Royal Brit Bastard: a badboy stepbrother romance (8 page)

When Whithers handed over the papers, Roger pulled them from the folder. Some ofthem looked incredibly old. With astonishment, he read, “It says here that Roger Percivant O’Cock, the first Lord Wimbush was a bastard.”

“Really?”

“O’Cock’s father had him with a lady from the tavern as his wife ‘would have none of him,’ according to this.”

He snatched another paper from the pile and said, “So was the second Lord, it seems.”

“I didn’t think that was allowed. Is it?”

He looked sadly at me, “Tradition is that it happens, so long as nobody makes a fuss.”

I pulled out a paper. “Hey, so was this one.”

He said, “This one, too.”

After a diligent search of the records, we discovered that every single one of the Lords of Wimbush up to the twentieth century was the son of the previous lord and a servant girl, somebody else’s wife, or in one case a “lady of the court,” all the way up until they reached the present lord.
 

He, it turned out, had been the product of a union between the former lord and the wife of a Russian attaché.

“Now,” Roger said, wearily pulling out last two clipped pages, “Here’s me.”

He read both sides of the pages in baleful silence. I asked him, “What does it say?” but he held up his hand as he went back to the start and began to read them again. He was quiet as he read, slowly.

“Well?”

He looked dazed as he stared around the room. Then at Wimbush. Then at me. “WELL?” I demanded, “Was Hardforth your father or not?”

“No,” he said, “He was not.”

“So,” I sagged. All this way, all that we’d been through and all of it for absolutely nothing. “So you aren’t a bastard after all.”

“I am.” A confused mixture of a smile and a look of wonder lit his face, “Aren’t I, Whithers.”

“You are, son. You most certainly are.”

I spun around to Whithers, “Whithers?” I stared, “Whithers! So, you?” he nodded gravely, “And so, you and Lady Clarissa…?”

“As was, Miss, yes. Spectacular woman she was. Still is to this day, I’d be willing to bet.” And he dabbed his white glove under his eye.

His strong hands held me and I was where I wanted to be. The fact that it happened also to be on a thick, fluffy four poster bed in what would eventually be our fourteenth century English estate was just a bonus. But him. I felt so close to him, like I really could get what I’d panted and pined after, all these years.

As I stretched up to nuzzle my nose into his unfamiliar chin, his pulse deepened and quickened against my soft, squashed breasts. We had never been so physically close. I couldn’t stop touching him. And he couldn’t stop touching me.

“You’re not my brother at all.” I kissed him, long, soft and deep and he crushed me to him.

“And you’re not my sister,” he kissed me so warmly, so completely. “sis.”

“You’re not even my half brother. Not even my step brother, really.” I kissed him again and licked and nuzzled his neck.

“And you’re a fake sister. An imposter.” The beat of his heart and the pump of the blood in his throat made me sigh and pull him closer to my body.

His hands came slowly, naturally to life. His breath, his lips found mine and I opened for him. Then, as our mouths joined and our tongues danced; our bodies knew the moment was here. We were free at last.

“You,” I said, rubbing myself against him like a saw, “You are a bastard. A complete and utter bastard.”

His still hardening length thrummed hot against me. My fingernails scraped down his shirt and straight behind his belt. It was too tight. I had to open it. As I dragged on the buckle, the heat of his eager cock made me wild to get at it.

“Legally,” I said, “You are nothing to me.” I kissed him again, harder, deeper.

His hands drug my shirt open. As soon as his fingers touched my bare waist and stomach, I jumped onto him. Flung my thighs around him, squeezed and held him tight, and devoured him with my mouth.

For such a long time I had pushed these feelings down, kept my wrong, bad, nasty thoughts in lock-down. Now that I could taste him, touch him feel his hands on me, feel his skin against mine, now my body wouldn’t wait for me.

“Legally or not,” he growled, pulling me against him, “You’re everything to me.”

My breasts wanted to be out of the bra, to flatten on his chest. Feel his lips and his breath. I kissed him harder and he slipped. I pushed him down to the deck.
You’re mine now!
His hands gripped in my hair, pulled my mouth to his.

