Everybody Loves A Bard (Raxillene's Rogues Book 1)

by Max Keith

  “Later, if you like, you may lick my cunt.” She delved deeper, her spit everywhere, dripping onto the duvet. “I’m busy just now. Oh shit,” she finished, the exclamation torn from her as his questing fingers at last found the correct hole; he disposed quickly of her outer lips, then slipped by feel past her inner, and searched straight up toward her belly until she stiffened over him, her hands crazy around his shaft; he’d found her clit.

  Another minute, he knew, and he’d be fine. But it was so difficult; his dick was throbbing, urging him to give in and just let his load fountain high up in the air. He distracted himself by digging more insistently into Tallora’s cunt, now with two fingers as she bobbed her entire body up and down over his cock. In desperation, he pushed another finger deep into the warm dryness of her ass, and that seemed to do it.

  With a fierce snarl the woman sprang up and around, like a spider over her kill as she tore her body from his grasp and pushed her face toward his. “Impressive, Harlin,” she grated, “but your hostess wishes to fuck you now.” She reached down to feel herself, but there was scant need; her pussy was drooling all over the bed. She swung a vigorous leg across his slender body, every part of her ripe and rich and ready for sex, and then she moved her belly low as she swept herself back to catch cock in cunt, sinking down onto him with a growl of triumph, savoring his gasp as he felt her settle onto him.

  And then it was just like his dream, the one from the day he’d followed the priest so breathlessly through the streets of Crownport: her breasts high and tight, her legs driving herself up and down with a pendulous rhythm that could last for a week as he watched his dick, purpled and angry, disappear inside the flaming red lips of her pussy. The lewd sound of their slapping flesh filled the room, and no doubt the entire house.

  He recovered quickly, the sight of her splendid body urging him to arch his own body to drive his cock further and further into that hot, eager twat of hers, and for several minutes the two of them were just two urgent humans in the frenzied need to couple, to please each other, with fluids of every description flying everywhere. Twice his hands grappled for her already-mauled tits, and twice she slapped them back down; she seemed to prefer them around her hips, clutching at the solid cheeks of her ass. “Give me more,” she spat, the blue eyes keen and cold, and with sudden energy he sat up, bucking her off to sprawl across the narrow mattress.

  “On your knees, Tallora,” he ordered hoarsely, and she complied with a coo of delight, mopping her sweaty face on the duvet as she threw her ass high into the air and waited for his cock. She looked back, proud and fierce.

  “Come, then.” She moved her body like a dancer, mesmerizing him. “Perform for me, servant.” His target was red and weepy between the golden flesh of her thighs, every muscle taut as she arched her back impossibly deep. He reveled in the raw sight, pausing to take it all in, knowing it could never again be so purely, lushly carnal, and then he was leaning forward to lock himself into her again, the two of them twisting and heaving and snarling like a pair of badgers fighting over a scrap of meat.

  So luscious was her body that even from above, from behind, he could watch the mad swaying of the sides of her breasts when he fucked her, the muscles rippling along her lower back as her ass shuddered with the impact of his thighs. He gripped her hard and spared her no mercy, his teeth gritted as he buried himself deep into her. “Tallora… must I cum on your back?”

  She swung her head around, glaring up at him. “You’ll put your seed inside me, where it belongs,” she hissed. “I’m woman enough to take it.”

  With a roar, then, Cashel put his head down and drove desperately for a final sprint. Tallora’s fingers were very busy below, plying her clit, her gasps and moans pushing her squirming body toward orgasm, but Cashel could wait no longer; he sank deep, deep into her slickened hole and let go at last, feeling the surge as his cock sprayed its load into her willing body, crying out his pleasure as he gripped savagely at her hips and pulled her all the way onto him, feeling the cum as it overflowed the inside of her cunt.

  “Fuck,” Tallora grunted, her fingers flying, and then it was her turn: she tightened her walls impossibly around his spurting shaft, and even if he’d wanted to escape her there was no way he could have done.

