Disclaimer: All characters involved in sexual situations are 18 or older. This story is a copyrighted work of fiction.

Reader: This story contains two heterosexual scenes and one of incest. It is NOT an incest story.

PROLOGUE

It was in the Spanish Christian year of 1488. The Muslim leaders were squabbling between themselves. Abu Al-Zagal had lost prestige after the fall of Malaga, and Abu Abdallah took over. The Spanish King Ferdinando of Aragon assembled a small army to push the remaining Moors into the Emirate of Granada, their last stronghold.

Our small band of Spanish Muslim refugees from the village of Baeza loaded all their worldly goods onto three small donkey-drawn wagons. The village elder cautioned taking too much, saying, “We need to move quickly for Ferdinando, and the feared General Rafael de Bayona with his soldiers are coming our way.” As it was, we left a day late on our two hundred milia trek to Granada.

Somehow our guide had lost his way during the night. At sunrise, the wagons were led into a valley with a tight turn to the left - only just enough room on the valley floor for single-file. No sooner had the group entered the valley when they saw a solid rock face a quarter of a milla ahead? The sides were too steep, and the only way out was the way they came in. The guide called out, “Turn around! It’s a dead-end.”

By the time they did, all heard the sound of horse hooves and the clanging of metal armour. Ferdinando rode into the valley entrance - beside him was General Rafael de Bayona, followed by twenty-five soldiers. Most carried swords, bow and arrows, a couple with the then-new muskets. The General had his feared whip, El Latigo.

The elders stood unarmed before the men and boys who held their drawn bows, ready to stand off an attack. The women and children, at the rear. They stood in a line across the valley floor, facing their enemy.

A silence fell over the valley - there was no breeze as the sun came over the ridge to light up the valley floor. The elder held his hands up in surrender and stepped forward to address King Ferdinando. That’s when the boy beside him let fly his arrow straight towards the King. Its intended trajectory was the King’s face where no armour existed, with only two vara from the King when the General flicked his Latigo, snatching it from the air.

Enraged, King Ferdinando screamed out, “Kill them! Kill them all! Leave no survivors.”

Before the elder could take another step to stop this madness, a musket ball hit his chest, piercing his heart. He dropped to the ground like a stone and watched the carnage unfold - until everything went black.

After the blood lust stopped, the soldiers stood and looked around them. Bodies with missing heads, arms, blood, weeping from sword wounds. All dead to a man, woman and child. Regardless of their religion, they were still Spanish people. The soldiers dropped to their knees, praying for forgiveness, weeping at what they had done in the name of the Holy Roman Church.

The General shouted, “En attention.”

The soldiers lined up as taught. Then he ordered, “Empty the wagons. Load all the bodies onto them, including all their weapons”. He consulted with Ferdinando. They could not leave the bodies here on the ground, which would be too hard to dig, so they set out to find a more convenient burial site. Arriving at the bank of the Rio Alama, the General pointed out a sight on the far south bank of the river above the flood marks, where the soil would be easy to dig.

The General ordered the soldiers to dig a hole, ten by five vara and five vara deep. All the bodies and weapons were placed into the hole. Large boulders were placed on top should floodwaters ever reach the site. Next, the gravesite was backfilled, then planted with willow tree cuttings around the burial site spaced one vara apart to form a Willow Grove.

Satisfied with this result, Ferdinando decreed, “All the lands north, east, south and west for fifty milla will belong to General Rafael de Bayona, and he will be titled Count Rafael de Bayona. All you soldiers are to build a village on the opposite side of the river on the hillside. It will be your duty to watch over this reminder. The Count will build a villa on the hilltop to the east to watch both the monument and the village.”

Before departing for the Principality of Catalonia, Ferdinando’s final words, “First, you must build a church, and when I arrive at the palace in Barcelona, I will send a priest to serve you.”

