The Wraggle Taggle Gypsies

Isabelle sat close to the open window, trying to coax a little breeze into the sour air of her bedchamber. She could smell her husband everywhere and she wrinkled her nose in disgust at the thought of him, coming into her beautiful room and polluting it.

This was her sanctuary – the only place that had been hers since the day she was born, and she hated the nights when he would visit her here. He would come late in the night, when she was fast asleep, and loom over her – always the worse for drink. He would climb onto the bed, lay his heavy body above her and wrestle ineffectually with her clothes. She would feel the sharp stab of his member and he would be inside her – pushing himself against her with his foul breath against her neck.

The only mercy was his brevity – as he was finished in moments, leaving his 'fetch' to leak from her even as he dressed and went on his way.

Today – as with every day that followed his visits – she would be left sore and unfulfilled, wishing him away to leave her in peace. She had heard her ladies' maids speaking about this moment between man and woman – and to hear them was a wonder – something so far removed from what her husband brought to her as to render it unrecognisable. Sometimes she would sit, as she did this morning, and wonder about their version of it – wonder who were these men and women who took pleasure in one another's bodies and who would moan and writhe as their bodies came together.

Today as she sat in the window seat she lifted her nightgown high above her waist and imagined a man being able to ignite something inside her, something that could make her want him to come into her – to make her slippery and make her moan. She took her finger and drew it lightly across the soft hair that covered her, moving her legs slightly so that she could see the pink nub of her sex, peeking shyly out from the dense thatch of hair.

She allowed her index finger to trace the line of her inner lips, searching for the feeling that other women spoke of. She was aware of something awakening – like a hibernating animal coming slowly to wakefulness – but it was distant feeling, and nothing like the great passions she had heard described.

Outside, in the distance, she heard a sound and jumped guiltily, rearranging her gown to cover herself and blushing even though no one could see. Below the window, in the courtyard she could hear voices and she looked out to see a small band of people gathering in front of the great house. She could not hear their words, but their voices were light and easy, brought to her on the fresh scented breeze.

Amongst them there was a stooped old man, his hair almost white, wearing a coat too heavy for the weather, a young boy of about nine years, who was wearing a hat with a huge feather in it, two woman, both barefoot with black hair and the same full hips and breasts – she wondered if they might be sisters. The odd little group parted and behind the ladies there was a man of maybe thirty years, with a shock of curls that lay against his shoulders and a broad, Slavic face.

The whole group were immersed in their conversation, and from her vantage point Isabelle watched unnoticed as they stood squinting in the midday sun. Suddenly the man produced a fiddle, and the old one a small skin drum and they began to strike up a tune. The women sang and the boy clapped and the courtyard was filled with song.

Isabelle stopped breathing, fearing that the sound of her own breath would render her unable to hear to beautiful sounds drifting to her room. The words were unfamiliar; some were not in English, but the song reached into her bosom and gripped her heart. She wanted both to weep and to laugh and she felt the suffocating heat of the stifling room and wanted to rush out into the courtyard to join them.

She gazed down to the ragged group, in their gaudy colours, and was struck by their ease and their free ways. She longed to stand outside in the sunshine, in a loose dress, with her feet bare. She longed to laugh and shout and sing till her lungs ached – for here she was contained, held captive by a life of expectation and duty. A wife to a man with only the basest interest in her, lady to a horde of servants whose lives revolved around keeping her restrained – nobody treasured her for her own interests or desires – she wasn't even sure she knew them herself.

In a heartbeat she called to her ladies' maid, "Suky! Suky! Come quickly!"

"What is it my lady?" Suky's ruddy face appeared at the door.

"Take a drink to the singers, it is a hot day and they may like a cold draught."

Suky's face said everything. Here was her mistress behaving out of character, being herself and indulging her whim. Isabelle felt piqued with annoyance – why, when she was mistress of a grand house, with money and power and all that should follow it, could she not make a simple request without judgement from her own servants?