  With desperately delicious laziness, the two of them settled hard against each other, somehow navigating back to the pillows, where they lay nestled among the crumpled, moistened duvet. Cashel found himself kissing at the salty hollow behind Tallora’s collarbone, and she purred as her hands stroked his thighs, his hips, his ribs, tracing long and slow over whatever they could reach. And so, as the candle died, they fell asleep.

  Four

  When they both woke, suddenly, the room was dark and cold; only then did they worm their way underneath the piled sheets and blankets, their chilled bodies soon enough finding warmth and comfort of another kind.

  And it was after that second time, a slower and more passionate, less urgent coupling, as the woman leaked his seed slowly out of her overfilled pussy, that Cashel held Tallora in his arms and began to do his job, his overheated mind at last returning to its duty. He asked her many questions, always lightly and curiously, about trading, and about Tighe, and about where she got such fine fabrics.

  “And yourself, Master Harlin?” Tallora turned slightly to give him another quick kiss. “I’ve spoken of myself for nigh on an hour now. Shall I find out now what sort of man I’ve hired to harp for me?”

  “As you wish, m’lady.” They both chuckled.

  “You’ve traveled all up and down the Realm, I expect,” she began softly.

  “A bit into the Empire, too.” No harm in admitting that; bards went everywhere. “From the Southern Rump all the way up to Lammorel,” he nodded, his thumb playing softly with a quivering nipple. “Near fifteen years.”

  “A long time to be alone,” she mused, her hand resting lazy on his slimed, softened cock. “And no woman in all that time?”

  He thought of Sasha, in the Fleens so long ago, and just as promptly stopped thinking of her. “I wouldn’t say that.” He teased her with a finger across her inner lips. “I think you’d agree I must have known one or two women in that time.”

  “Mmm.” She shifted, their bodies stuck together. “Indeed. But nobody special?”

  “Nobody special.”

  She cupped his balls. “And no other friends, Harlin? How does a man keep himself sane without companions?”

  He wondered at her interest. “I never said I had no friends,” he murmured. “Some come, some go. And I’ve got a great many people I’ve met, playing in towns and castles and even huts.” He leaned down and smelled her hair. “I do all right.” He sent his arms around to hold her delicious body, unable to get enough of her. He felt her sweat coating his arms.

  “You do.” She shifted again, her back turned, and nestled her buttocks hard against his cock. Her voice sounded sleepy. “You play well, and you fuck well, and you’re well-spoken also. I’d like to be your friend.”

  Impossibly, he felt his dick twitch yet again. She felt it too, and giggled. “I’d like that too.”

  “I’d be the sort of friend,” she went on, “who can help you. I like to hear things, things that people say.” He hesitated; was she trying to make him spy for her? Poildrin Franx would be ecstatic. “And as you know I’ve got money.” She brought his hands up and kissed them. “Would you like that? Wandering about, finding things out, taking my money, and sharing my bed when you returned?”

  “I’d settle for just the last part,” he admitted. Yes, definitely he was getting another erection. He started to wonder how he’d like to fuck her this time; she’d been wonderfully flexible so far.

  She laughed low, a very womanly sound. “You’d get sick of me,” she predicted. “I know men like you. You’re never, ever satisfied with just one pussy. You need to stick yourseles into every wench you find.” She moved against him, his cock digging into the crack of her ass. “But that’s not wha
t I see in you. I see a useful man.” She kept her voice light, casual. “Ever worked for a woman before?” He froze, then relaxed; he hoped she hadn't noticed. “A wealthy woman, youngish and lovely, like me?”

  “I told you,” he replied, troubled as he kissed the back of her neck. “I’ve played for many kinds of people.”

  “’Towns and castles and even huts,’” she repeated softly. She had a firm grip on both his hands now, clasping them hard within her cleavage. “Towers, Harlin?” He did not miss the emphasis on his name, and now he was beginning to really worry. Princess Raxillene lived in a tower, down in the Borderlands. “Perhaps towers in the south, not far from Forwin?”

  He forced himself to keep his voice as light as hers. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “I hear tell, from correspondents of mine,” she went on, “of a bard who lives in a tower to the south. He roams about and does odd jobs for a powerful woman, even more powerful than I.” He felt the urge to gain space, but now she held his hands securely. He lifted his head slightly to see that the knives he’d left on the bedside table were not there anymore. “It’s plainly not you,” she continued, still casual, her legs twined gently but firmly around his. “The bard I hear of, you see, has friends.”

