The Wagered Wench

Evernight Publishing

www.evernightpublishing.com

Copyright© 2012 Georgia Fox

ISBN:
978-1-927368-48-0

Cover Artist: LF Designs

Editor: Marie Buttineau

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

DEDICATION

To Holly

THE WAGERED WENCH

The Conquerors, 5

Georgia Fox

Copyright © 2012

Part One

Aqua

Chapter One

Cornweal, Spring 1082

Few people would venture into the stream before the sun was fully out to warm it. At this time of year, when ice blocking the stream’s progress across the bleak moor had not long thawed, the water was stinging cold. But Elsinora Gudderthsdottir was on a mission. And when she had a particular yearning in mind, nothing stood in her way.

This was where the water took its steepest tumble, splattering and bubbling over a line of rocks that straddled the width of the stream. Then it cascaded down in a rush and a hiss, tearing off excitedly in the surge that drove the mill wheel further on. As she stepped down into the thrusting water, skirt hitched up to her knees, the first ripple hit her like jolt of lightening, taking her breath away. Glancing quickly over her shoulder, making sure she was alone, Elsinora raised her gown higher still and parted her stockinged legs, just an inch. Oh the anticipation!

Here it came.

The icy cold water frothed over the row of stones and slapped between her thighs, hitting her bare skin above the rough wool stockings. She shivered, catching her breath. The waves and bubbles puttered against her sensitive flesh, shocked her into an impulsive gasp, pulsed over her private crease and brought her close to that wicked, secret joy.

Again she checked over her shoulder. Good. No one.

She parted her legs further and crouched slightly. After coming to this part of the stream at least four days a week for three springs now, Elsinora knew the exact angle required for the greatest of soaring pleasure. She slid her hands down, touching herself, opening her nether lips for another gush of frenzied bubbles.

Yes, Yes!
She swayed in the water, eyes half-closed, letting the stream kiss and lap at her quinny. Thank Christ and all the saints that she ever found this place.

Here came another gleaming wet tongue. Right on her daisy—as she liked to call that small, shy bud—waking the tiny flower from its slumber, opening all its petals. If she did not have chores waiting for her at home, preparations for her father’s homecoming, she’d stand there for half an hour, blissfully losing herself in the sensations. But of course, if she stayed that long, her flesh would grow numb and that defeated the purpose. With one hand she reached down and rubbed her wet nether lips with her warmer hand, making certain her labia didn’t become so cold she lost the glorious sensation.

More, more…the water could not flow fast enough for her today. Elsinora was sure she would ever get enough of it.

* * * *

“I can never get enough of you, Dominic,” the woman gasped as he finally looked up from between her spread thighs. “More. Give me more.”

Well, he would gladly oblige. Standing and lifting her ankles to his shoulders, he thrust solidly and filled her primed, quivering pussy with a yard of rock hard cock.

Her eyelids drifted downward and her cheeks flushed. She handled her own titties, squeezing her long nipples, writhing on the creaky table with every deep poke of his sturdy rod. Of course her eyes were shut so she wouldn’t have to look at his scarred face. Dominic’s gaze traveled to the window of her cottage. Soon her daughter and son-in-law would return from the market and he’d best be gone by then, keeping this pleasant arrangement from becoming anything more than what it was now.

She groaned as he moved in the slow, grinding rhythm she favored. “Oh, Dominic, you know how to do it better than anyone.”

Better than her dead husband apparently, he mused. This merry widow claimed she’d never climaxed before, until Dominic Coeur-du-Loup had her for the first time. Of course, she could be lying. Deceit was prevalent in females, particularly when they needed his help, or something from him, and then they would say anything to flatter. He’d discovered that truth years ago, an education paid for with the sacrifice of his once handsome face. Any time he was in danger of forgetting the pain women could cause, if he let them too close, he need only look at his reflection to remember.

He pumped away at his post, listening with one ear to the widow’s moaning delight. His other ear was tuned to the outside, listening for any sound of voices approaching in the lane. Spring air blowing in through the open shutters was heavy with salt and fish. In the distance, gulls echoed above the busy chatter of the marketplace down by the quay. A pale yellow butterfly—surprising him this early in the year—hovered above the window ledge and briefly landed in a patch of weak sunlight, seeking comfort where it could be found. It stayed for only a few seconds and then, probably finding the warmth inadequate, was off again on its journey.

Dominic felt the widow’s pussy squeezing, heard her breaths quickening. Returning his gaze to her expression, watching all the familiar signs as she neared her peak again, he worked harder between her trembling thighs. It was not unlike riding a good, solid mare—one whose capabilities he knew well and who was best not challenged over tricky fences or ditches. She was a serviceable mount, good for a trot around the paddock. Not a racer or a warhorse, but reliable and safe.

