Memoirs Of Lady Catherine Pt 04

My bottom was still sore as a Sunday whipping the next morning, and it being dark winter, Mother had my maid Gertrude fetch not just water and firewood with her morning chores, but also a small block of ice wrapped in cheesecloth. I chipped a bit into a washrag and sat upon it for a few minutes, and soon I felt much better.

The relatively gentle, average-sized assfucking that Brother Mannhaft bestowed upon me had been pleasurably painful, but there was still a cost to pay for it. Then I recalled the pounding Duchess Ilsa had taken from Captain Belbouche's massive monster, and wondered how she was able to take so much so easily, with no lingering after-effects.

Those few extra minutes of icing my newly initiated rosebud made me late to the family table, where I arrived to discover that one of my two older siblings - Lady Ambrosia Schtupt-Waehling, styled the 4th Viscountess of Fowlbottom - had arrived in the night.

The middle child in Mother's brood was much as I remembered her from our nursery years - haughty, dim, boorish and displeasingly plump, with a downward-facing mean-streak she imagined to be evidence of a sparkling wit.

I suppose my dear sister Amby wasn't entirely unattractive. She had the most amazingly tarted-up bodice in all of Christendom, and I could imagine how a drunken, ribald knight might take great pleasure in rippling the flesh of her substantial backside - though truly and fully enjoying either attribute would require nothing less than a thick gag, cinched tightly at the back of her neck.

"Well, there she is," Lady Fowlbottom announced when she spied me. "Lady Catherine the Erstwhile, now risen from her slothful slumber, deigns to join us for breakfast."

Her retinue from the Midlands - two dithering lesser-ladies in matching gowns - tittered. But Mother's silence was deafening.

"As you can see, your dear sister Ambrosia has returned to Norman Hall," Lady Beatrice said, her tone flat as a tidal marsh. "Unannounced. Late last night. You can imagine our surprise."

"When I heard Father's reputation had been so villainously defamed, I of course rushed home to join in the defense of his honor and our family name," Ambrosia said. "I sent a pigeon to alert you."

"I don't do pigeons," Mother replied from her seat opposite her eldest daughter, just below Father's place at the head.

"Doesn't do pigeons!" my sister laughed, inviting her court ladies to join her. "Oh Mother! Do wiggle your way out of the Dark Ages! Everyone does pigeons now!"

I avoided sitting by Amby, and walked the long way around the table to sit beside Mother.

"What the fuck is she doing here?" I asked under my breath.

"Language!" Mother hissed quietly. "And aren't YOU progressing rapidly from the cloister."

"Feels like a lifetime ago," I whispered as a serving girl placed buns and weak beer before me.

"Well," my sister announced, apparently addressing the room, "since I am a Viscountess, making me the highest-ranking noble in the Rhys-Muffington family, by protocol it falls to me to convene this emergency family meeting."

"You're still my daughter!" Father said, flashing angry. "Uppity cunt."

"Oh Daddy," she said, blushing as if his typically dispeptic insult were some private endearment. "I know you're all proud of me!"

But "Daddy" wasn't, and neither were we.

My father, Nigel Rhys-Muffington, the second Baron of Rumpole, was - to put it politely - the most minor figure in the minor nobility, and he was reliably irritable about anything that reminded him of his precarious status.

His father - Uthbert Ravenseye Odinson Rhys-Muffington - had been born a commoner. A particularly violent and insatiable commoner, but still: A commoner.

But after proving his worth by crushing the Scots at Pilkney, sacking the Danish port of Sackenport, repeatedly violating the Turks at Constantinople, and impregnating half the French royal court, the King could not help but recognize the man's talents. In recognition of his distinguished service to the Crown, Uthbert received Norman Hall, a royal title, and a wife, fortuitously plucked from the distinguished Crumpet family.

Father wasn't Uthbert's eldest. That would be Sigurd Uthbertson Rhy-Muffington, who died in an epic sea battle. He was followed in succession by Bjorn Uthbertson Rhys-Muffington, crushed to death in an unfortunate trebuchet accident, and poor Ragnar Uthbertson Rhys-Muffington, who died under mysterious circumstances after winning a bet that involved a keg of mead, two serving wenches, a warhorse and an altar boy.

This left only young Nigel, who returned to Norman Hall from boarding school to take his dead father's place. In retrospect, Father's finest hour was winning the hand of Lady Beatrice, the first cousin of the King's second wife's third lady-in-waiting. It was an arranged marriage, of course, but it served to bolster the legitimacy of his otherwise dubious barony.

