by Jaye Peaches
She nodded, her eyes lidded, her lips parted.
“Then it’s time.”
She nodded again and rested the back of her head against his chest. So small she seemed nestled there.
He opened her up with the tip of his bulging cock, as he had done many times and she accepted that slight beginning with practised ease. However, he did not stop there, as he usually did. He nudged, creeping forward, and claimed that tight passage a fraction at a time. She murmured, moaned and occasionally whimpered throughout, but never asked him to cease. She remained bundled, nearly smothered by his large frame. He dipped deeper and growled. The sensation was exquisite. He had thought so slow a pace would infuriate him, but to the contrary, it proved deliciously tantalising.
It was Dara who made the request, not him. Dara, his sweet lass, who had the heart of an angel and courage of a lion.
“Fuck me harder, Master. I know now I can do it.”
* * *
He rolled her onto her knees, and she clutched a pillow in her arms. He re-entered with a tense firmness and a deeper growl. “If you scream and holler stupid things, I won’t stop,” he said.
She was close to coming, knowing he meant to apply his rough hands.
“But,” he said, rising up behind her, her hair grasped into one balled fist. “I will stop if I think you’re breaking. If you’re not up to it, if you cry hot tears, but plead with me to keep going, I shall stop.”
He knew her too well.
When he had his cock fully inside her, he held fast there for a few minutes, waiting for her to catch up and stretch about his girth. Then he began to use her in earnest. Thrust upon thrust. During those pendulum swings of his hips, she came. It was a most stupendous orgasm and she would remember it for the rest of her life, gifting her both delicious pleasure and undeniable pain. In combination, it heightened every aspect of her body, from her tingling scalp to her curling toes. He kept hold of her hair, taming her bucking body with teasing jerks of his wrist, and took some pleasure for himself by playing with her swinging breasts. While the fierce contractions abated, he continued to fuck her.
Fuck her. The word was appropriate, the nature of their coupling exactly that—coarse and base. It continued relentlessly, undaunted by her weak legs or bleating for respite. She had to trust his judgement.
Abruptly, he halted, stroked his hand along the length of her spine and released his tight hold of her ponytail.
“Come again, when I do. I’ll build slower this time, so you can pace yourself with me. I want to feel you crush my cock. Make me hurt for it, lass.”
She had no understanding of what he meant. How could he feel pain when he clearly took pleasure in his penetrations? However, he meant to torture himself with a slower pace, a gradual build, and he muttered something about his aching balls tightening beneath her.
The ripples of her orgasm were subtle at first, hinting to him she was done, and when he felt the spasms grow, he picked up his pace and pummelled her hard for a few thrusts until he erupted. The signal was clear—she clenched and he responded with gusto. They cried out in unison. Matthew, roaring with delight, drowned out her screams. She fell forward, unable to support her weight and his final swooping thrust. Collapsed on the mattress, she lay still, breathing heavily, wondering if he had his fill or planned to continue using her. Her answer came swiftly. He crashed onto the bed next to her, and somewhat to her amusement, began to snore softly.
She cuddled up to him, content and slightly sore. It wasn’t any bother to her that she had the echoes of the belt on her bottom or the essence of his spill leaking out of her. She warmed to both sensations. Eventually, he stirred and draped an arm around her shoulder.
“Just a brief nap,” he muttered. “Then we must milk them bleedin’ cows.”
Chapter Seven
Matthew threw the harness over Bert’s massive shoulders. “I’m taking the trap to town to get supplies. The lads are busy in the fields.”
“And what should I do?” Dara planted her hands on her hips. The wind whistled past her ears and nearly took her scarf with it. She tightened the knot around her neck. How rustic in appearance she had become. What would Lord Coleman make of his glamorous wife now? Grubby fingers, dirty skirt hems, and sun-blushed cheeks—he would not recognise her.