  “Seems a lucky fellow.” His mind darted wildly around. Cashel had no doubt he was about to be captured, perhaps even killed. He thought he might just be able to smash the window beside the bed and make a falling leap for the side yard, but it was walled. Not to mention, he was naked; the chances of him getting through the thick glass were small, but even if he did he’d be sliced to ribbons. He could always try taking Wennowes hostage, trading her for his own escape, but without a weapon he feared that would be impossible. “Nice to have friends.” He knew he sounded bitter, and knew she could hear it.

  “Indeed. I’m told he’s got a mage, and a warrior or two, one of those odd Free People from Lammorel? Never been there myself, but I might have met one…” She tightened her legs around his. “I’m even told,” she added at last, and with an unmistakable gloating sound in her voice, “that he was seen in this area. Indeed, in this very town!”

  “Huh.” He tensed slightly, testing her grip, but she was a strong woman. “I should perhaps ask after him. We could form a band.”

  “You’d need a drummer,” Wennowes agreed pleasantly. “Your name, Harlin?” He went still, and felt her hair move as she nodded. “Indeed. We’re ready for you now, Brasher.”

  Her voice had risen no higher than it had at any other point during the night; indeed, there’d been moments when she’d been quite a bit louder. But the warrior had clearly been waiting in the corridor just outside, for the door opened to his casual kick. The big man strode in, a lantern in one hand and one of Cashel’s little knives in the other. “M’lady needs something?” he asked, and his voice was the snarl of a wolf. He stared at Cashel like an executioner, and his heart lurched. He heard the Lady give a casual yawn.

  “My friend here wishes to change bedchambers,” she drawled. “I think that room in the basement would be acceptable. Can you see to it, Brasher?”

  “As m’lady wishes.” He stepped right beside the bed, then waited patiently. “Oh, and it’s the oddest thing. I found this blade today; no idea whose it is.”

  “Strange. Gitsey must have been slack in her cleaning lately.” Wennowes at last released her hands and legs, then unstuck herself from Cashel. He felt suddenly quite cold. “Oh, my robe is beside the door, Brasher; I wonder if you’d be a dear and hand it to me?”

  “Of course.” In that moment, Cashel knew escape would be impossible. The lantern swung as the great man stepped toward the door, revealing a the glint of another blade out in the corridor; Niko Spavige waited there, grinning tightly at Cashel’s nakedness. Behind him Cashel caught the big twinkling eyes of slinky little Gitsey. None of them seemed even remotely put out by the state of their mistress; he wondered whether she did this sort of thing often.

  “Yes,” she said as she swung her legs to the floor, “I can see I’ll need to get Gitsey in here tomorrow.” She reached beneath herself and produced an owl feather Cashel had missed during his frantic cleaning. “I’ve done some kinky things over the years,” she observed, “but I’ll admit this is the first time I’ve found a feather stuck in my ass.” He closed his eyes; it was over, of course. How stupid he’d been. Twisting upward like a mongoose, Wennowes got fluidly to her feet, her body still so magnificent in the lantern light, and calmly shrugged into her robe.

  “Will m’lady be needing anything else from this thing?” Brasher nodded toward Cashel like a man nods at a loaf of bread he aims to buy.

  “Certainly not, but thank you for asking.” She did not bother tying the robe closed. “I’ve gotten what I need from him,” she told Brasher with scorn; she did not even look back at him. “Gitsey and I are through playing with him. You and Spavige can play with him now if you wish, and then I’ll give that Aslo Farrick and his skinny bitch their fun before dinner tomorrow.” She laughed mirthlessly, scratching absently at her well used cunt. “I doubt, Master Bard, that you’ll enjoy her ball-play as much as mine. Oh, and who knows? Maybe I’ll even give Old Jespa a turn.” She was still chuckling as she minced down the corridor, and even now Cashel could not help but admire the sway of that golden, sinuous body. His heart sank.

  He hoped that fucking owl hadn’t been idle.

