Her panties were soaked, drenched with her saliva, streaked in the crotch by her cum and everywhere else by a thick white skin of theirs. The damp rag was cold where it stuck to her, cupping her soaking cunt and ab-sorbing more of their seed as it leaked out of her.
She blushed, again that feeling of dirtiness and excitement mingled.
She pulled her jeans on and was pleased to see the damp didn’t soak throught. Even though the feeling reminded her of when she was young enough to still wet herself. These two men had marked her as theirs. They had saved her as a girl, and now were claiming her as a woman, their wom-an.
‘Now,’ said Doyle, buttoning his shirt. ‘We really do need that state-ment from you, Karen.’
‘Of course.’
Kettering took out his pen and pad. ‘In your own time and your own words,’ he said.
Chapter Three
After giving her statement, she straightened her hair in the bathroom mir-ror and checked her clothes. She had taken the two policemen’s phone numbers and thumbed the scrap of paper in her pocket as she walked to the bus.
She took her seat opposite an old couple and wondered about their life together. If they had ever done something as outrageous, as crazy as what she had just done.
Going over the events of the day, she found herself playing with her breasts, with her crotch, through her shirt and jeans. Just idly brushing it, but clearly it was enough to get odd looks from the old couple. The old woman looked shocked and deeply disapproving.
The old man winked at her. She smiled back at him. She didn’t feel at all self-conscious anymore the way she would have done this morning.
She balled up the number in her pocket and instead took out her phone and searched for HOT SUIT GUY and hit the green call button.
The phone rang a few times, then: ‘Hello?’
‘Hey, its Karen from the bookies. I was just wondering if you still wanted that drink?’
‘Yeah sure.’
‘You free this evening?’
‘Yeah, I think so. Seven alright for you?’
‘Better make it eight, I need to go home and change…’
Story 2
My father was dying.
I stood beside his bed, trying not to weep, trying in vain to be brave. The village priest had already given him his last rites and taken his coin in recompense, and gone. Only my father’s widowed servant, Camille, and I remained at his bedside. My father, a landed knight who fought for the king at Bosworth Field, paid the price for his loyalty. After Richard was slaughtered and tossed into his nameless grave, the new king, the tyrant, called for the heads of those who fought against him. Citizens and nobles cried foul, for the tyrant, King Henry the Seventh, dated his reign the day before the battle. And King Richard, third of that name, was named traitor as were all who fought for him on that bloody day in August, the year fourteen eighty-five.
Though the tyrant pardoned my father, the heavy fines for his disloyalty to king and country cost him his manor, his servants, his men-at-arms, and his wife. Now, ten years later, aged before his time, Sir William Atworthy, sworn liege to the long-dead Duke of Norfolk, lay dying, penniless, in a hovel he wouldn’t have stabled his war stallion in. Though I grieved for my father, as I had my mother, I couldn’t help but fear what would happen to me. Camille would go live with her aged sister in Leicester. I had only two options: marriage or the nunnery.
As my father hadn’t yet arranged a suitable marriage for me, I feared I would be sent to the abbey at St. Margaret’s. There, they would cut my glorious hair, put me in a wimple and force me into a vow of silence. I prayed every day on my knees since my father fell ill to not be sent to the abbey as a Bride of Christ. Lord Jesus, you don’t need another bride, do you?I knew my garrulous and headstrong spirit would die is such a place.
As though hearing my thoughts, my father stirred. His eyes opened, roamed and fell on my wretched face. “Child,” he whispered.
I seized his hand, tears flowing. “Father.”
Trembling, his other hand rose, his fingers beckoned. Camille rose from her stool and fetched a sealed parchment. Dropping to her knees beside the small bed, she rested it within his hand. Then she bowed her head and began to tell her beads.
“Child,” he whispered, his faded blue eyes on me. “My Katherine.”
“Father, don’t talk. Save your strength.”
“No.”
His voice, so faint I bent my head closer to hear him at all, spoke on. “This is my will. I would have you – attend the Duke of Norfolk. Henry – King Henry pardoned the son for his father’s treachery. Go. He will look after you.”
