by Georgia Fox
"That one's mine," he bellowed, turning his horse directly for her, the flanks of the great beast splashing through the filthy water and pushing her guard aside.
They were about to be seized by ruffians.
Ami grabbed the club beneath her seat and swung it hard at her attacker's arms as he reached into the wagon. He cursed with words she'd never heard before, especially when she had the satisfaction of making sharp contact with his elbow, but he recovered enough to wrestle the club from her hands. There was no point shouting for Villette's help, for the maid had fainted to a crumpled heap on the wagon floor, and then Ami felt two hard, gauntleted hands close around her ankles. She was jerked half way out into the frigid air, dragged like a slab of meat on her belly, her gown hitched up to her thighs, exposing her woolen stockings. She kicked and writhed with all her strength, even managed to land a few solid punches and slaps, but before long she was flung face down, over the shoulders of a horse. And the thighs of a man. She saw streaks of blood on his breeches, mud encrusted on his boots.
"Be still, wench," her kidnapper exclaimed, breathless from the fight. "Saints preserve me, you kick like a mule. I'd like to keep my rump-splitter intact if I am to service you with it. And I mean to get my money's worth."
"Put me down at once, you filthy cur," she spat, more furious at the indignity of her position and her disordered clothing, than she was fearful of what might happen next. Ami had lived through war, plague and pestilence. She'd survived an unsettled childhood in a procession of cold, drafty castles and frequently been threatened with an early death because of her mouthy and reckless disregard for the rule of men. You're fortunate to be the king's own blood, an old nurse once told her, if you were not his daughter and a favorite, someone would have silenced you forever by now. Whatever this brute had planned for her, he'd better be prepared for a fight.
She heard the hapless young guard shouting in French, but he had just dropped his sword in the water and then, while trying to prevent it from drifting away on the swell of flood, he fell with it.
Her abductor bellowed to his band of brigands, "Save the horses first as they're of most value."
Ami's teeth rattled as they picked up speed. "You ignorant warthog, put me down at once."
"That's fine thanks for saving you, wench."
"Wench? Wench?" She could barely breathe, fury scorched her throat. "You flea-ridden animal, let me go at once!"
His heavy hand came down on her buttocks, roughly pulling the cloth of her gown further up all the way to her waist until she felt the brisk air on her skin. While his horse kept the rapid bouncing pace that rendered her dizzy, he slapped her hard on her bare bottom. She felt the worn leather of his gauntlet and heard his laughter, as a series of quick, hard slaps vibrated though her body and pressed her down even harder across his groin. She cursed, warning he would pay for this scandalous treatment of her person.
At that threat her kidnapper had the audacity to laugh harder. "Oh I will pay your price, wench. Just as agreed. Worry not, I keep to my bargains."
She could scarce believe her ears, but in the next breath his gloved forefinger slid down the crack of her exposed backside, forced its way between her clenched thighs and found her pussy lips. There he exerted pressure of a sort she'd only ever experienced with her own hand. Heat flooded her sex and Ami knew her face —and her arse—must be blushing scarlet.
"Get off me, cruel fiend!" she cried, struggling with renewed determination. He ignored her, but forced a second finger between her legs and then rubbed with both, trying to squeeze them between her labia. To her shame the motion soon made her moist. Her mound was pressed down in his lap and she felt a stiffening there, protruding upward, further increasing her discomfort—and also, most strangely, the waves of wicked pleasure now coursing through her.
What was he doing to her? What did he mean by a bargain and getting his money's worth?
"Your writhing makes me hot and hard, wench," he grunted. He took his hand from between her legs and then she heard him give a soft, low whistle. "You're wet for me, eh?"
"Yes, I am wet," she exclaimed. "Soaked through in this miserable rain. Now let me go."
