The sun dipped low over the cobblestone streets of the small Spanish town, casting a golden hue over the whitewashed buildings. Thomas adjusted his rifle-green uniform, the fabric still stiff with the grime of battle, and stepped into the bustling square. The air was alive with the sounds of laughter, the strumming of guitars, and the clinking of glasses. After the bloody victory at Vitoria on the 21st of June, 1813, his unit had been granted a week’s leave, and Thomas intended to savour every moment of it.

He wandered aimlessly, his mind still haunted by the screams of battle and the acrid smell of gunpowder. The Rifle Brigade had been relentless, their precision and bravery turning the tide of the fight. But now, far from the front lines, Thomas sought solace in the simple pleasures of life—wine, music, and the company of strangers.

It was in the shadow of the town’s ancient church that he saw her.

Emily.

She stood at the edge of the square, her dark hair catching the last rays of sunlight, her gown a delicate contrast to the rugged surroundings. Thomas froze, his breath catching in his throat. It had been years since he had last seen her, back in their quiet village in England. She had been the daughter of the local squire, a vision of grace and beauty, while he had been nothing more than a stable boy with dreams too big for his station.

“Emily?” he called out, his voice barely above a whisper.

She turned, her eyes widening in recognition. “Thomas? Is that really you?”

He stepped closer, his heart pounding. “It’s me. I can’t believe it’s you.”

For a moment, they simply stared at each other, the years melting away. Then, with a laugh, Emily closed the distance between them and kissed him. Her lips were soft and tasted faintly of cherries. It wasn’t a frantic, heated kiss like the ones they had described in their many letters. No, it was a soft, loving kiss that two long-term lovers might share.

Emily broke away and gazed into his eyes. “Oh, Thomas! It’s been so long.”

He held her tightly, the scent of lavender and rosewater filling his senses. “What are you doing here?” he asked when they finally pulled apart.

“I’m here with my husband,” she replied, her smile faltering slightly. “Lord Ashcombe. He’s been stationed here as part of the military command.”

Thomas felt a pang of something he couldn’t quite name. Jealousy? Regret? He pushed it aside. “I see. And how is married life treating you with Justin?”

Emily’s gaze dropped to the ground. “It’s… complicated, as you know. But he really is a lovely man. I think you’d like him. But enough about me. Tell me about you! The last I heard, you’d been transferred, and my letters couldn’t find you.”

Thomas nodded. “Aye, I did. I’m with the Rifle Brigade now. We just came from Vitoria.”

Her eyes lit up with pride. “I heard about the victory. You must have been so brave.”

He shrugged modestly. “I did my duty, nothing more.”

They fell into step together, walking through the narrow streets as the town grew quieter around them. The conversation flowed easily, as if no time had passed at all. They spoke of their letters, of the village they both missed, and of what had happened since they last wrote to each other.

Emily explained that she and Justin had come to an agreement and become close friends. But his mother was making things difficult for them due to her not becoming pregnant, so he’d asked for a posting closer to the front line.

Thomas told Emily about how, after he’d posted his last letter, they had marched to the siege of Burgos in October 1812 and how they had retreated. He told her about how he had been reassigned to the rifles during the winter and spent the next several months skirmishing until May, when they rejoined the main army to march to Vitoria. As the night deepened, Thomas couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something Emily wasn’t telling him.

Finally, as they reached the edge of the town, she stopped and turned to him. “Thomas, there’s something I need to tell you.”

He frowned. “What is it?”

She took a deep breath. “It was my husband who arranged for your transfer to the Rifle Brigade.”

Thomas blinked, stunned. “Lord Ashcombe? But why?”

Emily’s cheeks flushed. “Because of me. I… I told him about you. About how you were always so kind to me, how we had been writing to each other for months, and how I felt about you. He wanted to thank you for your kindness to me, in his own way.”

Thomas felt a surge of conflicting emotions. Gratitude, confusion, and something else—something deeper. “I don’t know what to say.”

