by Georgia Fox
"Aha! Been asking about me, have you?" He grinned.
"It was not necessary to ask. Your reputation preceded you."
"A word of advice, my lady...believe everything you hear. And more besides. Even worse and wicked things." He winked.
Scornful, she looked away again.
The Baron sighed. "A witch, d'Anzeray, mark my words. Never wed a witch or you'll be stuck, afeared to be rid of her for what spells she might conjure in retaliation."
"Don't they burn witches?" Alonso muttered gruffly, sliding another sly glance at her.
"Not when they are daughters of the Duc de Bressange," came the bitter retort.
He curbed the urge to laugh. "I will certainly pay heed to your advice and never marry a witch."
"Never marry at all. Stay free and unfettered. Spread your seed where you may."
Alonso held out his cup for more wine from the serving wench. "Well, I am already married, Baron Louvet. Perhaps you've heard."
Again the Lady Isobel's interest was piqued. In his peripheral vision he saw her pause with her fingers in the water bowl.
"I have two wives," he reminded the Baron. "I share with my brothers."
The lady's lips parted in a crisp, haughty sigh, and she flicked her fingers rapidly in the petal-scented water.
"Ah, yes," the Baron exclaimed. "Two wives. You young men must be gluttons for punishment."
"We haven't finished yet."
"But tell me, d'Anzeray...these wives..." The older man blinked, tried resting his chin on his knuckles and almost punched himself in the jaw instead. "They do not mind the sharing? They do not sulk and whine?"
"Why would they? They have seven husbands to protect them and fulfill their every need. They have no cause to complain. Believe me, they are kept well content."
Louvet considered this for a while, his wine-soaked mind struggling over the concept of keeping a multitude of wives. Finally he said, "I wish you well of it, but this venture of collecting brides sounds like a great deal of work to me. One wife has nearly put me in my grave as it is."
Alonso caught the sliver of a wry smile bending the Lady Isobel's lips, but she hid it hastily in her wine. Louvet was too drunk to notice, but he was not. Alonso would never tolerate a disrespectful woman. Too many times had he witnessed this woman's prideful manner and the contempt for her husband, which she took no pains to hide. Clearly she'd been permitted too much rein. Superstitious, ignorant Louvet was afraid to reprimand her because of this foolish belief of witchcraft. A belief she apparently kept alive and flourishing, never even trying to deny it.
"You find your husband's ailments amusing, madam?" he asked, irritated by her smug face.
"No," came the steady reply. "Just your shameless boasting."
Oh, that pricked his temper further, but she was not yet done.
"It seems you choose women who are easily pleased if they can be kept content with the little bit of your attention that can be spared away from yourself and your own wondrous deeds."
"When I am with a woman I give her all of my attention, Lady Isobel," he replied, terse.
She rolled her eyes. "How lucky for her."
Alonso was incensed. She might have got away with this behavior in the past, but she would not do so in his presence. "Lucky for you, my lady, that you are not one of my wenches."
To that she had no answer, but if he was not mistaken her cheeks had flushed.
"Be wary, d'Anzeray," the Baron mumbled, "or she might make a doll of you too."
He smirked. "I suppose she has the time on her hands to waste. I prefer real playmates."
Pity she was another man's wife, he mused. He might have enjoyed awakening Lady Isobel to pleasures beyond her sheltered experience and teaching her that there were other ways to keep a man under her spell than pretending to seal his soul in a pin cushion.
Chapter Two
It was late, and she should have been abed, sleeping, but Isobel was restless. Gentle rain had begun to fall again, but it was too light, too soft, more of a mist than separate drops. She waited for the hard, thrusting downpour that must surely come soon and had been hinted at all day in the clouds. There were no stars that night and perhaps this added to her sense of being smothered by the waiting dark. The usual wide expanse of sky, peppered with gleaming stars, was not visible tonight. All was still, silent, heavy with portent.
Until a sudden rap at her door broke through the quiet night and stopped her agitated pacing. Jeanne rose up from her bench at the foot of the bed, took a candle, and went to the door. As soon as it creaked open she heard the Baron's slurred voice.
"I would see my wife alone, woman. Wait outside."
Jeanne curtseyed and left, closing the door quietly behind her.
It was not the first time he'd come to her chamber, of course, but she certainly had not expected him to try tonight when he was plainly beyond the last threads of soberness. Perhaps that was why he came, she thought grimly—he was too drunk to know the futility.
The Baron stumbled forward into the glow of light from the candles by her bed."You are still awake and up? 'Tis late."
"I could not sleep tonight."
He sighed, falling to the end of the high bed. "Nor could I."
Isobel offered him water from the jug by the washstand, but he shook his head. "I have given our matter great thought," he muttered, rubbing his beard with one hand as he stared at the floorboards.
"Our matter, my lord?"
"The child, of course," he grunted. "The child you must bear me. I need a son and heir, woman. 'Tis why you are here and if you cannot manage it I might as well send you to a convent."