True to his word, a priest duly arrived a year later to find a half-built church and hut where he was to live. He noticed the villages had planted olive trees on the high side of the river and vegetable gardens on the river’s edges. There was a small earth dam to hold water for drinking and irrigation of garden beds. The Count de Bayona villa was under construction. Many village men appeared to have women living with them in their stone huts, and they immediately partitioned Father Michael to marry them as a top priority.

Before Father Michael left the monastery, he had read up on the Valley of the Rio Alama. The river was at the foothills of Sierra Nevada and flooded the valley every summer when the snow melted on the mountain peaks. Winters were cold, summer sweltering and dry. The soil along the river was fertile.

Father Michael had brought grapevines and lemon tree cuttings for the villages to plant and two goats for milk. Furthermore, he carried all the necessary ceremonial regalia for Sunday mass service. In addition, he was the bearer of a letter from King Ferdinando for Count de Bayona. Shortly after reading the letter, the Count left for Barcelona.

Count Rafael returned some six months later, accompanied by his newlywed wife, Countess Francesca and two female servants - two large wagons followed, carrying many trunks and much furniture.

A month after, my wife, Countess Francesca, and I had settled into our villa. I called a meeting of my former soldiers. I explained to my fellow compatriots at being dismayed to find the King indulging himself with wine, women and song while we were living like peasants. I was afraid he might inadvertently leak our secret, and we would be under arrest for the massacre. To forestall this eventuality, I have written a journal covering the events of that day from my point of view. I now want each of you to dictate your side of the tragedy. If the King goes back on his word and sends an army to arrest us, we have written evidence of his complicity in the massacre. I have with me a steel safe that uses two keys that require turning in a specific order to open the door. I want you men to secretly install the safe into the church building wall to keep the journal safe.

As each generation proceeds to the next, the outgoing Count passes the keys to his eldest son, allowing him to read the story of their family history. So past events will never be repeated. However, two hundred years later, the old Count died while visiting this mistress in Barcelona. So the keys and story were never passed on. Only village rumours of a massacre remain.

Henry Prescott’s story.

After completing my degree in Economics and Management at Oxford University, I started working at the London Financial Centre. Over the past few years, I have shown my skill at making suitable investments, having a knack for picking the right time to invest sums of money, and making a reasonable profit for clients. However, I soon became frustrated with my employers, who would not let me invest large sums, stalling my career.

Then, I had a fortuitous meeting at the pub one evening with a university colleague who also thought his career had stalled. So we decided to branch out independently and establish Prescott & Wharton Finance and Accounting in 1950. Together managed to bring a few old clients to the new firm and soon became very successful. Before long, my investments made considerable profits in the millions of pounds for clients while Wharton looked after their accounting needs.

At twenty-six, I married my childhood sweetheart, Nell Smith. Six years later and we were expecting our first child any day now. Nell called me at the office, “Darling, I am having contractions, the taxi has just arrived. Meet me at the hospital.”

I was excited when I arrived, asking the hospital information counter to find my wife, who was in childbirth. I paced anxiously in the maternity waiting room, awaiting news of her delivery. Finally, some three hours later, the doctor came to see me with a solemn look on his face. He bluntly told me both my wife and baby had died during childbirth.

I was devastated. I received no real reason why this could happen in the modern era of medical knowledge. The doctor’s explanation was, “It happens sometimes.” After her funeral, I took a month’s leave of absence and ended up moping around the house, drinking too much. The loss of both my wife and child was overwhelming.

Three weeks later, the house phone rang on a Monday morning around ten. The female voice asked if I was Henry Prescott. Answering in the affirmative, she announced it was the Spanish Embassy calling. She put me through to the Ambassador, who asked, “Senor Prescott, would you be interested in a financial consultancy job in Spain? If so, will you come to the embassy tomorrow morning at eleven?” Of course, as I had nothing to lose, I said, “Yes.”

I was ushered into the Ambassador’s large office and offered a seat. We waited in silence for five minutes until the red phone on his desk rang. Jumping to his feet, clicking his heels, the Ambassador picked up the phone, “Hola,” then listened, “Si, General Franco, he is here.” Looking at me, he said, “It’s Presidente del Gobierno for you!” He offered me the phone. I sat stunned, not moving for a moment, and then he shook the phone in my direction.

