Smart Bitches Trashy Books | All of the romance, none of the bullshit.

#4: Persuading the Lusty Millionaire

Loralei walked out of the french doors of Edward Evils mansion.  She had put her plan in motion, the time of second-guessing was done. 

Soon he was there.  He looked at the lady that had been dashing in and out of his peripheral vision all night.  She wasn’t gorgeous, but she still peaked his interest. 

He walked up and lightly stroked her shoulder.  She turned and smiled. Without a word, she opened his fly and started to stroke.  She worked until she had him close to climax.  Then she slowed down and walked away.  He followed.  She went to a secluded grove in the garden.  Again, she turned and smiled and without a word, dropped her dress.  Edward quickly undressed as well.  He was ready.  Loralei walked into his arms.

He kissed her.  She was eager for him.  She rubbed her breasts against him, loving the feel of his strong chest.  She lowered herself and took him into her mouth.  She gently sucked him while stroking him with her hand.  He backed against a tree.  His muscles corded.  He let her go until he couldn’t be sure of his control.  He stopped her, pulled her up and into his arms.  He turned and put her against the tree. She wrapped her legs around his waist as he entered her. 

He thrust into her with strong strokes.  She felt her release begin.  Her sight dimmed, her muscles contracted and she smiled.  Edwards release came on the heels of hers.  She unwrapped her legs from his waist, smiled and put her dress back on.

She then turned and walked away.

#5: Docking the Chubby Savage

Gentle Fudge had a thing for piercings. The girl at the bar had ‘em in spades. Matching silver knobs graced her Cupid’s Bow and her lower lip, and her ears had enough carats to satisfy a New Jersey princess. She raked him with her eyes, staring at him over long dark lashes, and as her lips parted for the martini, Gentle noticed three more silver balls down the center of her tongue.

She wore a red satin shift, a petite white wool sweater tied around her waist for the sake of modesty, and there wasn’t much of that. Where nipples should have dented the shift, Gentle saw something double pronged, something hard and unforgiving.

“Damn, girl. You come with your own stirrups?”

It was out before he’d had a chance to think about it. Not that it mattered; she clacked her tongue-studs against the glass and laughed at him. She held out an olive-skinned hand, fingernails done up with blood red paint, just the way Gentle liked it.

“Obedience Ginger,” she said. “I new here, from Republic Uzbekistan.”

He took her hand and she yanked him close. Her hot breath tickled his ear. “You come in my mouth, I hurt you.”

“Fair enough,” he said. “Name’s Gentle --”

“I hope not.”

He gaped as she downed her martini, never once taking her eyes off of him. She worked a hand under his shirt, dropped it beneath his waistband and gave his ass a squeeze. She was the kind of dame who would grab you by the willy and lead you off to the bedroom. She was his kind of dame.

In the parking lot, Obedience snorted at his Beamer and walked away. He followed. He’d follow her anywhere, even to that rusted out VW van with the IMAGINE WORLD PEACE and HEMP POWERED bumper stickers. She opened the back doors. Gentle saw nothing inside but a mattress and a lava lamp.

He started to tell her how beautiful she looked beneath the parking lot lights, but she put her finger to his lips. “I give you warn. Warning? I not gentle.”

“Course not. I’m Gen --”

She knotted her fist and socked him in the mouth, knocking him back against the mattress. He shook his head, dazed, and felt her pull him into the van with shocking strength. The doors slammed closed. He shook his head, stunned, trying to clear the red haze from his vision, realizing only later that the light came from the lava lamp.

He would have protested, but at that moment she slipped out of her shift. Her breasts swung free. Each nipple was pierced with something – my God, was it . . . ?

“You will pull my horseshoes,” she said. Her voice brooked no disagreement. “With your teeth.”

The metal tasted like blood in his mouth; or maybe she’d done him some damage when she’d belted him in the chops. He was past caring, especially now that she was unbuckling him and clawing at his pants. Now he felt himself pop loose. Fingers as cold and powerful as a plumber’s wrench circled his scrotum and squeezed.

She spun one-eighty, somehow not losing her grip on his jewels. It didn’t surprise him that she’d already peeled out of her underwear. He checked out the goods in the dim red light and thought, Good Lord. What hasn’t she had pierced?

“You will please me now,” she said, and punched him in the mouth with her perineum, burying his nose between her cheeks. Obediently, he began searching for her clitoris, but she would have none of it. She rubbed herself against him vigorously, using his face as her personal rutting post. The bars and knobs of her labial piercings tore at lips and stretched his nostrils into all new conformations. She began screaming in Russian as her movements became more and more frenzied. Then, at last, she settled her groin snugly against his face and made “Mmmm, mmm” noises as her hips tried to unscrew his head from his neck.

All he could manage was, “Wow.”

Her hands had never left his balls. Obedience sighed. “Remember,” she said. “You come in my mouth. I hurt you.”

“I under – Oh, God.”

He felt her mouth sink down onto him, the three knobs on her tongue going lower and lower on his penis. As a teenager, he’d tried jacking off into his mom’s Kirby vacuum cleaner. That vacuum cleaner could have learned a thing or two from Obedience. The knobs worked at his shaft like a miniature Swedish masseuse and her hand squeezed his scrotum rhythmically, as if she were milking a cow. When she began humming what he supposed might have been the Uzbekistan national anthem, he knew he was lost for sure.

“Okay,” he murmured. Then, louder, “Okay. Stop. Come on, I can’t hold out --”

He came. Of course, he came. What did she expect?

And still she kept sucking, milking him for everything he was worth. He wondered, could you get a hickey on your penis?

But he didn’t wonder long. Her hand squeezed down on his scrotum hard enough to crack a walnut and she bit his penis, working one canine against another, gnawing back and forth until he heard (above his screams) her teeth meet with a click.

She rolled off of him and lit a cigaret.

He asked, between whimpers, “Why?”

“We make deal. You come in mouth. I hurt you. Aw, quit crying like baby. I give you Prince Albert. Men my country, they pay good money for that, and not half as fun.”

#6: Running to the Delicate Pasha

A passionate tale of love amidst the sandy dunes and pointless but nasty revenge amongst some other dunes in the mysterious heart of the small but perfectly formed, fabulously wealthy desert kingdom of Rahmpi Pahmpi.

Characters:

Pasha Naht Throh bin Lahfmah’sil. Noble desert lord, and ruler of Rahmpi Pahmpi. Nose: hawk-like (autocratic rulers’ noses never big and pointy). Eyes: dark and piercing. Hair: black, silky (uses traditional Rahmpian hot oil treatments). Would never wear a petticoat under his robes. Only man in kingdom without moustache.

Gentle Fudge. Cake-maker. In a miracle of social engineering involving a rural upbringing and Laura Ashley frocks, has managed to retain extreme innocence to current age of 26. Thinks she may have once kissed a boy, but it could just as well have been a sheep. Or a boy dressed as a sheep. Orphan. Figure: Slim but well-rounded (hem-hem). Hair: Probably blonde.  Desert princes like blonde. Eyes: Indeterminate colour, but they glow beautifully and match her garments.

