Elena's Conquest

by Lisette Allen

  He thrust up her fine clothing around her hips, glimpsing the soft skin of Isobel’s white thighs above her stockings. Her legs parted readily for him and she groaned eagerly as his hands brushed her moist vulva. He unlaced his hose to release his throbbing erection from the constriction of his clothing, and thrust into her without preliminaries. Once his penis was sheathed in her velvety grip, he brushed with his thumb at her exposed clitoris, and she closed her eyes and made soft little noises of pleasure. He realised, with a frown of irritation, that she was trying to imitate the innocent, astonished cries of the Saxon girl.

  For once, Aimery had to admit that he had been wrong about the girl. She did indeed seem to be a true innocent, as she claimed - either that, or exceptionally clever. Like Madelin.

  Aimery wondered, suddenly, what the Saxon girl would be like when she first felt a man deep within her. He tried to imagine the look of quivering surprise that would transfix her features before the pleasure took over her senses. Had Isobel ever been that innocent? She probably couldn’t even remember her first man, he thought grimly.

  Isobel, unaware of his thoughts, shuddered with delight as she felt Aimery’s wonderful length impale her helpless body over and over again. She wanted to cry out in despair each time he withdrew, leaving her aching with loss. But then she would feel the shudder­ing, mounting arousal, and her vaginal walls would grip feverishly as he slid slowly back in. It was always wonderful with Aimery le Sabrenn - she would never tire of him. He could sustain his erection for ever, it seemed, he exerted an icy control that was possessed by no other man she had ever known. Any other man, by now, after what had happened tonight, would have been panting with excitement, totally beyond control. Even Hamet, well-trained though he was, was a little too excitable. But Aimery - oh, Aimery was a man …

  His hands kneaded her trembling breasts as his penis slowly did its magical work. She writhed against him to stimulate her clitoris, the dark pleasure flooding her body, drawing in harsh breaths as her excitement mounted. She wanted to clutch him to her, to undress his wonderful body and stroke his smooth flesh, but she couldn’t because she was trapped by the chains. She wriggled in exquisite torment as he thrust himself hard within her and moved his hand down to stroke her engorged clitoris with the pad of his thumb while keeping himself completely still and solid inside her body. Isobel moaned aloud for release, her cheeks flushed with delight. This, this was the blissful part, where Aimery could keep her lingering on that exquisite brink with a finesse that no other man possessed.

  ‘Please’ she begged, with a harsh guttural sound. ‘Oh, I beg you - please - ‘

  Slowly he withdrew from her, leaving her empty. She groaned out his name as he stood back and smiled at her. ‘Shall I leave you like that, Isobel?’ He seemed calmly unaware of his stiff penis twitching hungrily towards hers. ‘I have a fancy for a little wine …’ And deliberately he turned his back towards her and walked towards the flagon on the table.

  Isobel spat after his retreating figure. ‘Dear God, Aimery! You vile beast! You can’t leave me like this!’ In her extremity she writhed in her chains, trying desper­ately to rub her legs together to stimulate her fevered body. ‘Bastard,’ she moaned to herself. ‘You bastard - I hate you -’

  Aimery, having refreshed his thirst, came sauntering back and swung her round to face him. ‘I thought you, enjoyed being tormented, Isobel,’ he said calmly. ‘It seemed quite an exquisite game to me, to arouse you so and then leave you chained up, so that even your busy little fingers can’t assuage the ache down there.’

  He mockingly rubbed the tip of his powerful penis against her throbbing vulva. She gasped and thrust out

  at him, grasping at the heady sensation. ‘Oh, Aimery. My lord, I beg you, have mercy on me.’

  He smiled that chilling smile that she knew so well, then shrugged, and coldly sheathed himself within her. She came immediately, jumping and bucking in her chains, her face contorted as the shattering explosions of delight ripped through her yearning body. Aimery leaned his hands against the wall above her shoulders and thrust into her with unbelievable strength.

  It took him some time to spend himself within her, and by the time he had finished his breathing was ragged. Isobel, completely sated, let her limp body hang in the shackles and savoured every moment of his wonderful, quivering manhood as he reached his climax deep within her. So, she thought, with an exhausted triumph, even for her masterful Breton lord, the strain of holding on for so long took its toll. She kept very still, wanting him to stay inside her. This was the only time she felt he was really hers.

