Tempting Gemma 2

by Josie Litton

  A short time later, after Charles had left for the city, she sought out Ismay. Her sister-in-law was at the stables, preparing to put a new stallion through his paces. She looked formidable as always in a crisp white riding shirt, skin-tight jodhpurs and gleaming Hessian boots.

  Gemma approached her determined that this would be an opportunity to improve matters between them.

  “Good morning,” she said brightly even as she could not help but notice that the stable boys were keeping their distance from both the snorting animal and Ismay herself.

  Without bothering to so much as glance at Gemma, she said, “Morning. Are you and my brother going to make a habit of shagging in the fountain?”

  Gemma took a breath, willed herself to patience and said, “As I am sure you know, Charles does as he likes. At any rate, he said that I should talk with you about the Village Fair next week.”

  “Did he?” Something about that seemed to strike Ismay as humorous. She gave a short, sharp laugh, rather like the braying of a horse. The stallion started but she had him quickly back under control.

  “Yes, well, the fair is quite a tradition around here. As Charles’ wife, you’ll be expected to do your part on the day.”

  “Of course, I’ll be happy to contribute however I can.”

  “Will you? Excellent. Did my dear brother say anything to you about the…particulars?”

  “Just that it’s games, a bonfire and so on. It’s sounds like fun.”

  Ismay smirked. Or perhaps it was meant to be a smile. With her, it was hard to tell.

  “Oh, it is! The people hereabouts put a great deal into it. We do everything possible to make sure they aren’t disappointed.”

  Gemma struggled to hide her surprise. She’d had no idea that Ismay was inclined to lift a finger on behalf of the villagers. A whip, perhaps, but that was an entirely different matter.

  As it was, she could only conclude that the village fair, whatever it involved, was an event of some importance to which she resolved to give her all.

  Chapter Two

  Aweek passed during which Gemma suffered the petty cruelties and insults of her miserable relations with as much forbearance as she could muster. All in the interest of convincing Charles that she truly was making an effort. Each time she walked past the foot of their bed and eyed the knob of her humiliation, she was reminded of why this was so essential.

  Her endurance appeared to bring its own reward. At breakfast on the day before the Village Fair, Charles announced that he was taking his wife on a tour of the Home Farm. Gemma could scarcely restrain her delight.

  She welcomed any opportunity to be away from the three Furies, as she had come to think of Sister Ismay, Mother and Brother Harold. The latter did not technically qualify for the all-female brigade conceived of by the ancient Greeks to represent vengeance, anger and jealousy. But his manner alone earned his membership.

  While she held out some faint hope that the Village Fair might represent a turning point in her relationship with the loathsome trio, Gemma’s efforts to date to win them over had been markedly without success. A day without their iniquitous company was welcome under any circumstances. That the invitation also suggested a husbandly desire for her company only deepened her happiness.

  Set at the opposite end of the estate from Ardsley Manor, the Home Farm provided fruits and vegetables as well as fresh eggs, chickens, herbs, grains and several varieties of dairy products to the high table. To accomplish all that hoeing, seeding, reaping and the like required a sizeable workforce. But when Charles pulled his sporty silver MG convertible off to the side just beyond the white picket gates, the place looked deserted.

  The absence of forelock-tugging laborers did not appear to perturb him. Having stepped agilely over the driver’s side door, he seized the picnic hamper from the back seat and came round to help Gemma out.

  “Marvelous day, don’t you think?” he said, giving one of her pigtails a playful tug.

  She had arranged her hair in that fashion at her husband’s behest, in addition to wearing the white dotted Swiss dress he had picked out for her, so sheer as to be little more than a film over her skin. Charles having been a bit heavy-footed on the accelerator, the drive in the open car had adorned her bare arms with goosebumps while her nipples were hard little pebbles straining against the thin fabric.

  Glad of a moment to catch her breath, Gemma glanced around at the tidy white stucco house occupied by the farm’s manager and the larger red planked barn beyond. A little farther off toward the fields, the equipment sheds and silos stood outlined against a clear blue sky. A goat tethered in the main yard munched contentedly on clover while lambs gamboled in a nearby pasture.

  Her lungs filled with sweet, clean air that carried only a hint of manure, she smiled. “It’s perfect but where is everyone?”

  Charles waved a negligent hand. “Off getting ready for the fair, I should think. At any rate, we can manage on our own. What do you say to a look around first and then we’ll enjoy whatever Cook has given us?”

  Gemma allowed as to how she thought that was a marvelous idea even as she struggled to hide her surprise. In the weeks since their marriage, her husband had shown scant regard for her feelings or needs. Indeed, he appeared to be blissfully unaware that she possessed any. Yet there he was, suddenly extending himself so far as to ask her opinion.

  Not to blow it all out of proportion; it was, after all, a very small matter. Yet it allowed her to nurture the smallest flame of hope.

