4 comments/ 40436 views/ 3 favorites French Whore Ch. 01 By: nothingisalways "Do you mean to tell me," the tone of her voice sets his teeth on edge but he keeps his eyes locked on her face. The bed sheet fell away from her naked shoulders when her maid had fled the tent and she made no effort then or in the long minutes since to cover her nudity. It was damned indecent and he would be hard pressed to maintain his anger if not for the self righteous incredulity painting her features. "Do you mean to say that you men honestly believe that a woman has no desires at all? You, who has shared my bed only long enough to get me in whelp twice? Two springs I've had with you, two springs in seven years." she pushes a stray lock of hair back from her face and her breasts bob into view. Her pale chest looks dewy and her nipples are soft and shameless in the hot French summer, as if to emphasize her complete serenity. He works his jaw to steady his voice before he answers but she needs no clue to tell her he is mortified. "Wh- whether a woman has desires or not she is expected to keep them decently in check, madame." he flings the ironic pet name at her like an insult. The surge of anger that follows has her on her feet before she has time to think so she crosses the room and pours them each a measure of his beloved scotch whiskey. The nape of his neck reddens and she can practically see his skin crawl at the thought of her completely exposed in the bright glow of sunshine through silk. As if to mock him, she hands him the drink from behind. Thank god, when she drops back onto the pallet, a down mattress finer than most merchant's wives have in their bedchamber, she has on a dressing robe. He downs the whiskey and continues, "Particularly in the middle of the day, in a tent, while half the nobility of England makes merry and jousts on the other side of the silk!" "Making merry, of course! Well what were we doing then? I certainly didn't mean to joust today." she may look like an especially beautiful English lass with those light laughing eyes, but her bold nose, and full lips never let him forget that she was born French and only became English when Calais did.His wife, bearer of his heirs, a french whore in truth. His cock gives a twitch. "No one was looking for me anyway. I pled exhaustion and retired to my tent after we had tea on the green. I have been faithful to you. I have never known any man but you, who has tumbled a wench every time I bled or bred since I was a maid of fourteen!" her challenge shames him. Of course he's had whores and mistresses with bastards, but he was foolish enough to believe she was ignorant or invulnerable, which the glisten of tears in her eyes said she was not. He falters slightly. "If this got out, I would be a laughingstock! I would have to divorce you and have you beheaded like Anne Boleyn just to save face!" "Oh, don't be ridiculous! Do you think I'm the only one? Do you think I'm the only neglected wife who knows she has a cunt? I never imagined men didn't know! For god's sake, even the queen sleeps with a bedfellow!" He chokes at this, the thought that the anointed Queen of England, his England, would be as wanton and lusty as, as, a bitch in heat! But what she said was true. Women were never alone, nobles keep women in flocks like geese. A proper lady had ladies and maids in waiting everywhere she went, and a female bedmate was considered proof against adultery. The idea that women would... together... he felt hot and restless and it was becoming difficult to ignore his rising erection. He didn't want to fight anymore, he was aroused and he wanted her to still her whore's lips long enough for him to kiss them. He wasn't sure where the whiskey in his hand had come from, he had finished the first one long since. "Surely it was only the one maid, I hope?" she chuckled. Drat, the friction from her robe had made her nipples tighten. He could see them press against the silk. "Husband? Have you never heard of girls and their bosom friends? Did you think maids only whisper after the candles are out?" her face is open and she's smiling again. "You can't stop it, it's natural women's business like courses and childbirth. You'd have to dismiss at least half of my household, and then I would find a playmate in their replacements." her eyes went dreamy, considering. Unless you replaced them with men... would you rather it was men, my love? Would your relief in the correction of my sexual deviation outweigh the shame of the cuckold's horns? Or maybe you'd find solace in fighting and killing my molester?" at the last her voice went throaty and her eyes shone. Dear god she was a shameless slut. His crotch throbbed. He lurched to his feet and crossed to the opening at the front of the tent. One of his men was waiting outside. "My wife was exhausted by the heat. I'll be retiring with her for the evening and I don't want her to be disturbed." the young man nodded curtly and sent for a soldier to guard the tent, no doubt anxious to get back to the festivities himself. He crossed the tent feeling like he'd been strung too tightly and swayed a little when he kicked off his boots. When he'd stripped down to his breeches and linen shirt he took her roughly by the arm and forced her to her knees beside the pallet. His voice was rough from whiskey and lust and he hoped he didn't look as tormented as he felt when he dragged a kiss across her lips and lowered himself onto the soft mattress. "You shall have to confess and ask for forgiveness then, wench." Her eyes sparkled with fury and he quickly pressed his knuckles against her lips to quiet her. "You can call me Father." He gives her a pointed look, weighing, wondering if she will take him kindly to her breast now or drive the killing blow now that he's lost his stomach for a fight. A naughty smile lights her face as