She reached out and took his hand. “You don’t have to say anything. Just know that I care for you, Thomas. And I always will.”

For a moment, they stood there, their hands intertwined, the world around them fading away. Then, with a soft sigh, Emily released his hand and stepped away. “We should go. My husband will be expecting me.”

Thomas nodded, his heart heavy. “Of course. Take care of yourself, Emily.” Then her words sank in. “We?”

She smiled, turning to walk back up the lane. “Yes, of course. It would be rude not to meet your lover’s husband after all,” she said, looking over her shoulder.

As he watched her walk away, Thomas felt a strange sensation building in his stomach that slowly sank down to his groin. He set off after her, his brain a mix of excitement and fear.

And as the stars began to twinkle overhead, Thomas looked up at a large farmhouse inside a walled courtyard with a fountain in the middle. Two soldiers stood guard at the gate to the yard, but they parted as Emily approached with Thomas in tow. Two more stood at the main door.

Once inside, Thomas was shown to a side room by a member of staff as Emily skipped off down the main corridor without so much as a backward glance.

Making himself comfortable on a chaise lounge, Thomas sat patiently, waiting for something to happen. He sat nervously, staring at the door, waiting for Emily’s return.

The sound of a man clearing his throat caught Thomas off guard. He jumped to his feet and turned to the side door that he had, up until that moment, failed to notice. “Sir,” he said, coming to attention, noticing the man’s crisp red uniform and golden epaulets.

The stranger walked towards him; his green eyes locked onto Thomas’s as he approached. He circled him slowly, making him feel unnaturally vulnerable, as if he were standing naked in front of someone who was judge, jury, and executioner.

Finally, the stranger came to a halt in front of him and thrust out his hand. “Thomas, I presume? My name’s Lord Ashcombe. But you can call me Justin when we are alone. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. I’ve heard and read so much about you,” he said with a sly smile.

Taking his hand, Thomas shook it. He was surprised by how firm his grip was. Despite Emily’s description of him being “too well-kept,” he seemed strong, and his hands had calluses from holding reins or a sword. Thomas didn’t know what to make of him.

A formal voice broke the awkward silence. “Dinner is served.” Thomas glanced over to the main door to see Emily standing framed in the doorway. Justin released his hand and told him to lead the way.

Thomas sat at the polished oak table, the flickering light of the candelabras casting a warm glow over the fine china and crystal glasses. The room was elegant, a stark contrast to the muddy tents and smoke-filled battlefields he had left behind. He adjusted his uniform, feeling both out of place and strangely honoured to be dining in such refined company. Emily sat across from him, her presence a balm to his weary soul. Her laughter was soft, her eyes kind, and her stocking-covered foot brushed his upper thigh under the table in fleeting moments of intimacy that made his heart race. She was his refuge, his secret joy amidst the chaos of war.

Yet, despite the comfort of Emily’s nearness, Thomas found his gaze drawn irresistibly to her husband, Lord Ashcombe, who sat at the head of the table. The lord was everything Thomas was not—tall, broad, and well-refined, with a commanding presence that seemed to fill the room. His uniform was immaculate, his every movement exuding confidence and grace. Thomas watched as Justin raised his wine glass, his strong jawline catching the candlelight, and felt a strange pang of admiration—or was it something more? He quickly looked away, ashamed of the direction his thoughts had taken.

The conversation flowed easily, with Justin recounting tales of his youth and strategy on the battlefield, his voice rich and captivating. Thomas nodded along, though his mind was a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. He loved Emily, of that he was certain, but there was something about Justin that stirred a longing he couldn’t quite name. Perhaps it was the way the lord carried himself, so effortlessly noble, or the way his eyes sparkled with a mix of mischief and authority. Thomas felt a strange ache in his chest, a yearning not just for Emily’s affection but for something he couldn’t yet articulate.