  Having spread a soft plaid blanket in the shade beside a pond and deposited the picnic basket on it, they set off along a dirt road framed on both sides by fields. Gazing around, Gemma could not help but be struck by the fertility of the Ardsley lands.

  Bales of golden hay drying in the sun vied with seas of white blossoms in the nearby apple orchards that were on the verge of coming into fruit. Elsewhere, plump purple eggplants lay near dark green runner beans and heirloom tomatoes hung heavy from their vines while thick hedges of ripe blackberries fairly begged to be plucked.

  For Gemma, who had so lately been consigned to the harsh moors of Northumbria, the lush display was nothing short of breathtaking. Combined with the tantalizing scents of fertile earth and all the life it had brought forth, the effect was dizzying.

  Of course, her husband’s nearness may have contributed to that. Give his endless enthusiasm for sexual congress, she anticipated that he would, at any moment, thrust her up against a convenient tree, bend her over a fence, toss her onto a hay stack or whatever else might strike his fancy. To her surprise, he merely matched his longer stride to hers and contented himself pointing out small details she might otherwise have missed.

  “See there,” he said, pointing to a nearby stretch of fencing where a family of linnets was sunning itself. The trills and twitters of the small, brown birds filled the air.

  “They’ve nested here for as long as I can remember,” he said. “Every spring, there are new clutches all over.”

  “How do you know that?” She supposed that someone had told him but he confounded her yet again.

  “I spent as much time here as I could before I was sent off to school.” A faint smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “In fact, I told anyone who would listen that I wanted to be a farmer.”

  Having had the foresight to keep her own ambitions entirely to herself, Gemma could not help but sympathize with the likely results of his childish candor.

  “How did your father take that?”

  Charles gave a bark of laughter. “Not well. His capacity for amusement was…limited.”

  “What did he do?”

  “Nothing but that was to be expected. He rarely paid any attention to me.”

  Privately, Gemma thought that was probably all to the good given what she had gleaned of the late Marquess’ character or lack thereof. Still, she felt compelled to point out the obvious.

  “But you were his heir. One might expect him to take more of a hand in your upbring
ing.”

  “One might,” Charles agreed, “But when he looked at me, he inevitably saw a time when he would no longer exist. That repelled him.”

  How horrible, Gemma thought. What a terrible thing to do to any child and how cowardly. Never mind that he was dead, she conceived an instant dislike for the late, unlamented Marquess.

  “That was his loss,” she declared. “Children enable us to see the world again in all its fresh innocence and wonder, if only we let them.”

  Her husband shot her a startled look, struck perhaps by the sudden reminder that, in addition to those parts of her that most interested him, she possessed a brain.

  “You continually surprise me,” he said and took her hand.

  They wandered in a circuit around the fields before returning to where they had left the picnic basket. Before she could sit, Charles shucked off his clothes, tossing them haphazardly onto the grass.

  Within moments, he stood before her in all his glory--the broad sweep of his shoulders and chest tapering to a flat washboard abdomen and narrow hips before yielding to the bulging musculature of his thighs and calves. In the undeniable perfection of his body, he looked like the proverbial Greek god except for one glaringly obvious difference.

  The Ancients had so valued the elevation of mind over body that men worthy of honor were depicted with small, flaccid penises as a sign of their superior self-discipline. Charles suffered no such artistic restraint. On the contrary, his cock jutted unrepentantly long, hard and thick from the nest of golden hair at his groin.

  Fisting the indulged appendage, he kept his gaze on Gemma as he blatantly stroked himself. Unwillingly fascinated by the carnal display, she scarcely heard him when he said, “Take off that dress.”

  With a sigh, she slipped it over her head and dropped it beside the blanket. Not that she enjoyed being manhandled by her husband, not at all. But there was no denying that she was conflicted as regarded their intimate dealings. He had the most extraordinary effect on her, regularly rousing her to screaming need before finally granting her release--or not.

  She could only hope that this would not be one of those ‘or not’ occasions.

  In a tone he might have used to request that she pass the salt, he said, “Get on your hands and knees.”

  Given his tumescent state, she had no doubt that he would be quick. Even so, she wasn’t entirely prepared when her husband pulled her thighs wider apart and positioned himself with the bulbous head of his cock pressing into her opening. Gripping her hips, he plunged completely into her with a single thrust.

  The heavy sack of his balls slammed against her pert, upturned bottom with such force that she gasped. Her breasts bobbed frantically and her arms threatened to give way. She was struggling to remain upright when he shifted his hold, grasping one of her pigtails in each hand. Pulling her head up, he proceeded to ride her hard, quite as though he was coming down the final stretch in the Derby.

  “Fuck, you’re hot,” he gasped. “Wet, tight, the best cunt ever and those tits…”

  Switching to a one-handed grip, he reached down and seized her breast, his fingers tugging at a swollen, aching nipple.

