Enchantress(Seven Brides for Seven Bastards, 6)(MFMMMMMM)

by Georgia Fox

  The seven bastard sons of Guillaume d'Anzeray are on a mission to find wives -- women to breed the next generation of a dark dynasty that many wish to see extinct.

  It won't be easy to find brides from among the Norman nobility, for the d'Anzeray are upstarts, their family's fortunes raised through bloodshed and violence. As one holy man and chronicler of their times has written, "From the devil they came and to the devil they will return". But these brothers don't care much for holy men or for what is written about them. Now, with the future of their bloodline at stake these mercenary warriors need wives and they have no scruples when it comes to claiming the women they desire.

  Enchantress

  Seven Brides for Seven Bastards, 6

  by

  Georgia Fox

  M/F/M/M/M/M/M/M/M, M/F/M, ANAL,

  BRANDING, ORGIES, PUBLIC EXHIBITION,

  AND DOUBLE PENETRATION.

  Twisted Erotica Publishing, Inc.

  www.twistederoticapublishing.com

  A TWISTED EROTICA PUBLISHING BOOK

  Enchantress

  Seven Brides for Seven Bastards, 6

  Copyright © 2014 by Georgia Fox

  Edited by Marie Medina

  First E-book Publication: April 2014, SMASHWORDS EDITION

  Cover design by K Designs

  All cover art and logo copyright © 2014, Twisted Erotica Publishing.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

  "They came from the bowels of hell to slaughter, ravage and pillage wherever they went. It was said they were descended from the daughter of Satan and I know of no man alive in their time who would doubt it."

  The words of Herallt, medieval chronicler, on the deeds of Guillaume d'Anzeray and his seven bastard sons.

  Prologue

  Marrakech, 1062

  The little girl had been beaten. He saw the marks of a strap, or a whip, across her back. When a brawl broke out in that hot, dusty souk, she had run for shelter immediately behind a large earthenware pot. And that was where eleven-year-old Antonino d'Anzeray, separated from his brother Ramon in the rush and clamor, found her. Approaching the same hiding place, he saw her back turned toward him and witnessed the cruel marks through her torn clothing.

  She must have heard steps behind her and turned to see him there.

  Her skin was dark, her hair long and shining, pulled into a snake-like braid. Her eyes, as they assessed him sharply, were bright but not with fear. Despite all the chaos erupting around her, she was oddly calm. The strange light in her eyes, when she looked at him, was curiosity. It was also, he thought, slightly disdainful.

  She chattered at him in a rapid, foreign tongue, and he was quite sure that whatever she said was an insult. Her manner was scolding and scornful. Gesturing at the pot behind which they hid, she then pointed to herself and repeated the stream of incomprehensible words.

  Apparently the girl was trying to tell him that this was her place for hiding. Not his.

  Then she pointed to rough marks carved into the wall behind the pot. Arabic letters. Was that her name? Had she claimed the place by writing it there?

  "You must come here often," he remarked.

  She glared at him, hands on her small hips.

  "You've been whipped." He moved to touch her back and she shrank away, eyes widened. "I'm not going to hurt you," he exclaimed. "I never would." He didn't know why he added that; she couldn't even understand his language. But it was suddenly very important that she understood he would not harm her, and it wasn't merely that he wanted to share her hiding place until the dust cleared.

  He supposed he felt pity. She was very thin, scrawny. Her eyes were the biggest thing about her. The marks crisscrossing her back made him angry. What could she have done to deserve such nasty, cruel punishment? She was younger than him and much smaller. It made him angry that anyone would do that to her. To any living creature.

  Reaching into the little leather bag hanging from his belt he took out a sweet pastry he'd been saving for later. He handed it to her. "You look hungry," he said briskly, not wanting her to think him too soft. "May as well eat this. I don't want it."

  Unblinking, she glanced at the peace offering and then looked up at his face. Antonino felt as if her gaze reached inside him to read his very thoughts. It was unsettling, and yet he could not make his feet move away.

  Suddenly she grabbed his belt and tugged him close. The sweet pastry dropped to the ground between them. He smelled spiced oil in her hair and the saltiness of her perspiration. There was no time to protest for he had no idea what she meant to do.

  But she kissed him.

  The little girl rose up on her toes and pressed her soft lips to his. He tasted honey and cinnamon, felt his cheeks grow heated.

  Out there in the spinning dust, under the heat of the ochre-hued, midday sun, his elder brothers enjoyed their fight, disrupting the market probably because they were restless again, or thought one of the traders had tried to cheat them. It didn't take much for a fight to break out around his brothers — they required little reason, especially on such a hot day— and where one brother was involved the others soon joined in, but they considered Antonino and Ramon still too young to fight and therefore more of a liability in such situations.

  Where Ram was now he couldn't say. Probably taking advantage of the furor to steal something.

  Later his brothers would all tell their version of events that day, no doubt adding a vast deal of unlikely, even fantastical, detail. But fearing they would tease him unmercifully, Antonino did not feel inclined to tell about his own experiences that day. And so he never did.