The upshot was Spain’s economy was stalling, and the Bank of Spain needed a financial consultant to lead a team of investment advisors to get the economy moving. Someone had recommended my name. Needing a change, I called Wharton and appraised him of the proposal. He was duly impressed, saying, “You would be a fool not to accept the offer.”

I called the Spanish Ambassador and agreed to a twelve-month initial term with the option for five years.

After a successful year on the job, I contacted Wharton and told him I would like to extend my option with the Spanish bank. I could stay with P&W as a silent partner, or Wharton could buy me out. He agreed to purchase my shares in the firm. So I decided to sell my home, using the money to purchase one in Madrid.

Ten years later, I met and fell in love with Maria Gonzalez, a spinster at thirty-two. We dated for four years. At the age of forty-eight, I asked for her hand in marriage. Maria was pregnant within twelve months of our wedding, and our son John was born in the Royal Madrid Hospital. I celebrated John’s birth by depositing a hundred-thousand pounds in a bank account for John’s future education.

Five years later, I retired with more money than I could spend in my lifetime. Maria and I spent the next five years travelling the world while John commenced primary education, living with his grandparents, the Gonzalez family.

After years of travelling at sixty years of age, fed up with city life, Maria and I decided to purchase a farm to retire on.

The farmhouse had six bedrooms, a kitchen, outside laundry, one bathroom, and no hot water unless the kitchen stove was alight. Drinking water came from house water tanks. I promised Maria to have the house renovated over the next few years.

The property was located on the west side of the Rio Alama, at the foothills of the Sierra Nevada mountain range in the province of Granada. The land all around was once owned by the Bayona family dating back to the 15th century. Over the years, various Counts had to sell portions of their lands because of economic hardships. The west side of the river was sold off and built on about one hundred years ago.

The current Count was Ramon de Bayona, landlord of the village Guafix. Maria and I met his family one Sunday after church service. I estimated him to be in his late forties and Countess Marsha in her early thirties. They have three children, Fernando, Olivia and the youngest, Francesca.

The small village of Guafix settlement was on the hillside above the river to avoid flooding during spring when the snow melts in the mountains. In addition, a small weir across the river held back some of the water for irrigation of grapevines and olive trees planted along the river banks.

The only bituminised road bypassed the township following the river. Village streets were gravel with no curb and guttering, quite behind the times. The pueblo had five hundred people, with essential shops, a cantina, a church and an education primaria. A petrol station was located on the main road skirting the village.

John’s story.

I’m the son of Henry and Maria Prescott. In my early years, I was spoiled, being the only child of an older Englishman and his young Spanish wife. My father is a retired financial adviser for the Bank of Spain.

I attend a local primary school in Madrid as a day student. Having English and Spanish parents, I could speak both languages fluently. Shortly after his retirement, Dad purchased a country farm. My family spent many happy summers there, with me riding a horse over the hills and valleys. The homestead was across the river on the other side of a high ridge and hidden from sight from the village or the Count’s villa. I often wondered why the previous landowner had decided not to build the house overlooking the river.

Both Dad and Mum appeared happy here. They made a final move when I reached twelve. So off to boarding school for me.

I spent many happy summer holidays on the farm during my el Instituto years. Dad had slowly renovated the house yearly while I was at boarding school. He was one never to do anything in a hurry, always contemplating. The six bedrooms were converted into four - two bedrooms became a bathroom. The master bedroom had a separate ensuite with a large walk-in wardrobe. The other room became the office. In addition, Dad had built an extensive outdoor patio at the rear of the house covered with shade cloth, with vines growing up the sides providing shelter and cooling the air from the hot Spanish summer winds.

The highlight of my stay was the Harvest Festival, held a week before I resumed boarding school. There were food stalls, an ice cream wagon, and sideshows. The Whizzer on which I had two turns - a small Ferris wheel. But my favourite was the Dodgem cars. Mum, Dad and I each got separate cars. It was so much fun bumping into them, especially Mum, as she would scream and laugh simultaneously.

