by Evie North
“Can you not take it off?” he asked, eyes fixed upon the cruel contraption. Although smooth and decorated with strange symbols, the metal looked brutal and utterly unyielding against her creamy skin.
She sighed and shook her head. “My husband took the key with him.”
“And does that mean you must wear this weapon of torture forever?” Now his gaze rose to hers, shocked and horrified.
“That was what he wanted,” she said, but her eyes begged for release.
Simon kissed her again, and this time it was a promise. “I will free you, Lady Yolanda. I swear it.”
She drew her robe back around her and stood up. Her smile was tentative. Hopeful. “Thank you, Simon. No one else will do it, no one else can, but when you knelt before me tonight and asked me to give you a quest, I thought . . . I thought Simon can do it.”
Simon lay back down as the door closed. He would free her, he told himself feverishly, and when he had, he would have her love and gratitude. Tonight she had shown him she was a woman who needed the love of a man, and Simon knew he would be that man.
***
The blacksmith eyed him curiously, sweat running down his half clothed body as the fire roared and his hammer clanged. “Aye, I made the belt for Sir Edward,” he agreed. “I’m a locksmith as well as a blacksmith. At least I assisted in the making of it, with Sir Edward’s man Taskill. He had secret ways I didn’t understand.”
“Secret ways?”
“He muttered words over it, spells I reckon. And when he was finished, well, I’d never seen the like.”
Simon frowned. This Taskill character worried him.
“You must know that Sir Edward died on Crusade with King Richard,” he said to the blacksmith.
“I know it.”
“Lady Yolanda has asked me to come to you. She wants a key to unlock the device now her husband is dead.”
“A key?” the man mocked, his eyes narrowed.
“Yes, you must have a key that fits it?”
“Sir Edward had the only key. He was clear on that. Only one key and he had it.”
Simon shifted his feet impatiently. “There must be a second copy. Didn’t he make some provision if he died? If he couldn’t come home to free his wife?”
“No, he had the only key. He didn’t trust anyone else with one. Doted on her, he did. Old husband, young wife, you get the picture. He thought everyone was out to take her off him.”
“What about this man, Taskill? Where is he now?”
The blacksmith shrugged. “Gone off to foreign parts I reckon. Scotland or some such uncivilised place.”
“Can you make another key to fit the lock?”
Simon was getting frustrated. Yolanda had told him about the blacksmith who made the metal girdle under Taskill’s direction, and he’d had to ride for two days to find him.
“I told you, I’d never seen anything like it before. It’s meant to stay on.”
“So there are no other keys that might fit?”
He sighed, shrugged, and after a moment went to a box on a bench in the corner. He took out a number of keys and handed them to Simon. “You can try these, but I don’t like your chances. That Taskill, he said no other key would fit it.”
“What about picking the lock? Can I do that?”
“Aye, you can try that, but again it was made with that in mind. It’s meant to stay on,” he repeated with satisfaction.
“What about cutting it off?”
He shook his head. “I wouldn’t like to do that. Would more than likely injure the lady. Might kill her. And the metal . . . so strong, so hard, like nothing I’d ever seen before.”
Simon felt his heart sink.
“It isn’t as tight as Sir Edward wanted it,” the blacksmith said. “I insisted that she had more room, like. Just as well, too, or by now it would be rubbing her flesh raw. Seen some botched jobs like that, with sores and then infection setting in, and oftimes the woman dying in a fever. At least your lady won’t have to contend with that.”
No, thought Simon, she will just be prevented from ever lying with a man again. Ever lying with me. He remembered her writhing against him on his bed, her needs obvious. Yolanda had spoken of love; she wanted love. How could she live a life starved of love?
Furious, Simon rode away. Sir Edward Arbuthnot the barbarian had left his wife in that contraption with no way of escape. Despite what the blacksmith said, could he have left a spare key with someone? But he had probably heard the story that Simon himself had heard, of the key to the chastity belt being left with the best friend and neighbour, who promptly rode over to the castle, released the lady, and took her to bed.
