by S. J. Lewis
“You sound as if you expected to have to subsist on the same plain fare as soldiers do, milady,” he smiled.
“Do I? Well, perhaps I was expecting something of that sort.” She smiled her little half-smile at him across the round table. “Please give my compliments to your cook.”
“I will do so, milady,” he nodded. In fact, he had prepared the meal himself, but he wasn’t going to tell her that.
“But you must tell me something…” she took a sip of wine and settled back in her chair. They were alone in his quarters again. She had changed her warm traveling clothes for a close-fitting gown of pure white, unadorned by any decorations. The neckline dipped very low in front. The bodice of the gown laced up in front from navel to breasts, and it was laced very snugly. It took some effort for him to keep his eyes fixed on hers, and he knew that she had chosen the gown deliberately. It seemed that now she was trying to seduce him, but that could not possibly be the only reason she had come so far.
“What must I tell you, milady?”
Her half-smile widened just enough to show her teeth. “Everyone knows of the great services you have performed for the emperor since you entered his…service. But no one seems to know anything at all about you or what you did before you came to us out of the west. Those are wild and barbaric lands, are they not?”
“Parts of them are,” he nodded.
“Many small kingdoms, all constantly at war with each other?”
“Well, milady, there is no empire there to keep the peace. But I would not say that the wars there are ‘constant’.” They were certainly frequent, though.
“I have heard that when a walled town there is taken in war, the women of that town are all sold into slavery.” The countess did not seem at all horrified at the thought, only interested. “There is some speculation at court that you yourself once had such slaves.” She looked at him expectantly. The color was back in her porcelain cheeks. At least this rumor was different from the usual one that he was some sort of sorcerer.
“Not true, milady,” he shook his head.
“What is not true?” she asked. “That women are sold into slavery, or that you yourself had such slaves?”
“All of it,” he replied. “Since the women of a captured town are not sold as slaves, I could not have had any such slaves.”
She seemed a bit disappointed at that. He went on, watching her face carefully. “But…there is still a custom in some parts of the west that may have given rise to the story.”
“Ah?” she seemed quite interested. “Please, tell me, general.” She leaned towards him, her eyes alight. In spite of the appealing view this presented, he kept his eyes fixed on hers.
“It began a very long time ago. A wealthy and rebellious town was besieged by its king. The town offered surrender if the king pledged his word that none of the rebels would be deprived of their holdings. Rather than take the town by storm, or wait to starve it out, the king agreed to those terms.”
“And?” The countess seemed confused now.
“Well, a king must keep his word, but rebels must still be punished. Upon entering the town, the king had all the wives and marriageable daughters of the ringleaders seized as hostages. He then gave those ringleaders the opportunity to ransom them back. He had agreed to nothing regarding their families, only their lands.”
“That is not especially barbaric,” Angelica frowned.
“That is not all, milady. In order to insure prompt payment of those ransoms, the king decreed that any woman not ransomed back after thirty days would be sold as a slave.”
“Now that sounds barbaric.” Angelica smiled. “How many poor women were thus sold?”
“Many almost were,” he replied. Some of the rebels would not believe that the king was serious until the auction was about to begin.” He decided to embellish the story, since she seemed to find it so interesting. “When the first woman was brought to the block, clad only in a thin shift, with her hands bound behind her…well, those who had not believed until then were moved to frantic efforts.”
“That is indeed barbaric!” Angelica shivered. “Those poor women!” She leaned back in her chair. It was clear that she found the tale exciting. He selected an unused linen napkin from the table and began cutting it into long strips with his dagger.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
He smiled at her across the table as he continued to slice apart the soft, white cloth. “I thought to demonstrate to you a bit of what it was like, milady.”
“Oh?” Her cheeks reddened. She watched as he cut off another long strip. One fair hand drifted up to her white throat. She licked at her soft, pink, rose-petal lips once…and kept watching.