I shook my shoulders to be rid of the shirt and pulled at the clasp between the cups of the bra. He looked up at me from the deck. His eyes widened and his mouth opened as my big tits bounced free.
 

I straddled his stomach and gave him my breasts, one by one. Electric sparks crackled through me as he hungrily sucked on my nipples. My stomach vibrated inside as he pulled them with his strong lips.

He licked and sucked all over my breasts, lapped them underneath and shook them. My breath rasped as I smothered his face with them. I held his hair against the deck as I nibbled all the way down his stomach. I jumped and thrilled as his abs trembled in response.

My hand kept a grip in his hair and I reached the other hand to his buckle. His head lifted. I yanked it back down. I liked this game. A part of me didn’t even think about whether he liked it. I wanted this.

His buckle fell open and I unbuttoned his fly. When I had the front of his pants open wide, I stopped and panted at the sight of the soft white cotton with a hot mass of hard flesh that pressed up from behind.

I licked my lips. I jumped to kneel between his legs. The thickness of cotton was springy under my fingertips. I panted at the zinging pulse of his hot ridges. Drawing my fingers down both sides of his massive shift, I watched in wonder as it twitched and beat towards me.

I bent closer to catch his scent, to breathe his heat. I licked my lips as I drew the waistband of the cotton slowly down. My eyes widened at the marvel of body architecture, the fat girth of his hard man-muscle.

The tip of my finger stroked gently from the cleft of the wonderful head, all the way down the tight curve, down to the soft sac. As I repeated the motion, it jumped under my finger.

My body was torn, wild with desire and yet needing his touch. I wanted the delicious torture of foreplay to go on forever, to test, tease, and barely touch his skin all over, centimeter by centimeter.

At the same time, I was desperate to have him stretch and fill me, and blast me with his seed.

My tongue made the decision for me. As I licked gently up the center of his swollen shaft, I knew I had to have the tang of him on my tongue–between my lips and at least to the top of my throat.

While I began to swallow his cock and relish the mingle his scent and taste, his head lifted. I couldn’t reach to push him back, so I simply pointed. He trembled as he obeyed. As he trembled, he thickened. As he thickened, I sucked.

Drawing my lips rhythmically along his length, I sensed his pace, felt where he needed pressure and where he wanted to be drawn and coaxed. Wet suction drew him in. My tongue slipped under him and his dark taste made me shudder with relish.

I sucked gently in a slow rhythm as his slick bulb filled the back of my throat. His forceful response drove me on. While I sucked him, I wriggled out of my jeans. Then I slid his down over his thighs, and off. I felt the warmth of his big thighs outside mine.

While I sucked his cock, I reached for his hands and took them. I stroked his palms and mingled my fingers with his. Then I put his hands in my hair. As the weight of his hands pressed the back of my head, I nodded.

He took the cue. His fingers entwined in my hair, and gripped my head. He pushed me harder, down onto his length.
Yes!
He shoved me farther down his thick cock until my lips met his hilt, until my tongue could touch his sac. Thin, sweet saliva gushed into my mouth and I held him in the smooth muscles of my throat.

His thighs and stomach clenched, and he sighed. He pulled me up to him, looked with something akin to wonder into my face, and then bit his lip as a hot glow came into his eyes. He breathed hard and held me against his body. I saw a fury come into his face. I pressed my tongue inside my lip and I nodded softly, once.

He spun me around and his hand reached under me. As his strong fingers took a hold of my hot mound, I almost folded over. My juices sprang to the fore and I gasped as my hips ground my hot petals into his hand.

“Yes!” I shouted as his fingers slid past my soaked panties, and past in between my throbbing lips. I leaned forward as his fingers teased around the hood of my bud. Tides of rolling sensation rose and swirled within me. My head shook and my thighs clenched.

I backed towards him, and pushed against the muscular control of his hand. He tore my panties and pulled my hips to bring my lips onto the head of his cock. My petals hugged him, and I moaned as he stretched me wide and his cock slid into my plump wet pussy.

He covered me, leaned over me, and his hands held my breasts as his massive mast plowed into my soaked pussy. Sweat dripped from his chest onto my back, and his hard thighs slapped against my rolling buttocks. A shock burst in my chest as his hand landed hard on my ass.

