The Countesses of Tannensdal

It was not long before I felt myself start to clench. She must have noticed it too, for she sucked harder, opening her eyes to give me that same saucy look from earlier.

I let go and lay back, and the sensations of my climax shook my body all the way down to my toes. I felt spurt after spurt leave me as the maid sucked every drop out.

At last I collapsed back into the water. My newest friend continued to lick for a moment, then she rose in a smooth motion and wiped her lips. She opened her mouth as if to speak, then swallowed and tried again. "Master, the Lady sends me to help you."

This time she gestured only towards my clothes.

I entered the salon at the appointed time, clean, refreshed and more confident that my body would not betray my desires to my hostess. The maid had helped me to dry and dress, remaining distant and businesslike throughout. That was perhaps for the good: if she had indicated that she wanted it, I would have felt obliged to return the favour.

The Countess was waiting for me by the wide window overlooking the valley. The gown she wore -- a deep blue that somehow did not clash with her hair -- was cut more conservatively than that afternoon's dress, showing only the smallest hint of cleavage. Nevertheless, it accentuated her form in a way that made her chest more prominent. As she turned and gave me her hand, her bosom seemed to surge towards me.

"Cousin," she breathed, "I hope you are feeling refreshed. You must tell me if the girl did not take proper care of you." She looked at me through tawny lashes. "She is new. She might perhaps need... further instruction."

I murmured my thanks as I bent over her hand, reflecting inwardly that the girl's efforts had perhaps been in vain. My trousers were already feeling tight.

A servant appeared with a tray, and I took a glass of champagne for myself and handed one to the Countess. She smiled her thanks and said, "Allow me to introduce you."

I became aware, for the first time, of others in the room. A wrinkled matron who served as the Countess's companion, whose name I didn't catch, ensconced in a corner with her knitting. A young gentleman visiting from Pest, by the name of Rudolf von Raszen. A couple of local worthies, with an unpronounceable name in the local language and an enthusiasm, if not the ability, to converse with me.

Von Raszen, it was clear, was smitten with the Countess. I could not blame him, but it was amusing to watch him fawn over her like a puppy. The Countess, for her part, treated him with a cool affection, which to my eyes seemed only to inflame his passions more.

At length she put her arm in mine and drew me aside. "Come," she said in a voice little more than a whisper. Feeling her pressed so close against me, almost breathing in my ear, I turned quickly away from the others to hide the growing outline in my trousers.

The Countess led me to a door and into a passage. "There is something that I have been longing to show you. I believe that you will find it quite amusing."

At this point she could have presented me with a half-eaten apple and I would have agreed that it was the most fascinating sight I had ever beheld. However, when she drew to a halt, I found that she had not exaggerated.

The painting before us, lit by a pair of large candles standing to either side of the frame, was done in the Georgian style from nearly a century earlier. The couple portrayed were clothed in rich silks, she with her hair in that old, elaborate fashion, though he had eschewed the customary powdered wig. The background was evidently fantastical: it showed palm trees and the ruins of a castle, and I doubted the portrait had been painted outside of England.

What took my breath away was the subject matter. The pair were both handsome and elegant, in the bloom of youth. When I had first seen the Countess, I had sought for some trace of the family likeness, but found none. Seeing the painting now, I understood why. She was the twin of the lady in the picture, with the same hair -- though now in a different style -- and the same brows, the same nose, the same mouth. The likeness was striking.

Even so, it was the man's face that made me gasp out loud. Handsome, with wavy blond hair and a familiar jaw. It was a face that I had seen in the mirror just that afternoon as I shaved.

"It is..." I groped for words. "It is remarkable! This is old William, I presume? And your own ancestor?"

"Of course. Countess Ilira, during her visit to London. She was quite smitten by William. And he by her. He proposed marriage to her, did you know? Even before she was with child. But it would never have done, and so she left." There was something wistful in the way she said it. Perhaps she wondered how her life would have been had she been born and raised in England, instead of this dank corner of the Continent.

For a long moment I gazed at the painting. "I sympathise with him. She is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen." I looked down at her, and she met my eye. "Or at least, one of the two most beautiful."

