A Ribald Tale in Merry Olde England
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Tim was not a nice boy. We say ‘boy’ because that is what people called him. No one knew exactly how old he was. He showed up one day at the inn and agreed to work for food and a place to sleep in the barn. To study him, one would estimate his age at twenty-five.
His stooped stature mirrored his stooped nature. Village people did not expect much of an ostler. Had he been prompt, instead of having to be called when a new guest arrived at the inn, Tim would not be ridiculed. Had he the presence of mind to keep a competent recall of which saddle belonged to which horse, beatings by the innkeeper would have been less frequent. When guests wanted a swift departure, rather than having to be summoned loudly by the traveler, cuffing would have been less severe. Had he any pride in his appearance, instead of showing little care for personal hygiene, townspeople would not shun him. His golden hair could have been a plus, had he owned a comb. Even in these Middle Ages, humans divided people into groups, castes and classes. Tim occupied the bottom rung of every ladder.
Tim had qualities that manifested themselves in self-satisfaction. When he could successfully lift a stray coin from a drunken patron, he did it after. When he succeeded in whipping a nobleman’s steed because of the owner’s rudeness, he did it right after. When Tim could peek through a hole he cut into the one private room of the inn, the room where well-to-do patrons rested, he might do it right there. Spying a naked man was not enough. A naked woman, perhaps, depending on her age, shape and demeanor. Watching a pair rut was always good for a session. He could do it twice, right there!
In those times of Tim’s minor, albeit puny wins, Tim did it: he masturbated. He did it in a frenzy. After his beating, cuffing, spying deed, he treated himself to his own dirty deed. He would reach his hand into his pants, breathe heavily, grasp his member and start. Had he studied human anatomy in college, he would have noted that his penis length ranked in the ninetieth percentile. If the hand was greasy with discarded fat from the kitchen, all the better. The product of his personal ministrations, he merely left in his drawers.
Tim was sharp-witted enough to notice that the amount and quality of the auto-erotica required for full enjoyment was increasing. What got him off five years ago was not enough now. Going to one of the whores he knew was out of the question. He had approached a few in his teen years, but they all wanted milk from the kitchen for their babies or to be paid money. No one would give it to him for free.
Then Bess came into his life, from a town half a day’s ride from Tim’s. Her parents died suddenly and her father’s father wanted no responsibility caring for a slightly built, quite pretty young girl of marrying age. So the grandfather arranged her betrothal to the innkeeper’s son, Biff.
Biff and Bess were about the same age, reasonably attractive and instantly attracted to each other. They joked that their children had no chance of having anything but black curly hair to complement their blue eyes.
Wedding vows would wait another month, until the spring planting was complete and inn business reached its zenith. That would also give the innkeepers time to acquire the dowry the old man demanded.
That would also give Tim the time he required. The lord’s henchmen stopped at the inn on the first of every month, on their tax collection rounds. John Morton, the Archbishop of Canterbury had perfected the art of getting the most blood out of every turnip town in his realm. Morton reasoning went, that if a man lived by modest or hand-to-mouth means, he was saving and therefore could certainly afford an exorbitant tax rate. Likewise, if the family appeared prosperous, they too could afford a high tax rate. Tim kept a keen eye on the local transactions and reported regularly to the lord’s men.
If Tim knew how paltry his commission was when the legal marauders took their share, he would not have been pleased.
Had his vocabulary been above that of a six year old, he would have referred to his plan as a master coup, a way to get even with his cruel employer and reap satisfaction he could only dream of last winter.
Had Tim read Gilgamesh or Herodotus, had he the future vision to read Voltaire or known the future doings of Motutu Sese Seko, he would know he was in good company. All these men wrote about jus primae noctus. The English translation is ‘the right of the night’. In many societies, the lord or king has the right to bed the bride before the groom on their wedding day.
His lieutenants told the lord of a wedding on the first Sunday in June, in Tim’s village. The lord planned it well. Weddings and funerals brought out the crowds. He had read THE PRINCE. Machiavelli advised that power is not decreased, but increased, with use. Rumor had it that the bride-to-be, Bess was attractive enough to warrant his endeavor.
Brides are always beautiful. Bess was exceptionally so. Her posture was straight, not yet bent over from lugging wine, grain, hops for the beer, plates and hardware. She would also, eventually become asthmatic from the smoky peat in the fireplace, the tobacco and burning embers from the kitchen. But for now, she really did look good.
