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On a warm fall morning, you’re collecting mushrooms in the woods when you see him.
At first, you’re terrified. You didn’t think you’d strayed into the boundaries of the Avençon estate. Taking anything from the count’s grounds would constitute theft, and be punishable with terrible consequences.
But you haven’t. You’re still on the correct side of the brook, and the distant sound of the hunting dogs and horses’ hooves are on the other side. A horse is tethered to a tree on the opposite bank.
Beside the white horse, man is stripping off his black tunic and shirt and then lowering his trousers, swiftly and without a care in the world. He’s panting, a bit flushed. Maybe they rode hard at their morning hunt, he and Count Pierre.
You know who he is right away: Jacques Le Gris. He’s come to collect taxes from neighboring estates more than once, bringing brutes with him, leaving with sacks of coin and nary a spot of blood on his finery.
You’ve heard the highborn ladies talk about him, too, his quick smile, dark hair and powerful, athletic body. But like any man, even a handsome one, he’s best kept at a distance. Men can turn threatening, even deadly, at any moment.
Especially this one; he’s so huge no woman could stand a chance against him, and most men wouldn’t either. He’s fast, too.
You should quietly slip away. You know you should, but when he finishes removing his clothing and wades into the cool stream with a sigh, your breath catches and you can’t look away.
You’ve never seen a naked man before. Many women haven’t, the married ones allowing their husbands to commit the marital act with nightgowns raised and under a pile of blankets.
And what a sight he is. Slim-hipped and thick with muscle, sparse dark hairs forming a patch over his chin and between his legs. Your eyes are drawn to testicles the size of plums, or maybe apples, hanging low as he crouches in the water, splashing it over his face and shoulders. And his cock… your eyebrows lift of their own accord, your gaze fixed helplessly on the length and girth of him as it swings, soft, between his thighs. You don’t really have any other cocks to compare it to, but the fat summer sausage your neighbors had for dinner comes to mind.
Meaty. Delicious. Worth of a nice squeeze. Your hands itch. You’ll be a married woman someday, but you doubt he’ll be the likes of Le Gris.
You should not be watching him from behind a tree. It’s extremely perilous, because only God knows what Le Gris would do if he caught you spying on him. Your heart pounds, your throat gone dry. You tell yourself you will turn away. You will.
He stands, sighing again, running his wet hands over the muscled planes of his shoulders and chest to cool himself. This man has the body of a god, and perhaps he knows it, the way he’s spreading his legs to plant his feet apart, rolling his head around to stretch his neck, thinking he’s hidden by the trees.
You should go. Now. He’s standing up, the creek no higher than his calves; all he has to do is look around carefully, and he’ll see you, fewer than twenty-five meters away on the other side of the stream.
He’s magnificent. He’s dangerous.
You saw a wolf once, by this same stream, at dusk, lowering its head to drink, its gorgeous silver-white fur dappled with shadow. The wolf was beautiful too, but just as lethal to approach, just as deadly if he were to sense your presence.
You curl your fingers into your palms, knowing you’ve seen more than you should, and the image will be burned into your eyelids when you’re lying on your straw-stuffed mattress tonight, trying to sleep.
You’re leaving. You set your jaw, resolute.
And then the gloriously naked Le Gris tips his head back, gives another soft sigh, and starts to piss into the creek.
At first, it’s just sporadic drips, and you almost miss it because water’s running off his fair skin in other places – his fingertips, his knees. But the spray emerging from the tip of his foreskin is unmistakable, especially when he raises a hand to gently hold his cock, idly stroking the foreskin up and back as the spurts coalesce into a steady stream.
Your jaw drops open, but you hardly notice. You’re spellbound.
He gives a low moan of satisfaction as he really lets go, relaxing his posture, his stream thickening into a torrent that makes an audible hiss as it leaves his body to break the surface of the water he’s standing in.
