An Oath to Obey

by Lucy Leven

  The Beast reached for one and devoured it in two bites. “I agree,” he said as he licked his fingers clean of honey.

  Claria dipped her chin to hide her smile. “I learned from a man of great skill. I worked in the village bakery, you see, under Monsieur Armand. He is a master baker. He taught me everything he knows.”

  The Beast cocked his head at her. An odd affection — it gave him the appearance of a puzzled pup. “You were his apprentice?”

  “Yes,” Claria said. “For many years.”

  “And yet…” His head cocked anew. “This Armand let his apprentice be given as tithe?”

  “He did not let me be given!” Claria snapped. “He was lied to, Beast. Fooled. That is all.”

  The Beast raised an eyebrow at her outburst, but his countenance was of amusement, not annoyance. He took a stool by her so that he might look up at her, beguilingly, with his eyes shimmering gold. “Lied to?” he asked.

  “Yes, lied to.” Claria reached for the honey pot so that she might glaze the buns anew, while they were still hot and fresh from the oven. “The menfolk of the village told Armand that I had stolen his coin, and to be tithe was my punishment.”

  The Beast said nothing. Only watched her still.

  How unsettling it was to be regarded so closely. Claria cleared her throat. Set upon the buns with brush and dripping honey, and tried to ignore that knowing gaze. “I cannot tell you how disappointed the other young women were when I was taken, for they all wish to be tithe now. I think some of them hardly managed to hide it, so hot was their annoyance. Gisla especially, for she has been terribly badly behaved of late in the hopes that she would be chosen.”

  A great drop of honey slipped from her brush and dripped down onto the oiled wood of the table. Claria stopped to catch it up with the knuckle of her thumb.

  “We all hear the whispers, you see. The womenfolk. We all know it better to be here with you, or to be far away in the Capital, than to stay any longer in the village. Horrid, awful place.”

  And the village was both those things, true enough, but never the bakery. For the bakery had been Claria’s haven of goodness and warmth, a place where she had felt safe and she had felt needed, a place she would have stayed all her days, if only she had been given the choice…

  But the Beast was not to be distracted by her chatter. He lifted her hand to his mouth and sucked the honey clean. Claria was so caught in staring at his lips that his next words came like the slip of a paring knife.

  “Surely your Armand did not believe them.”

  “What?” Her breath caught as she pulled her hand away, as she traced their conversation back to where the Beast still waited. “But he did.”

  “Why?”

  Claria could hardly stand to look at him. “Because it had happened before — the theft of Armand’s coin, my doing.”

  The Beast reached out, tilted her head towards him, and tilted his in turn, in that questioning way of his. “I do not believe that you are a thief, lass. Nor foolish enough to carry out the same crime twice.”

  Claria looked away again, back down to her work-roughened hands. “It was…years ago. I had only that summer come of age. There was a regiment camped at the river, on their way south to the battle lines. Armand had heard of it, and he sent me with a tray of my honey buns, so that we might thank the soldiers for their bravery. For Armand is so thoughtful. His brother had been a soldier, you see, and so…”

  She trailed off there, shaking her head. The Beast had asked the story of that hateful, fateful morning. He did not need to hear Armand’s family history.

  She began again. “And the officer there, with the regiment — a lieutenant, he said — he would not accept Armand’s gift. He insisted that I must be paid for my labour, and he gave me coin to take back to the bakery.”

  “And so you did?” the Beast said.

  “I tried,” Claria told him, “but on the road back, some menfolk from the village found me. Asked me what I had in my hand. I had to show them, and when they saw, they set upon me. Pushed me to the ground. Said such…awful things. And they took the coin from me. They said if I told anyone they would put it about that I had stolen the coin instead.”

  The Beast said nothing. He simply watched her, waiting, no censure in his eyes.