As the evening wore on, Thomas tried to focus on Emily’s gentle touch and the way her smile lit up the room. But every time Justin spoke or laughed, his attention was pulled back, as if by an invisible thread. He wondered if the lord noticed his lingering glances, if he could sense the turmoil within him. For now, Thomas buried his confusion beneath polite smiles and sips of wine, determined to savour this rare moment of peace, even as his heart wrestled with desires he dared not name.

The evening passed with much wine and laughter. The three of them, in the privacy of that room, let slip all signs of pomp and decorum. As the hours ticked by and the wine flowed, they became like old friends reuniting after many months apart. Emily took up the role of host after the staff were dismissed to their chambers and alternated whose lap she sat on between returning with bottles of wine and spirits. As the grand clock in the entrance hall chimed midnight, Justin removed his hand from Emily’s exposed knee, where he’d been idly drawing circles with his finger, and took up his wine glass to address Thomas.

“The hour is late, and I must call it a night,” he said, draining his glass and assisting Emily to her feet so he could stand himself. Thomas stood as dictated by protocol. “I will be leaving now,” he said, also emptying the remains of his glass.

“Thank you, my Lord and Lady, for a truly lovely evening. I feel truly blessed to have been a part of it. And sir, if I may be so bold, I can see why Emily speaks so highly of you despite everything. You are a wonderful person,” he said with a slight blush in his cheeks.

As Thomas grasped his hat and turned to leave, Justin cut him off at the door. “I know for a fact you have no lodgings in this town, Thomas, and I will not have you sleeping in some barn or brothel. We had a room made up for you that is yours for as long as you want it.”

Before he could object, Emily had taken his hand in hers and began to lead him out of the dining room and past her husband, who was staring deeply into Thomas’s soul with those emerald, green eyes of his. Just as they left the room, Thomas noticed his sly smile and could have sworn Justin winked at him.

The room was grand. It had hardwood floors, smooth, yellow-painted walls decorated with portraits and oil lamps. Chests of drawers, wardrobes, and a vanity unit took up one wall, and the other was occupied by a plush four-poster bed. Thomas had never seen anything like it in his life. Emily pushed him in and gave him a lingering look before closing the door behind her.

Gesturing to a brass bathtub situated in front of two large floor-to-ceiling doors, Emily informed Thomas that she’d asked the staff to leave some water beside the fire. She added that if he’d permit her, she’d prepare his bath while he undressed. Thomas simply smiled and began to unbutton his tunic as Emily poured the water into the large brass tub.

Thomas strode from the foot of the bed, where he’d laid out his uniform, to the tub. The oil lamps cast light and shadows across his lean body, illuminating every contour of his muscular frame. Emily’s eyes widened as she saw him approach from the corner of her eye. She had seen naked men before, but this was the first one she had truly desired and fantasized about.

She stepped back from the tub as he approached, her eyes roaming over his body as he stepped into the water. His broad shoulders were well-shaped, and his defined chest was covered in a thick carpet of dark hair. Her gaze followed the trail downward, past his flat, solid stomach—a blend of muscle and slight malnourishment—until it reached his crotch. Nestled within a thick nest of dark hair hung the very thing she had dreamed of so often. Even in its current flaccid state, it must have been at least seven inches long and impressively thick. She bit her bottom lip and pressed her thighs together as the heat between her legs grew.

Thomas sat in the bath and caught her gaze. “I hope you approve, my lady,” he said in a tone as smooth as silk. Emily blushed but quickly regained her composure. “Very much so. But get cleaned up. I think you'll then look much better.”

Getting lost in the heavenly feel of the hot water on his skin and the lavender scent overwhelming his senses, Thomas flinched in surprise when he felt Emily’s hands on his chest, scrubbing him with a cloth. He opened his eyes, and to his surprise, she was wearing only her petticoat skirt and a half-cut lace corset. His eyes locked onto her pale breasts, clearly visible through the Cornish lace that made up the corset, with the whale bone supports framing her body. Emily laughed softly. “Do you like it? Justin had it made. Doesn’t he have amazing taste?”