  * * *

  There was an old room in the corner of the cellar, hard by the front of the house; a carriage on the street outside made the place tremble as it passed. It seemed to have been intended as cold storage, but the mold on the walls said it hadn’t been used in some years. It was reached by a wooden door of double thickness, and the only other opening was a small high window, not on the street side, which had been boarded up anyway. A stout ring had been newly screwed into the stone walls, then a rope attached. And it was to this chamber that Brasher and Spavige took Cashel to play.

  After awhile Gitsey arrived, pulling a small barrel into the room by the door and sitting quietly down. Her smile was less radiant than it had been by the bath, and Cashel wondered why she was here; by the time arrived, he was already bruised and streaked with bloody sweat, and Brasher had just begun carving his name into the bard’s left breast. He and Spavige looked over at the girl with guarded, downcast eyes; even through the pain, it seemed an odd reaction.

  She wore a housecoat that reached to mid-thigh and leaned back against the smeared wall, unexpectedly lighting a small but nicely carved pipe. She looked at Wennowes’ two men. “Oh, don’t stop on my account,” she chuckled quietly. “I’m just having trouble sleeping.”

  “Whatever,” Brasher grunted, but instead of continuing with his artistic work, he just stood there with his nail-knife. Cashel took the opportunity to vomit; tied up as he was, with his wiry arms above his head, the mess just dribbled down his chest to splatter on the floor in the noisome puddle where his toes barely touched the packed earth floor. In the corner, Gitsey sighed in mock despair.

  “Seems I wasted my time washing your cock,” she tittered. Indeed, it was in disgraceful condition. Since last she’d seen it, the poor thing had been dragged in and out of Lady Wennowes a few score times, then kicked around a bit by the pointy shoes of Niko Spavige before dripping now with blood and puke from the battered body above it. Brasher grunted with a snort of laughter.

  “She was talking about having you clean him up again tomorrow,” the big warrior growled, wrinkling his nose at the smell. “Wash him down, maybe pluck out his ball-hairs.” He snorted again, then spat in Cashel’s face. He was too far gone to care very much. “I’m sure he’ll be dead before dinnertime, though. That little bitch from Lammorel, her that looks like a lad, will slice him right up. That’s if the fucking Kingsmage doesn’t do for him first.”

  Gitsey grimaced. She got to her feet and crossed to where the bard dangled, then shook her head sadly. “He was a nice guy yesterday. But if I’m to pluck out his ball-hairs
, well, then pluck I shall. I’m nothing if not obedient.” The smile on her face went strange and hard as, looking into his beaten eyes, she yanked hard at his pubes, then laughed playfully as he screamed.

  The day would be a long and painful one.

  * * *

  Lady Wennowes dressed with care the next afternoon, always feeling an obscure need to look her best whenever the priest appeared. Of course, she did realize he was no priest; still, she’d had a very religious father, and old habits died hard.

  Gods, but the soreness between her legs was delicious. It had been awhile since she’d been so competently fucked; a pity, really, that the bard was also… what? A spy? A free lance? A hired killer? Well, something important anyway; Spavige hadn’t been able to find it out, but she was certain the priest would. He had come from the Empire with a certain reputation in that area. She frowned as she looked into the mirror and tried to remember what she could of those fucking Free Assholes from Lammorel; something to do with balls. She shuddered; they’d been nice balls.

  The bard would surely die, and painfully; there was nothing to stop it now. It was the world she’d chosen to live in once she’d taken the Emperor’s dirty coins. She sighed; apart from those fine balls and the sturdy shaft in between, he’d been a very decent harper as well. She’d need to find a new player before the Traders’ Guild fete next week, but she supposed it was a lucky thing that dear old Ledley Tighe had recognized him as the beggar who’d chased the priest. Who knew what the fellow might have gotten up to if they hadn’t figured him out.

  “The priest’s boy has arrived, m’lady.” It was Spavige, long since back up from the basement; he and Brasher had grown bored with their toy around breakfast time, though she’d heard Gitsey go down a few times since. She hadn’t realized the girl was such a bloodthirsty little tart, but of course she could do nothing about it at all. “Priest will be here in five minutes.”