Epilogue #2
Finally, he moved his finger to the center of her body, sliding it up to the edge of her rectum and down to the throbbing nub where all her sensations seemed to be centered. He drew figure eights along her pussy, rubbing slightly harder near her hole and on her clit.
When Gwendolyn had risen high on the wings of passion, he pushed his finger into her opening. Immediately, her muscles clutched at him. He shoved it deeper and then pulled it out, repeating the action over and over until Gwendolyn’s hips met his rhythm.
His middle finger joined the index in thrusting into her.
He twisted his fingers inside her, his knuckles rubbing against the spongy spot that was especially sensitive.
His thumb was rubbing her nub. Her body tightened and pulsed.
Her breasts flushed red. Her head fell back.
She screamed as her body reached the peak of pleasure and tipped over.
She screamed.
When her senses cleared, Roland was leaning against the headboard and she was curled up on his lap, completely naked and still throbbing with the aftershocks of pleasure.
She looked shyly up at him. “Thank you. That was…” She couldn’t think of an appropriate word. Nice, wonderful, thrilling, all passed through her mind but what she had experienced far surpassed all of those insipid words.
Roland kissed her. “You are exquisite when you let yourself go like that.”
Gwendolyn twisted her mouth. “But, but…”
She blushed, suddenly not able to express her thought.
“But?” Roland prompted with a smile.
“You, I, you didn’t have the same fun I did.”
“I enjoyed playing with you.”
Gwendolyn grinned but then dropped her head. “But when… before, he put his thing inside me.”
Roland threw his head back and laughed. Gwendolyn smacked her hand against his chest. “It isn’t funny.”
Roland swallowed his laughs. “It might be better if you learn the actual words. What you want to say is that I haven’t put my cock into your pussy.”
Gwendolyn nodded, her golden hair brushing against him.
“There’s time for that.” He shifted Gwendolyn off his lap and undid his breeches. He turned slightly away from her as he shucked them. But Gwendolyn was curious and peered over his side in time to see his cock, hard and red, spring free and jut out proudly from his loins.
He moved back against the pillows, his legs stretched out in front of him.
His cock stood up but he ignored it. He drew Gwendolyn alongside him and focused on kissing her thoroughly.
He played with her breasts as his kisses lingered.
She surrendered to his touches and began running her hands over his body, moving closer and closer to his groin.
When her fingers bumped against his cock, she broke away from the kiss and watched how he reacted to her touches. There was something quite powerful in being able to make Roland lose control of himself. His cock jerked in her hand.
Roland lifted her up and positioned her over his legs. She looked at him puzzled. “Why do you want me here?”
“There are many ways for a husband and wife to make love. This way, you’ll have all the control.”
Gwendolyn’s full heart burst. “I love you,” she burst out. “You are the most considerate and caring man in the whole world.”
Roland kissed her. “I love you, too.”
“But what am I supposed to do?”
Roland guided her hand around his cock and showed her how to center her body over it. She lowered herself onto his cock, pausing as it filled her. She sank lower until he was fully inside.
His hands circled her waist and she held onto his shoulders. She began to move up and down, moving faster and faster as she became more confident. Her head fell backwards and each time she came down, the ends swept against his thighs.
They were both panting as their bodies reached for their climax. Roland gripped her waist more tightly and his cock throbbed. His balls tightened as sperm gathered and began to shoot up and fill her pussy. Her muscles tightened, milking him dry.
They came together, both crying out in shared pleasure. Gwendolyn, sweating and happy, collapsed against him. Roland pulled her down as he lay on the pillow and soon she was fast asleep, happier than she could ever have dreamed of being.
*
Grace Blythe steadied the tray she was carrying and pressed herself against the wall as orderlies carried a stretcher into the front room of the inn that had been turned into a makeshift hospital.
The Battle of Vittoria at the end of June had ended in a decisive victory for Wellington but hundreds of soldiers had suffered severe injuries and all across the south of England local communities had converted village schools and assembly halls into places where the soldiers could receive perfunctory care.
