Control and Compassion

By: Sahara Kelly

The Gypsy Gentlemen Book II


(The stories of Gyorgy and Mat and Luk)



Gyorgy





Chapter One


“Ooh, Georgie. Such a lovely cock you’ve got, love.”

Gyorgy winced. Jenny was certainly enthusiastic, but clearly her hearing wasn’t all it could be. He’d pronounced his name quite clearly, several times, but to no avail. He was “Georgie”.

He really disliked that.

For a second or two he wondered what the hell he’d been thinking, inviting her into the tub.

Then she slithered her breasts and the rest of her around him and without further ado sank down onto his cock.

Aaah. Yes. That’s what he’d been thinking.

Jenny moved and rubbed her ample body against his, squishing herself closer and riding him. Heedless of the sudsy tide swamping the sides of the tub, Gyorgy thrust upwards and accepted the nipple that was flying around his face.

He sucked hard and heard her gasp, enjoying her pleasure with her. He slid his hands behind her and helped her rise and fall on his cock, the water adding to their sensations.

Her breasts were pendulous and full, and her arse overflowed his grasp.

This was just how he liked his bedmates. Buxom, enthusiastic and hot. Jenny fulfilled all three requirements, and within moments she was shuddering around him and screaming out her orgasm.

“Geeeoooorrrggiiieeeeee…”

This time, Gyorgy’s expression was one of pleasure. What the fuck did it matter what she called him? As long as he could empty his balls into a willing woman, had money to burn, and no obligations, his life was good.

Gyorgy spent himself with a sigh of relief, feeling Jenny milk his seed with her body.

Yes, the simple life was good. Very good indeed. Even if he was with a woman who couldn’t manage the correct pronunciation of his name.

~~~~*

The small country fair was in full swing by the time Gyorgy wandered into the village square. Tables were groaning under the force of the local produce, pies and other delicacies were disappearing at a rapid rate, and children were running everywhere shrieking with laughter.

Gyorgy spared a moment to just enjoy the sight. Such happiness, such pleasure…no fear or terror lurking just beyond the next hill. He blinked as he realized that it had been a while since he’d actually felt this relaxed.

The time he’d spent in France with his fellows had scarred him. Not physically, like some of the others, but mentally. He’d become used to keeping his sixth sense alert for the presence of danger, to calculating the most effective escape route should one be needed within seconds, and to observe the eyes of everyone around him.

It was all in the eyes, he’d discovered. A slight shift, a dilation of the pupils…there was something in a person’s eyes that would give their thoughts away. To him, at least. It had helped him avoid disaster several times in the past.

But now, refreshed by a good night’s sleep, and the previous evening’s activities with his buxom bedmate, Gyorgy was content.

He was in England, where life was relatively tranquil. Where the people managed to eat and live and love without the horrors of war hanging over their heads. There were troubles, of course, but death and savagery seemed a long way away from this rural tableau.

He was making his leisurely way to London, where he knew he’d find his friends. There was no hurry. As if by mutual consent, they’d split up—each wandering where the wind blew them as they journeyed towards some inner peace. The green and pleasant countryside eased their troubled minds and the occasional nightmares that had accompanied them. Even while enthralling London society with their music, the tension had still possessed them, almost as if by being together they were still functioning as a unit.

Now—alone—it was time to let go.

Gyorgy breathed in the soft air, redolent with the scents of the fair, and turned as a loud cheer bellowed from a crowd at one end of the square. He strolled over, ignoring the sizeable number of female heads that turned and watched as he passed.

An impromptu archery contest had been set up on the village green. Gyorgy’s interest was sparked. Although no marksman with a bow, he had other talents. And a nearby table held a number of interesting looking items.

He stood quietly and watched as a local lad with a sharp eye notched his arrow into his bowstring, took aim, and plugged the bull’s-eye with quite amazing accuracy. Gyorgy joined in the applause with enthusiasm, laughing at the boy’s embarrassment as his mother hugged him with pride.

A couple of older men approached the table and picked up the dueling pistols, which lay ready. With much chaffing and teasing, they challenged each other, loaded the pieces and waited for the targets to be set up. Bets were placed, noisily and often quite rudely, to the amusement of the crowd.