Philadelphia Bunnyface: Stage name of the famous Rahmpian model/professional mistress Numa Tiq Bubs. Wears a lot of liquid eyeliner.

Abu Tifl Badawi: Pasha’s loyal servant. Large moustache. They hold a very manly affection for one another.

The story so far:

Pasha meets Gentle Fudge, proprieter of cake shop. Pasha’s fixation on the bodices of her demure frocks results in romantic meals, long walks, and longer (by about three pages) passionate and alliterative kisses. 

Loyal servant reveals photos of Gentle jumping out of large white angel-food cake with cherry garnish. Pasha angered, vein in temple throbs. Gentle refuses to tarnish identical twin’s memory by disclosing she was tart in cake photos. Pasha’s eyes flash. He accuses Gentle of prostituting her cakes. Gentle’s eyes brim with unshed tears. He seduces her for revenge. Refuses to sully self with “defiler of desserts”. Destroys her career and returns to Rahmpi-Pahmpi. Gentle’s eyes overflow.

Six months pass.

Bored with counting grains of sand, loyal companion investigates further and discovers truth of twin in smutty cake photo. Tortured by guilt, Pasha blackmails Gentle away from new career as proprieter of thriving confectionary import/export business, Fudge Packers, to bake cake for big desert shindig. Unconcerned by refrigeration issues affecting quality of royal icing, Gentle acquiesces. 

Pasha angry she does not admit truth about twin. Forces Gentle to bake in rubber gloves to prevent her profaning the puddings of his kingdom, makes her sleep with goats. Her nobility of character shines through. Everyone loves her (like a sister), even the goats. Pasha softens. Romantic moonlit desert stroll. Shows her mystical pink oboe of Rahmpi-Pahmpi. She plays it beautifully, fulfilling prophetic legend.

Next day.

Gentle receives note on scented jasmine paper in feminine hand summoning her to Pasha’s chambers. Touched by evidence he is acquainting self with feminine side, she goes, bearing two large honey melons as gifts. Hears shriek. Rushes to private bath and sees Pasha naked on floor with Numa Tiq Bubs. They are very oily. Much glistening flesh sears her eyes. Drops fruit and flees. Pasha swears, exotically. Throws on desert warrior robes and races to Gentle’s room. In corridor, is stopped by guilt-tortured loyal servant who asks, “Have I ruined everything between you and Gentle with my foolish meddling?”

Pasha replies, agonised. “If I said you had, Abu Tifl Badawi, would you hold it against me?” In shame, servant resigns by giving his amethyst warrior’s headpiece to pasha. More rushing to Gentle’s room (big palace). Reaches room, finds Gentle packing. Exclaims “You little fool! You cannot leave!”. Shakes her by shoulders.

Gentle wipes tears defiantly. Glares. “I cannot bear this torment anymore. Let me go!”

Pasha picks her up, carries her to secret oasis. He is now manly purple-helmeted warrior of desert. Enters grotto, saying “I have built you
this shadowed mossy garden as a symbol of my love! See how the blue-veined marble fountain shoots jets of sparkling water into the air! Water that is as precious in the desert as you are to me! Know that I love you always and wish to marry you! I have banished Numa Tiq Bubs who lay in wait naked for me to slip on the jasmine oil she had spilled outside my private bath. She will machinate while mascerating no more!”

Gentle’s tears sparkle on her cheeks like diamonds. “Oh my beloved Throh bin Lahfmah’sil, I love you so.”

The end.

#7: Seducing the Savage Pleasure

Obedience Ginger, a flame-haired lass of twenty summers, stretched her lithe body across the sun-warmed rock and dangled her slender ankles in the cool stream.

All summers should be spent thus--showing off one’s perfect body beneath the dappled shade of a sycamore tree, driving the farmhands crazy with lust. And having her faithful friend, Gentle Fudge, nearby in case one of the farmer lads decides to take advantage of the situation.

Obedience Sighed. Gentle was such a gentleman. Never would he dream of taking advantage of her. More’s the pity. With his dark, brooding good looks—the result of his mother’s mindless tryst with a gypsy one star-spangled night-- and his sensually curved lips. She longed to run her hands through his black curly hair, but Gentle would be horrified. Obediance looked at Gentle though the half-lowered eyelashes. How she could lower her lashes without moving her eyelids was a mystery, but she did it well. And she kneww she looked seductive. She was twenty summers old. Enough of this teasing farmer lads. It was time to seduce Gentle.
Obedience knew she had to be subtle, so she sat up on the rock and called out with just enough panic in her voice, “Gentle! Come here! I’m frightened! There’s a bug!”

Gentle sprang up from his seat beneath the sycamore tree. He’d been reading his book -turning the pages with rather more speed and force than Obediance thought necessary—and the first thing she noticed was that his pants were deformed. My heavens. His buttons bulged. But she hadn’t time to consider that before he’d leapt upon the rock and seized her in his arms.

“Where is the bug?” he cried.

“In my bodice,” she replied, baring her bosom for his inspection. This, she hoped, would move things along. She wasn’t ready for his response.

Instead of the gentle wooing she thought she’d have to endure, his hot mouth suctioned onto her aching nipple and his agile hands had her dress off in a twinkling. Obedience discovered the effects of her sensuous sunbathing too late. Her gentle gentleman Gentle was anything but as he flung her onto the rock, ripped his breeches off (thus showing her what it was deforming his breeches thus) and drove his manhood into her throbbing jewel. Obediance nearly wept with delight. The thought that he’d be truly gentle had tormented her. A good spanking, someone to tie her up tightly, and ravish her savagely was just what she had always dreamed of.

“Harder, Gentle, harder!” she screamed.

The sun suddenly burst into a fireworks of pleasure as her body melted into the hard rock in the back and the hard body pressing into hers from the front...but all that didn’t matter - she was a woman now, and that painful achy need was finally assauged.

Obediance blinked away tears of passion and sighed as Gentle pushed his hard mouth against her tender lips in a kiss meant to seal their mutual fate.

“Will you marry me?” he murmured. “Will you promise to always continue to tease me and to obey my every command?”

“Yes, my savage Gentle. For always.”

The farmhands, lined up on the top of the ridge, started cheering. A country wedding was coming soon, and that meant lots of song, dance, wine, and lassies. And maybe now Obediance would stop writhing seductively all over that damn rock and let them get some work done.

#8:Bedding the Chronically Hard Sheikh

Boadicea Basher couldn’t believe her ears when she heard the stories. The Sheikh’s fame had spread far and wide; no one could match him in stamina. His condition simply exhausted every woman he met - shy maidens, experienced whores, lusty widows, and everyone in between. But now, standing in his bedchamber, she vowed to herself that she’d be the one to master this walking erection of the Arabian desert...and make him hers and hers alone.

She felt a thrill of wicked delight as she unlaced her corset. Her breasts chafed painfully, already enlarged and full, as her nipples came erect in the chill air. She stroked them idly in turn as her clothing dropped to the floor. The fire was banked and the coals glowed rosily in the gloom of the room, casting a reddish hue on everything its light touched. She gave an involuntary shudder as she heard the click of the door as it shut out the world, trapping her with her destiny.

