by Evans, Trent
“It’s all right, girl. It’s all over now,” he whispered. “You were very brave, very obedient.”
He combed his fingers through the heavy weight of her blonde hair, appreciating the contrast of the straw color against the deep tan of his calloused hands. He pressed gentle kisses to the nape of her neck, between her shoulder blades. She sniffled as his fingers traced her ribs, felt the smooth muscles along her spine.
He moved behind her, the heavy head of his cock moving across the inflamed flesh of her sore ass. She tensed when he laid the thick cock in the crevice of her buttocks. He luxuriated in the feel of her flesh trembling around him.
“Ask me for it,” he growled, his hand grasping her hip.
“Please, Sir. F-fuck me.”
He slapped the heavy cock between her cheeks a few times, then aimed lower, slipping into her, his advance slow, deliberate. She exhaled a long breath as he sheathed himself fully within the close clutch of her pussy. His hips felt cool against the burning skin of her punished bottom. He stayed still a moment, deep within her, her wide hips clasped in the firm grip of his big hands.
Her hips moved slightly, a subtle rotation. He pulled back, leaving just the broad head of his cock between her plump labia, and smacked her ass. “You know better than that. Be a good girl, or I’ll need to paddle this little bottom some more.” He pinched the flesh of her buttock and she hissed.
“Well?” He raised his hand again.
“I’m sorry, Sir,” she whispered, her voice trembling.
His hand lowered, caressing the martyred flesh. “I know you’re trying, dove. Remember your training, and we won’t have to punish you further.”
“Yes, Sir,” she said, inhaling deeply.
He lunged forward again, her surprised grunt making him smile. He took up a steady, deep thrusting, his hips pounding against her punished flesh. Her body rocked and shuddered, her hips held fast to him in his iron grip. He pulled out occasionally to run the broad head up and down between the soft, wet lips before plunging deep once more. His strokes grew rougher, and he smacked her burning bottom a few more times solely for his pleasure. He could feel her hips trying to move against the tight grip of his hands, and she voiced a panting grunt each time his hips slammed against her.
“Oh – oh, Sir! Please.” Her small voice was almost lost against the loud sounds of the slapping of his hips against her.
He shook his head. “Not quite yet, I think.”
Her voice was a surprised sigh, as he slipped from her wet slit.
“As much as I don’t want to leave that wet pussy of yours, I think I need something else.” He watched her blush spread to the roots of her hair.
He reached between her legs, finding her clit. She was blessed with a prominent bud, and he pushed the hood back so that he could touch it directly. She sighed as he rubbed it in slow circles, running a finger through the slick folds of her slit. He smiled, noting how wet her sex had become.
“Someone liked her spanking, I see. Well, you’ll be getting a lot more of this where we’re going my dear, so never fear.”
He rubbed at her clit harder, pushing two fingers deep into her sex. He pumped her vigorously until she was panting once more, her hips waving in the air.
“Do you want it girl, hmm?” He so loved to torment a girl, confusing her mind with a mixture of pleasure and pain.
“Please, Sir! Please!” Her hands clenched into tight helpless fists at the apex of her back.
“Please what, girl? Tell me! I want to hear you say it.” He pumped his fingers as deep as they would go, and she cried out. Again, he worried the hard, swollen clit.
“I want to. I want to come, Sir,” she panted, her hips rotating, thighs taut.
With a pinch to her clit, she went over, shrieking into the sheets of the mattress. He smiled as he felt her moisture running down his wrists to drip onto the sheets. Her scent filled the air, and he reveled in it. He bade her turn back around, a hand in her hair to guide her where he wanted her.
He wiped the tears from her cheeks with a thumb as she took his shaft between the heated bliss of her swollen red lips. His wife’s scent was still on her as the girl knelt over him, and that set him to thrusting into that accommodating mouth. All too soon, the boiling pressure from behind his testicles rushed up, his harsh grunts heralding his climax. As he poured his seed down the girl’s throat, he thought wistfully of how long it had been since he’d had Miriam the same way.
