The gold melted, bubbled up, and spread all over the house like running water

Without hesitating, therefore, he declared to Finette that he had come to marry her. Finette’s hostess had scarcely reached the village when she hastened to the house of the steward.
“Marriage or prison, which do you choose?”
“Oh!” cried Finette, laying down the distaff, “there are the firebrands falling all over the room.”
Stroking her cheeks, he began to move back and forth, very gently and slowly, taking great care not to hurt her.
“Villain, may the tongs hold you, and may you hold the tongs till sunset!”
No sooner said than done.
“Oh, I can’t believe it; you have your sweet prick buried all the way into my ass.”
Finette wiggled upon it, testing, experimenting, and her pussy contracted below. But, on entering the house, he was much more surprised and delighted to find a beautiful young girl, with raven hair, sitting by the window and spinning on her distaff with the air of an empress.
“Roll on over, darling–onto your belly, and bring your knees under your body, so your ass pokes up.”
For his only answer, he took a roll of parchment from his pocket, wrote on it a contract of marriage, and declared to Finette that, should he stay all night, he would not leave the house till she had signed the promise.
Finette didn’t give a damn if he did hurt her; anything that happened within her narrow hose would be a wanton rapture, and she slid around upon the meat socked so firmly inside her tail. The moment that the sun set, the tongs fell from the steward’s hands.
“You’re both dripping with my come,” The son said.
“If it should come to the ears of the bailiff or the seneschal,” said he, “the least that would happen to you, mother, would be to lose every one of these beautiful bright guineas. The cockhead is going in you–and wow! It’s really hot and tight in there.”
She knew the exact moment when Yvon came, and rocked the darling girl lovingly in her arms as the tiny ass bucked in hectic spasms. But the son sensed that his mother craved to share that ultimate moment, and pulled his spitting cockhead from his wife’s wringing pussy.
“Have you the tongs?”
“Yes,” said the steward, picking up the crackling coals. He made such leaps, he uttered such groans, he was so blackened, scorched, and benumbed, that everyone in the village was afraid of him, thinking that he was mad.
The bailiff had heard the story of the guineas and had also made up his mind to marry the stranger.
The steward listened to the old woman’s story, shook his head, and said it looked like witchcraft; then he mysteriously brought a pair of scales, weighed the guineas, which he found to be genuine and of full weight, kept as many of them as he could, and advised the owner to tell no one of this strange adventure. Old women do not know how to hold their tongues, at least in Brittany.
The gold melted, bubbled up, and spread all over the house like running water, and behold! the whole cottage, the walls, the thatch, the wooden rocking-chair, the stool, the chest, the bed, the cow’s horns-everything, even to the spiders in their webs, was turned to gold.
He was not rough, like the steward, but a fat, good-natured man that could not speak without bursting into a laugh, showing his great yellow teeth, and puffing and blowing like an ox, though at heart he was not less obstinate or less threatening than his predecessor.
When Finette had milked the cow and drank a little new milk, she threw herself on the bed without undressing, and, worn out by the fatigue of the day, fell asleep in the midst of her tears. Every tender stroke he made into her impaled body was a loving movement, and she could feel the juices of her cunt oozing from her labia to wet her thighs.
“Lay them carefully on the top of the ashes,” returned Finette.
Even when they have decided not to refuse, a gallant man spares their blushes. He did not stop to finish his errand, but ran as if the devil or justice were at his heels. She loved him for his thoughtfulness, and her ass twisted as the starchy rivulet oozed down the crack of her excited ass.
“Don’t trouble yourself,” said the steward; “I will pick them up.”
His magical staff was gone again, plunged once more into the sweet, hot glove the girl’s churning pussy, driven to the veined hilt inside her sinuously rolling snatch.
At evening, when Finette returned home in despair, instead of the steward she found another visitor little less formidable.
Before dawn he rose to make his rounds in the direction of the stranger’s cottage.She clasped her hands and begged him with tears to go. Even though she should be something of a witch, such a girl would none the less be a treasure in a family.
“It–it’s fabulous,” she groaned.
Finette gasped as she felt the downpour of her son’s semen, the splattering of the oystery fluid that rained upon her own cunt lips and soaked her pussy hairs.
“Relax as much as you can and stay loose; don’t tighten down on me, and it’ll go fine.”
She kept her word so well that she only told her story that evening to two neighbors, her dearest friends, both of whom swore on the heads of their little children to keep it secret. The young girl burst out laughing, upon which the steward flew into a passion. Her nipples dug into the carpet, and she liked the small pain.
The oath was a solemn one, and so well kept that at noon the next day there was not a boy of six in the village that did not point his finger at the old woman, while the very dogs seemed to bark in their language, “Here is the old woman with her guineas!”
A girl that amuses herself by filling milk-pails with gold is not to be found every day.
Yvon nudged her hip.
“Both my beautiful fuckable cunts are all milky with my semen–my mother’s pussy and wife’s pussy.”
The house gleamed in the moonlight, among the trees, like a star in the night. Justice is impartial; it knows neither favor nor repugnance; it takes the whole. He was fucking his mother from behind, sticking that young boy meat into his mommy’s ass, taking the cherry there that no man or woman had ever touched.
Containing himself, controlling his pent-up emotions, the son was giving them both a magnificent fucking, a priceless screwing they would both remember for the rest of their lives.