  Chapter One

  England, Ten years later

  Herallt bent over his parchment and wrote with long, angry drags of his quill.

  The bastard sons of Guillaume d'Anzeray have plundered this land from one end to the other. They have stolen away the lawful brides of other men and forced them to submit to a life of degradation.

  He paused to glare out at the grey clouds hanging low that evening. It was a grim sky that had darkened without sunset, well suited to the monk's vengeful mood.

  The d'Anzeray must be stopped.

  And far worse than the d'Anzeray's kidnapping of random women for their own evil needs, was the fact that they had now stolen the groom of Herallt's own niece. Not that he cared about his niece's predicament of being abandoned on her wedding night. Oh no, it was the shame of that groom's real gender which was more than he could bear. That Cedney Bloodwynne— a Saxon earl supposed to marry Herallt's niece Rosamund— was found to be a female, a woman who had masqueraded as a man for one and twenty years, fooling not only the soldiers who rode and fought at her side, but even King William himself.

  Then along came Dominigo d'Anzeray to murder Herallt's brother and steal away Cedney Bloodwynne, having apparently ascertained immediately what no one else had realized for so many years. The deserted bride, and therefore Herallt's family, were made a laughingstock. It was not to be borne. Only that day he had heard muffled laughter following him through the cloisters.

  A visitor was announced by the low, shuddering creak of a door opening. Drawn out of his bitter reverie, the monk set his quill aside then turned stiffly in his chair.

  She wore a heavy cloak with a hood, but even with her face cast in shadow, her eyes were visible
, two sultry, gleaming orbs of a unique celestial color. They stared at the monk and through him with an intensity he found unsettling. A great believer in women being seen and not heard, it was distasteful to Herallt that he must resort to seeking assistance from this one, but he'd been told that she had strong powers. Besides, she too had an axe to grind against the d'Anzeray. An axe that was cunningly placed in her hands by those who, eager to make good use of her, whispered in her ear a sly but effective lie.

  "You are prepared?" he demanded. "You know what must be done?"

  "Worry not, monk. An eye for an eye, as they say." The woman's voice was soft, heavily accented, but self-assured. "I have waited a long time for a chance to plunge my dagger into the heart of the beast."

  Herallt nodded, his lips twisted in a cruel smile. "They tell me you are a witch."

  The eyes blinked, momentarily vanishing beneath dark fingers of shade. "I prefer the term Foreteller of Destinies," came the terse reply.

  A sudden brutal wind blew in through his narrow, arched window and stung the side of Herallt's cheek like a hard slap. Oddly enough it did not disturb the solitary flame of his candle on its way by. Did not even tickle it. He shivered. It was as if someone had walked upon his grave.

  "Let me see your face," he snapped, curious to assess the beauty of this infamous woman for himself.

  Slowly she lowered her hood, and the monk stared through narrowed eyes, almost afraid to look for too long in case she tried her spells upon him.

  Her skin was the color of dark, rich honey, her hair black as a moonless midnight. She was clearly born of an eastern land, but her accent had already told him that. Where would her loyalties lay, he wondered, his mind wary. He had been assured he could trust her, but could any female creature ever truly be trusted? "Where are you from, woman?"

  She smiled, baring a flash of even white teeth. "My mother."

  He glared.

  "Although it is said I came not from her womb," she added, "but from her magic."

  "Magic is the art of the devil."

  Again another sudden gust of icy cold air hit him— this time his other cheek, as if it were possible for the wind within a room to change direction. Still his candle flame stretched tall, unwavering.

  "It is fortunate for you then, monk, that you have no qualm about putting the devil's arts to your use, when necessary."

  He pulled up the collar of his robes. "One must fight fire with fire. The d'Anzeray are dangerous, unholy beasts."

  "And they cannot be beaten by your God's wrath? Surely good must triumph over evil, monk."

  Herallt decided then that he did not like this slippery creature. Sadly he needed her. The sooner she was about her business the better.

  "Shall I tell your destiny with the cards?" she asked softly, eyes wide and ringed with kohl, staring through him again with that peculiar intensity.

  "No. Save your demon's tricks for them. I am told you have plenty."

  "I do."

  "And if you see so much of the future you will know already the way inside their castellany."

  "Of course." She tilted her head, still watching him, reading something that was marked upon his very bones it seemed. "They are, after all, men. There is nothing challenging about men. They are all the same— be they murderer or monk. Or both."

  Taking umbrage at her tone and that disdainful, knowing gleam in her eye, he growled, "Then I hope, for your sake, that you do not fail."

  "How can I?" She opened her cloak, showing her costume of little more than beads and string, her breasts flowing out of it. Her navel was exposed, decorated with little jewels that were somehow attached to her sun-darkened skin. Below her waist she was swathed in colorful rags of material, thin as gossamer. A slight sway of her hips could reveal or hide the treasure beneath. Her legs were long and slender. Around her ankles she wore bells that tinkled with every movement, and when she laughed the bells accompanied her. "Even you look at my body with eager lust, saintly monk."