In Ashden Green not far from Plymouth, Mr. Blythe had sponsored the work of a young surgeon, Mr. Symington, in his endeavor to provide care for the wounded who were streaming back into the country.
Grace had volunteered her help as a nurse.
Even though local washerwomen tried to keep the sheets clean and the floors washed, the large room where twenty-two beds had been set up still smelled of infection and gangrene.
Grace had been horrified the first time she had worked there, but her sympathetic heart had been touched by the gratitude shown by the young men, many of whom would have been neglected if not for the assistance of people like Mr. Blythe and Dr. Symington.
The young man being carried in moaned as the stretcher was jostled. She glanced down at the youthful face twisted with pain and the horrors of the battles he had seen.
Grace herself had changed since the previous summer when her wedding with Major Enderby had been called off.
She had lost weight and tiny lines had etched themselves along the edges of her eyes and mouth.
Her eyes were still kind and her smile still sweet but altogether she had an air of tragic loss that was almost indefinable to a casual observer but that caused her family to worry.
She carried her tray into the ward and handed out bowls of soup to the men who were able to feed themselves.
The soldier in the bed next to the one where the orderlies were settling the newcomer had lost his one arm and the other had been slashed by a bayonet.
Grace pulled up a chair and sat down beside his bed. “Good evening, Lieutenant Marshall.”
“Good evening, Miss Blythe. That soup smells delicious.”
“Cook does marvelous things with carrots and potatoes,” Grace laughed as she began to help him eat.
Dr. Symington, a young man with grand ideals of how his chosen profession could bring health to communities where diseases were rife and debilitating injuries common. He had light hair that was often left to grow a bit long and a narrow face but his eyes were earnest and his manner efficient.
He completed his examination of the new arrival and administered a dose of laudanum to him. Only then did he acknowledge Grace, who was scrapping up the last spoonful of soup for Lieutenant Marshall.
“Miss Blythe, this new patient, Ensign Carter, will need special care. His leg was crushed when his horse was shot and fell onto him. The field surgeon amputated it but infection has set in and he has a bad fever. He is only nineteen years old and I am not sure he will live to see his twentieth birthday. His family is from the north of England and are on their way here but until they arrive, he will be greatly encouraged by the kindness you can give him.”
While the doctor was speaking, Grace had risen from her chair and was now looking down at the pale young face. A strand of fair hair had fallen across his face. She brushed it back and his eyes flickered open.
“My foot’s itchy,” he moaned.
Grace rubbed the blanket against his foot.
“Not that one. The other.”
Grace had still not grown used to how soldiers with amputated limbs could still feel sensations in their feet or hands. “It will settle soon,” she tried to reassure him.
She reached for a carafe of lemonade and poured some into a glass which she held to his lips.
He laid his head back on the pillow and his eyes closed.
A moan caught in his throat and he tossed restlessly, tangling his leg in the sheet.
Grace straightened it for him. The laudanum was taking effect and he was dropping into sleep.
“Damn Major Enderby,” he murmured as he lost consciousness.
Grace froze. She had not heard that name mentioned in almost a year. When her thoughts returned, they came in a tumbled rush.
Was the young ensign from Major Enderby’s regiment? Had the major survived the battle? Where in the world was her erstwhile fiancé?
*
Major Enderby swirled the red wine in his glass. It tasted bitter, but then most things he tasted these days left a bad taste in his mouth.
The other officers in the mess were boasting about how they had sent Napoleon running and every few minutes someone proposed a toast to Wellington.
But Enderby found it difficult to join in the celebrations.
The echo of gunshot and the screams of dying men echoed constantly in his ears.
The stench of blood and burning flesh filled his nostrils.
And the images of mud and corpses filled his vision whenever he closed his eyes.
He should never have returned to Spain after his previous experiences here, but when Grace Blythe had called off their wedding, he had been at a loss.
The thought of Grace softened his face and for a moment the horrors of war that haunted him faded. He could still clearly see her gentle face and hear her sweet voice.
“Hey, Enderby!”
Major Trevor’s voice brought him back to the present. “Where were you?”
Enderby took a deep breath. “Where I should be. Making things right with the woman I love.”