She glared defiantly at Suky, and was aggrieved to see that her look of consternation remained until she had left the doorway.

Some minutes later Isabelle watched as Suky took a large pitcher out to the Gypsy troupe, looking at once afraid and mistrustful. Isabelle could see their gratitude, and with some annoyance watched the interplay between the young maid and the man of the group.

There was something in the way he moved his body – an animal quality that seemed to take hold of him and move him toward the girl with interest. She could see Suky blushing even from this distance, but she could also see her warming to the attention and speaking more boldly to him.

Suky must have spoken plainly, and told of her mistresses' generosity in sending the drink, for all members of the group suddenly turned and looked up at the window, and Isabella had to swing back from the pane to avoid being seen there in her night attire.

The group drank heartily before singing a final song and leaving the grounds. Isabelle watched, captivated, as the colourful figures retreated, in particular watching the sway of the younger man's hips as he walked.

That night she was visited once again by her husband, and in the swift, brutal thrust of him within her she tried hard to imagine the Gypsy instead. She could imagine the softness of his curls, the feel of his tan skin beneath her fingers, but the need in her belly could barely be awakened before her husbands' first grunt and the end of his attempts.

The next day Isabelle went about her duties as usual, but her mind kept straying to the visiting Gypsies. In her mind she could hear their clear song and easy voices. A part of her tried to ignore her focus on the man – and tried to deny that her thoughts strayed more to him than any other aspect of their visit. She thought often of the way the light caught his curls, of the dark areas of his chin where his beard was growing through. She would think of the way he moved towards Suky, lithe and easy, his chin raised, and his hands at his hips.

When she heard singing she at first wondered if it might be in her imaginings – as her mind had been so full of them through the whole of the day. It was a distant sound, carried on the hot summer breeze, and as she crept to the window she could see figures skirting the edge of their land, walking the narrow path into town. She stood and called for her cloak.

Following at a distance she allowed her step to fall in line with the lilting voices and the slow rhythm of the hand held drum. She thought nothing of her destination, only of being enlivened by the music. Before very long she found that they were walking to the market square, where she supposed they would perform for money. The old man spoke loudly, with a clear voice which captured the attentions of everyone nearby, turning their heads. He spoke freely, with a strong accent, and his voice was more youthful and vibrant than she expected from such a wizened old body.

He hailed the passers by, encouraging them to tarry and enjoy their song – and in moments the strong voice of one of the women struck up with a mournful sound that shook the soul. She sang in a foreign tongue, her head held high and her black hair tumbling. With her eyes closed and her mouth parted, breasts heaving in her low bodice – it was unseemly, yet everyone stopped to watch.

As the song progressed the fiddle began and the young man stepped forth. His eyes were open as he looked from head to head across the crowd – his gaze searching and strangely intimate – reaching out with the music and touching every one of them. His eyes were like coals, and glittered with devilment, long lashes closing lazily as he blinked. His mouth was full, with wide pink lips, pursed in concentration. Isabelle allowed her eyes to stray across him, to look at him minutely in the anonymity of the crowd.

As the music gathered pace he stepped into the crowd, his bow arm a blur, his eyes half closed as his body moved in rhythm with the song. He walked amongst the people, who cheered and applauded, and he stopped before Isabelle. He looked directly at her, locking her with his intense gaze, and continued to play. She could feel the vibration of the fiddle in the ground beneath her delicate shoes, and she could feel her bodice, tight against her chest as she struggled to breathe.

She felt pinned to the spot as if he held her there physically, she could feel heat rise to her cheeks, her breath coming in small gasps, and she wondered if she might faint. Just when she began to fear for herself, he moved away, backing away through the crowd – with his eyes still on her. As soon as he broke the stare she was free, and she moved quickly away to the edge of the gathering, to get some air and free herself of the intensity of the moment. She hurried back to her home, and feigned ill health so that she could disappear to her room undisturbed.