"He does indeed," Thomas said as he felt Emily’s hand slide down his body, her fingers wrapping around his now-erect shaft. Her grip was firm, yet her strokes were soft. With every downward motion, she brushed her thumb against the slit of his swollen tip, causing him to moan softly.

"How did such an innocent woman learn such devilish techniques?" Thomas gasped, his breathing quickening.

Leaning in close so he could feel her warm breath on his ear, she smiled to herself. "There’s only so much bridge two people can play when they’re meant to be fucking. I’ve watched Justin wank countless times as I’ve pleasured myself—I know his techniques by heart."

She released his now-twitching shaft and pressed her palm against his heavy balls. Her thumb and pinkie encircled his full scrotum while her forefinger and middle finger stretched downward, pressing against his untouched entrance. Thomas sat upright in shock as the unexpected pressure sent a jolt through him, splashing water over the edge of the tub and soaking Emily.

Stepping away from the tub, she glanced down at herself, brushing the water from her chest and her now-soaked, transparent petticoat skirt. Raising her delicately pruned eyebrows, she fixed Thomas with a hard stare. Flabbergasted, he fumbled for an apology, but before he could get the words out, her soft chuckle cut him off.

Reaching for the silk cord that held her skirt up she undid it with a swift single tug.

Thomas watched as it cascaded to the floor, the moment stretching into slow motion. His eyes drank in every detail of the goddess standing before him—her fine, delicate ankles, the smooth contours of her pale legs, and the surprisingly toned curves of her thighs, which concealed a treasure he had never before laid eyes on.

Thomas had always been somewhat of a flirt with the young women in his village back home. More than once, he had charmed his way into the undergarments of the village girls or found himself seduced by some of the older residents while their husbands marched off to battle or toiled in the fields. They came in all shapes and sizes, and Thomas had loved them all. But one thing they all had in common was the thick carpet of hair between their thighs.

Emily didn’t.

She caught his lingering gaze and shocked expression—and she liked it. It gave her a sense of power and control unlike anything she had ever felt before. Slowly, she slid her hand down over the Cornish lace of her corset, and as her fingers reached her mound, she parted her legs ever so slightly. "Do you like it?" she asked, a playful lilt in her voice. "It’s the latest fashion in Paris." Her fingers traced soft, deliberate strokes over the completely smooth skin around her exposed sex. His dumbstruck expression was all the answer she needed. She knew she had him exactly where she wanted him.

Emily took a few steps back until the bed pressed against the backs of her legs. Lowering herself onto it, she reclined gracefully, propping herself up on her elbows.

"Come here and take a closer look," she commanded, her tone more assertive now as she beckoned him with a curl of her finger.

Water and bubbles cascaded off Thomas’s muscles like a stream over smooth rocks as he rose from the tub. With each step across the room, his cock swayed, and Emily licked her lips in anticipation.

He positioned himself at the foot of the bed, standing between her pale thighs. The swollen, mushroom-like head of his engorged length brushed against her silky skin, making her flinch—but instead of pulling away, she grasped his hands and pulled him down into a fiery kiss.

Thomas could feel the heat radiating from her as he trailed his lips along her jawline and down her neck, his breath hot against her skin

Soft moans filled the room as Thomas trailed kisses over her heaving breasts, which strained against the confines of her corset. She tangled her fingers in his hair, pulling his lips back to hers, while her free hand traced down his back, leaving a trail of light scratches over his sun-kissed skin.

Her hips began to move, rocking against him in slow, tantalizing strokes, her wet folds gliding over his rigid length with agonizing precision.

Then Thomas felt it—the swollen head of his length pressing against the entrance to her untouched flower. He heard her breath hitch, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Do it, Thomas… claim me."

Her legs wrapped around his waist, and she pulled him in.

They gasped.

