The Adventures of Charity

Charity was on her hands and knees, scrubbing the stone floor. Morning light filtered in through the thin kitchen glass, casting an amber glow over the worn wooden table and chairs that were polished to a gleam.

She loved to clean and bake and make sure the small, cozy cottage was comfortable for her father. It gave her a sense of satisfaction to be able to do the things her mother would have done for her father had she not died when Charity was seven.

Resting for a moment and brushing back a long, golden strand, she knelt with her hands resting on her spread knees. Hard work had brought a pink glow to her cheeks and made her pale blue dress with it's drawstring neck cling to her young body wrought with feminine changes. She was eighteen that day, a woman grown. Her breasts had grown to small firm handfuls, evident by the shadows of their rosy crowns pressing against the thin, straining material. Her hips were sweetly curved, her waist tiny. Her legs were long and slender.

Closing her cornflower blue eyes, she breathed in deeply, enjoying the scent of crusty pastry. Her fingers stroked back and forward along her thighs, easing up the hem of her gown. It was hot and her skin felt sticky. Untying the drawstring of her bodice, she fluttered the material back and forth.

Feet on the stoop outside signaled her father was back from the fields just before the door swung wide. He strode in, and she rose, a welcoming smile lighting up her face. He was short and round in the middle, his hair graying. The years had not treated him gently. Frown lines marred his forehead and curved his lips downwards at the end. Charity had tried everything to make up for her mother's passing, yet nights would go by when he refused to talk, solemnly drinking ale before the hearth.

His faded blue eyes watched Charity intently, and she was curious at the strange glimmer in them as they swept over her.

"Charity," he nodded, sweeping off his hat.

"Pa. You're home early. The pea and corn pie is just about baked."

"Good, good. No need to fuss."

He watched her as she bent down to scoop up her bucket and brush, unaware of how her top gaped.

"Put that down, lass. I have something for you."

Surprise and happiness lit up her beautiful face as she rose. He remembered.

"Lay down." He motioned to his cot. It was the largest in the small one-roomed cottage, and rested along the far wall. Curious, she moved over to his cot to do his bidding, her hips swaying. Easing down in the middle, she swung her legs up and lay down on her back, her large blue eyes curious as she settled herself comfortably.

"You're a woman now, lass," he told her, and she silently watched him fiddle with the front packet of his trousers. "Your mother would be proud to know you're learning to please me in everyway a wife can."

"Oh, Pa, of course I want to please you." Her cheek dimpled as she lay there, her fingers winding in her long hair. He moved to stand at the end of the cot, his hand moving beneath his long, stained shirt. It looked at though he was pumping up and down on that odd dangly bit she had caught a glimpse of from time to time. He gazed down at her young body in a way that made her feel sort of tingly and warm between her legs.

When he climbed over her and pressed down on her with his heavy bulk, she clutched his upper arms in surprise. His breath smelt of stale coffee as he lay atop of her, his eyes barely reaching her chin. She gazed down at his balding head, his shifting body pressing her deep into the cot. Her thighs widened as his legs settled between hers.

"Pa..." she began, wondering at this strange closeness, but not knowing what it was she was wanted to ask.

She felt his moist mouth close over a nipple through the thin cloth, and she moaned in surprise. It felt ticklish and pleasant as he suckled her, so much so that she didn't notice his hands pushing up her dress. Cool air stirred the golden curls at the apex of her spread thighs. He moved on top of her, and she felt something nubby rubbing against her there. Then he sunk down hard on her, making her young flesh yield to the surprisingly firm odd part. He thrust deep into her tightness, stretching her so that tears gathered in the corner of her eyes.

Charity gasped and wiggled at the burning uncomfortable feeling, not at all sure she liked it. She lifted her knees, trying to ease the pain. Relief washed over her as he dragged his thing out, only to shove back in and drawing a choking cry from her.

His left hand clutched at her breast as he begin to buck on her, moving in and out of her tender flesh with his stubby odd thing. She had seen the pigs grunt and groan on top of one another, and knew it had something to do with this.

Her father's breathing was harsh, his sweaty body awkward on top of hers. She clutched at him, feeling a pleasant sensation mingle with the pain and pushed her hips down experimentally on him.

