Chapter 78: Two Brave Women

I next found employ with a poor, old, decrepit widow lady of perhaps thirty-five summers. She was a strong and upright woman with wide hips and a proud prow, not beautiful I suppose, but damn nice looking, strong as any man her size and very hot-blooded. She had a firm chin and a will to match.

She put me to work on the dirtiest and most tiresome tasks on her large, hillside farm. I mucked out, shoveled manure, mended roofs, dug out the privy and shingled walls before she decided that I was a decent workman and worth my pay. On the first Saturday I worked for her, she made me clean my boots and bathe in the creek and then took me with her to the nearby market town to do some toting and to drive the team.

We had a pleasant conversation on the way into the village, a good supper and some first-class ale, and then drove home well before dark. I unloaded the rig, took care of the horse and then, at her invitation, came into the house through the back door after carefully wiping my feet.

"Now," she said, drying her hands on her apron and smiling up at me from beside her stove. "There is another task you can do for me, one I've been thinking about almost all this week." She took off her apron and tossed it aside. "One I hope you will enjoy and perform as well as your other chores. I've been pleased with your work so far."

I smiled at her and reached out with both hands, hoping I had guessed right. She came into my arms, and we kissed and then kissed some more. She took me to her bed, and we pleasured each other for a good while before we slept. In the morning I introduced her to my enormous dawn erection, and she gloried in its strength, size, shape, color, texture and endurance. Between couplings, she licked it, kissed it, sucked it and nuzzled it against her cheek and between her breasts.

"Now," she said as we broke our fast together, still a bit weak in the knees. "Once a week of that sort of thing is, I'm sure, enough for me."

"Yes'm," I said with a smile, licking my lips for the last drops of honey. I pulled her down in my lap, nuzzled her high breasts, and kissed her soft lips and then sucked her neck. "But every day might be a sight better."

She took a deep breath. "Every other day, perhaps," she said. "You're a good bit younger than I am and that huge, ugly thing you used this morning is, well, it's kind of frightening I fear. I'm sore, m'lad, quite sore."

"You surely held your own last night, my lady," I said, gnawing at her ear and cupping her heavy breast.

"And you pleased me as well as any man I've known," she said, pulling herself free and patting her carefully dressed hair. "Every other night, then, except when I have company, but just at bedtime you understand. Then you must sleep out in the shed. But every Saturday, I think, after we go to market, and then, if you wish, in the morning on Sunday. I might be able to tame that monster once a week." She gave me a fine and wicked smile, a carnal smile and smoothed down her dress.

I knuckled my forehead and got to work, well satisfied with the compromise and my bedroom performance, which I had to admit had been first rate and long lasting. I was sure she had come five times that morning before I achieved my first shot and lost count in the confusion that followed.

I tended her herd and did the chores, mended the fences and grubbed out the ditches, and I plowed her deep and true every other night; Monday, Wednesday, Friday and then again on Saturday after we returned from town. On the next Sunday morning, she actually crowed her delight the first time she came. Her slaves and servants seemed to accept me as part of the family, obviously well-aware of my extra duties.

"Now," I said, as we lay resting on the third Saturday evening, holding hands and hoping our bodies would recover enough to join again, "how about tomorrow evening since we had fun on Friday and that would be the next every-other-day?" My goal was to mount her daily and twice on Sunday if at all possible.

"I'm entertaining tomorrow," she said. "Sorry."

"Damn," I said, kissing my way down between her lush breasts to lick her erect nubbin for a while since it drove her crazy and then kiss my way back up to her mouth by way of her nipples and slide my tired but hardened ram back into her. She wrapped me in her strong legs, kicked my rump, and we were off again on a fine ride and left us both ready for sleep after she had howled out her pleasure.

In the morning she tossed me out of her big bed after a single but quite strenuous rogering. "Company today," she said. "Behave yourself."

I did my work and ignored the guests which she and her house servant and cook tended to, but when they had left, I went to the back door, horny and hopeful of finding the women in a receptive mood as the sun set.

She invited me in, brought me to the parlor and introduced me to a slim, veiled woman dressed all in black who sat in a straight-backed chair, knees primly together, hands in lap and womanly chest thrust forward under a beaded jacket. It was a quite impressive chest. And very long legs. My cock trembled.

"Mrs. McLean," she said, "the widow McLean. Her minister husband died very recently, and she is just learning about the rigors of mourning, poor girl."

I took the woman's slim hand, murmured my condolences and admired her fine body. She was wearing a heavy veil dangling from a small, tri-cornered hat so I could not see her face very well. Her silken dress with its short, open jacket displayed her fine chest, trim waist and straight back. Her dress fit her like a glove to her hips before it spread to a wide hem of black velvet. She wore long black leather gloves. A row of tiny onyx buttons marched down between her pointed breasts and across her narrow waist and puff of a belly and then all the way to the floor. I do not believe I had ever seen so many buttons on a woman's dress nor a woman's body any more lush and inviting than the Widow McLean's.