  “The Lieutenant found me,” Claria said. “He had come to walk the edge of the camp, and he found me there. I was…I was crying, you see, and my hands were bloody. He had me tell him what had happened. Then the thieves — he found them, made them return the coin. And he escorted me back to the village to explain what had happened, to give Armand his word. And I thought that Armand believed that word, but…”

  “But the thieves murmured lies,” the Beast said steadily, “and salted whispers spread just as easily as a honied word.”

  “So I found,” Claria said, the phantom sting of rope around her wrists burning anew.

  The Beast regarded her a moment, his gaze so soft and steady that she could read nothing in his countenance. But when he reached out to dip a finger into the little pot of honey she still held, she knew well the look in his eyes: slyness and sweet as one.

  The Beast sucked his finger clean, watching her all the while. Claria could smell the drying sweetness of it, almost cloying in the close heat of the kitchens.

  The Beast watched her still, watching her watch him. “Should you like a taste, lass?” he asked.

  For a moment, Claria could think of no answer, let alone voice it. She felt so soundly discombobulated — in the end, she could only nod.

  But that was enough.

  The Beast held out his finger to her, glistening. She leaned towards him, like a flower to the light — took up that dripping drop with the very tip of her tongue.

  “Sweet, yes?” the Beast asked.

  Claria still could not find her words. She nodded again, the movement a little stilted by the sudden force of the warmth blooming at her core.

  But little did her muteness matter. The Beast smiled up at her from where he sat, and despite their golden caste, his eyes were awfully dark.

  He took the pot from her and dipped his finger again, but this finger he did not touch to her mouth. Instead, he held it just short, and let the honey drip down onto her décolletage. One drop forged ahead of the others, trailing a glistening track down the small valley of her breasts.

  Claria took a shallow breath at the feel of it, and at the thought of what the Beast might do.

  He knew that, for he quirked a brow, asking her leave, and Claria nodded like some bobbing puppet — all she seemed capable of in that hot, anticipatory moment.

  The Beast slid a sticky finger down between her breasts and caught up the drop, brought his finger to her lips. Held it there, at rest on the plushness of her bottom lip.

  Claria found her courage upon an unsteady breath, and daringly, she took his finger in her mouth and sucked the honey clean.

  The Beast’s smile was pleased, his golden gaze even more so, and Claria felt as warmed by it as the ovens. More so. Hot with it. Burning.

  Into the honey the Beast dipped again, and they both looked down at her décolletage, for now another droplet was inching closer to the neckline of her gown.

  The Beast trailed a knuckle along the frilled edge of her chemise. “We should not wish this pretty dress to be spoiled.”

  “Oh no,” Claria said, her voice gone a little thready. “Honey is such a terrible trouble to scrub out.”

  “Hmm,” the Beast agreed, nodding. He reached out, and with little tugging pulls, he made her laces slack so that her bodice came loose. Without the press of it, her breasts fell a little towards him, covered yet by the fine linen of her chemise. And how very fine it was — fine enough to see her nipples, pink and already pebbled.

  Again, the Beast touched the frilled linen. His thumb skimmed atop her nipple as he went, seemingly by accident. But when he quirked a brow at her, it was as if he had looked inside her head and read her every thought. “This li
nen, too, is far too fine to risk a spill.”

  “Far too fine,” Claria agreed breathlessly.

  And so to the ribbon of her chemise his sticky fingers went, he slipped the bow there loose, and slid the linen down. Pushed it down.

  Pushed it down as he pushed the sleeves of her dress down, until her arms slipped free and Claria was bare to the waist.

  She reached to cover herself. She could not help it. She had been brave enough, and the light from the hearths and ovens was bright and unforgiving.

  But, “No, lass,” the Beast said. He took her wrists in hand, his touch gentle, and pulled them free. Bared her to him once more. “I would see you in all your beauty.”

  Claria huffed a dark little puff of a laugh. The Beast was a senseless flatterer. She knew how she looked, she knew what she was, and beauty was not one of her gifts.

