tagSci-Fi & FantasyHarry's Spring Break Ch. 4

Harry's Spring Break Ch. 4


The pace of life was slower here in the Southern Barony. During the hottest part of the afternoon, activity slowed to a crawl and the day fell silent but for the sleepy drone of bees.

Harry spent that first afternoon on the porch, with a tall glass of lemonade close at hand and a book open but unread on his lap. Even reading seemed like too much of an effort. It was nicer just to sit in the shade while the heat-shimmers made quicksilver patterns on the horizon, and the horses drifted across the meadow like mirages.

The book also helped conceal his erection. There was one part of his body that didn't care about relaxing in the drowsy heat. That part wanted to do something much more energetic.

A few yards from him, Rheda and his mother, aunt, and sister were seated around a white wicker table with lemonade glasses of their own. The three older women were trying lackadaisically to teach Diana a card game. Harry was too far away to hear the rules, but close enough to admire the curve of Rheda's neck as she fanned herself.

She knew he was watching her. He was certain of it. The sly sidelong glances she kept tossing his way, the pink tip of her tongue coming out to wet her lips, the way she'd turn her body to make her abundant breasts press against the silk of her gown and outline them so clearly she might as well have been wearing nothing but a sheen of apple-green paint.

He didn't know what to make of it. She was old enough to be his mother, for Dorian's sake, far older than the girls' dorm Headmistress whose stocking-belts had so captivated him, but that didn't seem to matter. On the contrary. It intrigued him all the more. What might a woman of her age and experience be able to teach him?

The very thought made a nerve that seemed to run through the core of his body thrum like a lute string. His forehead was shiny with sweat that couldn't all be attributed to the weather.

A beautiful, voluptuous older woman flirting with him. He certainly wasn't complaining, but he was wondering like mad. Why? Was she genuinely interested, or merely having fun teasing him, or was there some more sinister aspect? Had she, for instance, been put up to it by his grandmother as a test?

Whichever it was, he wasn't about to make a fool of himself by acting on his impulses. It was her game; he'd be more than happy to play along until he figured out what the rules were.

As the sun dropped toward the sea, it turned to a scarlet ball and streaks spread across the sky. Blood of the gods.

Once the fiery orb slipped from sight, the air cooled and the wind stirred and the land seemed to come to life again. A ripple of renewed energy swept through the house. The servants bustled about, the horses capered in the fields and ran with their necks arched and tails streaming behind them like flags.

Dinner was served as a buffet, few hot dishes but a marvelous selection of cold cuts, salads, and chilled desserts. A thin and reedy girl sang in a thin and reedy voice, accompanied by a piper and a harpist.

Uncle Charles and his sons appeared from the depths of the house, arguing over ledgers. Chas was supposed to be a partner in the family business soon, Aeric felt that he should be one as well despite his lack of years, and just listening to them was almost enough to put Harry right to sleep.

Midway through the meal, Anson Byrtwold and his son arrived. The horse-lord, as he liked to be called, was a blocky, bow-legged man who looked as if he would be far more at home in a saddle than walking the earth. He was jovial and loud, prone to slapping people heartily on the back without realizing that his work-hardened strength made them stagger.

Drefan, a slope-browed troglodyte as a boy, had only changed in that he'd gained six inches in height and was now a slope-browed troglodyte of a man, sullen and unhandsome, communicating rarely and then only in grunts or monosyllabic replies when asked a direct question. The only one of the guests he seemed inclined to pay any attention to was Diana, following her every move with his piggy eyes.

Anson and Rheda brimmed with lively conversation, and soon even got Uncle Charles and the cousins talking about something besides his business. Harry was bemused and astonished, and found himself thinking about what his grandfather had said. Straight arrows, skipping a generation? Obviously, Harold Senior didn't spend much time around his other grandsons!

When everyone had finished eating, Anson led them all into his pride and joy, the game room. Harry had never heard that the Southern Barony people were such inexhaustible card-sharks, or known that there were so many games to be played.

He had trouble concentrating on his cards when they all took seats at the big table, though, because Rheda had contrived to be seated next to him. Apple blossom perfume, her throaty giggle, the occasional touch of her foot against his as she shifted in her chair ... good thing this wasn't a glass-topped table, because he had no book to put over his lap this time!