He felt no guilt thinking this of her, because the widow enjoyed her enclosed paddock. Several times he’d suggested more adventurous rides and she’d balked. This was what she liked. Plain and simple. On her back across the creaky table. A familiar rutting, orderly and neat as her little house.

She was almost there now. He heard the whimper pushed out between her clenched teeth, and watched her hands fall to the nicked wood on either side of her body. Her fingertips traced patterns in the spilled flour she’d been pouring into a bowl before he came up behind her with his usual greeting— a mute, but effective salutation delivered by the forceful ramrod in his breeches. She’d complained once that a polite “Good morn, madam,” would not go amiss, but as far as Dominic was concerned that was a waste of time. They both knew what he was there for—the same reason she welcomed him there. Conversation was unnecessary.

Better hurry up.
He looked down at her dark pubic hair and the ridges of his thick manhood, slick with her juice, pushing in and out. For some reason today that sight was not enough. He had to close his eyes and think of something else. The widow’s moans grew husky, deep. Her back arched. Dominic hastily began sorting through his mind for various images he might use to work himself into a rapid spend.

* * * *

Elsinora tipped her head back and let another shiver run through her body, almost knocking her off her feet. She gasped as the cold, gleaming water slapped up at her sex and washed her aching daisy. Her nipples were hard, thrusting at the front of her woolen gown, catching on the worn threads through her old shift. She imagined teeth and lips tugging on those anxious buds and that sent her over the edge yet again, groaning loud enough to startle a blackbird from a willow branch nearby.

* * * *

He pictured a woman standing in a stream, lifting her gown to her thighs. It came suddenly into his mind. She had her back to him, unaware of his presence. That was good, because then she couldn’t see his ugly face and be frightened by it. She had long, fair hair tied back in a braid and the end of it tapped her shapely arse, just above the valley between her cheeks. The damp material of her gown clung to her buttocks and accentuated the shape. As she lifted the hem higher still he could see the bottom curve of her cheeks above her woolen stockings, and when she parted her legs, bending forward slightly, it was enough to show him a teasing hint of pussy. He spied on her from behind a bush nearby, watched her wash herself in the water. She bent further and Dominic could have sworn her sweet cunny winked at him. Her flesh was bright pink. The water must be cold. He heard her joyous yelp as the bubbles licked her twat.

Ah yes
. He bit his lip and began thrusting faster, shaking the table beneath the woman he no longer saw.

In that imaginary stream there was wild, tender, unguarded pussy, gleaming like a fresh-picked and washed raspberry, tempting him to swallow it whole.

* * * *

The water seemed to flow faster as if an obstruction further up stream was suddenly knocked free. A tumult of raw sensation flooded into her. The bracing gush almost swept her backward again, so she parted her legs wider to withstand the force. She was breathless and she didn’t care.

Bubbles rushed by, pummeled her nether lips, slapping up at her trembling daisy. She flung her head back and wanted to laugh. Again. Again, Sweet Saint Geraint!

* * * *

Thinking herself alone, the woman playing in the stream touched herself intimately. One hand lifted her gown all the way to her waist, giving Dominic an eyeful of creamy buttocks. She parted her legs wider, while her other hand brought her to climax. She swayed, holding her balance admirably in the forceful flow of water. He couldn’t wait another minute to claim that prize she unknowingly offered. He wanted to come in her now, fuck her so hard, plow her furrow, drive his seed deep.

In his mind he stepped out from his hiding place and ran down into the water. She heard his splashing, but had no time to turn. He was on her in mere seconds and his cock, hard as iron, smacked against her chilled, wet buttocks.

* * * *

Elsinora cried out, gripping the rocks with one hand to stay upright. Rough waves coursed between her thighs, while she came to her peak again, this time much more violently than ever before.

Knees weakened, her woolen stockings soaked, she bent over, grinding her fingernails on the stones as another surge smashed through her legs. This wave was rougher and bounced back to smack her bare arse before it tumbled away down stream. She couldn’t restrain her laughter any longer as she felt that icy splatter between her cheeks and then water trickled down her crease, tickling and cleansing her intimately.

* * * *

Dominic held her around the waist and slid his cock between the imaginary wench’s thighs, up into her waiting sheath from behind. She cried out his name, somehow knowing who he was. Forgetting the widow spread out on the table before him, he saw only the girl in the stream and he fucked her as she bent over the rocks, knee deep in the water. He reached down and stroked the sensual bow of her spine. Christ she was tight. The frigid water, pounding against her cunt made her inner walls contract on his cock like an implement of wondrous torture. He worked his hips faster, skin smacking skin. Inside he was howling like a wolf, his lust primal, bestial.