She was a countess. Moreover, she was Angelica, Countess of Sciarre. She could get up and leave if she wanted, and be perfectly safe, and she knew it. But she was also a woman, so she stayed. She seemed unable to tear her gaze away from the slow, deliberate destruction of the napkin.
Finally, he was done cutting. He laid his dagger on the table rather than sheathe it and selected two strips of cloth. He knotted their ends together. Her eyes went back to his. She seemed both excited and uncertain now, breathing through her parted lips, her bosom rising and falling more rapidly than before. He saw small bumps in the sheer material of the gown as her nipples pushed outwards against it.
He stood up and came around the table to her. She remained seated, looking from the knotted strips of linen in his hands to his eyes warily.
“Stand up,” he ordered. She hesitated for only a moment. When she did stand up, slowly, she kept her eyes on his, as if trying to divine if he was serious or joking. All he did was smile at her. Finally, she blinked and turned her back to him, crossing her wrists behind her, her elegant slim hands clenched into small fists. She looked back at him over her shoulder once, and then looked away. She held her head high. As he had first dared her, now she was daring him. He was only too willing to accept that dare. He began binding her wrists with the knotted strips, taking care to cinch the bonds before knotting it tightly. He heard her gasp, a ragged, tint intake of her breath as he tugged once at the knot. He put a hand on her shoulder and turned her to face him. Now uncertain, but unwilling to call ‘stop’ and seem afraid, she faced him. Her expression was interesting, a mixture of defiance and doubt. He pulled her close and kissed her hard, almost crushing her in his embrace until she began to squirm and protest. The countess was not accustomed to rough handling. Yet, when he released her and stepped back half a pace, it seemed that she found such handling exciting. Her cheeks were flushed, she was breathing raggedly through her pretty little mouth, and her eyes seemed to be looking past him at something visible only to her.
“The first step is simple,” he said, smiling. “To bind the woman’s hands and let her feel her helplessness more keenly. The second step,” he went on as he retrieved his dagger from the table, “Is to strip her naked, so that she feels her vulnerability more keenly.” The laces to her bodice were tied off in an elaborate knot. Rather than fumble around trying to loosen it, he carefully used the point of his dagger to slice the knot through. Angelica held very still for that, her eyes fixed on the blade. As the knot parted, she shivered.
“Some like to strip the woman quickly,” he said, using the point of the dagger to slowly pull the laces free of the tiny golden eyelets, working his way down between those beautiful white breasts.
“Others prefer to do so slowly, observing and enjoying the woman’s reactions as she sees her garments removed, one by one, helpless to stop or even slow the act.”
Angelica shivered again as the laces were drawn free of the last set of eyelets. He let them slip from his dagger and fall to the floor. She watched them fall. She gave a ragged gasp as they landed on the carpet and stood with her head bowed. He sheathed his dagger and put his hands on her slender shoulders. She shuddered and gasped again when he began to peel her gown down off of her shoulders, slowly.
He had seen this lov
ely woman naked before, with the taste of strawberries still on her soft lips. But then she had still been the countess Angelica. As she stood before him, head bowed, she seemed transformed into something less exalted than a countess, something more primitive and infinitely appealing. He had to force himself to go slowly, peeling the gown down off of her shoulders, baring her splendid body to her waist. Her breasts were as beautiful as he remembered, snowy-white globes of soft, soft flesh tipped with deep pink nipples. He fondled them, gently, teasing those nipples. Her skin felt even more silken than her gown. She was trembling almost constantly now, breathing loudly and raggedly. He recognized the signs. Angelica was almost painfully aroused, and yet unable to do more than wait to see what he would do next.
“Barbarian…” she moaned weakly. In response, he fondled her breasts more roughly. She hissed through her clenched teeth and then moaned again. She started to lean towards him, lifting her flushed face for another kiss. He held her away and enjoyed the confusion she showed.