  At last, without saying anything or even looking at her, he withdrew, and turned to straighten his dis­ordered clothing. Then he released her from the shackles.

  Isobel swayed against him, her silk gown rumpled and torn, her body weak with wonderfully sated desire. ‘If you wish it, Aimery,’ she murmured, ‘I will spend the night with you.’

  He shrugged her off almost impatiently. ‘Not tonight, Isobel. Go and wear yourself out with Hamet if you must. I need some peace.’

  Isobel was frightened at his outright rejection. That Saxon girl had something to do with it, she was sure.

  Pretending not to care that he wanted her to go, she said lightly, ‘I’m surprised, my lord, that you’ve given the little Saxon slut a room up here. She should be bedding down with the serfs in the yard, surely? I thought you wanted to humiliate her - treating her like a lady will hardly do that.’

  Aimery’s mouth tightened. He said, ‘What I do with her is up to me. But I’d remind you that humiliation is all the worse when it is unexpected.’

  Isobel frowned and bit her lip. Was he talking about the girl, or about her, Isobel? Feeling a sudden unease, she turned to go.

  She paused at the door of the Saxon slut’s chamber. To let her sleep, even for one night, in the lord’s private quarters was a grave mistake. Tomorrow, she herself would have to remind the girl that she was nothing but a slave. She was smiling a little at the prospect by the time she reached her own luxurious chamber. She wondered whether to send for the inexhaustible Hamet, just to spite Aimery, but decided against it. Hamet was too faithful to his master, like some big dog. He told Aimery everything.

  Thinking hard, Isobel nibbled at her white finger and in the end sent her servant Alys to fetch Pierre, the young serf from the kitchens. Pierre was strong, willing, handsome enough, and a simpleton. According to the housekeeper, he wasn’t much use for anything, except carrying sacks of grain and turning the iron ;pits in the kitchen. But Isobel had found another use for him. As well as being simple he was also mute, which meant that he’d never tell anybody anything. Desperate for physical satisfaction, she’d summoned him to her room last night in a moment of inspiration. His eager, if clumsy willingness to pleasure her in every way she could think of was a marvellous physical relief, and a vivid if somewhat startling contrast to Aimery’s sophis­ticated refinements.

  By the time he arrived in her chamber, the young man’s eyes were already glazed with anticipated pleasure, and his mouth was slack. Isobel could see the bulge of his excited genitals beneath the thin cloth of his homespun tunic; he rubbed at himself surrep­titiously as she shut the door. Isobel felt a frown crease

  her smooth forehead. Pierre was handsome and mus­cular, but so lacking in any sort of finesse.

  Suddenly repelled at the thought of his clumsy atten­tions, she slapped at his masturbating hand and his face fell.

  ‘Not now, you stupid fool’ she hissed angrily. ‘But listen, you can please me very much, if you do exactly as I say. You know we have some new slaves at the castle?’

  He nodded eagerly.

  ‘Well,’ said Isobel, ‘one of them has already seen you, Pierre, and heard about you, and she is very excited at the thought of meeting you - properly. She can see what a big, fine man you are. And she says - she says, Pierre, that she would like to kiss you. In that very special way. You know?’

  Beads of sweat stood ou
t on Pierre’s downy upper lip. He nodded hard, almost shaking in his excitement.

  Tomorrow’ went on Isobel languidly, ‘I will take you to her. She will kiss you and caress you just as you like it, and I will be there to watch. Oh, she might protest a little at first, because that’s what she enjoys. But you can do what you like with her, I promise you.’ Isobel smiled thoughtfully and touched her own breasts with light fingers. ‘Do you know’ she went on, ‘at the thought of it, I could almost take a fancy to your services after all …’

  The serf’s hungry eyes, brown and faithful like some adoring dog, widened in anticipation. He gazed with open lust at her full, perfect figure. Then Isobel remem­bered Aimery. No. After her lord’s masterful lovemaking, she was deliciously replete. A shame to spoil it with this crude wretch. But all the same, she felt like some entertainment.

  A little smile pulled at her mouth as she started to unfasten her clothes. ‘Alys!’ she called out impatiently.

