Chapter 10

She was lying flat over him, onto him, totally spent, exhausted. Covering him like a blanket, skin against skin, with their sweats mingling between them, she was slowly coming down, her laboured breathing tickling his hair and drying the damp skin of his shoulder.

Oh... she hazedly thought.

So, they had been at it again.

Once more.

The first time, once the frenzy was over, they had felt terribly awkward to each other. At least she had. Wonderful, yes, but awkward. She knew it shouldn't have happened. She knew she had had no right to. Just like when she had kissed him a few days before. A spur-of-the-moment thing which got a bit out of hand. She told him so. She told him she was sorry, told him she shouldn't have taken advantage, told him she didn't have any right over him.

And he replied that she didn't take advantage. Then in the end, once their respective clothing were straightened, he had agreed to her statement that it had been a moment of madness, that it wouldn't happen again, that it could only interfere with his schooling and her studies, that they both were better than just mere bodies, that lust shouldn't get the better of their minds. That they should both forget it and get over it.

He had agreed, hadn't he? Or else... at least tacitly so, right?

She had told him that she was sorry, that she regretted, but inwardly she knew it was not totally true: she couldn't get herself to regret. It had been so... so...

So. No other word could do justice to it.

It was heart-wrenching for her, but it had to remain a one-time thing, a past fling. She resolved she would deprive herself of it, even at the price of enormous frustration, but they had to. Her schooling, his, her sanity, her reason were at stake, here.

And she stuck to this resolve. They stuck to it.

For two long weeks.

Ages, so to speak.

The second time, right after the renewed and unplanned roll in the hay, they had agreed that it was a relapse. A regrettable relapse. It had felt as wonderful as the first time, but as inconvenient too. The same objections to anything of that sort between them still existed.

After that, they had kept their mutual promise to abstain from each other's touch. And they had stood firm to it.

A whole month, this time.

And now, they had just given in to their weakness again. But on this third occurrence of their mutual desire getting the better of their will, for the first time they had at least taken the time to undress, to really undress during the foreplay. Well, in fact this time there had at least been some foreplay worthy of the name. So for the first time they had actually and fully experienced the feeling of each other's skin against their own. Or against their lips and tongues. It had felt... intoxicating, enhancing the already intense and wonderful sensations.

Beautiful, too. It had been the first time she had seen an entirely naked man's body, and she had enjoyed the sight very much.

But now that the frenzy, the physical craving, the arousal, the moment of craziness, the mad excitation were over, now that the lust and the need were calming down, the haze of physical desire and of sheer madness that had been clouding her reason was dissipating and her mind was reverting to its usual sanity and wisdom. Reality and sense hit back.

So. They had lost any grip on themselves again. It was becoming a pattern: they were both in the stable's workshop with only the best intentions, clearly intending to only study, and meaning it; and then somewhere along the way, one thing leading to another, the lesson derails, goes off track, things heat up and finally get out of hand. Or too much in hand, in a manner of speaking.

And now Sybil was once again sobering up, through the now almost familiar feeling of coming down from cloud nine. Not unlike a hangover, but far far gentler. Far more sobering, too.

So...

They did it again. What a fine mess! But how marvellous, too. Well, as long as no one found out, that was.

Right under her was Branson's body, supporting and welcoming hers like a mattress. His skin pressed against hers vividly reminded her of what they had just been at, a short few minutes before. And how it had been.

The warmth and heat and arousal rising, growing and heightening as and when they were climbing the steps to seventh heaven; all those sensations reaching a peak; their hands and fingers intertwined all through the intercourse; and then extreme, sweet and violent pleasure exploding everywhere.

Absolutely everywhere; inside her, inside her body, inside her head, her skull, inside her legs, down to her knees and even in her ankles, heels and toes. Around her, too. She couldn't tell for sure, since she thought she had then closed her eyes – or else had she just been blinded for a few seconds? – but she thought pleasure invaded the whole shed, splashing onto each wooden wall, projected on these into flashes of bright colours. And somewhere under her, between her thighs, Branson had trembled a lot and moaned a bit. Or was it rather trembled a bit and moaned a lot? She couldn't tell, the scene was still hazy in her mind, her memory of it was foggy. Anyway, what was certain was that he had squeezed and crushed her hands in his own at this precise moment: her knuckles were still a bit sore from it, and his nails had even marked her skin, leaving some semi-circular small imprints on the back of her hands.

But now she had come down. Had cooled off, too, and the very thin layer of sweat covering her back was starting to make her feel a chill of cold. She really should get dressed again before she freezes to death.

Part of her still wanted to stay just where she was, lying right against his skin, enjoying the feel of it, of his breathing slowly coming back to a more normal rhythm; basking in the feeling of the warmth emanating from him, from their joined bodies, from their touching chests and thighs... But the sensible part of her mind knew that it was time to go now that their coital session was over and that their respective compelling physical hungers had been satisfied.

