Thomas Smith and Genevieve, daughter of Louis the Innkeeper, were married under the spreading oak tree on an early spring day just after the second plowing. The weather had held, bright and clear, until midway through Father Liam’s benediction. He had been in the middle of the sentence “Fruit of their loins-“when a tremendous clap of thunder drowned him out. A hammering rain followed a heartbeat later, and drove most of the attendees under any meager corner of shelter they could find. Most, but not all. Many eyes which had been fighting to stay open during the ceremony flashed open at the sight of the bride and her party dancing in the rain, their best dresses now soaked and clinging desperately to their sinuous bodies.

As the storm died down, Wat the Brewer brought forth a cask of beer made special for the day. This preempted Father Liam, who pronounced the marriage brusquely then stomped back to the rectory in disgust when the guests showed much more interest in the keg than resuming the ceremony. He was already somewhat perturbed. When he had reached the line “These two children of the gods, virgin and pure-“the snickers and snorts in the crowd had reached a volume the old priest found most indecorous. Perhaps he should have known better than to expect the villagers to take the idea of the young couples “purity” seriously. Almost every soul among them had heard Genevieve’s high, quavering, song of pleasure at one time or another. The young couple was notorious for having a number of spots they considered “secret” to which they would retire whenever their hunger for one another overtook them- which happened every five minutes or so, it seemed to their elders.

When everyone had a chance to take at least two or three turns at the keg, and faces began to redden and smiles to widen, you began to hear the name. The baroness. Not loudly, nothing more than a giggling whisper, here or there about the periphery. Lady Larana. The Mistress of the Hyacinths. The Sorceress. Sometimes, simply The Witch to the particularly drunk or particularly traditional. Once in awhile, the various names were joined to a pair of words, ancient and heavy. They had the feel on the tongue of old and tarnished silver:

Prima Nocta.

Thomas, the bridegroom, had never heard the words until four winters ago, after old Baron Ryman had died and his mysterious, young foreign wife had inherited his lands. Most of the village rumors about her were fairly standard, and would’ve been flung at any woman in her position. She had poisoned the old Baron, she practiced strange foreign magicks, she bedded down with her servants.

The rumors that came later, after the spring wedding season, were more interesting. That she could be seen walking through the hills on either side of the valley, particularly in the hyacinth meadows- stark naked. That she visited newlyweds on their wedding night and claimed the ancient lord’s right to the first night with a peasant bride- except she took the bride and groom both.

Thomas hadn’t believed it- until the last wedding to be held in the village, of his friends Fiona and Tylor. No one knew exactly what had happened that night, but no one in the village had seen Tylor since. Everyone, by contrast, had seen Fiona- but only once. She had been dragged into the village square, pale and naked, and whipped five times. The baroness herself had held the lash. Thomas still remembered the sight of Fiona heaving forward with each stroke, her small tits shaking as she drew in her breath after each stroke, her cries that could have been mistaken for pleasure, if you had your eyes closed. No explanation for the whipping had been offered then or after.

The keg of beer had the additional amiable effect of reconciling the fathers of the bride and groom, who were seen to shake hands and then awkwardly embrace. Thus ending a conflict older than the newlyweds. No one, even the men themselves, recalled the exact beginning of their enmity. Most people in the village ascribed it to the non-payment, or perhaps insufficient payment, for the shoeing of a plow horse. The horse had been dead and buried for a decade, but the hatred had lived on between the two proud, stubborn men until today.

Thomas, the bridegroom, did not see this, a sight which would have gladdened his heart. His mind was divided in two- half was turning the strange rumors about the baroness over, and half was watching his bride. She was a healthy looking, voluptuous young woman, a head or so shorter than Thomas’s solid six foot. Water was still streaming off her long, golden hair in rivers as she danced with her sisters and friends. She was perfect to him. A complete, harmonious collection of curves and warmth and pleasure. Her skin reminded him of molten metal, firm and soft at the same time- malleable and vital.

Her large, dark nipples were showing through her sodden dress now, plain for the whole village to see. Thomas did not mind. He was not a jealous sort. That would not have served with Genevieve. She was a force of nature, an avatar of joy and fertility, not a piece of livestock to be owned, nor a bottle of rare liquor to be jealously guarded and sipped from on special occasions. Rare she was, to be sure, but rare like a mountain spring of pure, cold, life-giving water, bottomless and eternal.

That one or three of the other men had already seen those generous, perfect, heavy tits in their naked glory didn’t matter to him. He thought back to their first time together with a private little half smile- hell, he hadn’t even been the only one that day.