It was the dead of night when she next stirred, aware of the distant remnants of a dream which had left her with a curious ache in the pit of her belly. She had been dreaming that she was in the market place, singing loudly, but searching the crowd for the fiddler, desperate to see him amongst the faces.

She moved her stiff and aching body and, hearing a sound she realised that it must have been a noise which awakened her. She held her breath and moved to the heavy drapes which surrounded her bed – in the room beyond her bed canopy she could hear movement.

"Husband, do not trouble me tonight! Have I not told you that I am unwell?"

There was no answer, and suddenly she was fearful. The curtains parted quickly and she was so disbelieving that she was sure that she must still be asleep. Here was the face of her dream – the fiddler – in her own bedchamber.

"My lady." He bowed his head, and soft curls fell about his face. His voice had a burr, a foreignness to her ear. "Do not be startled, we have come to thank you for the hospitality you showed us yesterday." He gestured with his head to the woman behind him, and another man, slightly older, who she had not seen before. "So few people welcome the Roma that we wanted to show our gratitude."

His eyes were all over her, searching her face and her body unashamedly and she covered her nightgown with bedclothes. She could hardly find her voice, and was terrified – both of the strangers in her room, and of her own fascination with the man beside her bed.

"You should not be here! My husband would have you all flogged! You cannot be in my chamber like this, uninvited."

"Uninvited? I think you invited me today, when you met my eyes at the market place." He nodded slowly, exposing the soft dark skin of his throat, and in spite of herself Isabelle wanted to reach out and touch it. "I think you have dreamt of me, wanted me to come to you – to have me show my gratitude." He spoke with a tease, but was so close to the truth she wondered irrationally if he could read her mind like a mystic.

He leaned forward, his head close to hers, and spoke so softly she could barely hear him. "How would you have me show my gratitude? What could I offer a fine, wealthy lady that she doesn't already have?"

In a moment Isabelle could see the answer, she could see him on top of her on the bed, inside her, fulfilling her – and the image was so shocking to her that she put her shaking fingers to her lips and shook her head.

"You see it, don't you?" he whispered, and she wondered if he could put thoughts into her head as well as read them. He stood and opened the rest of the drapes so that she could see the others in the room. The man was now seated at her window, just as she had been when she had first seen the Gypsies. The woman was straddling him, her skirt bunched up around her thighs. They were kissing, with hard mouths and soft tongues, and Isabelle watched as the woman put her hands under her skirt and even though she could not see it, she could imagine her guiding the man into her. Sure enough she began to rise and fall against his lap, the muscles in her legs tensing.

Isabelle had never seen anyone like this, she didn't even watch herself and her husband, but here in her bedchamber were two strangers, rutting like beasts. She was shocked to the core, but also her core was moved by the sight of them. She could feel a knotting in her belly, and the trickle of moisture between her legs – it was the feeling of wanting something so much you ache for it – and she was so afraid of the feeling she wanted to hide from it behind her drapes.

The fiddler spoke again, his voice soft and gravely with passion "Would you have me do that for you, lady?" she shook her head, but only very slightly. He moved closer still and whispered into her ear, his breath hot on her neck "Would you have me buried inside you, fetching you – like your husband can never do?" He reached up and touched her throat, his swarthy fingers sliding across her soft, pale skin, and down to the neck of her nightgown.

"No!" she gasped, her voice barely a whisper, but in spite of her refusal she arched her back to encourage his fingers to stray to her breast. The feel of his hot hand over the fine linen was excruciating, and as she heard the other couples' soft moans quicken she found herself breathing hard at the feel of fingers on her small, hard nipples.

"No?" he asked, mocking, and his fingers travelled down to the hem of her gown. He lifted the thin material, to expose her legs, slowly drawing the gown to her waist, showing the dark triangle of hair between her thighs. Even in the poor light of her room they could both see the glistening moisture at her thighs which betrayed her.