***
Sometimes Yolanda ached for a man to touch her; the frustration was almost unbearable. She knew that some women dedicated their lives to prayer or good works and never gave the sexual part of it a thought, but Yolanda was a woman who needed to be touched. Even Sir Edward, old as he was, had been able to perform that part of their marriage.
He was quick and rough; he never caressed her as Simon had, but he’d been certain to ride her well and hard, and there had been some satisfaction in the rub of his flesh against hers. He had a way of clearing his throat, just before his climax, that put paid to her own enjoyment. And sometimes, while he rode her, she had dreamed of another man, a younger man, who would one day find her. Since Sir Edward had locked her into the metal girdle the frustration was growing worse every day. Sometimes it was unbearable.
When Simon had kissed and fondled her in his bed, when he had put his mouth on her breasts and suckled, she’d felt her body humming with desire. She’d felt her female parts swelling, aching, wanting. And then the look on Simon’s face when he’d seen . . . when he’d realised . . . Yolanda had wanted to hide herself away with shame.
She’d feared he would laugh, or turn from her. But he hadn’t. He’d pitied her and sworn to free her, and God help her, she’d believed him. Now he’d set off on his quest and she could do nothing but wait for his return, and hope he was successful.
And meanwhile her body ached with her unfulfilled needs.
***
“My lady?”
She’d been seated at the window, staring out at the falling snow and she took a moment to turn to him. Simon thought she was thinner, her face sadder, but it brightened when she saw him standing there in her private chamber.
Quickly she dismissed her ladies, ignoring their knowing glances.
“I have keys to try, my lady,” he said, coming forward and opening his hands. The keys spilled onto her skirts and she touched them in wonder.
“Do you think one of these might free me?”
“I hope one of these may open your belt, Lady Yolanda.”
When she’d drawn up her skirts over her slender legs to disclose the metal belt, he paused a moment. Despite what the blacksmith said there were red marks on her creamy skin, where the metal had rubbed against her. Was she ever comfortable in the contraption or was it a constant niggling reminder of her distress?
The lock was over her hip, where the two sides of the belt came together. Simon took the first key, but it did not fit and he tossed it aside. Yolanda watched him, half propped up on the cushions on her bed, her body trembling with desperate hope.
Simon tried each key, sometimes twice. One almost seemed to fit but didn’t, and that was the worst disappointment. Once they had tried them all, he picked them up and tried them again, just in case he had made a mistake, but none of them turned the lock. None of them unlocked the belt.
Yolanda tried to be still, to be patient, but there were tears in her eyes when he threw the final key down with a curse.
“I will be forever in this thing,” she said in a little voice. “That was what my husband wanted.”
“No!” He caught her hands in his and then drew her into his arms, holding her tight. “I am not done yet,” he murmured in her ear. “I promise you, I will succeed.”
Her trembling eased, and he fe
lt her fingers stroking his fair hair where it curled at his nape. He began to nuzzle against her neck, then gently nip at her earlobe, making her shiver and giggle. His lips trailed along her cheekbone, finally finding her mouth, already eager for his. He found the tip of her tongue, slipping his own between her parted lips, dancing the dance of desire. When she groaned, lying back in his arms, he cupped her breast, gently squeezing her plump flesh, before using his mouth on her.
When her fingers brushed against his cock, hugely swollen within his breeches, he almost jumped off the bed. “Simon,” she whispered, and he looked down into her flushed face, eyes half closed and sleepy with passion, her mouth swollen from his kisses. “Let me. Your quest deserves a prize.”
“Your freedom is the prize,” he said gallantly, but his chest was already rising and falling heavily from her touch.
“But in the meantime I will reward you in my own way.”
Now her fingers were more purposeful, reaching to unlace him, holding him when his cock sprang out eagerly. She bent over him, her mouth covering the tip, her hands stroking the length of him. He felt her tongue tasting him, exploring him, and lay back with a groan, giving himself over to her will.