Musicians were playing in the courtyard, crowds gathering, the priest sneaking a dram before the service, the bride preening, the groom already having more than his usual for a noontime. Tim still waiting for the right moment.
When the lord and his men rode up, all went quiet. Some whispered the Latin translation, some the French version, most knew what would happen next, regardless of the language.
Tim and his cohorts had a plan, but for once, everyone would be outsmarted.
We can dispense with the cruel formalities. Readers can imagine for themselves the gasps of the guests. The groom’s extended family had travelled far for this day and now considered their presents a waste, because their boy would not be marrying a virgin. The bride’s grandparents feared that the dowry would be negated, given the circumstances. The groom, no lightweight, had to be physically restrained until calmer heads prevailed. Biff relented. Bess acquiesced. She would let that awful man have her, but she would not enjoy it.
The lord was pleased that he was born into the right class to enjoy this privilege. He had planned this well. He approached the damsel as soon as the vows were made. He stepped in front of the groom and kissed the bride. She did not move. Had she been more loyal to her lord, he might have spared her some embarrassment. Instead, he kissed her again and she did not reciprocate.
He leaned in and whispered, “Too bad you disrespected your lord. You must pay.” With that, he grabbed her wedding dress at the bosom and fiercely tore it open, exposing her breasts.
The crowd gasped in unison. Not letting go of her gown, he leaned in again and whispered, “Do better or else.”
He kissed her again. She did not resist, but did not shy away as before.
“Better.” He turned to the assemblage and announced his right to have this bride and any more he deigned to use.
This would be the lord’s last whisper and kiss. “Kiss me as a wife kisses her husband on this day. Go to our room, take off all your clothes and wait for me. Resist and you will go inside naked.”
She realized that he was not at all ugly. The lord had the same color hair and those penetrating blue eyes as Biff and she did. He smelled better than her husband. This practice of right of first night was not new to her, but it was a surprise to be used on her special day. She also knew that if she got pregnant today or even in a few days, the lord would assume it was his seed that did the deed. Bess had heard, if that be the case, the lord would look favorably on the family.
This lord was no fool. He sensed the anger and frustration in the crowd. THE PRINCE echoed in his head: “Better to be feared than loved.”
As Bess was moving toward the Inn door, a commotion erupted. A wagon loaded with kegs of beer and wine rumbled down the muddy way. The lord had provided the guests as much wine and beer as they could consume in an afternoon. This larder, added to the week-long preparations for the wedding feast, changed some minds.
The lord had decided to appear magnanimous and intoxicate the people.
By this time, after the introduction of gunpowder, castles were no longer useful. Lords such as ours were becoming more like business barons. Fortresses were exchanged for square buildings of four stories. The lord and his family occupied the upper floors of his tower house. The lord’s property was stored in the lower levels. To load and deliver a wagon of liquor was easy.
Tim’s mind had been working full time. He possessed one skill not previously mentioned. He was a competent carpenter. He had used that skill surreptitiously to fashion a door in the wall of the one private room in the inn.
The lord agreed to Tim’s secret plan. He was indeed pleased with Tim’s offer to assist the lord in his swift departure after the act. The lord suspected that the friends of the groom might have a nasty surprise for the lord, should they be given an opportunity. The lord would have his maiden and leave by the newly cut secret door. He would be back in his keep before dark.
Our lord was decent enough to knock before entering. Bess was naked there, but not exactly as ordered. She had taken a sheet wrapped around her. All of her to be seen was one bare arm, two ankles and a radiant face. She started, “Would your lordship wish to rip these garments from me as well?”
“Not if I do not have to. When you expose yourself to your lord and master, he would prefer you do it in stages though.” He affected the tone of a negotiator, introducing an issue that might take hours to resolve. “And with some flourish, if that is not too much to ask.”
“Very well then. I obey.” Bess used her bare arm and hand to expose one breast. It was young, shaped like half a grapefruit. It turned pink with exposure. The lord saw a coin-sized areola whose nipple begged to be sucked.
He approached her and did just that. She sighed and dropped two things simultaneously: her draped sheet and her inhibitions. Her new lover suckled one nipple, then the other.
She thought, “At least, he is a skilled lover.”
Her new man sunk to his knees. He parted her curly, bushy cunt hairs with his fingers and caressed the top of her labia. She shook and opened her stance a bit. He responded by gently stroking her inner lips. He wet his fingers with his spit and circled her hole.