  She knew that Alys would be outside the door, listening. ‘Keeping watch’ Alys called it, when really

  the maid was just pleasuring herself by listening to the sounds that emerged when her mistress had visitors. Isobel had actually caught her rubbing frantically at herself one night, when she was entertaining Hamet. Poor Alys was small and ugly. She was almost thirty, and no man wanted her because of her badly pocked skin. Isobel took great pleasure in occasionally provid­ing her with what she wanted more than anything.

  As the maidservant hurried into the room, Isobel said in a bored voice, ‘I’m going to bed, Alys. But first I want you to let Pierre pleasure you. Do exactly as he says, will you? And don’t make too much noise.’

  Pierre’s face fell a little as he absorbed what Isobel was saying. But his penis was painfully rampant after hearing what was in store for tomorrow, and at least he would be pleasing his mistress.

  Alys’ ugly face had lit up immediately. Isobel reclined on her fur-covered bed, propped up by feather cush­ions, and watched the little scene with amusement as Pierre turned to the maid and indicated by gesticulation that he wanted to take her animal fashion, on all fours. A good idea, thought Isobel approvingly, then he doesn’t have to watch her face. She sipped with relish at her wine, and made them move around so could see Pierre’s swollen, twitching member and tight balls as he rucked up the woman’s woollen skirt and felt hungrily for her coarse outer lips.

  Isobel reached down and played with herself gently as Pierre thrust his rampant penis between the woman’s buttocks and Alys squealed in ecstasy. Pierre withdrew slowly, and Isobel chuckled softly as the glistening shaft came back into her interested view. Really, it was grotesquely ugly, swollen and purple with a strange, upward curve to it. Not that Alys seemed to mind. Pierre impaled her again, and the two of them worked with desperate enthusiasm towards orgasm, bucking eagerly away like dogs in the courtyard. No finesse,

  sighed Isobel, finding her own engorged clitoris and stroking it tenderly. No style.

  The woman came first, crying and moaning with delight. Then Pierre huffed towards his own climax with long, shuddering strokes that took him some time. Isobel was excited by the strength of him, almost wishing that she’d taken him herself, and she brought herself to a pleasantly satisfying little orgasm as she thought of that hot, desperate length of male flesh within her own quivering vagina.

  Then she ordered them both quickly out of her sight, because she’d had enough. She blew out the candle, and began to think happily of what the next day would bring.

  Alone in his chamber, Aimery le Sabrenn, former pen­niless mercenary and now lord of Thoresfield, sat rest­lessly in his carved oak chair toying with his wine goblet.

  Something was troubling him, and he knew what it was. He wanted the Saxon girl, badly.

  He poured himself some more wine from the flagon, and drank it slowly. A single candle flickered smokily on the wall above his head. He stroked the tight scar on his cheek, which was hurting him more than usual.

  The girl, Elena, filled his mind. He told himself that she was a rebel, no doubt responsible for the death of countless of his comrades in arms - a golden Saxon maid, to be enjoyed and cast aside, like the rest. Since his infatuation with Madelin - Madelin, who’d betrayed his brother - he’d humiliated many of them.

  Madelin had made the mistake of thinking that she still had some power over him, even after she’d betrayed himself and his brother to the Saxon rebels. When Aimery escaped from the rebels and tracked Madelin down at last, she’d pretended to be sorry about it all and actually welcomed him into her vile bed. She’d even cried over his terribly scarred face, because he

  used to be so handsome. Aimery had aroused her to her usual state of greedy lust, and then, when she was panting like a bitch on heat, he left her there, with just his bitter, ringing words of accusation for company. At least she still had her worthless life, though his brother Hugh had not been so lucky. The Saxons had tortured him, and castrated him, so that he was glad to die at last.

  Aimery’s hands tightened round the goblet, remem­bering. After Madelin, he’d fought the rebels so fiercely that even his own men feared him. And ever since that time, he and his mistress Isobel, had made a game of revenge, by selecting suitable young Saxon girls and making them plead for the pleasure he could bring them, before discarding them. Isobel always had plenty of ideas for their games - no doubt she had plans for Elena.

