The Maid #5
He circled me as he might a new hunter in the stable yard, and he touched whatever he pleased.
He spanned my waist with both hands. He palmed my hips—”Good, wide hips,” he rumbled, approving, squeezing.
“Made for carrying.” He weighed each breast in turn, lifting, letting it drop to watch it bounce, thumbing my nipples until my breath went ragged.
He pressed one broad, warm palm flat against the soft of my belly, low, just above where I ached.
“Right here, lass,” he murmured, and there was worship in it—or appraisal. With the Duke, I was coming to understand, the two were one act. “This is where my babe will sit.”
I whimpered. His hands on my breasts had not gotten that sound out of me. A palm resting quiet against my belly did.
He gripped my arse in both hands and kneaded it.
He drew a fingertip down the seam of my spine and watched the gooseflesh follow it.
He crouched—a duke, crouching, at my feet—and ran his hands up my calves, my thighs, close enough to my dripping center that I swayed and had to lock my knees, and then—the villain—past it, without touching, up over my hip.
He looked me over like a farmer at the county fair judging a prize heifer, and I half expected him to ask to see my teeth.
He did not ask to see my teeth, but…
He rose, tipped my chin up with one knuckle, and pressed his thumb against my lower lip. “Open.”
I opened. His thumb slid onto my tongue, broad and rough and tasting of leather and salt, and I closed my lips around it without being told, and sucked.
His nostrils flared. Something shifted in his face—a plan being made, I would learn soon enough.
“Aye,” he said, low. “That’ll do nicely.”
I glowed at the praise.
He is pricing you, Betsy. Like a heifer at auction.
Well. Someone ought to price me high.
“Cup your tits,” he rasped, sinking back into the chair, his fist finding its rhythm again. “Do it again.”
I was so aroused that even the movement made me want to moan. But I hefted my large breasts and slowly spun about again.
“Look at you.” His fist kept up that lazy motion.
“Those hips were made for carrying, lass. That belly…” His voice thickened.
“I can see it already. Six months gone, round and tight as a drum, so big you’ll waddle.
These pretty tits swollen twice their size and resting on top. You’ll be magnificent.”
Heat rolled through me. He wasn’t flattering me—this was no practiced seduction speech. His breathing had increased, his voice turning gravelly, the speed of his strokes increasing.
His cock had gone harder in his hand as he spoke, a bead of moisture gleaming at its tip. The thought of me bred and heavy was doing this to him. And knowing that—knowing his want was as shameful and specific as my own—made the ache between my legs pulse hard enough that I swayed.
“Come over here.”
I nearly stumbled as I crossed toward him. He patted his thigh, and I climbed onto his lap facing him, my knees sliding down either side of his hips into the chair, my bare cunny hovering scandalous inches above his thighs. This close, he smelled so delicious my mouth watered.
“Touch me,” he said.
I reached down between us and took his cock in my hand for the first time.
Oh. It was hot—that surprised me most, blood-hot, hotter than skin had any right to be—and the skin of it was soft as kid leather over something hard as a stair rail. It jumped in my palm at the first touch, alive.
I remembered the Guide’s instruction—a firm grasp, for the instrument is not so delicate as it appears—and closed my fingers around it properly. They did not quite meet around its girth.
“Like this?” I whispered, and stroked him the way he’d stroked himself, base to tip, wringing a low groan out of him that I felt in my own chest.
“Just like that. Good girl.” His hands came up to my breasts, lifting them, weighing them. “God’s teeth, look at these.”
He bent his head and dragged the flat of his tongue over one nipple. The pleasure which shot to my core made me gasp and grip his cock harder, which made him grunt against my skin.
“Do you know what I think of, Betsy? Once my babe’s in you, these will fill with milk.
Heavy. Aching. Leaking through your bodice while you dust my library.
” He closed his lips over my nipple and sucked, hard and long, and I cried out, my hips bucking on nothing.
He pulled off with a wet sound. “And I’ll be the one to relieve you, lass.
I’ll suck them, taste your sweetness. I’ll taste what my seed made. ”
“Your Grace— Yes!” It came out as a moan. I was rocking against him now, helpless, my wet cunny sliding against the hard plane of his thigh, soaking through the wool of his trousers, and I could not stop. The friction was crude and glorious and nowhere near enough.
He sucked my nipple again, teeth grazing, one hand still kneading the other breast—and his free hand slid down over my belly and between my thighs.
His fingers found me. Stroked once through my slick folds, and we both made a sound.