she drops her head in mock subservience and he sighs in anticipation. French Whore Ch. 02 "Forgive me father, for I have sinned." he swallows a long pull of whiskey and answers hoarsely. "What have you done, child?" His lips are numb from the whiskey. Kneeling there with her hair down and her nude body wrapped in crimson silk makes her look more a pagan priestess than a confessing Christian harlot. The profanity inflames him. "I've had carnal pleasure from another woman." his throat and his cock tighten together when she utters the words. "How many times have you done this?" "Too many to count." his breath comes short. "Tell me the first time you were with a woman this way, child." "When I was ten I caught my maid in the stable with one of my father's grooms. Her bodice was loose and he had his hand under her skirt, and I watched them." "You watched them what?" "I watched them kiss and rub one another, then the groom was called away. After he left she fixed her bodice and said 'Well, what did you think then, little mistress?" "and what did you say?" "I told her she looked a proper whore. That night she slept with me as she always did and when the candles were blown out I told her to kiss me the way she kissed him, with her mouth open." "And did she?" He's feeling tripped by his own snare, stumbling down a path he doesn't care to see the end of but is helpless to escape. Each confession she makes is like a sharp stone under his foot, and yet he hangs from every word and wants her all the more for every sickening detail. "She laughed at first, but I just waited. I could hardly see her in the dark, but all of the sudden her hair was tickling my face and I could smell her soap. She opened and closed her mouth against mine and touched her tongue to my lips. I opened my mouth like she did and she pushed her tongue in and rubbed it against mine." At ten, he'd still blushed furiously when the livestock dropped their cocks to piss, and the only kissing he'd ever done was upon his mother's cheek. How revolting that a whore's true colors would show even before she'd left childhood behind. His next question sounds a little strangled to his own ears. "When did you begin to do more than kiss, child?" "When I was thirteen my bedmate began to move and make strange noises beside me one night. I asked her what she was doing and she laughed. 'Don't you know?' she asked me." "What was she doing?" "She was rubbing herself with her fingers. Pleasuring herself." The mere fact that women would do such a thing to themselves makes him uncomfortable. "What did you do then, child?" she laughs at his obvious turmoil and raises to her feet. He moves over only fractionally, leaving a narrow margin of the mattress for her to stretch out on. She manages to hold herself primly away from contact with him, despite the valley his weight creates. "I kissed her the way I'd learned. She groaned and kissed me back and kept rubbing herself, harder and faster, until she went stiff and shook with climax." he groans and it makes her skin prickle. Emboldened, she goes on. "I asked her how she did it and she showed me, rubbing her fingers against my little mound through my shift until I sobbed into my pillow." his breath is coming in shuddering gasps now and she only stokes his lust more when she pets his chest soothingly. He's reminded of the maid she brought with her when they were wed, a petite young woman with full breasts who had served his wife for several years before marrying a country squire. "Was that the same maid you brought when I married you?" "Mmm. Mary, Mary Collins." She savors it like a fond memory and he feels a pang of jealousy. "Is that all? Only kissing, only some petting between maids?" "It was until I went into confinement." Confinement. When she was carrying their son. "Then you stopped." she laughs and he flushes to his ears. She is making the most repulsive confessions, absolute filth is flowing from her mouth and all he can think is that he doesn't want it to be over yet, he hopes there's more to tell, and yet every hot coal she piles on his groin is being pulled from the smoldering remains of his faithless marriage. "As my time neared I had lusty thoughts all the time. My breasts tingled and ached. I was warm and wet and breeding your pup and a bunch of pompous old fools and witchy midwives had you convinced you couldn't come near me." She sighs deeply and goes on softly, "If you had, I felt I could've taken you a dozen times and not been sated." "We had to abstain... for the health of the baby..." She tuts scornfully and it seems she's rubbing her thighs together almost imperceptibly. Her right hand rests over her womb and her left idly strokes her the silk of her robe over her ribs. "Nonsense. Peasants share a bed and mount their wives until the very end and god knows they don't lack for children. If it weren't for Mary I'd have gone out of my wits in that stifling chamber." His conscience devils him with flashbacks of her time in confinement, when he'd only had to sit with her for a quarter of an hour before he could be off charming maids with trinkets and tumbling a whore in the back room of a gambling den. His wife seems to have turned inward, and her next statement startles him like a stone thrown through the glass of his thoughts to drop heavily in his gut. "That was when she started to use her mouth." French Whore Ch. 03 Her mouth. That's what he's been digging for, what she does with her mouth. Now that it's broached, he's not sure he can stand to hear it. She lays along the length of him so close he can feel the warmth of her, but they barely touch. In the ten years they've been married, there have likely been a dozen maids, lasses and whores he's known more and bedded more than his own nobility bred wife. His initial repulsion to her behavior has become guilt, and hearing her