by Louisa Trent
His tongue darted inside. A quick foray, lest she gainsay him.
No demure. If anything, Aeschine's body hummed. She opened to him like a flower, her legs going wider, fully acquiescent.
His tongue plunged in and out. Delicious!
Fervently, feverishly, his palms roaming her belly, squeezing breasts and belly and buttocks, he ate between her legs. Impossible to get enough!
Never had he dared to do such things before. Never had he dreamed of such delight. His face was scarred. He was big. Intimidating. He was no romantic knight ladies swooned over—save in fear. No woman had ever allowed him this kind of freedom on the furs. Nor had he ever asked. Aeschine not only let him, she urged him on to greater liberties with her needful cries.
Their bargain. That reason alone explained why she let him. She certainly had no wish for him to do this, as a woman in love might wish her lover to orally mate her. No love bond held them.
Her thighs quivered. “Oh, aye,” she chanted, her head thrashing on the furs. “Oh, aye, aye, aye."
Quickly now, before it happened, before she came under his mouth, he undid his loincloth and positioned himself, his cock pointed at her hot, wet opening.
He pushed into the slit.
She moaned. Deep in her throat.
Pleasure? Or pain?
A little of both, he decided, moving in and out, but with incomplete, shallow, strokes.
And then she was sobbing. Crying. Screaming. Coming, as she writhed and called out to him. “Captor!"
In the heat of copulation, the appellation sounded cold to his ears. Absurd to feel that way. Absurd to long to hear her utter his name in passion. For verily, what else would she call him? He had deliberately withheld his name from her.
He acquitted himself of guilt over this intentional oversight; whores seldom learn the names of the customers they service. Aeschine was undoubtedly promiscuous, undoubtedly a whore. His whore now, as she had been LaTourne's whore before him. He would give her his name when knowing it became essential, not any sooner.
Sage followed Aeschine into climax, silently and oddly disappointed.
CHAPTER TEN
In her dream, crimson puddles seeped into the ground. Her blood. A pack of wild animals had ripped her apart.
“Nay!” she screamed, mindless of everything save that disjointed death scene. “Help me, Captor! Do not let them have me! I beg of you."
A hand reached for her.
She shook off those hard fingers, fighting the comfort they offered.
Her rejection did not drive the hand away; the comforting fingers continued to stroke her face.
“Hush. ‘Tis a dream. Only a bad dream."
The captor! That was his quiet voice, reassuring her. Strange, that he should be her source of comfort.
“How would you know?” she asked him sullenly.
“I know."
She believed him. She believed he did understand about night torments. And rather than fight those fingers any longer, she turned towards them, towards the reassuring caress in the middle of horror.
Her eyes flickered open. “When will I be loved?” she asked, groggy with sleep, aswamp with panic. “All my life I have tried to be worthy of affection and I have always failed. What am I doing wrong? Why do you withdraw from me? Am I so hideous, so very ugly, that staying close to me, that sleeping with me, is distasteful?"
She tossed her head against the furs. “Well, fine! I do not need you!"
“You called out to me in your sleep. You screamed, ‘Captor!’ It sounded like need to me."
“And you came,” she said in wonder at the realization.
“Several times as I recall,” he said dryly. “What man would not answer the call of such a temptress?"
When she said nothing, he rose from the furs, and walked away.
Holding the fur to her chest, she scrambled to a sit. “Where do you go?"
“Not far. Only to light the far torch. There is no reason to fear the dark..."
She grinned. “I think you have cured me of my childhood terror. I no longer believe dragons and witches lurk in the night shadows."
Torch lit, he returned to her. Squatting beside her, he began to play with a strand of her hair. “Good, because evil is done more often in sunlight than in moonlight."
She nodded at the wisdom of his words. “And evil may be slain, just as night dragons may be slain."
“I once thought so,” he countered.
“I know so! Love will slay the most ferocious beast."
“Believe what you will; I believe in naught."
“You are a warlord! Surely you believe in vows of allegiance?"
Her captor's ruined lips went tight. “Vows are the least of what ties two people together."
“Vows are holy!” she exclaimed, aghast. “Inviolate. Wedding vows, in particular, are sacred."
“Mating accomplishes ownership more efficiently than any words mumbled in haste before a cleric.” He pulled her from her seated position to her knees.
His hand now rested on her back. So warm there. So shockingly warm above the beginning swell of her buttocks, which the furs had left partially bare. “Captor,” she began earnestly, for she really did wish to know, “is there not more to mating than the ins and outs?"
He chuckled. “I think we accomplished the ‘ins and outs’ very nicely."
“Poetry and kisses.” She sighed. “Caresses and oaths of undying devotion. Are those not also a part of lovemaking?"
He laughed. “You are young."
She said petulantly, “I should like a kiss, Captor!"
His gaze sank to the juncture of her legs, to the region the fur left uncovered. “I kissed you."
“Not there!” Her face burned. “Did you not kiss ladies before you took up celibacy? On the mouth,” she added as a qualifier.
“That is a most personal question."
