She seemed to be moving in slow motion, and I couldn’t help but think this was like slow torture. I’d wanted to fuck her for so long; I felt a sense of urgency, and everything seemed to be going in super-slow motion. She continued to tease my nipples and pussy, and when I thought I couldn’t take it anymore, I felt her fingers slip underneath the fabric and into my swollen cunt. I moaned as I arched upward, running my fingernails down her back, encouraging her to continue.
“Is this okay?” she asked again, her words slightly muffled as she pressed her lips against my skin. I didn’t answer but instead moaned loudly, pressing my pelvis forward, forcing her fingers to go deeper.
“I’ve wanted to fuck you for so long,” she moaned. “You’re so hot. God, you’re so hot.”
I leaned back against the chair and arched my hips upward. “Fuck me harder . . . harder,” I gasped.
Nan groaned, a sound that made me shiver as I felt her push another finger into my pussy. I felt her other hand slide down, her fingers moving into the grooves on each side of my clit, trapping it, tugging on it. A few more strokes and I felt that twinge—the one that signals the beginning of my orgasm. It wouldn’t be long now, and no matter what I thought about, I wouldn’t be able to distract myself from the explosion that was moments away.
“I’m gonna come on your hand,” I gasped, clamping my muscles around her fingers. “Oh fuck, yeah,” I groaned, squeezing my legs together and digging my fingernails into her skin. “Don’t stop . . . please don’t stop,” I begged.
“That’s it,” she said, coaxing me, “come for me.” I felt another wave building and reached down to still her hand. I didn’t need any more movement, I just wanted to ride and rub up against her at my own pace. She kept her hand there, letting me rock on it, and moved the other to unbutton her jeans, reaching inside and rubbing herself furiously. I could see the muscles on her arms bulging and a sheen of sweat on her forehead.
She looked fucking hot, and I thought I might come again, just from watching her get off. Finally she gritted her teeth and groaned, leaning forward and burying her face in my breasts. I dug my fingers into her shoulders and came with her, one of my hands tugging on her hair as my cunt pulsed around her fingers. Then we both collapsed.
As we lay there panting, the annoying voice in the back of my head began asking questions. Now what? Would she tell Megan? Would this ruin our friendship?
I was so deep in thought that I jumped when Nan suddenly asked, “Are you okay?” She lifted herself into a sitting position to look at me.
I paused, trying to come up with an accurate answer. “I don’t know. I’m confused, I think. More important, are you okay?”
Nan smiled, taking my hands in hers. “I’m more than okay. I don’t think what we did is wrong. I love you. How can it be wrong?”
I smiled, more confused than ever, but frankly, I wasn’t in the mood to debate. I just wanted to enjoy this moment, for however long it would last.
Wenching
BY JUSTINE ELYOT
Lady Bray berated me through the castle kitchen and toward the changing room. “These medieval banquets are good for business. If we want to keep the gift shop and your job open, we need to book a few more. The weddings alone aren’t bringing in enough revenue. So I’m sure you’re going to take off that sulky face and put on a nice big smile for our clients, aren’t you?”
My response was halfway between a grunt and a sigh. I knew she was speaking sense, but I was distracted by the divine scents of roasting meat and spices. The usually frigid basement was warm, and it was filled with the clattering of pans and the chopping of vegetables.
“I didn’t realize the ovens still worked,” I told her, watching, with fascination, as coal was shoveled into the vast black range.
“Spent a fortune getting them ready,” she sniffed, then turned to a kitchen hand. “Good gracious, woman, haven’t you ever plucked a guinea fowl before?”
“Well . . . no,” she admitted, tugging dubiously at brown feathers.
The room beyond the kitchen—formerly, it was the scullery—was where I was to be transformed from twenty-first century gift-shop assistant to thirteenth-century peasant wench. I had been dreading it for weeks.
It was fine for Beth and Joanna, with their teeny waists and barely there bosoms, but the costume hanging on the rail for me was embarrassingly labeled XL.