The final event of the festival was the Latigo competition. This Latigo is no ordinary whip - its history dates back to the original settlement. General Rafael de Bayona supposedly used the whip in the late 1480s.

Instead of being a cracking whip, on its end was a steel blade or hook that could inflict severe damage. Judging El Latigo competition is done by counting the number and depth of marks left by the whip and their location on a full-body-sized plywood cutout. The four primary areas of interest were the throat, face, hands and arms.

Publicly Count Ramon de Bayona was away on business, but rumours abound he was visiting his latest mistress in Barcelona. Therefore, the trophy presentation fell to his twenty-one-year-old son Fernando. This perpetual trophy records the competition’s winners’ names and the year etched onto small round brass discs attached to a wooden plaque. This plaque was supposedly one hundred years old. Apparently, there are five of these in the Count’s sports room, if you can believe that!

With the holidays ending, it was time for me to return to boarding school for one last year.

Countess Marsha.

It was one of those late summer heatwaves - there was no breeze to move the air. I awoke sometime at night and reached for the water jug, only to find it empty. A full moon shone through the open balcony doorway, illuminating the room.

I walked over to the balcony railing. I was naked except for a lightweight white cotton ankle-length nightie, because of the heat. It was surprising how far I could see over the valley to the village. I picked up the jug and headed for the kitchen for more cool water. As I passed Fernando’s room, I absently looked in. He lay on his bed naked, and his firm manly body took my breath away. Today, I was so proud of him for taking his father’s place for the trophy presentation.

I hadn’t seen him naked since he was a baby. Now a young man. I gazed at his strong chest, solid arms, muscular legs and broad shoulders. His penis, even soft, was much larger than his father’s. As a baby, it was big. It will be a gift to the woman he chooses to be his wife.

I found myself drawn in as the next thing I remembered was standing beside his bed, gazing at his penis as it appeared to grow before my eyes. I reached down and gently took it in my hand and started stroking it. I knew it was wrong of me, but I was mesmerised. His cock quickly reached its entire length. I estimated six to seven inches, and I couldn’t get my thumb and forefinger to touch. Kneeling, I had the urge to put it in my mouth, something I had never done for my husband but did it now. Running my tongue around the hot knob, sucking his cock deep into my mouth, I felt my vagina become wet in anticipation of sex.

While I sucked and licked his cock, I wondered what it would feel like to have this monster inside my body. Having three children had stretched my vagina, and these days I no longer felt Ramon’s penis enter my channel.

But with this cock I would know it was there. Before I had another thought, I was on the bed with my nightie around my waist and lowered my slick vagina down on that massive cock, which fully stretched my vagina’s entrance. I could feel every ripple along its shaft. I groaned out loudly, finally waking Fernando. He started to protest. I put my hands on his shoulders to hold him down and bounced up and down on the magnificent cock. His hands captured my swinging breasts, and his thumbs tweaked my hard nipples. Leaning down to kiss him passionately, I had to reach my climax before he did. What I didn’t take into consideration was his sexual inexperience. Before I could stop him, he ejaculated deep into me, triggering my orgasm and filling me with his potent baby-making seed.

After the exhilaration, we lay in each other’s embrace for a few seconds before I came to my senses, jumped up, and ran back to my room, slamming the door. I could not sleep for the rest of the night, tossing and turning on my bed. The only thought going through my mind over and over was, WHAT HAVE I DONE ... what have I done? It all seems surreal - a nightmare. How could I have had sex with my son? It’s against the church, let alone the law. No penance can absolve my sin; I couldn’t possibly confess it to the priest. I’ll live in guilt and shame for the rest of my life.

We skirted around each other for a few days – then Fernando said he was off to do some study at the University of Catalonia. After that, we never spoke of it again. But a month later, I missed my period. So I made sure I had sex with Ramon just in case.

John.

After finishing my final year of el Instituto, I returned home with my graduation certificate. With a C1 level, able to take me to University.