My back arched and my fingers clenched as I drove back against his thrusts. His shaft scraped hard against my soft spot, high inside at the front and waves of sparks radiated through my nerves.

He filled me so hard, so much, so completely. His arms wrapped around me and we became one, heaving, churning, and beating through the rising storm of ecstatic pulses. He filled me harder, deeper, stretched me wider and I reared up, my hands clawed and my tides swelled.

He grabbed my breasts and squeezed, setting my nerves alight. His fingers traced into my mouth and I bit him. I felt his hot breath on my neck as he leaned over me and I felt his tension rise. Veins stood out on his arms.
 

My throat was hot and tight, and I slapped the floor with my palms. My soft buttocks shuddered and rippled as he slammed into me, all the way up me. All my muscles tensed and flexed as he sawed in still deeper.

Within me a sea lifted, ready to brim over. His voice, a hoarse whisper, panted hot in my ear. “Now, Sis.
NOW!
Say it. NOW!”

“
ROGER!
”

And my canyon gave way to the flood. Cascades of tension broke and spilled a torrent of thrashing orgasm. His hot, hard length pummeled me, split me wide open as the pulses swelled along the length of his massive member.

“
Roger, YES!
” I shouted, “Fuck me, Roger. Fuck me HARD!”

His balls swung to beat against my mound as his pump cannoned bolts of hot cum to beat against my chamber and coat me, slick, sticky and warm. Again and again he hammered me and spurted gobs of luscious love.

I reached back to lock my fingers in his hair and we subsided together, curled wet and trembling to the deck, locked around each other’s bodies. We were disheveled. Hot and wet, we nuzzled, wondered, and licked at each other. Our arms and hands stroked and soothed. We were two masses of a single being.

I stroked his glistening wet hair from his face and kissed his cheekbones. My fingertips grazed softly over his stubble and into the cleft of his chin. He drifted into sleep and I planted kisses on his face as he dozed and I slipped away to join my Roger.

We married in Wimbush Park. Lord Wimbush came, reluctantly. Clarissa and Mother came. Withers was there.

At the feast afterwards I took Lord Chatterton of Wimbush aside and told him, “Cheer up, Father. Roger may be a bastard, but , for one couldn’t be happier. And he and I will be making the first ever successor to the title who is not a bastard.”

And so we did. Then an ‘heir and a spare,’ as they say and four highly eligible daughters. Well, they’re a bit young to be eligible yet, but they shall be, soon enough.

People have asked whether Mother’s accounts were really as toe curling as I seem to have made them sound so, for the sake of clarity, I am including the story she told me of her doctor’s appointment, just in passing as I came home from school one weekday afternoon. Imagine that I then had to do my homework on the very couch that she described.

Following that frankly disgusting tale, I shall give you her disgraceful account of her visit to London in her own words, from the letter that she sent me, and I shall omit none of its lewd and shameful detail.

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This was while I was at school, and Mother was allowing her wings to spread, and to allow them to be spread, it turned out. After school one day, there were only she and I in the apartment. I think she’d had a drink and she started to tell me about her appointment with the doctor that afternoon.

“As soon as I saw Doctor Masterman’s wide, strong hands spread on the desk,“ she said, eyeing me a little woozily, “I knew they could hold the cure for what ailed me. His tailored charcoal suit, his crisp white shirt and the burgundy silk tie were all the reassurance I needed.”

I had the feeling other was going to tell me a whole lot of things that I should absolutely not be hearing. I pulled up a chair and got comfortable.

“In his office,” she said, “Was a smoky fragrance of warmth and dark musk and faint scents of mahogany and old leather. Doctor Masterman’s boyish smile and his large, gleaming white teeth were eager, open. Puppyish.

“Below his tousled golden-brown mop, wide cheekbones and a strong jaw was the frame of an athlete. He must still be a regular tennis or squash player, I thought. I considered the knotted ropes of his powerful forearms and the strength of his wrists as they poked out from under his expensive cuffs.

Here was a fit and strong, highly qualified twenty-seven or twenty-eight year old man, with the dancing eyes of a gawky teenager. My breath halted at the soft rumble of his voice. “Sit down, Mrs Chatterton. Tell me what you need.”