I was, despite my best efforts to resist, quite obviously stimulated, stretching my codpiece fully and a bit painfully. The lissome widow, I guessed or hoped, was in great need, and I was ready and willing to fill her body's needs, assuming they were indeed carnal. I certainly did not feel like praying with her for either guidance or relief.

"Sheila is my dear and true friend," my employer was saying when I got my attention back to her and off the sleek thighs of the woman on the straight-backed chair, the one with quivering jugs the size of ripe melons. "And I have told her than we, you and I, will do our best to ease her year of mourning, her time of loneliness."

I sat where the madam indicated and tried to figure out where to put my hands. I crossed my legs to conceal my growing erection and tried not to lick my chops. My cock was getting painful, especially after I tried to stuff it down my pants' leg.

"Sheila is going to stay with me for a bit," she was saying. "That's allowed, to stay with another woman. She simply cannot be seen with a gentleman for a year, no suitors at all. It's her church, her late husband's congregation that makes the rules I fear. The rules are quite different for men."

I nodded stupidly, undressing the woman slowly in my mind.

"She's barely twenty," my more mature widow was saying with a secret smile. "Married at seventeen, wasn't it?" The girl nodded, peeled back her veil, sat up even straighter and put her limpid eyes on me. She had a soft and pouting mouth, and I immediately longed to sink my cock between those luscious lips.

Later she told me she had actually been only fifteen when she wed and was now barely eighteen. "And she knows that you are helping me get through this difficult time." The widow cocked an eyebrow at me. She was lovely, Sheila was, still youthfully soft with pale hair. She looked hungry, needy, nervous, and, I guessed, horny. She was unconsciously rubbing her mounded thighs together. She licked her lips and left them parted. My pike jerked as Sheila's hard nipples moved up and down beneath her dress.

I glanced at my employer and returned her arched eyebrow.

"So," she said, smiling, "if you will, you may serve her on the days you are not scheduled for my bed."

I nodded, rapidly hardening, surprised by the frankness. "And on Saturday, madam?" I asked with a smile.

She laughed and the girl sitting with her gloved hands in her lap trembled and glanced at my bulging groin which appeared to conceal a large turtle or small beast of prey. My cock was bent nearly double and reaching up toward my waistband. I could see her eyes widening under her heavy lashes even though she ducked her head and looked at the floor. She swallowed, licked her lips and gave me a shy smile as my root continued to lengthen and swell. I crossed my legs the other way and pushed it down, sausage long and wurst thick.

"Saturday," she said, "Sheila and I shall toss a coin or, perhaps, you can do us both."

"Agreed," I said, standing and ignoring my aching bulge. "I shall do my very best, ma'am, you can be sure of that."

"Well, I should hope so," said my smiling widow, glancing at my groin. "This poor girl has been married to a man more than three times her age, and he's been dead and buried for six weeks. This, today, was the first time she has been out of her house. She is in dire need. Besides, I've bragged on you something awful."

Sheila McLean took my offered hand and stood quickly, her lush boobies jiggling about atop her tight-laced stays, eyes glistening, lips parted, large nipples prominent beneath the silk and lace. She was a tall one, perhaps an inch or two more than five and half feet, and she probably weighed in at about eight or nine stone. Her light blonde hair hung halfway down her back, a pale waterfall.

She was built like a succubus, the very fecund image of her sex, all curves and roundness, with as fine a pair as I had seen on any woman, each beautifully shaped, wonderfully high, grandly plump and sharply pointed, well more than a handful, closer to a quart than a pint, their hard tips pointed slightly away from each other. She was high waisted and had a good ass as well, firm, full, well rounded and with tapering thighs and, I soon discovered, dimpled cheeks. She smiled up at me and said my name quietly. "I hope we can be friends," she almost whispered.

I admired her long neck, arched back, tiny waist and heart-shaped bottom. She seemed to have been sewed into her dress, it fit so well. Her soft mouth begged to be kissed, to be chewed and bruised.

"I'm sure," I said, tucking her arm in mine, my brain congealed and my thought on one thing only and hoping I was not going to come before my time as I rubbed my elbow against her firm breast and smiled, evilly I suspect.

"The front bedroom," our hostess said gaily. "Pleasant dreams."

I tried to control my eagerness as we mounted the stairs, but the girl held my arm against her warm body, up on her jutting breast touching a hardening nipple along my biceps. She exuded an intoxicating smell, musky it was but flower sweet as well. Her hair was lustrous and her eyes gleamed. She jiggled various portions as she walked, both fore and aft, rotating her hips and buttocks.

In an age when smallpox was a common scourge, she had porcelain-like skin. She also had arched black eyebrows and long curved lashes. I was tempted to rip her clothes from her and have her on the staircase but somehow controlled my vulpine urges, and we made it to the bedroom and closed the door before we fell into each other's grasp and put our mouths and tongues and bellies and chests and legs and pubic bones together. My hands roamed her young body, mashed her to me, and she had to push me away to get her breath, looking a bit frightened, our groins grinding at each other, seeking solace.

