Age gap
I couldn't stand another minute of Aunt Marjorie's inane chatter about the proper way to butter a scone. The Regency enthusiast in me had had enough of genteel pretences and uncle Maurice reciting Byron. So, I slipped out of the B&B, the sea air a welcome slap after the stuffy sitting room.
The esplanade stretched before me, salt-stained railings and peeling paint on the old hotels, but I didn't care. I was free, twenty-five and desperate for something—anything—to jolt me out of a stifling orbit.
An all-expenses-paid long weekend away, but so boring!
The antique shop on the corner was a treasure trove of chipped Wedgwood and yellowed maps. Dust motes swirled in the weak afternoon light, and the scent of old wood and lavender hung thick in the air. Behind the counter stood an older man, silver-haired and sharp-eyed, his fingers idly tracing the spine of a leather-bound book. When he looked up, his gaze lingered a second too long.
"Looking for something special?"
His voice was smooth, like aged whisky.
My eyes were already drawn to a lacquer snuff box on a velvet stand. It gleamed black and gold, intricate designs curling across its surface.
"The box," I said, pointing.
He picked it up, turning it in his hands.
"Ah, this one's a beauty. Georgian, probably mid-1700s. Used to belong to a duke, or so the story goes."
He flipped it open with a practised flick of his wrist, revealing the hollow interior.
"Do you smoke?"
I blinked twice and said slowly, "Not really."
"Oh, it would suit weed?"
My response was too quick: "So pretty for casual moments."
"Ah, casual has highlights," he replied, adjusting his glasses.
He leaned forward, close enough that I caught the scent of sandalwood and something darker, muskier.
"Snuff's an art. A pinch, the right blend—bergamot, nutmeg, a touch of ambergris. When a vice becomes a satisfying ritual."
His thumb brushed the rim of the box, slow, deliberate.
"Lassie, do you like perfume?"
He stopped, "Does Miss have a name?"
"Bryony," then as my cheeks burned, and my lips betrayed, "Perfume. Sometimes."
Damn, Sam, cheating bastard, but his perfume gifts, now unused, were once spot on. Pity he couldn't keep his pecker under control.
"Sometimes," repeated the aged dude, chuckling.
"But never always."
He slid a hidden compartment open with a soft click.
"Perhaps you like the unexpected, the hidden. Space for a miniature, a love token. Some lovers even tucked away a lock of hair—or something more intimate."
His gaze flicked to me, heavy-lidded.
"Pubic hair. Swapped as a token of affection."
I swallowed, heat pooling low in my belly. "That's…"
"Wicked?"
He grinned, all worn teeth and mischief.
"Bonnie girlie, we're in a shop full of the wicked. The past is a kinky playground if you know where to look."
Before I could protest—or worse, run—he set the snuff box down and circled the counter.
His fingers grazed my wrist, calloused but gentle.
"You've got the look of someone who appreciates the finer things. Tell me, Bryony—may I call you Bryony?"
I nodded, dumbstruck.
"Good."
His other hand slid around my waist, pulling me flush against him. His body was wiry but strong, the scent of him enveloping me—leather, spice, something primal.
"Because I think you and I could have a very fine afternoon together."
Holding my hand, he flipped the store sign to closed and pulled the blind.
His mouth crashed into mine before I could protest, his lips dry but insistent. I gasped, and he took advantage, his tongue sweeping inside to tangle with mine.
One hand cupped my breast, squeezing through the thin fabric of my dress, his thumb flicking over my nipple until it pebbled beneath his touch.
I moaned into his mouth, my fingers tangling in his silver hair.
"Oohh! Fuck," I breathed against his lips.
He chuckled darkly.
"Language, my dear. Not in polite company."
But his hand was already hiking up my skirt, his fingers rough against the lace of my knickers.
"Though I do appreciate a woman who knows what she wants." I arched into his touch as his fingers found my pussy, already wet and aching.
"I want—"
"Shh! Well, all girls want the Duke. But today you get the descendant."
His breath was hot against my ear, "Let me show you quality knowledge across the bounds of time."
He dropped to his knees in front of me, his hands gripping my thighs as he yanked my knickers down. The shadow drafts hit my bare flesh, but it was nothing compared to the heat of his mouth as he lapped at my slit, slow and thorough. His tongue was wicked, circling my clit.
"Orrghh! Aahh! Frickin' perfect. Mmm, aahh, mmm."
God, old-fashioned trouser buttons undone, and he was plunging inside me, fucking me with shallow strokes that had my knees buckling.
"Oohh—fuck—" I gasped, my fingers cupping his cheeks.
He pulled back just enough to smirk at me, his lips glistening.
"You like that, do you?"
"Yes—don't stop."
"No stopping, but do turn around."
His hands gripping my waist, he spun me.
"Bend over the Georgian desk," he ordered, his voice rough with need. I obeyed, gripping the edge of the mahogany roll-top.
He wedged between my buttocks. Tight in my slit.
"Oohh! Aahh! Yes, oh my! Mmm, mmm, aahh!"
Finesse—divine strokes, backwards and forwards, yet in me.
"Fuck!" I cried out, my nails digging into the wood. Yep, I left scratches.
He set a punishing pace, his hips slapping against my arse with each deep thrust. His hands gripped my waist, fingers digging into my flesh as he pounded into me, the desk creaking beneath us.
"You're so skintight," he grunted.
I could only whimper in response, my body already climbing toward another orgasm.
"Arrgghh! Hnggh! Hnggh!"
My excess fem-cum and his copious jizz, leaked between my butt cheeks, dribbled down my thighs and splattered like white ink blots on the broad polished floorboards.
He grabbed a box of tissues from under the counter and left me to tidy myself.
"Thank you," I said, "A better afternoon than tea and scones. Goodbye."
"Wait," he said, "The box."
"Way beyond my student budget. Yet, so damn gorgeous."
"I'll let you pay with a token."
I held my temple, "A token? What do you mean?"
Smooth as Palo Cortado sherry, "One pubic hair. Bryony, the restrooms are out through the far door."
----
On the esplanade, my hands cupped the snuff box.