The Sheikh padded across the plush carpet of the vast room and placed his big hands upon Boa’s shoulders, making her arch involuntarily. God, this one was a ripe one. He liked them primed and willing and unafraid; he liked women who knew what they wanted. And how they wanted it. But none ever could outlast him and this infernal swelling in his groin. Maybe this would be the one.

His palm arced over her naked back and settled on her lush buttocks. He could feel her body thrumming under his hand, almost daring him to do more. She made a small sound in her throat, and his body tightened painfully, blood surging into his groin. Oh, yes...this one would take the edge off at least.

She turned into his embrace, pressing firm and full breasts up against his furred and muscled chest. And he got the first real look at her. Surprise lit his dark features as he recognized her, but his cock was too engorged to mince words or make small talk. Scooping her up in his arms, he crossed to the bed, feeling the scorching heat of her skin rubbing so slightly against his. What a tempting armful she makes, he thought to himself.

Boa turned her face up to the dark lord, and her full lips seeking his. The Sheikh dipped his head to meet her mouth, parting her lips with his tongue, lashing it mercilessly against the inside of her warm, wet mouth. Someone moaned, answered by the other. And he was lost. Sliding down onto the immense bed with her still locked in his embrace, he positioned her to receive his wildly pulsing mantool. Rubbing it’s length along her sensistive folds, he pressed into her depths, and felt the familiar tightening of the muscles of his back and buttocks as he began to thrust...long, slow, deep strokes that made her writhe under him. She opened impossibly farther under his erotic assault, with her flame-colored hair curling wildly on the sheets. The image before him was being burned on his brain - this gorgeous and impassioned woman matching him thrust for thrust, making the orgasm boil up from within him. He couldn’t stand it anymore and buried himself to the hilt, balls deep even, as he exploded. Bright lights and stars swam in his head as she reached her peak under him, bucking madly and screaming.

Boa couldn’t believe it. The stories of the Sheikh’s prowess were true. In fact, they didn’t do justice to the man whose body still throbbed within hers. And, even as the thought crossed her brain, he hardened inside her, regaining his erection in record time.

“P-p-p-please, give me a moment,” she grated out. “I’ll need a second to recover.”

“I can’t stop,” he gasped. “It’s the curse...I’m insatiable.” His voice rolled over the silence like warm oil, heating her already emflamed core. Noticing the easing of her, he began pumping again in earnest, making her convulse and squirm uncontrollably as he filled and refilled her aching tunnel. “I just have one thing to ask you,” he panted. “One thing only...I want you to say my name when you come again.”

She was being consumed, being eaten alive by the need for him crawling everywhere inside her at once. “Anything...anything you want...tell me...”

“Will you say it?”

“Yes...what is your name?” Her voice, breathy with desire and high with need, sounded like someone else’s as it poured form her lips.

“Promise me you will say it when you come.”

“God, yessss...tell me...please...”

He shoved infinitesimally deeper, bringing a deeper arch to her back that sent him farther into her welcoming body and made him shiver within her. “Say my full name...say ‘Sheikh Mirzah ben Israel Abayan’.” His low and rumbling voice whispered over her skin.

She panted it out, syllable by syllable, nearly reaching another peak from the swarm of delicious sensations rioting inside her.

He ground against her, the pleasure spilling over them as heaven neared again. “Say my other name now...”

Boa’s eyes rolled back into her head as he pounded her now, her fluttery gasps and throaty moans echoing in the room’s cavernous space. She convulsed around him yet again as she hit her pinnacle, pleasure singing wildly through her oversensitized body and whirling him over the edge with her.

They lay quietly together again, still joined, with love-tossed sheets all askew and hearts frantically thundering.

She roused enough to say, “Your name...you wanted me to say your name?”

His hardness filled yet again in her moist depts, making her eyes widen and her heart stutter in her chest. “Yes...my name is Faithful...Faithful Cock.”

The hazy blush of desire evaporated in a flash.

“What?” Her voice rose in an unbelieving shriek.

“That’s my name...Faithful Cock. It’s a family name. I was named after my great-great-grandfather on my father’s mother’s side.”

She stared at him for one unbelieving second, then dissolved into hooting, helpless laughter. And for the first time in remembrance, the Chronically Hard Sheikh lost that part of his legend that made him who he was, for in the place of the formerly steely and towering phallus, there was instead a wet, shriveled, and embarrassingly flaccid member.

“You’ve cured me...the curse is lifted!”

But Boa was concentrating on breathing as her whole body quaked with hysterical sobs of laughter. There would be plenty of time to see if the curse (and that lovely erection) was gone for good, or if this was just a temporary aberration. He continued to stare at her until he, too, joined her, the sounds of their mingled jollity rising to the rafters.

Jecoliah Hornblower had lost all patience.

For weeks now Gentle Fudge had tried to warn him that Faithful Cock was up to no good. Jecoliah finally had the evidence he needed to prove that Faithful was not the ward of Edward Evil, but was indeed a French spy. But Gentle Fudge simply wouldn’t wait for Jecoliah to spring the trap. Her performance at Almack’s tonight, the cut direct, the tittering of rumors behind lemonade glasses, had been three days too soon. Gentle had no patience, and her behavior was going to put Freke Dorothy Fluck Lane in danger. And that he could not allow.

As the carriage halted outside his London home, Jecoliah gathered his hat and stepped out, even before the horses had come to a full stop. He needed a warm room and a warm brandy. He bounded up the steps, eager to find both. What he found instead was a woman, his woman, huddled in her dark green pelisse, standing just outside his door.

“Freke Dorothy! Why are you here?”
She kept her face turned away, her shoulders hunched in despair. “Jecoliah, I had to come see you. We have to talk.”

“God’s Blood, Freke Dorothy, you’ll damage the fine Fluck Lane name if someone sees you here!” Jecoliah grabbed her by the elbow and propelled her towards the door. “I’ll call my carriage back around.”

“Oh Jecoliah,” sighed Freke Dorothy. “The Fluck Lanes don’t care for me and I don’t give a…Fluck…I mean, what can I say?” She turned her face towards him into the light, and he saw the red-rimmed eyes. She had been crying for some time. Her amber eyes were larger than usual, the dark pupils so large he felt drawn into their depths.

“Freke Dorothy,” he groaned. “Let me take care of you. Let me protect you. You don’t have to be strong anymore.”

Jecoliah opened the door. He gripped Freke Dorothy’s elbow tighter and steered her towards the library. He closed the door and deposited Freke Dorothy in the chair closest to the fire. Jecoliah turned his attention to building the banked coals into a roaring blaze. He stayed on one knee, pivoting to see if she was still crying.

She had shrugged partway out of her cloak and was leaning towards the fire. Her dark black hair was shining in the flickering light. Those amber eyes. The wide high cheekbones. That hair. He was reminded of the leopard they had seen together at the menagerie just yesterday. But she was still hardened to him. He knew he could loosen her. He wanted to see the muscles of her back ripple again, as they had tonight when she danced. Ripple like the shoulders of the leopard behind those bars. She was happy when she danced. He could make her happy. But first she needed to be warm.

