens readily to allow me admittance and I work her opening to widen it yet more. My fingers slide easily in and out and she moans in contented pleasure.

  “You enjoy this?”

  “Yes, sir. Very much. I should not, but…”

  “But?”

  “But when you do that and if you touch me at the same time, I cannot help it. I just, just…”

  “Say it, Imogen. If you want it, ask me for it.”

  She hesitates, just briefly, then rushes on. “I want you to stroke my clit again, at the same time as you put your fingers inside my—bottom. Like that.”

  “Okay. And if I do that…?

  “Then I shall find my release, sir. Quickly. At once. I cannot hold it back.”

  “Good. Then you shall love what I intend to do to you now.” I twist my fingers inside her, stretching her inner space to accommodate the girth of my erect cock. I have not yet fucked her arse, but I have been intending to breach her here for some time now. I shall wait no longer.

  I kneel up and position the head of my cock at the entrance to her rear hole. She realises at once what is happening and squeals her dismay.

  “Oh, no
, what are you doing? It is not possible, please…”

  I grasp her hips firmly to hold her still and tap her bottom sharply to gain her attention. She quiets at once.

  “I will not harm you. You know that.”

  “I do, sir, but this is—too much. Too big. I could never…”

  “Trust me, Imogen, you can and you will. And once my cock is inside you, fully inside and you are stretched tight around me, I shall rub your hungry little clit until you scream my name to the rafters and forget your own.”

  “Oh. Oh, I see.”

  “I believe you do—now. So, shall I continue?”

  “The rafters, you say.”

  “The rafters, Imogen. The very heavens, perhaps.”

  “Then yes, sir. Do please proceed.”

  I slide my cock across her drenched slit to borrow some of her moisture and work my hand up and down my length to spread my own juices along the head and shaft. Thus lubricated, I position myself once more at her back entrance and start to push. Her tight ring resists, but not for long. I know she can do this so I exert more pressure. Imogen pushes back, lending her efforts to mine and the head slips inside.

  She lets out a small shriek and I pause, holding still until she settles again. She does so after a few seconds and I press on. Little by little I ease my cock into her tight arse. I am hurting her, I know that, but not so much she cannot bear it. She is panting, her features twisting in a tight grimace as I conquer her arse, inch by delightful inch. At last I am fully seated, balls deep within her. I lean forward, my chest against her back and cover her hands with mine. I slide my fingers between hers, the backs of her hands in my palms. I kiss her shoulder.

  “Are you all right?” I whisper, though I know that she is.

  “Yes, sir. Just, it is somewhat—intense. I dare not move.”

  “Be still then and allow me to do the work.” To demonstrate, I draw my cock back very slowly, then slide back in. Not hard nor especially fast, but my actions are both firm and purposeful and Imogen’s body opens in delicate response. Soon her arse is soft and pliant, her muscles relaxed around me. I raise the tempo a little, thrusting harder as she rotates her hips, groaning.

  “Sit up, love.”

  “What? I do not understand.”

  “Let me,” I urge, placing my hands under her shoulders to ease her into an upright position, still impaled on my cock. Her knees are spread wide, on either side of mine, her quim splayed open and ready for me. I peer over her shoulder and can plainly see her clit poking out from the hood that normally conceals it. She is so swollen, so aroused, so needy.

  I reach around to take the dark pink nubbin between my fingers and I squeeze it.

  “Oh, dear Lord. Yes, oh, yes!” Imogen lets her head drop back to rest on my shoulder as she moans her delight.

  I thrust my hips forward, delivering several short, sharp thrusts deep into her arse. Her own weight increases the depth of my penetration. Her quim is spread wide, available for me to use as I wish and Imogen herself is so lost in her own pleasure I may take whatever I please.

  I drive three fingers deep inside her pussy, curling them to seek that spot just inside that I know will drive her to even greater heights. The heel of my hand rubs her clit as I use my other hand to tease her pebbled nipples. Her first climax sends shudders through her, the ripples within her arse stroking my cock from balls to tip.

  Christ! Fucking wonderful! I grit my teeth to maintain some semblance of control. I have no intention of ending this any time soon.

  Imogen’s next release is, if anything, more powerful than her first. Her entire body convulses in my arms and she gasps for breath. I maintain the pressure on her clit, tugging and twisting her tender nipples until she whimpers, whether in pleasure or pain I am unsure and I doubt she cares much anyway.

  I relax the pressure as her climax subsides, but only long enough for me to ascertain that she is coping with the wealth of stimulation and is not overtired.

  “Are you well, sweetheart? More?”

  She nods. “Yes, sir, more, if you please—much more.”

  I chuckle and endeavour to oblige.

  Three more climaxes and I know my little Imogen is flagging. Her breathing is laboured, perspiration beading on her brow. Her eyes remain closed, though her pussy is, if anything, wetter than ever.

  “Enough,” she murmurs.

  Yes. Almost.