It was a refreshingly cool day at the end of late summer, some three years ago. Thomas had been walking in Aspendowne wood, dark, sullen, and shamed. It was a typical day of that time- He had broken one of his fathers hammers with one particularly clumsy stroke. His father had thrown a bucket at him, and per their usual pattern, Thomas would return in a few hours and both of them would make grudging, sidemouth apologies. On this day though, something very untypical happened. After cresting a rise, he heard a lilting, falsetto moan, clear and sharp in the dense forest air. He put his hand on the rough bark of the huge oak that lay between him and the sound, and circled around the trunk.

She was laying on the leafy ground, in the “V” made by two thick, black roots. Her skirt was pulled up around her hips, and her left hand was working between them with the steady constant motion of a windmill in a light breeze. Her right hand gripped one breast, pulling and stroking playfully. Thomas could see something glistening on that breast, a milky liquid that was dripping down on to her stomach. Though he did not know it yet, she had come out into the woods with Miles Tailor, but when she had undone the strings on her top and pulled it down, the sight of her bounty had proved too much for him- and he had shot onto her in seconds. Embarrassed and shamed, he had fastened his pants, mumbled some excuse, and ran back to the village. Genevieve, however, had come all the way out here for a reason, and by gods she was not going back until she got it.

When she heard Thomas’s footfall, her half shut eyes fluttered open. She let out a small, sharp gasp and her busy hands froze. Thomas did the same, going stock still. He started to drop his eyes, as he would if he was hunting, to stop the animal from feeling the heat of his gaze, but he found he couldn’t. Her eyes were just a shade darker blue than his own, the color of a mountain lake, and she did not look away. He saw fear, but only for a moment, then it was gone like lighting. Something surprising took it’s place- something like hunger.

Slowly, her hands began to move again, and her voice rose once more, high and fluttering. He had never paid much attention to her before, nor been close to her, having taken his father’s part in the family quarrel. What foolishness, what wasted time! Every moment he had spent not touching this girl was a crime against the gods. He came towards her then and knelt over her, never looking away from those beautiful icy eyes. He grabbed her by the hips, firm and soft at the same time under his strong, calloused hands. He pulled her close, and when she felt his bulging manhood against her she gasped. Her hand moved up slightly, to make room for him to press closer, but did not stop it’s steady rhythmic motion. He fumbled with his breeches and entered her slowly, while she let out another rising moan. She was as soft and wet as spring grass. As he began to move his hips, pushing in and out of her slowly, her tits bouncing gently with each thrust, the seed already on her began to drip down onto the puddled blouse around her belly.

He had hardly let go of her since.

The wedding was beginning to wind down. Tall Margaret, fearful for her strings, had packed away her harp and gone home at the first sign of rain. This deprived the wedding of the only real instrument known to the village, as Miles Tailor had broken his flute over his younger brothers head last year when the latter had farted loudly during a particularly difficult recital. So the girls made their own music, singing in harmony and clapping in time as they danced. Thomas watched his bride skip and writhe, thinking with eager anticipation about the night that awaited them. He had tried to keep his mind off of the wedding night all day, working hard to keep a somewhat serious and pious face during the ceremony.

He had decided, in his usual stubborn manner, that he was a man now. As such, it was not right that he should sit and fill his head with thoughts of Genevieve, the way he had during so many afternoons as the priest droned on, or he did some repetitive work at the forge. The feel of her firm, bountiful tits, the tangles of her hair knotting in his fingers, the way she writhed and squealed when he kissed her cunt, her legs kicking and grinding into the ground as if to get away, while her hands grabbed his hair and pressed his face deeper, closer…

Thoughts like these had often left him beating on a kettle long after it had found its shape, or walking back the smithy with a load of charcoal on his back, not realizing he had walked right past it until half a mile too late.

Soon, the party would be done. The fathers of the bride and groom were fast asleep, both of them pitched across onto the same table in a companionable way. The remaining conscious guests- the young people, mostly, were passing a bottle around a small fire. They had built it on apiece of dry ground near where the wedding arch still stood, white streamers blowing off of it in the wet evening breeze. The bride and groom were there, sitting with a few people between them, but gazing at each other with mounting hunger.

Genevieve’s third cousin Lucy caught one of those looks as she was taking a drink from the bottle. As her soft, wet lips parted from it they formed into a wicked smile.

“What’s the matter, Tom?” She said, impishly. “Can’t wait for your hammer to find her anvil?” Her hand darted quickly for a piece of Genevieve’s white wedding skirt. She balled it up in one hand and pulled at it to expose one perfect, delicately curved ass cheek and her firm, muscled leg. At the same time she used the leverage to spin the bride, pointing the beautiful sight directly at Thomas. Lucy then gave Genevieve’s exposed backside a quick, playful smack with the bottle.