“The skirt’s got an elasticized waist,” said Beth, trying to help. She was already laced into her kirtle, or whatever those things were called. “So at least it’s comfortable.”
“Yeah, stylish,” I drawled, holding up the hanger bearing my kirtle. A dreary cascade of patched brown fabric depressed my eye.
I slouched behind the curtain and began to take off my tunic and leggings. I might be a big girl, but at least I know what looks good on me—and elasticized, floor-length skirts most definitely don’t. I could hear Beth and Joanna whispering on the other side of the divide, and—although they were okay, really—I briefly entertained hatred for them and their pert asses and their willowy hips. It wasn’t their fault that we had to do this, but I foresaw a long evening of humiliation and irritation ahead, and they just happened to be available as targets of my silent angst.
The skirt, as predicted, was foul, and it looked even worse when I teamed it with the white peasant blouse with a low, gathered neck. The bloody thing was off the shoulder, so I had to take off my bra and let my tits just flop there. The flyblown mirror in front of me must have had to muster all its strength not to crack, there and then.
“D’you want me to lace your stays, Gin?” called Joanna, and it was only then that I realized there was a third element to the costume: a black velvet corset-type thing that laced up the front.
“Just a mo.” I placed the stay around what other people call their waist—it just about fit—and pulled the laces. “Yeah, could you?”
Joanna got hold of each string and pulled so hard I began to cough. But when she had laced them up and stepped back, she whistled admiringly. “Christ, Ginny, you have cleavage to die for. Look in the mirror.”
I didn’t want to, but she forced me, with a hand on my shoulder. And I must admit, my reflection made me blink, then put my hands on my hips and shimmy. Shimmying is not something I do often, but I was so taken aback by this illusion of a figure that the waist cincher had given me, I just couldn’t resist the urge.
“Beth, come and check out the hourglass! She’s like Marilyn Monroe.”
“Yeah, a ginger Marilyn Monroe who ate too many pies,” I snarked, but my cheeks were pink with the secret thrill of looking not bad for once.
“You look lush,” said Beth. “And I’ve always said I’d kill for skin like yours.”
Yeah, yeah, the “perfect skin” comment—always made as implicit compensation for the unmentionable flab. I am always the elephant in the corner. But with better skin.
“Those medieval blokes are going to spill their ale when they get a load of you,” said Joanna.
“Or vomit up their guinea fowl,” I said, pathologically self-deprecating as ever.
“Oh, shut up. Get out there and strut your stuff, wench.”
The jugs of spiced wine were heavy, so my attempts at a slow, sexy sashay probably turned out a little lopsided, and it’s hard to shake your booty without spilling drops on the floor.
The long banqueting table was filled with people who had replicated medieval dress with varying degrees of success. They were diving into the punch and mead with a will, already plum-cheeked and rowdy, talking and laughing over the lute player in the gallery. The jester was doing his best but was largely ignored, though the roasted guinea fowl seemed to be a hit.
It was second nature to me to shrink back into the shadows, so I found an unobtrusive spot and left most of the refilling to Beth and Joanna, who seemed popular as always with the male contingent.
I was lurking close to the fire, warming myself in its flickering flame, enjoying the music, when I noticed I
was being watched.
He was reclining, with his arm on the back of his chair—a dark-haired man with a plate of bones in front of him. He was handsome—the kind of man I’d worship from afar but never dream of approaching. I supposed he was in some kind of reverie, not realizing that I was even there, but when I moved a little farther to the left, away from the fire, his eyes followed me.
I swallowed and hugged the jug closer to me. Why would he be looking at me? Why would anybody want to look at me? I avoided his penetrating gaze, staring down at the mulled wine, whose sweet, potent steam drifted up to bead my face with moisture.
When I looked up again, he raised a hand in a beckoning gesture. My chest constricted, and I had to try hard not to cackle hysterically.
“Me?” I mouthed.