Her hot mouth, wet tongue, her hands. He arched toward her, willing her not to stop. She leaned over him, and there was a look on her face that told him this was not forced. Lady Yolanda was enjoying having a man as her willing slave.
“I will not be able to stop myself,” he said shakily. “My lady, are you prepared?”
“For your seed?” she said, looking up at him. “I am ready, Simon.”
When he erupted, hips pumping against her mouth, she seemed to relish the experience of bringing a man to climax. He drew her up into his arms, holding her half naked body against him, wishing that he could take her fully, as a man takes a woman.
“There is no room,” she said practically, when he asked her. “Not for a man to lie between my thighs and place his cock inside me. There is room for my hand, so that I can wash myself and perform the necessary tasks a woman must perform.”
Simon knelt on the bed and drew up her skirts again, examining the contraption. There was a slit between her thighs, for her to perform those necessary tasks, and there was a gap where the metal band wrapped around her hips, just big enough for a hand to slip down inside.
A small hand, he discovered, when he tried it.
Still he persisted, rubbing his own skin off, until his fingertips brushed the hair on her mound, and with a grunt he forced them further, wriggling inside her outer lips. He felt the hard bead then, suffused with passion, and touched it gently with his finger. Yolanda, who had been lying tense, clearly uncomfortable as his hand down the front of the belt caused it to dig into her back, gasped with excitement.
“Please,” she begged, rising her hips toward him. “Simon, please.”
He took that to mean she wanted more, and proceeded to roll the bead with his finger, applying some pressure as well. Moisture seeped from between her legs and she moaned softly, her eyes fluttering closed as she focussed on the sensations he was causing. He leaned over her, mouth covering hers, pretending it was his cock against her rather than his finger, imagining how it would be to thrust his body deep inside her, her soft thighs clamped about him, the ripples of passion stroking him to greater and greater heights.
Yolanda cried out, lifting her metal clad hips from the bed, arms tight about him. He felt the tremble of her climax. The sweet brush of her breath against his lips as she sighed out her pleasure. Carefully he withdrew his hand, and she watched him as he licked his fingers and smiled.
“There is still pleasure to be had, despite the lack of a key,” he murmured.
“Yes.” She reached to stroke his cheek, her movements languid. “But I wish you could lay with me like a lover, Simon.”
“We are lovers,” he said stubbornly. “It is the love that matters, not the act itself.”
An eyebrow arched. “That isn’t what you said before.”
“I was a fool then. I am happy to lie down beside you and simply look at you.”
“But that would be cruel,” she said softly, “and I would not be cruel to you, Simon.”
His heart trembled with fear. Would she send him away? He reached down again but she caught his hand, drew it up to her heart and held it there. “Lady? We are not done yet. I have some things more to try. The quest is not over.”
He watched the doubt in her face turn once more to hope.
“I love you, Simon,” she whispered.
“I love you, Yolanda. I will set off in the morning but I will be back soon, I swear it.”
“Yes.” Her hand was stroking him again and he knew his cock was already as hard as granite with wanting her. “But before you go . . .” she whispered, her eyes gleaming between her lashes, and with a groan he lay back and gave himself up to her mouth.
***
This time Simon was gone for weeks. The snows were thick on the ground and travel was difficult, and Yolanda wondered whether he would be back before spring. The pleasure he had given her only made the abstinence worse, and she could not settle to anything. She tried to touch herself but the belt was so tight, tighter it seemed than before, and besides, she wanted Simon’s hands upon her.
She’d grown to want his kisses and his taste, and his hot words in her ear promising her so much.
Then one day one of her ladies came running to say two riders were approaching the gate and Yolanda hurried up to the tower to see. One of them was Simon, his fair hair bright against the snow clinging to the dark, leafless trees. The other she did not recognise. Hurrying down again, she met them in the bailey.