  Furious, he growled at her and clutched the wooden crucifix he wore in the folds of his robe. "Do not think to use your temptress tricks upon me."

  "I would not want to." She closed her cloak again. "But tonight when you lie with your yellow-haired mistress you will think of my body and for the first time in many weeks your cock will crow. You will fuck her with more vitality than you have ever managed before. She will be grateful and may decide to stay with you after all."

  He glowered, sweat breaking upon his brow. How did she know about his mistress and her sulky threats of late to leave him?

  "And then you will know, monk, that my powers are indeed everything you've been told."

  In the next moment she had replaced her hood and swept out, the door closing silently behind her without her hand upon it. The creak with which it had earlier opened to admit her was apparently cured. Only then did Herallt's candle go out, suddenly plunging him into shadowy dusk. Under his robes he was hot, and the quickening in his loins proved her prediction was correct.

  Herallt was not a man known for smiling, but now he did— although when he saw his reflection in the water basin it was more of a grimace, pained and reluctant.

  Well, he might not like the witch, but she would do the job. And she was dispensable. Once her task was complete he would be rid of her, ensuring there was no trace back to him when the king found out. For despite their wicked deeds, King William never raised a finger against the d'Anzeray. They were, it seemed, important to him for some reason, and so he had let this latest slight against Herallt's family go unpunished.

  But he could not.

  The d'Anzeray, it was known, had many sins but only one true weakness. Lust.

  It would finally be their undoing.

  Chapter Two

  As Nino d'Anzeray buried his face in that fine, golden-haired pussy, slid his lips over her labia in an open-mouthed kiss and stabbed his tongue inside her moistened valley, he was not thinking of much beyond sexual gratification. He was not the sort of man to dwell with tenderness on any woman. They were there for rutting with him and birthing babes. And this delicious one— his brother's wife— was currently coming in his mouth. Her sticky juice trickled onto his tongue, and he laughed huskily, flicking the tip of it deeper inside her cunny so that she squealed and bucked her hips, an aftershock quivering through her just when she must have thought her climax was over.

  "When you're done down there, Nino," his brother, Dom, grumbled somewhere above him. "The rest of us would like a turn today. Must you drink her dry?"

  He ran his tongue over her pussy lips, gathering more nectar, ignoring the complaints of how much time he'd taken.

  She drew her knees up, still panting hard, and he planted a kiss to her vulva. Cedney had one of the prettiest, tastiest quims he'd ever fucked, and it always fascinated him that she'd spent twenty-one years disguised as a man. He could only conclude the people where she'd lived must be blind and stupid. Fortunately for them all, Dom had come along, seen her and then, instantly realizing the truth, had swept her up on his horse and brought her home with him to join their collection of wives.

  "Nino," another brother exclaimed, "move aside and make room for someone else. You've had long enough with the new wife. You must be exhausting her."

  So he finally got up, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. Cedney didn't look too tired, he mused, watching as she welcomed Dom down on her, his big cock impaling her wet pussy while it probably still trembled from Nino's expert tongue.

  Yes, he knew it was expert. This was not merely false pride. He'd been trained by some of the best whores his father could buy, and he happened to love the taste of pussy juice. Never could get enough of it. He glanced across the hall and saw another wife, Aelfa, kneeling between his eldest brother's legs and sucking his cock heartily. He strode over and got down behind her. Sometimes, being one of the youngest, he had to push in or lose out of the feeding, he mused.

  Hands gripping her hips, he tugged them upward and back slightly,
then tossed up her gown to reveal that lovely smooth backside. She did not halt her cock sucking as he fingered her anus, then licked her glistening labia. Aelfa, who always enjoyed a good spanking, wriggled her arse, teasing him, so he gave her what she desired a few times with the flat of his hand and looked up at his brother's face. Salvador was a keen spanker himself, and his eyes gleamed hotly to see what Nino did.

  "Again," his eldest brother mouthed as he caressed Aelfa's beautiful auburn hair.

  So Nino spanked her bottom until it blushed. It must have increased the greedy speed and tugging of her mouth on Sal's shaft, for his brother groaned, tipping his head back, ready to spill. Quickly Nino mounted the wife from behind, filling her moist pussy with a swift penetration. Only a few strokes later and he spilled, joining his brother in that pleasure, spending deeply inside their wife.

  * * * *

  Antonino was one of the youngest bastard sons of the notorious warrior Guillaume d'Anzeray. Sometimes even Guillaume forgot the order of birth and would say "Nino" was the very youngest. When the others argued that he was wrong about that, their father would reply, "Well, he acts it!"

  Nino had grown up being teased and tormented by his brothers, and loved and spoiled by their mother. All of it in equal shares. He got away with a great deal, and any punishments he suffered rolled easily off his back, but he was constantly in a competition to win his father's approval and his brothers' respect. By the age of one and twenty he was a young man of merry wit, hot temper and a reckless impulse. Nothing he did, as his father would observe, was half done.