  But, and Aimery frowned, there was something dif­ferent about the convent girl. She might be one of the rebels, but even so he was strangely aware that he’d never encountered such beauty and innocence before. Soon, the innocence would be destroyed - they’d started on that process this evening. Soon she’d be as eager as any of them for sexual pleasure. She’d sidle up to him hopefully, as Isobel did, and when he grew tired of her she’d turn to other men for satisfaction, like the ever-willing Hamet or that young fool Pierre. Isobel thought Aimery didn’t know about Pierre last night, but Aimery had spies everywhere. Since Madelin, he’d trusted no-one.

  Aimery felt a sudden craving to know this girl in her innocence before she was changed for ever. He wanted to explore her sweetness for himself, with no-one else watching. He wanted to kiss those firm, sweet young breasts, and feel her yield to his thrusting manhood with all the passion he guessed she was capable of, until she was trembling at the very brink of ecstasy …

  His mouth twisted mockingly at his fantasy. The little nun had cast a spell on him. All right, so he wanted to try her out. Nothing wrong with that. After all, she was his slave. Afterwards, he promised himself, he and Isobel would begin her training in full.

  Elena had drifted into sleep, but it was a sleep tor­mented by her disturbed dreams. She was back in the bleak little dormitory of the convent; the cold moonlight shone in through the high, narrow window, casting its silvery gleam on the familiar flint walls and flagged floor. Wrapped in her coarse woollen blanket, she felt unbearably, achingly alone.

  Then, still in her dream, someone gently touched her shoulder. She moaned and stirred in her sleep, and saw a wide-shouldered, tall figure standing over her little wooden bed, a man with a harsh face that was cruelly scarred. Aimery le Sabrenn. The shadowy horseman of her dreams. He was standing over her, slowly removing his clothes, and Elena cried out his name in soft disbe­lief. What was he doing here, in the convent? In her dream she felt no fear, only wonder, because she’d never seen anything so beautiful in her life.

  In the smoky candlelight, his naked body was hard and strong, and marked by old sword scars that only accentuated the muscled smoothness of his skin. His hips were lean, his thighs heavily muscled, and his pulsing manhood was jerking upwards from that dark, mysterious cradle of soft curling hair, waiting for her, wanting her. With a soft cry of need, Elena reached out to him, and he was beside her on her small bed, cradling her to him, pushing back her long golden hair and closing her tear-stained eyes with his kisses. His cool, flat palms slid beneath her silk chemise to caress her small breasts; she m
oaned with soft delight and nuzzled against the smooth, muscled wall of his chest, a sweet, undefinable longing tugging painfully at the very pit of her stomach. Her dream had never been so clear, so sweet before. She never wanted to wake.

  ‘Slowly, car an,’ his voice came cool in her ear. ‘We have all night remember? And you have so much to learn, little Elena, before the dawn …’

  ‘Caran,’ she repeated wonderingly. ‘Please - what does it mean?’

  He smiled softly, playing with her hair. ‘In my own language, the language of Brittainy, it means beloved one.’

  Elena gazed wordlessly up at him, her eyes soft with desire. She reached out to touch the cruel scar that split his cheek, and felt the tense ridge of white skin against the tip of her finger.

  The feel of it brought her to her senses. That face. That scar. That voice. Dear God, this was no dream.

  With a cry of alarm, Elena wrenched herself back into reality. She was not in the convent, but in Aimery le Sabrenn’s castle! And she was in the Breton’s naked arms …

  ‘No!’ she cried out. ‘No!’

  But it was too late. Already, she was his prisoner. His hands continued their gentle stimulation, and he was still smiling at her. Her heart turned over. Heaven help her, but she wanted to be here like this! He had impris­oned her with some dark, potent magic, and she couldn’t have torn herself away, even if she’d wanted to.

  His erect manhood stirred heavily against her soft belly, sending strange, liquid sensations flooding through her helpless body. She let out a little, quivering moan and arched against him so that she could feel the rasping hardness of his long, muscular thighs against her own trembling legs. To lie in his arms, like this, to breathe in the warm masculine scent of him, was indescribable bliss. With a little shock, she realised that this was what she had always longed for, in her wistful daydreamings at the convent.

  ‘You want me?’ he whispered softly, his tongue flicking her earlobe, his hands slipping her chemise