She had written two more letters to keep up the pretence of visiting her cousins. They weren’t much different from the first. She had also enjoyed another interlude with Maggie and her daughters. Time was passing swiftly. One more visit to Maggie, and then she would have to go home to his lordship. Matthew had remained silent on the subject of her return. The jewels were locked in a strongbox and he refused to let her near them until the day she had to return. He would not countenance her spending money on his lowly farm. She had offered to help with buying fresh livestock and repairing the barn roof, but he had merely glared at her and stomped off. She had offended him, of that she was sure.
If only she could stay. It wasn’t that she fancied being a farmer’s wife—it would be impossible for her endure the hardships for any longer than she had agreed—she simply wanted to sleep every night in Matthew’s arms. What she expected to happen was a heavy-hearted journey to the luxury of Willowby Hall, for her to find the servants had completed the long list of tasks, then with a solemn guise, she would await the return of her wandering husband, curtsy to his bow, spread her legs, and close her eyes. If he finally had it in him to honour their marriage vows, she hoped he would be swift and not expect her to touch his thing. She would rather never touch it. She was married in her heart to Matthew, and only he was worthy of her touch. If only a farmer could marry a lady of noble blood.
“I should come with you,” she declared to Matthew.
He yanked on the reins. “No. You shall not,” he said curtly.
“Why ever? I’m not known in town.” She walked toward the trap, skirting around the cow dung. “I’ve only been in the area for a short time and never went there.”
“Your servants go there.” He settled on the bench. “It’s not wise, Dara. You’ll tempt fate to fall upon you, take my word for it. Stay and be a good lass. I’ll be back before supper.”
She watched him gee the horse into a slow trot. After a few minutes, he disappeared over the brow of the hill.
Dara swept out the cottage half-heartedly. She was bored. Having read three books, she was tired of French poetry, and preferred the study of flowers. With that in mind, she went to pick a few wild ones in the furthest meadow. She saddled up Mary and hung her small saddle back on her rump. The weather was fine, if breezy, and she reached the field to find the goats had eaten all the prettiest flowers.
Annoyed, she made an impulsive decision: she would continue on and ride into town. Matthew would be at the market, buying grain and salt, things that were of no interest to a lady. Dara would frequent the other end of town where the small boutiques sold fancy goods. She gave Mary a jab of her heels.
“Come on, let’s be going.”
* * *
The ride took nearly half an hour at a brisk trot. The town was nestled in a valley by a river and quite small compared to the one nearest her parents’ hall. There was a church with a steeple, a stone-clad town hall, and many old medieval houses. The main street was cobbled, but the rest of the streets were dirt-laden and foul-smelling. She had forgotten how poorly many towns fared compared to the rich cities. She found an ostler in the coach inn at the edge of the town and paid him a shilling to stable her horse. It was only then that she noticed how few coins she had in her purse. She had assumed she would sell the jewels and make good her accounts with value of the gems. Now she would have to spend frugally.
With the scarf covering her neck and shoulders, her bonnet drawn down low over her brow, she walked quickly along the main street, occasionally pausing to look in the windows of the shops. There was very little choice. The town was severely limited in its accomplishments, especially because the craftsmen who practised their trade in to
wn were not up to her expected standards: the goods looked shoddy and poorly made. However, the haberdashers had a fine display of ribbons, buttons, and lacework.
The doorbell chimed when she entered the store.
An elderly woman wiped her hands on her apron and welcomed her with a nod. “Fine day, ma’am.”
Her wedding ring, of course. Dara had not removed it and the keen-sighted woman had spotted her status.
“It is,” she replied politely. “I would like to buy some ribbons, a length of lace, and a dozen of those white buttons, please.” She pointed out the goods on display. She fancied trying to improve her dressmaking skills with a few embellishments.
The woman called to another younger shop assistant, who collected the items together and began to wrap them in tissue paper.
“That’ll be three shillings and thru’pence.”
Dara felt her cheeks rise with heat. She was sure she only had two shillings in her purse. “Are you sure that is correct?”
The older woman glared at her. “Aye. Tis correct. We don’t haggle in this town, if that’s what you want to do.”
