Joy V. Sheridan writes

Charity Amour

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

The priest’s voice marked the air like low drifts of incense, though at this hurried and unplanned marriage there was in evidence no choir or altar boy. His voice was low but clear and each word had a speedy articulation. The church was cold, damp, with the thin light of a winter’s morning peeping through the badly broken coloured windows. The man of the cloth spoke in passably good English, which fact added an additional blessing to Charity’s straining ears.

They were fortunate indeed to have located such a person: willing, without the unnecessary rigmarole of issuing banns, and such like, to wed them. Perhaps the gold coin Lord Clover had pressed upon the cassocked priest had smoothed him into a quick and positive decision. He was a clever man and liked not what he perceived about his country. He was, even then, in the process of planning his own exit from the environs of Bordeaux, pacing himself to seek out and find sunnier climes. He had always wished to see Rome. Mayhap very soon that dream would materialise into fact for him! 

The church was barely decorated: a bowl of winter blooms, a bunch of evergreen hither and thither, a few thin candles of beeswax puffing into the chilly atmosphere. The padre was coming to the end of the wedding service now and though she was still weak from her diverse and multitudinous evil ordeals, Charity felt the trickle of a giggle threatening to disturb her studious countenance. What a ragged party they must have looked! 

Her wedding gown was the same borrowed dove grey velvet hacking jacket and skirt which Molly had purloined from one of the girl’s chambers in the now defunct Château des Amourettes. It was stained here and there with the rubbings of a rude saddle. Her veil was a piece of lace tablecloth which they had located in a cupboard back in the little house which they had rented for a brief period. 

That traditional piece of blue, why that was likewise a ladies garter which Molly had scooped up in her own quest whilst she had been obtaining apparel for Charity from that same Château girl’s chamber. For a second, Charity’s mind flashed back to that all too brief past episode in her life. As she saw in her mind's eye, the haughty beauty, tinged with sadistic malice, of Madame d’Esprit, she shivered. 

Lord Seyton Clover, fast by her side, caught the spasms which her body had uncontrollably produced. He lowered his head and whispered urgently in her ear: “Not much longer, my dearest heart, not much longer.” 

As though to reassure her, he squeezed the hand which he held tenderly in his own. It was warm and alive. Charity turned her face, transformed to an angelic dimension, and smiled lovingly back at him. The voice intoned on, using old and unfamiliar words. Charity could not understand, at this point, what he was saying. Fidgety, she turned and looked behind her, giving Molly an encouraging nod. John Fibbins gave Charity a broad wink. She turned her head around once more and faced the priest. 

The ceremony was concluded. The ring was upon Charity’s finger. It had been a gold signet ring which His Lordship, Lord Seyton Clover, habitually wore on the little finger of his left hand.

They knelt together for the priest’s pronounciation that they were ‘Man and Wife’ and Lord Seyton Clover turned, after the blessing, to affectionately kiss his new bride. 

Charity’s mind was overflowing with pure joy, complete happiness: her cup brimmed over. Could there, she wondered, light-headed with excitement, be a more wonderful, caring, handsome gentleman in the whole world? At that point in time, she doubted it exceedingly. And to think, with the knowledge of the use which others had made of her, he was willing to take her, claim her, as his own. Completely his own. 

 

They followed the vestmented figure into an ante-chamber, although, in actuality, such a grand word did not convey precisely its smallness or general air of neglect and delapidation. Cobwebs hung suspended from the low ceiling. Albeit, there was the heavy brown leather of the Registry and the quill pen and ink-stand beside it. The priest, with ponderous exactitude, opened the heavy tome. He extracted a blank parchment sheet from the back of the book. He indicated that they sign where he indicated. 

As they inscribed their names, the priest was busy filling in details on the parchment. He searched the faces for the two witnesses and of a sudden his face changed. Taking Lord Seyton Clover to one side, he talked in low, accented English. 