A charming blush appeared on her cheeks and for a moment it seemed as if she would speak. Then a decrepit servant appeared and said something I could not understand, though a sudden jealousy turned my mind to Father Doonan and that poem by Browning. Hoary cripple indeed!

I fought to keep my face straight and waited. The Countess replied to the bent servant, then turned back to me. "Dinner is served. We will... talk later."

Dinner was interminable. I was seated on my hostess's right, with the local goodwife on my other side and young Von Raszen opposite me on the Countess's left. Despite her best endeavours, he dominated the conversation so entirely as to cut me out, leaving me with a conversation partner whose language I neither spoke nor understood.

Unfortunately, the worthy lady did not appear to grasp this lack on my part, and kept up a barrage of incomprehensible small-talk throughout the meal, occasionally emphasising a point by jabbing a sharp finger into my arm. All I could do was smile helplessly, and sometimes catch the Countess's eye as we silently commiserated each other.

I made my excuses as soon as dinner was over, pleading fatigue from my journey and the lingering effects of my African fever. The Countess, who foresaw as clearly as I an evening where I would be at a disadvantage, graciously bade me goodnight, taking my hand in hers as she hoped I would feel better on the morrow.

My bed had been prepared for me, but there was no sign of the pretty maid. So I undressed and climbed under the sheets. The night outside was chill, and it seemed to seep into the stones of the old tower. By the light of an oil lamp, I lay awake, learning the sounds of the castle at night and the silence from the valley beyond the walls.

Again, I must have fallen asleep, because I awoke to see the maid standing over me. The oil lamp was still burning, so I could not have slept for long. In her hands she held a tray with a decanter. "Master," she said, as if by rote, "the Lady sends me to you with brandy."

I sat up and gestured for her to pour me a glass. She did, and handed it to me. As she turned away, I reached out with my free hand and took her by the arm. "Stay," I told her and, releasing her, patted the bed beside me.

For a moment she stared, then that saucy smile slid onto her face again and she sat. I tried some words of German on her, drawing only a confused look in response, and then Italian. At that she stammered a reply, and we laughed. I took a sip of the brandy and handed her the glass. She took it and drank boldly, then coughed. It was potent stuff, I had already noticed.

A haphazard conversation ensued, both of us drawing on our very limited Italian and filling in the gaps with our own languages. After some guessing, I discovered her name was Merri, and she had previously worked for a family in a place called Ljubljana. I tried to wrap my tongue around that, and she laughed and slapped playfully at me whenever an attempt when particularly wrong. We had drunk a large part of the brandy by now, I noticed, and had moved closer together until we were almost touching.

After the events in the bath that afternoon it might seem strange, but I wanted to draw her out and make her fully comfortable, rather than simply seizing her and assuming that she would be willing.

That she was willing was becoming more and more evident. Her fingers lingered on mine as we exchanged the glass, or rested on the material covering my leg. Yet still I felt the need to draw it out. I suppose, after her boldness earlier, I was determined to retake control. Whatever the reason, we sat and talked and drank for perhaps two hours before I pulled her close and kissed her.

She melted into my arms. Soft lips parted, a warm tongue met my own. I drew her on top of me, my arms wrapped around her, feeling her breathe against my mouth. Her hands came up to stroke my face, then she pulled back and looked at me with those large eyes, almost black in the glow of the lamp. Si," she murmured, "si, si!"

My own hands slid along her back until they reached the firm round mounds of her buttocks. She pulled her knees up until she was sitting astride me, leaning down with her mouth locking onto mine.

We stayed like that for long moments, my hands squeezing her flesh, her fingers in my hair. Then she reached down to drag the blanket from between us, laughing with me as it tangled in our legs.

Eventually we succeeded in kicking it aside. Sitting upright atop my naked body, she started unhurriedly to unbutton her dress, slim fingers unfastening one catch, then another, ever so slowly. As her hands lowered, she pulled the front of her dress open to reveal a white undershift laced loosely together, and beneath that pale flesh with a mesh of blue veins.

Lower and lower her hands went, until she had unfastened enough buttons to pull the dress over her head. The shift came with it, and I gazed up at the soft mounds of her breasts. She tossed the garments aside with a flourish and bent forward to kiss me again.