He looked up into those blue eyes. “Are you a virgin? You must tell me the truth so I will know how to proceed.” Fair question, she thought.
She brushed her black locks from her face. “Yes. No man has entered me before.” Fair answer, she thought.
The lord caught the evasive nature of her answer. Virginal yes, experienced as well? “But you know some things about what man and wife do, do you not?” Now he was the negotiator again!
The lord persisted, “Show me what you already know how to do. You will not be disappointed later. I promise.”
With that, she led him over to the bed. “Now you take off all your clothes, as you ordered me to.”
When he was naked and stretched out on the bed, she studied him. Too tall for the bed: his ankles resting in air. Nice face. Broad shoulders narrowed across to a flat belly. Bess bent down and stroked his pubic hair, the way he had done to hers. Her liege closed his eyes. He felt her lips on the head of his penis. She took the growing member in her mouth and jerked him off with her lips.
“We men call that a dick, from the name of a male donkey, donkey dick. You have seen livestock fuck; you will be taken as surely and as fiercely as any female animal. Does that scare you?” A challenging question for our Bess.
She replied, “Not in the least. Call it a dick or a roger or a peter or a prick. As long as it gets the job done, women can call it what they may.”
With that, she climbed on top of him, slobbered some more spit on his member, and mounted him. She would be on top and in charge.
Later, she would admit to herself that it did hurt, initially. Yet having some power over a man, a lord, was worth it. She gyrated, slid herself up on his body and kissed him on the mouth. They exchanged tongues, vying for control. Bess focused on the sensations she knew she would spend a lifetime feeling, memorizing every detail of her first fuck.
All at once, she could not control him. He bucked, raised his ass off the mattress and moved it so fast she did not know what to do.
“Raise yourself up, off of me, and balance yourself on your knees!” That was an order from a lord!
She complied.
His movements were like a farm stud: swift, sure, forcing and unrelenting. The motion was too much for her and she felt an overwhelming energy. She screamed.
The crowd below heard. Some ignored it; some guffawed; someone made a comment that the lord was finally getting down to business.
Biff was worried. He stomped out of the inn and spoke with some of his friends. The drink clouded their thinking. They agreed to cause a scene when the lord came out and Biff could exact some revenge in the confusion.
Later, Bess would tell her best friend that it was like having to sneeze: an inkling, a buildup, and then an explosion. The other thing she mentioned is that she knew he was having the same feeling. They came at once and collapsed.
Both lovers gazed at the ceiling.
Bess could feel the cum matting in her hair. She reached over and held the lord’s now-deflating member. “What shall I call you and what shall I call this?”
The lord said, “My friends call me Jamey. You can call this (his put his hand around hers holding his dick) ‘Jamey’s friend.’”
He squeezed her hand and she began to move her palm up and down.
She milked the liquid and collected it. She brought her hand to her lips and lapped. Then she put that hand up to Jamey’s lips. “Lick this. It will be our wedding communion.”
He kissed her hand. They rolled toward each other. Jamey put his hand on Bess’s hipbone and pulled her toward him. She reciprocated with her free hand and pulled on his penis.
“So now I have a dick, a roger, a prick and Jamey’s friend.” Her wanton stare matched her wanton words. They kissed again, tongue wrestling tongue.
“Which one this time?”
“One more dose of Jamey’s friend, then I’ll finish off with my Biff. You do know I am married lady?” She kissed him on the mouth.
Their second session started slowly. Her now-not-virginal pussy was becoming accustomed to sex. He rolled on top of her and, defying anatomical reality, kept the kiss going. She was impressed.
Jamey pushed his member close to her hole. He rose up slightly and said, “Put it in.”
“Aye, aye sir.” Her mixed metaphor was lost on him, but her action was obedient.
He pushed all the way in and stayed there, feeling the warm moisture of her innards. Her lover could feel her cunt squeeze him, then let him go. He tried to push further in, their pubic bones meeting. His cum from the first session was still in her hair. He rubbed himself against it, imagining he was retrieving what was rightfully his.
“I am taking what is mine.”
Bess startled.
He held her close. “That is my spunk in your cunthair. Help me take it back.”
She understood and began to move her pelvis against his. She liked this and became even more energetic.