“Me Lord, I am sorry to say this, but a thought ’as just crossed my mind. I zink it would be vise if we could procure two French nationals to serve as your written witnesses. Non?” “What: will not our two companions suffice?” “Non, non, monsieur. I am sorry but I am sure that it vill have to be French persons. Oui!" 

Lord Seyton Clover looked both annoyed and baffled. The priest scratched his head and all but flew through a small side door, meanwhile indicating that they stay where they were. Molly looked towards her brother. He said nothing, merely lifted his shoulders fractionally in mute confusion. Molly, with rash excitement, could restrain herself no longer and moved towards Charity, hugging her close and kissing her on the cheeks. 

John Fibbins, not to be outdone, stretched his hand towards his master, who took it, and pumping it up and down, added his own hearty congratulations. There was the hint of a tear in Fibbins's eye and more than a hint of the same in Molly's. 

Turning his directional gaze, he reached over, took a fleeting glance at Lord Seyton Clover and planted a warm, large, brotherly kiss upon Charity's surprised and upturned mouth. The two interlopers moved back sharply to their former positions as the priest re-emerged through the door. On either side of him were figures. A serving maid who looked to be about twenty, all full of blushes and shy smiles, and an elderly man - who, judging by the iced mud about his boots, was a gardener. Charity, sensing humour in the situation, turned towards her new spouse. “M’Lord, I daresay that this is not precisely the quality of nuptials and witnesses which your dear Mama would have expected. And wanted!” He grinned sheepishly: “You are perhaps right, my dear, sweet girl, my new wife - my Charity Amour!” he smiled broadly, “But she is not the one who has recently become wed, whereas I am and if this suits me admirably, who is to find fault in that? 

"I should have wanted it no other way, with you as my bride, now you must believe in that my dearest, dearest heart!”

The priest picked up the quill, examined it, dipped it into the ink, flicked off the excess and handed it first to the elderly man. He eyed the newly weds with a rheumy eye, then he laboured over his signature on the proferred spot. It was a large elaborate X. The maidservant signed next: a large, childish scrawl. 

The priest seemed satisfied and blotted the book before affixing his own signature. He omitted, however, to get the two newly-found witnesses to sign the parchment sheet. This was completely overlooked. The girl, overcome with shy emotion, curtseyed to the newly wed couple and fled, her petticoats flying as she did so. The old man bit his lower lip, his head tilted slightly to one side, then he straightened up and smartly saluted. Lord Seyton Clover broke into a sheaf of smiles and stretched forward his hand to shake that of the old man. Instead, with unexpected agility, the old man kissed both the bride and the groom in true French fashion, on either side of their cheeks. 

With a belated coy smile, he wished them well in French, bowed and made a regal exit from the ante-chamber. The priest, becoming more aware of other pastoral obligations and the time, indicated that they had best all vacate the church and its premises. 

He shook the party quickly by the hand and ushered them out. Locking the door, Charity saw his hand go to the pocket of his cassock. Already beneath the camouflage of cloth, he was counting the gold coins which lay in the hidden pocket. They followed at a slower pace to where their horses were tethered. The priest, now forgetful of all but his impending journey to Italy, spurred his own mount at a furious speed homeward. Her inner arm, near the elbow, “Tis your own. But then, sweetest, I am overally, so very, very tired. I should really wish to conserve my energy for our return journey to London.” “Is that why you whispered to me downstairs that you needed a rest? Why 'tis not yet more than five of the clock and I am feeling a little hungry, Your Lordship!”

"True, true: my appetites also need appeasing.”  He smiled as he spoke the words, his eyes closed, his features reposed but with a hint of instant virility shadowing the mouth and lids. Charity shivered and pushed herself deeper under the sheet. She pulled it up tight, so that it rested beneath her chin. Strange, she felt both hot and cold; the proximity of her new husband was mayhap having an unusual effect upon her constitution. 