He spanked her again and returned his fingers to the molestation of her pussy which, try as she might to prevent it, blossomed under the attention. "I've paid for you for three nights of entertainment, wench. But I appreciate the act." He chuckled and the hard protuberance in his breeches twitched again, pushing at her mound, grinding against her wet heat. "A little maidenly reluctance whets the appetite, but you needn't continue with it. I've no fancy for rape. Save that performance for other customers."
"Customers? Are you a madman? Set me down now and I shall see to it that no retaliation is taken against you."
They were leaving the wintering field and entering a clump of bare trees, dead leaves soggy under the horse's hooves. He slowed his horse and his hand swept up to caress her arse, almost as if he soothed a frightened animal. "I don't think I can wait to get to the manor," he muttered huskily. "I'm likely to spend in my breeches.”
Barely had the horse stopped moving before Amias was on the ground, wet and rotting leaves beneath her. She cursed at him, but those words apparently rolled off his skin along with the sweat and the rain. He had both her wrists in one of his large hands and hauled them up over her head. The worn leather gauntlet was rough and damp, his fingers like manacles. His heavy body laid over her and with one knee he forced her writhing legs apart.
"Don't you dare," she cried, arching her back, trying to buck him off.
"I told you to stop the act, my saucy vixen. You've got me nicely roused already."
Discarding the other gauntlet in the leaves beside her, he used his free hand under her gown and shift, parting her thighs wider. She looked up into his face then for the first time and found eyes the color of steel, his lips parted by harsh, moist breaths. Speckles of dirt and blood liberally dusted his rugged features. His mouth was hard, his nose long and slender. Damp, sun-kissed hair stuck to his brow and his chin was rough, unshaven. She caught a gleam of strong teeth, like those of a snarling beast ready to devour its prey. But his eyes drew her back again. They held her as firmly as his left hand held her wrists to the soft, wet ground.
And then his bare hand slapped up between her thighs and cupped her sex. His palm was callused, hard, the skin warm from the leather gauntlet he'd just removed.
Although he claimed to have no fancy for rape, what was this? "Do you take all your women by force?" She hissed. "I suppose you can get them no other way." Her body might be helpless, but her tongue was not.
He gave no reply. His broad hand squeezed slowly, the heel of his palm exerting pressure on her mound, his long fingers rubbing her labia. The flames flared again inside Ami, much to her indignation. How could his touch do this to her? She was familiar with the slow smoldering caused by her own hand on her sex, but when this man fondled her it sparked much quicker. She felt her body melting, her own dew dripping onto his fingers, further humiliating her. And when one corner of his mouth lifted in a knowing smirk she knew he felt it too.
A stranger—a rough-handed man—was holding her, forcing her to submit to his uncouth fumblings. He slid one finger between her labia and held it part way inside her, keeping the pressure on that flame without moving his hand. Her pussy throbbed, tightened. She dare not move her hips or else his finger might slip further inside.
"Please," she gasped out, finally finding her voice again. "Don't."
His eyes widened and then narrowed. "You are truly fearful. I think this is no act. Have I been sent a grass-green virgin?" He sounded incredulous.
"Of course I am a maid," she exclaimed, choking out the words, her face hot.
"I did not ask for a virgin whore."
"Whore? Whore? I am Lady Amias of York. Get your dirty, stinking, lecherous hands off me!"
He stared at her, his mouth open, heated breath rushing out of him as if she'd just kneed him in the balls. Then
he cursed violently. "You are Amias of York?" Finally, a gust of raucous laughter rang out above her head. "So you're the scolding, troublesome harridan no one else can handle."
"Touch me again, foul brute, and you will know the—"
Defying her without a care, his hand moved between her thighs, stroking as if he cajoled a restless mare. Clearly he meant to have his way with her regardless. Ah what would it matter to him? Men thought women existed for only two things—child-birth and slaking their rotten, sinful lusts. Her breathing quickened, lifting her breasts rapidly. His darkened gaze followed, stroking down her throat to her chest, where she felt her nipples peaking through the linen and wool. She saw him lick his lips. "If you take me by force, you will be hunted down and slaughtered. I am to be married and my husband will—"
At the mention of her husband his eyes gleamed with wicked mischief, like those of a page she once caught spying on her while she washed her hair. "You are ripe, my lady," he muttered, low. "You are a pot of stew soon to boil over. I do not need to breach your maidenhead to make you come. Your husband can still have that pleasure on the wedding night."