Like all men, the steward did himself justice, and knew, at the bottom of his heart, that there was not a woman in the world that would not be too happy to give him her hand.  Without warning, his cockhead flexed to spray a burning rain of come into her tubing, and he squeezed her breasts as he let go.
On reaching the place, he was greatly surprised to find a golden cottage instead of the wretched hut that had stood there the day before. The son bent over her, reaching down and around to take hold of her swinging tits, his pelvis grinding hungrily into the soft pillow of her ass. Four lingering strokes, five–then the greasy knob was back below, reaching blindly for the welcoming embrace of his mother’s cunt. He laughed, and hinted to her, in a good-natured way, that, by right of his office, he had the power to imprison and hang people without process of law.
“Abracadabra!” cried Finette, rising.
“If you do not accept me for a husband this very instant, I will arrest you, and before night, perhaps, a witch will be burned before Kerver Castle. You want it like this, don’t you?”
“Yes, yes, yes!” Finette moaned, and realized why the girl had collected the semen.
He jammed it home, and Finette took it breathlessly, joyfully.  Inch by exploring inch, the boy’s spongy, hard-cored bulb eased into her ass, and suddenly the length of his stiff prick slid up, up, and his balls settled into the parted vee of her thighs, his pelvis against her cheeks. Boyish prick that had dipped into adult cunts, she thought; such a young cock, to have already fucked two mature women and stroked so often in a girl’s alluring little oven as well; the son would go on sampling women’s vaginas, she knew, making many others happy; she hoped it would always come back to her own.
No one knows who you are or whence you came.
She exulted in what she was able to give him like this. His flanged cockhead reached and withdrew, rolled around inside Finette’s feverish hole and brought her jerking, heaving to a culmination that made her drum her heels upon the floor.
“Don’t let it all get soaked up,” Finette heard the girl say. Finette churned her ass around his meat, coming and coming as he sagged. It was in her; her son’s beloved cock was really in her ass.
Sighing, Yvon disengaged herself rom the tangle, rolling from Finette’s body and off to one side. By the first gleam of day he spied something shining in the distance like a light among the woods.
“We Bretons are plain-spoken people,” replied the steward; “we go straight to the point. The gold that you gave the old woman has raised suspicions.”
Would it hurt? Could it feel as good as that fleeting moment when, in the squirming heat of passion, someone had slipped a finger into her anus? The slippery tip of her son’s glans pressed into the equally greasy knot of her asshole, pushing tenderly. There is magic in this house.
It was useless for him to shout, pray, weep, and blaspheme; no one heard him. The girl jerked with every burying of the slick meat, her tremors passing through her straining body and into Finette’s sensitive flesh.
“Here, baby–let me scoop some of it into my hand–”
Finette started to move, bringing her legs together as she felt her son backing from between them. The son was coming, too, she thought; the boy’s scrotum was shuddering; all that creamy richness was spewing into the childlike vagina, drenching it with his bubbling juices. They were both being rewarded with the fluids of the boy’s wondrous balls, his some purling inside and our of Yvon’s shivering cunt, and smearing itself into Finette’s pulsating box.
He was an important personage, who had more than once made her tremble when she had driven her cow into her neighbor’s pasture by mistake.
“Take it easy, Mom,” he said from behind her.  “That’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”
The old woman thanked the steward for his advice, and promised to follow it.  In and out, his balls caressing Finette’s steamy cunt with every stroke, The son pumped his distended tool strongly into Yvon, and Finette could feel them, too. Finette felt her son’s fuzzy balls against the wet mouth of her deprived cunt, the slow back-and-forth swinging of the sack as The son pumped his insatiable rod into his wife’s wriggling body.
The steward, who was a bachelor, made this wise reflection that night on going to bed. She was panting against her folded arms when she felt warm, greasy fingers working the guey stuff into the rim of her asshole, and a violent thrill pierced her, all the way up to her throat.  It was to lubricate the head of the son’s cock, so that it would be easier to get into the tightness of her tube.  She felt it; she knew the strange, almost frightening sensation and fought to keep from tightening. And slowly, every so slowly, the reluctant circle began to give, to stretch. Closing her eyes, Finette waited, her pulses racing insanely.
“You are very amiable,” said Finette, with a charming grimace; “you have a peculiar way of paying court to ladies.”
The wicked steward stood there all day with the tongs in his hand, picking up and throwing back the burning coals that snapped in his face and the hot ashes that flew into his eyes.  Then her son’s sudsy knob was at the hairy ring, his hands braced upon the cheeks of her ass, his knees between her own.
“I am the master here.”
“Easy,” he murmured, “just hang loose, baby.”
“Take care!” said he, in a terrible voice. Rolling her ass, Finette lifted her tits from the rug and dug her fingers into it, arching her back, swaying her hips and taking him, loving him, backing fiercely into him while her cunt leaped and trembled as her maddened clitoris tried to break out of its hood. Finette entreated the bailiff to leave her alone.
Lightly, she kissed his downy cheek and watched the play of the boy’s ballooning knob along her skin, admiring the cunning sculpture of its design and the beauty of its coloring. Flames seared her vagina and her asshole was wiggling steam hose; the son pumped more strongly into it, and she could hear his breath, harsh and uneven in his throat.
Finette had stayed at home, she would doubtless have taken pity on him; but after putting the spell upon him, she hastened to the seashore, where, forgetting everything else, she watched for Yvon in vain.
The boldest tried to speak to him, but he fled without answering, and hid himself in his house, more ashamed than a wolf that has left his paw in the trap.

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