I clutched the will to my breast, my tears falling. “Father –”
His shaky hand rose once more with a tiny leather bag clutched in it. “Your dower, lass. All I have left. I saved it – from Henry’s greed. His Grace will find a suitable husband for you.”
I wept, great sobs breaking from my chest. “Father! Don’t leave me.”
His watery eyes rested on me. “I must go now, my daughter. Your mother – your mother is here, waiting. I – go to her. And to our dear king, Richard. Blessed be, my Katherine.”
His eyes stared into nothing. His thin chest no longer rose or fell. Camille rose from her knees to flung wide the shutters, permitting my father’s soul to escape, and be free. The bag and the will sat forgotten in my hands as I wept for him, grieving for the one I lost. I was now alone in the world, with no kin, and no one to turn to. Only a namefrom a distant place. I had no idea how to even get there.
Camille and I were the only mourners at his burial where hundreds should have come to mourn his passing. He fought for the true King of England, the last Plantagenet, who died on the field of battle. Richard perished because he’d been betrayed. Now the Dragon ruled England. Part of me wished to leave this land who killed my father before his time. It was said that in Ireland they still raised their cups to Richard.
The priest intoned prayers. My last tears had dried. Camille and I shared one last embrace before she took up her walking stick for travel to Leicester. I still had duties – to sell what few valuables my father had to pay for my journey north, collect food and my few belongings into a sack, close up his house. It was twenty-five leagues from my village in Suffolk to Castle Acre in Norfolk and I would walk the entire distance.
The village butcher told what road to take. “Follow that north, lass. There be signs to help you on your way. Now the ways are not safe for a young lass to be traveling alone.”
I smiled. “You are kind, sir. I’ll be all right.”
“Here, a moment.”
I waited as he went into his shop, and he returned a few minutes later with a small bundle wrapped in a napkin. He pressed it into my hands. “Chicken. Perhaps it will help you along the way.”
“Thank you, sir, for your kindness. Bless you.”
“May the Lord walk with you, lass.”
Swathed in a warm cloak and stout shoes on my feet, I expected to arrive at Castle Acre in about three days. The Lord blessed me with fair weather, cool but not too cold and little rain. I slept under hedges, once in a cowshed near the road, but ate sparingly of my limited amount of food. Other travelers: friars, monks and the occasional yeoman shared the road with me. Yet, if I saw someone in the distance on horseback or on foot that appeared even slightly suspicious, I departed the road and hid behind the hedges until they passed.
Given that I was the daughter of a knight, my father insisted I learn to read. Thus, I had little difficulty with the signs that pointed me toward Norfolk and the Duke. Wayfarers such as a round-faced mendicant priest gave excellent directions to the Duke’s castle and by late afternoon of my third day walking, I approached the castle’s walls. Inside the keep lay a myriad of activity: a blacksmith shoeing horses, washerwomen with bundles on their backs, men-at-arms mock fighting with deadly looking halberds. Hounds roamed at large, nosing through the straw. High above me, I noticed tiny murder holes where archers
could fire down into an invading force and above them the battlements where more soldiers paced.
With no idea of how to approach the castle and ask to see the Duke, I walked forward, hesitant. A set of huge doors inlaid with iron opened as I drew near. A monk in brown robes tied with rope stepped out, a scroll in his hands. He started when he saw me.
“Hello, who are you?”
I offered him a quick curtsey. “I’m Katherine Atworthy, Brother. I’m here to see the Duke of Norfolk.”
“Just like that, eh? Why should His Grace consent to see you, lass?”
“My father was Sir William Atworthy, loyal liege to the Duke’s father. Before he died, he willed me to Castle Acre and the Duke’s service.”
“Ah, that’s different, then. Come with me, child. Fortunately, the Duke is in residence.”
I followed him into the great castle, gazing about me in awe. Colorful banners and tapestries hung from the stone walls. More men-at-arms lounged in here, pikes and halberds in their fists, eyeing me with curiosity as the monk led me past them and up a wide staircase. Oak doors to private chambers were set into the walls on the upper levels. The corridor circled around, and the monk led me to another huge set of doors.