He stood, walked to the brandy on his desk and poured a large portion into a glass. He returned to the chair. “Freke Dorothy, drink this,” he said.

She still stared into the fire, refusing to answer. He put the bandy glass down with a faint clink on the table next to her arm. Standing close to her he rested his hands on her shoulder. He pressed down, feeling the cord of muscle tighten under his palms. Jecoliah sighed deeply and started pressing into her shoulders, her neck, the crest of her arm. Freke Dorothy remained still, staring still into the flames.

“Freke Dorothy, you need to relax. It will be alright.” He pressed his thumbs against the tension at the base of her neck. She tilted her head to the side and moaned. Jecoliah stilled. A tension deepened in his groin. This leopard was going down.

He slipped his fingers up into her black hair spreading his fingers wide. For a moment his hands were squeezed between the strands of her hair, but then pins came loose and the whole mass slipped glistening down. Jecoliah held the mass of hair in one hand while he pulled every pin free, piling them next to the brandy snifter. When her panther black hair was loose around her shoulders, Jecoliah picked up the brandy and came the front of the chair.

Freke Dorothy was no longer lost in the fire. She looked deeply into Jecoliah’s eyes. Her breasts rose and fell quickly in a deep rhythm. Jecoliah offered the glass to her silently. He leaned forward to place the tip of the glass to the edge of her thin lips. With his other hand he touched the slight valley between her breasts, opened his fingers and stroked the pale skin at the top of her dress. Freke Dorothy lowered her chin slightly and opened her mouth to the brandy.

Jecoliah watched her neck stretch and bob around the brandy. “Ah God. You are so very beautiful Freke Dorothy. God, I can’t call you that anymore. What the hell kind of name is Freke?”

Freke Dorothy smiled slightly and took another long sip of the brandy. She raised her chin slightly to signal, “Enough.” When Jecoliah put the brandy down, Freke Dorothy placed her hand over his on her breast. She pressed her hand to deepen their contact and said, “My Aunt Wicky Pedia named me for the Norse god, Freke. It means hunger. Such a challenging name for a young lady, don’t you think?”

Jecoliah placed his other hand on her thigh. “Remember the leopard we saw? Think of him. I need to kiss you.” He leaned in and tasted her lips. The brandy stung his tongue as he tasted her warmth. She opened her mouth to him. He swept inside with his tongue, swirling and pressing. Jecoliah clenched his hand against her thigh and moaned. “Get up,” he growled.

Freke unfolded from the chair, leaving her cloak puddled there. Jecoliah stepped back, alarmed at her sudden movement. She faced him, smiled, and slowly drew her dress off her breasts. Jecoliah felt his breath stop at his throat. She was no longer the woman whom Faithful Cock had threatened. Her eyes flashed as she stepped from her Almack’s white dress. Her amber eyes were clear now. Very slowly, her gaze never leaving Jecoliah’s, Freke pulled at the ribbon on her chemise. Soon she stood naked in front of the fire, her black hair in velvet waves around her white shoulders, her arms straight at her sides, palms towards him. Her body was gorgeous, curving and smooth, and she was offering it to him.

Jecoliah snapped. With a growl he lurched towards her and seized her--one hand grasped her behind her head and the other pounced on her hip. He angled his mouth across hers, driving into her, punishing her lips. He slid the hand at her hip down and across her buttocks, lifting her to him. He deepened the kiss, searching for her heat. His fingers, tangled in the soft hair at the base of her neck, spread wide against the hollow at the base of her head.

Slowly he skimmed the back of her neck, the center of her shoulders, down the planes of her shoulder blades. Still cupping her bottom, Jecoliah lessened the kiss, touching the corner of Freke’s lips. He kissed her chin, her neck, and then the hollow between her breasts which had fascinated him this morning. Freke let her head fall back, arching her back, offering her breasts to him. He rubbed his nose against the underside of one breast, taking in the musky smell of her, her tangy sweat from the country dances, the faded whisper of the lilac perfume from this evening, and over all that, the deep woody scent of her skin. He licked her. She cried out.

He took the tip of her breast into his warm mouth, suckling hard, supporting her back with his broad hand while his other hand slipped between her buttocks. He drove his hand forward, searching for and finding her slick wetness. Freke sighed and her knees dipped as Jecoliah slid across her center. His broad fingers spread her and moved in a ceaseless rhythm straight and sure. Forward and back as his mouth tugged at her. She lifted her hands to rest them on his shoulders.

Jecoliah growled again, “Turn around.” Freke straightened and Jecoliah guided her to the chair. He stood behind her grasping her wrists to guide her arms onto the seat of the chair. She rested her weight on her forearms and spread her legs when Jecoliah’s boot tapped the inside of her ankles. He rubbed her bottom, her thighs, and then her hips in wide slow circles. He stroked the inside of her thighs with both broad palms, spreading her, molding her. As his hands came to the top of their course, all his fingers stroked her and plucked at her. He delved into her, hearing her moan, watching her hair shift across her back as she tilted her head down and to the side. The muscles under her pale skin rippled as her back arched and Jecoliah shivered.

He grabbed her by her hips and plunged into her. Freke gasped in surprise and tossed her head back. Jecoliah was lost. He pulled in and out of her, pushing her hips to join his rhythm. His whole body was tightening, rolling, centered on making Freke dance.

She followed his lead, surging under him, as she pressed into the coarse tapestry of the chair. Freke felt Jecoliah’s palms skim up her hips, stop briefly at the top of her pelvis, and then slowly continue up the curves of her back.

Jecoliah watched Freke move beneath him and was entranced. But when he not only saw the small cords of her back roll but also felt their powerful movement beneath his sensitive hands, he knew he was tumbling into something new and profound.

With each thrust he moaned, “Freke. Freke. Freke. Freke,” until he felt her clench against him and cry out with him. Jecoliah fell against her back, still joined, his forehead pressed against her shoulders.

“Freke,” he whispered. “You are an amazing Fluck Lane.”

“And you My Lord, “ she replied. “Are a fine Hornblower.”

Freke Dorothy Fluck Lane, known to herself as Flicka, peeked through the window to see the encroaching fog swirl around the wheels of her carriage.  As she noted the silvery moonlight filtering through the trees, she thought once again how strange it was to be traveling so late at night and through the woods, no less, where the Wolffsbane villain was said to roam.  She scoffed to herself as she thought of the tales her maid had related to her before refusing to accompany her to her father’s castle in the hinterlands of Wales.  “He’ll rob your virtue, he will, and disappear in to the night sky riding upon the back of his tamed wolf.  Tame it be only for him … get near enough it and it’ll lop your hand off as soon as spit.” Flicka laughed, whoever heard of a wolf spitting?  The carriage rattled on as Flicka fell back against the upholstered seat and tried to rest.  As she began to doze, her thoughts were filled with thoughts of her sweet Thunderwolff, her childhood friend.  Abe was such a dear, so kind and gentle, nothing like this terrible outlaw who roamed Wolff’s woods, no relation.  As she dozed off and began to snore, she though maybe just once, it wouldn’t be so bad to be with someone bad.