This time my hands explored her naked skin, stroking and teasing her, finding her sensitive areas. She still wore her long woollen stockings, but the flesh above felt soft and delicate. Running my fingers up and down her lower spine elicited shivers and she moaned into my mouth. She dug her nails into my chest and it was my turn to gasp. I toyed with the hair at the nape of her neck -- when had her cap come off? -- and she purred like a cat. Her lips moved closer to my ear and nibbled, and my body shuddered.

Then I returned my hands to her slim buttocks and squeezed. She pressed herself against me, still kissing my ear and neck, as I drew her slowly forward along my rigid shaft. Her warm slit slid along it, gliding with her own moistness, back and forth, back and forth.

We were both gasping by this time, our bodies writhing against each other. Her thighs were clenched around my hips as she pressed down.

Suddenly my swollen head found her entrance and we both froze, drawing out the moment for as long as we could. Her head came up to face me, and we looked into each other's eyes as we pressed together.

Slowly, ever so slowly, I sank myself deeper and deeper inside her. I could tell she was fighting to keep her eyes open, to keep her gaze locked onto mine. When I was halfway in, I pulled back and she gave a wail, as if begging me to stay. Then I pushed into her again, deeper this time and more forceful.

Now her eyes shut, and she fell against my chest, moaning into my neck. Her nipples were hard against my skin, pressing into me just as I was pressing into her. With my hands cupping her buttocks, I raised my hips and ground against her, feeling her grinding back, feeling the hairs on her mound scratch my stomach as she rubbed herself back and forth.

I let my hands slide up along her spine, drawing forth that same shiver as before, only stronger now, stronger as her entire body responded to the stimulation from without and within. My own breath was ragged in my ears, and I knew I could not last much longer.

She seemed to sense it and she pushed herself upright. Taking my hands from around her waist, she brought them to her small breasts and squeezed. I rolled her nipples between my fingers as her hands slid down to her mound and sought her button.

The slickness escaping from her had made the hairs on our bodies wet, and she raised the fingers of one hand to show me the moisture. I leaned up, my hands still clutching her breasts, and sucked the shining fingers into my mouth, running my tongue over them and savouring her sweetness.

She gave an appreciative laugh, and her hips stopped moving. The saucy look was in her eyes again as she lifted herself off me and inched her body forward, pressing me down and ignoring my protests.

When she stopped, her stockinged knees were positioned on either side of my head and her wet slit was over my face. I glanced up at her, and saw her look down at me with a question in her eyes. I answered by opening my mouth and pulling her down onto me.

A gasp escaped her as my tongue slid between her lips and found her button. It was swollen and hard, sensitive to my caresses. I sucked it into my mouth and flicked at it with my tongue. With my eyes open I could see she had thrown her head back and her hands were clawing at her small breasts.

I ran my hands lightly up her spine and felt her long hair tumbling across her back. As before, this triggered shivers in her body and she leaned forward over my head. Si! she moaned. Si, si, siiiiii!

With that last cry her entire body went rigid, and she ground herself down onto my face. I sucked at her button, feeling her spasm again and again, then she gave a whimper and rolled off me to lie sweating and trembling on the bundled blanket.

I contemplated her, pale and naked, eyes closed, gasping for breath. My shaft was almost throbbing with the need for release. I could taste her on my lips, smell her on my breath.

Rising from the bed, I reached out with both hands and pulled her towards me. Her eyes opened and she waived slightly as if to ward me off. I was not to be refused, however.

Turning her over in one swift motion, I positioned her so her chest was resting on the bed and her legs hung over the side, still clad in the black woollen stockings. Her plump buttocks stared up at me, looking soft and round in the flickering light of the oil lamp.

She must have caught her breath and overcome her exhaustion, because she wiggled her rump and spread her legs. I took her thighs in my hands and positioned myself before her. She giggled girlishly when I pressed against her opening, then drew my swollen head along her slit. A slap on her buttock stopped her wriggling and elicited a yelp. Another slap, on the other cheek, produced a second cry, then she was pushing back against me and I slid inside her.

