“Oh, really?” she had responded, cocking an eyebrow at him. “So, it was like Nicole in the meat smoker? Taking Guardsman after Guardsman?”
“Who?” he had asked, confused, then realized she must be talking about his replacement when he had left. “No, Tempeste was...”
And then he had told her. About leaving Destrey and following the firefly. About the chill wind and rain as he ran through the forest, hearing Tempeste’s voice in his head.
As they had begun walking back down the castle stairs, he had been a bit surprised to realize that he actually had been taking careful notes with his mind: One knight only on each of the four corners of the Keep, lacking focus on the watch, not taking it very seriously. In fact, the two on the front corners spent a great deal more time looking down at the Guard’s rapier practice than they did looking out. Of the two rear guards, one didn’t even have his bow or quiver. Tristen was just wondering how to work the conversation around to whether Phoebe had ever been in m’Lord’s day chamber so he could ask about the castle’s strongbox when she interrupted him.
“What was her kiss like?” she had stopped him on the stairs.
“Cold,” he had responded, without thinking. “And hot.”
She had looked very thoughtful at that. He had thought he heard Tempeste chuckle again and had shaken his head in irritation.
“Something wrong?” she had asked, her voice taking on a huskier tone as she had pressed her breast into his shoulder.
It was such a surprising move, that Tristen hadn’t known what to do. His mind had begun whirling and he had, without realizing what he was doing, begun telling her about the other kind of kiss he had given Tempeste.
Before he had understood what was happening, Phoebe had steered him into the Hall and back into one of the far corners behind m’Lord’s pedestal where no one was ever allowed.
“Show me.”
And there they were. He had placed her against a table crammed into the corner, had sunk gently, slowly to his knees in front of her, watching her eyes turn wide. In a dream-like state, he had found himself raising her smock above her knees, not scabbed anymore he had thought, then begun laying sweet kiss after kiss on them, to her sighs, moving very slowly up the knees to her inner thighs. Grasping her legs firmly, but as gently as if he were holding an egg or a soft kitten. Her sighs had continued as he had moved higher, finally turning into moans.
The very moans he was hearing now as he, pausing to find her nub with his tongue, right in the same place as Tempeste’s he thought, began to nibble on it very lightly with his teeth then tickling it with his tongue. Phoebe, lying back on the table now, where he had lifted her, was reaching down with one hand to his hair. Caressing it, shoving her fingers through it.
“Yesssss,” she sighed. Looking up, he saw her sticking her tongue straight out of her mouth, curling to the side of her lips. The sight made him really hard. Painfully hard. He could feel his cock pressing against her inner thigh. As she could, he realized, for now she was pulling him up by the hair.
“Please, Remi, please,” she was pleading.
This was so wrong, he thought. He was pleading with...himself...Tempeste...what? Where did that thought come from? He steeled himself to pull away.
But her hands were reaching to him. Phoebe’s hands, not Tempeste’s. Her small, delicate, fair skinned hands, nevertheless stained and rough with work in the kitchen, not clean and soft like Tempeste’s. They were insistent.
He was crying out, “No.” He could hear himself. But it was too soft. And her hands would not be denied. They were reaching the laces of his breeches, untying them. Sure of themselves, he suddenly realized.
“Oh!” he thought, “Thank Saint Denis!” This wasn’t her first time. And he felt himself flooding with relief as, looking down, he saw her pulling his cock, thick with need, from the confines of his breeches.
He darted a glance at her, but couldn’t see her eyes, for her face was shrouded in shadow. Much like Tempeste’s he thought. Then, he chided himself, “Get the witch out of your head!”
For Phoebe was talking now. Or her hands were. Caressing the length of his cock, making him cry out his own moans. Needing her. Needing to fuck. Needing to fuck her hard.
Finally, he got sick of her teasing him and, the stray thought of who the lucky bloke was who got to fuck this beautiful girl, then the flash image of that boy from the practice yard filled his mind, to his rage.
And he rammed into her.
She yelped, as if hurt, he thought, worried. But, then she cut it off and grabbed him for dear life, thrusting her head into his neck, as if cuddling him.