He knocked. They opened to reveal a tall aging butler with thinning hair and a hooked nose. He eyed both of us with a hint of disdain, but listened as the monk explained who I was. “I will inquire of His Grace,” the butler intoned, then shut the door. I waited, nervous, fearing the Duke would send me away without consenting to seeing me. What will happen to me then?
The butler returned within a few minutes, and ushered me in. The monk returned the way we had come, and I stepped into the Duke of Norfolk’s private apartments. A huge bed covered in quilts and furs with dark red hangings pushed aside dominated one wall. Beautifully carved redwood tables and chairs held vases of sweet-smelling flowers, assorted bottles and decanters of wine and the Duke’s half-eaten dinner. Tapestries depicting hunting and battle scenes hung from the walls, and two hounds wrestled on a bed of straw near the huge fireplace. He himself sat behind a table littered with parchment, a quill in his hand.
I approached the table, and dipped low into a curtsey. “Your Grace.”
“Welcome, my dear,” he said, setting the ink into its well. “You are the daughter of my father’s old friend. Sir William has died, then?”
“Yes, Your Grace. I have his will here.”
Digging the thick parchment from my sack, I curtseyed again as I set it before him, then stepped back. Picking it up, he broke the seal and began to read. About the same age as my father, perhaps in his forties, the Duke was handsome. Thick dark hair fell to his collar, his jaw square, his deep-set grey eyes occasionally flicked toward me as he read. I waited, trying not to fidget, my nervousness rising. What if he turned me away? Or sent me to a nunnery?
At last he set my father’s will on the table, and smiled. He had very nice, even white teeth. “Your father served mine with loyalty and honor, and thus I have an obligation to you, Lady Katherine. You may reside here within these walls until such time as I find you a suitable husband. You have a small dower?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Taking the small leather bag from my sack and passed that to him. Untying the thong, he glanced inside before setting it next to the will. “I will keep this in my custody as you are now my ward.”
Rising from his chair, he stepped around the table. I dipped into another curtsey, but his hand under my chin brought me up. His fingers tilted my face back so that our eyes met.
“You are an exquisitely beautiful girl, Lady Katherine,” he murmured. His other hand brushed a tendril of my hair, coiled at the nape of my neck, from my brow. “Such a color. Like the autumn leaves – red, yet nut-brown with hints of gold. Never before have I seen its like.”
I blushed, not knowing what to say. Thinking I should say something, I stammered, “Thank you, Your Grace.”
“I wish for you to dine with me this evening,” he said, stepping away from me. “I will arrange suitable quarters for you.”
“Your Grace is kind.”
He chuckled. “That I am, I fear. And my name is John, and I wish you to address me as such.”
“Very well – John,” I replied, smiling up at him, my nervousness at last washing away. “My father always called me Kate.”
“Beautiful name. James, will you come in here?”
The tall butler appeared as though by sorcery, and bowed.
“Give the lady here my mother’s apartments, James,” John said, returning to his seat behind the table. “She is my ward and of noble birth. Leave me for now, dear Kate. Refresh yourself, and I will summon you directly.”
I curtseyed again, and followed the butler from the Duke’s chambers, my spirits soaring. The Duke of Norfolk’s ward! Under his protection, my birthright acknowledged. It seemed almost too good to be true. I almost danced down the corridor behind the stoic butler, who led me only a short distance. The double oak doors he swung wide opened upon a huge chamber almost as luxurious as the Duke’s own.
The room, kept clean and well aired, held another huge bed with quilts and furs, but the hangings around it were green. Similar tables and chairs occupied the floor, and a big wardrobe stood near the bed. The hearth had no fire, but stacks of wood sat piled nearby. Setting my sack on the table, I turned as the butler spoke.
“I will see to an attendant, my lady.”
“My thanks.”
He bowed his way out of the room as I explored. The wardrobe held women’s garments, perhaps the Dowager Duchess’s. I found a privy behind a curtain, and a small window, shuttered, looked down upon the keep when I opened them. A discreet knock at the door heralded a young maid, who curtsied before going to the hearth to light a fire.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Astrid, my lady.”