He pisses for what feels like an eternity, and you’re frozen in place in your hiding spot. Watching him in this raw, masculine act – the most ancient message, to establish dominance over land and animals alike – makes your cunt throb, your undergarments soon soaked with your arousal. You’ve never seen anything like this, never felt anything like this, even as you hid in the pantry or under the covers to touch yourself.
When he started, he’d been hanging his head back, jaw relaxed, lips parted. Now, he tips his head down to watch himself piss, his fine features arranged into an expression of bliss. It must have been a long morning without a break, and he’s been holding it all this time, waiting for this, the ostensibly private indulgence of releasing his bladder out in the free air, polluting the pristine water with his body’s fluid.
A primal groan rumbles from his chest as he plays with his cock, still pissing, a few of his long fingers slipping through the pale golden stream where it emerges from the tip. His dick twitches and starts to swell before your eyes, becoming longer and broader, reddening as he rubs his palm along the shaft.
Your thighs clench. You know what that is, you’ve come upon the village drunk behind the tavern more than once, pleasuring himself. And this is what Le Gris is doing, pleasuring himself while he urinates, unmindful of the open air and for that matter, any villager who might be drawing water from the creek downstream from him.
He must have a bladder the size of an ale barrel, because he keeps pissing as he wraps his hand tighter around his half-erect dick, lazily pumping the base, his other hand now moving to cup his sac, his thumb nestled between the globes.
You’re so enthralled by the view of his still-pissing member that you almost forget the precariousness of your situation, how imperative it is that you not be discovered. You glance up at his face, and you’re horrified to see he’s staring straight at you.
You freeze, hoping against hope it’s just a casual glance in your direction, that he’ll be too distracted with his task to realize you’re there.
There’s a flicker in his stream – just the briefest interruption – before more piss rushes out, and he closes his eyes as he sighs again, louder this time, cock hardening in his hand as he begins to pull on himself more rhythmically. His stream tapers off, finally, the last few drops shaken away as he twists his hand around his cock.
You still don’t move, afraid any movement will give you away if he opens his eyes again. You’re practically scared enough to wet yourself – wouldn’t that be inconvenient? – but he doesn’t shout, doesn’t call out, doesn’t run out of the stream and give chase.
He might not have seen you. You pray, fearing God will not hear you as you stand there in your willing sin, that he didn’t see you.
And he must not have, because what he’s doing now is even more immoral than peeing, which surely everyone must do at some point or another.
You were wrong about the summer sausage. Comparisons for Le Gris’s fully erect cock can only be found in the vegetable garden, among the late-summer zucchini and the cucumbers, maybe the long-necked squash that has an especially buttery flesh.
A small whimper escapes your throat as you watch him jerk himself off, slowly at first, and then with more speed, supporting his sac in his other hand. Your clit throbs with a steady pulse, light contractions flickering over your vulva, out of your control. You press your legs together beneath your linen dress, willing yourself to be silent.
You can’t help it. He’s the most attractive man you’ve ever seen, and there’s so much of him on display, every defined muscle flexing as he works himself from root to tip, starting to pant. It’s clear he harbors no guilt about what he’s doing, simply taking his pleasure where he finds it. You suppose that’s what it means to be a man of means, especially one known at court. He can take whatever he wants, wherever he finds it. At the very least, he’ll try.
He utters a filthy expletive and bites his lip, the sound of skin slapping skin echoing across the rushing water. His eyes remain closed, and you seize the chance to slip behind the tree, blocked from his view at last.
You can still hear him, panting as he jacks himself off, and it’s doing things to you. You understand now, all the winks and elbowing among the ladies who’ve had dalliances with him. He’s incredible to look at, a specimen of sheer male magnetism that you wouldn’t be able to resist. You want him. You know what that means, now, too.
You want him to lift your skirt as you’re doing right now, hidden behind the tree, sliding his huge hands up your thighs. You want him to slip his hand between your folds, drenching it in moisture, letting the nub of your clit spring back under his questing fingers.