describe her prolonged cuckoldry is wrenching his heart and his cock in opposite directions.He's helpless to stop the query that spills from his lips, though he detests being toyed with so. "What did she do with her mouth?" She gives a very feminine groan of pleasure and jealousy nips at his elbow yet again. "It began because the midwives would never allow me to be left alone. If I only wanted to rest in the dark, I must still have someone sit with me, and so I'd tell them Mary would. I couldn't hide what I was doing from her, and I burned for it too badly to stop." It is his turn to groan and he wishes he'd brought the bottle of whiskey to bed with them now. It is all he can do to keep his hands off his cock. Christ, he wants to take the thing out and pet the feverish skin, tug at the shaft until he spews. He squeezes his eyes shut and wills her to go on. "So two or three times each day Mary would sit ever so properly by the window and make so as to not notice that I was frantically rubbing myself to climax in the tester bed. She couldn't be caught with her hands on me, so her ministering to my needs couldn't be risked in the daytime. Then I'd still be hungry for her in the night. So, she suggested that if I were more... satisfied, I may be less needy." Is she torturing him this way on purpose? In the dark he can see her perfectly as she was in those days, a beautiful fifteen year old lass plump with his baby. He remembers his once daily visit to her chamber, during breakfast. She seemed flushed to him often, he'd always assumed it was the pregnancy, but never imagined it was lust. He'd watch her eat, every spoonful of porridge and sweet bit of fruit brought to her lips, and he'd ached for her, too. He pines for all the times they could have been together, all the long lunches he spent with a sluttish lord's daughter that he could barely stand unless she had a sheet over her head, while his wife ached with desire on the floor above. Her hand, taunting, settles on his thudding chest. "Go on." "She began by suckling me. My breasts were so full and tender in those days. They'd drive me mad, prickling and tingling and making my cunt twinge in response. She saw me all the time rubbing my wrists against my nipples and weighing them in my hands. One night her hand drifted up to my belly, then higher to rub and fondle my chest." That noise in her throat again. He bends his knees to give his swelled dick a little extra space. "She tweaked and pulled at the nipple and her fingertips came away wet. She tasted them, and then leaned over to latch on my nipple like a baby. Her sucking drove me mad," she has the nerve, with one hand still on his chest, to press the fingers of her other hand to her crotch! Lying prone, his head is elevated just enough that he can look down at the top of her head and breasts, the swirl of silk around her softened midsection, and there, her hand cupping the cleft of her legs. Her fingers work back and forth slightly to a rhythm he can't fathom, as though she's playing a particularly sensitive musical instrument that only she can hear. He can feel his heartbeat pounding in his shaft now. "She nursed at one titty and then the other, back and forth, until I bucked against her hand, with its fingers buried in me." God, the vulgarity. It turns his stomach to hear her speak of this, and yet he wants powerfully to bear her to the mattress and roger her to within an inch of her life. He can't remember ever feeling like this about her. As newlyweds, they'd been a bold but scared girl and a fumbling man-child, with the goal of coitus only to produce a healthy heir. They'd had years now to grow closer and yet it seemed they'd only hardened, as though tempered by marriage more than ignited by it. Remembering those early years of marriage, he realizes that he is no longer seeking approval or meeting a demand in lying with his wife. His wife. He has rightful claim to her, and yet he's still acting like a boy who needs to be told to sow his seed. Reluctantly he settles his own hand over the ache in his groin. An involuntary sigh escapes him and she giggles. She trails her hand up and over his throat before dropping it down and resting her palm flat against his lower belly. His dick surges in response. "Did her... treatment... help?" Her sigh makes his hand tighten on himself. "Ahh... it did. Afterwards she helped me tidy up a bit with a cool cloth and I fell asleep as soon as she blew the candle out. I hadn't been able to relax in so long- I don't know what I would have done without her. She suckled me nightly after that. My nipples got tender and puffy as though the babe was already born, and thinking of bedtime with Mary made me ache and cream. Mary kept me satisfied like that for weeks." He remembers her breasts. How many times had he confessed to lustful thoughts, brought on by watching her hold the breakfast dishes just above her rounded belly and lean over them. As she spooned her porridge she'd press them together so he could see the valley between, through the lace of her nightgown. He'd coveted them desperately, and secretly harbored resentment for the little parasite that made his wife look so fuckable while making her so utterly untouchable. He strokes himself firmly now, and that is enough to urge her on. "Until, one night, she sucked at me for ages and still no amount of her chafing at my crotch could bring me to climax. I couldn't even find the place that would make me crack with my own fingers." He abandons pretense and stuffs his hand roughly under the waistband of his pants. When he finally grasps his cock, he is weak with relief and it is hot and throbbing like a bad tooth. "Then she put her mouth lower." French Whore Ch. 04 "I don't know that she would have done it, had she not been so frustrated with me. It was late and I kept begging her to go on because