Thomas’s bride stood stock still for a moment then produced her trademark histrionic gasp. She then grabbed at her cousin, attempting to get her revenge by pulling up her skirts. Fair was fair, after all. The two began a merry chase around the fire until Tom stepped in front of the fleeing Lucy.

“Oi, slow up, you’re going to spill.” He said, taking the bottle from her, then tipping it up into his own mouth. He didn’t know what it was, but it was lovely, sweet and tart and tasting of summer.

“You slow up!” His bride said, snatching the bottle from him in turn. “Anything you drink tonight you should have to drink off of me.” She winked one beautiful sky blue eye at him, and took a drink.

“That’s right.” Lucy said. “You can’t have too much. You want to be wide awake when the baroness comes to claim her rights tonight.”

“Shhh, Lucy!” one of the younger girls cried out from across the circle. “You wicked thing, you know not to speak of her, it only calls her closer.”

“Who says I don’t want her to come closer?” Geniveve said, drawing a chorus of hoots and cheers from the fireside crowd. “Gods know I’ve never minded a little company.” She took one more drink and handed the bottle back to Lucy.

“Come my love.” She said, placing one hand on Thomas’s broad and muscled chest. “Prima Nocta or no, I believe it is time to do your husbandly duty.”

Thomas composed his face, putting on a serious and long suffering expression. “Aye, my lady. And a grievous hard duty it is.”

“I’ll say.” Genevieve said, as she brought her other hand to grab his bulging manhood. This drew another series of raucous shouts from the revelers. Thomas took his bride’s hand and led her into the darkness.

Her took her to a spot a hundred yards or so from the wedding, separated from it by a small hill. There was a fine wool blanket laid out, dusted with wildflowers and surrounded by a few guttering candles. Genevieve looked over it with approval, then sat down gathering up the skirt of her white wedding dress delicately, and looking up at Thomas. Her eyes were full of mischief and longing and satisfaction, all swirled together. “Nice work. When did you find time to set this up?”

“I had your bridesmaids do it.” He said. “Frankly I think they went a bit overboard.” He said, gesturing at the splay of multicolored wild flowers. “But it’ll do.”

With a gentle and slightly drunk smile, Genevieve pulled Thomas down onto the blanket and pushed him onto his back. The clouds had finally parted, and the stars were out in all their luminous glory. But none so beautiful as his bride. She straddled him, and leaned forward. Her large breasts emerged from the intricate, lacy bodice of her wedding dress. Thomas reached up and grabbed a handful of lace, but before he could pull down and spill force those magnificent heavy tits, Geniveve laid a soft but firm hand on his own.

“Don’t you dare rip my dress.” She said.

“Why not? Isn’t like you can wear it again.” Thomas said, then bucked his hips. His bride yelped as she lost her balance. Thomas twisted, grabbed her wrists, and rolled on top of her.

“Rip it and I’ll never kiss your cock again.” She said. Pinned though she was, her eyes were bright and defiant.

“You wouldn’t last a week.” He growled, then leaned down so he could whisper in her ear. “I’ve felt you after you do it, remember. You get wet as a spring rill-”

“Thomas and Genevieve Smith.” Said a voice in the darkness. It was soft and quiet, but the shock of it was enough for Tom to fling himself off of his bride and scramble in the grass. Genevieve sat bolt upright, peering into the darkness. There was a shape there, slim and feminine, silhouetted in starlight.

“Fiona?” Genevieve gasped.

It was, by gods- it was her. The mousy, skinny little brunette who Thomas had last seen as she whipped naked in the town square. She looked older than one year of absence would account for, and her face was grave and serious. She was wearing in a long gray dress, simple in cut, but a fabric so fine it’s quality was obvious even in nothing but starlight.

“Your presence is requested at the manor.” Fiona said, her eyes demure and downcast.

“What? Fi, what are you- no one has seen you in a year-“Geniveve said, stammering.

“I am in service to my lady, the baroness. She requests your presence at the manor.” Fiona replied, as if that was an answer.

There was a moment of thick silence. Then Thomas and Genevieve turned and looked at one another, four blue eyes wide in shock.

“The rumors- the first night-“Genevieve said. “It’s true, isn’t it?” It wasn’t clear if she was asking Thomas, Fiona, or the chilly spring air.

In reply, Fiona merely turned around and began to walk away. At twenty paces, she stopped and looked over her shoulder to see if they were following.

It was higher off the ground than either of them had ever been.

The chamber was near the top of the Manor’s main tower, and Tom and Genevieve could see the entire valley laid out before them in the starlight. Thomas thought he could even see the great lighthouse of Silverport, down by the sea. Fiona had led them up here and then left them where they now stood, dumbfounded and silent, staring out the windows.

