The Wraggle Taggle Gypsies Ch. 02

Early the next day Isabelle dressed and went out into the grounds of the great house, she walked in the walled garden, in the shade by the rock pool and out into the less developed, wilder meadows. With each step she wanted to walk further from the temptation and anguish that her brush with the Gypsy had left behind.

When she was married, almost three years earlier, she had been in no illusion about the union. Her husband was a wealthy man, and if he prospered so did she – she was as much his property as the house was, and her part of the bargain had been in tolerating his pathetic advances. He was not unattractive in his youth, but at nearly thirty years her senior, those days were long past. He was heavy, his hair thinning and had been troubled for the last year with gout.

In the knowledge that this had not been a love match – that being an option only to paupers and simple folk – she knew she could never find passion with her husband. Coupled with his unskilled and selfish approach to sex, she could see no possibility of a happy sexual union between them. Even with desperate need willing her on she had been unable to come to orgasm with him last night, and the thought of his heavy body over her own made her shudder.

But why, now, was this so hard to accept? She had lived with him without romantic expectation for almost three years, accepting it as her fate. Now it seemed that someone had opened a vision on the horizon – allowed her to see what she wanted, without really making it accessible to her.

She could not deny that she wanted to feel the stranger, Peter, make love to her – that she had wanted to let herself beg him, as he had insisted – but she also knew that she could not have this and keep unscathed her status as a lady.

She rubbed the front of her gown, over the mound of her sex, feeling the urge rising as she thought of him. There were women who took lovers – but she doubted she could rely on her household staff to be truly discrete, and her husband was rarely away at town. She also had the feeling that Peter would want more from her than a quiet affair – he had wanted her to be open and declare her need in a way he must know no lady could. She could not imagine him slipping quietly in and out of her chamber unseen and unheard, simply because it was what she would want of him.

She could feel her own heat building – dampening her between her legs and making her breath come short. As she reached the river she felt hot and dusty, and as she swung around to ensure her privacy, she was filled with and unlikely compulsion.

Fumbling to undress herself, unused to the task without a maids' help, she removed her gown to her undergarments, slipped off her fine shoes and stepped into the waters. She gasped at the cold, but stepped further, thinking of times when she had bathed like this as a child.

She waded out into the current, watching the water eddy around her, quick moving and stained brown, like ale, by the peat in the mountains. She was gasping for breath against the cold, and as she felt that water rise to the heat between her legs she cried out.

The feeling of the icy river touching her was both agony and relief; she sunk slowly to her knees on the fine pebbles of the river bed, allowing the water to rise to her bosom, and the feel of cold fingers touching under her breasts brought her to her feet, gasping.

She stood in the sunlight, water to her hips, feeling the warm sun against her and the cold water coursing off her. Her linens were stark white in the light, like fresh snow, and the clung wet to her body, pressing heavily against her curves, her tiny, hard nipples showing dark against the almost transparent fabric. She raised her face to the sun and smiled.

With her eyes closed and her mind numbed by the cold river water Isabelle didn't see or hear him advance. Peter was standing in silhouette beside the small trees near the river bank. When she first saw him she thought she was going mad – driven to seeing him after he had occupied her mind so fully.

He stepped down to the waters edge with a slow swagger, and she shielded her eyes to see him properly.

"Good day, my lady. Are you refreshed?" his eyes roamed across her, returning frequently to the dark points of her chilled nipples. She raised her hands to cover herself.

"It is a warm day." She began to wade out of the river and onto the bank, trying to skirt away from him, keeping her eyes averted. In her chest her heart pounded and she felt breathless and dizzy. She stumbled on the uneven and slippery rocks and almost fell back into the water. Peter grasped her firmly about her upper arms, and when she looked down she saw a rush of red as her foot had been cut by the sharp edge of a rock. As the blood flowed freely against her wet skin she thought for a moment she would swoon, and Peter kept her upright with his strong grip.

He helped her to a grassy slope and seated her before kneeling at her feet and lifting her ankle to take a closer look. His gentleness and his concern surprised her in one seemingly so bold, but he cradled her delicate, pale foot in his hand and examined it carefully.

He wrapped her ankle with a clean kerchief from his pocket, and seemed satisfied that all was well, but he didn't move away, or let go his hold on her foot.

Instead he locked eyes with her again and bent his head to kiss her toes, each in turn. She gasped with a mixture of shock and pleasure, the feel of his warm lips against her icy skin and the sensation of his fingers' caress on her tender instep were magical.

"Tell me your name, lady." She felt his breath against her foot, and seemed amazed that, having been so intimate, he did not know this about her.

"Lady Faversham..." she started at her own formality, giving her proper name to a man holding her naked ankle in his palm. Blushing, she said "Isabelle."

His broad mouth smiled and again lowered his lips to her, this time kissing higher, where her ankle narrowed, and she felt the bristles on his unshaven chin rasp at her skin. His lips travelled up her shin and he angled his head as he raised the hem of her petticoat, reaching around to kiss behind her knee.

She felt paralysed – her whole body rigid with fear and longing. She could barely believe that he was touching her in this way, making his way up her body like a sinuous snake. She was terrified he would not stop, yet terrified that he might, and already the heat she had cooled in the river had returned.

As his kisses moved again to above her knee she began to whimper, the sounds escaping her knotted throat in strangled gasps. His mouth found the hot skin of her inner thigh and between his lips she felt the hot tip of his tongue flick at her.