Good thing indeed ... four rounds later, as Drefan was ploddingly but with great burning concentration dealing out the cards, Harry felt Rheda's palm settle onto his leg.

He didn't jump, didn't bleat in surprise, didn't betray his reaction in any way except for a virtually unnoticeable quaver in his voice as he was regaling Mother and Aunt Pigeon with a funny anecdote from the Thespians Club at school.

Her hand rested where it was for a moment, then squeezed gently. He glanced casually in her direction but she seemed to be listening intently to his story, smiling merrily.

Harry kept talking, elaborating, drawing it out, making them laugh. As he did, Rheda slid her hand up his thigh, then curled down and in until her fingertips were at the inseam of his trousers.

By now, Harry had completely forgotten what had actually happened at the Thespian Club that day and was making up his story out of whole cloth. As he was the center of attention and using both of his hands to gesticulate and emphasize, there was no way he could subtly get one of his down there to either move hers away (was he insane?) or move it where he so throbbingly wished it to be.

The pressure lifted and he inwardly groaned in mixed disappointment and relief. But then, balancing on pearl-enameled fingernails, her hand walked like a small animal up and up, treading lightly over the buttons of his fly.

He paused for a much-needed gulp of icy lemonade and continued his story, which was winding toward its climax ... now there was a word ...

Tap ... tap ... tap ... on his buttons ... like harpsichord keys or a little girl playing hopscotch. Not unfastening, just pushing down briefly on each one as if counting them. Then with a suddenness that made him pinch the side of his tongue between his teeth so as not to gasp, she gripped his rod firmly through the cloth.

He concluded his story, which by now bore no resemblance to anything that his friends in the Thespian Club would recognize, and everyone laughed. Mother and Aunt Pigeon started applauding, and Harry could have screamed because if they all did, Rheda would have to as well, which would mean she'd need to take her hand away, and he didn't want her to do that, not ever! Unless it was only to replace it with something else, with her fabulously pouting mouth, perhaps.

But she didn't, and the applause died off quickly as Drefan passed out the last of the cards and the focus returned to the game.

Harry picked up his cards and tried not to let his hands tremble. He looked blankly at them, unable to tell the suits apart, conscious only of her fondling him, slowly and somehow thoughtfully, as if she was attempting to measure the length and girth and shape of him by touch alone.

Then, agonizingly, damnably, it was her turn to bet. She let go of him and went on with the game. Harry lost quite badly that round.

He recovered his wits enough to do better in subsequent rounds, and by the time they were done, he had subsided to a half-hard state, which, thanks to the flickering gaslamps the Byrtwolds used instead of steady and unforgiving Continual Lights, would be easy enough to conceal long enough to get to his room.

They all said their goodnights, made plans for a more formal dinner the next evening to celebrate Rheda's daughter Othelia's return from her paternal grandparents' house, and parted ways to their rooms.

Harry closed his door but did not throw the bolt. Each of the guest rooms had two beds, and he wasn't sure whether it was luck or someone's purposeful planning that he had ended up in a room by himself. He was hoping for purposeful planning, but he'd settle for luck; either way, he was in here alone and would it be out of the question to think that maybe, just maybe, he might be visited in the night?

The moment he let himself imagine, his erection came back full-force and raging. He didn't want to seek his own relief, because what if she did come in and he wasn't ready? But suppose she didn't come in; gods help him, he'd never get to sleep!

He stripped and washed and contemplated putting on the long shirt and loose pants that were his usual night attire, then decided against it. The night was too warm, even with the breeze blowing in the open window.

Nude, he lay down and pulled the sheet over himself. Below his waist was a protrubance that, covered in the pristine white cotton, looked like a tree branch buried in a snowbank. The soft fabric was woven with a texture that chafed enticingly.

He rolled over, but that was no good; now the source of his distraction was pinned beneath his body and the bed, and if he rocked just a little, thrusting against the mattress, and envisioned someone beneath him ...

He rolled again, this time onto his side with his face toward the window. There.

Now sleep.

She had groped him right there in the game room.

He buried a strangled groan in the pillow.

Think about something else!

She had kissed him on the mouth, darted her tongue against his lips --

Something besides that!

He saw her in his mind as vividly as he had that afternoon, fanning herself, tiny beads of perspiration rolling down her neck and into the dark valley of her cleavage ...