So focused were the newlyweds on the view, they barely noticed the sumptuous chamber around them. A large four-poster bed that was covered in a pile of sumptuous furs dominated the center of the room. A gentle fire was burning in the hearth. It pushed back the at the cool spring breeze coming in through the windows, creating a pleasantly alternating dance of warm air and cold across Tom and Genevieve’s skin. There were pots of hyacinth flowers around the room, freshly picked from the high meadows. Ten censers hung from the ceiling. Though they were all cunningly wrought, and suspended on similar fine delicate chain, they were made of many different metals. Some were plain black iron, others shining bronze. Two were fine creamy silver, and the one that hung in the center, above the bed, was a bright and fearless gold. Though neither Tom nor Genevieve would have recognized the pattern, they were arranged according to the current position of the heavenly bodies, with each censer representing an important planet or star.

The heavy oak door opened behind them, snapping the newlyweds out of their reverie. They turned and saw the baroness prowling into the room, Fiona trailing behind her. Neither Tom nor Genevieve had ever been this close to her before. It was turning out to be a night of firsts.

She was, in some ways, like a mirror image of Genevieve- they were of a height, had a similar generously curvy shape and bountiful breasts. But where Genevieve was the bright, burning and vibrant sun, the baroness was the moon- distant, strange and mysterious. Genevieve’s skin was a gently tanned ivory, while her hair was layered variations of on the theme of gold- wheat, honey and autumn leaves. The baroness had coppery brown skin and a mane of midnight black. It was hanging over her shoulder now in a clubbed braid. As the baroness entered her chamber, she took the finger of one of her elbow-length violet gloves in her teeth and pulled on it. As she completed the operation, and repeated it with her other glove, she did not take her large hazel eyes off of Tom and Genevieve. There was something both appraising and predatory about the way she looked at the young couple. They stood there transfixed for a moment before Genevieve remembered her manners and curtsied. Thomas followed a heartbeat later with a jerky bow.

The baroness tossed her gloves on a side table and advanced towards the couple. The way she moved reminded Thomas of the mountain lions he has seen prowling in the high meadows on either side of the valley. Fiona entered behind her and shut the door.

“Light the incense, Fiona, and bring us some wine.” The baroness said. Her voice was soft, but dense somehow. It was like freshly tanned leather layered with velvet. She stopped in front of the bride and looked her up and down slowly.

“Thomas and Genevieve Smith.” The baroness said, continuing to devour her blonde opposite with her eyes. “I suppose congratulations are in order.”

“Thank you, my lady.” The newlyweds said in nervous unison.

Fiona was moving around the room, lighting the swinging censers with a candle. Each type of metal censer apparently contained different incense, for as Fiona lit them Tom smelled not just one, but a chorus of strange and foreign scents. The brass scent was smoky and bracing, like burning leaves, while the silver was sweet and mellow, like honey and wine. To Tom, the iron incense reminded him of hot metal on the forge. It all should have been overwhelming, but it wasn’t. Each fragrance seemed to fit neatly into the others, creating a symphony rather than a pandemonium. When Fiona crawled onto the bed to light the gold censer, though, something strange happened. When it hit Thomas’s nose, he felt suddenly awake, sobered and intoxicated at the same time. The sodden fuzzy drunkenness of the fireside bottle was gone, replaced in a second by a bracing, exhilarating feeling. Witchcraft, Thomas thought.

“Do you know why you are here?” The baroness asked them. She shrugged out of her violet cloak, revealing more oceans of smooth olive brown skin.

“No, my lady.” Genevieve said. She knew she should have kept her eyes cast down, with proper deference. But she found, as the gold scent hit her, she could not look away from the baroness.

“In my country, we have a-“The baroness paused and put a finger to her pillowy lips, thinking. “A ritual, you might say. To bind a lord or lady to their people on important occasions.”

“Like the first night of a wedding.” Genevieve said tentatively.

“Like then.” The baroness affirmed. She was pacing in front of the couple now, looking each of them up and down. “I am the Lady of this manor. You are of my land. You belong to me, and I to you. Always and forever. You serve me faithfully, and I watch over you. Where I come from, this is a scared bond, and must be sealed in something stronger than ink. The price must be paid, but how is up to you.” She said, and gestured to Fiona, who was setting a pitcher of wine and several cups on the small table behind her.

“There is Fiona’s way. The path of the proud. One day of blood, and a year of sweat. You will take ten lashes in the village square, then serve me here at the manor for one year.” The baroness pulled her sumptuous bodice down, revealing her large rounded tits. She reached out, touching Thomas and Geniveve each on one cheek, gently. Fiona disappeared behind a canvas screen across the room.

“Then there is the easy way. One night of sweeter things. What do you choose?”