Wolffsbane lifted his head with incredulity as he heard a coach making its way through the woods.  What idiot was out on a night such as this?  Hadn’t they heard of him?  Didn’t they fear for their lives, or better yet, their virtue?  Mmmmm, virtue.  Wolffsbane thought longingly of an innocent, one that he could never have – his beloved Frick – oh, no – Flecka – umm, Flucki - oh, fuck it, whatever her freaking name was, his beloved, shining, pure, and uhhhh beloved bright one.  She made the whores he dallied with seem like, well, whores, by virtue of her … virtue.  Wolffsbane almost fell off of his horse as he imagined her sweet cries as he relieved her of her virtue and rendered her virtueless - though of course she would always have virtues. 

Wolffsbane stopped before his head began to spin.  He just wanted to sleep with her.  If there was a girl in that coach, she was in serious trouble because he clearly needed to be laid.  Maybe then he could figure out what the hell he was thinking about.  Without thinking further, he plunged through the trees and ordered the coach to halt.

The cries of the horses brought Flicka awake with a start.  With a jolt, the carriage came to a stop and then the horses fell quiet.  Flicka swallowed and thought about looking outside to see what was happening.  Even as she had the thought, she figured that she was best off staying where she was.  Whatever was going on, she’d find out soon enough.

Wolffsbane, eyed the quiet carriage. What was going on?  Usually the ladies were all aflutter to prove themselves against any villain who would dare to stop them from carrying out their important and urgent errands, in the woods, in the middle of the night, in the middle of Wales.  For crying out loud, Arthur was the last important thing that happened in Wales – why the hell were people traveling through his woods anyway?  Abraham sighed.  This dual identity thing wasn’t all it was cracked up to be – stealing from the rich, relieving virtues, mmm virtue, no, no, don’t start that again.  Oh hell, he flung open the door to the coach hoping the occupant had already expired form fright and would save him the trouble.

Flicka bit back a scream as the door flew open and a masked man stuck his head in the carriage.  They both gasped as they saw one another.  He was so powerful, so manly, he made her quiver just looking at his strong features.  His bold, powerful arms, so full of power, his powerful gaze burning her through his mask.

Wolffsbane couldn’t believe his luck.  It was Flooka – Frigga – Flacky – oh, fuck – “Who are you?” he demanded.

“I’m Freke Dorothy Fluck Lane, but I call myself Flicka.”

“And I call you mine,” he said as his mouth crashed against hers.  He kissed her fiercely and she responded with surprise, gently parting her lips and breathing out softly as she whispered, “Wolfffiiee.”

Her innocence was captivating, consuming and just what he needed.  As his hand crept up to caress her breast, he exhaled, “Falooka …” and she pulled back in surprise.

“What did you call me?”

“Farah – lickme – lackme – Falluk – oh Christ, I don’t know; what the hell were your parents thinking?”

“Abe, is that you?  Nobody else has that much trouble with my name.”

“Oh dammit, what gave it away?  The name thing?”

“What’s wrong with my name?”

“Nothing, if you were a cow or a sow or some other barnyard thing,” he sneered.  “What in the world were they thinking, Freke Fluck Flack Fuck Floo?”

She seethed.  “Oh, don’t worry Wolffsbane of Wolff’s woods of Thunderwolff origin.  I’m sure no one will ever latch on to your clever disguise.  After all, everyone spells wolff with two f’s!”

“Well, this is Wales!  Everything has two ff’s here – even words without f’s!” he roared back at her.

They stared at each other, both breathing heavily, each caught in their own outrage at the situation, when they suddenly lunged for one another.  Clothing went fflying as their hands pulled at buttons and laces until without pretense they faced each other, unmasked, unnamed, and undressed.

“How I’ve longed for you …” they murmured to one another.  As they ffell back on the carriage’s seats and he pressed his manhood against her sweet ffemininity she braced herself for the shock of his entrance when a thought occurred to her.

“Does this mean when we get married I’ll have to change my name to Ffreke Dorothy Ffluck Lane Thunderwolff?”

He groaned, “Oh ffuck.”

11: Kidnapping the Nymphomaniac Countess

Fozzitt Bonds had bitten off more than he could chew, swallow or digest.

It had all seemed to simple two days before. He had a struggling bootblack business in desperate need of cash. His friend Edgar, Earl of Giggleston, had an irritating aunt—his uncle’s young widow—and a strong desire for peace. All Fozzitt had to do was grab Philadelphia Bunnyface on her morning constitutional in Hyde Park, tie her up in the back room of his shack, and keep her quiet and well fed until he could collect the payment from his friend.

How could he have known that this countess with the face of an angel would have the sexual inclinations of a depraved sailor ashore for the first time in years?

“Fozzitt! I need you! I have an ache only you can cure!”

Fozzitt’s mighty man rod was limper than an overcooked celery stalk. Wasn’t eight times in three hours enough for this woman? But as he glanced over at the bed where she was nude and spread-eagled, with each arm and leg tied to one of the bed posts, his little soldier jumped to attention and saluted her heaving breasts, milky thighs and throbbing loins.

“My strong working man! I adore your bulging chest, those two perfect globes. Come, make love to me and speak in that quaint tongue you call the English-language.”

Fozzitt’s tongue was too tired from his previous ministrations to speak, but he worked up enough strength to hoist her on his petard.

“More! Faster! Again! Don’t stop! Right there!”

Over and over her ploughed her fertile fields, but still she went on shrieking and tossing her golden mane back and forth against the dirty mattress.

“I am your Philly, Fozzitt! Ride me! Spread me like a cheese!”

They burned together, ascending the heights of ecstasy in a sudden conflagration, a bonfire, a warehouse inferno of lust. He collapsed on top of her, his hot sweaty body sticking to hers. His love liver was bent in a sad little curve.

“Again, Fozzitt. Again! I need you!”

Without bothering to put on his trousers, he ran out of the shack and toward Gigglesworth’s club. No amount of money was worth this.

12: Tricking the Amnesiac Harem, featuring Obedience Ginger

Oby hated to do it, but there was no way the young, virile sultan would give up such a luscious, red-headed beauty like herself voluntarily. She tiptoed out of the room she had been given, past the unconscious guard—now that was a story worth telling. The tall, mysterious American spy was being imprisoned next to the sultan’s harem, exposing him to unfathomable temptation. She would have to drug the sultan and his women, so that she could escape with the spy.

Oby crouched in the hallway, listening for voices. Hearing none, she slunk forward, her thick auburn hair falling into her stunning green eyes as she did so.

“Obedience!” the sultan roared suddenly from his study. Oby cringed at the sound of her name. He had seen her! But he continued: “That’s all I ask for. No one in this palace knows how to follow an order when it’s given.” Phew! Oby sighed with relief.

She continued creeping through the palace, down dark hallways lit only by flickering candlelight. A few rooms exuded voices, but none that she
concerned herself with. Until--

“Obedience!” It was the voice of the head kitchen maid, a swarthy, thick woman with an unattractive accent. She hated Oby. And now she had discovered her escape! “That’s all he ever talks about,” the kitchen maid continued, and Oby slumped against the wall in relief.