His perfectly curved lips rounded to an O. “You,” he mouthed back, then tossed his head in further summons.
I nearly dropped my jug, but I managed to keep a tenuous grip on it and stepped out of the shadows, into the orbit of the tipsy revelers.
“Nice jugs—I mean, jug!” leered one charmer, to general mirth, and I was back to earth with a bump. Thanks for the timely reminder. Big Ginny, the big butt of big jokes.
I lost my nerve and moved back into the shadows. I didn’t look at the beckoning man, but instead kept my eyes on the door that led out to the battlement. I was going to go out and have a cigarette and a few tears. Then I would come back and be the same useless fat biffer I was before I put this stupid costume on. It was ridiculous of me to forget for that one moment that I was entirely unattractive. Ridiculous!
I plonked the jug by the fireplace and fled.
Outside, the late summer sun was setting, and I leant over the wall between two crenellations and watched it, looking over the hills and valleys. I had stood in this spot many times, pretending to be a princess or a lady of quality from centuries past. My imagination was a good place to be. Perhaps I should go back there. For good.
When the door opened behind me, I assumed it was Beth or Joanna or, worse, Lady Bray come to give me a pep talk. I reached in my apron pocket for the cigarettes of defiance, but before I could locate them, a voice spoke—and it was a male voice.
“That man’s a wanker,” he said.
I whirled around, hugging my arms to my chest. The beckoner. He took a step forward and spoke again.
“Or perhaps I should say he’s a jackanapes, or a poltroon, or something like that. If I’m going to stay in role.”
I laughed. The man came closer. Dangerously close.
“It’s okay. I’m used to comments like that,” I said. Looking down at my breasts, I noticed that they were heaving. I wondered if the man was going to rip my bodice. Why would a man like this want to rip my bodice?
“Well, that’s wrong. You shouldn’t have to put up with it.” He stood beside me, leaning back against the battlement, his arm nudging mine.
“That’s life. If I don’t like it, I suppose I’ll just have to eat lettuce for a year.”
“Oh no, you mustn’t do that.” His arm pressed closer. His chin butted my hair.
“Why not? I’ve had enough of it all. The looks of disgust on everyone’s faces, the judgment, the assumptions that get made about me because I’m carrying extra tonnage and poundage. It makes me lazy, apparently, and slovenly and dirty and slack-jawed and stupid and . . .”
I broke off. I was stupid all right. I was also crying.
He slid an arm around me and hugged me into that hard, tight wall of muscle.
“We should be able to time travel,” he said. “Back to an age when society was kinder to the Rubenesque woman.”
“Hmph.” I wasn’t able to say much.
“I’d love that. I love softness. Love curves. The more, the better.”
“D’you really?”
“Why wouldn’t I? Think of all the words associated with a bit of extra flesh. Generous. Ample. Voluptuous. Bountiful. Beautiful, sensual words. Contrast them with their opposites. Mean. Insufficient. Meager. Miserly.”
I snuffled into his velvet jerkin or doublet or whatever it was and looked up at him. “You should be a professional morale booster,” I told him. “You’re very kind to say all this but—”
“Kind?” he burst out. “No, I’m not kind! I don’t feel sorry for you. I want you.”
“You what?”
“When I beckoned you over, I didn’t want a refill of that bloody horrible wine. I wanted to get you on my lap.”
“Why?”
“Why d’you think, goose girl? Because I think you’re gorgeous. What’s your name?”
“Ginny.”
“Richard. And I’ll repeat, I think you’re gorgeous, Ginny.”
“No, Beth and Joanna—the other waitresses—are gorgeous.”
“They’re conventionally attractive. But they make terrible wenches. No rounded pillows of flesh spilling over the tops of their corsets. No curvaceous hips swaying under the skirts. Very poor effort. One out of ten. But you—you are a serious wench.”
“I’ve missed my vocation.”
“Yes, you have. I think you should always dress like this. Except when you’re in bed. My bed.”