Apart from the fur she held to her front, she was naked. Had been naked since the wolf attack. She had never before gone this long without garb. Even bathing had always been a brief, hurried affair. Tonight after mating, the warlord had parted her legs as though privacy was a concept he knew naught about. He had explored her insides like an adventurer looking for new lands to conquer. He had done the most intimate things to her with infuriating nonchalance and he dared to call her question personal!
“I see,” she said forlornly. “You have kissed other ladies on the mouth. You simply do not care to give those types of kisses to me."
“Why so glum? I gave you my cock, did I not?"
She glared at him.
He hooted at her vexation. “Please to remember that accusatory looks bounce off me like goose feathers off chain mail."
He covered her bare bottom with a warm palm. “You raised no objections to what we did on the furs."
That was not what she meant! She had wished to lose her virginity to her captor. Even with the pain—and a very definite sting did come with the ecstasy—she was hungry to mate with him again. It was only that she would have his kisses too. Was that too much to ask?
Aeschine sighed once more. Evidently it was too much to ask. At least it was in the here and now.
Sage felt no love for her. But mayhap if she satisfied his lust, he might come to feel the start of affection. With that affection, the kisses would certainly follow.
The road to love is long, she thought philosophically. And ‘twas not without its share of obstacles. The Captor's woeful reticence was the highest. But jump that hurdle she must...
With the future in mind, she pushed her bare bottom out for him as she had oft seen receptive animals do as a preliminary to mating. “I would make you happy, Captor."
“Again? So soon?” His voice was cool and dry, she noticed, but the hand kneading her slightly raised buttocks was hot and sweaty. Say what he would, the Captor was not unaffected. He desired her. Again.
She smiled. This was all going rather nicely. Though, she did have a pesky question that need
ed an answer. “What you did ... what you put inside me ... is that how a bairn is conceived?"
“Surely, you know how a woman gets with child."
A blunder! Obviously, an experienced leman would have this sort of information at her disposal!
To cover her mistake, she said, “One may write a missive without ever fully understanding how parchment is made. My mother is long dead, Captor. Who would tell me?"
Her captor's dark eyes lifted to the cave's ceiling. “This is not how I thought to pass the eve."
“So sorry to inconvenience you.” As a stab at meekness, she thought it a huge success.
“You have no idea how inconvenient you are to me!” He laughed without mirth. “Aye, I seeded you all right. What I put inside you, my cum, will make a babe if the time of the moon is right. Now hold still. Let me see what I am about here.” He drew a finger along the crevice between her buttocks. Not deep, just obviously there.
She started to straighten. This approach differed than the previous ones...
“Stay,” he said, sternly, using the same inflection on her as he used on his steed.
She held herself steady as a hard finger slid up and down the demarcation between her bottom cheeks.
“A female may avoid conception if she is breached between the buttocks or if a man makes use of her mouth..."
“That is sodomy, and ‘tis forbidden by the Church,” she said primly. “Interference with conception, such as unnatural intercourse, is a heinous sin.” That much she did know!
“Surely, puss, you have done what is forbidden?"
Caught again. “I have never sought to purposefully impede the creation of new life,” she said, trying to worm her way around the trap. “But sometimes, in the heat of the moment, one becomes carried away and one forgets specific Church doctrine. There is no sin in forgetfulness; there is only sin if ... if certain things are planned in advance."
“How very convenient is your faith."
“I am a God-fearing Christian! I cannot be blamed for an erratic memory."
“Let us hope you have many such memory lapses in the future."
Aeschine had a sneaky suspicion this portended to be one of them, because when the captor said, “You will need to drop your hold on that fur,” her memory flew away.
Her memory returned when he added the word, “Now!"
The insufferable lout! He would need to drop his arrogance first! His high-handedness was one of those obstacles in the road to love.
“I would have a kiss first,” she said, setting him straight.
“Do you still think to bargain?"
Bargain? When she had so little to trade? Only herself, and that was a worthless commodity. If she had worth, the captor would give her kisses without her having to ask.
“Nay,” she answered, insecurity returning. How had she ever thought that she might have any real value to him? “I do not bargain."
He rose to his feet. “Oh, but you are bargaining, even now, and it must stop."
Turning on his heel, he walked away from her.
Aeschine called after him. “Captor! Do not go. Please?"
“The fur,” he said sternly.
She longed for her captor's touch; she did not want him to leave!
Defeated by her feelings, she lowered the covering to the ground.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Sage swiveled, his gaze riveted to his captive's dainty breasts. They bobbed as though an unseen lover's hand plucked at them.
His sights drifted lower, to her pelvis. Her mons tilted as though meeting that same unseen lover's thrust.
This was no erotic pantomime his captive was performing; she was trying to gain her feet.
While he watched from a small distance, Aeschine strained against the leather tether, the long tendons in her thighs tightening with the exertion. She fought the shortened restraint like a magnificent wild animal, her glorious hair whipping about her wide shoulders in her frenzy to be free.
He walked back to her. Stood before her. Looked down upon her head, which she had bent in a sorrowful pose, her eyes cast to the ground.
He would have liked to keen her lack of freedom. To mourn it, as he had witnessed proud warriors mourn their losses at the wailing wall of Jerusalem, but the ability to cry for himself or for anyone else had long since left him.