She laid her head back, her pale throat exposed, feeling every minute touch. His face moved ever closer to her centre, and she felt a mounting horror that he might want to kiss her there. She knew how the moisture was flooding the folds of skin, knew how engorged it would be, and was afraid more than anything that he might see her for the wench she was, the image of herself as 'lady' cast aside forever.

As he drew close to her, and she could feel the flush heat of his skin near the radiating heat of her sex she would have given anything, said anything, to have him touch her. Modesty and decency were forgotten, the only thing she listened to was the pulsing heat and the ache of longing.

Peter stood up, abruptly and without a word and began to walk slowly away from her. She called out, anguished, but he simply shrugged and shook his head. There was no ignoring the straining lump of his cock within his breeches, but he looked at her – seemingly cool and unmoved by passion. She guessed at what he must want.

"Please, Peter! Please take me!" her voice was quiet, but the words were finally there, and she felt strangely liberated by saying them aloud.

Still he looked on.

Isabelle slipped off the grassy mound and onto her knees before him, her eyes pleading, imploring. "I said it! I said it for you, please take me!" her voice rose, urgent and frustrated.

"Why now?" he frowned "I wanted to hear it yesterday. Yesterday you were coy, you played me. Today we are alone and you think me a fool."

"No! I couldn't let myself, I tried to put you from my mind but I couldn't. I tried to...to love my husband." She shook her head, wretched and confused.

Peter opened his clothing swiftly, releasing his engorged cock level with her face. She gazed again at the curve of him, the bulbous head, the veined shaft, the heavy sacks hanging low at the base. It was at once monstrous and beautiful and she wanted it inside her far more than she wanted to preserve her modesty.

"So you try his cock, and now you want to try mine?" His voice was rising, anger flaring in his eyes. He brought the head of his shaft to her face allowing the tip to touch her cheek, just to the side of her mouth, leaving a delicate trail of clear liquid on the smooth skin. "I have pride, woman, and will not be used like a stud horse."

"I am on my knees in dirt and you talk to me of pride!" Isabelle stood abruptly, awkward on her hurt foot. "Keep your pride, and keep your...keep your cock!" She was as astounded at herself at Peter was.

"Get back on your knees, woman."

"No."

He faced her squarely, at least a foot taller than she – and laid his hands on her shoulders. He pushed down firmly and her knees buckled until she found herself kneeling once again.

"What do you want from me?" she almost wept the words. "You torment me and make a whore of me, then...then..."

"What – tell me what you are feeling." He knelt in front of her his dark eyes glittering, his red lips parted.

"I am..." she was lost, unable to find words for it. "I am consumed by want of it!"

"Tell me how it feels – here." He pressed his fingers against her petticoat, connecting with the sensitive nub below, making her gasp.

"No – there are no words."

Isabelle forgot herself a lady forever at that moment, and she lifted her skirts and showed herself to the Gypsy man. She showed him the soft dark hairs, her pink, swollen nether lips, almost purple at their centre, all glistening, open and willing.

She lay back against the sand, her legs open – inviting him without hesitation.

He knelt between her parted legs and steadied the tip against her opening, and she was afraid their game might continue and he might deny her again. She felt the motion of his hips and gasped at the shaft began to open her wider at her very gate.

Despite his size, or perhaps because of her readiness, the tip slipped easily into her, allowing the motion to be accentuated and his cock to enter more and more with every thrust.

He was struggling to maintain a gentle speed, and wanted to force into her and feel her sheath suck at his entire length, but in a moment he felt her hands clutch at his back and down towards his backside, urging him. That and the small mewling cried she emitted made him bold and in one motion he pushed hard into her, feeling his cock come up against tight walls, feeling her grasp at his body and cry loudly in pleasure and perhaps a little pain.

There was a delicious friction building; he could feel the heat and slickness of her, grasping tightly at him, the feel of her outer lips against the base of him whenever he buried deep inside, feel the slap of his 'bolg' against her rump.

He could hear a change in her noises and movement. She began to arch her back, and tilt her hips toward him. He cried were louder and more insistent – incoherent sounds showing her nearing her end. He allowed himself to thrust without concern, to fill her as full as he could, to drive out any memory of her husband and fill her with need only for him.

Deep in her belly she finally felt it – the thing she had heard others talk of and had tried to imagine, but to no avail. There was nothing to compare with this feeling – like the clenching of a thousand fists deep in the pit of her. Her walls gripped him, her nails dug deep through his shirt into his back, her cries deafened him – but inside she was transported. She rode wave after wave of ecstasy – feeling it fill her with tension and release her completely.

As her body breathed its relief she felt a pulsing response in Peter, who called out with a word she did not know.

"Fute!"

She suddenly felt her already sopping sex flooded with his seed and revelled in the delicious heat of it coursing inside her.

Peter laid his head on her breast, breathing heavily, and kissed her gently at the base of her throat. Isabelle held his head in her hands, cradling it whilst his deflating cock slipped from within her.

He rolled off her and lay on his back in the sand, still panting.

"You must go back, before you are missed."

Isabelle looked stricken – she had not imagined herself going back to everyday life – back to her husband and her household.

"If you don't go back you may regret it. I cannot offer you a life like yours."

At her protests he touched her mouth.

"If you still want me, return at the new moon – and know that if you don't I will be gone. If you do, we will be together, but that may not be the life you imagine, so think hard."

He stood and was away through the meadow before she could speak. Once again he left her alone with parted legs, but this time with part of him draining slowly from her, onto the hot sand.