“You are not naked yet,” he said. He turned her away from him and left her standing there as he took more strips of napkin from the table and quickly knotted them together. When he returned to her, she had not moved, but her head hung low again, her golden curls obscuring her face. She did not struggle, only whimpered, as he tied her arms together just above her elbows. It pulled her shoulders back, and he stopped just short of her pose being painful. It must certainly be uncomfortable, but she was too far gone in her own arousal to do more than whimper. Then he freed her wrists so that he could finish peeling her gown off of her. She moaned again as it slid to the floor and puddled around her slippered feet. As he had suspected, she was wearing absolutely nothing under that gown. She did no more than tremble and moan as he retied her wrists, more tightly this time. She shuddered violently when he put his hands on her hips and leaned back against him, her slim fingers scrabbling weakly at his groin. There was no doubt what she wanted and expected, and she wanted it badly enough to accept it while bound. He wanted her now as he had wanted few other women in his life, but there was still more to do.
He slid his hands around to caress her thighs and belly, evoking yet more shudders and moans from her. His fingertips trailed through the pale golden curls at the join of her legs. The flesh under them felt warmer than the rest of her body. When he thrust his hand between her thighs she did not resist him. He felt along the slit of her womanhood and found her already wet for him.
“Barbarian…” she panted.
“Finally,” he breathed into her ear, “The woman must be made to submit.” He thought that he heard her moan ‘yes’ weakly at that. But then he spun her around to face him again and forced her to her knees. Her confusion returned at first, but disappeared as she realized what he intended.
“Barbarian!” she spat. “Never!” She said no more as he began unfastening his codpiece, so he felt sure he could continue.
“Yes!” he said, slapping her lightly with one hand as he freed his cock with the other.
“No!” she replied. He gripped a fistful of her golden hair and slapped her again, less gently, wondering just how far she would take her false resistance.
She took it no further. As he pulled her head closer to him, she opened her mouth for him with a despairing whimper. It was quickly clear to him that this was something she had scant experience at, yet her mouth felt very good, warm and wet around his cock. He moved her head back and forth slowly, once making her take him in so deeply that she choked and struggled to pull away. Yet once he had let her pull back so that his cock was no longer in her mouth all she did was wait, staring up at him, her mouth half-open, her eyes pleading.
“Up,” he ordered her. She rose to her feet awkwardly. She seemed a broken thing now, overcome by her bindings, his actions, and her own burning lust.
“This way,” he said to her. He led her over to his bed by her hair. She whined and complained, but she came without any real resistance. He cut the bonds above her elbows before all but throwing her onto his bed. She landed with a startled yelp, then lay there, writhing and gasping, waiting for him. She raised her knees and parted them, her hips grinding against the bedcovers. He pulled the slippers off of her feet and then climbed into the bed with her. He didn’t bother to remove his clothes. His only concession to her was to take off his belt. She was still panting and eager as he mounted her, and she shrieked as his cock slid into her.
She wriggled and squirmed and panted and gasped as he fucked her, roughly and rapidly, a very different creature from their previous lovemaking. Then all had been gentle and slow. Now he used her lovely body as he would, and it seemed to be driving her to something like madness. She could not hold him in her arms, for her wrists were still bound, but her long legs were free and he felt her wrapping them around him tightly. The countess was an avid horsewoman, and there was a lot of strength in her thighs. It felt as if she was urging him to go faster, faster, and deeper, deeper. He began ramming his cock into her, grunting with each powerful thrust, until she arched her back and shrieked, again and again and again.
***
“Barbarian,” she smiled at him from his bed. He had not untied her hands, and she had not demanded, or even asked, to be freed. Her hair was a lovely tangle as she lay on her side, one leg straight, the other bent at the knee.
“Thank you, milady,” he smiled at her as he poured some wine for them.
“What else would you do to me?” she asked, still smiling. It was a sleepy, contented smile, not at all her usual enigmatic one.
“The nights are long in winter,” he answered. “There is plenty of time for you to find out.”
