Abbey Hall
Copyright© 2025 by Tedbiker
Chapter 6
Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 6 - Ralph, the 18 yo son of a Committee advisor, is given the task of developing a neglected country estate. He has much to do, and needs support in doing it. This is the story of acquiring the help, female, sexy, attractive help, and how their relationships grow and the work develops.
Caution: This Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including mt/ft mt/Fa Consensual Romantic Heterosexual Fiction Post Apocalypse Harem First Masturbation Oral Sex Pregnancy
After the delightful interlude with Libby, I went out for a walk. The village, Ashminster, was clearly a shadow of what it had been in medieval times. A shop, a pub, closed after the Atrocities and never reopened, and a small church. The church had once been the chancel of a much larger building, possibly the Abbey church before the Dissolution. I walked between the roofless walls of the original nave: what had once been stone or tile paving was now smooth grass. It was apparent that someone, at least, cared enough to mow the grass and keep the graveyard tidy. The door, a heavy, weathered oak, was not locked. The latch was a hand-forged thing, but beautifully made. It opened with a distinct ‘clank’ and I entered.
The care had obviously not stopped at the grass outside. The air was cool, but not stale. No dust. Flowers in vases on the high altar. Wooden pews in ranks each side of the central aisle, a shiny upright piano in the sanctuary – that sanctuary defined only by altar rails and the priest’s prie dieu. I knelt at the rail for a moment, though I wasn’t sure why. Perhaps something in the ambience of a place used for prayer for a millennium.
As I stood, I heard a quiet cough and looked round. In worn denim, grey haired, she was holding a bunch of flowers. “Good afternoon,” I greeted her. “I’m Ralph Hewson.”
“Martha Jenkins,” she replied, holding out a hand. “Rosie’s mother.”
I shook the extended hand. “Missus Jenkins, I’m happy to meet you. Your daughter is a delightful young lady, hard working, bright and knowledgeable. She’s truly an asset to Abbey Hall. Not to mention, bringing us Lisa Brown.”
She studied me for a few moments. “I was happy she found a place to work, though she would have been welcome to stay at the farm. Mister Hewson, what are your intentions for my daughter?”
“Yes, I imagine that would be a concern. I have a household of ladies, all of them attractive in their own ways, all with gifts, talents or skills which enhance the estate and my life. It is my intention in time to offer marriage to as many as are willing. The Vicar has expressed her willingness to perform the ceremonies. I am hopeful Rosie will be one who accepts.”
“You’re going to ask Rosie to marry you?”
“Yes, I am. But also Lottie, Lisa, Sophie and Libby. I have a number of reasons for that. I want them each to have the status of ‘wife’ anyway, but especially as we begin to produce babies.”
“Babies?” The woman gasped. “I could be a grandmother?”
“I really, really hope you are. Perhaps not in the next year, but starting the year after, once the estate is up and running.”
“I ... I thought ... I thought I’d never get to hold a grandbaby.”
“Missus Jenkins, you should be proud of the daughter you raised. I won’t make promises about the timetable for babies. She might not want to marry me, or be married to a man with four, five or six wives. But she is a very special young woman.”
“I am proud of her. My late husband, bless him, would be proud of her.” Then she changed the subject. “What do you think of our little church?”
“I like it a lot. It’s quiet. Holy. And obviously cared for by the congregation. When, or if, I do get married, it will be here, and the whole district will be invited.”
I left Missus Jenkins to her care of the church and walked slowly back to the Hall. I was in time to have a comprehensive wash before supper, and a change of clothes. The meal wasn’t intended to be special, like before the girls’ first times, but nonetheless it was excellent. I doubt if Lottie is capable of anything less. It was a cheerful, slightly noisy meal. When it was over, Lisa copied Sophie and walked round to me, took my hand and led me upstairs. It was fun to shower together again. Lisa was still a little uncertain about her slim form, but I think I made inroads into her feelings of inferiority. You know, she wasn’t that thin. I’d seen pictures of runway models who I thought skeletal, and Lisa would not have qualified. No. She was slim, with narrow hips and small breasts, but lovely in her way, a woodland nymph, perhaps. My hands traced her curves, cupped her little titties.
When we could no longer justify standing under the shower, we dried off and headed for the bed. There, despite Lisa’s objections, I kissed her lips, her nipples, her tummy, and then brought her to several orgasms with my lips and tongue. She actually fainted briefly during the last one, and I settled back with her in my arms.
