”“Sorry to hear that,” I said to her, still holding her small hand. She was dressed for riding; tight fitting breeches and high boots, a frilly ...hirt beneath a short jacket and not a sign of stays. Her pale hair was tied back like mine but her queue hung well down her back like a waterfall. Five-three perhaps and, I guessed, eight stone, she was obviously healthy and happy with quite womanly hips and a proud prow for one so young. She looked all of sixteen, but I knew she must be older or she. I remembered what I'd heard in the garden. I knew that much was true. So why won't she just tell me the full story? How bad was it?Thinking about it just brought images to my minds eye. By the time I was halfway down the glass my cock was hard. To hell with it! I was going upstairs to bed. Not to sleep, but to wake her up and make her tell me. The drink was having a strange effect."What are you doing?" she said as I turned her to face me."I want you to tell me about the builders – while I fuck. More

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