Jamey sensed her willingness and rose up a bit, so that his dick was half-in, half-out. Bess gyrated her hips in a to-and-fro motion that started slow, then accelerated to a frenzy.
Jamey could feel his prick go up inside her. Her cunt parted as he pushed. Then his dick felt her pussy close as he withdrew. He pushed in again and felt her pussy separate again, welcoming him further inside her.
Bess knew how to dance and Jamey knew how to lead. He waltzed her around the cot with his body, moving it one way then another, keeping a rhythm time to some unheard fiddler.
They did not last much longer. Bodies stiffened then lost all rigidity, two hot wet piles of flesh.
Bess’s fortifying wine from earlier in the day and the brandy Jamey had consumed earlier caught up with them. They dozed in a heap.
Both were startled by a tapping on the wall.
Tim stuck his head into the room, from the hidden passageway. “Sir, the crowds outside are getting very restless. You may be in danger if you do not go now.”
Jamey did not know, nor did he care, how much Tim had seen. Even if he spoke about his exploits, it would not diminish stature at all.
Tim’s thoughts were similar. “Biff will bear the brunt of the jokes, not Tim and not Jamey. Bess can be excused as well.” Of course, Tim knew that Bess’s behavior was anything but demure.
The lord nodded and grabbed his clothes. He stumbled through the door, pulling his pants, but stopped.
Looking straight at her, he walked back to her, seized her shoulders, then her breasts. He asked, “Do you want more?”
“How, my liege?”
He told her his plan. “Tim can spread the rumor of a pregnancy. My men will come for you in two weeks. They will demand they escort you to my keep. You will suck me again and then I will fuck you again. I don’t care if that Biff has you as well, but I want more of you. If you are with child, you must return to my house every month to be checked by my physician. Men can have a woman with a big, growing belly, can't they? If you are not with child, we will try again.”
“Send your men. I will not know when, but I trust you to summon me. I will be ready.”
Jamey left and Bess had some decisions to make. Townspeople would not blame her, neither would her bloodkin, nor her in-laws. She chuckled when she thought of the irony of the imagery, “Biff will have to suck it up.”
Did Bess clean herself up? Or did she dress and descend the stairs, searching for her husband? Or did she simply lie in wait for her spouse to come to her? Surely by now, people would realize the lord had left by another way. After all, she could hear that worthless Tim shouting about the horses.
His stooped stature mirrored his stooped nature. Village people did not expect much of an ostler. Had he been prompt, instead of having to be called when a new guest arrived at the inn, Tim would not be ridiculed. Had he the presence of mind to keep a competent recall of which saddle belonged to which horse, beatings by the innkeeper would have been less frequent. When guests wanted a swift departure, rather than having to be summoned loudly by the traveler, cuffing would have been less severe. Had he any pride in his appearance, instead of showing little care for personal hygiene, townspeople would not shun him. His golden hair could have been a plus, had he owned a comb. Even in these Middle Ages, humans divided people into groups, castes and classes. Tim occupied the bottom rung of every ladder.
Tim had qualities that manifested themselves in self-satisfaction. When he could successfully lift a stray coin from a drunken patron, he did it after. When he succeeded in whipping a nobleman’s steed because of the owner’s rudeness, he did it right after. When Tim could peek through a hole he cut into the one private room of the inn, the room where well-to-do patrons rested, he might do it right there. Spying a naked man was not enough. A naked woman, perhaps, depending on her age, shape and demeanor. Watching a pair rut was always good for a session. He could do it twice, right there!
In those times of Tim’s minor, albeit puny wins, Tim did it: he masturbated. He did it in a frenzy. After his beating, cuffing, spying deed, he treated himself to his own dirty deed. He would reach his hand into his pants, breathe heavily, grasp his member and start. Had he studied human anatomy in college, he would have noted that his penis length ranked in the ninetieth percentile. If the hand was greasy with discarded fat from the kitchen, all the better. The product of his personal ministrations, he merely left in his drawers.
Tim was sharp-witted enough to notice that the amount and quality of the auto-erotica required for full enjoyment was increasing. What got him off five years ago was not enough now. Going to one of the whores he knew was out of the question. He had approached a few in his teen years, but they all wanted milk from the kitchen for their babies or to be paid money. No one would give it to him for free.