Dad had renovated the outside of our homestead over the past year. It now had on three sides a large balcony covered by equally large awnings to keep the Spanish sun at bay. A regal front entrance stairway leads to the main entry door. A fresh coat of paint applied inside and out made all the difference. In addition, Dad had made repairs to the outbuildings. There was also a new steel three-car garage. Dad had extended the machinery shed to allow a new olive harvester, tractor and quad bike.

I was looking forward to this year’s Harvest Festival. The Count paraded around the festival, showing off Renaldo, his twelve-month-old babe. However, according to gossip throughout the village, the bambino appeared to have a fierce temper. The Countess has had to stop breastfeeding him because he continually bit her nipples, making them bleed. Again the highlight of the festival was El Latigo competition. This time Count Ramon presented the trophy.

I enrolled at the University of Madrid to become a Civil Engineer. To celebrate entry into University, Dad gave me access to a bank account he had established when I was born. He explained, “I don’t want you bothering me, asking for spending money.” He would still pay my university fees and cost of living. I first bought a car, in this case, an excellent second-hand Renault 16 TX, to get me around. It went like a rocket.

I had only six months left to complete my Civil Engineering degree, and Mary had two years left on her Archaeology degree. Mary and I had met over a year earlier, and she had moved into my small one-bedroom flat six months ago when we became exclusive. I had met her parents, and we all got along well.

This Christmas holiday was Mary’s first visit to meet my mum and dad. Mum immediately accepted Mary like the daughter she never had. Dad just went along with the flow. On St. Stephen’s Day, I saddled up a pair of horses to show Mary around the farm. While on our ride, I mentioned that I had become very interested in agriculture and farming over the preceding years. Mary responded, saying she found the open air of the farm much more appealing than the city’s heavy air, noise and traffic. While we rode around, I realised the farm needed to be in better shape - neglected grapevines, many weeds, and a drip watering irrigation system was virtually non-existent.

Mary and I returned to the farm six months later for the summer break. While waiting for Mary to finish her degree, I decided to do a two-year Agricultural degree. That way, Mary would complete her degree when I did, and we could stay together.

With this thought, I decided to ask Mary to marry me. Mum had given me her grandmother’s family engagement ring - she said, “Give it to the love of your life when the time comes.” So we became betrothed and decided to wait another two years before getting married.

During that summer, my mother had discovered a liking for Italian Prosecco sparkling wine - she suggested we could grow prosecco grapevines on the farm. I said, “I would look into it.”

Mary and I spent the last weeks of summer surveying the property together, using my theodolite, with Mary acting as my chainy*. We surveyed the waterways, gullies, hillsides, slopes and ridges. I took soil samples from every location to find the best place to grow grapevines. I came to the realisation the farm needed much work.

While Mary and I undertook this survey, we discovered a hidden valley ten kilometres from the homestead. The entrance to the valley looked like any other gully - however, as we entered, the floor narrowed to two metres, then turned sharply to the left after ten metres. Straight ahead, some three hundred metres was a solid rock wall forming a dead end. Both sides sloped steeply to create a deep ‘V’ of bare clay with no sign of vegetation. I estimated the ridge top to be one hundred meters from the valley floor, rising higher as we headed for the dead end.

Upon reaching the rock wall, we found a large crater some four metres across, perhaps two metres deep, with a small pool of water at the bottom, fed by what may have been a waterfall. At some time, a great deal of water must have flowed over the falls, but now only seasonally. Large jagged rocks of various sizes were spread in and around the crater, which appears to have fallen from above.

We didn’t have time to explore further, leaving that for another time. We did manage to survey the valley floor, including the crater. Both agreed to keep this fine to ourselves for the time being. I promised myself to follow the waterfall back to its source when I had time.

I wrote a report for Dad outlining the various requirements to put the farm back into olive and wine production. Then, using a Computer-Aided Design program, I entered all the survey points and printed a topical graphical map for Dad. Finally, I selected the best locations to grow grapevines.

