A Chuckle In My Ear

"It was a world away," I sighed, but then her lips were on mine once more, and my hands were pulling at her shawl, and we sank to the whispery grass in a heap of knees, hands, spit, and laughter. "You landed on my sword."

"I have no clue why you're wearing that," she giggled, her hands at my belt.

"I didn't trust Gerald." I finished with her shawl, the glory of her hair tumbling onto her shoulders in the blue night.

"Fie. Gerald will do whatever Gytha tells him to do." She kissed me again, hungry, as my belt fell aside. "I plan to have her ask him for a healthy discount."

"You'd make a whore of your own maid?" I rose up on my knees as her hands searched out the lacings of my trousers. I pulled my robe up over my head, my chest bare in the moonlight.

"No. What she's doing with him, she's not doing for money." Her eyes flashed up at me as she worked. "She's doing that for pleasure."

"Like her lady," I mused, my heart jumping as she began to undress me. My prick was a dagger, leaping from my pants to sway taut before her face.

"No," she said again, firmly, sprawled in the sand with her hand closing possessively around me. I gasped. "I don't do this for pleasure, Robert." Her voice caught, thickened, and then she said it. "I do this for love."

The grass rustled. I stared. And God didn't laugh as she crawled forward and closed her lips around my cock, already sucking hard. "Fuck," I sighed, turning my face toward the sky, my fingers already weaving through her thick hair; I did not stop myself from arching forward, my body eager for her mouth, her touch. She swallowed willingly, keening a low moan that I could feel around my flesh. "For love," I marveled.

She came off me with a slurping sound. "You heard me. Now what are you going to do about that?"

I gazed down at her kneeling form, her eyes glittering in the night as they stared up at my naked body. We'd always done this well, she and I: she, kinswoman of kings, wealthy and established, sunk in an excellently-negotiated marriage; I, the rough son of a glazier and a beekeeper, with no skills but the ability to kill, fleeting from one hazard to the next, and yet she'd always gone to her knees for me, offering herself, adoring my cock with her high-born mouth, eyes alive with that same whole-hearted enthusiasm she showed in everything.

My fingers tightened in her hair.

She was slowing now, mouth cool and relaxed around me, keeping me taut while she worked to get her dress unfastened. Gold glinted under the moon as she laid aside her brooches, the layers falling away from her body like torn curtains until she was nothing but a nymph in her linens, sucking me, her beautiful face on mine. A moment more we stayed like that, frozen with the impact of the moment as the river sighed to the south before I laid rough hands on her shoulders and pushed her back onto her crumpled dress.

I knelt among the cool grass, the sand gritting at my knees, her legs falling open before me. How many times had we done this years ago, she and I trysting with no shame and no regret? She nodded up at me now, her hair spread behind her, teeth flashing in her old reckless grin as she fumbled her shift up over her head. One moment I stared down, my eyes drenched in the sight of her nude body in the shadows, before she reached a languid hand to my prick and began to guide me where it wanted to go.

We both held our breath, the whole world still as I leaned down into her, the warmth of her hand blending with the warmth of her body almost before I even knew she'd brought me to her slit. "Yes," she grunted, low and urgent, and when she moved her hand away I felt it: the hot, eager kiss of her wet lips around my head. Our eyes widened when I let my ass fall, legs driving me with liquid ease inside her.

"Oh! Fuck!" she squealed, her voice catching on the syllables. She dug her heels into the sand, bearing up against my body as I thrust as deep as my balls would allow, my thick shaft buried in her cunt with no resistance at all. We both let our breath out in long, ragged sighs, delighting in the touch of our united bodies. "I never forgot how you felt, Robert," she whispered, husky, mouth curving into a dreamy smile.

She was exquisite, the tightness I remembered, the wetness I'd caused, the passion I needed. I held myself there, savoring the feeling of being in her again before she drew her legs up and laid greedy fingers on the top of my ass. "Do it," she whispered.

I nodded, sweat already beading on my brow, and backed slowly out of her. She groaned at the passage of my flesh across hers, then caught her breath again when I thrust abruptly back into her. I felt her nails dig into my skin, my hips already rearing back to rut her again. And again.

And again.

We fell at once into the perfect rhythm we'd always shared, she and I fitting smoothly, easily, mouths curving into tandem grins as we settled together. "So good," she panted, her cuntlips stretching to fit my girth, feet scrabbling to angle her hips to make more room. "So strong."