He thrust into her, again and again and again. She held on, no longer moaning, just breathing hard, panting. Murmuring something.
Tristen wondered if the golden-haired boy did her better, then found himself filled with a hotter rage than before, and thrust into her harder, faster, feeling his need. Gone was the skilled play of fucking Tempeste, with his varying rhythms and pacing. Gone was the varied thrusts of shallow, then deep, then shallow driving the witch mad with desire and pleasure.
No, now he was just angry. And he was fucking Phoebe hard. Too hard?
He thought he heard a sob. It couldn’t be, he screamed in his mind. But, he couldn’t stop.
Not now!
His need was building, building, building. He could feel the fires deep within, stoked fiery hot. He needed to cum. In her. Deep.
He kept thrusting, thrusting, for dear life himself, just as she was holding him. He could feel her nails cutting through his blouse on his arm, drawing blood. He was growing harder, thicker, bigger, longer.
She was crying now. He was certain. She was trying to hide it, but she was also calling out, “Remi! Oh, Remi.”
And he was cumming. Deep from within the bowels of his cock, down, far down into his balls, his cum was roaring out of him. As he was roaring out his own lusty rage. Cumming out of him in a way he never had with Tempeste. Cumming in a way that made him think he would never stop.
Cumming.
To her tears.
* 9 *
She was running. She couldn’t see, her eyes were burning, brimming, flushed with watery images of the castle walls flashing by her. Her cheeks wet, she almost paused to wipe them, but couldn’t. She had to keep running. To get away from him.
She was hurting so bad. Everywhere hurt. Reaching a redoubt at the rear of the castle, she ducked into the small space and lifted her smock. Her legs ran with bloody cum from her broken womanhood and Remi’s lust.
She never thought that he would be so rough with her. Never thought he could be rough with anyone. Well, maybe others, but not her! Maybe Louis could with his Guard practice all the time. But, not Remi! Of course, he was a man at arms now, a tiny voice nagged at her. She thrust the voice away, hating it, and ran some more, making her way to the river where she could wash without anyone seeing.
She made it a few moments later, then after watching and listening for a while, resolutely thinking absolutely nothing, she decided that the coast was clear. She slowly made her way down the bank, slick with mud, until she finally slipped, then fell on her ass and slid right down into the water with a large, loud splash.
“Perfect!” she thought and felt her tears welling up again. “Just perfect!” She sat on the bottom of the river, feeling the cold of the current wash over her, numbing her. It felt better to feel nothing she decided and just stayed there.
For how long, she couldn’t say.
Eventually, a flicker caught her eye. Looking up, she saw a small bird flitting from one branch to another in the bushes on the opposite bank. And, for who knows what reason, she began to cry all over again.
In her softer moments at night, she had played with Louis making such soft, sweet love to her so many times that she had honestly been torn in two with rage at him. At Marguerite – that fucking slut – parading around in the kitchen that morning about how badly Louis had wanted her. Phoebe had hated him.
Had wanted to scratch his eyes out. Which she knew would get her into trouble with Adalene, with Maryl, with the Master, hell, with everyone. Louis was just that, the golden boy. So, she had dumped night slops on him instead.
Which had just made her feel worse. Which really made her mad. After the shock, seeing the honest hurt in his eyes when he realized who had done it was a like a hot knife thrusting straight into her heart. As he had stumbled down the steps, slick with reeking shit and piss, swearing at the laughter of the Guard watching him, she had had to grip the bucket so hard to keep from running after him, she thought she would break a finger or two.
It wasn’t fair, she had thought. He gets to fuck Marguerite but I feel terrible about it? Except he didn’t, that hated voice chided her again. He wanted to, she raged back, slapping at the river water. Feeling utterly wretched. Angry. Helpless. Confused. Hopeless. Oh, why hadn’t she given herself to Louis earlier? Why hadn’t he wanted to? Why does he have to keep calling her that stupid nickname?
She raged some more then, finally, just felt tired. Exhausted.