After several more adventures, Oby found herself outside the walls of the harem. She had never ventured within the walls, afraid to mix with
tainted women. Now, though, she would have to risk it, or her virtue might be threatened by the sultan’s insatiable appetites!

She pushed the door open and peeked inside. Women, mostly naked, sat on couches and mats, plaiting each other’s hair and washing each
other’s backs. One came right up to her, and Oby nearly swooned from shock.

“Who are you?” the woman asked.

“I-- I am Obedience Ginger, and I am imprisoned in this palace,” Oby said, attempted to keep her composure. She was a proper Englishwoman, and this concubine was no threat to her!

“Oh, I see,” the woman said, and smiled. Then she frowned. “Who are you, and why are you here?”

Oby blinked. The woman smiled again, and wandered off.

“Wait!” she called, and the woman turned around. “I need your assistance! We are both women, trapped in the same situation. I must escape from the sultan, for I do not love him!”

The woman smiled. “Who are you, dear?”

“I am Obedience Ginger, as I have just told you!” she declared.

“Oh, I see. Martha!” Another woman stood.

“Yes, Jenna?”

“This young lady is very obedient. She—what did you want from us, dear?”

“I need your help!”

“That’s very nice, dear. My name is Georgina.”

“But she just called you Jenna!” Oby was outraged.

“What was your name again, dear?” She reached out an arm, smiling, but Oby wrenched herself away, gulping back tears.

“I will have to find my way on my own!” She ran through the women, causing a number of gasps and stares, but when she had reached the other end of the room, all of them had gone back to what they had been doing. Had they been—bewitched?

She tore the door open, and slammed it behind her. Her heart was racing, and her feet were damp. The most handsome man she had ever seen kneeled, tied up, against the wall.

He looked up at her and she felt a jolt of electricity as their eyes connected.

“Obedience Ginger!” he exclaimed. “I have repeated that name to myself every night for years. Obedience Ginger. Obedience Ginger. Obed--”

“How do you know my name?” she said hastily.

“Your father sent me to find you,” he said. “It is a task I swore to do, or die trying. Your safety is my only goal, my lady.” He stood, shaking the ropes off, and kissed her hand gallantly.

“We must escape, then!”

“But I could not risk your being caught again! Your brother would never forgive me if I let you come to harm.”

“I thought you said my father sent you?”

“Whatever,” he said, so warmly that she felt herself about to swoon again. He wrapped his strong arms around her, and kissed her so masterfully that the buttons on her bodice popped open. He caressed that new flesh so that she cried out.

“Oh, my love, we cannot,” she whispered, but he stopped her words with a kiss.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “Your uncle ensured that we were married before I left, so that I would better be able to protect you. Legally, you are
not permitted to resist me.”

“Oh, my love!” she cried.

* * *

As she relaced her boots, she spoke of the odd bewitchment that possessed the women of the harem. “It was as though they could not remember anything the moment after I said it,” she explained.

“I have heard rumors of this place since I was young,” her lover responded, admiring his own naked body in the mirror. “It is the dreaded
amnesiac harem.” He flexed one arm. “It will take a great deal of daring to pass them, but darling, for you I can do anything.” He turned around and patted a firm buttock.

“How on earth shall we pass them?” Oby wailed.

“It is a devious method, but there is nothing else for it. We shall have to trick them.”

Their eyes fell on the sheets of the bed at the same time. “Darling, I have an idea!” Oby exclaimed.

“I had the same thought, my love,” he replied, and carried her gently to the bed.

* * *

“Actually, my dear,” she said when he was finished, “I meant that we could use the sheets to trick the harem.”

They wrapped one around his head, to imitate a turban; the other became a voluminous robe under which Oby could hide. They burst out into the harem, eliciting more gasps of shock. Oby peeked from around the spy’s side.

“Who are you?” the woman who had previously been called both Jenna and Georgina asked.

“I am the sultan! You must obey me!” The spy struck a dramatic pose.

“Oh, goodness. I suppose we’d better.” She turned to the other women and said, “Girls, we’d better obey him. But why?” She turned back to the
spy. “Who are you?”

“I am the sultan, as I have said!” He renewed his dramatic pose.

“Oh, I see.”

He began to walk toward the door again, and Oby scrambled after him, but she lost her balance and fell out of the robe. A new woman looked at them and yelped.

“Why, who on earth are you?”

Oby thought fast. “The sultan has commanded that I come with him!” she said.

“Oh, I see.” They continued walking. They were almost to the door when two other women came up to them! Oby noticed that their figures very
neatly resembled hers, but one was blonde and the other brunette. They were similar enough to be sisters.

“Who are you?” inquired one. “What are you doing here?” asked the other.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake!” exclaimed Oby. “We’re prisoners, and we’re trying to escape.”

“Oh, I see.” They began plaiting one another’s hair again.

Oby and the spy paused in the doorway to share an intimate moment. “My darling!” Oby exclaimed. “We’ve succeeded! We’ve tricked the amnesiac harem!”

He held her close. “I never thought we would make it through. Now we can return safely to my country.”

“I wanted to go back to mine.”

“Whatever,” he said softly, and kissed her nose. The word make her shiver.

“Let us leave, my love!”

“But wait, my darling! We must help these two escape, the ones that are just like my sisters but with differently colored hair. Surely there are romances awaiting them in my country.”

“Yes, of course,” he said, and motioned for two others to join them.

“No, no, dear, not those two.”

“Whatever,” he said again, and there was so much affection in his voice that Oby knew she would be happy with him forever.

13: Gettin Dirty with the Windy Janitor

With a sweet, savage grunt, Gee penetrated her resistant passage to the hilt.

“W-what are you d-doing?” Philly asked with a high-pitched whimper.

“Giving you a taste of my hot-buttered love, sweet thang.”

“B-but, are you sure it’s supposed to happen like this, Gee? Something feels wrong...almost dirty.”

Gee gave another hearty thrust and felt his erection grow another two inches, far surpassing his usual 13—he had never felt so large, so huge with another woman. Philadelphia Bunnyface was truly special. “Yeah baby, this is the way it goes...unh!...oh yeah.” Gee swiveled his hips in his patented “horizontal hustle” maneuver and thrust his now 15 inch man-mast deeper into Philly’s clenching orifice.

“Ummm, Gee? I really do think something is wrong… Aren’t I supposed to be...wetter? Down there? And what is that noise?”

Gee tried desperately to think beyond the rumpy-pumpy madness that his body was perpetuating upon his sweet laaaady. “That’s right, love muffin, I never did mention my full name to you, did I? Well, you are in the hands of Gentle Fudge, your pilot on the trip down the hershey highway...” He gasped as her bizarre spincter grabbed him in a kung-fu grip. “But, baby, Gentle Fudge is just my given name...my nickname is the Windy Janitor.”

Philly sighed in ecstasy as a strong breeze swept through her hair. Enveloped with the scent of rotten cabbage and frisking kittens, she allowed herself to plummet off the highrise of lust, beginning the first of her 22 orgasms of the evening.

