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The Aftermath of Matty Groves (Team Amazeballs Erotica Exchange with Emmeline Peaches)

I am very excited about this post, the second to my exciting new blog, because it’s the first time I have taken part in the #TeamAmazeballs exchange!

First of all, what is #TeamAmazeballs? Well…

#TeamAmazeballs is a community-driven project where bloggers and like-minded individuals trade content to showcase on each other’s platforms. This can involve anything from a toy swap to an article trade, an interview, to a photography showcase. It doesn’t matter! What matters is that two people take the chance to boost each other’s content by providing a new platform and take the time to truly connect as a result.”

I was very flattered and excited when Emmeline immediately suggested an erotica swap after I asked if I could join the endeavour. She gave me a beautiful photo to use as my stimulus, and I, knowing very little about art, asked if I could provide her with a song to use as hers. She agreed, and mentioned she didn’t know a great deal about folk music – and as someone raised on folk festivals and Maddy Prior, this suited me very well indeed.


The song I eventually selected (it took me a while) was Matty Groves:


With themes of adultery and murder, it seemed a pretty good choice! (well it did to me…)

The story Emmeline has written, is gorgeous, appealing to my love of a historical romance, and of encounters between two people who aready hold a deep and beautiful love for one another. I hope you enjoy it.

The Aftermath of Matty Groves

Pennwell stumbled through his old oak doorway, a harrowed shadow of his former self. His face was grim and sombre—his usually handsome features dimmed by his expression.

Waiting for him by the hearth was a faithful figure. Eyes as deep as emeralds, and hair blazing like the fires on the coal, the woman approached the broken Pennwell. Her thick linen dress was almost black, save for remnants of dust and dirt left over from a long day’s toil.

“How was the funeral?” the woman asked sweetly, placing a sympathetic hand on his chest. His heartbeat was weak. Weaker than she had ever known it to be.

“Dreadful, Gwyn. Lord Darnell is in a state of complete disarray. He began shrieking with rage during the burial, cursing his wife for her licentious nature and for the mere existence of Matty Groves”.

Gwyn nodded lovingly. “I know Lord Darnell has kept you well in his employ and you have always stayed true and faithful to him, but this is not your burden to bear. You did what you thought was right, telling him of Lady Darnell’s infidelity. You could not have known the outcome”.

Gwyn’s words tried to reach out desperately to her husband, but she could feel him slipping away. His chest was laying underneath her fingertips but his mind…his mind was a ship amid a torrid storm; swept further and further away by the crashing waves of guilt and uncertainty.

“There was just so much…blood. Right through the heart…and the screaming…hers…then his…It is more than a person should have to witness” Pennwell spoke frantically, his eyes racing as it all flashed before his eyes once more. Droplets began to form in them, big and unconcealable. With this Gwyn could see even more fear creep in to her husband’s mind.

“Hush now my love” she comforted. “You are Lord Darnell’s sole heir now. What worry have you or I now that our lives and the lives of our children have been made better? Should not we take some joy out of this misfortune?”

Pennwell shook his head with certainty. “What good are riches if they come at the death of another? What good is a castle if it is not run by a man who is noble and true?”

Pennwell moved away from his doting wife and hid his shame in his palms, sobbing.

Gwyn looked on lamentably for a moment. Had her husband gone forever? Had the waves beaten at his sails for too long and with too much ferocity? Or was there hope within the undercurrent?

For a moment, Gwyn did not have an answer, but then one came to her mind.

Sudden, carnal, and somewhat perverse (perhaps one of her favourite combinations), it occurred to Gwyn: If her husband’s mind was adrift and her words provided no solace, then maybe her body would instead.

Approaching his shrunken and sobbing form, Gwyn parted Pennwell’s hands and met his teary eyes with a deep and desiring gaze. It was the kind of forceful stare that should only be commanded by those of royal blood, and yet Gwyn used it often when conquests of the body were on her mind.

All too familiar with the expression, Pennwell stood transfixed—his own hazel eyes meeting those of his wife’s. With her husband enthralled, Gwyn took a few delicate steps back, keeping her eyes locked upon him and she began to slide her dress off.

Her hypnotic gaze was one of defiance. A refusal of society’s conventions. A refusal to conceal her burning sexual desire. And a refusal to allow grief to consume her husband when she wished to do so herself.

As Gwyn’s black dress dropped, her freckled body stood in stark contrast to its dark hues. The russet hair of her vulva blazed with a burning intensity that was only matched by her hungry expression. Once more, she moved forward to try and dissuade her husband from sorrow.

