by Fox, Georgia
He sat up, staring at her tangled hair. She didn't appear to be hurt, merely disheveled. One dirty thumbprint marked her cheek. For an innocent nun she'd held her own surprisingly well against five lusty soldiers. "I thought you said they wouldn't touch a holy woman on the eve of a journey across water?" he spat angrily.
Dominic explained with a weary sigh and a shrug, "They were drunk, my lord. It won't happen again. I have already dealt out punishment. They'll be emptying the slop buckets for the remainder of the trip, and they will be last to eat every night."
"Good." He would think of worse punishment for the men later. But now there was the behavior of this wandering, prying woman to address. He'd warned her to stay in her tent and she'd defied him. That was worse, in his eyes, than any other crime committed that night.
There was only one thing she could have been looking for. He thought of her earlier visit to his tent, her calm inspection of everything in it, her attempts to distract him, tempt him. King William had warned of thieves on this journey. It seemed the contents of that casket—just a sack of old bones, as far as Thierry was concerned—were valuable treasure in the eyes of believers. The possession of a few Holy relics was one sure way of bringing pilgrims and revenue to any place of worship.
Was Sister Vivienne merely a mouthy, nosy wench, or trouble more sinister? He ought to have her tied up and under guard just to be sure. He couldn't have her tempting his men again.
"You won't find it, Sister Vivienne."
Previously looking at the ground, her gaze now lifted to his, uncertain, but annoyed rather than fearful. "Find what? I told you, I was—"
"The key to the padlock."
"What key?" She blinked.
He smirked, signaling for Dominic to leave. "Do I need to keep you tied up until we reach Caen, woman?"
"You wouldn't dare!"
"Wouldn't I?"
"I have done nothing wrong. I am innocent. A Bride of Christ. I am..."
He watched her mouth move, but stopped listening. He'd have to find some way to keep her out of his path. He was not truly concerned by what she might do, but what his men might.
What he might.
The temptation to touch her was sheer cruelty. All that soft hair flowing down her back, those lips lying to him, eyes trying to hide. Now, of course, by sneaking around his horse, she'd given him reason to punish her, lay hands on her.
"Was it Sister Marie's idea to send you looking for the key? For certes she does not approve of me keeping it. My hands are unworthy."
"I was not looking for the key. I merely went to look at the horses. I told you that. Must I say it again in simpler words?" She raised her chin and measured her gaze to his, bold for a woman. And insolent. "I heard you were all brawn and breeches. Now I see 'tis true if you cannot understand a simple explanation."
Oh keep it up. Just give me more excuse, woman. Damn you.
"I'll send Dominic for a bridle shall I? I'm sure we have a spare one for you, Sister Vivienne. That will keep you out of trouble until we get safely to Normandy."
"Do as you will." She stepped closer. "But trussing me up won't save you from those wicked thoughts about me, Bonnenfant."
He stared, horror struck. How did she know?
"I suppose you're thinking of using me as your men tried," she snapped, flinging out her arms and turning her face up to his. "No doubt you'll take without permission and no one will stop you. I'll be powerless to prevent it."
She spat fire with her eyes. Despite her claim of being powerless to prevent him, he knew she'd fight him too if he tried. Did she taunt him because she wanted an excuse to hit him, render scratches in his face, accuse him of attempted rape? Did she actually think he'd ever had to force a woman in his life?
She needed a lesson.
No, best not even think about it. He'd gotten away with too much in the past, as it was. A man could only push his luck so many times. And she was a nun. Back to that again.
Perhaps just looking at her would suffice. Not touching. Just looking.
So he stared hard at her titties and was gratified to see both nipples poke at the wool. Then his gaze wandered downward over her slender belly. Her habit seemed to fit so much closer than those of the other women. He might almost imagine it was deliberate.
"Well?" she demanded.
"I don't need to steal a kiss from you, Sister Vivienne," he replied steadily. "I'll just use my eyes to take what I need."
With a gasp of disgust she turned her back to him and walked to the folding chair. Thierry hungrily assessed the shape of her arse again. Hanging at his sides, his hands curved. He could feel those lovely round buttocks in his hands. His sac firmed at the thought of her bent over that chair. Taking him in.
If she was anything but a blessed nun!
While she looked away, he touched his cock with a tentative, trembling hand. How much sin could it be simply to look at this woman and admire? Surely it was no more sin than he'd yet committed in his life.
Not knowing how else to manage his impulsive desire for this creature, he slid his hand inside his breeches, surreptitiously straightening out his uncomfortably restricted cock with a quick tug. Then he cupped his balls for a good squeeze, followed by another strong upward sweep, his fingers tight around the burgeoning shaft.
There that was better. It was getting cramped in those breeches.
* * * *
Vivienne heard the change in his breathing. She smiled. At last. Well, he was stubborn, she'd give him that. But she won out in the end. She always did. Wouldn't be long now.
She reached up for a leisurely stretch, yawning loudly, knowing how the wool gown pulled over her curves. Her pussy was damp already, a fierce driving need racing recklessly through her sensitive parts, impatient for Thierry Bonnenfant to pull his legendary cock out and use it. Do what he did best. What he was infamous for.