  Poor, darling Gemma’s vision blurred. In the weeks since her marriage, she had discovered to her shame that the mingling of pain and pleasure was her undoing. So it proved to be once again. Caught suddenly in the remorseless rush to orgasm, she was barely aware of her husband’s shout of satisfaction accompanied by hot, scalding jets of his cum spurting into her.

  A groan of despair welled up in her but her husband was feeling magnanimous. With his cock still nestled inside her, he reached round and stroked her clit, flicking, squeezing and otherwise teasing the hyper sensitive nub. She came within moments, so intensely that she scarcely heard herself screaming his name before the sweet bliss of oblivion closed around her.

  When she was next fully aware, she found herself lying on her back on the plaid blanket. The sky, seen through the overarching branches of leafy trees, was a perfect robin’s egg blue. A soft breeze cooled her heated skin.

  Glancing down, she observed that her nipples were still hard and aching. Her sex looked swollen and red, and she could not help but be aware of the stickiness between her thighs.

  With an effort, she managed to turn her head. Charles lay beside her, his eyes closed, his breathing slow and steady. Dazedly, she observed that he truly was far too handsome of anyone’s good.

  During their first meeting in the head mistress’ office at dear old Mary Magdalene, his square-jawed, clean-cut good looks coupled with his air of unquestionable authority had put her in mind of Chaucer’s ‘parfit, gentil’ knight.

  That was patently absurd; experience had taught her that he was nothing of the sort. No knight would ever demand such improprieties of a lady.

  Despite his recent exertion, his ever-resilient cock lay long and only partly softened against his thigh. A quiver ran through her as she anticipated a renewal of his attentions in the near term. Before that could occur, she sat up and reached for the picnic basket.

  Chapter Three

  As Gemma opened the wicker basket and began exploring its contents, Charles stirred. “Good idea,” he said, propping himself up on his elbows. “I’m famished.”

  With averted gaze, she arranged their luncheon on the blanket. In addition to packets of smoked salmon and pate sandwiches along with a nicely softened brie and crackers, Cook had included a basket of ripe, red strawberries and no fewer than two bottles of chilled champagne.

  “Are we really expected to consume both of these and still drive home?” she asked. “We’ll wind up in a tree.”

  Charles laughed. “You might be surprised what we find to do with them. Are there any glasses?”

  There were, of course; Cook had thought of everything. As Gemma held them out, he deftly uncorked the first bottle, removing the foil and wire cage before easing the cork out, and filled both the flutes. They ate and drank in silence for a few minutes. Charles kept her glass filled with the result that before very long she was more than usually relaxed.

  Gemma had just begun to think about how pleasant the day was turning out to be when her husband said, “Lie back again. Bend your knees and hold them with your legs spread.”

  Although she would have preferred to do nothing of the sort, she dutifully obeyed. It was, after all, the Mary Magdalene way. That part of her that wished to be free and independent was not yet so strong or secure as to resist the habit of obedience.

  Especially not when it was combined with the temptation her husband presented. He had that particular look in his eyes, a combination of lewd intent and carnal challenge that stirred her to shameful curiosity.

  “Raise your bottom,” he instructed.

  She complied only to recoil in shock as he parted the swollen lips of her sex and eased the smooth neck of the still partly filled champagne bottle between them.

  “What are you--?”

  “Hush,” he said, “and keep that lovely ass up. No slacking.”

  He continued, slowly pressing the opening of the bottle against her entrance, easing it into her an inch or two before stopping and angling it just so. The sensation of chilled, bubbly champagne trickling into her made Gemma gasp.

  Given her husband’s recent strenuous use, the wine stung a little at first. But mostly she was aware only of how very odd, yet pleasant the cool, bubbly liquid felt as it filled her inner passage.

  “Perfect,” Charles murmured as he withdrew the bottle and set it aside. With a wicked grin, he reached for the basket of strawberries. Having selected one of the largest and juiciest, he nestled the fruit between her swollen, slick labia, not stopping until it was lodged within her.

  “Hold that just so. Don’t let it drop.”

  Gemma stared down at herself in shock. Champagne drippled from her slick, engorged sex. But that was far from the extent of the carnal spectacle confronting her. The sight of the plumb, ripe strawberry protruding from her was at once humiliating
and shamefully fascinating.

  She wanted to object but couldn’t muster the will to do so. Most especially not when her husband put his golden head between her legs and went to work on her in earnest.

  His agile flicking and swirling over her clit was almost too much to bear. When he alternated with sucking the hyper-sensitive nub, followed by broad sweeps of the flat of his tongue and even tormenting little bites, she was pressed beyond her endurance.

  Desperately, she tried to contain her cries but without success. As her arousal coiled ever tighter, she held on to her knees for dear life, rocking back and forth on the curve of her ass. Frantic pleas broke from her only to be cruelly rebuffed.

  “Don’t come yet,” he warned. “If you do, I’ll keep you edged for a month.”