Fortunately, Father came of age in a time of war, and though he had no special training at arms, he was so naturally disagreeable that he found sweet release in all aspects of military life: Fighting, killing, raping, pillaging, stealing, whoring, buggery, rent-to-own furniture and easy-credit payday loans.

Sadly, peace returned to the land eventually, and Nigel Rhys-Muffington promptly sank back to his natural level of indifference, incompetence and indolence.

His only son, Eric, was off to sea in the King's Navy. His eldest daughter, Ambrosia, had married up a rank to Viscount. And then there was his youngest, a child deemed too preternaturally erotic to be safely raised anywhere except a convent: Me. Lady Catherine Tracie Lourdes Rhys-Muffington.

"Normally I would begin such a discussion with a question about your plans to counter the slander against you name, Daddy," Ambrosia said. "But I am surprised to find my sister, the nun, back at Norman Hall. Tell me, Catherine: Convent too holy for you?"

"In retrospect, yes," I said.

"Your father and I decided it was time to bring Catherine home," Mother said. "She's an exquisite beauty, and I suspect she'll soon be matched well up the nobility ranks. Which means you might do well to modulate your tone, Lady Ambrosia."

"That?" she said, extending her arm and pointing her finger at me as she stared down Lady Beatrice. "You think THAT is going to marry above ME? I'll have you know that the Viscount of Fowlbottom is created well into the third quartile of all extant Viscountancies!"

"Jealous much?" I asked brightly.

"Silence, harlot!" she snapped. "I've heard a rumor about events in the family chapel last night. In the FAMILY CHAPEL!

"And you!" Ambrosia said, turning her wrath toward Mother. "If you'd just do you marital duty, Daddy wouldn't have to go slinking around to find release for his overwhelming masculine needs! He's a good and noble man!"

"How was I to find space in your Father's bed when you were always so comfortably ensconced therein?" Mother asked calmly.

"SILENCE!" Ambrosia bellowed, rising to her feet. "Here's what's going to happen: Daddy is going to write letters denying all charges against him, commission two respectable emissaries to plead for mercy and forgiveness, and send generous gifts to the King and the Cardinal."

"Won't work," Father said.

"I KNOW IT WON'T WORK!" Ambrosia shouted. "But it will demonstrate your concern for your reputation. Meanwhile, I'll be lobbying behind the scenes at court, where I shall convince the Queen to at least enfold Norman Hall and its estates into the grant provided to the Viscount Fowlbottom. That way, at least, Daddy will have a place to spend his golden years."

"And what of your brother, Eric?" Mother asked. "Or your sister? Or me?"

"You're all such fancy, smart little magpies," she scoffed. "I'm sure you'll do fine on your own. But that one?"

Ambrosia rotated her head to grin at me in triumph.

"She's going back to the convent, where she will soon discover numerous opportunities to serve the needs of our pious faith leaders. Whatever those needs might be."

She tossed her head back and gave a theatrical little laugh, which her ladies echoed.

"Come ladies," she ordered them. "And you too, Daddy."

"Come where?" he asked.

"With me!" she instructed.

"Now?"

"Yes now!"

When Father rose from the head of the table, I spotted the source of his discomfort: The bulge in his tights was larger than normal, suggesting that he'd been polishing his candlestick beneath the table as we spoke. But if Ambrosia noticed, she made no mention of it, and the four of them departed with a courtly flourish.

Mother took a long sip of her breakfast ale and set the mug back on the table.

"Never been too fond of your older sister, to be honest."

"Is it true what you said?" I asked. "About her and Father?"

"Entirely out of character for both of them," she replied, staring off into the distance. "But yes. True."

"What will become of us, Mother?"

"Us?" Lady Beatrice asked, turning to face me. "Oh, we'll be fine. We'll be royal as God's own rain."

"You have a plan then?"

"Not as such," she said, pausing to take another drink. "But I have made us an appointment with the village midwives for later this morning."

"Midwives?" I asked. "Who is pregnant?"

"No one's pregnant," she scoffed. "I'm talking about midwives, Catherine. Get it? Midwives?"

Mother stared at me, waiting for a response.

"Nothing?"

"Sorry," I replied.

"They're witches," she said.

"The midwives?"

"Yes, the midwives. Midwives are witches. Witches are midwives. Duh! Just how sheltered are you?"

"I did not know that," I said.

"Eat your bun, dear," she said. "The carriage is waiting down by the sally port."