Haggle! How beneath her. She fumbled with her purse. “I seem... I’ve left some coin at home. Could you put the amount on my account?” Her embarrassment was made worse by the request.
“Your account?” The woman chuckled. “Hear that, Lucy my dear, she wants an account.”
Lucy quickly smothered a rude giggle with her hand. “We don’t know you, ma’am. We only give accounts to those that pay regularly first.”
“Oh.” Dara emptied her purse onto her palm. “I only have this.” The last time she had gone shopping was with her mother for a wedding gown and accessories. Her mother had spent lavishly on her. Now, she was close to begging for buttons. She felt utterly humiliated.
“Then you’ll have to put back either them buttons or the lace, ma’am,” the older woman said sympathetically. “Tis a pretty piece of lace.”
“Yes, it is,” said Dara longingly. “Very well. Keep the buttons.” She handed over the coin, leaving tuppence in her purse, just enough to tip the ostler.
She hastened out of the shop. As the door closed, she heard the two women whoop at her expense. She was on the cusp of marching back in and demanding an apology when she spotted somebody across the street. A familiar face of a man and he was staring right at her. She turned on her heel and in her eagerness, she stepped into a puddle. The water splashed her skirts.
A passing stranger smirked.
Her humiliation was not finished, it seemed. She had to walk to the inn with mud splattered on her gown, her cheeks red-hot with shame and the realisation she had seen somebody she should not have done.
* * *
Matthew watched her stumble down the street, her scarf unwinding, her dress splattered with mud. She was a pitiful creature when distressed. Clearly, something had gone wrong in the shop she’d visited. He sighed, disheartened by her decision to defy him. He was especially worried by her expression prior to her scampering off—it was a look of alarm and possibly fear. Who had upset her?
Seated in the bay window of the Green Man tavern, Matthew had a good view of the street and passers-by. He had finished his ale and while drinking it, he’d spied Dara enter the shop, then less than fifteen minutes later, she left again. Whoever she had seen was further along the road, possibly outside of the bank. He ought to go see whether it was a person of importance. Rising, he left a few pennies on the table for his favourite barmaid and picked up his travel bag.
Dara had disappeared around the corner. He paid particular care to check that she had not been followed, and satisfied she had not, he walked back up the street. There was a small trap with a pony outside the bank bearing the coat of arms of the Coleman family; however, there was no sign of Lord Coleman. Matthew would be surprised to see his lordship travel in so lowly a vehicle. Standing on the corner, partially hidden by a tree, Matthew waited. Two people left the bank; one was a footman in livery, the other, going by his frock coat and age, the butler carrying a money bag—probably the staff wages. They settled into the trap and the waiting groom picked up the reins.
Matthew caught a whisper of the conversation. “You were mistaken, Paul. Her ladyship is not about town. She’s up north,” said the formidable butler.
“The lady had a likeness to her, I’m sure,” said the footman.
“I did not see her.”
“Although, she was dressed like a cow maid. She looked right at me and went scarlet.”
The butler chuckled. “Take that as a compliment. You’re a fine-looking man. This town is full of pretty young maids wanting to marry. You should come back and woo her.”
Paul’s ears turned pink. “I’ve set my sights on Joan, and you know that, sir.”
The groom gave the pony a whistle and the wheels began to turn.
Matthew strolled across the street and entered the haberdashers.
“Good day,” he said to the old shopkeeper.
“Master Denzel, what brings you in ‘ere,” she said.
“I’m trying to locate my niece. She said she was visiting here today.” A niece whom he’d never brought to town before now would not raise much suspicion. His father’s side was littered with aunts and uncles, cousins and the like. “She’s so high and wearing a checked scarf.”
“Oh, her. Aye, she left a few minutes ago.” She leaned across the counter. “A bit short of pennies. She wanted to buy these buttons, but couldn’t afford the money. Asked for an account, but I had to refuse. Now, if I’d known she was your kin, I would have given her the benefit, but she didn’t say her name.”
“Which buttons?” Matthew dug into his pocket.