Then Bess came into his life, from a town half a day’s ride from Tim’s. Her parents died suddenly and her father’s father wanted no responsibility caring for a slightly built, quite pretty young girl of marrying age. So the grandfather arranged her betrothal to the innkeeper’s son, Biff.
Biff and Bess were about the same age, reasonably attractive and instantly attracted to each other. They joked that their children had no chance of having anything but black curly hair to complement their blue eyes.
Wedding vows would wait another month, until the spring planting was complete and inn business reached its zenith. That would also give the innkeepers time to acquire the dowry the old man demanded.
That would also give Tim the time he required. The lord’s henchmen stopped at the inn on the first of every month, on their tax collection rounds. John Morton, the Archbishop of Canterbury had perfected the art of getting the most blood out of every turnip town in his realm. Morton reasoning went, that if a man lived by modest or hand-to-mouth means, he was saving and therefore could certainly afford an exorbitant tax rate. Likewise, if the family appeared prosperous, they too could afford a high tax rate. Tim kept a keen eye on the local transactions and reported regularly to the lord’s men.
If Tim knew how paltry his commission was when the legal marauders took their share, he would not have been pleased.
Had his vocabulary been above that of a six year old, he would have referred to his plan as a master coup, a way to get even with his cruel employer and reap satisfaction he could only dream of last winter.
Had Tim read Gilgamesh or Herodotus, had he the future vision to read Voltaire or known the future doings of Motutu Sese Seko, he would know he was in good company. All these men wrote about jus primae noctus. The English translation is ‘the right of the night’. In many societies, the lord or king has the right to bed the bride before the groom on their wedding day.
His lieutenants told the lord of a wedding on the first Sunday in June, in Tim’s village. The lord planned it well. Weddings and funerals brought out the crowds. He had read THE PRINCE. Machiavelli advised that power is not decreased, but increased, with use. Rumor had it that the bride-to-be, Bess was attractive enough to warrant his endeavor.
Brides are always beautiful. Bess was exceptionally so. Her posture was straight, not yet bent over from lugging wine, grain, hops for the beer, plates and hardware. She would also, eventually become asthmatic from the smoky peat in the fireplace, the tobacco and burning embers from the kitchen. But for now, she really did look good.
Musicians were playing in the courtyard, crowds gathering, the priest sneaking a dram before the service, the bride preening, the groom already having more than his usual for a noontime. Tim still waiting for the right moment.
When the lord and his men rode up, all went quiet. Some whispered the Latin translation, some the French version, most knew what would happen next, regardless of the language.
Tim and his cohorts had a plan, but for once, everyone would be outsmarted.
We can dispense with the cruel formalities. Readers can imagine for themselves the gasps of the guests. The groom’s extended family had travelled far for this day and now considered their presents a waste, because their boy would not be marrying a virgin. The bride’s grandparents feared that the dowry would be negated, given the circumstances. The groom, no lightweight, had to be physically restrained until calmer heads prevailed. Biff relented. Bess acquiesced. She would let that awful man have her, but she would not enjoy it.
The lord was pleased that he was born into the right class to enjoy this privilege. He had planned this well. He approached the damsel as soon as the vows were made. He stepped in front of the groom and kissed the bride. She did not move. Had she been more loyal to her lord, he might have spared her some embarrassment. Instead, he kissed her again and she did not reciprocate.
He leaned in and whispered, “Too bad you disrespected your lord. You must pay.” With that, he grabbed her wedding dress at the bosom and fiercely tore it open, exposing her breasts.
The crowd gasped in unison. Not letting go of her gown, he leaned in again and whispered, “Do better or else.”
He kissed her again. She did not resist, but did not shy away as before.
“Better.” He turned to the assemblage and announced his right to have this bride and any more he deigned to use.
This would be the lord’s last whisper and kiss. “Kiss me as a wife kisses her husband on this day. Go to our room, take off all your clothes and wait for me. Resist and you will go inside naked.”
She realized that he was not at all ugly. The lord had the same color hair and those penetrating blue eyes as Biff and she did. He smelled better than her husband. This practice of right of first night was not new to her, but it was a surprise to be used on her special day. She also knew that if she got pregnant today or even in a few days, the lord would assume it was his seed that did the deed. Bess had heard, if that be the case, the lord would look favorably on the family.
This lord was no fool. He sensed the anger and frustration in the crowd. THE PRINCE echoed in his head: “Better to be feared than loved.”
