Chapter 2

Despite the fact that she was in gaol, Mistress Nicola slept tolerably well, until about eight of the clock the next morning, when Bertram Thicknoll, the Chief Gaoler, awakened her and informed her that there was food here if she deigned to partake.

Actually, in interests of perfect accuracy, Bertram rattled the bars and announced "Got summat fer brekfus' here if so be ye want some, Mistress." Not one of life's mental prodigies, was Bertram, but a kind enough fellow withal, given the nature of his job and possible future of many of his clients. Bertram had early on in his years as gaoler realised that prisoners treated fairly and kept as happy as possible were less likely to do naughty things like attempting escape or hanging themsdelves in their cells, and that this, in turn reduced the amount of paperwork he had to fill out to account for missing or dead prisoners.

For instance: Bertram made sure that his prisoners ate at least as well as he did himself, often enough serving them whatever he was having himself for that meal, which was the case this morning. Accordingly, Nicola found herself tucking in to a bowl of hot corn mush, fried bacon and mushrooms, and a boiled egg.

Taking back her plate, she smiled through the bars at Bertram, another of her occasional evening visitors, and thanked him kindly for his consideration. As she did, her fingers somehow seemed to accidentally stroke his thick wrist and the back of his large hairy hand, just as the tip of her tiny pink tongue darted out and moistened her red lips. {blockquote style="color: red"}

"Tiny pink tongue, my... ! Who was it I'd swear was tickling my cervix yesterday with the tip of her 'tiny pink'..." {{Fwop!}} "Respect your elders, young woman! And if respect won't keep you quiet, I have three more pillows handy..."

"Oh, thank you Goodman Gaoler," she said. "I appreciate your consideration, but, you know, the meal is incomplete."

"Oh? Is there owt else I might get ye, Mistress? Some salt, mayhap, or a bit o' vinegar?"

"Oh, no... i was just recalling my old Granny Esmeralda; very often she made us breakfasts like this, when my sisters and I were at her cabin.

"No, it's just that Granny..." her hand continued to stroke his hairy wrist, gradually slipping further and further up his arm at each stroke. "Well... Granny always added something a bit special to our corn mush."

"Special?" he echoed, stepping a bit closer, so that her fingers could brush across his chest.

"Oh, aye. Special... Different kinds, sometimes blueberry preserves, sometimes honey fresh from the comb..."

Her sharp nails were playing with the coarse, curly hair that showed in the v-neck of his shirt.

"Uhmmmm... really?" he stammered, with some difficulty managing to prevent his eyes from crossing in sheer sensual pleasure.

"Oh, yes." Her hand had somehow slipped down from his chest, tcled its way down his belly, and somehow, inevtiably seemingly, had come to rest, cupping the suddenly rather-too-tight crotch of his trousers. Fondling the growing bulge she found there, Nicola smiled up at him and said "Oh, my. I would so appreciate it if you could halp me with some thick cream sauce for my mush."

Urging him forward with gentle tugs on the long thick handle she now held, she brought him right up to the bars, so that his hips and chest pressed against them.

Still stroking what she held in her warm soft hand, rather like a rider meeting a rather nervous horse for the first time, who gently strokes the steed's neck in a manner that reassures the horse and, at the same time, gives a sort of physical gratification of touch to both horse and rider.