It was a short trip from Norman Hall to the village of Harald-upon-Norman, which is not to be confused with Harald Proper, the county seat, which was located several miles overland from the Norman River. Harald-upon-Norman, though, made a quaint little scene: Butcher, baker, candlestick maker, a parish church and a mill. All quite proper and scenic, until you turned off High Street onto My Lord King Street.

MLK Street was where Harald-upon-Norman showed its true and entertaining flavor: An ale house, a mead hall, a pie shop, an inn, and next to that a notoriously generous brothel under a sign that read "Harald-upon-Norman-upon-Brigid-upon-Mazie." And one door down from there stood Mary and Rachel's Apothecary.

Better known as the midwife's place.

Which I finally understood after all these years.

A little bell rung as we stepped through the door. I gathered that the clever little bell device had been designed to summon either Mary or Rachel from the back, but that hardly mattered, since Big Mary, whom I remembered clearly from childhood, was seated upon the counter with her back to the door.

"Be with you in a moment!" she said cheerfully.

A moment later, Reedy Rachel, her partner in midwifery, popped up from behind the counter, wiped her mouth on her sleeve, and gave us both a big smile. Big Mary hefted herself down from her perch, rearranged her skirts, and then turned around to greet us properly.

"Inventory!" Big Mary said. "Every day, we just have to take inventory!"

Then her sweet, pretty, rosy face froze, transforming itself into a surprised and happy expression.

"Is that YOU, little Catherine?"

"Catherine!" Rachel exclaimed, bouncing as she clapped her hands together.

I approached them, smiling, and both hurried out from behind the counter to embrace me.

"Now I understand why you wished an appointment," Big Mary said to Mother as she released me. 'Here," she said, returning her attention to me and handing me a teacup. "Drink this."

I drank. Big Mary retrieved the cup and gave a glance at the residue.

"Show me your palms."

I showed her my palms.

"Pick one card."

Suddenly there was a deck of cards in her hand. I cut the deck once, and turned over the top card: The Devil.

"Ooo! You're about to have a very good week," she concluded. "Step into the back."

The front of their shop was an orderly chaos of jars, tins, vials, bins and various books, scrolls, boxes and sacks. The back of the shop was a chaotic chaos of more of the same, except with more animals hanging around. Two cats, a dog, a white rat, a gray owl, and a wizened old monkey in an overstuffed chair by the room's little hearth.

"Hi monkey," I said as Big Mary set about rummaging through the mess for something in particular.

"Good to see you again, Lady Catherine," the monkey replied, puffing on his briarwood pipe.

"Likewise," I said.

"Here it is," Big Mary said, standing up with a large book bound in wood and leather. "Would you make room on that table, dear?"

Rachel shoved some papers and stuff right off the table onto the floor, and Big Mary dropped the book onto the empty surface.

"So," she said, addressing Mother. "What do you need to know?"

"We need a match," she answered. "Must be a nobleman. Preferably a count, earl or higher."

"Is this about Nigel's buggery problem?" Rachel asked as she handed Beatrice a hot cup of tea.

"Of course," Mother sighed.

"Let's check the registry," Big Mary suggested, flipping through the enormous volume.

"What's the plan?" Rachel asked.

"I'm vague on details, but once I get Catherine married up, not only will her future be secured, but her new husband will be motivated to support Nigel's claims," Mother said.

"Very, very motivated," Rachel said, smiling at me. "You were a sweet and beautiful child, dear, but you've grown up to become the hottest little meat pie ever to grace our shire."

"How about this one?" Big Mary said, spinning the big book around and stabbing her finger down to mark a listing.

"Richard du Luxure, 9th Earl of Chatmangre," Mother read aloud. "Thirty-eight. Widower. Excitements: 'Good wine, good conversation, chivalry, long moonlit walks upon the moors, victory over the enemies of Christendom.' Disagreeable circumstances: 'False friends, bad mutton, inauthentic personages and overlong Latin homilies focused upon the lesser books of the Old Testament.'"

"Sounds good so far," Rachel offered.

"Says here he lives not twenty miles upriver at Craegh Venlough!" Mother exclaimed.

"We had a lovely ride up there two months ago," Big Mary mused, giving Rachel's hand a fond squeeze. "We picked apples. The fall colors there are beautiful."

"Enough about that!" I said, failing to contain my excitement. "What does he look like?"

"Great question!" Big Mary proclaimed, slamming down an enormous crystal ball on top of the open book. She murmured a few words in Gaelic over the crystal, and within seconds there appeared the visage of a manfully handsome knight: Strong jaw, good hair, clear skin, and warm brown eyes.

"Whoa," Mother said. "Zoom out."