He leaned across the pillow, a lock of dark hair falling over his right eye and he nestled his cheek against that of his young bride’s. She began to feel tremors in her stomach, like butterflies wearing old-fashioned armour, a slight suggestion of nausea too, in her mouth, occasioned by her own nervous apprehension. It was a sensation which spoke both of fear and pleasure. So, this was the emotion of a bride, she thought. 

Then, his lips were upon her own, her tightly-closed mouth surrendering under the onslaught of his ardent kissing. She felt their mixed salivas lubricating her mouth as his tongue forced her lips wider apart. She could taste the bitter-sweet taste of wine upon his tongue, felt a wave of fear and nausea and desire, all intermingled with a fired lustfulness, scorching through her body, kindling her amorous spirit. She was heated thoroughly with a flame for ardour which was both hot and cold. He was beginning to breathe deeply, his lips became more urgent, demanding. He was moving his body on top of hers. 

“Do not be afraid, my beautiful darling. It is only nature’s way of a man with a maid. And we are wed, my innocent one, wed! Do not let what has happened to you so recently in the past frighten you. I shall - God forbid - never harm you! Oh! I want you so much my lovely Charity, so much darling heart.”

He groaned into her hair, which lay spread about the whiteness of the pillow. As she opened her eyes wider, she saw with a shock, that his had been tightly closed. They flickered open as she strained to look at him. Now they were looking at each other, across the joining of their noses. Charity giggled and before she had a chance to move from under him, he had renewed his attentions. Again, she felt that flame of passion pass up from her toes to the tip of her head. Again

she felt the heavy weight of his maleness pressing down upon her. He moved his hands, the upper parts of his arms were strangely hirsute. As was the mapping of fine hair which covered his chest.

This same said chest was now pressed firmly down upon the pillowing of Charity's ample bosom. He reached with his tongue, extended and hard furrowed, licking her down the side of her neck. Surely he would feel the throb in her neck? Then he had his tongue between the flesh mountains of her breasts. He was kissing softly, licking and nibbling and pulling at her nipples.

He moved away from her, supported himself upon his elbows, surveying the ripening strawberries which his tongue had coaxed from the swelling ground of her breasts. 

Her nipples stood erect, like two sentries, erect and expectant. Next he moved his head, the hair - soft, thick and silky - tickled against her belly as he kissed her in his downward passage of amorous pilgrimage. He was kissing her all the way, moving his tongue and lips from the petite crater of her belly button down to that triangulated, slightly raised mound of flesh and hair, which Madame d’Esprit had so longingly called the Mount of Venus: Charity’s own gateway to Paradise. 

He had his tongue even busier now, examining and caressing every cranny, every nook, every piece of tantalising lividly hot flesh. Charity sensed herself arching up in blissful expectancy. With a sudden shift, he was upon her, his tool knocking at the gates, begging admittance. With a thrust and a gasp he was inside her, moving slowly at first, then more rapidly. Up and down rapturously inside her. “I...am...not hurting you, my lovely girl?” “No...oh, no...” That was not exactly true, for despite her recent man-handling Charity was still a virgin. It was hurting more than slightly, for his manhood seemed to be growing inside her with every thrust he made. He sensed her discomfiture and altered his timing, so that his thrusts became slower. In the meantime, his fingers were busy working around the tongue of flesh which Madame had so often tempted into producing in Charity, feelings of utter ardour and bliss. Her body began to move in tandem with his own.

Slow, it was all so slow, building, building, up and up and up. With a sudden thrust, he was sucking hard at her teats, then grabbing hold of her breasts hard, he moved with increased vigour for a few seconds, then lay still. He had done. And she? She felt as though she were hanging by one hand over a cliff-top, waiting for something to happen. He moved off her and lay, sated and smiling, on his back beside her. 

