A countess is a noblewoman, equal in status to an earl or a count. Countesses either inherit the title when they're born or gain it by marrying a noble.
A countess is a member of nobility who ranks below marquess/marchioness in the British peerage system. The term is the third of the five noble classes, which include duke/duchess, marquess/marchioness, earl/countess, viscount/viscountess and baron/baroness.
The protagonist in this story is the Countess Shannon LaRue.
The 5-foot 4-inch, 120-pound beauty gained her noble title through marriage. She is a striking lass.
Blonde, of course...a "real" blonde as in the drapes match the carpet. Incredible legs with perfectly proportioned calves, thighs and quite a firm ass.
Not overly endowed but firm "B" cup tits with gorgeous dark bubbly nipples perched high atop her perky mounds.
Her ice blue eyes are striking...able to mesmerize any normal man, invoking the drool complex along with the innate need to adjust one's crotch in a flash!
THE COUNTESS
The Countess Shannon sits in stunned silence, staring at her husband, Lord Lawrence. She sees him moving his lips, but her mind is overloaded with a loud cacophony of buzzing, banging, and static.
Her life as she knew it, the only life she had, was shattered by the news that Lawrence is being investigated by the house of Lords for not only espionage, but fraud as well.
The major networks ran the story nonstop and no matter what Lawrence tried to tell her, his pleading that it was all a fabrication and a smear campaign against him, she could only think of how this would affect her standing in the community. She is ruined and wonders how she could ever venture out into public again.
After what seemed to be an eternity of rapid-fire pleading of her husband, Shannon wipes her tears and stands up. Adjusting her expensive dress, she walks away. Climbing the stairs to the upper floor of their country manner, she wonders if it would be the last night she would spend in her palace of solitude. She closes and locks the bedroom door in her hopeless attempt to shut out the world.
Shannon sleeps for 2 days straight. The shock to her system causes her slumbering blackout. As her eyes slowly open. She stretches and as she rolls over to greet the sun shining through the sheer drapes, the horror of her situation comes roaring back, carrying with it the sledgehammer to the head effect, her nervous system attempts to deflect it.
As the video flashes through her mind, she lay still trying to regulate her heart rate, struggling to breathe. She cried every tear she possibly could. Realizing that hiding in the bedroom, trying to sleep away the truth, was not the answer. She slowly places one foot on the floor and then the other. She stands and staggers to the bath, her bladder screaming at her for ignoring it for such a long time. Upon satisfying that organ's demands, she stands in front of the vanity, wondering who the waif with the mascara streaks covering her cheeks and the knotted tangled mess of blonde hair is.
Splashing some water on her face does nothing to dissolve the dark film but the feeling of the cold water on her skin triggers her body to satisfy its demand for water. She about breaks a tooth as she smacks her mouth on the faucet. Turning the cold handle full on, she gulps close to two liters of the cold fluid. Struggling to catch her breath she notices that the pounding headache subsides rather quickly.
She sniffs at her underarms, realizing the stench assaulting her is emanating from her nasty self. Her sexy silk sleeping gown clings to her as if she just did a sweaty five miles on the treadmill. She stares at her reflection, unable to find a reason to give a fuck about how she looks. She simply had no fucks to give!
Stumbling to the bedroom door, she unlocks it and wanders through the manor, curious as to where Lawrence is. To no avail, she discovers he is not there, and his Range Rover is not in the garage. She locates her phone and discovers she has 47 texts and numerous voice mails from the press, the constables, and some friends. She makes herself some tea, knowing she is about to be dragged through the gutter for things she knows absolutely nothing about.
Sipping her tea, she rattles her brain to make sense of what and how everything got so out of sorts. She did realize, the reality is that her life is about to change drastically. Finally accepting the situation, she works her way through the messages and texts, ignoring most. The one she pays attention to is the voice mail from the Shropshire constable's office. Steeling herself, she dials the number and identifies herself as Mrs. Larue, she listens to the detective explain the reasons for her husband's location. He is being held in jail, pending a trial for his indiscretions and crimes against the monarchy.
She ends the call and sits like a statue. She could cry no more. After what seems to be an eternity, Shannon feels the need to escape her self-imposed prison. Looking at her appearance in the mirror, she swears that she will not allow this to destroy her. She is made of sterner stuff than any of the miserable nosy people in the press could imagine, as well as all of her so-called friends.
Showering feels incredible, like washing the weight of the world off her shoulders. She dresses in her finery and fires up her Austin Martin. Driving the sports car like an angry pizza delivery driver on a busy Friday night, she chews up every back road in the Shropshire district. For hours she pushes the little roadster hard, loving the feel of the power as well as the grind of the tires through every turn on the winding barely single lane roads. Not caring if another car is trying to occupy the same space as her dark blue machine, she throttles her favorite toy like a two-bit street walker begging to be abused on a hot steamy Saturday night.
Roughly one hundred and twenty miles later, she allows the sturdy machine to take a break. It is getting dusky, and her throat is parched. Being just over the county line, she stops at a roadside public house. Shannon hopes she can quench her dry throat anonymously.
The gravel parking lot is empty except for an old dusty truck and a small sedan. Entering the dimly lit pub, she takes up residence at a table in the corner. There is one other patron at the bar. An older gent, who appears to be about 3 sheets to the wind, and the bartender.
The barkeep approaches her table and asks spryly, "Fancy a pint of love?"
Shannon, recognizing the beautiful, but definitely local country girl. She sits silent for a moment, as her voice is hard to find. She finally quietly utters the woman's name..."Annie?"
The barkeep responds with a question. "Yeah, that's me name alright; do I know you?"
"It's me, Shannon, from secondary school!" she says.
Annie steps closer and after a second of lost thought says, "Shannon...Wiseman?