To enjoy sex for once, would be remarkable indeed. She'd never been attracted to the men who had her. Nobody pleasured her so well as she could with her own fingers and she'd long since given up hoping.
But here—here was potential.
Again she reminded herself that this was merely a mission for her master. There was nothing special about it, no cause for her pulse to skip like a spring lamb. He held out better than most, better than she expected for a sinner of his reputation, and that must be the reason why she was this excited. It was all in the anticipation.
When she looked at him again, the stiff bulge was still there in his breeches, stretching the leather all the way to his navel.
"What's that?" she demanded, pointing, struggling not to laugh.
"Naught," he growled at her, on the defensive, showing his youth in a sudden flare of bashfulness.
Vivienne was surprised and moved by the slight flush under the bristles of his cheek. Here was this great profligate, trying to hide his erection from her. Because she was a nun, of course, not one of the women he usually had in his tent. She cleared her throat. "Hardly naught, young man. Much more than naught. I've just never seen one quite so...so...prideful."
He stared at her for a moment. "I'll tell Dominic to move some of the men. You can have your extra tent and I'll post a trustworthy guard to keep you in it. Now, if you don't want that bridle, you'd better get out. Go back..." Apparently he couldn't finish. Waving his hand over his shoulder, he averted his gaze, stormed away from her and reached for his wine. Finding the goblet empty, he threw it hard across the tent.
Vivienne watched it spinning on the ground, where it finally came to a halt by her foot. He slumped into his chair, hand on his brow as if he had a headache. She looked at his lap and the twitching lump he made no move to hide. In fact he spread his legs out, sprawling in his chair. Almost as if he presented that prize for her appreciation. And exploration. It seemed she was correct in her earlier assumption that he did not hide the key there. No room for it. None at all.
He couldn't make her leave yet. Bonnenfant, notorious sexual adventurer, wou
ld not resist the chance of an illicit tumble. It simply wasn't possible. Her pride was endangered. She could not fail. He would not throw her out of his tent again.
From the stories she'd heard of his sexual exploits, Bonnenfant was a man who would swive anything. The only way to get close to the casket of relics had been to disguise herself as a nun, but she'd fully expected the costume to increase his interest, not hinder it in any way. Surely the corruption of an untouched virgin would be just another challenge to him. But she'd reckoned without the last few remaining morals of Thierry Bonnenfant. A sinner with scruples.
She stooped, retrieved his goblet, carried it to the tray and poured the last of the wine from his jug. Perhaps she needed to get him drunk, like those men by the campfire, and then he'd lose his fear of nuns. He watched her through his fingers; she knew it, felt his heated regard on the back of her head. It was enough to curl a woman's hair. With her gaze lowered demurely, she carried to goblet of wine to him.
"Here, my lord. Drink this."
After a pause, he took it, but didn't drink immediately. "Why did you become a nun?"
She wasn't expecting that. It was rare for a man to take an interest in a woman's reason for anything. "It was chosen for me," she replied.
"By whom?"
She thought quickly. "By God, of course."
He gave a low grunt of disgust and sipped his wine, lantern light fluttering over the hard planes of his face. "Mistake."
"Oh?"
"If God wished for you to be a nun, why build you that way? You're made to please men with that shape, that hair and those lips..." He raised his eyelids and stared at her over the rim of his goblet. "And all the rest of you."
"You have not seen the rest of me. How do you know?"
He laughed, a sharp, curt sound. "I'm familiar with the female form. A nun's habit is not enough to hide your charms from me."
"Is that why you are aroused." She looked down again at his lap, keeping her eyes wide. "Like that?"
"Do you really want to know why I'm rampant, Sister Vivienne? I'm imagining what it would be like to rut you from behind. If you weren't a nun I'd be over you like a wild cur on a bitch in heat."
She knew he meant to shock her into running off, leaving his tent. Wanting her out of there, away from him, but apparently incapable of finding words to command it this time. Or the will to call the guard again, so he tried frightening her instead with this coarse statement. She leaned against the arm of his chair, staring down at his rearing manhood. It must be aching, she thought, her own desire swelling, her pussy contracting. Time for flattery.
"So big," she gasped. "I never knew a man's weapon could be so large."
"Weapon?" he scowled. "I make no war with mine."
"You've never used it to harm?"
"Never. Whatever you and your sisters think of men, we are not all beasts who cannot control ourselves."
"Like your men just now, grabbing at me, pawing at me."
"No," he replied sharply. "I am not like that."
"But you just said you'd be over me like a—"
"You wouldn't be fighting me. You'd want it as much as I. Of that, Sister Vivienne," his eyes gleamed wickedly, "I'd make certain."
"Women are not supposed to enjoy the act of procreation. Masculine lust is simply a burden women must bear to provide offspring."
This time his laughter was warm, indulgent. He leaned back in his chair. "Is that what they teach you?" Then he took another gulp of wine and shook his head. "Such a waste of a beautiful woman."