  The Beast reached once more for his devilsome, discarded honey pot. He dipped two fingers and scooped up a puddle of honey, and from those maddening fingers, he let the honey drop, drizzling down, warm and sticky, onto her nipple, which stood so tight and high, so ready. Glistening with sugary sweetness.

  “Oh, please,” Claria whispered, for she knew what he meant now to do, and it was all she wanted, fierce and sudden and hot. “Oh, please, Beast,” she begged.

  And the Beast, it seemed, did not intent to tease her.

  For he dipped his dark head and took her nipple into his mouth. He suckled there, and Claria gasped at it, the strong pull of his lips and the tight heat of his mouth around her a cacophony of sensation, of feeling — almost at the edge of too much, but at that edge, pain was pleasure and pleasure pain.

  She cried out, taken with it.

  When his mouth left one nipple for the other, his fingers stayed behind, plucking and rolling and teasing.

  Claria felt awash with hot, sharp pleasure, every inch of her burning with it.

  “Please,” she whispered. She did not know for what she asked. Everything. Nothing.

  The Beast moved all the same. With an arm like a band of iron around her waist, he lifted her. Set her on the table and urged her back until she lay flat there, gazing up at him

  In two strong tugs, her dress lay on the floor, her petticoats. Her shoes and stockings right away followed. And her smallclothes the Beast tore from her, with a casual, possessive touch that made Claria moan, small and quite undone.

  In the span of a few thundering heartbeats, she was utterly bare to him, her skin washed fire-gold. She had no hope to cover herself now — nor any wish to. Pleasure had overcome her and all of her embarrassment.

  She did not know what the Beast meant to do, but whatever his desire, she knew well that she would let him. She was his to command. She knew without a doubt she would obey.

  The Beast moved, sudden and swift and southerly. Claria hitched herself up onto her elbows so that she might see.

  Saw, then, that the Beast had gone to his knees on the flags, and the thought of what he must see, of where his eyes sat level now — the gods, it made her cringe with shame, flare hot with it, made her want to draw her legs closed.

  But the Beast seemed to know her thoughts once more, because he pulled her to him, slid her towards him across the smooth wood. Shouldered his way between her thighs before she could even so much as twitch them closed, slung her knees over those same broad shoulders, and set to torturing her anew.

  Back to the honey pot his fingers went, drizzling a fresh trail down the softness of her stomach to pool at her navel. His tongue swirled there, tasting the honey, lapping it up, and such a strange touch should not have felt so maddeningly pleasureful, but how it did.

  Oh, so very much.

  The Beast dipped for another dollop of honey, the heat of his hand turning it quickly to a fall of golden sweetness. That sweetness he let drizzle down into her dark curls, then further down to drizzle atop that tiny bud at her centre — the bud which throbbed with her quickening heartbeat, all slicked with her eager, growing wetness.

  Claria’s heartbeat faltered and seemed to halt within her flushed chest. If the Beast meant to do between her thighs as he had done to her navel, to her nipples…

  Claria gasped.

  He could not. How could he wish to? Surely to even think on such a thing was an affront to the gods and to all common decency.

  Surely he could not want to touch her so. Surely he could not.

  Claria’s hips tipped up towards the Beast quite of their own accord. The whine that broke from her was none of her doing, nor the restless way her hips seemed still to be circling.

  She wanted what she should not want, and she could not help it.

  The Beast did nothing to quell her or quiet her. Simply reached for the honey again, let it fall anew, and Claria felt the warm stickiness drizzle down her all the more.

  She felt it trail past the tight opening of her warmth, and down between the cheeks of her bottom, to puddle a sticky pool on the table there. Claria could feel the honey’s travel, not see it — but the Beast could, so close that she could feel his breath against all her most secret places, against their softness and their slickness

  “Might I have a taste, lass?” the Beast whispered.

  “A—” Claria could not even fathom his meaning, even as she knew exactly what he meant to do, exactly what pleasure he meant to have from her. For surely he could not want to. Surely he could not. “A taste?” she managed, her voice a thready, cracking thing.