Expecting Dad to disregard my report, he took to it enthusiastically, especially with me continuing my education towards an Agriculture degree. Dad was willing to put up all the cash to improve the farm and was considering hiring a farm manager from the village. He liked the idea of being a gentleman farmer.

We visited the following Christmas. I was halfway through my Agricultural degree, and Mary was in her last year.

Dad wanted to improve the lives of the local farmers and the village. The town had no sewerage system; each house had a small outhouse with a big pit. House water came from water tanks attached to their roofs. During drought time, water was brought in by truck to the township. In discussions with Count Ramon, they formed a plan - it so happened that, unknown to me, I was at the centre part of their design, being a Civil Engineer.

Again, Mary and I spent a few days doing a preliminary survey of the river bed for possible locations to build a dam across the Rio Alama. After completing the ground survey, I loaded all the details into a CAD program and printed topical graphical maps of the area for the village and dam sight. I left two maps with Dad, one for the Count. Then Mary and I headed back to University to finish our mutual degrees.

Before leaving, I complained to Dad about the area’s lack of mobile and internet coverage. He said he had already discussed this with the Count, who had government connections. The Count would partition the Federal Government for mobile phone coverage in the area, offering free land for the transmitting/receiving tower.

Mary and her class were on an archaeology dig in Greece during the summer semester break. So I decided to purchase some hundred Glera grafted vines used to produce grapes to make Prosecco wine.

I arrived at Prescott Estate, as we now call it. Dad preferred the word Estate to Hacienda. Manuel (the farm manager) and I spent a week planting the vines on the sunniest side of the hill with drip irrigation fed by the water tank on top of our hill, which was filled by pumping water from the river. Dad had installed three twenty-two thousand-litre plastic tanks that were only filled when the river was in flood once a year. The small weir held back enough water to pump into the local farmer’s storage tanks for irrigation purposes.

After receiving our degrees, we got married in the University Chapel. It was a small ceremony with just a few of our Uni friends, Mary’s and my parents. We planned to spend our honeymoon on the French Riviera, visiting the usual tourist sites, amongst other things, for two weeks.

Mary.

We arrived at Nice airport in the late evening and taxied to Westminster Hotel facing the Mediterranean Sea. Ordering from room service - a lite dinner with two bottles of prosecco sparkling wine, we toasted our union, getting light-headed quickly.

I walked onto the suite’s private balcony overlooking the Promenade des Anglais, where people were strolling, running, and rollerblading up and down only four floors below our room.

Switching off the room light, I was flooded with the illumination of the city. John came up behind me and held my waist. His fingers gently massaged my breasts, tweaking my nipples, making them hard as stone. I can feel my wetness quickly spread through my vagina.

His hands slipped to my waist, caressing my buttocks, then under my skirt and pulling down my knickers. I struggled and quietly protested, but he leant on my back, pushing me against the balustrade and holding me in place as my panties dropped to the tiled floor. I stepped out of them. John used his knee to spread my legs. I felt John manoeuvring, and his pants join mine on the floor.

My heart was beating a mile a minute - I can’t believe my husband is taking me while we stand on the balcony overlooking the Prom. I was introduced to the illicit thrill of public sex. Luckily it was night-time, but the people below could still see us - all they had to do was look up!

I can feel John’s penis pushing against my bottom with no chance of entry. He shuffled back, pulling me with him. I bend at the waist, elbows resting on the balustrade. After a bit of wiggling, he finds my now very wet entrance, and his cock slowly slips down my love tunnel, coming to rest at my cervix. John quickly starts a back-and-forth tempo, and I begin to enjoy the sensation, arching my back and spreading my legs wider to get more of his cock inside me. Long forgotten are the people below - I close my eyes and enjoy John’s lovemaking.

His finger finds my engorged clitoris and caresses it quickly, bringing us toward our mutual fulfilment. I quickly put my hand over my mouth, squashing the scream of my orgasm for all to hear. I felt John join me as he filled me with his liquid love.

Unfortunately, the two-week-long, sex-filled honeymoon came to an end, and we headed for Prescott Estate.