“Shh. Quit your struggling.” He laid a hand on her wide shoulder, one soldier to another. “The tether has wrapped itself around the stake. This is the reason you are unable to rise."
To restore her mobility, he loosened the tangle of leather from around the stake.
“There,” he said. “Now you may stand and walk inside the cave as far as the tether allows."
He picked up her pointed chin. “The restraint is for your own good, Aeschine. You must learn to obey me."
She looked up at him from under her thick lashes. “Please do not leave me. I vow to do everything you say as long as you do not leave me. See? I have placed the fur aside."
He thumbed a silvery teardrop as it rolled down her lovely cheek. Brushed his knuckles over her stubborn jaw. Smoothed her wild mane back over her shoulders so that he might better see her bared body.
She immediately crossed her arms in the classic pose of Eve in the Garden, covering her breasts and genitals.
Solemnly, he took her arms down and arranged them carefully behind her back, above the beginning swell of her buttocks. “I will tether your wrists too if you try to hide your body. You may not keep secrets from me."
“How would I ever scratch my nose with my hands behind my back?"
“I shall scratch it for you.” He did just that. “I shall see to all your needs."
Her shoulders rounded. “I have a need now. Please sleep with me on the furs. The nightmares frighten me so..."
“Talk to me of your pets, about your sheep. Conversation will keep your night terrors away."
“I have already told you, sheep are not my pets.” Her nose went up in the air, out of joint. “Sheep are my occupation. I plan to breed a superior animal someday."
“Tell me more."
He dropped to his knees behind her and began to massage the kinks out of her muscles. As she spoke of a subject near and dear to her heart, her voice grew animated.
“I have heard tell that in Cheviot Hills there is a smallish sort of sheep which graze on the grassy hillsides. They have clean legs and no fleece upon their faces. Also, their ears are upright."
In her excitement, her breaths came faster, and her small breasts rapidly lifted and fell. “These miniature sheep have longer wool with an excellent crimp, the kind spinners prefer. And they have extraordinary flocking instincts. In fact, acquiring them in pairs is preferred."
He kneaded the tautness from her arms in long, smooth strokes. “They are lonely, eh? Like people?"
“Aye, but unlike most people, these sheep have sweet dispositions. Active and alert, yet mild-mannered. The ewes have excellent mothering abilities. They not only rarely abandon their offspring, they actually keep track of their lambs, which would make shepherding easier. Also, the rams are not aggressive. And here is the best part: the lambs are hardy. They romp around right after birth. And because they are small and have smaller appetites, they will not overgraze the hillsides. Less area is needed for them both in the barn and in the pastureland!"
Sage listened to Aeschine with an interest that surprised him. The lass did greatly entertain him. During those cold winter nights at his keep, she would make him a stimulating companion as well as an enthusiastic bedmate.
Her tone sparkled. “I have done nothing but think about owning a flock of these tiny sheep since learning you would take me to your keep. They give me a measure of hope for the future. Oh,” she whispered demurely, looking over her shoulder at him. “Please forgive me. That did not sound very gracious, did it?"
He shrugged. “I prefer honesty to manners. You are a woman of many passions. Never apologize for them."
“Listen
to me rambling on! My chattering must fair put you to sleep."
“I wish."
“Pardon?"
“On the contrary, my dear. Your excitement is contagious. Now I too would see those little white beasties dotting the green hills outside my motte-and-bailey.” Reaching around to her front, he drew circles around her jutting breasts, confining his attentions to the periphery of the areole.
She shivered. “Oh..."
Her nipples elongated. The tips distended to points.
He pinched one, a gentle squeeze between thumb and forefinger. “Are these tender?"
“They feel ... heavy. Achy too."
“Suckling them will lessen the ache. Do you enjoy having a man suck your breasts?"
Without waiting for an answer, he turned her to face him. Slanting his jaw, he tugged the small treasure between his lips.
“Oh-oh-oh-” She bounced on her knees. “I ... If you would only see your way to letting me try my hand at raising a few of those sheep, I would never ask anything of you again."
Still bargaining...
As she pleaded her cause, a molten wave of longing hit him. He was drowning in Aeschine: her scent, her hair, her sparkling eyes, her spirited ways. He was going under for the third time and he had no wish to kick his way to the surface.
Duty propelled him upwards.
Reluctantly, he let go of her nipple. The tip popped from his mouth, wet and glistening and very, very red...
He took a bracing breath. He had almost given her his teeth. Had almost scraped her silky skin. Had almost bitten into her soft flesh. His need to mark her as his, to brand her in some way, took on a life of its own.
This intemperance must stop!
Was it too late to stop?
Nay, it was not. He was still in control. Still in charge of the situation. He was not seduced. He was not obsessed. He was not drowning.
Like hell. He was sinking fast.
The sheep. The sons. The rolling green hills. Her dreams for the future. She made it all seem so real. But Aeschine was not his wife; she was his possession, a prisoner he was forced to judge. There would be no sheep. There would be no cold winter nights spent drinking ale in front of a roaring fire. His keep was a mud and timber hovel, fit only for animals.