He resolved that things at Westwood Manor would be changing when he returned from his journey.
Chapter One
McClearn Farmstead
It was her favorite time of the day — watching Owen. She made a sport of sneaking glances at the farmhand’s broad back as he mucked out the milking stalls. His trousers, stretched tightly over that trim, firm backside drew her eye as well, but she was ever afraid his quick glances back at her might catch her in the act. Her father would stripe her backside himself if he knew she was so much as thinking about glancing at one of the hands, so she’d learned to keep her admiration discreet.
“You’d better hurry, Sophie”. Owen leaned on his rake, his chest heaving. “Rory’ll be here any minute. If you aren’t done with those cows, he’s sure to let you have it.”
Sophie knelt down next to the last cow, pulling her shift up to keep what muck she could off of its hem. “You just worry about yourself, Owen. You still have two stalls to go you know.”
“Want to race? See who gets their work done first?”
Sophie shook her head, her dark locks swaying. “Not a chance. Just get your work done, boy.”
“Boy? Is that all I am to you?” Owen flashed her his fetchingly crooked grin, and Sophie felt a fluttering low in her belly.
He bent to push another full rake of muck into the wash channel. “What do I get if I win?”
“I never said I was racing you, Owen.” She squeezed out some of the slippery udder cream onto her fingers, then reached under to coat the pendant nipples of the cow. Mooing greeted her ministrations.
Owen smacked the edge of the steel rake against the stall enclosure to clear the offal from its tines. “Tell you what. If I win, I will be at your service the rest of the afternoon. I’ll do all your chores along with mine.”
She laughed, trying to ignore the imagery that popped into her head at his use of the word ‘service’. “And what do you get if you win? I can’t very well do your chores. I can’t even move one of those hay bales.”
He stood with his arms crossed over a strong chest, his cheeks flushed with exertion. “A kiss.”
Her mouth dropped open. She snapped it shut, fearing she resembled a landed fish. “You — can’t be serious.”
“What’s the matter, Sophie? Afraid you won’t win — or afraid you will?”
Damn him.
His whiskey colored eyes gazed at her from under sun-bleached brows, his sandy hair mussed and sweaty. She wanted nothing more than to run her fingers through that thick hair.
“Owen —”
A clatter of hooves arose outside the barn, along with the raised voices of the other farmhands. Owen’s confident, mischievous look changed to one of puzzlement as he looked beyond Sophie into the yard outside the barn.
Sophie stood, leaning her arms on the placid cow she’d been tending. Several riders had entered the farmyard. At least four of the riders were armed and armored, sunlight glinting off burnished plate mail. One rider stood out from the rest.
It was a woman.
Dressed in a bright white blouse, with tan jodhpurs tucked into black leather boots, she appeared as someone out for an afternoon jaunt. The short sword at her hip belied that notion though. The woman dismounted without help from any of her men. Two of the soldiers joined her, the others remaining mounted.
Rory, the barrel-chested steward of the farm, walked up to greet the woman, clasping her hand and bowing deep. The steward and the woman exchanged some words, but they were too far away for Sophie to make
out what was being said. The woman gestured expansively with her hand, and the steward nodded, smiling.
“What do you think it’s about?”
Sophie jumped, suppressing a cry. Owen had moved up to stand next to her, his whispered voice loud in her ear.
She smacked him on a muscular arm. “Don’t do that,” she hissed.
“Do what?”
“Sneak up on me like that, you fool!”
“Oh you old biddy!” He bumped her hip with his, and she made a face at him. The proximity of his tall, powerful body was almost as disconcerting to her as the goings on in the yard outside.
“Those banners that rider is flying look like House Westwood. Do you think that’s Lady Westwood?”
Owen shrugged. “How would I know? I’ve never set eyes on her. I only know that we pay our tithings, or we get a visit from a few of those riders out there.”
“She’s not as bad as all that, Owen. Father speaks quite highly of her actually. Says she is a fair and merciful Lady. We’re lucky to have her.”