She walked slowly around his chair, ignoring the foolish joy she felt when he said that. "You lust for me because I am a nun. Your lust would fade if I was available to you. An ordinary woman."
His eyes narrowed. "Possibly."
"You are a wicked man, easily lured by forbidden fruit."
"You're no better, Sister Vivienne. All that curiosity stifled is not healthy for the blood. And your blood is no different to mine." He glanced over at the flap of his tent where it billowed slightly in a warm evening breeze. "You should leave. Go back, Sister Vivienne and do not venture out again. You might not be so fortunate next time."
She stayed where she was. "Perhaps I would be safer in here. With you."
His eyes flared and then he laughed, shaking his head.
"You said you are not like those men and have never harmed a woman that way."
"Sister Vivienne you try my patience. If you stay here in my tent those wide brown eyes of yours will get an education for which they might not be ready. I don't need to lay a finger on you to get my pleasure."
She looked at his lap, her own sex blossoming with yearning. "Oh?"
"Shall I show you?" He drew the words out so that they touched her intimately somehow, as if he'd stroked her pussy with his lips. "If you don't leave now and go back to your tent, I'll do it in front of you," he warned huskily. "I must release my seed. I can't wait longer. When a man is pushed to this point he has no choice."
Again he was brutally straightforward, trying to scare her into retreat.
It wouldn't work. She sat on his pallet, hands in her lap, watching.
He stared hard at her, his cheeks sucked in. "Very well, Sister Vivienne. Let this be your punishment for straying from your tent again. At least I warned you. Perhaps this will scare you enough to obey my commands in future." He began unlacing his breeches until a long, dark cock protruded from his lap, arched toward his belly, the head bulging and crimson, the veins prominent, filled with blood.
While she watched solemnly, he seized it in his hand.
Chapter Five
He was sweating, his eyes on her, as she sat there so primly on his pallet. His cock was afire, his balls so hard and full he, for once, knew not what to do with them. Under normal circumstances he would ask someone to suck them for him as he shot his load. But there was no one there to do it. And oddly enough no one else he wanted to call into his tent to suck his ripened seed bags. He was giving a performance in solitary splendor, he realized. Performing for this woman—this nun. Showing off for her. With his other hand he stroked and jostled those over-filled sacs. He leaned back spreading his legs even wider, flexing his hips. No point holding back now. May as well let her see it all. She'd soon go running back to her tent.
He'd once known a man who could get his own cock in his mouth. In that moment he wished he could do the same, although, somewhere in his maddened brain he knew that even that would not be enough for him.
Thierry hovered on the brink, but he still couldn't spend. He couldn't push himself over. That nun was watching, staring, remind him of his many sins. She hadn't moved an inch since he began handling himself.
Desperate, unhinged, he gazed at Sister Vivienne through a red mist and growled. "Help me."
She stood slowly and crossed the small space. He worked his cock frenziedly, his buttocks and thighs squeezing and heaving, his breath coming in quick angry gasps. Sister Vivienne got down on her knees between his spread thighs and whispered, "How can I help you, young man."
He grunted, feral, the chair shaking and creaking under him. "Mouth."
She blinked. "Like this?" She opened her lips and licked them, inches from his swollen, white-hot cock head. Another bead of his liquid dripped from his aching crest.
He hissed at her. It wasn't a yes, but the closest sound he could make. His hips thrust, knocking his cock to her lips. They parted again and he felt the tip of her warm tongue sweep his trembling crest, over the hole, lapping up his dew.
Thierry flung his head back, growling, gasping. Suddenly she was forcing his hand away from his cock. He wanted to weep, the need was so strong to finish, when he knew it was wrong. With a nun.
A nun. Forbidden fruit, as she'd said.
Finally, taking pity it seemed, she lowered her face and her mouth. Damp heat devoured his cock, squeezed it, milked it, pumped it. Her fingernails scraped over his thighs, her palms nursed his balls. Her tongue tickled his sensitive flesh on the und
erside, swabbed the moisture from its tip, circled the pulsing crest, lapped at the rigid veins with a soothing warmth.
He cried out in sheer unbridled relief. Thrusting, he filled her wanton mouth and throat and it closed on him, drinking him down heartily, thirstily. Thierry Bonnenfant's skull ripped apart and he lost his mind. Pressing the soles of his boots into the dusty ground, he thrust with his hips, groaning, shivering.
He came with the velocity of a warhorse. He came deep in the throat of a nun.
Or so he imagined. For when he opened his eyes she was still seated on his pallet, watching with interest, her hands clasped piously in her lap.
It had been so real. So real. He looked down at his cock, clasped in his own hand. Warm sperm dripped over his thumb and onto his thigh. His gaze returned to the woman on his pallet. There was a devious, amused look in her eye.
Somehow Sister Vivienne had got him into this shameful state—made him imagine it was her, kneeling between his thighs, nursing on his manhood and handling his balls with the practiced skill of a very costly whore.
Sister Vivienne was one of two things—either a very naughty nun. Or a cunning witch.
He would find out, one way or another, before morning.