As Bess was moving toward the Inn door, a commotion erupted. A wagon loaded with kegs of beer and wine rumbled down the muddy way. The lord had provided the guests as much wine and beer as they could consume in an afternoon. This larder, added to the week-long preparations for the wedding feast, changed some minds.
The lord had decided to appear magnanimous and intoxicate the people.
By this time, after the introduction of gunpowder, castles were no longer useful. Lords such as ours were becoming more like business barons. Fortresses were exchanged for square buildings of four stories. The lord and his family occupied the upper floors of his tower house. The lord’s property was stored in the lower levels. To load and deliver a wagon of liquor was easy.
Tim’s mind had been working full time. He possessed one skill not previously mentioned. He was a competent carpenter. He had used that skill surreptitiously to fashion a door in the wall of the one private room in the inn.
The lord agreed to Tim’s secret plan. He was indeed pleased with Tim’s offer to assist the lord in his swift departure after the act. The lord suspected that the friends of the groom might have a nasty surprise for the lord, should they be given an opportunity. The lord would have his maiden and leave by the newly cut secret door. He would be back in his keep before dark.
Our lord was decent enough to knock before entering. Bess was naked there, but not exactly as ordered. She had taken a sheet wrapped around her. All of her to be seen was one bare arm, two ankles and a radiant face. She started, “Would your lordship wish to rip these garments from me as well?”
“Not if I do not have to. When you expose yourself to your lord and master, he would prefer you do it in stages though.” He affected the tone of a negotiator, introducing an issue that might take hours to resolve. “And with some flourish, if that is not too much to ask.”
“Very well then. I obey.” Bess used her bare arm and hand to expose one breast. It was young, shaped like half a grapefruit. It turned pink with exposure. The lord saw a coin-sized areola whose nipple begged to be sucked.
He approached her and did just that. She sighed and dropped two things simultaneously: her draped sheet and her inhibitions. Her new lover suckled one nipple, then the other.
She thought, “At least, he is a skilled lover.”
Her new man sunk to his knees. He parted her curly, bushy cunt hairs with his fingers and caressed the top of her labia. She shook and opened her stance a bit. He responded by gently stroking her inner lips. He wet his fingers with his spit and circled her hole.
He looked up into those blue eyes. “Are you a virgin? You must tell me the truth so I will know how to proceed.” Fair question, she thought.
She brushed her black locks from her face. “Yes. No man has entered me before.” Fair answer, she thought.
The lord caught the evasive nature of her answer. Virginal yes, experienced as well? “But you know some things about what man and wife do, do you not?” Now he was the negotiator again!
The lord persisted, “Show me what you already know how to do. You will not be disappointed later. I promise.”
With that, she led him over to the bed. “Now you take off all your clothes, as you ordered me to.”
When he was naked and stretched out on the bed, she studied him. Too tall for the bed: his ankles resting in air. Nice face. Broad shoulders narrowed across to a flat belly. Bess bent down and stroked his pubic hair, the way he had done to hers. Her liege closed his eyes. He felt her lips on the head of his penis. She took the growing member in her mouth and jerked him off with her lips.
“We men call that a dick, from the name of a male donkey, donkey dick. You have seen livestock fuck; you will be taken as surely and as fiercely as any female animal. Does that scare you?” A challenging question for our Bess.
She replied, “Not in the least. Call it a dick or a roger or a peter or a prick. As long as it gets the job done, women can call it what they may.”
With that, she climbed on top of him, slobbered some more spit on his member, and mounted him. She would be on top and in charge.
Later, she would admit to herself that it did hurt, initially. Yet having some power over a man, a lord, was worth it. She gyrated, slid herself up on his body and kissed him on the mouth. They exchanged tongues, vying for control. Bess focused on the sensations she knew she would spend a lifetime feeling, memorizing every detail of her first fuck.
All at once, she could not control him. He bucked, raised his ass off the mattress and moved it so fast she did not know what to do.
“Raise yourself up, off of me, and balance yourself on your knees!” That was an order from a lord!
She complied.
His movements were like a farm stud: swift, sure, forcing and unrelenting. The motion was too much for her and she felt an overwhelming energy. She screamed.
The crowd below heard. Some ignored it; some guffawed; someone made a comment that the lord was finally getting down to business.
Biff was worried. He stomped out of the inn and spoke with some of his friends. The drink clouded their thinking. They agreed to cause a scene when the lord came out and Biff could exact some revenge in the confusion.
