Prologue
The Only One
And the Divine Spirit didst say thusly, unto the wise men,
concerning a young man and woman.
"And shall a young man take his young woman into his newly built house,
And shall both find carnal delight as he sows his seed in her bounty.
And shall his be the plow with which he tills her fertile soil.
And shall his plow be the instrument of her pleasure.
And shall her fertile soil be the instrument of his."
Thus did the Divine spirit say unto the wise men,
and they did see that it was good and true.
Peace be with you, young man.
A blessing on thy house.
The book of the Divine Spirit, Verse CCX, line 14.
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They rutted one of two ways, with almost no alteration.
The first was what she had read was called "The Lover's Cradle," and they partook of it almost exclusively in the mornings after the rare nights he slept in her bed. On these few occasions, the same things would happen, like clock-work. They would make love, or fuck, as he called it, in the evening. After finishing, they would fall asleep with her body wrapped in his arms before him. Like spoons, she liked to tease, nestled together in a drawer. Yes, he would reply, though the smaller spoon doesn't moan so, as you do.
In the morning, she would awake to the feeling of his erection, pressing its way sleepily between her buttocks. Smiling, tired, she would arch and work her rear in such a way as to wiggle his cock closer to her womanhood, brushing past her light blond pubic hair. The tip of his cock would push every so slightly between the lips of her pussy, just enough to stimulate it and begin to moisten its passage. She would move her hips gently, wettening herself further against his stiff erection, until at last he awoke slowly and kissed her back absent-mindedly. Then, she would reach between her legs and guide him inside her, the first thing he felt upon waking his entry into her tightness, and he would proceed to fuck her gently until she reached the "Peak of Sun and Stars," as she had read that the climax of love making was called.
By some vagary of physiology, he found himself almost incapable of reaching this point himself in the morning, though he assured her that he enjoyed "The Lover's Cradle" nearly as much as she. One those few occasions he did "come," as he less poetically called it, she always knew minutes before-hand. He would reach his leg up around hers to gain purchase against the bed, adding depth and power to his thrusts. He increased the tempo greatly, his cock pushing into her tight passage and spreading it around him, and then sliding it back out as her pussy narrowed where he vacated it. Because of the angle of their bodies, and the speed and fervor with which he stroked in and out of her, a small, sharp pain accompanied her growing pleasure. It was as if one part of her womanhood, a small mound on the outside, collected all the pleasure from his lust, and another part, somewhere deeper inside of her, sieved out the smattering of pain. Then, finally, when he came, pulling out of her, she would often still feel her pussy throb in time with the imagined rhythm of his love-making as she felt his hot, sticky seed thrown against her buttocks and back.
From him came a sharp inhalation of breath. A soft moan would soon follow, and she would herself would become greatly excited by his climax. She often, then and there, reached the peak of sun and stars on her own. At that point, the feeling of his seed striking her bare back, his moans, the phantom throb of his cock inside her, and the slight pain of the whole process was all it took to push her over the edge.
She did not mind the pain. True, it forced her to moan as he fucked, a major risk as her mother's guards often patrolled the stairway that lead up to her room in the west tower. But she took to covering her face in blankets or pillows in order to prevent too great a sound from escaping, and they had thus far gone undetected. She even grew to like her muffled moaning, as she learned quickly that it seemed to excite him and make his climax more explosive and pleasurable for both of them. But best about the pain was that it remained with her as a constant, satisfying soreness, sometimes for as long as days at a time.
This soreness was useful, and desirable, because sometimes he was gone for a long time, and it served as a constant, never-too-painful reminder of their secret trysting while he was away.
The other way they rutted, the more common, had no name in the books she had read. He called it simply "rutting like cats."
Depending on their urgency, they partook of it slowly or quickly, but either way the beginning was the same.
