John Proctor stumbled his way back into his home, after spending many hours against the tree, and cursing himself for his frailties. He was a good man, beneath it all, he had struggled to convince himself. The girl would be punished for her sinful ways. Perhaps he would turn her over to her wrathful Uncle, and he'd enjoy seeing that sensuous smile fall from her unnaturally plump lips.
The idea of dispensing justice to her with his own hand was far more appealing. His hand twitched at the idea, ripping her dress and revealing her back, and taking out his aggressions on her creamy flesh. He did his best to push those images from his manned when the familiar pressure and heat alerted him that perhaps he was taking too much satisfaction in that particular fantasy.
Ignoring the aching in his loins, and the wish to relieve himself of it, he made his way into the house, long darkened from extinguished candles, only the small embers of the fireplace in the room they both dined, and relaxed in showed any sign of life.
Kneeling before the hearth, iron poker in hand, he began to stoke the charred wood, adding another chipped log to the top, and starting when he realized he was not alone. The Williams girl was laying on the small sofa of their sitting room, in nothing but her night gown, and at the moment, it was pushed haphazardly up against her thighs.
"Will you join me?" Her voice purred, as she flexed her hips upward invitingly. He felt his breath catch, and a strange sound escaped his throat. Hand encircling the poker in his hand, dark images of what he could do to her, with the poker there in his hand, or the one straining desperately against his trousers.
"No." His voice more of a growl, then anything as he replaced the poker, and gapped the distance between them in moments. His hand tightening around her forearm, certainly there would be a bruise in the shape of his fingers in the morning.
She yelped as he tugged her from her laying position, and she struggled, as he yanked her to her feet, falling into him, her hands struggling for purchase, one gripping to his arm, the other pushing on his chest as she caught her breath. He watched her warily and moved to step away.
He felt her press her lithe form, fresh in the blossoms of youth and unmarred by the marks of childbirth, and the years of being a Mother and Wife, tending to the farm and the Inn left little energy left, and the light that shone like a beacon within Abigail had long been snuffed out in Elizabeth Proctor.
He struggled to even his breathing, but could not deny the connection he felt with her, and his wish to feel a deeper connection, lodged deep inside her, to feel and see what her eyes would look like then, as he took her in a way he always wanted to take his wife. He wanted to make her cry in pleasure and pain, and he could not do that to the woman who had bore his children. The woman who enjoyed the sweet poetry of psalms, and who closed her eyes every time she was with him, enduring her duties.
Abigail Williams would not endure him. He could tell she would enjoy every minute, and his hand tightened on her arm, and he gruffly rocked his hips towards her, his other hand moving to encircle in the dark hair, free of a bonnet or even the constraints of a braid. He yearned to control her, and the resulting moan she gave as he tugged hard, enjoying the expression of hunger that floated across her features. As her hand began it's descent to free him of the cloth prison that encircled him, he released her shoulder, and his hand moved instead around her throat, the other still tightly holding to her hair.
He led her to the wall opposite the fireplace, hidden from view of the stairwell, and slammed her into it. Hard. Tears of pain sprung to her eyes, and she began to tremble beneath his hand, her pale skin flushing as she struggled to catch a deep breath, his grip not preventing her completely from breathing, but restricting it to shallow breaths. Her bright eyes focused on him, as he leaned in to whisper, near enough to her lips that she could smell his breath.
"You do not touch me, unless I tell you too. Do you understand?" His eyes blazed, pressing close enough with his body that he could feel the warmth of her thigh against his staggering need, through the thin muslin of her night dress.
"Yes". She garbled, through the stricture of his work-worn fingers.
Releasing her throat but tugging tighter to her hair, he kept his voice low, grateful the sleeping quarters of his family were upstairs and doing his best to push the thought of them from his mind. Trying not to picture Elizabeth's face, as his hand slid down the front of the succubus in front of him, pausing in wonder at the firmness of her breasts, and the way her left nipple hardened with his attention, and how it felt through the shift that hid her from him. He groaned, and released her hair, moving her hands to his belt buckle and managing harshly.
"Touch me." He licked his lips, surprised by the lack of moisture in his mouth as she began to fumble with his belt buckle. After a few moments his frustration grew, and he pushed one of her hands down further, hissing as her hand made contact and moving to remove the belt buckle. His hands surprisingly steady as he dropped it to the ground, the clack of the metal buckle echoing around them. He paused, and glanced to the ceiling above him. Certain that they had not disturbed anyone else in the household he freed himself of everything below the waist, and groaned in response as Abigail quickly began to acquaint her hands with his thighs, and everything between.
Her hands were soft, and she began to stroke his length with surprising skill and it struck him like a lightning bolt that he was not the first man she had done this for. Before he could accuse her of harlotry, or realize the hypocrisy in such a statement, she whispered. "May I kiss you. Here?" Tightening her hold on his erection. He rocked his hips forwards out of instinct and gasped at the idea. He had heard of whores in the European countries doing such things, it had been whispered about in his Inn, but he had thrown a man out for saying such a thing in front of his second wife, and offending her sensibilities.
He swallowed and returned one hand to her hair, tightening it around her dark hair, and the other moving to press against the wall beside her head, losing a very brief inner struggle with his conscious and growling. "Now."
She licked her lips slowly before dropping slowly to her knees in front of him, using the wall to slide her way down, and before he knew it, she was covering him in forbidden licks. Tasting every generous inch of him, causing pleasures and sensations he hadn't known possible. He gasped, his legs beginning to tremble, just a little, tightening his hold on her hair and pushing harder against the wall, bracing himself, growling. "You witch. You trollop." His insults quickly forming into moans as he felt her open her mouth to him, taking him within. He gasped, as his hips rocked forward and he found himself rocking deep into the recesses of her throat, feeling it tighten around his length as she struggled for breath, the gag reflex gripping him and causing him once again to spill his seed in a way that would not lead to pregnancy, and both of those times had been at the cause of the girl, no, woman, on her knees before him.
He shuddered, and swallowed back a cry that would have woke the house. Tightening his hand for a moment on her hair, pulling her back and stepping away, quickly getting into his pants, and glaring at her as she dabbed her lips with the back of her hand, her features obscured by the darkness of his home, only the small crackling fire shedding light on their sins.
She watched him from the floor, as he redressed, her voice like velvet as she asked. "John Proctor, are you glad you have brought me to your house?"
He shook his head in response, tightening his belt, and murmuring. " You are a wolf and I fear for my flock."
Abigail laughed, a dark sound that sent a cold prickle at the base of his spine that began to spread, like a disease. Her voice slick with derision. "You entered the mouth of the beast. And if I am not mistaken, you'll be looking for other entry points before the week is out. Good Night, Master Proctor. " Her smile growing, as she stayed on her knees, watching him from a vantage point that had given her more power then he could have imagined.
"Give my best to Goodie Proctor. And tomorrow, you can give your best to me."
He stumbled his way up the stairs like a drunkard, his mind reeling at his infidelity, and the way that the servant girl ignited fire in his blood. Unable to share the bed with his sleeping wife, due to guilt and shame, he sat in the armchair near the window, alternating between watching the starts turn into a beautiful pink, and yellow painting as the night turned to dawn, and the calm, unsuspecting face of his sleeping wife.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, a phrase swam, as he drifted into sleep as the first glimmers of dawn approached.
Pink skies in morning, sailors take warning.