The visual of him as he pissed freely reappears in your mind’s eye, and you bite back a moan. You don’t really understand why that’s so appealing, but nonetheless you imagine his hot piss on your own fingers, running in rivulets down your thighs.
Your pussy is clenched tight around the fingers you are plunging inside, desperate for relief in your hiding place. It’s foolish, what you’re doing, but you can’t help yourself. It’s him. He’s bewitched you with his magic, and nothing can break the spell until you make yourself come.
At some point in the last minute, the sounds of his masturbation across the creek have died down, and you wonder if he’s come. You would liked to have seen that, his spend splashing over his chiseled torso.
You rub your clit more frantically, holding your breath as not to be heard. You’re almost there. You’ll be released from this pain, the agony of lusting after someone who lives in a world of brutal violence, a viperous wild thing with fey allure.
“Hello, little fawn,” a voice says.
You shriek, dropping your skirts, slamming your back against the tree so hard that you bite the inside of your cheek.
Le Gris is there, within arm’s reach, leaning on a neighboring tree. His arms are crossed over his bare chest, the rest of him still sublimely, and shamefully, nude. You avert your eyes, your whole face aflame.
“M’sieur,” you choke out, scrambling for what to say to excuse yourself, to cover the ruinous truth. “I… did not see you there.”
A low rumbling sound comes from Le Gris, and you look up to see he’s laughing, his skin crinkling at the corners of his eyes. Still, there’s menace in their depths.
“That is quite a bold lie, little one. I’m certain that you saw me. At length.”
The way he enunciates length makes your eyes flick downward before you can stop yourself. His hard prick is still swollen and red, bobbing a bit with his movements. You tear your eyes away, ashamed and terrified.
He straightens up and comes closer, caging you between his arms against the tree that, till now, had been your sanctuary. “At first I thought you were a fawn,” he says, tracing a finger over your cheek and jaw, then down your neck. “A little one orphaned by the hunt. We killed so many today. Peak of the season, you know.”
“Y-yes, m’sieur Le Gris.”
He cocks his head, his brow arched. “So you do know who I am. I’m not sure if that makes your peeping braver or more foolhardy.” He examines your face, reaching up to hold your jaw in one huge hand while you tremble. He turns your head from side to side, looking closely. “I’ve seen you. You’re the one who’s always in the herb garden when we pass on the neighboring estate. Maybe the cooper’s oldest girl? Just a guess.”
Alarm shoots through you, because he’s right. He does know who you are. He can find your family, he can destroy you, and them. The threat buried in all his talk of orphaned fawns becomes clear. Tears well from your eyes and spill over.
He sees your tears, and ignores them. “Are you yet a maid, little fawn?”
The next thing you know, he’s hitched your legs around his waist and lifted you up against the tree. You’re weightless in his arms, no match for his superior strength.
He grabs the hem of your skirt and pushes it up over your knees. You know you can’t stop him, that you’ve brought this all on yourself—have you? He could just ask you to apologize, and leave—but in any case, you don’t have any recourse. His fingers reach between your legs and rend your undergarments, neatly, the ripped parts falling aside.
“I’m a maid. Please d-don’t ruin me, monsieur,” you beg, your face twisted away, tears burning hot paths down your cheeks.
He sighs, sounding bored, and presses the length of his shaft up against you, right in your core, where no one else has ever touched you. He’s satiny hot and the edge of his cockhead sweeps your clit as he rocks into you, making you shudder.
“You are so wet, little fawn,” he says as he leans back to look, pushing your skirts higher. His hand replaces his cock, stroking through your slick just like you’d imagined.
Imagining is one thing, experiencing is another. Dread pools in your stomach even as your juices coat his hand.
“What a naughty little village girl, secretly watching a man go about his business. And you liked it so much, didn’t you?”