"That's it, lass," he grunted against her chest. Emboldened, she moved with him, meeting each punishing thrust, her hips arching.

He jerked on top of her, shuddering and groaning as he pulled out, spilling hot warmth over her thatch. Charity lay silent beneath him, shocked, curious and awed. She had never realized or thought there was room for anything to fit inside of her, let alone make her feel funny and odd. Not a good odd, but not a bad one either, after a while.

They lay like that for moments, catching their breaths. Finally her father patted her hip. "Good girl." He bussed her cheek before rising off of her. She lay unconsciously with her legs sprawled, her gown pushed up about her waist. He sucked in his girth as he did up his pants and belt, before smoothing down his shirt. His face was ruddy, but there was a gleam to his face that brought tears of happiness to her eyes. For the first time in years, it looked as though her father had found something to be cheerful about.

A month passed, and the change in her father was small, yet noticeable. He was often home earlier after working his fields, eager to eat his meals before motioning for her to lift her gown. He sometimes made her lay on the cot, face down or up. Other times he was too impatient, and sat her on the kitchen table while he clutched her bottom and worked himself inside of her. After that first time, it was easier, and after a while, she learned to look forward to the nice sensations of him rubbing along inside of her.

That morning, he had shaken her awake while it was still dark and told her that the man who bought their wool would be along that day. "I want you to be nice to him, lass. Treat him as you would me. Do what he asks and don't be shy." Charity nodded sleepily, scrubbing her eyes. "Your ma would be proud."

When there was a knock on the cottage door later that morning, she rushed over to answer it. Before her stood a largish man, perhaps wider than he was tall. His hair was dark yet thinning on top, but he had a pleasant ruddy face and nicely kept beard.

"Good day, miss. I'm Mr Fletcher. Your pa sent me along to say hello."

"Good morning, Mr Fletcher," Charity dimpled. "I have some fresh pie, if you would like a slice."

"Smells like apple with a dash of cinnamon. My favorite."

He came in and closed the cottage door behind him. He was a lot taller than her father, his whiskey brown eyes on level with her own blue ones. As she set about getting a plate and laying it on the kitchen table beside the covered pie, he came up behind her and lightly pushed his pelvis against her bottom.

She was surprised, but didn't object when his hand on her back pushed her down so that she leaned over the table, resting her weight on her elbows. The position seemed to thrust her bottom up. She waited to see what he would do next, seeing as pie wasn't on his mind.

"You have a mighty comfortable home here," he told her as he rucked up her skirt. She murmured a polite thank you as he eased her ankles wide with his booted feet. "And you're just the prettiest thing I ever did see. I thought your pa to be boasting, but I see I was wrong."

She squirmed a little as his finger poked and prodded at her tight entrance. "I see you like that. Damn pretty and eager. I like that."

Charity gasped when he thrust into her unexpectedly, her muscles tensing around the swollen post that was decidedly thicker than her Pa's. He rammed deep, then pulled out, then forced home again. He did this over and over, his fingers clutching her hips, the air shuddering from his lungs as though he was trying to breath underwater. She forced herself to relax, and soon the unpleasant fullness became easier to bear, then something akin to pleasant. Her soft gasps were drown out by his grunting shouts, and her eyes flew wide as he began pinching her tight nipples through her gown.

He lasted far longer than her father. His thickness worked deep in her moistening pussy, and after he came against her thigh, he blubbered and sobbed while she held him.

He was all smiles and gentlemanly when she finally served him up a slice of apple pie, blushing whenever she looked in his direction.

Her pa was proud of the prices Mr Fletcher named for the wool, and he brought her a pretty velvet ribbon the following day to celebrate. That night her pa made her remove every stitch of clothing but the ribbon, which she had tied in a pretty bow around her throat, and clutched at her hips as she rode over him until he pulled out and came against her belly.

Unbeknownst to Charity, kind words had begun to spread about her pa's hospitality. Soon, tradesman from the small town and neighboring ones had begun to reconsider their prices and were keen to discuss it with her pa. Her father was selective though, his memory long serving about those who had named mighty prices in lean years after ma had passed.