Simon caught her hands in his and bowed. “My lady,” he said, and although he looked tired he was smiling in triumph. “My quest has met with success.” He turned, waving an arm toward his companion. “This is Ulfred.”
The man was short and stout, with a bald pate beneath his hood, and black eyes like currents. “My lady,” he said, his accent so strong she could barely understand him.
Simon stepped closer to her, his eyes on hers. “Ulfred is a lock-pick, my lady. The best there is. I searched far and wide for him.”
Understanding lit up her face and she was smiling, reaching to tug at Simon’s hand. “Come, come and eat and drink. You must be tired and cold.” And as they walked toward the great hall, she swayed against his side and murmured, “I missed you.”
He squeezed her hand almost painfully. “And I you.”
***
Yolanda insisted they eat their fill and rest afterwards. Simon was grateful. They had ridden hard to get here through the foul weather, in places the snow so deep they had to dismount and lead the horses through the drifts. Little Ulfred had been doubtful about accompanying a stranger into the depths of the English countryside. But Simon had explained the problem, and perhaps something of his own agony and that of Yolanda had come through in his pleading words, because eventually Ulfred had agreed.
“There is no lock I cannot unlock,” he declared proudly. “Your lady will be unlocked in the shake of a lamb’s tail, you will see,” he’d said, with a wicked twinkle in his eye.
It was late when Yolanda sent for them. In her private chamber the candles were lit, giving the bright fabrics and comfortable furnishings a warm glow. Yolanda sat upon a low stool by the fireplace, her hands outstretched to the flames, wearing her silken robe, her hair in a plait at her back.
“My lady.” The two of them bowed, and Simon saw that she was anxious. “Ulfred is married with five children,” he added. “He is used to women.”
“Five girls,” Ulfred said, with a roll of his eyes. “There is nothing you have, lady, that will surprise me.”
Yolanda smiled, and she lay upon the bed as requested, untying her robe and disclosing the horrible metal cage about her hips and pelvis.
Ulfred stood a moment, observing it, and then he moved closer and ran his fingers over the metal casing. “This is some
thing special, lady. I have only once before seen its like.” He looked up at her suddenly. “You say you have tried to open it. Has it been tighter since then?”
Yolanda swallowed. “Yes. I think it is tighter since,” she glanced at Simon. “It is a little tighter.”
Ulfred nodded wisely. He moved to peer at the lock, and then beckoned for Simon to bring over a candle and hold it so that the light fell just so. For a long time he examined the mechanism, watched anxiously by Yolanda and Simon.
And then he sighed.
“As I said, I have only seen one such as this,” he said regretfully, “but I have heard of others. I fear it may not be tampered with.”
“No!” Simon burst out, the candle shaking in his hand so that some wax dripped on to Yolanda’s skin. She gasped.
“My friend,” Ulfred turned to him with a gloomy expression. “If I were to try to trip this lock there is a mechanism inside it that will cause the belt to tighten. I think it has already done so. When you tried to find a key to fit, you accidently brought such a change into play. How much tighter can it get?” And he turned to look down at Yolanda, who was straightening her robe and pushing herself up. Simon could see her hands trembling and longed to hold her in his arms.
“But surely it would be worth it. If you trip the lock and it opens, then tightness does not matter, Ulfred!”
“But if I do not trip the lock and it grows so tight that it cuts into the lady’s flesh? Her bones, eh? It squeezes her to death, my friend, what then? No,” he shook his head decisively, “it is not worth the risk. I have heard of such a thing happening and the woman died in agony.”
Yolanda gave a sob.
“You said you had seen one other like it,” Simon said angrily. “What happened to that woman? Did she die too?”
Ulfred shook his head. “She accepted her fate and went into a nunnery.” He reached to rest a hand on her shoulder. “I am sorry, my lady. I thought there was nothing I could not open but I was arrogant and wrong. This is the lock of a master. Your husband chose only the best for you. He must have loved you very much, I think.”