‘Yeah, isn’t it? Anyway, her coming brought ill luck to the villagers, for it is said that she cursed the lands round about and tainted them ...’
His overdramatic narrative made me giggle. ‘Carry on, Tolkien.’
He pressed me tighter into the cupboards. ‘Cheeky! You’ll pay for that, Miss. At midsummer, she cast her fatal spell. The harvest failed and many villagers perished that winter. Grimgerda, I think, was thrown into the river. So they say ... and her malign spirit haunts the waters and the banks to this day.’
‘Whatever,’ I snorted. ‘So where do I come in then?’
Evan took hold of my ponytail, tugging at it so that my scalp flooded with a rush of sensation.
‘You, dear Faith, will pay the symbolic price for Grimgerda’s misdeeds.’
‘Not sure I like the sound of that.’
‘If the way you reacted after I spanked your arse last week is anything to go by, I think you might.’
‘What? I get spanked? What? How? When? Where?’
‘I have to whip the evil outsiderness out of you, my dear, with a wand of willow.’
‘You’re joking.’
‘Nope. And it has to be done in public, at midnight on midsummer’s eve.’
‘In public?’ I yelped, though my pussy was getting wetter and squirmier by the second in contemplation of this fate.
‘Oh yes.’ He reached down and brushed my ripe, red clitoris. ‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’ he said softly. ‘Your body gives you away every time.’
‘But surely nobody agrees to this?’ I tried to rub myself on his fingers; he let me do it for a few seconds, then snatched them away and gave my flank a smart slap.
‘There have been refusals, yes. And it’s probably a coincidence that the harvests were bad each time ... but you’d have a hard time convincing the farmers of that ...’
‘So ... people have done this?’
‘Yeah. Last time was 12 years ago, I think. I was not long out of school, couldn’t wait to take part, I tell you. One of my fondest memories ...’
‘She ... didn’t mind?’
‘No. It was Lady Pensmith from the Grange. She’d only just married.’
‘Lady Pensmith!’
‘Yes. She’s popular in the village, you’ll have noticed. Can’t say that for every lady of the manor we’ve ever had ... But the locals love her for doing this one thing for them. They’ll love you. They’ll buy your pots and eat your scones until the cows come home. If you’ll just ...’
‘OK,’ I decided, feeling a little wobbly at the enormity of what I was agreeing to. ‘I’ll do it.’
And then he unleashed himself upon me, riding me into a stars-and-planets orgasm with a huge hand on each of my bum cheeks, holding them apart until the sight of my shameful exposure drove him to his climax, panting with exertion.
He kissed the back of my neck, and each bump of my spine until, standing straight, he asked, ‘Fancy a practice?’
‘What?’
‘Toughen up your bum? For what’s to come?’
Already he had unhooked a plastic spatula from the rack above the hob and within seconds it was splatting down on my backside. He held much of his great strength in reserve, but it was still stingy and sharp and my bottom was noticeably warmer by the time he aimed his twentieth and final shot, throwing it aside and mounting me once more, until I was shagged to a weary pulp and could do no more than doze on the sofa for the rest of the evening, entwined in his grasp, watching mindless TV.
Bloody cider. Bloody hot sunshine.
The next day was Friday – the day before the ceremony – and I questioned my decision approximately a million times. In between re-arranging my pots and making the odd cup of tea for my sadly infrequent customers, I called and texted Evan manically, revisiting and revising the information he had given me until I wondered if I was going mad.