I fucked her steadily, my strokes slow but powerful, the way I knew she liked it. Memories flooded my mind from before, when we'd so gleefully cucked Sir Walter: her, bent over a weir in a stream as I claimed her. Her, writhing beneath me in a stable. Her, mounting me proudly one night in the grass behind Gilbert de Clare's henhouse. And each time had been special, more than merely the pleasures of the flesh, a connection we'd both felt.

A connection I made once more, my hard cock plowing her under the stars by the River, our eyes locked on each others' as our bodies surged together. She came almost at once, her face taking on that slack, joyous look I'd seen on her so many times, and as I dipped my head to kiss her I could feel her cunt rippling around my plunging flesh, trying to grasp it. To hold it. To keep it inside.

Where it belonged.

"Oh God," she cried, her voice shrill in the night, hands clawlike on my lower back. I drilled her steadily, bringing her through it, reveling in her joy even as I felt my own thudding toward me, a tightness in the back of my balls, the warning twitch of a torrent to come.

My lips were on her neck when it happened for me, nibbling the tender skin there as my rhythm began to fail, to sacrifice friction for depth, the endless urge to plant my seed well. I arched my back deeply, driving myself into her, groaning a brittle cry as I felt myself unclench, letting go, flooding her.

We both gasped hard, my feverish prick launching blast after blast inside, the load filling her and overfilling her. At once, as I risked another thrust, I felt the new slickness down there, her eyes closed in bliss as she rattled through the end of her climax and gloried in my own. The sound of our bodies meeting was a slithering slap, my hips driving once more in short, easy thrusts as I dribbled the last of my seed into her. "My God."

"Don't slip out," she begged, lips fierce as she murmured in my ear. "Stay inside me, Robert."

"I will," I managed, kissing lazily along her neck, "forever." For I knew, suddenly, that somehow I would make it happen. That I would be able to get Henry to grant me use of the Langham fief. That she and I could be together.

With our son.

We smiled to each other, close as we could get, the blankets unheeded in our bundles by the base of the hill. They could wait. Now, there was only us and our love beneath the vault of God, and he was no longer laughing at me.

* * *

The voyage back down the River from London seemed to take no time at all, the mighty current pushing us hard and fast to add to the wind Gerald could coax through the sail. I spent most of my time at the prow, watching the low banks slip past, leaving me like my old life to find a new way forward.

In Langham.

"So. It's official?" Gytha spat from behind us as she spun her distaff. "We've got a new King now?"

"It's official." I took a deep breath and glanced at Alice, leaning along the rail beside me. "We've got a lot of new things now."

"Some of them old, though." I felt her hand find mine. "Old things, newly found anyway." She kissed my cheek, giggling, a different chuckle in my ear.

I did not need to turn around to picture Gytha, nodding, thinking. "And Sir Walter?"

I looked over at Alice, who sighed. "He'll probably write soon, asking me to come to Normandy."

"I'm not going to go with you to fucking Normandy," Gytha announced.

"I doubt you'll be invited." Alice's shoulder touched mine, our feet close. All of us, close. "Probably just me and my son. I'm sure there will be many, many difficulties that will prevent me from heading over there, though. And he's surely not coming back."

Gytha paused again, and when she spoke it was with an air of quiet satisfaction. "That's good. I always thought Sir Walter was an asshole." We let the salty quiet of the nearby sea drift over us, watching the gulls on the bank. "Good archer, though."

* * *

Walter Tirel did shoot the arrow that killed King William Rufus at the start of August 1100. It probably was an accident, but nobody really knows; in any case, the King's brother Henry did seize the treasury (and the crown itself, a few days later) and the hapless Sir Walter did in fact hightail it back to Normandy, leaving his wife Adeliza in possession of his manor at Langham with at least one child, a boy named Hugh.

I have no basis for assuming Adeliza (whose friends probably did call her Alice) was having super-hot sex with a man-at-arms, but this is Literotica. So here, she was. She died in 1138; her son Hugh, lord of Poix-de-Picardie and holder of much English land, would last until around 1170.

All the rest of this is a work of my imagination. As is "The Smell of Horse and Leather," which tells the story of Robert's parents. Take a look, if you wish.