Looking up at another flit at the corner of her eye, she saw the small bird, continuing its solitary game of playing with the branches. He – no she, Phoebe decided noticing the muted tawny of her back and ivory of her breast – kept pecking at the branches. Her birdsong was a series of small cheeps, punctuated by larger warbles. She must be feeding, Phoebe thought. She sat there watching and listening. She repressed a shiver from the cold water, wanting to stay in longer, feeling the gooseflesh bumps all over her, realizing that she had not felt them break out and wondering how long she had been sitting there. She kept watching the small bird. She was so cute, Phoebe decided to call her “Cutie.”
“Hi, Cutie,” she cooed at the bird, wondering what type it was, maybe a warbler given the birdsong. Adalene would know. She was good with birds, one of the few nice things about her.
Phoebe shook her head, trying to get the kitchen mistress out of her mind, then suddenly remembered Adalene’s teary prayer to Saint Genevieve one night when the Master had rejected her. Phoebe had been terrified at the time that Adalene would realize she was awake. She had lain there, breathing slowly, not moving at all, just listening to the sobs and the prayer. The Master had rejected Adalene as too fat, too old. Not even fit for a blowjob anymore. “Not like m’Lady!” her mistress had choked out at one point, making Phoebe almost gasp. m’Lady fucking the Master?! If m’Lord ever found out!
Adalene’s sobs had finally subsided into alternating between pleas to the goddess to make him come back to her or to make his cock fall off. Then, she had poured herself another large mead and had stumbled outside into the moonlight. Phoebe had been grateful not to get caught. She had also remained awake for a long time. She had never seen Adalene as anyone more than a loud voice and heavy fist backed by a bad temper. She had never seen her as a woman. A jilted one. At first, Phoebe had felt only contempt for her mistress. The Master was famous for his nights with village girls. He regularly went to Maryl for the odd blowjob to work off some steam. Everyone knew that. Why on earth Adalene could get so attached to him was a question that Phoebe didn’t even want to bother with. She had always kept her scorn for her mistress hidden, of course. Not to was a recipe for disaster.
But then the awful day with Marguerite – that fucking slut – had come, bragging that Louis would be hers by nightfall. All she had to do was crook her finger. That it was all arranged. Phoebe had ignored her until the next morning when Marguerite had arrived with that look of triumph in her eyes. She had changed her mind at the last minute, the bitch claimed. Phoebe hadn’t believed her until, detail by detail, the whole night was laid out for her, down to the flowers that Louis had brought her. The whore had even brought by a coney hide that, she claimed, had been scraped by Louis just for her.
That had been too much. Then, the rage. The night slops. Then, her need to be with him, to wash all his clothes with a thousand apologies. Making her hate herself. Again.
She had done it. Again. She had just done the whirligig about Louis. All over again. Twice, even, in like half a glass or something.
“Saint Genevieve! Help me!” she cried out. Then, Phoebe realized that she was becoming her mistress, after all. She sat, feeling utterly spent, and gave herself over to tears.
*****
Suddenly conscious that she was freezing, really freezing, she clambered up, then stopped herself from climbing the mud bank out of the river. Instead, she walked along the edge as best she could until she found a drier section.
What to do about Remi? She wondered about that. On reflex, she lifted her smock to check her legs and saw that they were clean. She sighed.
Never again. He was too rough. She didn’t know what had happened to him the years he was gone, that was clear. He had become so different when he fucked her. Raped her, she thought. She had hoped he would gently ease into her, like she had heard Adalene and Nicole joke about when tipsy on ale... The dream lover. Who broke a girl in gently. Softly. Sweetly. Then, pausing for a moment before they both broke out in drunken laughter. He doesn’t exist! And they would hoot and holler and drink some more.
Phoebe had always sworn that her first lover would be just like the dream lover. Louis would be sweet to her. And then when Louis decided he needed to have a whore with big tits, after all... She realized she was about to do the whirligig again and made herself stop thinking about him.