  “Of you,” the Beast said, and his own voice was lit warm with a smile. “Of your sweetness.”

  Claria stared at that clever smile a moment longer, utterly adrift. She tried to usher her thoughts into some form of sense, but they would not be ushered. They wanted only pleasure. More of it. All of it. All that the Beast was willing to give.

  “Lass?”

  In the end, Claria could only nod. But for the Beast, as always, that was enough.

  To her bottom his big hands went. Claria felt her eyes widen like full moons as he lifted her hips to him, firmly, dipped his face down to her, and in once swift movement drew her bud into his mouth. He suckled on it as he had suckled on her nipples, his mouth tight and hot and wicked.

  Her hips bucked towards him. She could not help herself. Was she beyond shame? Pressing that most secret place hard to the Beast’s teasing mouth, it seemed that she was.

  For the sound that tore from her then was bestial. All at once, she seemed entirely removed from her own body, for what room could there be for her while pleasure filled her so?

  A rush of that aching strange relief tore through her, made her so awfully wet, made her thighs shake, their strength gone, so just as well that the Beast held her yet.

  And he held her firm until her shaking lessened, but then he withdrew his touch, and without his support, Claria’s legs went from her. Her bottom landed with a thump upon the tabletop, the honey beneath her a sticky, temping tease.

  But the Beast followed her fall, never leaving her be. He slipped her legs from his shoulders, pushed her thighs so very wide. And now he was licking into her, long, soft strokes, gentle in the delicate folds there.

  Claria reached down and tangled her hands in his beautiful hair. Such a liberty, but she could not help herself. She could help very little as the Beast tortured her in such lustful, sinful ways. As his tongue followed the still-dripping honey, teasing at the entrance to her heat, where surely its sweetness must mingle with the taste of her.

  It seemed the Beast intended to find out, for he lapped and lapped at her, an awful, gentle torture. Lapped until he had her writhing again with pleasure denied, until he had her begging him with broken pleas, and it was only then that he let his tongue strengthen in its touch.

  With a firm thumb upon her bud, and his hand a grounding weight upon her mound, he thrust his tongue into her, pushing past that faint ring of her resistance with terrible, shaming ease.

  Claria cried out. No words. A strange, broken moan instead.

  Wetness p
ooled anew between her thighs — lush and welling — pooled where the Beast tormented her so. He must feel it against his face, she knew, sleek and slipping. There was no way now that he could not taste it.

  Oh, it was such blasphemy. Such a terrible affront to the gods. But Claria could find not a single speck of her that cared. Not then. Not with the Beast touching her so, teasing her so.

  Tasting her so.

  Another wave of release crashed over her. And if she had imagined the last release overwhelming, this she could give not words to, nor thought. She was lost to her pleasure. Gone with it.

  When she came back to herself — and how long that took she did not know — Claria found that she had thrown an arm over her eyes, as if to deprive herself of one sense might help to calm the others.

  But it had not. She had been undone. Ruthlessly and relentlessly. Undone by the man of magic who watched her yet, his face sly and so slick with her pleasure.

  She stared at him, utterly adrift in her astonishment, and there was only one thing she could think to say. “How did I taste?” Claria whispered.

  The Beast gifted her a smile that warmed her better than any fire. “Sweeter than honey, lass,” he said.

  Then he drew her down to him, pulled her into his lap, and kissed her, so that she might taste herself as she tasted him, all honied and golden.

  Reflections

  “I wish to show you something, lass.”

  Claria paused in the doorway of the Beast’s lair, her fingers to her apron strings.

  She had passed a pleasing day of work in the kitchens, and now she was pleasingly tired. She had been looking forward to curling up amid the furs and finding out which new manner of pleasure the Beast intended to teach her that night.

  But it seemed the Beast had other plans.

  He joined her in the doorway and held out his hand. “Come, sweet lass.”

  She followed him down long, low passageways, and up winding staircases, right to the top of one of the castle’s many towers. And there Claria stopped, at the entranceway of the room beyond, mulishly still.