Charity's pa told her about John Young's offer to fix the barn roof at a quarter of the price it cost for the wood alone. Pa told her to be nice when Mr Young came along for a visit that day. She remembered Mr Young from church because he had a daughter about a year or two older than Charity.

Mr Young let Charity bustle about him, serving him raspberry tart and tea, his kindly brown eyes watching her keenly. She was shocked, but admittedly curious, when he told her what he liked in a stumbling tone.

Nevertheless, Charity knelt down between his spread knees, and set about unbuttoning his trousers. As she drew out his burgeoning shaft, his own fingers untied the laces of her dress and pushed her cap sleeves down her arms until the material gathered beneath the firm thrust of her pale breasts with their tiny pink nipples.

She moistened her lips before gently placing them against his small pole, planting tender kisses down its length and nuzzling the furry balls beneath. Soon he was standing to attention, and Charity tried to swallow as much of him as she could, moving up and down on the glistening length in the way he politely asked her. His fingers clutched her silky hair, his head thrown back. It was a big surprise to Charity when he whipped out and spilled his seed over her face and breasts, almost getting her in the eye.

Soon Mr Young was on his way, smiling and patting her hand in a fatherly way. Occasionally when she walked past the barn, he would smile kindly and wave, before continuing to pound at the wood with his hammer.

Her pa was busier than ever, but still he made time to ride her most evenings until she felt a tingly warmth between her thighs. Soon they had two horses to help yield the land, and a roof that no longer leaked to house them.

Still, Charity preferred to walk than ride, and took the path along the river that morning. She swung her basket high, enjoying the feel of the sun on her face. The last vestiges of winter had fled, and with it the snow had melted.

Her father wanted her to visit old widowed Harrison. Mr Harrison couldn't walk as well as he used to, and her father had made murmurs about putting in an offer for a stretch of land Mr Harrison owned that bordered her father's that Mr Harrison could no longer work.

Mr Harrison enjoyed the pumpkin scones she had baked, so she didn't quite know what to think when his large hand landed firmly on her bottom as she packed the dishes in her basket. She squealed, causing him to smile. He caught her wrist from where he sat at his table, and pulled her unresisting body over his lap with surprising strength.

Then his hand rained down on her upturned bottom, while his other hand rested firmly on the back of her neck. She wiggled and gasped, tears springing to her eyes. She wondered what she had done to displease him, his loving murmurs only adding to her confusion.

Mr Harrison lifted her skirt, discovering her bare smooth bottom. He groaned in delight, his firm large hand raining down on the soft, quivering flesh with loud cracks.

Charity didn't know what to think or feel. She had never felt so hurt and humiliated, but also tingly at the same time at his unexpectedly firm ministrations.

Wiggling on his lap, she felt him pressing against her hip. Curiously, her hand slipped beneath her to grip the stiff staff. He grunted in encouragement as she began to stroke up and down. All the while his hand walloped her red bottom and upper thighs.

Soon he made her climb atop his lap and ride his long narrow pole. If his fingers weren't biting into her smarting bottom, he was smacking her something fierce. When finally Mr Harrison pulled out and gushed against her, Charity was surprised to find she was a bit disappointed.

Her father was happy when Mr Harrison sold him the land. When he got home later that day with the news, he pushed her against the wall, spread her legs and thrust himself into her tight warmth. Charity squirmed on his pole, feeling strangely agitated and tense. He plugged away until he came, splashing her bottom with his triumph. Again, that feeling of anticipation turned to something akin to disappointment.

When the rents man came for his yearly taxes, her father requested she see to Mr Camberley's comfort. He was a tall man, in his late thirties or early forties, with short brown hair and serious hazel eyes. He was direct, yet quiet, and she obediently lay on her back on the bed when he bade her. He stood over her, his gaze flicking down on her gentle curves, pausing on the thrust of her nipples against the blue-grey cotton. He directed her again, then watched as her fingers flicked at the buttons that ran from bodice to hem, exposing the creamy valley between her soft creamy swells and golden thatch.

He told her to spread her thighs, knees bent, and Charity did so, feeling a throb between her thighs. She didn't quite know what he meant by touching herself, and she frowned in confusion when he took her hand, put her fingers in his mouth, then guided two fingers to rest between her nether lips. His fingers on hers, he showed her a circular motion that made her hips buck.