Confused, she tried to calm her breathing. "Make me come where?"
He squinted and then laughed softly. "Come to heaven."
****
So she was not one of the whores he'd ordered from the market town of Marazion. That would explain all the curses and kicking, he mused. Until she confessed her name he'd assumed this haughty reticence to be part of her performance. She was clean, well-groomed; he'd simply thought she must be a costly whore. And, as he'd said to her, he meant to get his money's worth.
Now he should introduce himself perhaps, dispense with any confusion the woman might have about his rights to take and her place to give.
But she was not fighting him at this moment. Even though he had not told her his name, her body ripened under his touch. Her wide, rich brown eyes were full of curiosity, her lips slightly parted, each breath emitted huskily. Her full breasts pushed at the front of her rain-dampened gown, the nipples erect and yearning. The honey he felt dripping over his fingers, produced by her soft, warm cunt, made him yet more aroused.
Lady Amias of York was a surprise in more ways than one.
"Why do you look at me thus, you filthy, rapacious beast? What have you to smile at? Take your unworthy hands off me at once."
Unworthy, eh? Of course she would think that.
But the high-strung filly would be wrong.
"You don't wish for me to pleasure you, my lady?" Anyone who knew him well would hear the dangerous timber and know it was not a question at all.
She did not know, however. How could she? She had much yet to learn. "No." It seemed as if she had more to say, but settled for that one word and then snapped her lips shut.
"No?" He slipped his fingers away from her cunny and draped his hand over her thigh, so she would feel the sticky wetness of her own making, pressed against her skin.
She did not close her legs. Through half-lowered lashes she watched him. Her lips popped open, her breath forming a thin mist before her mouth.
"I could make you scream with delight, my lady."
He watched her swallow and lift her hips just half an inch, but he kept his hand on her thigh, his fingertips a tantalizing distance from her honey pot.
"I can do all that and still leave you a virgin," he assured her, moving his hand so that his fingers gently, casually trailed over the silky curls of her pudenda. "I promise."
Suddenly she lifted her hips again, an upward jolt that knocked her plump, pouty nether lips against his teasing fingers. Her cheeks were flushed and he knew she would claim it was an accident.
After all her insults he ought to leave her wanting, just to teach her a lesson. But he was randy as a stallion scenting a mate in season and there was no way he could let her up without tasting the haughty lady's cunt. Surely, he could allow himself that much and he had, after all, promised to make her scream with delight. He always kept his promises.
****
Her kidnapper lowered his head and she watched in alarm as his mouth closed around the sharp point of her nipple through her gown. Her body instinctively wanted to move, to writhe and arch, but she forced herself to remain still. She didn't want him thinking she enjoyed what he did. He had taken her down on the ground and ripped control out of her hands. Why should he be rewarded in any way? Why should her body react like this? It was unfair. It was madness.
Yet it brought her to life. Laid there on the cold, damp ground, with fallen leaves under her and naked branches rattling against a grim winter's sky overhead, Ami conversely felt the dewy warmth of a spring day moving through her body, awakening her senses.
His tongue flicked over her nipple and then he sucked greedily, even with her gown and shift in his way. His index finger remained between the wet lips of her pussy, not moving, just pressing on her lightly, teasing the most intimate part of her body.
Ami strained against the hand that still held her wrists overhead, but he was immoveable and then he switched his mouth to her other breast, leaving the left nipple abandoned, swollen. The friction of her gown against that tormented nipple was almost unbearable. She heard her breath, too loud, too fast. Betraying her.