Leaning over her body, resting my weight on my hands to either side of her, I thrust at her, pounding away with no more thought for her pleasure, only my own. In and out I went, feeling her firm buttocks against my stomach, hearing her gasps turn to moans once more -- feeling the flood swell up inside me, first pressing and then beating against the dam of my self-control as I sought to draw out and heighten the sensations.

Then I reached the point of no return and let go. The explosion ripped through my shaft and sent shockwaves through my rump, my arms, my legs, my neck and my head. Twice more I shuddered, then I collapsed on top of her, feeling her warmth beneath me and listening as her breathing returned slowly to normal.

At length I rolled off her, just as she had rolled off me before. She lay still for a long moment, then she rose and began searching for her clothes. Neither of us spoke. What need was there for words? I watched as she untangled her shift from her dress and pulled them on one by one. Her cap was retrieved from the floor beside the bed and she forced her hair under it. A pair of slippers were found, having gone their separate ways.

When she was done, she lifted the brandy tumbler and emptied it, then she refilled it and placed it beside my bed. I took it and sipped. The harsh liquid burned its way down my throat and restored some of my strength. I sat up as she turned to the door. "Thank you," I said.

She looked back and smiled. I did not know whether she understood the words, but the sentiment must have been clear. Then she opened the door and slipped out, and I was left alone.

The oil lamp was guttering, and as I reached for it to blow it out something caught my eye. In the large mirror standing by the wall between the bed and the wide window it seemed as if I saw a shape. Countess Ilira, watching me with a smile.

Then the lamp gave a last flicker and the room was plunged into blackness.

III.

I awoke to light streaming into my room. Blinking, I rolled over to see a slim figure silhouetted against the window, pulling back the curtains. For an instant I thought it was Merri, then my eyes opened properly and I saw the figure was taller, in a silken robe with a floral pattern and, when the face turned my way, a trim moustache and goatee.

"My apologies for waking you so rudely, Major Woodall," said Rudolf von Raszen. "I could not think of any way to be sure of speaking to you privately."

His tone was brusque and efficient, as was his manner when he stepped away from the window and found the chair placed by the dressing table. All trace of the previous evening's foppish, lovelorn puppy had disappeared. He had a firm look in his eye and a sense of purpose about him.

The flowing dark locks had been tied back at his neck, and the robe he wore over his shirt, if brightly coloured, would not have looked out of place in any gentleman's wardrobe. He looked older now, too, perhaps five-and-twenty, only half a score years younger than myself.

With his hair away from his face, a pair of matching scars were revealed on his brow. Seen in this light, his hands, which before had appeared spoiled and dainty, now seemed strong and agile -- the hands of a fencer, I guessed.

His gaze was taking me in at the same time. I had not slept as well as I had hoped, unsettled by what I thought I had seen in the mirror. It had been no reflection, for when I pictured my room nothing came to mind that resembled my hostess, or could give the illusion of her. A trick of the flickering light, I told myself without much conviction. True, the oil lamp had been dying, but the image in the glass had been still and steady.

Eventually my mind had found the sleep that my body craved, but my dreams had been troubled by disturbing thoughts. The vision had sparked memories of Browning's evocative, gloom-filled poem and Father Doonan's mention of the Sidhe riding the wind. Well, so far from Ireland I doubted that I would encounter any of those ancient spirits, but this land probably had plenty of its own.

All in all, I had no doubt this morning that I did not present a picture of wakefulness. Still, I had experienced worse in the army, so I reached for the decanter of water that stood by my bed next to the half-slain brandy and poured myself a glass.

Having drunk and feeling somewhat refreshed, I returned my attention to my visitor. He sat patiently, waiting for me to cover my naked form with the blanket. When I was done he spoke.

"I must begin by apologising for my behaviour last night. It was boorish of me, but unavoidable, I fear. You see, Major, our enchanting hostess must not know my true nature."

I returned his gaze in silence. I was intrigued by the change in his manner, but I was starting to suspect deception on his part -- deception against a lady whom I held in some regard. Moreover, my knighthood was still fresh enough that I was unhappy with his refusal to address me properly. I did not bother to correct him, though, suspecting that in this part of the Continent they held military rank in higher esteem than personal titles.