Part Five

"When I was a boy," he began conversationally, watching her skin ripple and flex beneath his fingers. "My grandfather had lands in the North, and in the summers my mother would take us there. It was a wild, empty place, and my brother, Hector and I would take a fowling gun, and a bow, and we would ride out onto the moors. Sometimes we stayed away for days at a time."

She half closed her eyes and sighed, listening to his low, entrancing voice, letting her head drop a little to one side as he continued to stroke her. The chapel was so silent he could hear the tiny hiss of the candle flames as they consumed the air.

"There were wild horses on the moor," he said.  "They were poor, runty, shaggy little things, but we were children, and we thought we had never seen anything so beautiful as the sight of those little wild things galloping in their little bands across the moor. One little brown stallion was the one I loved best, and such a fancy I had that I could capture him somehow and make him my own! I made Hector promise that we would try."

All night, he thought, smiling down, watching the delicate ribcage rise and fall. "How old was I then? I cannot remember. Perhaps ten? Well…I had a little Welsh mare named Gwynnie, snow white, and as beautiful as a little statue, but the wickedest little bitch I ever knew. She would bite my arse when I tried to mount, bolt with me and try to rub me off on a tree, buck after very hurdle, but for some reason," he smiled. "I loved her."

He ran his warm hands over her thighs, dipping for a brief moment to the creamy insides. Dominique moaned and shifted her bottom, and she slid along the table, as if trying to escape his caress. Looking down, he could see a smear of wetness streaking the black wood of the altar. Seizing her hips gently, he pulled her back against him.

"We followed my little stallion and his band for days without coming close, but finally, the wind was in our favour, and I was able to ride Gwynnie to within fifty yards of him. Need I tell you what happened next? It was a disaster, of course! As soon as that little boy saw my lovely Gwynnie, he wanted her for his own! He came screaming at us, his ears flattened and his teeth bared, his wild, white eye rolling back in his head. Gwynnie was pitching and screaming as well and she bolted, with him chasing her in circles, biting her flank every time he got close, and her trying to kick the life out of him."

"I lost my reins and my stirrups and was clinging to her mane for dear life, and Hector was shouting at me to just let go. Well, she was rid of me soon enough, and my brother and I watched as the stallion took her away. All the way she screamed and fought him and I was in a panic, crying after her, because I believed she wanted to come back to me, and I had let her be taken."

Slowly, he moved his hands over her belly, working his way down to the dripping nest of hair. He stood away from her and let his thumbs slide along the sides of her slit, gently parting the folds and exposing the pearl, standing up like a stout little monk with his cowl drawn back, pulsing with desire. She moaned again, raising her hips a little off the table and then she reached for him, her hand closing tightly over his, the knuckles white. He glanced at her, cocking an eyebrow. Her eyes were narrowed, and she breathed through clenched teeth. "Now, Alexandre!" she hissed.

Tsk. Still so demanding! He ignored her for the moment, and carried on with his tale. "I thought she fought him because she was afraid," he continued. "I thought she did not want to go, that she needed me to save her. I did not understand," he said. Gently but firmly he turned her over so she lay with her belly flat on the table and her long legs dangling over the edge. She sighed and relaxed again, smiling sleepily as she turned her head to one side, and she opened her legs to him. Her sex gaped invitingly, dew-drenched and glistening.

"I did not understand," he repeated.  "That what she wanted was for him to see her strength and her fire, to know what fine babies she would give him. And she wanted him…" he said, testing his palm against one cheek of her well-presented bottom. "To show her who was master."

"AHH!" she cried out as the first smack resounded like the crack of a rifle, shattering the sacred hush of the chapel. She had not been expecting it, and she startled, but made no move to escape. He spanked her again, a good deal harder than he had spanked the twins, but she was a woman grown, and he did mean to make an impression, to give her the good, sound spanking she so deserved. She raised her head and drew a long, hissing breath though her teeth. "Oh!" she cried, closing her eyes. "Alexandre!"