Turning her head, she glanced to her left and saw that they were not alone. One of his men, still mounted and holding the bridles of rescued horses, watched it all, his gaze unblinking, his lips bent in a slight smile of admiration for his leader. When he knew she'd seen him, he did not look away, but stared boldly and then shouted, "Go to it, my lord. She's a beauty. Can I take a turn after?"
Her attacker raised his mouth from her breast and laughed sharply, "Not this one, Ifyr. She is mine alone."
Suddenly he took his hand off her trembling pussy and shoved her gown up to her hips. Ami's leg was free to kick higher and harder. Since she now knew they were observed, she did both, but he ducked, narrowly evading a strike of her booted foot to his head. He grabbed her ankle, holding it up over his shoulder. Rage darkened his face and when he looked down at her his eyes were two spears of flint. In that moment she thought he truly would rape her, but instead he looked down her body, his free hand holding her ankle, his knee nudging her thigh aside, exposing her private regions to the cold air and his steel-eyed approval. "You think the fine lady's cunny worthy of this filthy dirty brute, Ifyr?" he grunted, half laughing. "She thinks not."
The young man moved his horse forward and from that vantage point must have had a clear view. "I think you're a lucky man, my lord."
"This, my friend, is noble pussy. Refined, high-born, virgin quinny. A rarity. You won't have the opportunity to see much of this in your lifetime."
"Indeed."
"But there is a price to pay for quality. The fancier the pussy, the more work they are to keep content. For now, Ifyr, you'd best stick to the common whores."
While they discussed her so crudely, the fire he'd built in her was raging out of control. His hand had manipulated her to a rocky crevice and left her teetering on the edge. She longed to press her thighs together, and let herself fall. In anguish she shouted at him to release her.
"The lady likes to make noise," he growled. "I shall play her instrument and teach her a new tune."
The young man on horseback laughed and cheered him on. Shame burning her cheeks, Ami shouted at him that if he returned her despoiled to her husband he need never expect a ransom.
"Ransom?" he sputtered, laughing.
"That's right, fool! Unless you return me safely and intact, you will never receive any reward." Surely, she thought, that was why she'd been kidnapped. Men like this were mercenaries, coin being their one interest.
When he released her wrists at last it was such a surprise that she did not move, but lay stunned for a moment. While she was frozen, undecided on her next move, he said calmly, "You're not my captive, woman." He spread her thighs apart with his broad shoulders and lowered his head. "You're my bride."
"Wh
at?" She struggled to sit up and got half way there on her elbows.
"I'm Stryker Bloodaxe," he confirmed proudly, his hot breath kissing her exposed pussy. "Save your swoons till later, my little lust bucket."
He was laughing when he pressed his mouth to her sex and then his tongue stabbed between her nether lips in quick, hard, hungry licks.
Finally she realized the truth. She had not been set upon by robbers. This man between her thighs, penetrating her with his tongue, was her new husband.
The younger man on horseback still watched intently. His horse stomped in the ruffled leaves and snorted, impatient to be off again, but the rider was going nowhere. His hand disappeared under his chainmail tunic and she knew he rubbed his cock while he watched her on the ground.
Oh, now the bonfire roared. The spring she'd felt churning to life quickly transformed into a summer heat wave. The pulsing ache was too much. Ami grabbed Stryker's hair, meaning to pull him off her, but even as she slid backward on her buttocks across the dead leaves, he followed, his hands under her, grabbing her arse, his mouth claiming her hungrily. Her sex opened under his merciless teasing, her hips moved of their own accord, and she feared losing herself to this wicked magic.
She slid back again until her head contacted the gnarled roots of a tree and then any further attempt at escape seemed fruitless. Her body was weak and he was too strong. Ami had no choice but to forget about the other man watching her succumb to untamed desire. Her maiden's body was possessed by a yearning too fierce to be denied.
The brute between her thighs laughed again when he sensed the moment of her capitulation and then his tongue paid fierce unremitting attention to one particular spot at the crest of her labia.