There, in the broom closet of Abraham Thunderwolff Elementary School, Philadelphia Bunnyface found passion, pleasure and a forever kind of love in the arms of her...Windy Janitor.

14: Petting the Secret Sultan

Soft waves lapped at the edge of the pool, echoing the luminescence of the moon through the glasshouse window where Obedience sat lounging on her chaise and eating grapes. They were soft and succulent, and so smooth she could almost forget to wonder if Yazid and his staff of pretty young unmarried Arab girls kept any other kind of fruits in the house. Of course, only the worlds most foremost investigative sportswriter with hair of crimson red would wonder such a thing while reposing with her oh-so-sensual rescuer, the mysterious and madly sexy Yazid Al-Layla.

Yazid was an enigma among racing men, being tall, dark and handsome despite his Irish mother, and filthy rich even before his prominince in the horseracing world began. His shoulders flexed as he slipped through the waters. Large biceps propelled him forward, and strong thighs displaced him even further with each kick. The bruise had mostly faded now, and in a few days there’d be no more evidence of the terrifying leap he’d taken to save her from the hooves of his prized racehorse. Thank God he’d been there to find her her when she’d crawled under the stall door, determined to interview his horse for the inside scoop. Who’d have known that even the horse her hair and thought “fire!”? The stable boy had been quick enough to try to douse her, but It was Yazid who’d had the presence of mind to save her from the startled and violent animal. Even now the thought of such sudden wetness and near-death sent chills down her spine, and she felt her fingers curl involuntarily. They moved against a velvet chaise was so soft, she longed to be naked against it – and was glad that Yazid wasn’t practical enough to put poolside furniture next to his indoor pool. This was far more sensual. Watching him part the waters with his massive hands made her long for it even more, wishing for him to play the part her own personal Moses and part her, setting her desires free. The feeling became even more intense when she recognised his ambulatory technique: the ambitious sportswriter in her easily identifed his perfect, Olympic-quality and highly arousing breaststroke.

As though sensing her thoughts, he stopped at the center of the pool. Running his hand through his long, dark hair to properly arrange it, he rose from the depths like a modern male venus at birth, complete with sumptuous breasts. Obedience couldn’t help but notice the liquid pouring over his perfect pecs, across his delicious abs, and dripping off the bulge in his swimsuit. She also couldn’t help but notice the way the waves he created crashed against the maroon upper tiles of the kiddie pool, and pulsing and throbbing, not unlike the sensation he was creating in her lower abdomen as he moved. She imagined that the waves were caressing the sides of the pool, lapping, and licking, slowly titallating the smooth cool tile...and then she abruptly had to stop imagining for fear of becoming too distracted. She was determined to discover his secret, after all: she wasn’t the world;’s foremost flaimehaired invistigative sportswriter for nothing. As he took her in with his eyes, she knew her nipples stood erect against the pink paisley fabric of her two-piece, and was Proud that it went so well with her red, red hair. Her nipples were practically two diamonds by the time Yazid wrapped himself in a towel and came to her.

“Obedience Ginger,” He said, and made it sound like an exotic fragrance with pomegranite and incense, “come with me.”

Come. That was one thing Obedience felt she could do, in more than one context. But, since he was holding out one of those wave-parting hands in a gesture of assistance, she decided to take his meaning as the less nuanced of the two. For now.

He led her down a series of corridors filled with ornately carved chairs, oil lamps and persian rugs, and after what seemed like hours they arrived at a tall, tall door. Yazid clasped her hand to his chest.

“There is something I must tell you, and you must not write of it in your column.” He said.

Obedience felt her heart clutch; to betray him so cut at her very center, but she knew she must do what she must. “Why Yazid,” She said, “certainly you cannot think that I, that this...It is true that I am the most famous investigative sportswriter-slash-columnist in America, but I would never use that against you, never. I...” the words were on the tip of her lips, but somehow, she could not say them; after all, he was a rich playboy and beneath that cool, cunning facade she was merely a back-home country girl, and one had her heart broken one too many times in the bargain. She let her lips form a pouty, silent line.

Yazid brushed a stray curl from her face, and kissed her forehead, “this, I fear, may be too much for you to bear in silence.” he said as she heard the door open, “but alas, it is too late for me to resist. This is how it must be.”

And with that, he pulled her into his bedroom, and began kissing her fiercely.

It was like nothing she had ever experienced before. Like a thousand jackhammers at the ready, waiting to explode into a pulsating sensation in her loins. His erection pressed against her, and she estimated him at at least the size of a nine-iron. When she reached down into his trunks, she found he was of a much harder wood than any baseball bat she’d ever handled. Nonetheless, she was determined to test her grip, even as her body burned from the inside out.

She was only vaguely aware as he undid her bikini top, and her heavily padded bustier fell away. His tonge probed her mouth with the ferocity of an umpire swearing AND spitting tobacco at once, and his right hand groped for her breast. They could find the most appropriate place on her body for a spittoon later; now he was free to explore her however he wanted. His lips moved slowly southward, as did his hands: she gasped when his fingers found third base.

“Obedience, habibi,” he said, still managing to sound intelligible in his deep british tenor despite his mouthful of flesh, “lay on the bed. I will have you now.”

And Obedience did. Entirely true to her name, she gingerly climbed atop the mountain of pillows she found under his four-poster, canopied bed with sheets of the finest silk and Saris for cover. She looked to her right; how perfectly coincidental that Yazid should posess an actual fifteenth-century illustrated manuscript of the Kama Sutra. How coincidental, and how beneficial for the both of them. He massaged her for so long that She barely noticed as he stepped out of his trunks and removed her bikini bottom. But when he began to slide in close, she knew it was time to make her move.

“Yazid, my love” She said, and he paused mid-gesture, “I

He was silent for a moment, then spoke, softly caressing her breasts “I shall tell you, little one, for I know you will not use it against me. Secretly, despite my British Accent and my feisty Irish mother, I am a Sultan.”

The news shocked Obedience to her core (or maybe it was the feel of his manhood on her thigh...it was difficult to tell). How could she not have know? Her mind, so accurate, hadn't had enough clues...she was suddenly aware of why he'd gone so such lengths to conceal it; it would be the story of the century.

He must have seen it in her eyes, for his fingers moved first to her face, and then to her belly. “Alas, my love – do not grow too fond of the headlines it will make, for you shall not be telling a single soul.

Defiantly, Obedience lifted her chin, and arched her back. “You cannot stop me, she said, thrusting her naked breasts for emphasis, I am the world's most famous investigative reporter for the sports section, and by my signature rose-red locks, I will have my way!”

A strange darkness came over her her Egyptian/Arabic/Jordanean/did-Isreal-have-a-prince? Prince’s face, and suddenly she was afraid of the smile on his face.

“You will tell them nothing, my love, or I shall tell the world of your raven-haired beauty.”

“But my hair is not Raven, it is red! Red as the Sunset! Red as Fresh-drawn blood! Red as a sunburn at the State Fair in August! Such is my professional signature, and you have said so yourself as you caressed me!”