That’s why she had seduced Remi, she suddenly understood. When he had appeared without warning, after all these years, looking so muscular, so handsome, so fully grown. It had made her stomach feel warm. No, not her stomach, she had decided when they were sitting on top of the castle looking at the land. Her head nestled in his neck, smelling his muskiness. She had known that he was an answer to a prayer that she had yet to speak aloud to any goddess, any god. Remi was the perfect choice for a dream lover. That’s why. Even if she had been proven wrong, she decided, at least she had tried her best. That was something.
She tried saying it aloud. “That’s why I seduced him.”
Suddenly feeling a bit better, she took a few more strides along the river’s edge, spotting a place further ahead that looked dry enough to climb up the bank.
She heard a chuckle. She gasped, looking around. There was no one there.
“You didn’t seduce Tristen. I gave him to you.”
Phoebe gasped again, growing afraid.
“Who are you? Where are you?” Phoebe asked, hearing her voice falter.
“Look!” was the only response she got.
She looked everywhere. Over her shoulders, scanning both sides of the river, trying to peer under bushes. Cutie was still flitting along bushes of the opposite bank, playing her game, making her little cheep cheep birdsong. There was no one. Some boy might be making sport of her, Phoebe finally decided, feeling a spike of anger. Except she thought the voice sounded like a young woman’s.
“Where are you?!” she burst out in exasperation, still looking under the bushes.
“Look down.”
Phoebe did and gasped.
There in a small pool so little touched by the current as to be smooth like a mirror, she saw a beautiful woman, with luxuriously thick black hair looking up at her. Her eyes were covered in shadow, true, but the rest of her was flawless. Thinking of a large pimple on her chin that had showed up this morning, Phoebe envied the woman her fair skin. It was perfect, without blemish at all.
The woman spoke. “He wasn’t yours to take. Tristen is mine. Only mine.”
That didn’t make sense at all, Phoebe thought. Who was she talking about? How did she pull off this trick of talking through a river pool like this?
“Who is Tristen?” she asked.
“You know him as Remi.”
Oh. Intrigued, Phoebe’s intuition kicked in. She reached out. “You are the witch, then? Your name is Tempeste.”
The shadow in front of the woman’s eyes cleared suddenly. Just for an instant a bril
liant pair of blue orbs peeked out, at just the same instant that her lips pursed. Then the shadowy mist gathered again, covering her brow.
Phoebe suddenly knew that, witch or no witch, she had surprised this harpy. And instantly, woman to woman, she went on the attack. Kind of.
“Why do you hide your eyes like that? They are pretty.”
The witch’s lips curled in a snarl, making Phoebe’s heart skip. “You know nothing. You are just a kitchen slut, and nothing more!”
That made Phoebe angry. “I am no kitchen slut! Remi is my friend. You’re the one who hurt him! You are the one who changed him. To make him rough like that.”
Tempeste suddenly began screeching. “You know nothing! Tristen is mine! Touch him again and I’ll make your skin shrivel over night like old parchment!”
This gave Phoebe pause. Into silence. One of the few things that she thought Louis seemed to like was her skin. It might have the occasional pimples, but he did look at her face when he stopped by to visit.
The witch chuckled. “Who do you think nudged you into opening your legs to Tristen? Hmmm?”
That stung. Phoebe didn’t know what to say to that. She instantly went back to the top of the castle in her mind when she had pressed herself into him. She hadn’t meant to. It had just happened. He had smelled so good, so masculine. She had felt the cords of his muscles shifting along his shoulders when she had rested her head on his neck, cuddling with him. The thought that this bitch had somehow made her...
Abruptly thinking of the boy she had known growing up, however, she switched gears. Remi might be rough, but he would never let a witch hurt her. “He will protect me!”
The witch chuckled even louder. “Who do you think nudged him into being so rough with you? So that by the end, he hated fucking you, was so sick he had to throw up afterward. He is mine! He always will be!” She was screeching again. “No woman will every satisfy him like I can!”
Which made Phoebe even angrier. “I don’t care what your magic tricks are!” she shouted back. “He will protect me. I don’t care how much you’ve changed him. He would never let you get to me.” She felt her fists come up, shaking one at Tempeste. “He’d kill you first!”
Chateau of Desire (Chateau of Love Book 1) Page 8