  I withdraw my fingers from her cunt and swipe the copious moisture all over her quim. She wriggles in my lap, her arse contracting around my solid cock, which still fills her to the hilt. I caress her well-used pussy as she runs her tongue across her dry lips, nearly spent, yet still begging for more.

  I lift my hand and drop a sharp slap, right across the swollen lips.

  “Aagh!” she screams, stiffening in my arms. I hold her in place when she might have struggled to be free.

  “Be still, little one. Again, yes.” It is a command, not a request. She understands and settles in my arms.

  “Yes, sir. Again.”

  I slap her quim, this time aiming for her clitoris. The bud shudders under the sharp blow and she gasps, unable to separate pain from pleasure. This is as it should be, between us. I repeat the stroke, then once more. It is enough. She lets out a low moan as her body bucks and rolls, in the grip of her most powerful climax yet. This time I do not work to restrain my own response but allow it to surface. I shout my own pleasure as I shoot my seed deep into her body.

  Half an hour later Imogen is sleeping peacefully. I ease myself from her bed and retrieve my clothes from the floor where I scattered my things. Once suitably attired, I slip quietly from the room to make my way back to my lonely chamber along the hallway.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Beatrice appears distracted, though I cannot quite put my finger on what is amiss. I came down to breakfast to find she had eaten already, as had the children. I check the clock to find the hour just approaching eight. I am not late, not especially.

  There is no sign of Sir Phillip or of Gray. Or should that be Francis? I have been making a real effort to use the name familiar to the rest of the household since it would be difficult to explain my use of a different one. We are supposed to be recent acquaintances and distant at that.

  “Has Sir Phillip left already?” I ask, as I help myself to eggs from a warm platter.

  “He has business in Edinburgh, but will be home by this afternoon.”

  “I see.” I join her at the table. “And Francis? Has he gone to Edinburgh also?”

  “Children, if you have finished your meals then please be off. You have lessons this morning.” Her tone is sharper than any of us are accustomed to hearing from the normally mild-mannered Beatrice. Her brood know when not to provoke her when she is in this mood and make haste to consume the remaining crumbs of their breakfast. It is rare to see the children so eager to advance their education, but they scurry from the dining room with an enthusiasm bordering on frantic. As the door closes behind them, Beatrice turns her attention to me.

  “Edward has a cough.”

  “Oh, I did not notice. I hope it does not settle on his chest.” I glance at her, concerned. It is unusual for any of the children to ail much.

  “It is improving. I think he is near to recovered already. He was restless during the night though and did not sleep well.”

  “I see,” I observe warily. I am starting to gain an uneasy sense that I may know where this strange conversation is headed.

  “I spent much of the night at his bedside, bringing him water to sip and Mrs. MacBride was kind enough to make up a mixture of sweet almond oil and syrup of violets along with a plaster of candle wax, saffron, and nutmeg, which I applied to his stomach. It is a remedy that is much recommended and appears to have done the trick.”

  “We are indeed fortunate in the many and diverse talents of Mrs. MacBride,” I agree.

  “I passed the end of the corridor where your chamber
is situated, on my way back to the nursery. It was perhaps one o’clock in the morning. A movement caught my eye.”

  I make no comment, preferring to fold my hands in my lap and await whatever is coming.

  “It was Francis, leaving your chamber. So I wonder, Imogen, what urgent matter might have brought him to your room in the dead of night. Might you have some ready explanation, I wonder?”

  I swallow and raise my gaze to meet hers. I have never seen Beatrice look so displeased. My heart sinks as I shake my head. “No, my lady. I have no ready explanation.”

  “I am glad, for in that case perhaps you might bless me with the truth.”

  “Does Sir Phillip know?” I make no attempt to deflect her suspicions.

  “Know what? I do not yet fully understand myself what is happening here.”

  “Yes, you do,” I murmur. “It is as it seems. Exactly so.”

  “So, Francis is in the habit of joining you in your chamber at night?” She pauses, one eyebrow raised as she awaits confirmation. I manage a brief nod, so she continues. “You are a woman of most enthusiastic appetites, Imogen. I hope that I am not intolerant, but I find I do not care for it. Not at all.”

  I start to offer my apology but she waves me to silence. “I asked you to find a way to get along with Francis and this is the solution you arrive at? It is not what I had expected of you—of either of you, in fact. I have been ready to accept your present condition on the basis that your life has been less than easy prior to your arrival here and any one of us might make a mistake. But this—this is quite unacceptable. You barely know Francis, yet you allow him to share your bed.” She pauses, shaking her head. “This is not behaviour I had expected under my roof and certainly not with my impressionable daughters in the house.”

  “I am sorry. I did not intend for any of this—”

  “You are almost an adult and on your twenty-first birthday, just two months from now, you will become mistress of your own life. Francis, too, is his own man. But this is my home, my family home and I expect you to behave with decorum and consideration whilst you reside here.”