Her face was pink from embarrassment as she rubbed herself with increasing frenzy beneath his watchful gaze. Her breath came in pants, her bottom sliding on the bed. She felt as though she was racing down a steep mountain. Her body was quivery and wet where the poles went in, her nipples so tight they ached.

Her pretty face was scrunched up, her body arching, as she was swamped with pulses of pleasure. She felt as though something clawed at her belly, wanting to escape.

Mr Camberley leaned over her, his hand reaching out to knead her breast while the other guided his pole to her parted lips. She took him in, sucking distractedly on his meaty stub. Still she rubbed her fingers furiously against her slippery pink flesh.

Heat burst between her thighs, mixing with her wonder and surprise. Quivering tingles spread through her, and she could feel a heady throb against her limp fingers.

Mr Camberley pulled out his glistening pole, and told her to roll over onto her belly and knees. Charity did so, her ankles and dainty feet dangling over the side of the cot, her bottom high. Her arms were stretched out before her, the fingers curled over the edge of the cot, her flushed face turned to face the kitchen.

He moved directly behind her, and her eager flesh clenched in anticipation. She knew she was all wet, and wondered at the strangeness of it. But Mr Camberley seemed to enjoy it by the way he coated his pole with it, running it up and down her pink valley.

When he came to rest against her forbidden rosebud, Charity stilled. No one had paid much attention to that place, except Mr Harrison who had held her cheeks apart to spank it.

Charity whimpered as Mr Camberley bore down on her there, his hands gripping her cheeks wide. The invasion was painful yet brief, before he returned again. It was like he was playing hide and seek, one moment surging deeper, then easing out. Once when he began to ease out, her body unclenched. So it was unexpected when he changed course and surged deep, to the hilt. Charity gasped, her young body giving way to the determined invasion.

Charity couldn't, wouldn't move. It felt incredibly intense to have him lodged there. Sort of pleasurably painful. Moments passed while she tried to even out her breathing, her painfully tight nipples brushing the blanket.

She waited, not entirely sure what Mr Camberley planned to do, and strangely excited by this knowledge. Soon he began to drag out and ease back into her burning passage, his soft grunts teasing her ears. He began to work faster, but not unkindly, as he thrust deep into her dark heat. When his deep grunts turned to gasping screams, Charity was still shocked to feel his jerking spurts spill deep inside of her.

He patted her rump kindly after tugging himself from her clinging tightness. Over and over he told her how beautiful, sweet and giving she was, until she blushingly begged him to stop.

Her pa was proud of her when Mr Camberley claimed no rents that year. His lips smacked her cheek as he held her close. He breathed in her sweet scent, telling her "she was just like her ma." Tears came to her eyes at his kind words that meant the world to her. He lay heavily on top of her that night, and her legs wrapped around him as he bucked a couple of time inside of her before spilling on her belly.

Summer came, and she enjoyed the spare moments she had to walk to the stream that bordered her father's land and Old Hopper's. Tucked in her basket was the new lavender soap her father had bought her.

Easing out of her clinging rose gown, she padded on bare feet over the soft grass and earth toward the waters edge. She gazed down at the gently rippling surface, her pale skin and long golden hair shimmering in their depths. Then she broke the image as she strode into the slightly chilly depths. The water eased up over her knees and thighs before she dove in, the crush of cold water dragging a delightful gasp from her.

Charity splashed a little before rising to stand with the water swirling about her knees and gently soaping her body. She ran the bar over her breasts and down between her thighs, eliciting twinges of pleasure. Charity thought she heard something, like a groan, and swiftly turned to gaze along Old Hopper's bank.

She thought is must have been a small scampering animal, because now nothing disturbed the small shrubs that rested beneath the shadow of the weeping tree.

Charity continued to soap herself, bending slightly to run her hands over her soft thighs. All the while she kept an eye of Old Hopper's bank, but not overly worried because she had never spied another person in any of her visits to her favorite spot over the years. When she was covered in suds, she sank deep beneath the water.

Still, she didn't dawdle like it was her want to do, enjoying the free moments to touch herself down there the way Mr Camberley had shown her.