The Domesday inquest had reached our corner of the shire. Commissioners of King William rode from manor to manor, counting hides, ploughs, villeins, and livestock, and I, Sir Patrick Balls, knight of the realm, was expected to stand before them and swear to the truth of my holdings. My stone hall stood damp and chill that early spring, the last of the winter fires still smoking in the great hearth. Outside, the fields lay bare and muddy under a grey sky. Inside, my wife waited.
Lady Mary Hampton had been given to me three years earlier, a political match that bound her father’s remaining Saxon lands to my Norman service. She was tall for a woman, dark-haired, full-breasted, with a mouth that could smile sweetly in the hall and bite hard in the chamber. She was also, as I had learned, a woman who took pleasure with both men and women. That knowledge sat between us like a third presence.
I returned from the day’s survey with mud on my boots and the weight of the King’s clerks on my shoulders. Mary met me in the solar, the private upper room where we slept. A single rushlight burned. She had already dismissed the servants.
“Strip,” she said.
I hesitated. She repeated the word, quieter, and I obeyed. Tunic, braies, hose—everything fell to the floorboards until I stood naked before her in the March cold. My cock, never more than a stubby three inches even when hard, hung soft and pale between my thighs. Mary walked around me slowly, the hem of her gown brushing the floor.
“Look at you,” she murmured. “Knight of the realm. Hero of Hastings’ aftermath. And this is what you bring me.” She reached out and lifted my soft cock with two fingers, letting it drop again. “Tiny. Always tiny.”
I felt the heat rise in my face. She had never been cruel about it in public, but in private she named it freely. Tonight her voice carried something sharper.
She produced a length of soft leather cord—the kind used for binding hawks—and ordered me onto the bed. I lay on my back. She bound my wrists to the carved posts above my head, then my ankles to the footboard, spreading me open. The cords were tight enough that I could not close my legs or cover myself. Forced nudity, complete and deliberate. My cock twitched once against the cold air and then lay still.
Mary knelt between my spread thighs. She did not touch me at first. She simply looked. Then she leaned down and breathed across the head of my small cock.
“I am going to make you hard,” she said, “and then I am going to make you thank me for it.”
Her mouth closed over me. The entire length disappeared between her lips at once. She sucked slowly, tongue working the underside, and my cock stiffened inside the wet heat of her. Even erect it remained short and thick rather than long. She took it easily, nose brushing my sparse hair, and hummed as if the size itself amused her. I groaned. The restraints held me fast.
She pulled off with a wet sound. “Worship it,” she ordered, looking up at me. “Tell me how grateful you are for this little cock of yours.”
My voice cracked. “I—thank you for sucking it. Thank you for taking it all.”
She smiled and returned to her work. Her head bobbed, cheeks hollowed, and she used her hand to stroke the base while her tongue swirled. Pre-come leaked onto her tongue. She swallowed it without comment and kept going until my hips tried to thrust upward against the bonds. She pinned my pelvis with one hand and continued the blowjob at her own pace.
When I was close she stopped. My cock stood rigid, shiny with spit, the head flushed dark. A single bead of clear fluid welled at the slit. Mary wiped it away with her thumb and pushed the thumb between my lips.
“Taste yourself.”
I did. She climbed onto the bed, still fully clothed, and straddled my chest so that her skirts spilled around us. She reached back and freed her own breasts, heavy and pale, the nipples already tight. Then she shifted again until her bare sex hovered above my face. She had removed her under-linen earlier. The scent of her was strong and musky.
“Lick,” she said.
I did. She lowered herself onto my mouth and ground slowly while I worked her with tongue and lips. Her wetness smeared across my chin. She reached behind herself and took my small cock in her hand again, stroking it in time with the motion of her hips. The dual sensation—her cunt on my tongue and her fist around my shaft—pulled a helpless sound from my throat.
She came first, thighs clamping around my head, a low cry escaping her. Her juices flooded my mouth. I swallowed what I could. When the tremors eased she lifted off me, turned, and settled once more between my legs. This time she took my cock back into her mouth with clear purpose. She sucked hard, one hand cupping my stones, the other pressing just behind them. The orgasm tore through me. My cock pulsed, and thick ropes of semen shot across her tongue. She did not pull away. She swallowed every spurt, throat working, until I was empty and soft again inside her mouth. Only then did she release me, lips glistening.
“Good boy,” she said softly. “You came for me. You filled my mouth and I drank it all.”
She unbound one of my wrists just long enough to oil her own hand from a small pottery flask of olive oil—precious, imported, kept for this. Then she re-tied me. My cock was still sticky and spent. Mary moved lower.