“You’re very bloody bold, aren’t you?”
His answer to that was textbook. Hand in hair, soft lips turning hard, hot breath, plunging tongue—the most emphatic “yes” imaginable.
“As soon as I saw you,” he crooned into my disarranged hair, “I wanted to touch you. I wanted to get my hands on those hips and bury myself in that feast of flesh. You feel even better than I thought you would. I’m not sure I’m going to be able to let go of you.”
“I keep thinking you must be joking.” My head was exploding. It was all too confusing. People were not supposed to fancy me.
“You need one thing, Ginny, just one thing, and then you’ll be perfect.”
“What’s that?”
“Confidence. You’d be sexy as hell if you’d just stop trying to fold yourself up and make yourself invisible.”
“I wish I could believe you. . . .”
“Do it! Believe me! Or you’ll have me to answer to.”
Our mouths, our hands, couldn’t stay apart, and we fell back together on the battlement, kissing fulsomely against the sunset backdrop until the door opened again and Beth hissed, “Lady Bray is looking for you! Oh! Sorry. But she is.”
“Shit, I should go!”
“Hie thee thither, fair lady,” said Richard, propelling me forward with a light slap to my backside. “But when thou finishest thy task, I shall bear thee away with me. To the Feathers.”
“You’re staying at the Feathers?”
“Yeah, do you know it?”
“I work there most evenings.”
“Of course you do. You’re a wench. Come on then. Let’s finish this feast so we can move on to a more adult version.”
I was able to fob Lady Bray off with some story about needing fresh air. The medieval revelers were no less objectionable for the rest of the evening, but I didn’t care. I was beyond their dull barbs. It didn’t matter any more. I was desired by the best-looking man in the place.
“Do you know him?” muttered Beth on her way past. “He’s lovely.”
“Isn’t he?” I said smugly. I would have said more, but Richard had reached out an arm as I passed and had bundled me onto his knee, holding me there while he joined in some kind of end-of-evening wassail with his friends, clashing tankards and drinking to the King—King Henry IV.
“I ought to get changed,” I whispered, slipping off his lap as the plates were cleared and the guests rose to leave.
“No. Keep it on.”
“It’s not mine!”
“They won’t miss it. Take it back tomorrow.”
“I can’t . . .”
“Then I’m going to have to have you here. Before you get changed.”
“We can’t . . .”
“You must know somewhere.”
“Richard!”
/> “Ah, you do.”
His voice was low, pouring into my ear while his hand lingered, hidden by his shadowing body, on my bottom.
I felt drunk with lust, all the spices tingling inside me, the wine of desire in my veins. I did know somewhere. I led him through a side door and up a staircase, past hanging flags and tapestries, until we were in a display bedroom, kept in Middle Ages style, with a four-post bed and ornately carved wooden chests.
Richard laughed, helped me over the red rope designed to keep visitors off the furniture, and pushed me down on the bed.
I had no qualms about this, knowing that none of the exhibits were genuinely old—they were all replicas. There were ordinary springs rather than rushes in the medieval mattress, and they creaked rustily beneath my weight. They positively groaned once Richard’s tall, solid frame joined me, straddling me and pinioning me at the wrists before he swooped down to rub his stubbled face in my breasts, growling and nipping ravenously.
With his teeth, he pulled the gathered elastic of the peasant blouse down over my braless tits, setting them free. He took a big handful of each and squeezed, sighing with joy, before bending to suck at each nipple with his eager mouth.
“These should be painted,” he said. “Or sculpted. I’d do it myself if I had an artistic bone in my body.”
The most significant bone in his body had just now dug into my thigh through my frowsy brown skirt. I arched my spine and jiggled my pelvis beneath his, reminding him that I was more than a pair of breasts.
He had me roll over and kneel up while he removed the hated skirt, uncovering my bottom and thighs—to my cringing dread. But I need not have worried. He smacked the seat of my big cotton knickers and tutted at me.
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