She lay them on the counter. A dozen pearly buttons suitable for a pretty dress. He slid the coin over. “I’ll take them for her.”
“I’m sure she’ll appreciate it, Master. She was mortified, I must say. All red-faced and watery-eyed.”
“She can be forgetful,” he said.
“Her husband needs to be more generous with his allowance. Poor lass, she has a pretty face. One of your da’s side, I assume?”
Matthew nodded. “Her husband is a wastrel. Quite unsympathetic to her needs. She’s not staying long.”
“Well, make my apologies, will you. Tell her she’s welcome to an account if you will make the debt good.” She picked a ledger off a shelf.
Matthew watched as she wrote his name on a line. “What’s her name?” she asked.
“Prudence. Prudence Denzel.” He slipped the buttons into his pocket. “She’s never one for being cautious though. Her father is quite adamant that she should learn its ways. I’ve been helping her undertake betterment. Very puritanical is her father, quite staunchly so.”
The woman laughed heartily.
He loaded his bought goods onto the trap—a sack of grain, two pounds of salt, and two ounces of precious tea, which was a treat for Dara. Having removed the feeding bag from Bert’s nose—the horse protested with a neigh—he started his journey home. Riding on her mare, Dara would have a head start, which suited his needs. He wanted to think.
His mind wandered to the matter of discipline. He couldn’t help it. He hadn’t applied either his firm hand or belt for two weeks. She’d been good company and behaved well toward the lads, only smiling when they smiled, and making sure she bathed when they were busy elsewhere, and with Matthew’s express permission. At some point, he planned to watch her bathing in the river, and perhaps take advantage of her state of undress. Having her wet and surprised by his sudden appearance was one way to teach her to always be prepared.
However, today his mind was not on a tumble in the grass by a river. He mused on a suitable punishment. Was it time to introduce her to the sting of a nettle? A brief whipping using a brace of young stems was a good inducement to apologise for misbehaving. He imagined her naked, tied face down on the table, arms above, legs parted and tied to the table legs. He would administer the nettles with three, possibly
four swishes. Her divine arse would rise up into mottled red welts... she would more than likely cry.
Matthew sighed. What once would have been easy now proved too hard to contemplate. She was not his. He could not tame her like that, not when he would not have the benefit of it. Her husband, the rakish Lord Coleman, was supposed to be the custodian of her love and devotion. The man was absent because he could not face his responsibilities and shunned the deeds that Matthew considered at the heart of a good marriage. Was it right that Matthew had taken on that burden on training another man’s wife? Especially as it was something Lord Coleman cared little about?
For the rest of the journey, he muted his conflicting thoughts about Dara and made a long list for the lads. The harvest was due in a few weeks.
* * *
Dara raced to tidy the kitchen and make good all of her tasks, so that Matthew would not notice her prolonged absence from the farm. She had released Mary into the field and waved at Kurt, who was mending a fence. Tomorrow was Sunday and he would be away visiting his sweetheart in a nearby village. The brothers went to their mother’s house, leaving Matthew and Dara to explore each other all afternoon, as had become their traditional leisurely occupation. She looked forward to it, dreamily wondering if he might expect her to gift him all three of her sweet points of entry. She liked the build-up, the gentle harmony of his cock in tune with the motion of her body. From lips to drenched sex, he visited them according to his needs, and always ended his meandering journey in the safest place for his seed. Sometimes he did so with vigour, but increasingly, she noted he was less hasty and more inclined to hold her tight against his body, as if the embrace made the act more appealing.
She boiled some water in a pan over the fire. She planned to stew some apples and make a pie. The recipes continued to be extremely useful.
She heard Bert neigh, the wheels churn up the yard, and Matthew shout to Kurt to collect the horse and unload the trap. She smoothed down her apron and waited for the door to open.
Matthew dropped his travel bag on the kitchen table and emptied it. She thanked him graciously for the pure tea—unadulterated by dried sheep’s dung, he assured her—and the salt for preserving the meat. She had learnt a great deal in such a short space of time.