The Harlot (Taskill Witches 1)

“I believe I have done all my chores for the day, sire,” she whispered with a distinct tremble in her voice, as if she were fearful about what would occur next.

“It appears that you have. In that case, you will be rewarded.”

She could hardly breathe, for the blunt head of his cock was at her opening and pushing inside. Once he had entered her, his hands moved around her hips. Easily, he lifted her upper thighs, shifting her hips to gain better access. In doing so, he lifted her feet from the floor.

The first slow thrust opened her, and he paused before pressing deeper, slowly filling her, measure by measure. In that position she was powerless to move, powerless to do anything but receive him. His member was so large and rigid that it pressed firmly against her aching center, and set loose a wave of pleasure the likes of which she had not experienced before. Her breasts burned, and she scratched at the rough table with her fingernails.

When she gave an ecstatic cry, he pulled back and then thrust deep.

“You are a temptress, all right, Jessie Taskill,” he told her. “Now hold tight, for this must be done.” He lifted her hips higher still, and began driving into her mercilessly, the pent-up desire between them manifest in every push and shove, and every thrust was welcomed as her body clutched at his length.

She was already close to coming because he had made her wait, and then she felt his heavy ballocks slap her tender folds, and her breath was caught in a long, low moan. The prolonged arousal followed by the exquisite sensation of his turgid cock filling her cunny made reaching her climax so much sweeter.

“Oh, yes,” he murmured when she hit her peak, “I feel you, Jessie.” He pressed her down at the small of her back and worked his cock hard, pushing them both over the edge.

He pulled free as his seed spilled, but worked her with his hand even after he was spent, exploring her hot, tender folds while she wilted over the table. It made her pleasure linger and blossom again, and she burned and throbbed from her cunny to her chest as a second wave of release washed over her. When he finally let her be, Jessie was glad the table was holding her up.

EIGHT

“IS IT TRULY NECESSARY FOR YOU TO LOCK ME up when you go away in the afternoons?” Jessie put her hands on her hips and eyed him ruefully, standing at the doorway to the small servant’s room most unwillingly. She hated to be kept locked up and the thought of another afternoon spent that way made her good spirits plummet.

They had passed an agreeable morning together after their early encounter over the table. Jessie had secretly enjoyed discussing good manners with him, and he’d also spent some time describing the size and nature of his enemy’s household. She’d listened attentively and carefully committed each detail to memory. Then he’d readied himself to leave and had ushered her to her quarters. That felt like a betrayal after what had gone before.

“You know the answer to that question,” he responded, and frowned. “I have invested time in you and I do not want my investment to run away on some wild notion of returning to Dundee to hunt for a long-gone purse.”

The suggestion that her purse was gone frustrated her further, and Jessie folded her arms across her chest, glaring at him from beneath her lashes.

“You are safe here, which should be appealing to you,” he stated angrily, lifting his hands in frustration, “and I want to keep it that way. Or would you prefer to be carted back to your cell and tried as a witch? No? I thought not.”

For her own safety. She’d heard that before and it brought back bad memories. Thwarted in every way, she pouted.

Gesturing into the room, he added, “Stay hidden and forget you were ever in Dundee.”

Grudgingly, she walked into the servant’s room and stood with her arms still folded across the chest, waiting for him to slam the door on her and lock it.

“Smile, my pretty. I will bring you a new garment or two on my return.” He gestured at her borrowed dress.

Much to her annoyance, that promise captured her attention, and there was something in his voice that suggested he felt guilty for locking her up. And so he should. She mustered a half smile, although it was hard.

“That’s better. Now rest. I will return soon.”

Taken by the urge to ask something that had been on her mind, she called out to him as he went to close the door and lock it. “Mister Ramsay?”

He paused, but kept his hand on the doorknob. “Yes?”

“What is your given name?”

He considered her at length, and then sighed. “You take liberties with me that I should not allow.”

She clasped her hands together. “I know I do, but I cannot help being curious.”

The way he looked at her reflected his doubt on the matter. He wanted to keep her in her place, and he wanted his privacy. Why, he hadn’t even once used the name of his enemy while describing his house and land. Would he refuse to tell her his own name?

“Gregor.”

It felt like a victory, but she was cautious. She nodded. “Thank you.”

Gregor. She repeated it silently while she watched the door shut. The name fitted him well.