Yazid’s smile only grew larger. “That I have, my love, but ‘tis not that hair to which I refer.” and with that, his hands slid a little lower. Obedience Ginger looked down to where they rested, just above her endzone, and all she could say was:

“Oh.”

And with that, the world’s secret sultan had bought her silence at a terrible price, for she could never reveal to the world that her perfect crimson locks came from the bottle. Knowing she had been bested, there was nothing left for Obedience Ginger to do but perform a layback and let Yazid Al-Layla score a full home run.

He eyed her with a predatory glance.  Truth Bullock was no ordinary miss.  She had been adamantly refusing his advances for weeks.  In the years since his child bride had run off, he, Abraham, Viscount Thunderwolff had not denied himself the company of women.  And there were always women to be had.  His reputation as a generous and ardent lover had guaranteed a steady stream of willing bedmates. 

But not Truth Bullock.  She had held herself aloof.  He considered the matter carefully.  She was a woman on her own, a woman who had recently made her way to the St. Nectans Glen from parts unknown bespoke of a woman of great courage if not experience.  It must have been a hard life for her, yet her immense beauty stood out in stark contrast to the shabby homespun skirt and blouse that she wore.

But now she was here in his arms.  He held her to him bare chest. Her long chestnut locks curled softly down her back.  He wasn’t sure what she had been doing in the hayloft but was glad that he had managed to catch her when she fell.  The impact had temporarily knocked her senseless.  He used this time to examine her closely.  Her fine boned features, full lips and lithe figure stood in contrast to the other milkmaids who tended to be lusty country girls with friendly smiles and soft bosoms.  Truth carried herself more like a queen.  Queen of the Milkmaids, he thought with a smile.

As she became aware, she looked up into his smiling countenance and began to struggle.  “Put me down immediately,” she demanded.  “I don’t think that is wise,” he replied still smiling, “You have had quite a tumble”.  “Of course, I did,” she replied tartly, “I fell from the hayloft”.  “And most fortuitously into my arms,” he smiled wolfishly. 

“Now that I have saved you, you owe me a boon,” he smirked at her.  “I suppose that is fair,” she answered cautiously, “What is your request?” “A kiss,” he responded immediately.  She eyed him suspiciously.  “A simple kiss,” he reiterated. “Very well,” she acquiesced.

He lowered his head and gently touched his lips to hers. She instantly relaxed as heat spread through her body. Her lips softened and parted and their tongues joined together.  She sighed as she drank in his taste of coffee, tobacco and curiously strong peppermints. As he felt her melt into her, he deepened the kiss and gently enveloped her into his strong embrace. 

Before she knew what was happening, she felt the crinkly feeling through the worn linen through the back of her blouse.  She opened her eyes in bewilderment and found that she was being laid in a pile of soft, sweet straw.  When had she closed her eyes, she thought to herself?

He lay next to her without breaking their kiss and deepened the kiss again.  She was lost as a sensual swirl enveloped her.  She had never felt this way before and gloried in the feeling of his hand upon her breast.  She whimpered as he moved his hand away.  When it returned his skin was touching hers as was the cool air.  Now her eyes opened widely.  She looked around and was shocked to find how quickly he had removed her blouse and chemise.  His hands cupped her breasts and he lowered his head to kiss the cleft between them.  To her amazement she watched him suck first one hard nipple to his mouth, then another.  His tongue swirled around each hard bud in turn, making her moan loudly.  “You like that, don’t you?” he murmured.

But she was incapable of words or words at this point.  She was lost in a world of sensation as he continued to suckle.  She felt his hand slide up her skirt under her petticoat, up her leg past her garters to her waist where he began to untie her drawers.  She sucked in her breathe as she tried to absorb the new sensations.  She writhed beneath his touch, his fingers slid through the springy curls that guarded her womanly hub.  His fingers glided wetly through the soft folds to reach her sensitive center and began to gently swirl around the hooded nub of flesh. 

He knew how much pleasure he was giving her by watching the way she twisted beneath his hands.  “Do you want me to stop,” he whispered, “I won’t go on if you say no”.  She looked into his eyes and saw the desire.  “Please,” she murmured.  He looked at her intently, Please go on, or please stop, he asked.  “More please, Abraham,” she panted.

She could feel the tension building within her and knew that the moment was drawing nearer.  She slid her hands up and held his face tenderly while she kissed his soft lips passionately.  They continued straining together until he reached between them and pinched her taut nipple.  At that moment she screamed as she exploded around him, crying his name as she tried to meld his body with hers.  Her eyes shut briefly but then opened to see his triumphant smile.  “Oh yes my angel, its all for you,” he whispered. 

His fingers slowed as he allowed her to catch her breath.  Her skin was electric with intensity and she shivered with uncontained bliss as his hands roamed her sensitive belly and thighs. His kiss was soft and gentle on her lips and neck.  As he made contact with the mounds of her breasts, both of their breathing quickened.  He suckled at one tight nipple then the other intensifying the throbbing in her womb.  His fingers glided through her wetness and slid home into her lush dark core.  Her juices poured out over his hand as he slid in and out of her.

At once her body became alive with need.  His thumb massaged the sensitive bud while his fingers thrust deep into her.  Her body thrashed with uncontained ardor.  The pleasure was devastating her and she was only half-surprised to hear herself begging him to end this torment.  “Not yet, my love, but soon,” her crooned into her ear. 

When she thought that she might go mad with the irresistible ecstasy that he was giving her she reached her hand down to touch her wetness, then reached out to stroke his swollen member. 

His self control broke and he was like a wild man.  He slid hot and deep into her waiting body.  She smiled at the look of rapture that emerged across his handsome features.  Their eyes met and like their bodies connected to continue on their voyage to paradise.  Each murmured wordless encouragements to the other as they strained in unison to reach some unseen pinnacle that seemed just out of reach.  For long moments they drank each other in.  Arms and legs and mouths tangled together.  His body grew hotter as he thrust rhythmically into her wet core. He watched her face and knew that she was near the limit. Her muscles were tightening around him.  He reached down between then to touch that hub of sensitivity between her legs.  “Truth, look at me,” he commanded.  She opened her eyes to look deep into his. Her orgasm began to crest with the intensity of the sensation and emotion he was stirring in her. 

He absorbed her screams of joy with his kiss and delighted in the spasms engulfing her body. As he continued his drive into her warmth he felt the moist gush of her pleasure pour between them.  His pace increased as he felt her arms and legs and lips continue to hunger for him.  As her shudders began to slow he felt her body continue to vibrate around his now scalding organ.  A fierce possessiveness overtook him as his body inched toward its goal.  He kissed her forcefully, held her face close to his as he began to shudder with his release.

A long time later Truth began to stir and began realize what she had so willing done.  She began to gather her strewn clothing, hoping to make her escape before he awoke.  Quickly she began to dress so she could make her way back to her hut.  As she turned from him and began to pull on her chemise, his eyes opened and he watched as she prepared to slink away.  His eyes were drawn to the heart-shaped birthmark at the base of her back.  It looked familiar, even though it had been nearly a decade since he had seen it last. “Verity,” he gasped, “Is it you? After all this time?”