“Soaked,” he growled against my breast. “Absolutely dripping for me. This sweet cunny knows what it wants, doesn’t it? Ready to be filled. Ready to take my seed like a good girl.”
His fingertip found the little pearl at the top of my sex—the one the Guide named with such reverence, the one I’d only ever touched myself—and circled it, firm and knowing, and pleasure jolted up my spine so sharp my thighs clamped around his hand.
“There it is,” he murmured, and did it again. And again, patient, relentless, while his mouth worked my nipple and my hand forgot entirely how to stroke him, simply clinging to his cock like a saddle horn.
Then one thick finger pressed into my channel.
I keened. It was so much more than my own slim fingers—a slow, blunt stretch, a fullness that had my inner muscles fluttering and clutching around him.
He pumped it slowly, then withdrew and returned with a second finger, working them in by degrees while his thumb kept up those devastating circles on my pearl.
“Tight little thing,” he breathed. “We’ll fix that. Need you stretched for my cock, lass—relax, let me in—there’s my good girl—”
A third finger. The stretch burned sweetly at the edge of too much, my hips grinding down to meet his hand of their own accord, wet sounds filling the room, his mouth pulling hard at my nipple, his thumb circling, circling—
“Come for me, Betsy,” he ordered against my breast. “Come on my fingers, show me how you’ll milk my cock.”
“I—” I wasn’t sure what I had planned to say; I definitely wasn’t objecting!
“Now,” he commanded, his voice going hard, reminding me he was the Duke of Maidenhair, and I was just a maid. “Fuck my hand, Betsy. Come now.”
Yes, Your Grace, I might have answered, but I couldn’t make my throat work, because my body was obeying him.
I came so hard the room went white.
My whole body seized—thighs shaking, back arching, my cunny clamping down on his fingers in great greedy pulses while I wailed something that was not words into his hair.
He worked me straight through it, wringing out wave after wave until I collapsed against his chest, gasping, my hand still curled around his iron-hard cock, his fingers still buried inside me.
“That,” he said with dark satisfaction, kissing my damp temple, “is what a woman made for breeding feels like.”
Then he stirred, his fingers sliding slowly in and out of me, and I realized two things at once:
My cunny, as he’d called it, had stretched to accommodate him, and I felt no tightness now, only a soft, spasming welcome.
And I didn’t want him to be done with me. I wanted it all. I wanted all of him.
So I lifted my head and met his eyes with my chin up. “Show me, Your Grace. Fill my cunny with your seed and my belly with your baby.”
From the way his nostrils flared as he sucked in a sharp breath, the way his eyes widened, the way his cock jumped in my hand…I knew I’d said the right thing.
But he groaned and dropped his head back. “I didn’t think you were ready for that, lass.”
Oh, he didn’t, did he?
Well, I’d already thrown my honor and my caution to the wind by stripping naked and putting on a show for the man, hadn’t I? I wasn’t going to leave before I’d received what I came for.
I was to be bred like one of his best mares, and I was wildly aroused by the thought.
What could I do to convince him?
And then I remembered the way he’d reacted when he’d pressed his thumb against my tongue and murmured that’ll do nicely, and I knew my plan of attack.
Page twelve. The Supplicant Swan.
I slid from his lap to the carpet between his boots.
The Guide’s instructions surfaced as I knelt, unbidden as a hymn in church.
On her knees, as if in prayer, the woman bobs her head, the movement akin to a swan.
She takes her lover’s member into her mouth, as deep as she can, albeit if he is endowed that might not be very far, and uses her tongue and hands to make him ready.
His cock stood level with my face, curving up from his open falls, that bead of moisture back at its crown, and this close the scent of him—sweat and leather—made my mouth water. I could no longer blame breakfast.
A firm grasp, the Guide reminded me, for the instrument is not so delicate as it appears.
I gripped him at the root. He exhaled through his nose, slow, the way he’d breathed over my breasts at the brandy tray—a man savoring a course he’d ordered well in advance.
I leaned in and licked the bead from the tip of him.
He tasted of salt and clean sweat, blood-warm.
The sound he made was quiet, but I felt it through my hand where I held him, and triumph, neat as brandy, went straight to my head. I had done that. Betsy, the good girl, nineteen years of honor intact, had pulled that sound out of a duke with two inches of her tongue.
Begin at the crown, said page twelve, for it is the most grateful territory. Attend to the ridge beneath with the flat of the tongue.