He began to remove his clothes, and as he did, she would slip her undergarments off from beneath her silken dress. She would lay face down on her bed, sometimes with her legs hanging slightly over the edge (bent over, as he said. A variation called "rutting like dogs"), but more often she lay all the way on the bed. He came to her then, naked, his clothes a heap on the floor. She spread her buttocks open with her hands, presenting her flower for him. He would drape her dress to the side, licking her pussy with his tongue and playing with it with his fingers until she was, in his mind, acceptably wet. Then he would enter her from behind, and they would rut until both were exhausted.
When they loved slowly, they would talk. There was little urgency in this, until one came close to the peak of sun and stars and would let the other know by moaning softly. Often, neither came at all, but both simply reveled in the feeling of closeness, of the rightness of it all.
When he did come during their slow love-making, he would tell her he was close by whispering into her ear. She would smile, and as he lifted his cock out of her, she would turn around and slide deftly below it. He would lower back down then, and she took it in her mouth, one of her favorite guilty pleasures. The sight of her virginal lips sliding up and down along his shaft was usually enough to force him to empty his seed into her waiting mouth, where she eagerly swallowed it down as it came. Both feared to have his seed spill inside her womb, as a pregnancy would damn them both. But, secretly, she desperately wanted to know what the spurt of his seed felt like inside her maidenhood, and she took guilty pleasure in feeling him burst in her mouth, as it allowed her to better imagine the feeling of him coming in her womb.
This pleasure was guilty because she knew, even with her limited knowledge of the outside world, that what her books called "fellatio" was dirty. Whores, concubines, women of ill-repute did it. A good, god-fearing noble women would not take her husband's length inside her mouth, nor would she beg with her tongue for her his seed to erupt upon her tongue as she felt his buttocks clench in her hands, so she might gulp the sticky substance hungrily down.
Nor would a good noble wife's imagination run wild when, as her new husband's tongue prepared her maiden-head for love, his fingers meanwhile prodded and explored her anus, her back-passage. She had never thought of this place in terms of sex before her young lover had begun caressing it before their rutting. He had yet to actually push his finger in, but when he was gone, or when he slept next to her, her imagination would take to pondering what it would feeling like to have his finger slip inside her rear, or perhaps more than his finger. There was more friction there, it was tighter to be sure. Would it hurt? Yes, she imagined, but so did normal love, sometimes. Would there be pleasure as well? Would it feel different? Perhaps one day she would work up the courage to ask him to try. She knew with a grin he wanted to.
She was being terribly naughty, she knew. This young man was not her husband. He was not even a nobleman's son, but a wandering, handsome rogue who stole into her chambers one night and had his way with her. But she had been willing. She knew, with a little regret, she was not a "good," nor a "god-fearing" noble woman. She was a lusting, man-hungry harlot in a noble-woman's garb.
When they loved quickly, urgently, often times he did not even wait until all his clothes were off. His tunic would remain on, and brush lightly against her back as he stooped low over her, and she would not have had time to removed her undergarments. He simply pulled these to the side, just enough to allow his cock entry. The familiar, pleasing pain came at the beginning, as her pussy had not yet had time to moisten, but because the angle was better, the pain subsided as she grew wetter and wetter with each stroke, until she was moaning unabashedly into her pillow.
When he came like this, it was sudden and explosive. He would pull out of her and place his cock between her buttocks, so that it lay along the length of the crack. His hands would clench her hips and he would buck wildly, fucking between the cheeks, but usually only for a moment, until he burst. His seed leapt out with such force that it left a dappled, pearly trail along the entire length of her back and a small pool below his quivering tip. Sometimes it would have enough force for a few drops to fall into her hair and lay their glistening. But always, he would stoop low and bite the back of her neck as he came. Like cats, he said. When the male comes, he bites the female's neck so she can't escape.
Escape, she moaned breathlessly. Why would I ever want to escape that?
She took to living for these bites, day by day. She imagined them vividly on the nights he was gone, touching herself until she reached the peak of Sun and Stars. It was not the same without him. It could never be the same without him.