“You can call me, Kate, Astrid.”
She tossed a horrified glance over her shoulder. “Oh, no, my lady, that wouldn’t be proper.”
Continuing my inspection of the chamber, Astrid soon had a blazing fire on the hearth, then departed to fetch fresh water for me to wash with. Outside, the sun descended in the west. Soon, the Duke would summon me for supper. I unpacked my few belongings, and smoothed out my best gown to wear for him. With Astrid’s aid, I washed, donned the gown and permitted her to brush my hair. When the summons came, my hair hung straight down my back to my hips, and I felt almost reborn.
John gazed at me over the table, his eyes shadowed, backlit by the blazing fire behind him. “Your beauty stuns me anew, Kate,” he said, his tone warm, deep and alluring. “Perhaps you inherited much from your mother.”
“Indeed, my lord. My mother was very beautiful.”
I dined on the succulent lamb from the spit, stewed apples, delicately fried fish, hot bread fresh from the ovens, boiled onions and a sweet red wine. I hadn’t eaten such rich food before, and the Duke’s servants kept my plate full until I couldn’t eat another morsel.
“You enjoyed the fare?”
“Very much so, my lord.”
John rose, and held his hand out to me. “Come. I wish you to be with me this evening.”
I accepted his hand on mine, warm and strong, and walked with him upon the battlements, listening as he spoke of his lands and estates, his wealth, and his gratitude that King Henry saw fit to restore his titles when he pardoned the younger Norfolk. “I would have remained strongly loyal to King Richard,” he said, “but times have changed and the Dragon rules England now. I was forced to adapt, or be executed.”
“As did my father.”
In the darkness with the stars shining brightly above, he turned to me. Taking my other hand in his, John bent his head to mine and kissed me, lingering, on the mouth. I drew back, slightly alarmed, but his hands held me fast. His tongue probed between my lips, and though it felt very strange to me, I liked it. I surrendered my mouth to his invading tongue, feeling a looseness, a heaviness in m
y stomach.
Taking me by the hand, John led me from the battlements and down the staircase to his opulent chambers. James the butler bowed low and retreated from the rooms as we entered. Crossing to the table, John poured rich red wine into goblets, and held one of them out to me. I accepted it, bemused, as he lifted his. “To your beauty, Kate.”
I sipped from the goblet, feeling its warmth slide down into my belly, igniting that strange sensation inside it as I watched John. His eyes on me, he, too, drank his wine, and I suddenly realized what he wanted from me. Young I was, and naïve, but knew a little of what men and women did behind closed doors. I knew it involved no clothing and was something the church frowned upon. At least between unmarried people.
“Take your clothes off.”
I knew a command when I heard it. Fear struck me, and I wondered if I should run. Would he chase me down and drag me back? If I said no, would he force the issue? Part of me wanted to run, and the wilder part of me wanted to obey him. My father always said I had an adventurous streak in spite of my demure, ladylike behavior. I wanted to know what men and women did behind closed doors.
Untying the laces to my gown, I loosened it until it slid into a puddle at my feet. Stepping out of it, my eyes on John, I kicked off my shoes, and bent to pull my stockings off. Clad in only a light linen shift, I waited as John walked toward me, an odd smile on his face. His finger running lightly down my throat to my collarbone sent a delicious thrill through me. The heaviness in my stomach became an ache as his finger drifted further down and trailed over my breasts.
In a harsh motion, John seized my shift and ripped it from me, baring me to his inspection. Instinctively, I covered my breasts with my arms, but he pulled them down. His strong hands roamed freely over my nude body, dipping lightly between my legs. I gasped at the personal invasion, seeing his strange grin widen.
“You are a virgin,” he murmured.
Mute, I could only nod. I’d been told over and over to remain pure, a virgin, for that was my gift to my husband. While I doubted John planned to marry me, it seemed he planned to seize my innocence for himself. His finger pushed further into me, and this time my gasp was of pleasure. He moved it around, the ache inside me now centering on that very place where his finger was. I shut my eyes to better feel what he was doing to me.
Those Kinds of Adult Stories Your Mother Warned You About Page 3