His one hand spanned the small of her back, steadying her. Her arse was lovely, and he loved the way it swelled out from her tiny waist, loved the fetching little dimples that marked the very top of each beautifully rounded cheek. He spanked first one, and then the other, giving each its due, for this was the New France, after all. Egalite! Again and again, spank, spank, spank, until they glowed rosy and pink and he could feel the heat rising under his hand. At first she "oohed' and "aahed" and wriggled and cooed, as she received this delicious chastisement, but when she began to giggle, and tried to put her hand back to cover herself, crying breathlessly in protest, "Oh! Ow! Enough, Alexandre! Enough!" he saw that she had not taken his point at all, seized the little hand and pushed it away.

"I will decide when it is enough," he said sternly, and dealt her another smart pair, one for each. She had only to reach out her hand and take his sword, but she did not do it. He was well pleased. The final spanks were light ones, just the gentlest of baby smacks. She gasped and sighed and when at last she lay her head down on the table he stopped, and turned her over again, laying her out on the table. She was smiling softly at him, though a diamond teardrop glistened in the corner of each dark eye.

Ah, she was his. Perfectly spanked, soft and yielding and gentle as a dove.

He wanted so badly to take her now, to gather her in his arms and kiss her sweet, red mouth while he pumped her full of the molten cum that he felt was ready to start squirting from his ears.

"Dominique," he whispered, and he crawled up onto the altar, laying his body on top of hers. "My darling." He sighed, putting out his tongue to lick up the tears.

"Please!" she whispered hotly, urgently, sliding her hands inside his shirt, wrapping her arms around his back. "Oh God!" she laughed. "I am in a puddle!'

Indeed the smooth wooden top of the altar was slick with the juice that dripped from her sodden pussy.

"Say it again," he laughed. "And I will clean it up for you."

"Please!" she moaned, squirming and bucking underneath him. Laughing softly, he reached for the remains of her white linen robe and pushed it underneath her bottom to stop her sliding across the table on the slick of juice.

"Ah…what a good girl," he said, grinning, and spreading her legs wide, he buried his face in her wet fur.

Her cries echoed to the curved rafters of the high ceiling as he pleasured her, devouring her essence, the taste of her as delicate as sweet veal, tender and succulent as ripe peaches. Her potent fragrance overwhelmed him, more powerful than her incense. He slid his tongue over the delicately creased folds, spread her with his fingers and pushed his thumbs inside as he rolled his tongue relentlessly, again and again, over the taut little ball of swollen flesh that quivered and throbbed in eager response.

Dominique thrashed and squealed and clutched at his clothing, buried her fingers in his hair. "M'enfiler!" she cried desperately. "Mon Dieu! Ah, God! Fuck me!"

He rose leisurely and sat back on his haunches, smirking, and slowly drew a long strand of wet blonde hair away from his mouth. He kept one long finger inside her, stabbing slowly.

"How must you ask?" he said gently.

"Pleeeeeeease!" her body arched violently, and she threw back her head, the cords of her throat standing out as the keening cry flew up to the ceiling and filled the enormous space. The candles flickered and the heaps of flowers gave up their perfume, and Edrington raised his eyes to the Sainte.

"For what we are about to receive…" he said with a smirk. He moved over her, holding himself above her body for a moment, his golden hair falling onto her naked shoulders as she cried for him, arms twining around his neck, fingers tangling in the hair, and her long legs snaking round his thighs. He allowed his massively engorged prick to glide along the silken crease, coating it in her clear honey before he plunged, at long, long last, all the way in to her hot, sweet, heavenly core.

Lord God! He groaned, long and low, as he sank balls deep. He'd never had a woman so wet. Her cream drenched his belly and the tops of his thighs as he slid in and out, her slick walls sucking and squeezing him. She moaned and clutched at him, bucking her hips, and he growled, grabbing her legs a little roughly and pulling them up above his waist so that he could penetrate her even more deeply. His thrusts were long, deep, powerful, rhythmic, pounding, merciless. He would not hold back. He cared no more for games. Nor for the delicate question of who had in fact seduced whom. Every word spoken this night, every secret smile, every turn, every touch had led inevitably to this, this moment of madness, this superb culmination of grand and glorious fucking!