“Spread,” she ordered, though the ankle restraints already held me open. She pushed my knees farther apart with her shoulders. A slick finger circled my butthole, pressing, then sliding inside to the first knuckle. I clenched. She waited until I breathed out, then added a second finger. The stretch burned. She worked them slowly, scissoring, oiling, until the ring of muscle loosened.
“You will take my whole hand,” she said. “Your tiny cock cannot fill me the way I need, so tonight I fill you instead.”
A third finger. Then the fourth. The pressure was enormous. I pulled against the leather cords; they held. Mary’s eyes stayed locked on mine as she twisted her wrist, pushing deeper. The widest part of her knuckles pressed against the rim. She spoke in a low, steady voice.
“Breathe. Push out. Let me in.”
I obeyed. The knuckles slipped past with a sudden, irreversible stretch. Her entire hand was inside my butthole, fist closed, buried to the wrist. The sensation was overwhelming—fullness beyond anything my small cock had ever known, pressure against places I had never felt. Mary held still, letting me adjust, then began to move. Slow, shallow thrusts of her fist. The wet sound of oil and flesh filled the solar. My soft cock twitched against my belly with each motion, leaking a thin clear fluid that had nothing to do with pleasure and everything to do with the deep, insistent stimulation.
She fisted me for a long time. Sometimes she turned her hand. Sometimes she opened her fingers inside me and closed them again. My thighs shook. Sweat ran down my temples despite the cold room. When she finally withdrew, the emptiness felt almost as intense as the fullness had. My hole clenched around nothing, slick and open.
Mary wiped her hand on a cloth, then climbed back up my body. She kissed me, letting me taste the oil and my own musk on her tongue. Then she straddled my hips, reached between us, and guided my still-soft cock to her entrance. Even soft it slid in easily; she was soaked. She rode me gently while I remained bound, her breasts swaying above my face. She pinched her own nipples, then leaned down so I could suck them. The whole time she spoke.
“Your cock is so small inside me. I can barely feel it. That is why I needed your arse tonight. That is why I will need it again.”
She came a second time, grinding down, her inner walls fluttering around my inadequate length. When she finished she stayed seated, looking down at me.
“I am going to untie you,” she said. “Then you will kneel and thank me properly.”
The cords came free. My wrists and ankles tingled. I slid off the bed onto the cold floorboards and knelt. Mary sat on the edge of the mattress, legs open, her sex still wet and open from riding me. She pointed.
“Worship.”
I leaned in and licked her clean, tasting myself and her together. She held my head with both hands and made me stay there until she was satisfied. Then she stood, turned, and bent over the bed, presenting her own butthole.
“Your turn,” she said. “Fist me. Slowly. I want to feel every knuckle.”
I oiled my hand with the same flask. My fingers were smaller than hers, but she was tight. One finger, two, three. She pushed back against me, breathing in short, controlled bursts. When my four fingers and thumb were gathered, she reached back and guided my wrist. The stretch took time. I worked the oil deeper, rotating, pressing. Finally the widest part of my hand slipped inside her. Her body accepted it with a long, low moan. I was fisting my wife’s butthole in our solar while the Domesday commissioners slept in the village below.
I moved carefully, the same way she had moved inside me. In and out, slow turns of the wrist. Mary’s voice broke into broken praises and filthy commands. She told me how full she felt, how no man’s cock—least of all mine—could ever match a fist. She came hard around my hand, her sphincter clamping down so tightly I could not have withdrawn if I tried. When the climax passed she ordered me to stay inside her a little longer, just holding the fullness.
At last she allowed me to ease free. We both collapsed onto the bed, naked, sweaty, marked by the cords and the oil. Mary pulled the heavy wool coverlet over us. Outside, the March wind rattled the shutters. Somewhere in the distance a dog barked.
She turned her head on the pillow and looked at me. The sharp edge had left her voice.
“Tomorrow the clerks will ask how many ploughs we have, how many serfs, how many sheep. They will not ask what we do in this room.” Her hand found my soft, spent cock and gave it a gentle, almost affectionate squeeze. “But we will know. You will remember the way my fist felt inside you, and I will remember the way yours felt inside me. And when I want a woman next, or when I want this again, you will open for me.”
I nodded. The leather cords still lay on the floor. The oil flask stood open on the chest. My tiny cock rested against my thigh, sticky and used. Lady Mary Hampton, my bisexual wife, closed her eyes and slept with one leg thrown across mine, the scent of sex and oil still heavy in the air of the year 1086.
In the morning the Domesday men would come. We would stand in the hall and swear our oaths. But the night belonged to the restraints, the forced nakedness, the blowjob, the swallowed seed, the worship of a small cock, and the deep, stretching violation of two buttholes by two determined fists.
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