“Aye, I suppose it could be worse. We could be under the Blackarch banner. Tommy Crowder tells me terrible things of his family’s ordeals under their rule. Nobody could be worse than that.”
“You shouldn’t listen to Tommy Crowder. He tells tall tales, you know.”
Owen grunted, an edge to his voice. “Does he? So I suppose the stripes across his back he showed me are old wive’s tales then? Vicious bastards beat him near to death.”
Sophie looked back at him, seeing his brows knit together. “I’m sorry for it, Owen. Even he doesn’t deserve such.”
Owen glanced at her, his eyes distant. “Perhaps not, Sophie, but that’s his lot all the same. Wish it weren’t so.”
She laid a hand on his arm. She knew the farmhands led hard lives, and were subject to more than she —her father being a landowning man — but even knowing that, a part of her longed for the simplicity of their lives; the easy, uncomplicated joys and lack of true responsibility. Her father made it clear to her early on that she was meant for better things than farm life, and he had made it his mission in life to find eligible suitors for her. So far, they had all been fops or dandies from such cities as Wyndhaven. Not a one of them was prepared for even a day of life on the farm.
Though her father had tried to discourage it, she had always insisted she be allowed to work the farm along with the other young hands. She loved it, enjoying contributing to something usually thought of as a peasant’s work. Her father, though he regarded it as beneath her station, allowed it because her work at least got her out of his hair. He’d had no male heirs born to him, and Sophie’s sisters had already been married off. He’d never remarried following the death of Sophie’s mother while giving birth to her youngest sister Maris. Indeed, he seemed never to have fully recovered from the loss. As a result, he was indulgent with his daughter, and she took advantage of it as much as she dared.
Rory looked over at the barn, the woman’s gaze following. Then he led the woman and two of the men into the house. Two of the farmhands assisted the rest of her retinue, helping with watering the horses.
Owen picked up his rake and began mucking out the next stall. “Well, it’s back at it for us, old girl. Rory will be generous with the strap if he has a high and mighty Lady to impress.”
Sophie watched the strange riders a moment longer, then knelt once more to finish Mathilda’s rubdown. The heifer’s poor nipples were inflamed again, and she hoped the cream would keep them from cracking.
They both worked in silence for several minutes, Sophie lost in thought about what the visit might mean. It wasn’t every day that a commoner farm was visited by nobility! Perhaps the Lady had a suitor in mind for Sophie? She shuddered at the thought, at the obligation she’d be under to see the man if such was the case. She guessed it was probably a discussion of tithes or perhaps crop rotation, but she had no idea why the Lady would attend such a meeting herself. She had a dozen captains and hundreds of men-at-arms for such tasks, after all.
“Is this the one? Your man told me she was in the barn.”
“Aye, that’s my Sophie, your Grace.”
Sophie, startled at the unfamiliar sound of the smooth female voice, stood up, brushing the dirt and straw from the front of her shift. Standing in the barn doorway were her father and the mysterious Lady. The sun-drenched yard behind them rendered their figures but dark silhouettes against the glare.
Owen moved to Sophie’s side, the handle of his rake clasped low across his hips. She was surprised at the comfort she felt with him near, for this visit was unexpected. In her experience, surprises were all too often unpleasant ones.
“Milady,” Sophie said, sketching a curtsy. Owen did not follow; a quick incline of his head was all that he granted the Lady.
“And who might this impertinent young man be?”
“Owen Galt, your Grace,” her father said. “One of my hands.”
Her father and the Lady stepped closer, out of the glare of the afternoon sun, and Sophie was able to get a better look at her. The Lady was blessed with a cold beauty. The snug riding attire set off her willowy figure pleasingly, her sable hair up in a tight bun. Her dark eyes regarded Sophie with assessing frankness. She didn’t like the woman’s regard one bit.
“He needs a lesson in manners, Clayton.” Her gaze flitted to Owen then back to Sophie as if to confirm what she was really after. Sophie swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry.
“Yes, your Grace,” her father said, grimacing. “My steward will have a word with him very shortly.”