Good Old Boys
Maia pulled her rental car into one of the empty spaces in front of the rented office. It was a Saturday in this sleepy little town, and the only other vehicles there were Dub Collins’ mammoth black pickup, shining like polished coal in the morning sun, and the rental Sedan that her partner Carl was using. Old Dub must have wanted to talk pretty badly to call them out here on a Saturday. He usually spent his weekends fishing or hunting. Maybe he’d finally decided to take that ‘investment opportunity’ they’d been touting to him for so long. Maybe it was that last set of phony returns Joseph had faxed to them that had finally helped him to make up his mind. She certainly hoped so. Old Dub had a lot of money, and was singularly reluctant to part with any of it. He kept most of it stashed in the local bank, for crying out loud, where it was earning all of two percent, if that. She hated to see cash going to waste like that, and if Dub wasn’t going to put it to work, it might as well get transferred to another account. After they paid off certain expenses, she and Carl would split what was left of the old hillbilly’s hoard. There would be more than enough in her share to pay for a nice, long vacation down in Mexico.
She flipped down the vanity mirror to check her appearance. Her shoulder-length, dark brown hair looked just tousled enough to seem a bit windblown. Her red lip gloss was perfect, her expressive brown eyes perfectly made up. She unbuttoned one more button on her snug-fitting tan silk blouse. The push-up bra she wore had cost a pretty penny, but it did wonders for her cleavage. She snickered. Men could be so easily manipulated: Give them a flash of tit or thigh and the implied promise of even more to come and their minds switched off. She could always see it in their eyes when that happened. It always made them so much easier to con.
She checked the short skirt of her business suit. There was a fine line between big-city sophisticate and slut. The skirt flirted with that boundary without ever crossing over it. She’d been in a hurry to dress that morning, so she’d gone with her thigh-high stockings instead of her usual garter belt. If she crossed her legs when she was sitting, the skirt would ride up just enough to show a bit of the stocking tops. Satisfied, she opened the car door and swung her long legs out. It was on the warm side today, but she knew that it would turn much cooler in the evening. Rain was coming, too. With any luck, she’d be out of this hick burg and on her way to su
nnier climes long before it arrived. She hated rainy days.
When she entered the office that she and Carl shared, the first thing that she noticed was that the blinds were drawn. The second thing was that Dub was seated behind Carl’s desk, in Carl’s expensive chair. The third and most unnerving thing was that there was no sign of Carl. Dub looked up as she entered and smiled at her.
“Come on in, missy,” he gestured with one big, calloused hand. She took a few more steps into the office, smiling back, her eyes scanning the office for any sign at all of Carl. His car was here, so didn’t he have to be here somewhere? Then the door to the office slammed shut behind her. She jumped and whirled to see who had done that. There was a strange man there, as big and burly as old Dub, but much younger. She could still see some family resemblance. The stranger wore police khakis, complete with a wide belt hung with pistol, flashlight, mace, nightstick, handcuffs and all the other paraphernalia that the county police here seemed to be so fond of.
Something had gone wrong…very, very wrong. Maia’s heart was pounding, but she was very good at not showing her real emotions. She smiled at the county cop. “Good morning, officer,” she smiled. She nodded at him and turned back to Dub. “Where’s Carl?” she asked. “I saw his car outside. I thought he was meeting us here.” She gave her best act of innocent puzzlement.
Dub leaned back in the expensive chair. It creaked under his bulk. He was still smiling, but it was the kind of smile a cat might wear as it toyed with a mouse. “Carl ain’t comin’,” he drawled. “Carl ain’t here no more. It’s just you and us, missy.”
“I don’t understand.” Maia shook her head and smiled as if she was trying to get the joke. The only way out of the office was blocked by the burly cop. She was going to have to think of a way out of this.
Dub Collins leaned forward and planted his elbows on the desk. He had arms bigger than some people’s legs, and it wasn’t all due to fat. His smile faded away. “Games is over, missy,” he frowned. “We had us a little talk with that Carl last night. He spilled his guts. We took care of him. Now we gotta think on how to take care of you.”