“Not too traumatic, my lovely, was it? For a first time of nuptial experiencings, I believe we have made a good start at our mutual physical understanding.” “You are right, husband dear. Mayhap, now that the maidenhead has been broached, I shall learn to truly adore our love-making.” “I knew that you were untouched, my love, despite what has happened to you. Believe me, sweetest, it would not have made any difference had things been otherwise. Should you wish to clean yourself up a trifle?” “I have a linen towel here,” she said, busy at that precise time, drying in between her legs. “I think that now, sweet heart, that I may take forty winks. You shan’t mind wife, shall you?” “No, certainly not, my dear, kind husband.”

He turned from her and was soon fast asleep. Charity tried to rest, but even with her eyes clenched tight shut, she could not ignore the uneven comb of frustration which was raking at her loins. Surely there must be something she could do to release these tensions? Vague memories of Natalie d’Esprit rose before her mind's eye. She tried to push the face and the moving hands from her mind, but they persisted in swimming about inside her head. 

Her hand, all but subconsciously, reached down to her genitals. Finger splaying, she began to fondle her most intimate area. 

She moved herself so that she could play with herself more accurately, the fingers doing the work which Madame Natalie d’Esprit had used upon her and shown her. She was beginning to pant, burying her breath in the pillow, needing desperately to reach her ultimate release point, when she felt a stirring behind her.

Her husband had felt her movements and with a hoarse grunt of excitement in his voice, he whispered to her to continue in what she was doing. She felt him mount up behind her and as she manipulated herself, urging her body up and up and up, he was inside her, riding her fast and furiously. She felt the rush of her own pleasures, quickly followed by the pleasurable throb of his vast tool exploding inside of her. 

They lay quiet and still for some moments and then, with a renewed vigour, he had turned her over on her back, her legs pushed up so that she was bent at the knees, her legs striking the space above her. He was licking now, drinking their juices, moaning lowly to himself, his tongue and his throat making animalistic, guttural slurping noises. 

She felt the slightest tremor of fresh pleasure awaiting her. 

Oh! How she longed to be taking the full length of his erect penis into some part of herself. Blind with longing, her eyes clenched closed, she reached out with shaking breath and trembling hands. 

He moved his head, she slipped beneath him, so that she took most of his hugely erect phallus into her oral orifice. He resumed his position about her cunt. Harder and harder he thrust with his tongue: swallowed, sucked, tickled and withdrew. She let his penis rest upon her swollen lips, then slowly she fed it back between her lips again. On and on they went. Charity came up for air and he pushed her around, her most intimate part still nestling upon the juicy cavern of his craven mouth. He removed his mouth. “I cannot stand ... this ... temptation ... much ... longer.” 

He dipped and thrust into her, pulling her hard up and down upon himself. She was beginning to climax again. Then, in earnest, he pushed her onto her back, his teeth busy about her nipples, sucking upon them, his hands pummelling the vast expanse of breasts, his tool - over-powered and over-loaded once more - knocking about the entrance to their mutual ecstasies. 

He was inside her. She clung to him, biting his shoulder. Away, away, they went, heaving forth from the tangled mess of the bedsheets. With a startled, half choked cry, she yelled out, he followed suit. They felt the ripples of a volcanic explosion cover them with the calming lavic flow of Amour’s celebratory rites completed. Sated for a few minutes, they lay back, arms entwined, upon the buffetted pillows. “I think that we shall be perfectly happy together, my sweetest heart.” “I too agree dear husband. For it does seem, from my limited experience, that we promise to make a perfect fit!” There was a smile in her voice and upon her countenance as she murmured the words. “There really is nothing to be afraid of, from the right man, is there, dearest, dearest Charity?” “No...no,” she continued to murmur, “How lucky I am, Seyton, that despite all else, it should be you who has shown me the pinnacle of love’s most powerfullest point. The burning tip of the flame, the crescendo of love and desire and honesty and truest tenderest care. Oh, I am almost too happy!” “And I,” said Lord Seyton Clover, stirring once more, his hands reaching towards the ripening fruit of his beautiful young bride’s melon-like and accommodating breasts.