Sophie didn’t miss the glint in her father’s sad eyes, nor the clench of his jaw. Owen’s lack of deference to his superiors was probably going to cost him a thrashing with Rory’s strap after all. The young man betrayed not a hint of fright at the prospect though, and her esteem for him grew more at his courage. She had the sudden urge to grasp his arm, but she suppressed it, not wanting to anger her father further.
The Lady turned to Sophie’s father. “Might we have a look at her now?
Sophie wondered if the Lady was perhaps after one of the horses that were stalled deeper within the barn; it was well known that House Westwood was always on the lookout for fast horses. There were nothing but mares and a single foal in the barn however. Perhaps the Lady was seeking a brood mare instead?
The look of helplessness Sophie saw flash across the angular features of her father’s face unsettled her. He turned to face the Lady.
“Your Grace — perhaps I —”
The Lady’s smile beamed, dazzling in its beauty, but her eyes were cold as the winter morning. “Clayton, forgive me. We haven’t spoken of compensation yet have we? I was so intent on finding my prize, it simply slipped my mind.”
The Lady laid a hand on his shoulder. The sparkling jeweled rings on her fingers looked to be worth more than the entire farm, and then some. “How much would assuage your misplaced guilt, ameliorate your loss? My men carry gold enough, surely. Name your price.”
She turned her smiling face to Sophie, and it was at that moment that she realized something was dreadfully wrong.
“Father, what’s going on here? What does she mean?”
“Why do you speak to him and not to me, girl? He has no more dominion over you. That has now become my privilege to enjoy.” The glint of the Lady’s eyes left no doubt in Sophie’s mind that she was in serious peril. Those eyes bespoke nothing but cruelty.
“Sophie,” her father said, stepping toward her. “Address your Lady properly, you know better than this.” He lowered his head slightly, staring at her, the forlorn expression on his face rapidly eroding any confidence she’d had that this encounter would turn out well for her.
“I am sorry, milady. It’s just that I don’t understand. What are you here to procure?”
The Lady tilted her head to one side, her pink lips curved in a half smile. “Why I’m here to procure you, my dear.”
Sophie’s heart sank through the floor. This
couldn’t be happening.
Owen stepped in front of Sophie, his arm reaching around her protectively. “She’s not going anywhere, my Lady.”
Sophie clutched his arm, wanting to melt into him, to seek shelter in his strength. She knew the feeling was absurd, but she was truly frightened, and holding onto Owen gave her real, if fleeting, comfort.
Sophie’s father growled, ready to explode, but the Lady beat him to it. Her sword was out so fast, Sophie had no perception of its movement. Rather, it seemed to instantly materialize, the lethal point a mere breath from the pulsing carotid of Owen’s throat.
“Oh, I think she is, boy.” The Lady’s mouth was a thin line, her jaw clenched. “Stand down. Now.”
Owen stepped back a pace, pushing Sophie behind him. The Lady betrayed her first bit of pique, her cool confidence faltering for the briefest of moments, revealing an icy anger. She gritted her teeth, nodding her head. Two of her men appeared instantly in the doorway, rushing to Owen and grasping him by the arms.
“Bastards!” Owen broke the grip of one of the men, crashing his forearm up under the soldier’s chin, sending him reeling. It was a short fight though, the pommel of the other soldier’s sword striking the boy a neat blow to the temple, staggering him. The other soldier quickly recovered, landing a gauntlet-clad fist in the tall boy’s midsection, doubling him over with a pained gasp of breath.
“Leave him alone!” Sophie attacked the nearest man, beating on his mailed back with her fists.
“Sophie!” Her father’s roar was enough to cause even the soldiers to pause a moment in their manhandling of Owen.
The Lady grabbed Sophie by the arm, spinning her around to face her. Sophie froze, the point of the Lady’s sword now resting its deadly coldness in the hollow at the base of her throat. “You stay there. You’re in enough trouble as it is. Don’t make it worse for yourself, girl.” The Lady’s eyes flashed as she spoke, points of color in her golden cheeks.