As the others began to pant hard in unison he slid a finger into her, moving easily as her body had readied her and made her slick. She felt her back arch and her hips lift to encourage him, even as she shook her head again and again. He withdrew the finger and put it in his mouth, his eyes meeting hers knowingly.

"You must ask me!" he said, his voice suddenly loud and cold, and as she looked uncomprehending. "If you want me to fuck you like that," he nodded at the others, writhing and bucking against one another, "You must ask me – declare it honestly. I won't have you deny me after, and say that I forced you, when your body is begging me like this," he gestured at her parted thighs.

"No! I cannot!"

He reached down and loosened his clothing, allowing his cock to free itself. She looked both stunned and desperate as she gazed upon it. In the semi-darkness it shone light against her bedclothes, a long, curved shaft, heavy and veined. It was very different from the glimpse she had had of her husband – this was both enticing and frightening, and she wondered how she could possibly accommodate him.

He grabbed her and turned her over, onto her knees, where she struggled to look over her shoulders to see what he would do. He lifted the gown up over her rump, which shone pale and stroked the rounded curves with rough, dark hands. Moving against her he brought his shaft closer to the slash of deep red and allowed the very tip of his cock to rest in her entrance. She felt the heat of his tip against her and moaned in desire and wretchedness, both wanting the feel of the huge shaft as it would fill her, and fearing her disgrace and dishonour.

"If you want me to put you out of this misery then you must say "Please Peter - please take me"" he chuckled darkly and rubbed the head of his shaft against her slick opening.

"Never!" she gasped, shocked at the thought of putting her desire into words. The other couple, spent, had stopped their writhing and had turned to watch. The woman was adjusting her skirt and Isabelle could see the mans' spending trickling down her thighs. He was still slightly hard, his red tipped shaft still poking lewdly from his breeches as he watched her.

"Last chance!" Peter thrust only very slightly and she gasped as he allowed her a taste of his cock inside her. She pressed back to encourage more but he withdrew. "Say it! Say "Please take me Peter!" – it is only four little words." She could hear mounting frustration and anger in his voice.

"I cannot!" she almost sobbed in frustration.

He pushed her roughly onto the bed and she was sure now that it would happen without her debasing herself by asking, but instead he called out to the other woman.

"Ana, come help me, the bitch is too tight." In a moment Ana was beside him, kneeling against her bed and the huge shaft disappeared into her mouth. Isabelle watched in horror as she slurped and sucked on the engorged piece, taking him hungrily as far as she could into her throat.

"It is true," the girl said, brazenly licking the head of his shaft, tasting Isabelle on it "ladies do taste sweeter!" At that she heard Peter grunt, watched his body quake and as Ana opened her mouth to receive him, she saw the streams of come, pearl white in the moonlight, fill the girls' mouth.

At that moment, knowing that the time had passed, Isabelle would have begged to have him take her. She would have kissed the girls mouth to taste him there, have mouthed him herself, to reawaken his desire – but as Peter gathered himself together the strangers left the bedchamber without another word.

Isabelle remained on her back, legs open, as she wept for her false modesty and pride. Her fingers tried to finish what she was so sure Peter could have done, but they were a pale imitation of that hard shaft, and Isabelle spent her wakeful night chasing her dreams in frustration.

In the end, desperate for peace, she came to her husband, knelt above him in his bed, and woke him.

She bent her head and took his small, soft cock into her mouth. He tasted sour and felt cold and flaccid between her lips, but soon she had coaxed him to life. She opened her legs, still moist between, and straddled him as she had seen the girl Ana do. She lowered herself onto him, forcing herself down to fill her emptiness as much as she could.

She allowed her mind to see Ana moving, and to recall the feel of Peter nestling at her entrance. She slid up and down on her husband's shaft – woefully small by comparison, until she began to feel the end nearing. She shouted in frustration as her husband shuddered to another untimely finish, and she was there again, empty, as his cock swiftly deflated, leaving her utterly unfulfilled.

In her head she was screaming the words she had been too proud to say.

"Please, Peter – please take me!"