Scent of apple blossoms ... breathing it in, fragrant and intoxicating ...

The click of the doorlatch lifting sounded loud as a whipcrack.

Harry's breath caught in his lungs. He lay with his eyes wide open and staring at the window, listening to the faint creak of hinges, the thump of a door being carefully closed, the brush of feet on the rug crossing the room.

If it's Mother coming to say goodnight, I will lose my mind, Harry thought.

But the scent of apple blossoms was stronger now, and he knew it wasn't from the tree outside.

Dear gods, he couldn't move! His body was locked, frozen.

He sensed someone leaning over him, and then warm air blew in his ear, a breath that carried the shape of his name in a whisper.


Say something!

His glibness had deserted him; "Mmm?" was all he could manage.

The sheet was raised, letting in a draft. Then the draft was gone and Rheda's satiny plush curves were pressed against him. She pulled the sheet up to cover them both, snuggling against him so that her breasts were plumply crushed against his back and his buttocks were up against her hips and mound. Her legs molded themselves along his and they lay together nestled like spoons.

"You are a very handsome and desirable young man, Harry," she murmured in his ear, working her arm between his arm and body so that she could twine her fingers through the hair of his chest. "Are you a very experienced young man?"

"I've been with a few girls," he said, keeping his voice low.

"I'd like for you to fuck me."

The coarse word from a friend of his aunt and mother was joltingly arousing. His rod lurched like a stallion at the reins.

"I'd like that too --" understatement of the Age! "-- but ... your husband?"

"What Anson doesn't know won't hurt him, but if you don't want to risk it, I understand."

He took hold of her wrist and brought her hand down. "I'll risk damned near anything!"

Her fingers wrapped around him unobstructed by cloth. He was already seeping droplets of clear liquid, making the head of his member slick, moistening the slow firm pumping of her hand as it moved persuasively.

"The moment I saw you, I knew I had to have this," she purred, emphasizing with a squeeze. "I knew you were just the man I've been looking for."

"When I saw you ..." it was a chore to form coherent words, "... I ... you ..."

"I wasn't what you expected?" she giggled, and lapped her tongue along the rim of his ear.

"Not at all what I expected."

"You thought I'd be just like your aunt."


"Aren't you glad to be wrong?"


"Be on your back for me, my darling young Harry."

He turned and she crawled atop him, and they kissed with hungry open mouths and fencing tongues. He stroked the sleek line of her back from shoulderblades to full firm bottom, thinking ramblingly of silk and apple blossoms and balmy southern evenings.

She shifted, and the tip of his rod was surrounded in heat.

"Now," she sighed. "Inside me. I want you inside me."

Her hips lowered as his rose urgently, one deep stroke immersing him fully. She was already well-oiled by her own passion and moaned rapturously. Harry clutched her buttocks and pulled her down as she rocked, soon finding that she liked it best when he timed short hard thrusts to match her downward movements.

Release came in a sudden and overpowering frenzy. There was no chance of delaying his pleasure this time; Rheda rode him relentlessly as her inner flesh contracted around him, milking his seed, wringing from him such a shattering climax that his eyes seemed to bulge in their sockets and a thunderous rush drowned his ears and for several moments he lost all sense of himself and floated in a close and enveloping darkness.

He wasn't sure how long he was lost, but soon sensation returned and he gradually realized that they were still locked together, his softening length still buried within her, their bodies and the bedclothes soaked.

Rheda raised her head from his shoulder and kissed him lingeringly. He returned it as best he was able, which was rather weakly, and smiled up at her.

"I wish I could curl up beside you and sleep in your arms," she whispered.

"That'd be nice." His voice reminded him of a falling leaf, seesawing lazily down through the air.

"And wake you in the morning to go again," she added, licking her lips.


"But tomorrow, I may have another request for you."

"I will be happy to be of service," he said. "Any service you might require."

"Good. You'll be perfect for the task I have in mind."

She kissed him again, and tucked the sheet back around him as she left the bed. There was a crumpled robe on the floor and she put it on, not that it concealed much, as it looked to be spun of moonlight and mist.

Harry watched as long as he was able, until she slipped out the door and vanished like a ghost. Then, with a silent message of thanks to the gods, he plummeted into a dreamless sleep.

* * * * *

Continued in Ch. 5

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