The scene reoriented to display my future husband standing atop the wall of his castle, overlooking a green and prosperous estate where enormous flocks of sheep grazed within stone paddocks, whilst fat brown dairy cows dined on lush May grass.

"Good cheese country," Rachel observed.

"Can it show me what he's like in the bedroom?" I asked, blushing.

"Looks like he's included a rather extended clip in his profile," Big Mary said. "Play 'Boudoir!'" she commanded.

The scene emerged as if through a fog, with the sound of a soulful lyre in the background. A gust of wind blew the fog away, revealing a well-appointed bed chamber, into which strode the bold Sir Richard in a long robe. Reaching the four-postered, dark-curtained bed, he cast back the drapes to reveal not one, but two voluptuous women.

"Oh, my apologies," he said. "Am I interrupting?"

"Of course not," the blonde one said, glancing up from her work between the brunette's legs. "I was just comforting our mutual friend. Seems she's a bit blue this evening."

"Not so much now," the brunette said.

"Shall we pick up where we left off this morning, then?" the Earl asked.

"Please," said the brunette.

"Where do you find the stamina?" the blonde woman asked over her shoulder, pausing her slurping ministrations at the convergence of her friend's shapely thighs.

"Daily military training, a healthy diet, fresh air and the Grace of Our Lord God," he proclaimed, sweeping open his robe to present a chiseled torso and an already erect phallus.

"Shall I sucketh thine cock, master?" the brunette asked from her reclining position.

"There will be plenty of time for that later," he said, advancing toward the blonde's elevated, naked rump. "After I cum inside this lovely blonde pussy, you may suck my rod back to full stiffness. Then I shall grant thee the gift of my pleasure as well."

"And what about your friends?" the brunette asked slyly.

The Earl didn't respond, at first, as he was busy lining up his cock before the dewey cunt of his blonde lover. "Are you prepared to be vigorously rogered, my dear?" he asked politely.

"Do me!" she replied, her voice muffled within her friend's light brown muff.

"To the hilt!" he declared, then plunged a respectably solid seven inches of faithful Christian manhood forcefully into that ready, yearning blonde pussy. Its recipient yowled in delight.

"Oh my," Mother and I said aloud.

"Not really our thing," Big Mary and Rachel replied in unison.

Back in the crystal ball, the blonde in the middle of the threesome seemed to be having the time of her life, lapping enthusiastically at her dark-haired friend's slit whilst slamming her rump back to meet each new thrust with an buttocks-shuddering collusion. The Earl seemed pleased as well, striping off his robe, raising his arms high in the air, and bending his elbows to interlock his fingers behind his head.

His muscles flexed impressively: On-off. On-off.

"Did I ever tell you about my adventures in the Sultan's Harem?" he asked, eyes closed. A beatific smile creased his lips.

"Yes, but tell us again," the brunette cooed. "Nothing brings on my petit morte faster than your tales of erotic derring-doo."

"It was during my second Crusade," he began, now slipping his thumb up the appreciative blonde's anus. "The Great Sultan himself had fallen beneath my sword that morning, and in an effort to save his own worthless skin, the Grand Vizier bade me partake of the legendary harem. For the Glory of God, I declared on the spot that I would fuck all eighty of those sublimely beautiful ladies of the Orient."

"Near East," the pussy-eating blonde corrected. Earl Richard shoved his thumb farther up her bum in reply, provoking a muffled squeal. He slowed the rhythm of his fucking, too, but increased the power of each thrust. His hips, colliding with her buttocks, seemed intent on rattling the blonde's brain loose from her surrounding skull.

"So there I was, fucking my way down the line of eighty perfectly shaped, smooth-skinned bottoms, when the Grand Vizier appeared at the door with ten infidel assassins..."

The brunette, who may or may not have been paying attention to the earl's story, moaned and grasped her friend's head by the roots of her blonde locks, smashing that pretty face into her desperately aroused pussy.

"...and I would have died, right there and then, if it weren't for the arrival of my loyal General Staff..."

At those words, the door to the Earl's bedchamber burst open, and five stout commanders rushed into the room.

"Do you summon us, Lord Earl? Your General Staff awaits your command!"

"Were you just... waiting out there the whole time?" he asked.

"OH YES!" they replied in unison.

"I was just regaling these ladies with my story about that night in the harem..."

"Right!" said the tallest of the five, a rawboned, red-bearded Highlander. "Each of us killed two assassins to save your life that proud evening, my liege! And then, by your gracious command, we began working our way down that magnificent line of eighty perfect pussies..."