When she surfaced, she pushed me flat on my back, straddled me, grabbed Mister Dick, positioned, and lowered herself on him. “You!” she said. “You teased me and teased me, and all I wanted was to feel you inside me again. But, oh my god, that was amazing. And so is this.” She moved on me, clearly exploring the sensations. Having nothing better to do, I palmed her low mounds, feeling them move, feeling her nipples hardening as her movements affected the pressure of my hands. She came, and came again. I spurted in her and she came yet again, then flopped, spread over me. I was still in her. Between her tight, spasming channel and the pressure of her lithe body (and, yes, her pretty breasts) I wasn’t going to soften any time soon. I realised that her breathing had settled. She was asleep. Well, okay. The way she was on me was actually in some way right. Relaxed, I drifted off too.
I’m not sure what time it was, but I surfaced to realise she was still as she had been, but her pussy was massaging my dick, still inside her, still hard, and hardening further. Afterwards, she said she didn’t remember doing that, so she must have been at least half asleep. I enjoyed it anyway.
The morning was a little less pleasant. We were in a wet patch, and our crotches were crusty. It was early, though, and a quick shower and a towel over the wet patch, enabled a most satisfactory coupling, followed by more sleep.
We both slept through a tap on the door. Rosie gave Lisa – on top of me again – a shake, and her jerk woke me. Lisa tried to jump out of bed, but I held her. “Don’t go, sweet girl.”
Rosie was giggling. “Miss Denham sent me to ask if you’d like breakfast in bed?”
I didn’t think long about that. “Rosie, go tell Lottie we’ll be down in a few minutes, okay?”
She left, still giggling. Lisa and I had another quick shower, dressed, and walked down hand in hand. We were on our own at the table. Rosie, Sophie and Libby were all going about their various duties, so only Rosie was with Lottie in the kitchen, making bread for the day.
From that night, Lottie usually shared my bed alternate nights. She was a much more restful bed companion than the others who took turns in between, but also ambushed me whenever I was in the office. What can I say? Eighteen years old, sex at least three times in any twenty-four hour period. Libby was kept busy with the volume of laundry we caused.
It was a couple of weeks after Lisa’s (more satisfactory) second night, that an architect arrived to look at the paddock. Actually, it was two architects.
The man, clearly the principal, was in his late fifties, stout, balding. His companion was a youngish woman, early twenties, I suppose, quiet, exuding competence. They inspected the site, nodding. The water supply, the power supply, the need for a drain, actually sewage. They looked at the main house, the incoming water main and electricity supply, shaking their heads. The man, Richard Stainforth, introduced his companion. “Miss Williams,” he said. “She will be responsible for the bulk of the design work. While I will undersign the project, I am happy with her competence. One of us will oversee the construction. I gather we need to liaise with the horse farm?”
“Lisa will take you to the Franklins’, if you wish, introduce you.”
“Perhaps we need to phone first?”
“If you wish.” We led the way to my office, where Mister Stainforth used my landline to call Don Franklin. As I expected, they were told to go straight over. Lisa went with them, but returned after introducing them.
For the most part, each member of staff just got on with their responsibilities and I was happy to let them. I wasn’t entirely aware of what Lisa got up to in the kitchen garden, and it was some time later that I saw a spread of green and asked about it.
“Green manure,” she explained. “We’ll dig it in or compost it. Then next year, start trying to grow vegetables for the kitchen.”
A delivery of rotted horse droppings was laboriously barrowed from the cart into the kitchen garden by Lisa with help from casual labour and yours truly. I wasn’t expecting that to be a pleasant task, but in fact it was, other than the sheer physical labour involved. We paid the casual workers, of course, but Lisa rewarded me with her body. Enthusiastically.
The architects produced a satisfactory design which was approved both by the Franklins – most important – and myself. Work began. I was introduced to the proprietor of the construction firm and the workers. That was a blend of women, older men, young apprentices and one or two mature men, veterans of the War. They made a gateway into the lane, trenched, installed a septic tank, poured two concrete rafts.
A different company brought solar panels and a turbine to be mounted on the house. That necessitated the construction of a lean-to shed by the Hall to house batteries and switchgear. For the first time we had fairly reliable power. Not nearly enough for heating the house, but enough for the refrigerator, freezer and the lights. Oh, and the sound system in the lounge. We took from the grid when there was power there if it was a dull day without any wind, but that was unusual.
Lisa and I walked through the paddocks regularly and she showed me what to look for. The yellow flowers of ragwort are easy to spot, but the young plants less so.