Later, Bess would tell her best friend that it was like having to sneeze: an inkling, a buildup, and then an explosion. The other thing she mentioned is that she knew he was having the same feeling. They came at once and collapsed.
Both lovers gazed at the ceiling.
Bess could feel the cum matting in her hair. She reached over and held the lord’s now-deflating member. “What shall I call you and what shall I call this?”
The lord said, “My friends call me Jamey. You can call this (his put his hand around hers holding his dick) ‘Jamey’s friend.’”
He squeezed her hand and she began to move her palm up and down.
She milked the liquid and collected it. She brought her hand to her lips and lapped. Then she put that hand up to Jamey’s lips. “Lick this. It will be our wedding communion.”
He kissed her hand. They rolled toward each other. Jamey put his hand on Bess’s hipbone and pulled her toward him. She reciprocated with her free hand and pulled on his penis.
“So now I have a dick, a roger, a prick and Jamey’s friend.” Her wanton stare matched her wanton words. They kissed again, tongue wrestling tongue.
“Which one this time?”
“One more dose of Jamey’s friend, then I’ll finish off with my Biff. You do know I am married lady?” She kissed him on the mouth.
Their second session started slowly. Her now-not-virginal pussy was becoming accustomed to sex. He rolled on top of her and, defying anatomical reality, kept the kiss going. She was impressed.
Jamey pushed his member close to her hole. He rose up slightly and said, “Put it in.”
“Aye, aye sir.” Her mixed metaphor was lost on him, but her action was obedient.
He pushed all the way in and stayed there, feeling the warm moisture of her innards. Her lover could feel her cunt squeeze him, then let him go. He tried to push further in, their pubic bones meeting. His cum from the first session was still in her hair. He rubbed himself against it, imagining he was retrieving what was rightfully his.
“I am taking what is mine.”
Bess startled.
He held her close. “That is my spunk in your cunthair. Help me take it back.”
She understood and began to move her pelvis against his. She liked this and became even more energetic.
Jamey sensed her willingness and rose up a bit, so that his dick was half-in, half-out. Bess gyrated her hips in a to-and-fro motion that started slow, then accelerated to a frenzy.
Jamey could feel his prick go up inside her. Her cunt parted as he pushed. Then his dick felt her pussy close as he withdrew. He pushed in again and felt her pussy separate again, welcoming him further inside her.
Bess knew how to dance and Jamey knew how to lead. He waltzed her around the cot with his body, moving it one way then another, keeping a rhythm time to some unheard fiddler.
They did not last much longer. Bodies stiffened then lost all rigidity, two hot wet piles of flesh.
Bess’s fortifying wine from earlier in the day and the brandy Jamey had consumed earlier caught up with them. They dozed in a heap.
Both were startled by a tapping on the wall.
Tim stuck his head into the room, from the hidden passageway. “Sir, the crowds outside are getting very restless. You may be in danger if you do not go now.”
Jamey did not know, nor did he care, how much Tim had seen. Even if he spoke about his exploits, it would not diminish stature at all.
Tim’s thoughts were similar. “Biff will bear the brunt of the jokes, not Tim and not Jamey. Bess can be excused as well.” Of course, Tim knew that Bess’s behavior was anything but demure.
The lord nodded and grabbed his clothes. He stumbled through the door, pulling his pants, but stopped.
Looking straight at her, he walked back to her, seized her shoulders, then her breasts. He asked, “Do you want more?”
“How, my liege?”
He told her his plan. “Tim can spread the rumor of a pregnancy. My men will come for you in two weeks. They will demand they escort you to my keep. You will suck me again and then I will fuck you again. I don’t care if that Biff has you as well, but I want more of you. If you are with child, you must return to my house every month to be checked by my physician. Men can have a woman with a big, growing belly, can't they? If you are not with child, we will try again.”
“Send your men. I will not know when, but I trust you to summon me. I will be ready.”
Jamey left and Bess had some decisions to make. Townspeople would not blame her, neither would her bloodkin, nor her in-laws. She chuckled when she thought of the irony of the imagery, “Biff will have to suck it up.”
Did Bess clean herself up? Or did she dress and descend the stairs, searching for her husband? Or did she simply lie in wait for her spouse to come to her? Surely by now, people would realize the lord had left by another way. After all, she could hear that worthless Tim shouting about the horses.
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