He’s toying with your clit, now, and your heart feels like it’s going to burst from your chest. Your breath catches as the pads of his fingers slip over the soaked flesh in an especially pleasurable way.
“Answer me.”
You don’t know what to say; any answer leads to damnation. “Please, milord,” you say.
He chuckles to himself again. “Now there’s an idea. Let’s save your maidenhead for another time, shall we? I’m fairly sure the hunt is done and when Pierre notices me gone, he’ll send the dogs after me, next. So let’s be quick. On your knees, little fawn.”
He stands back and you meet his eyes as he removes his weight. You bend your knees until they hit the packed earth strewn with autumn leaves. You feel too weak to stand, anyway, every inch the coltish, scared animal he’s been calling you.
“Your mouth for my silence,” he says from what appears to be miles above your head. His hand aims his cock at your lips. “Be a good girl and take it sweetly, mind your teeth, and you’ll leave here a virgin with nothing to fear for your reputation.”
You swallow, staring at his enormous cock, not at all sure how you’ll fit it. Still, the deal he’s offering is a relatively good one. You’d do almost anything to save yourself from ruin and your family from scandal.
You could run, though he’d probably catch you easily. He is naked, so he’s at a bit of a disadvantage.
No. If he means what he says, it’s much better to let him use your mouth and join the ranks of women he’s fucked in some manner or another, who are probably all utterly forgettable to him. Non-entities, barely human.
It’s what you want, now, to save yourself – anonymity, oblivion. The safest thing for prey is to be beneath the notice of a predator, unworthy of its attention.
You open your mouth and taste his cock. He groans, his hand in your hair, fingers recklessly destroying your braids as you try to swallow more and more of him.
“That’s it,” he whispers as he gives an experimental thrust, making you choke. He withdraws and presses back in until you gag again. Tears well in your eyes again.
“Take my cock, little fawn, since you were so hungry for it.”
Arousal courses through you despite the awkwardness of the situation. A little moan escapes your throat as he pushes all the way to the back.
“Yes, what a dirty girl you are. You watched me piss, didn’t you? Probably never seen a cock before, or a man, for that matter. It’s alright, I understand. Curiosity is natural.”
You try to relax your throat to make more space for him, but he takes up every inch of flesh, every breath of air.
Still, he seems to be enjoying himself, his breath coming faster as he thrusts his hips. “Consider it a lesson, cherie. Here, give me your hands.”
You offer them up to him. He places one under his sac, saying, “Knead them, gently.” You do, earning a moan from his lips. He wraps your other hand below your lips as you’re bobbing on his cock. “Fuck, little fawn, you’re going to make me come.”
You shudder, violently, at the coarse language – no man is permitted to speak that way to a lady, ever – and the second part, that he likes this, that you’re going to finish him, that you’ll get to see him spill after all…
“You like this, too, don’t you?” His voice has gone from seductive purr to growl, and you don’t want to think about what he’d do if he decided to give in to his animal nature, became a beast. He’d annihilate you.
But he’s right – you do like it. You can’t speak, so a whimper around his spit-slick shaft is all the answer you can give.
“Filthy girl. Loves sucking my cock with that gorgeous mouth. Loves watching me piss.” Shame burns behind your eyes but you don’t alter your rhythm, turned on by the crass, degrading language. “Making yourself my little village slut. My little piss whore,” he spits.
You’ve never heard those terms before, but their meaning is clear as soon as you hear them. Your throat vibrates with the force of the sound you make, a pained cry of shock and searing hot arousal.
You dare to look up, and he’s looking at you, his face contorted into a mask of desperation. “Little harder. Little faster,” he whispers to you, hips pumping more frantically.
He pushes too deep, and you try to back off, but he holds you in place, unconcerned with your comfort. You manage to breathe through your nose, just as he changes to quick, shallow thrusts and then nearly shouts with pleasure as he fills your mouth with scalding spurts of come that run down your throat. You swallow, fast as you can, not wanting to choke. He keeps crying out his ecstasy, not even noticing you or that the two of you are ostensibly out in public.