I shucked out of my boots and britches, tossing clothes everywhere, but when I sat on the side of the quilt-covered bed in just my shirt, my rigid shaft extended up like a crooked fence rail, pulsing and jumping while well out of sight although tenting out my shirttail, she was still fully clothed except for her short jacket and came to stand before me, looking sad and worried like a child who had lost her doll. She sniffed and touched my cheek while my eager ram, pointed up toward the ceiling, squeezed out drops of liquid balm and my shaft became oaken.

"It's wrong," she said, as she stood between my hairy legs with her hands clasped at her puffball of a groin, the mound I wanted to enter as soon as I could so I could bounce upon it. "I know it's wrong."

I began unbuttoning her small, black buttons, caressing her with the heels of my hands, pushing her swelling orbs upward. "It's wicked," she sighed, standing before me like a statue, a lithe goddess, putting her hands on my shoulders, her globular breasts right in my face. I licked my lips before I kissed the top of both as I spread open her silk. "It's probably a sin."

My fingers worked rapidly and I soon was able to peel her slick black bodice from her warm white body. I tossed it away, pulled her closer and again kissed the tops of the luscious breasts that arched up like rounded mountain peaks, sugarloafs for me to climb, candies to be devoured.

"We shouldn't." she said, removing a comb and shaking loose her hair. She sighed, and I pulled her head down and kissed her deeply and then tongued her throat and sucked her jutting nipples, both of them, until they stuck out like ruby thumbs above her lacy frills, my hands full of her hard buttocks as she arched up to my mouth, eyes closed tightly. She trembled and made noises deep in her throat, her breathing quite rapid, mouth open slightly.

She unhooked her wide skirt and stepped from it showing that the other long row of buttons was simply decoration, bending so her warm breasts rolled across my face. I mouthed them eagerly and then buried my nose in the warm valley between them. Then she quickly undid her small set of stays from her narrow waist and tossed them aside while I nibbled and kneaded.

I put my hands on her knees and raised them slowly, barely touching her smooth skin and stripping her soft shift from her softer body and revealing all of her voluptuous beauty: her deep navel, her bud-tipped breasts, her small triangle of golden curls, puffy lips, smooth collarbones, narrow waist and rounded thighs and shapely calves.

She trembled again as she kicked off her shoes. I bent, pulled her to me and kissed her belly and then her breasts, dozens of kisses. I was fiercely hard, locked into an upright position by iron hinges and trembling with anticipation, possessor of a rigidly curved steel rod of pulsing, thick-veined, overheated meat demanding immediate attention and steady friction. It dripped in anticipation.

My turgid ram rose beneath my shirt tail as I laid kisses on her pink and writhing flesh, sucked her protruding nipples, stroked her smooth back and kneaded her firm buttocks. I feasted, nipping and licking. She moaned as I turned her about in my hands, fluttered fingers across her hardening nipples and heaving stomach, teased her secrets places, massaged her ripe mound and then pulling her closer still and sliding a finger up into her. My striving pike slid up her legs and across her belly to be mashed between us, throbbing with blood flow. I pushed it down and right between her legs it jutted, pressing up in her crease, anointing her tiny prick with my essence as she undulated.

"Please," she sighed, her head on my shoulder as I poked at her, probing hard, "be gentle. My husband was seventy, nearly seventy when he died in my bed, in my arms. He only..." She stopped as I resisted the temptation to have her where she stood and pulled her from her feet, laid her upon the bed and tucked her under the covers. She sighed, and I pulled my shirt over my head and rolled in beside her proceeded by a quivering spear of inordinate length and increasing girth, its helmeted head a ripe plum, the jolting veins on its rigid surface knotted and throbbing, its tip already moist and its long shaft oak hard. My stones had congealed into a huge ball now tight against my cock's base, pumping for release, aching for action.

"You are nice and warm," I said, palming an upright breast and running a startled nipple between my fingers. She purred, eyes closed, lips parted.

"He, my good husband, the reverend, he did his best, but only once a month, usually, sometimes not even that, a Sunday evening." She stopped again as I got up between her legs and spread her thighs with my knees. Her eyes widened as she looked down between her jutting breasts as my reaching pike, the head of which now touched her pubic hair and roamed up her belly, probing her deep navel before sliding down to her pouting lips, bumping gently into her tiny bud and stroking her quivering slit, making a wet path for the much grander mass to follow.

She shivered. I had never seen a more desirable woman beneath me or felt myself more eager to enter one. She spread her legs even wider with her hands ubder her thighs, biting at her lower lip as she raised her knees beside my ribs.

"He only came to my bed on the first Sunday," she said again, very quietly and calmly, fluttering her eyes as I stroked her to readiness with my fiery ram's sensitive head. Her crevice was deep and hairy but tiny, the lips turned in to a pink and barely visible cock head. "But he stayed until I told him that I, oh, oh my. Oh law. Oh god, god, god."