The Maid #6
I attended. Thoroughly. He groaned outright, one hand tightening in my hair—a rein laid gently on a neck—and said, rough, “Aye. Just there. Again.”
I took him into my mouth.
The Guide had devoted two full pages to the Supplicant Swan and not one line of them to the jaw. Thick as my wrist, I’d thought, admiring; my jaw now filed a formal complaint against my earlier admiration. I resolved to write the author a strongly worded letter.
Later.
Breathe through the nose, the Guide counseled. Let the throat learn patience. What the mouth cannot honor, the hand must.
So I breathed, and my hand worked the root of him where my mouth could not reach, and I learned him by inches—the weight of him on my tongue, the impossible softness of the skin, the twitch of him when I hollowed my cheeks and pulled.
The sounds alone were beyond obscene. Gran’s lessons had promised a wife’s duty and a maiden’s peril.
The Guide had promised power.
The Guide, as usual, had it right. A duke sat above me in his shirtsleeves with his head tipped back and his breath ragged, and every stroke of my tongue moved him like weather. His pleasure sat quite literally upon my tongue, exactly as page twelve had promised, and it was mine to grant.
“Look at you,” he rasped, gathering my hair tighter so he could watch my face. “My little virgin, reading the books Mrs. Marshton shares by candlelight. Now—Christ—now here’s my diligent little scholar, kneeling on my carpet with her mouth full of cock, sucking me like she was born knowing.”
I moaned around him.
He swore with impressive range.
The ache between my own thighs had built all through it, slick gathering on my folds with nothing to ease it, and my free hand began to drift down my belly of its own sinful accord—
“No.”
I froze. His voice had gone ducal: the voice of a man reminding a girl who owned the carpet she knelt on.
“Hands where I put them, lass. Your pleasure’s mine to give.” His thumb stroked once over my cheekbone, where it hollowed around him. “And I’m not giving it just now.”
I whimpered in protest. Around his cock. Which—I felt him swell against my tongue, heard his breath tear—turned out to serve him very nicely indeed.
“Do that again,” he growled.
I complained. He enjoyed my complaint immensely.
So I put my hand back on his thigh, and I poured all of it—the ache, the need, the ambition, the thirty pounds a year—into my devotions.
I sucked him the way the Guide taught and the way my grievance demanded, and above me the Duke of Maidenhair came apart by degrees. His thighs turned to oak under my palms. His praise collapsed into fragments—good girl, and, that mouth—Christ, that mouth—
As his crisis approaches, the Guide had warned, the gentleman may forget his manners. The supplicant is advised to breathe through it.
His hand fisted in my hair. His hips took over the rhythm in short, deep strokes, using my mouth with a frankness that lit me up like a chapel at Christmas—and then he ground out, through gritted teeth:
“I’m not going to waste it down your throat, Betsy.”
I gasped as he gave my hair a firm tug, pulling me off his cock. My jaw ached, but not as much as my cunny, and I whimpered, surging back toward him. The Duke, however, held me fast, tipping my face up to him as he leaned forward, looming over me.
“You want my seed in your belly, lass? I’ll plant you now, and then again as often as I need to, to see your tits fill with milk for my babe.”
“Yes,” I breathed, and he released my hair to stand in one smooth motion.
He bent to wrap his big hand around my arm, pulling me off my knees and thrusting me toward the big bed. I stumbled, but I was already panting with anticipation, my cunny dripping need down my thighs.
“Hands and knees, lass.”
I scrambled to obey, my palms sinking into the thick counterpane, and understood at once. The Auld Furry Weasel, page thirty-five. The woman kneeling, the man behind—favored, the Guide had noted, by gentlemen who prize a lady’s charms both fore and aft.
I’d studied the illustration only three nights ago with my fingers between my legs. Now I was in it.
He hadn’t undressed. He didn’t need to—he was a duke; the world undressed for him. I heard the soft sounds of him behind me, shirtsleeves and open falls, and then his hands settled on my arse.
“Now there’s a sight,” he said, low, his fingers skimming over my bareness.
He stroked me. Both broad palms, unhurried, over the cheeks of my arse, the backs of my thighs, up the dip of my spine to my shoulders and down again, like a man gentling a new filly. Everywhere his hands passed, my skin rose in gooseflesh.
He palmed my arse and spread me open with his thumbs and simply looked, long enough that I whimpered and dropped my head, and then he leaned over me—the linen of his shirt brushing my back—and I felt the blunt, hot head of his cock notch against my entrance.