As Gwyn stepped out from her dress she kicked it to one side, stripping away her wifely persona and embracing the ferocity of her Gaelic roots. Pennwell, still frozen in the place, did nothing in protest as she pushed him against the wall and engulfed his cold lips with the warmth of her own.

The act was almost symbolic, as Gwyn suddenly felt her husband’s desire rekindle, his hand sliding up the curvature of her waistline and moving to cup her pert breasts.

“Fetch some intestine” Gwyn whispered in Pennwell’s ear, and he gladly obliged—stripping off his own clothing and sheathing his impressive, swollen phallus. Wrapped in the skin of another Gwyn found her husband would often become more like an animal himself. Sorrow forgotten (at least for the moment) this continued to be the case.

Pennwell took Gwyn up in his hands and forced her against the wall before lowering her down on to his firm and flexing shaft. As he did so Gwyn wriggled and writhed cheekily, making her satisfaction known. This was partly for show but Gwyn had also grown achingly fond of the way this caused Pennwell’s penis to squirm and twitch inside of her, caressing her inner sponge and making her clitoris ache heavily.

Wrapping her arms around her sworn lover Gwyn began grinding her hips in to Pennwell’s body, seeking to press her clit against his wild and bushy pubic region.

“Can you imagine?” Gwyn panted in to his ear “The consequences if ever I chose to stray?”

“You would not” Pennwell responded “You have not it in your kindness”

“Yes, that is true”, Gwyn said without hesitation, “But let us fantasize for a moment; If I were to do so, would you plunge your blade in to my heart?”

“Nay, not your heart”, Pennwell uttered in between claiming Gwyn’s neck with passionate kisses. “Not your heart and unsheathing no blade. If I were to find you in such a scenario, my beloved, I would care not for revenge, nor the man in our bed; I would move over to you and take you with such ferocity that you would have no doubt in your heart of my love for you, nor further need to stray”.

“Prove it” Gwyn uttered.

By the glint in his eye, Gwyn could tell her words had been taken in good faith, but it was Pennwell’s increased firmness that revealed the true extent of his approval.

Sweeping her around in a powerful motion, Gwyn found herself thrown daringly on to their bed, soon followed by Pennwell, who arched himself above her.

With permitted confidence Pennwell grabbed at Gwyn’s now tussled red locks and yanked her firmly down to the rough blanket’s surface. Moving his weight on to her Pennwell wasted no time in returning to Gwyn’s lips, in more ways than one. His hand was firm and persistent as it slid its way down to her vulva and fondled her labia, exploring her natural form with brutal sentimentality.

Consumed by the commanding posture of her husband, Gwyn stretched out her neck and invited him to demonstrate his dedication. As he firmly obliged, Gwyn felt two fingers edge their way in to her vaginal opening as Pennwell’s palm began to apply a pressure on to her vulva. Her husband’s hands embraced her with all the mastery of a prestigious baker, kneading soft dough until it was plump and ready.

Just when Gwyn felt she would reach her natural edge she felt Pennwell reposition himself, grasping his sheathed cock and guiding his way back in to her. The tenderness of his entry was swiftly replaced with unyielding, confident thrusts, arching Pennwell’s coronal ridge deep in to Gwyn’s body and beckoning her body to succumb to him. Each thrust was a demand but also a dedication. Pennwell owned her in that moment, but he also treasured her.

Glancing up at her husband as he strained to his final pace, Gwyn saw no sense of sorrow—no hint of defeat. Instead she saw her husband triumphant, unafraid and unaffected by the world outside of their Eden. Gwyn’s body clenched and released in celebration of their ability to bring each other to such a jubilant frenzy as her voice broke into a song of profound pleasure.

As Gwyn released the last of her inhibitions she felt the sheath inside of her fill with her husband’s humours. Panting and covered in beads of sweat, Pennwell collapsed by Gwyn’s side and removed his spent coverings.

Gwyn stroked the remnants of sensation out of her throbbing vulva as she felt her husband’s arm arch around her and pull her in for a loving embrace, kissing her forehead in unspoken appreciation.

“T’will all be okay my love. I promise you that” Gwyn spoke softly, though she knew she could not be certain of her words.

“Aye, that is true”, Pennwell spoke with more conviction, “As long as we have each other the actions of young Matty Groves will exist only in the bard’s ballads”.

Somehow these words rang true with Gwyn and, although she could not be sure of how her husband’s role would be remembered (if indeed it were at all), she hoped that their lives would exist as the one true solace in an otherwise tragic tale.


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