An Excerpt from Jeanne Barrack's A Song of the Sidhe
County Tipperary -- in the realm of the Tiobraid Árann Sidhe
“Harder, my fine young bull, and make me come.”
Donal Bawn strove with all his skill to satisfy the lust of Maire Finn, the eager young widow. Her curves called to him. He'd been tempted by her sweet, round arse shining white in the moonlight streaming in the window as she lay asleep. He woke her up, his massive erection prodding her into awareness. He had wrung her dry with the power of his lovemaking earlier, but here he was, still full of energy.
And ready to fuck her again.
Maire thrust against him, gasping with each movement. She gripped the carved headboard, the glow of the hearth fire gilding the wood. Tears of joy fell from her bright gray eyes as wave after wave of pleasure washed over her. She hadn't dreamed she'd any strength left after a day filled with so many climaxes she'd lost count, but somehow she'd found the energy.
Her aged husband had been laid in his grave just six days past, and her ten years of disappointment in the marriage bed had weighed heavy upon her. She was desperate. She burned.
Her husband had had a sharp eye, but a limp dick. Never did he leave her out of his sight, making sure the servants spied on her when he was gone on business. Soon enough she had resorted to inanimate objects to give her some surcease.
She'd spent the past decade of her life screwing herself with her fingers and, when that wasn't enough, a knife handle, a candle -- anything long and thick.
No more. The moment he died, she'd fired the servants and looked for a real live man to fuck her.
Whispers of the carpenter, Donal Bawn's, prowess passed from female to female at the market, at the miller's, at the linen making -- any place women gathered.
Hearing the tales, she'd sent round for him under the pretext of hiring him to repair chairs broken during the wake.
He'd arrived bright and early.
“Long life and good health to the woman of the house.”
Doffing his cap and bobbing his head, a lock of his curly gold hair fell upon his fine broad brow.
Maire herself had opened the door, her hair unbound and falling to her waist like that of an unwed maiden. Seeing Donal's sun-bright curls, her fingers itched to touch them.
“And the same to you, Donal Bawn. Come in then. I've a need for your ... skill.” Her eyes gleamed and her hand trembled as she ushered him in.
Donal saw and recognized the true need she had of him, and he locked the door behind him. He laid his tool bag and cap upon the table.
The candlelight flickered. The pure wax tapers in the silver candlesticks shone like white lilies.
Maire sighed as the light revealed the bulge in Donal's breeches. The women had not lied. He was hung like a bull.
She waited while he gazed around the room.
“And where might I find the chairs needing to be fixed?”
She smiled, displaying a set of pearly white teeth. Her minty breath, as she drew near Donal, stirred his cock.
She laid her slim hand upon his arm and drew him close so that their breaths mingled.
“Come with me, my fine man, and I'll show you what needs mending.”
She led him through the door into a bedchamber. Thick wax rods lit up the room. A simple wooden armchair sat next to the bed.
“'Tis this chair -- there's one leg wobbling. 'Twill barely support my weight. Here, I'll show you.”
She glided across the floor, the fine linen gown clinging to her womanly curves.
Donal sucked in his breath.
She turned and sat. Her eyes never leaving his, she spread wide her legs, flipping her dress up to her thighs, displaying her fine, downy mound.
Ah, she was quite the bold lass.
“See, should I move, the chair shifts back and forth. Come, take a closer look.” Her coaxing tones brought him back to the task at hand.
Donal took two broad strides, bringing him to stand between her outspread legs.
“Kneel down, Donal, and see can you find what the trouble is.”
He knelt, his face level with her curls, and inhaled her musky scent.
She pressed her slim, pale fingers between her nether lips, opening them like a flower. “Well, and do you think you can help me?”
He raised his head, his soft words wafting between her thighs. “I can but try.”
And he did. Throughout the day, he worked his magic on her needy body. Plying his tongue and teeth and lips, he brought her to one climax after another.
He impaled her with his prick and she died the little death she eagerly sought.
He took her on the chair -- which supported even the weight of two vigorous lovers. She sat naked on his lap, her plump white breasts bobbing before him like juicy apples as she slid up and down his cock. She squeezed him with her inner muscles and he groaned.
“Ah, you're killing me, my lovely girl. But don't stop. 'Tis a grand way to die.”
She leaned forward, her tits within reach of his lips. He latched onto one cherry-ripe nipple and suckled greedily.
Her breath caught in her throat and a pain, sharp and sweet, darted deep within her. A wave of passion greater than any she'd known swept over her and she came.
She flung her head back and gripped his shoulders, clinging to him. As the last ripple faded away, she fell forward, tears springing from her eyes.
Donal gathered her close, his hands brushing her slim back with the tender touch of a parent comforting a child. “Hush, now, mo mhuirnin , my dearest. 'Tis no reason to cry.”
She gulped and swiped her eyes. Her fingers caressed his chest, lightly furred with swirls of golden-colored hair. She ran her hands over the well-defined muscles of his shoulders and arms and wondered at his ability to control his grip. She compared them to the stringy, flabby arms of her late husband and her tears fled. She pressed her bosom to his chest, her nipples hardening into firm nubbins.
“Aye, there's no reason for tears now.” Her smile was deep and full of joy. “Take me to bed, my lover.”
© Jeanne Barrack, March 2006
All Rights Reserved
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