“Ask me nicely.”
“Please, Your Grace.” No hesitation left in me anywhere. “Please, fill me with your cock—”
He pushed in.
Slowly—heaven help me, slowly—one thick, relentless inch at a time. His fingers had readied me, but his cock was another matter entirely: a deep, stretching fullness that forced a long, low moan out of my open mouth and pressed my elbows toward the mattress.
It did not precisely hurt. It was simply more—more than the Guide’s neat drawings, more than my own imaginings in my narrow bed, more than I’d known a body could hold. He seated himself to the root with a grunt, his hips flush against my arse, and stayed there, letting me feel every pulse of him.
“God in Heaven,” I gasped into the counterpane. “It’s—you’re—”
“I know.” His voice had gone rough. He drew back and pressed in again, a slow drag that lit up every inch of my channel. “Look at you, taking all of it first try. Good girl. Sweetest cunny I’ve had in years—snug as a glove and wet as a spring. I can’t wait to fill you up.”
He began to move.
Long, deep strokes, deliberate as his hands had been, each one ending with the slap of his hips against my arse and a little punched-out sound from my throat.
My body caught his rhythm before my mind did—I was pressing back to meet him, greedy for the depth of it, and he growled his approval and went faster.
The wet sounds of it filled the room, obscene and wonderful. His hands slid up my swaying sides and captured both breasts, squeezing them in time with his thrusts.
“These tits,” he groaned, kneading, catching my nipples between his fingers.
“Full and heavy already. Wait till you’re carrying, lass—they’ll swell up ripe, veined like marble, leaking down your belly every time I fuck you.
I’ll bend you over just like this with my babe rounding you out and milk dripping on my sheets—”
The picture of it went through me like brandy. And something in me—the something that had left off its stays, that had sashayed past his chair for weeks, that had come here to be bred—rose up bold and shameless and opened my mouth.
“Yes—please—oh, please, Your Grace, fill me up with your seed!” I heard my own voice, breathless and wanton, saying every word the good girl in me had never known she wanted to say. “Give me your baby. I want it—I want my belly big and round from you—I want my tits heavy with milk for you to suck—”
“Christ.” His rhythm stuttered, then redoubled, hard enough to shove me up the bed. “Say it again.”
“Breed me, Your Grace! Please!”
He bent over me with a snarl, one arm banding under my chest, and his other hand came around my hip and down between my legs.
His fingers found my pearl, slick and swollen, and rubbed rough, fast circles against it while his cock drove into me from behind, and the two together were beyond anything—pleasure from without and within, winding tighter and tighter until my thighs began to shake.
“Come, Betsy,” he ordered against my ear. “Come on my cock and milk the seed out of me so I can give you my babe.”
I came.
It tore through me harder than the first, my cunny clamping down on the thick length of him in great rolling squeezes, and my arms and legs gave out entirely.
I collapsed flat to the bed, wailing into the counterpane, and he simply followed me down and kept on, pinning me under his weight, pounding into me while my body pulsed helplessly around him, wringing every aftershock loose with his hips.
“There it is—there—good girl—take it—”
His thrusts turned short and savage and then, with a roar I felt straight through my back teeth—a sound like a felled oak, like a stallion, like nothing that belonged in a civilized house—he slammed deep and came.
I felt it.
I had wondered, reading the Harlot’s Guide by candlelight, whether a woman could truly feel it, and now I knew: heat, flooding heat, deep at the very core of me, his cock jerking and pumping spurt after spurt while he groaned my name into my hair and ground himself impossibly deeper, as though he could press his seed directly into my womb by wanting it enough.
My spent cunny fluttered around him, greedy, and I lay there pinned and full and claimed, feeling the warmth of a duke’s seed spreading inside me, and I had never in my life felt so thoroughly, wickedly useful.
For a long moment, neither of us moved. His weight was crushing and I did not care.
Then his lips found my shoulder. My neck. The knob at the top of my spine. Soft, unhurried kisses, his beard dragging gently between them, his softening cock still seated inside me.
“Remarkable girl,” he murmured between kisses. “Took me like you were made for it. My good, good girl.”
I lay in awe of myself. Somewhere below, in another world, there were floors being scrubbed and linens being counted, and here I lay, filled with a duke’s seed and being kissed like something precious.
When at last he pushed himself up and off, his cock slipped free, and I felt the strangest sensation follow—a warm trickle of his spend leaking out of me, sliding over my folds and down my thigh.
I made a small involuntary sound of loss.