I was close, so close, but I just couldn't reach that place... and she'd had enough." He realizes, belatedly, that she has the upper hand now. By settling her own slim fingers to their work, she's baited him into acknowledging his own raging arousal, and now he is at her mercy. "She ducked under the blankets without a word, and before I knew what she was doing she had her mouth between my legs and she licked and swirled with her tongue just so..." He knew, of course, what the maid was doing today, and that summer eight years ago when his wife served the sentence of childbirth in that stuffy, cloistered room. He'd learned, as a teenager, to use his mouth like that on a lass long before he figured out what he was expected to do with his pecker. And though he'd enjoyed many sets of female thighs wrapped round his head so in the years since, he'd never dreamed of treating his wife that way. She was better than sluttish barmaids, above grasping greedy mistresses. Though he'd known his wife for a whore when he'd first seen her quick smile and tinkling laugh for a man of means, he'd never imagined her on her back, knees splayed, begging to be tongued and rutted like a common, hot blooded prostitute. The fact that it was a woman she begged only twisted his gut more. Then, like a dam breaking, she ceases the sweet sick torture. Her hand descends on his fly and she fumbles the laces loose. She's pressing herself upon him now, and he can feel the hand between her legs rubbing more urgently. He stands quickly to shed his pants then. He doesn't think he has ever been so excited by the prospect of bedding his wife before. He drags the robe off her and doesn't give a damn when he hears the delicate fabric tear. Sometimes whores get roughed up. The thought brings him round to a memory of a red haired dancer who begged him to land slap after cracking slap to her ass. Lord. She'd moaned and writhed on his lap for better than a dozen blows, until her bottom radiated heat and he didn't have the stomach for it any more. Later, when he was crouched over her thrusting home, she'd taken his hand and put it on her neck, as though he was choking her. He'd never dreamed of touching a woman like this before, and the feeling of his hand wrapped around the firm vital flesh of her throat made his head spin. He could only bring himself to squeeze lightly, but the sick bitch seemed to go for that too. At the time he'd been slightly horrified, but now as he stands looking past his cock at the uppity whore that is his wife he can appreciate a woman who can find pleasure in letting a man loose that dark secret side of his soul. His erection is so tight that there's a dull ache thudding in his testicles. With a deep breath he wraps his hand firmly around his cock and pumps it rhythmically. She just lays there, looking up at him. With the silken barrier gone, her fingertips stroke lightly up and down her slit, and her eyes glaze slightly when she looks at his pounding flesh, as though she'd eat him alive. He should be so lucky. He finds his naked wife a treat to look at, philandering whore or no. As a boy he lusted hotly over full figured women with heavy, full breasts, but as a man he appreciates her fashionably small frame. Her figure was not ruined by breeding his heirs, but somehow matured by it. He's turned on by the slight broadening of her hips, the softening of her belly, the faint silvery stripes over the skin of both. Her breasts too are fuller than when she was a girl, with soft full nipples she nursed his sons from. He's proud to have been the man who bore her to womanhood with his seed. He's grown more excited by the moment, standing over her and jacking himself off. She, too, seems to be rubbing herself with a deeper, more intense stroke. "Turn over." She seems startled by the request, but she rolls to offer him her back and nicely rounded ass. Within moments his palm is stinging from the slap. She screams, and he pushes her face gently into the down pillow to muffle it. He twines his fingers in her hair and then he can lift her head to let her breathe between blows. The mercy of giving her breath is equal to the thrill of denying it to him, and he enjoys the control as much as he does paddling her ass. Before long she's wriggling like a snake, and sobbing with pain and lust. It is then that he turns her over so he can kneel and press a kiss against the knot of her arousal. She bucks and presses back firmly. It is obvious, within moments, that his wife has just as much experience receiving cunnilingus as he does at administering it. She cues him expertly to her desires with moans, grinds back against his tongue boldly and guides his head with sexy, delicate fingers tangled in his hair. He massages her opening bluntly with his knuckles before sliding two fingers inside of her, and that is what she has been waiting for. She works his fingers deeper by rocking her hips, and in approximately three minutes the woman he thought of as a sheltered prude acting the part of a whore has engineered her own climax against his mouth. Quickly he shifts upward and guides the head of his cock to her opening. He's been with childless girls who need long moments of adjustment to accept him without pain, but his wife's slick cunt takes him to the hilt in the first thrust. The feeling of her wet heat wrapped around the sensitive rod of his flesh, the softness of her breasts under his chest, the smell of her perfume and the feeling of her mouth against his neck push him over the edge. He rabbit fucks her for moments that feel like hours and thrusts so deep it makes her cry out when he comes, spilling his seed at the head of her fertile, unprotected womb. Initially it feels like a claim to his property, but as he lays beside her, wilting in the cooled evening air, he realizes that it is an offering upon the altar.