Boarding the Swede

by realoldbill

Copyright© 2014 by realoldbill

Sex Story: It is very late and very cold when the lovely Swede takes him to her room.

Caution: This Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa   Consensual   Heterosexual   Historical   .

By the time we hurried back up the steps and closed the heavy front door, Joan Suede and me, we was both shivering, teeth chattering, arms flapping, feet numb. She turned, smiled kind of crooked like, reached up toward my floppy hat, pulled my head down with both hands and kissed me, full on the mouth. Surprised the hell out of me. She tasted something wonderful; cinnamon, roses, pine nuts, sassafrass. Damn if I know, exciting.

I could feel her young breasts pressing on my chest, and she rubbed her soft belly and hard thighs against me as she stretched upward. My half-froze cock stirred to life. I grabbed her and held her close as I could, smelling her clean hair, gobbling up her mouth. A strong girl, broad across the butt and shoulders, she went ten stone at least. She pushed back against my grip, made an odd sound in her throat and then kissed me again, hard. I tasted blood and didn't know if it was mine or hers. Didn't care neither.

"Komma," she whispered, "come," pulling away, grabbing my hand and not caring if her heavy robe fell open. Up the front stairs she trotted, braids bouncing, hips swaying, pulling me along. I didn't take much persuading. At the end of the dark corridor, where the rough-hewed beams stood low, black with age, the big Swede pushed open a narrow door and tugged me into her dim room. I ducked my head to follow her. She leaned back to throw the bolt and kissed me again while I was bent over, letting me feel her body as she brushed past, rubbing a shoulder and hip against me before putting her cold mouth on mine and the tip of her tongue on my lips.

Her board-paneled room felt like an old cistern though it smelled some better, more like leaf mold and dried flowers. When my eyes adjusted to the light, I saw worn curtains fluttering at the cracked dormer window and the remains of a log fire glowing in the shallow hearth. The yellow flame of small whale-oil lamp wavered by the bed which still showed the imprint of her hip place beside the turned back quilt. I wondered if she slept with the lamp aglow. My root stirred a bit more.

"Come," she said with another smile, "Kvick." She unbuttoned my heavy coat and pushed me down so I was sitting on the side of her bed. I pulled off my hat and crumpled it in my hand, hoping me and her had the same idea. I hadn't had any in more'n a month. The girl pushed aside her dark robe and stood before me with her feet wide apart, fists on her hips, her jutting tits and trembling knees stretching the lace-trimmed shift she wore for a nightshirt. She looked sort of dull red on the right, palest yellow on her left. I tried to remember to breathe both in and out. She glared down at me like you'd size up a fractious work horse 'fore you throw a harness on him.

Her room was almost as cold as the courtyard, but I was getting warm awful fast. I grabbed her at the hips, and she pulled away with a grunt, unable to open some of my breeches' top buttons and leaving me grabbing at night air.

"Nu," she said, breathing hard, "please, vi do it. Kvick." I sucked in my stomach and tore at my waist to free my swelling member. Her eyes widened, and she smiled and licked her lips. I gulped in a lungful of air like I was about to dive into the Potomac.

Then the girl stepped forward, lifted her shift and sat on my hairy legs with her bare knees resting on the edge of her bed. They was pressed against my thighs, still cold and shivering some. She wiggled forward until my straining prick was in among her curly hair, prodding at her and looking for a good place to get in out of the cold. Her felt boots was bumping my legs, and her knees was digging in behind my rump.

She reared herself up until my nose was between her hard breasts. I nuzzled them some and put down an urge to gnaw on one of those golden pippins right through the cloth. Her skin was smooth, soft as a rabbit's belly, but my fingers found a long welt across her haunch and the small of her back like I'd seen slaves get after they was whipped. She gritted her teeth and said something that sounded like "Stota," looking square at me as she slowly impaled herself.

The Swede rocked her body from side to side, taking me in, deeply in, and then began a steady horse-riding motion; something fierce it was, not galloping exactly but more than trotting. Then she was taking fences, wham, whap, jumping them hedges, staring over my head, holding my shirt in both fists like it was the reins and pulling me deeper into her wet warmth each time she mashed down against my heaving thighs. She swived me like she was working a stubborn pump, hard, steady and impatient. Two more raised stripes halfway up her back slid under my searching hands. Her backbone lay a deep trough that my fingers explored all the way to her firm bottom. I could hear her raspy breathing over the blood roaring in my ears.

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