Her eyes rolled back, and her jaw fell open in a silent scream.

The warmth was incredible. Her tight muscles yielded, parting to welcome him into her depths before clenching around him in a firm, pulsing grip. She pressed a hand against his chest, and he instinctively froze, giving her time to adjust to the intrusion of his now-monstrous length stretching her open.

After a few moments, she smiled, signalling her readiness. Thomas withdrew a few inches before slowly pushing forward again, sinking fully into the velvet embrace of her body.

With every thrust, Emily moaned, her breasts bouncing hypnotically beneath the translucent corset. Thomas was burying himself to the hilt inside her, his balls slapping audibly against her with each powerful movement. As his pace quickened, so did her breathing—her moans growing higher, her voice cracking with pleasure.

Then she smiled.

Her eyes locked onto something in the corner of the room.

Thomas followed her gaze—and froze.

There he was. Seated in the chair in front of the vanity. Lord Ashcombe—her husband. His host. The man who had plucked him from the infantry and placed him in the rifle battalion, likely saving him from the slaughter at Victoria.

And he was smiling.

"Don’t stop, my lad—she’s almost there," Lord Ashcombe said, taking a slow sip from the sherry glass in his left hand. His right, however, was stroking his own impressive length. "That’s an order, boy," he commanded, his tone firm, dominant. Instinctively, Thomas obeyed.

Breaking free from her ankles, he lifted Emily’s legs onto his shoulders and drove into her again—long, slow, punishing thrusts. The reward was immediate. Animalistic moans spilled from her lips, urging him on, pushing him deeper, harder.

Her quivering thighs and flushed cheeks signalled her impending climax. She grasped the bedsheets in tight fists, twisting them as her inner walls clenched around him, a near-painful tightness. But Thomas didn’t let up. He continued his assault on her untouched depths, alternating his gaze between Emily and Justin—who had now risen from the chair, standing beside the bed, stroking his swollen cock. His head flared, veins bulging as he worked himself toward release.

Then Emily shattered.

A high-pitched cry ripped through the room as her body convulsed beneath him. A rush of wet heat coated Thomas’s cock and thighs as wave after wave of pleasure wracked her frame. But he didn’t stop. He couldn’t. His own pleasure teetered on the brink, his ragged breaths and moans betraying his impending climax.

Emily’s tear-filled eyes locked onto his, her lips parting as if to say something.

But the voice he heard wasn’t hers.

It was Lord Ashcombe’s.

"Finish. Finish inside her. Spill your seed."

A warm hand pressed against the small of his back, urging him forward. And then—it happened.

Thomas’s muscles locked, his spine arching as his release surged through him. A guttural groan escaped his lips as his balls tightened, pumping every last drop of his seed deep into Emily’s womb. Thick, hot spurts painted her inner walls as she trembled beneath him, her body still pulsing with aftershocks.

Slumping forward, Thomas buried his face against Emily’s soft, warm chest, trying to catch his breath—trying to recover from the earth-shattering climax that had left him utterly drained.

But the guttural moans beside him dragged him back to reality.

Justin was close. His hand was a blur over his rigid cock, his left hand slipping down to Thomas’s backside, gripping a cheek tightly. His eyes squeezed shut, hips thrusting forward, his grip tightening almost painfully. And then, with a deep, wounded-animal groan, he came. Thick, pearly ropes of cum erupted from his swollen tip, soaring through the air before landing on the wooden floor with an audible splatter. Stumbling back into the chair, he exhaled sharply, a satisfied smirk curling his lips.

Thomas slid his still semi-hard length from Emily and shifted up the bed, resting against the pillows.

Emily rose gracefully, crossing the room with a delicate sway to her hips before settling onto her husband’s lap. She kissed his cheek—soft, tender. Then, together, they turned their gaze to Thomas.

And that was the last thing he remembered before exhaustion claimed him—completely spent from hard marching, hard fighting, and now… hard fucking.

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