Only this time she didn't say anything about not doing this ever again. She now knew better. No more vain wish, no wishful thinking anymore. No more drunkard's promise.

Yes, she knew better. She knew that they would do it again, whatever she was thinking right now or repeating herself over and over. The need, the thirst, the lust were too strong. Apparently much more than her very weak will. And than his, for that matter.

Yes, it was time to leave. Not uttering a word, she slowly and reluctantly pushed on her arms to release him: she had been crushing his body under her weight and she worried that it had been uncomfortable to him, but that he wouldn't dare complain. With some effort, she gathered enough strength in her spent limbs to roll on her back right beside him. She let out a sigh, both out of exertion and of regret at not feeling his warmth anymore: the floor was cold, hard and rough under her back; all what his skin and body weren't.

She didn't say anything. She looked at the roof, thinking hard now that her common sense was fully back. Absent-mindedly, she noticed old and dusty cobwebs here and there on the timber frame. Her breathing went almost back to normal.

A chill ran along her spine. Time to get dressed!

On an impulse, before sitting up she slightly turned her head to him and swiftly landed a quick kiss on his shoulder.

Why on earth did she do that, she wondered. That was preposterous: their passionate intercourse was over for today.

A bit awkward at the instinctive but unseemly gesture she just had, she rubbed her face with her hands and then quickly got up, gathering her discarded pieces of clothing here and there in the room.

Picking up her headdress from the workbench, she looked cherishingly at the worn wooden piece of furniture, fondly remembering their second unplanned mating session: in addition to the extra kind of use as a desk Branson had come up with for it years before, that day he had also found a third utilisation of it when he had sat her on it in order to better thrust into her, pounding harder and harder until...

Hum, well, time to get dressed as best as she could, now. But her clothing was complicated and not meant to be put on all by oneself: fine ladies were always dressed by maids.

As she was contemplating the matter at hand, she heard his voice gently tear the silence:

"You're beautiful."

She turned, surprised: he was still lying flat on his back, but had turned his head toward her and was watching her still naked figure intently, with something akin to awe and also surprise in his eyes.

Under this apparently appreciative gaze, she strangely felt a blush creep to her cheeks. She fought it back and won this fight, returning his scrutiny.

"You're not bad-looking yourself either, you know," she playfully retorted in an attempt to lighten the post-coital awkwardness they had experienced before.

Well, it was true, she thought, and she indulged in a few seconds of admiring contemplation of his stark-naked body.

Well, perhaps Branson was the solution to her current predicament, she thought. Even though his job had nothing to do with helping his masters get dressed...

But maybe he was still too tired and exhausted for that? He was still lying on the floor, hadn't moved at all, except for turning his head a little bit. Perhaps his limbs still refused the slightest effort, after the intense and draining climax?

His gaze had followed her arm down to the workbench that she was idly grazing with the tip of her fingers; his face lit up with a blissful smile: he too was probably remembering the very non-academic use they had made of it one month earlier.

She cleared her throat to get her voice back and asked him:

"Do you think you'd be fit enough to get up right now?"

His eyes widened.

"I need you," she added matter-of-factly.

He stared at her with bulging eyes.

"Wha... Again, Milady?" he asked, surprised "Right now? So soon after... I mean... I'm afraid..."

He didn't finish his sentence, but instead looked sheepishly at his now deflated nether regions.

Sybil was totally puzzled at his 'again'. What did he mean...?

Suddenly, it dawned on her.

"Oh!" she cried out. "Oh, no, I didn't mean..." She followed his gaze down to his softened crotch. Oh! What just happened to it? she wondered. Or is it its normal state and size?

She shook her head to clear her mind.

"I meant could you stand up? Get up on your feet?" she saw fit to clarify. "I need your help in getting dressed..."

So with awkward and clumsy fingers he held out each piece or garment to her following her instructions, helped her slip them on, fumbled through fastening the pins and lacings, and hid her dishevelled hair under her headdress. That would have to do for now.

They didn't talk. She didn't want to discuss or overanalyse what had just happened – again! – between them. She knew it would happen again, despite the danger it was putting him in, despite her reason telling her it was a useless waste of time and energy, despite Mary's awareness of their private lessons. She knew they shouldn't, but she also knew they would. Because it was too good, too tempting, because he was too appealing, because their kisses were too intoxicating, and because finally he apparently wanted her as badly as she wanted him.

She hated her own weakness. She didn't want to talk. She silently finished checking her state of dress as he was standing in the middle of the room, still stark-naked, waiting for her to say something. Anything.

"It's getting late," she simply stated, "Brother Thybault might already be waiting for me and people will wonder where I've gone."

Not at all the kind of 'talk' Branson expected.

"Tomorrow, same time for your next lesson," she told him while crossing the threshold. "We'll carry on with Aristotle's dialectics."

And on this very teacher-like note, she left him and briskly walked back to the manor.