Grace Sucks the Doctor’s Cock

An extract from The Woodlanders with Orgies by Lucy Landica and Thomas Hardy

She has spoken of sucking cock… of how the tongue should circle the head

It was a raw winter morning in solitary Hintock, frost and thaw warring in the air amid fine drifting snow, trees dripping steadily as rain drummed upon the leaves. Grace Melbury, a beautiful young woman in her early twenties with dark hair peeking from beneath her woollen veil, walked cloaked in heavy wool over her skirts, linen shift, and drawers already damp with arousal. Her cheeks flushed hotly, her bosom heaved beneath the fabric, nipples hardening to aching buds as lewd memories of Grammer Oliver’s woodland lessons flooded her mind: the swirl of tongue around a swollen cock-head, the clasp of lips on veined shaft, the hot jets of seed swallowed without spill. The errand burned within her — to beg the handsome Dr. Fitzpiers, a man in his late twenties with dark curly hair and stubbled chin, to cancel his compact granting him anal possession of Grammer’s corpse after death — yet it stirred a shameful tingling between her thighs, her quim growing slippery with every step through the mud.

Fitzpiers met her at the garden door of his dimly lit study, his coat unbuttoned to reveal the white shirt beneath, breeches taut with a promising swelling. “I beg pardon, Miss Melbury. I saw you from the window and feared you might think me from home — if indeed it is I you seek.” His voice was smooth, laced with curiosity, and he stood close enough that she caught the faint scent of his shaving soap and masculine warmth.

“I have but one word to say,” she answered, voice low, gloved hands twisting her umbrella handle as rain pattered around them, “and it can be said here.” Yet she hesitated, thighs pressing together against the building ache.

“The rain wets your cloak. Pray step into the porch at least.” His tone was gentle but insistent; he extended a hand, brushing her elbow through the wool. The touch sent a shiver through her, nipples tightening further. She allowed him to draw her beneath the narrow roof amid dripping trees. He closed her umbrella deliberately, forcing them close; she felt his gaze trace her veiled neck, the curve of her heaving bosom.

“It concerns Grammer Oliver,” she began, cheeks burning. “She is most unwell, and the thought of that… that bond you made with her weighs heavily upon her. The right you purchased to… to possess her corpse anally after death. She begs you to cancel it.” From her glove she drew two five-pound notes and the folded paper, fingers brushing his lingeringly.

Fitzpiers’s eyebrows rose, eyes fixed on her bosom’s rise and fall. “I will cancel it gladly,” he said, scoring the signature with his pocket knife, ignoring the money. “Though Grammer is wiser than you know. Yet how strange that our acquaintance should spring from so peculiar a root.” He stepped closer, breath warm against her veil.

Grace’s mind flashed to Grammer’s instructions; her cunt lips grew slippery. “She tells me the notion now excites her nightly… that she frigs herself thinking of a man’s cock pushing into her dead… I should not speak so.” The crude words escaped; she averted her eyes, heat flooding her.

His prick stiffened at her words. He lifted her veil’s edge, thumb brushing her chin. “You speak with admirable frankness. And has Grammer been teaching you other matters in the woods?”

“She has spoken of sucking cock… of how the tongue should circle the head… of fucking deep until the womb is flooded… of women licking one another while cocks thrust into every hole.” Her voice sank; his hand slid to her neck, tracing her pulse.

The doctor’s eyes darkened with lust, and he drew her further into the house, closing the door. The room smelled of woodsmoke and polished leather, bookshelves lining the walls, hooded couch rumpled, gleaming microscope on a side table beside flickering lamp and open erotic pamphlet, Turkey carpet underfoot. “Then let me show you something of interest,” he said huskily, leading her to the microscope. “This is no brain tissue. It is the very liquor that flowed from Grammer’s cunt while I spanked her bare buttocks last week. Look how it swirls — thick, opalescent, redolent of female heat.”

Grace bent to the eyepiece, skirts brushing his leg. The musky scent rose, heady; her quim clenched, thighs quivering. Straightening, she stared at his boldly outlined prick. Driven by barn and spar-house memories, she sank to her knees upon the Turkey carpet, her cloak pooling around her like a dark sea.

“Miss Melbury — “ he began, astonished, voice breaking on a gasp, hands hovering uncertainly. His face flushed, eyes wide with shock and arousal, chest rising rapidly, swelling twitching.

She silenced him by drawing his buttons free with trembling fingers, unfastening the breeches to reveal linen beneath. He groaned low, hands clenching. She tugged the undergarment down, exposing his erect cock — the veined shaft springing free, thick and ruddy, head beaded with fluid. His stones hung heavy in dark curls, musky scent filling her nostrils. Her heart pounded, cunt throbbing as she gazed. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered, gloved hands cupping his stones, feeling their warmth.

He shuddered, fingers threading into her hair, dislodging the veil slightly. “Grace… you mustn’t… yet I cannot stop you,” he murmured, hips shifting forward.

Remembering Grammer’s teaching, she took him between her lips, tongue swirling slowly around the velvet crown, tasting the salty pearl. She sucked with soft, wet sounds, lips clasping the shaft firmly as she bobbed her head. Her gloved hands stroked his stones, rolling them, tongue exploring ridges and veins. His groans deepened, fingers tightening, guiding her. “Oh God, your mouth… so warm, so eager,” he gasped, eyes half-closed, face contorted.

The pulsing prick filled her mouth richer than fantasy — hot, rigid flesh over her tongue, head nudging her throat. Her cunt-liquor soaked her drawers, dripping thighs; she rubbed legs together.

He watched, transfixed, cheeks hollowing, saliva trailing his shaft. “Slower… yes, like that,” he instructed hoarsely, caressing her cheek. Grace’s mind whirled with barn orgies; nothing so wondrous as a cock in one’s mouth.

After a dozen strokes, he tensed, stones drawing up. “Grace… I’m close,” he warned, body shuddering. She sucked harder, tongue lashing underside; he spent with a choked cry, jets striking the floorboards beside her knee, warm splatters thudding. His face twisted in bliss, hips bucking. She drew back, viscous thread connecting lip to glistening head, swallowing the salty thickness, wiping her mouth with her glove, rising as though nothing had occurred, though her nipples strained and cunt ached.

Fitzpiers stared, dazed, spent cock softening exposed as he leaned on the table, chest heaving, sweat on brow. “Last night I read an erotic pamphlet… dreamed that you stood there, veiled, beautiful… Nature had married herself to the Idea in your form.”

“It was no dream,” she whispered, hand on his chest. He pulled her close, hands on waist. “Your lips would make any cock weep its seed. Return soon; we shall explore every lesson.”

She left with the cancelled paper and untouched notes, body aflame, the taste of his spend lingering as rain eased to drizzle.

I hope you enjoyed this story — remember to clap and follow me if you did. I publish every day. In the meantime here’s another story you might like:

https://medium.com/@lucy.x.landica/i-miss-abbott-the-organiser-naked-and-commanding-a5caeb73dea7