This is the life of a lord – reckless hedonism, endless gratification.
You let his cock slip out, wiping your mouth as he gasps and laughs with delight, regaining his composure bit by bit.
The next thing you know, he catches you under the arms and hauls you to your feet, pushing you back against the tree. “I am curious.”
You start to panic again – would he keep his word? – and he shoves your skirts up, more roughly this time. His palm slides over your sex and you can’t bite back the groan, the heat of his skin pushing you that much closer to orgasm. Wetness is dripping down your thighs.
“Turn around and bend over,” he says, moving you into position without any agreement from you. He reaches back around and strums your clit with his fingers, repeatedly, and your eyelids flutter shut. You’re so close. You need it too badly to resist.
“Let it not be said I’m not a generous man,” he hisses in your ear, changing to a circular rub with the flat of his fingers that makes you see stars. His other hand is lifting your skirts higher and higher, and you start to fear that he’s going to violate you anyway, but nothing happens. No hard member between your legs, and you imagine it would be pretty soon for that, but you don’t know.
“I’m going to give you a gift,” he murmurs as you hump his hand, shamelessly, like an animal.
There’s a primal attraction between the two of you, one that abandons reason and sentiment for pure physical need. You know that he’s not a good man. You know that despite his fine clothes, he’s savage, he hurts people. But it’s secondary to this, to his large, rough fingers on your soaked clit, one shoving just slightly into your cunt. You bear down on it, unable to resist the urge to clench.
“Ready for your present?” His tone is mocking, and it makes you nervous, but you need to come too badly to worry about it for long. “I already know you’ll love it.”
He stops rubbing your clit for a few seconds, and just as you’re about to whine in protest, you feel a stream of hot liquid on your lower back, running down between your butt cheeks.
He’s pissing on you.
You gasp as the stream moves down over your bared ass, back and forth over your thighs. You shudder uncontrollably as he picks up touching your clit again, and the edges of your vision are fading as he lets out a little groan of satisfaction, the pleasure he takes in his body still seeming like a miracle to you.
“Do you like my present?” He aims the flow right into the valley between your thighs, running over your cunt. “You like that, my piss on your little virgin cunt? Huh?”
The relentless, rhythmic pressure on your clit and the feel of that hot jet of piss on your pussy lips – the wrongness of that, the taboo – he’s right, you’re a filthy little piss whore, you must be, who else could love such a thing?
“Answer me,” he growls, still going – you don’t know how it’s possible for one person to hold that much piss, even a giant like Le Gris. It’s bizarre and only makes your sex hot and tight and tips you closer to orgasm. “You love it, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
You start to come, your body convulsing as he nearly slaps your clit with his hand, but it’s the perfect amount of force right now. You’ve never felt anything this good. The sounds that come from your throat are barely human, the raw low screams of a creature in the throes of intense pleasure that shouldn’t exist. It’s dark and you’re drowning in it, shaking, vaguely aware of Le Gris chuckling in satisfaction while you thrash in his arms.
It goes on for much longer than you expect, a lot longer than your little sessions late at night, and when it winds down, the little contractions finally ebbing, the surrounding world begins to take shape again. Autumn leaves, the light smell of decay. The faint odor of piss. Le Gris angles you upright and adjusts your skirt in the back. You can barely stand, let alone move or speak.
“You come like a whore,” he says as he pushes his hair back over his shoulder, still panting a bit. You face him, overwhelmed with fear and shame, but also made anew, somehow sanctified by this debasement.
“Well, you piss like a horse,” you snap at him, and just when you start to wish you’d bitten your tongue, a grin appears on Le Gris’s face and he laughs as he inclines his head in agreement.
“Careful in these woods, little fawn,” he calls back to you as he makes his way down the bank into the creek. When he’s standing in the center, he looks at you over his shoulder. “There are wolves.”
How well you know.