"Oh, Alexandre!" she gasped, her eyes wide. "Oh, my love! It hurts!"

Hurts? He didn't comprehend until a moment later when, with a strength that astounded him, she managed to flip him onto his back so that she was straddling him, and barely missing a stroke, was then riding his great shaft as smartly as the King's postilion.      

"Terrible man!" she cried breathlessly. "I won't be sitting down for a week!" And he laughed, realizing that she needed to ride astride to spare her stinging bottom. He took hold of her surging hips, helping to guide her up and down on his magnificently thick, rigid pole. He relished the sight of her beautiful, bobbing body, arching gracefully, the head thrown back in rapture, that glorious red hair falling all around them. He could feel her closing on him, could see the tension in her belly, the near grimace on her lovely face. And he was close, too, could feel the beginnings of that irrevocable convulsion in his balls, the tingling heat spreading over his loins.

"Après vous, Madame," he grunted, lifting her with one great, savage thrust, and watching in triumph as she came like a winner at the Derby, thundering to the finish. He couldn't resist drawing back his hand and giving her lovely arse one last hearty smack.

"Aah!" she cried, as her body jerked, and he felt the most luscious sensation as she flooded his loins with a fresh flow of warm honey, and her sweet, wet, slithery quim milked him gently, delicious little rhythmic squeezes carrying him over the brink.

"Ohhh!" she sighed, beginning to fall forward, and he pulled her down on top of him. Suddenly his blood was all afire, and he thought he felt the very life rushing out of him in great gouts of spouting, scorching semen as the climax roared through him. He buried his face in her soft, fragrant hair, holding her close, letting the wildfire consume him.


*****

"I cannot bear it!" wailed Isabeau, clapping her hands over hear ears, trying to shut out the sounds of the lover's cries as they carried up to the Whispering Gallery. The others could see as well as hear everything that was happening, and they stirred restlessly, trying to remain silent, but unable to suppress every little whimper and moan of frustration.

"Come then, Sisters," whispered Desiree, putting up a plump, white hand to remove her veil, and shaking her head to loosen a fall of glossy nut-brown hair. "A man like that, surely that's not all he's got! It isn't right!  Certainly the Lady Sabine wishes for all to share in the Communion."

The others exchanged nervous glances, and then, secretive little smiles, and then, slowly, one by one, began stripping off their veils.


******

Edrington drowsed a little, feeling pleasantly relaxed. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting his fingers play in Dominique's extraordinary hair. He breathed deeply of the scented air, deciding that it was a nice smell, really, and it did give one such an invigorating feeling. Mm, yes. In a few moments more, he thought, he might like to have another go.

There was that whispering again. Unusual place, this. All sorts of mysterious sights and smells and sounds. Whisper, whisper, and Dominique was stirring beside him. He turned his head to the sound, and opened his eyes to see that the butterflies had returned! They fluttered all around him in their gowns of filmy white, coming closer and closer.

Dominique had her arms around him, and she was laughing now. "Oh, Sisters!" she cried happily. "Oh, yes, my dears!"

Oh, how beautiful, he thought, watching them dance, and now the white robes were falling away, floating to the floor like so many petals. He saw now that not all of the faces were pretty, nor even very young, but all of the bodies were lovely and graceful. Oh, he wanted them all! He put out his hand to catch one, and she came to him so easily, falling right into his arms. She was wonderfully plump and round, with nut-brown hair and shining eyes, and a pert, pretty mouth that smiled as he moved to kiss it.

"And who are you?" he inquired.

"Desiree," she replied, as her plump little tongue wiggled into his mouth.

