Nothing of note was happening. Laura traced the grain of the thick oak table beneath her fingertips, following it under heavy cream linen, and sighed as hard as she could without coughing. Her husband woke with a start, his napkin sliding down his chest and crumpling on his knee.
‘She’s the very wife of the devil, Lamb’ spluttered Paul, hoping the new addition to his young wife’s ladies in waiting was still the topic of her grumblings. There was always something wrong. Paul couldn’t understand how a young, comely woman like Laura could find so much to complain about, with all her life stretched out before her. In the short time they’d been married he’d felt the pleasures of those soft thighs only once and she’d avoided his eye then, too.
Long gone were the days of Maria, his first wife. She’d welcomed him home from years bathing in the blood of the French with open arms, legs and everything else. The night he’d returned, aching and tired, she bathed his wounds and distracted him from the pain well. He’d left her a timid maid, barely speaking a word of English and had returned to a woman who spoke perfectly, in a warm Spanish purr. In the years since her death in childbirth he’d been alone until Laura was sent his way, rich in land but poor in title. Twenty two, a widow at twenty and apparently barren. Her father had practically begged him. She was a year older than his son.
‘Please allow me leave, my husband’ Laura whispered ‘to the chapel.’ she added.
‘Aye.’ He muttered. The girl knelt often, but never in the manner that would make up for all the velvets and pearls he bought her.
Watching her rise, her throat and breasts heaved past his face, close enough to smell the warmth of her. She lingered a second, removing her napkin and brushing off her skirts vigorously. Paul gazed unabashedly, congratulating himself silently on at least having married another woman whose tits could kill a man with enough force. Pressed together by her corset, powdered and juicy, he remembered those pink, soft areolae in the candlelight. They’d puckered at his lips, regardless of her apparent coldness. As he’d bent her over and slid his hand down her belly, he’d encountered a thicket of inky black curls that were already damp, and a cunt that was hotter than a brazier and soaked in honey.
Laura swept out of the hall and out into the courtyard, and the hammering rain. In the five seconds it took her to cross and enter her rooms she was drenched. Her hair plastered down onto her shoulders and neck, and her heavy velvets suddenly weighed more than granite. She slopped up the worn steps to her own bedchamber, a warm retreat from the cold bedroom her husband preferred, and as far away as it was possible to get within the same building. Her ladies had lit a fire and candles, and after removing her sodden dress and undergarments had left her to brush her hair in a dry shift. The linen had been washed often, and softly draped over her bare skin. Goosebumps across her thighs and shoulders smoothed as she sat near the fire, staring into the spitting wood and letting her mind wander.
Paul would never join her in her private chapel, preferring another draughty hall on his side, and he’d never climbed the steps to her chamber. Instead, he summoned her on the one occasion he desired her company, in a note that explained she was to present herself as a lover. She’d not minded it as much as she had expected. Opening the door to his rooms he’d regarded her from his chair with stern grey eyes and told her to come to him. Undoing her heavy woollen cloak she let it fall, the rough yarn scuffing her nipples. She padded to him, her disgust at his age diminishing a little. In this low light he had a look of his son, William, and the way he stared between her legs was as if he’d seen a hidden treasure yet to steal. When she reached him he stood, and without a word bent his lips to her neck, grazing the gossamer skin down her décolletage to the fullness of her breast, his stubble scratching all the way. He lifted her breasts, cupping them in hands still strong enough to wield a sword, sinking thick fingers into them like warm dough and hungrily sucked her nipple with painful eagerness. Laura fought herself, hated the growing pulse in her pussy, hated that this elderly stranger seemed to know exactly how she liked to be touched. When he’d plunged first one, then two fingers into her she’d shut her eyes and imagined he was William.
The oak door creaked, and William cursed under his breath. Peering round the corner, he needn’t have worried. The ante room was empty, and where he was expecting to find sleeping women he found empty beds and only moonlight. Across from him, the inner door was ajar, and bathed in the light of several candles and a merrily crackling fire. He tiptoed to it, and whispered ‘Laura?’
‘Come in, the girls are away in the kitchens, I asked them to give me some peace.’
William rounded the door, shutting and locking in behind him. His cock had been hard since he left his rooms in the north of the house, and now he could finally release it. Laura raised herself off the bed, meeting him in the middle of the room. He took her in his arm, kissed her hard, as his other hand scrabbled at her linen shift, dragging it up and over her wide hips. She tore at the laces on his breeches, until her cool fingers brushed hot, hard, straining flesh. Laura sank to her knees and slid her hand down him to the base of his cock. She kissed the tip, her soft lips parting to allow her tongue to swirl around and down the shaft, taking most of him into her mouth. His prick twitched against her throat as he shuddered with pleasure, his knees buckling as she slurped her way up and down, her wet hand following her mouth.
Laura could bear it no longer, and clambered up onto the end of her bed. Will’s eyes opened to hers dancing, a smile curling up the edges of her talented lips. Her thighs shivered as they parted, and the hands that had brandished him so deftly slid up them to her glistening mound. Luxurious curls sprang between her fingers as she stroked her labia gently. He settled on his knees between her feet, inhaling her musk as he kissed along her inner thigh.
Laura sighed and relaxed back onto the bed as William brushed his bristled mouth across her plush outer lips. He spread them with his fingers, and took a second to admire the rosy cunt that glittered in the dancing light of the fire. He ran his tongue between his digits, up her inner folds and parting them at the top, pressing slowly on the hard pearl of her clitoris, twitching under it’s hood. He drew it between his teeth, clamping his lips around it and sucking gently. She bucked, yelping, and he pressed her back down on her back with ease, his huge, black furred hand sinking into the milky flesh of her unblemished stomach. She mewled helplessly as his thick middle finger suddenly thrust into her moist hole, fucking it’s way in and out with dexterous twisting and twitching, hard knuckles pounding into her soft mound. With a final gargled cry, Laura came, a jet of fluid spurting up Will’s forearm and matting his ebony hair. His grey eyes flashed up at hers, his wet hand grasping her jaw to hold her gaze as he guided the first few inches of thick, pounding cock into her quivering cunt.