Eloise, Adrienne, Genevieve, Christiane, Helene, Marguerite, Manon, Marisol, Suzette, Thomasine, Odile, Claudette, Isabeau, Zoe, Amaranthe, Zandrine…

On they came, laughing and whispering, little hands pulling off what was left of his clothing, soft lips kissing every inch of him. His hands were full of breasts, his eyes were full of beauty, and now, someone's mouth was full of him. He was dead, oh God, he must be dead, and this was heaven. Heaven!

"Sir?"

Oh, not bloody Stanley again!

It was bloody Stanley, come racing into the chapel, shirtless, his sword in one hand and a giggling Justine clutching the other, bollock naked but for Stanley's red coat and cocked hat, and Juliette just behind.

"Stanley, for Christ's sake!" Edrington fumed.

"Sir! I heard yelling, sir!" Stanley gasped, his eyes popping like an apoplectic pug. "Blimey, sir, what do we do now?"

"Lieutenant Stanley," Edrington said, extricating himself momentarily from a particularly insistent pair of arms. "If you do not know what to do at a moment like this, then I despair of your career in the British army." He was sinking again. "Into the breach, man!"

Edrington made a brief mental notation as he reclined blissfully amid the crush of heavenly bodies, hearing Stanley's jubilant war cry from what seemed like miles away. Must remember, he thought, to be sure and ask Hornblower on the morrow…how he got on with the stick insect.

*****

Epilogue

He hated to wake up, but he could hear someone moving about, trying to be quiet as she brought up the fire. After a minute or two, he heard her shuffle out again, closing the chamber door with a soft click. He grunted and squeezed his eyes shut, and snuggled in closer to the warm body beside him, wrapping his arms around her lovely, sleepy warmth and pressing his stiff morning pride into the softness of her bum.

"Nice dream, General?" came a slightly groggy voice, and a hand reached up to bury slender fingers in his close-cropped curls.

"Mmm," he murmured in response. He nuzzled the back of her neck, and moved his hand up to cup one full, soft breast.

"Spanking the abbess again, were we?"

With a rustle of bed clothes and a slight creaking of bed ropes, she turned in his arms, a teasing smile on her face. There were but the slightest traces of fine lines at the corners of her dark eyes as she smiled. He thought her as lovely as the first time he'd ever seen her, his beautiful bride, the mother of his children, his wife of nearly thirty years.

"I was just about to get up," she said, as his hand slid up the inside of her long thigh. "I should like to ride this morning before our guests arrive."

 He smirked and looked at her with one cocked eyebrow, and in a moment she giggled naughtily, and threw her arms about his neck as he rolled her beneath him, and claimed her mouth in a long, demanding kiss. As always, she answered him with her own unquenchable fire, opening herself to him, sliding her strong hands up under his shirt, caressing his back and his taut buttocks as he pushed into her moist, welcoming warmth.

"Oh, my love," she breathed, as he rocked slowly inside her. He kissed her throat, her mouth, her beautiful breasts as he rode her steadily, and more and more urgently, bringing them both, as always, to perfect bliss.

*****

"Who is coming to this house party?" he asked later, wallowing happily amidst the pillows, watching her pour his coffee.

"Oh, the usual. Tamboroughs, Fitzgibbons, Kennedys. Dear Richard is coming, but not his parents. It’s just as well. I'm sorry, my love, I know Lord Hornblower is your oldest friend, but you must admit, his sense of humor is sadly lacking, and when poor Iphigenia plays, I vow, he looks as if he might climb the walls! She isn't that bad!"

He laughed. She handed him the coffee cup and gingerly climbed back into bed beside him.

"Oh, and Colonel Stanley, and that marvelously pretty wife of his. I so enjoyed her the last time. She tells the most extraordinary stories of her girlhood in France! So intriguing, like something out of "The Mysteries of Udolpho"! Dear me, I can't remember what she's called! A very pretty name…"

"Justine," he said, with just a little smile.

The End

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