She folded her hands together and looked at the shrunken man slumped at the foot of her bed. They both knew it was not witchcraft that kept him from consummating the marriage and breaching her maidenhead. He accused her of that merely to save his own pride. The truth was that Louvet could not achieve an erection, but that would be a truth intolerable for him to admit, even to himself. He perpetrated lurid stories of lusty encounters with other women of the castellany, but Isobel was certain they were all false. If they were true tales he would have fathered bastards by now, to prove his seed capable, but he had no offspring.
"I cannot fathom it," he would say angrily, "I rodgered maids two at a time in my day. Now you have rendered my seed-bags empty and my snake limp."
Snake? Maggot, would be more like it, she mused.
The witchcraft story was a convenient excuse.
Meanwhile, his frustration and desperation grew worse as the months passed. Now he spat at the floor between them and croaked, "Something must be done."
If she could not bear him a child would he have her shuffled off to a convent and replaced with another wife as he threatened? She'd heard of such things happening, and a man eager to save his pride was capable of anything. She always thought her heritage would keep her safe. No one wanted to quarrel with her rich father, and at one and twenty she was past her prime; he might not want her back again, a burden with one dissatisfied husband already to mar her reputation.
Louvet waved his gnarled hand through the air. "Take off your robe. I would look at you."
Isobel slipped out of the nightshift and let it fall to the floor. At the same time she allowed her mind to wander rather than think of his calloused fingers touching her again, fumbling crudely at her as they had done in the past whenever he made an attempt to mount her. His fingers were always dirty, the nails yellowed and jagged. If she thought of them for too long bile would rise in her throat, so she tried to cast the image aside.
His eyes, clouded by drink, took her in slowly from feet to neck and back again.
"Rub your nipples," he commanded. "Tug upon them. Harder!"
She obeyed, looking down at her breasts as her fingers lengthened the pointy nipples. Her husband watched, leering.
"Now bounce them. Slap them!"
Again Isobel went through the motions.
"Reach down and str
oke your quim."
She slid her left hand down over her belly and cupped her sex. The Baron thrust his own hand under his tunic and down his breeches.
"Harder," he muttered. "Rub it until I can see it's wet. No! Keep your eyes open and looking at me, woman."
But Isobel knew enough about her body by now to understand that looking at Louvet while she touched herself would not make her pussy damp. She could manipulate her path to a climax with her fingers, but there would be no peak reached unless she was allowed to close her eyes and picture another man in his place.
The sight of her husband hunched over and pulling on his flaccid cock in a desperate attempt to retain an erection was only likely to make her sickened, not aroused.
After several minutes with him staring at her she felt dryer rather than wet. If that was possible. The tension of his angry expectation completely ruined any chance she might have had of finding release.
Eventually, growing too impatient, he barked out for her maid to come back into the chamber.
Behind Isobel the door opened and Jeanne entered.
The Baron grunted, his hand still inside his breeches, his eyes wide and staring. "Come here, wench," he muttered, "and tend your mistress."
Jeanne moved into Isobel's line of sight, looking anxious. "How shall I tend her, my lord?"
"On your knees. Tongue to quinny. I want something to entertain me."
"My...my tongue, my lord?"
"That's right. What are you? An imbecile?"
"No, my lord."
"I want to watch. Lick my wife’s slit and keep doing it until I tell you to stop."
Isobel swallowed nervously and took her hand from between her thighs. "You had better do as he says," she whispered.
Blushing Jeanne looked apologetic and then got down on her knees.
"Eyes open!" Louvet croaked, just as Isobel felt her eyelids drifting down again. She opened them wider and stood very still, her hands behind her back.
After a moment she felt Jeanne's timid tongue touch her nether lips with a gentle lick.
"Legs apart. Let me see. Yes, that's better!" He grinned, his hand working faster inside his breeches as he moved to one side for a better view. "Yesss. Much better. I can see she's wet now, eh? Pinker too. Get that tongue up in there, wench, betwixt those plump petals."
Jeanne's tongue grew bolder, slipping up and down the length of her mistress's labia at a quicker pace. Isobel felt the little waves of pleasure building. She wondered if her husband had somehow known how her maid occasionally brought her comfort. If he did, he had never before mentioned it.
"Push your hips forward," he commanded. "Saucy wench. That's it. Your maid relishes her treat like a cat with a dish of cream."
Isobel moaned softly and caught her breath, her hips swaying. The maid's tongue wriggled between her pussy lips to find the gem inside, bringing her sharply to that tender state of bliss.
But just as she was about to peak, the Baron ordered Jeanne to stand. "Bring her here!" he shouted, dropping his breeches. He held his cock by the root and it was stiff, the tip dark. "Sit her on me and I'll finish her off."
Alas for him, before Isobel could sit astride his knees, his proud cockerel began to deflate. After only a few moments he could no longer hold it upright.
Jeanne politely averted her gaze, while he cursed and pushed Isobel aside.
"Damn you!" He pulled up his breeches. "Clearly it's time for other measures."
Gripping her nightshift to her front, covering her breasts, Isobel said nothing. What could she say? In truth she feared she might suddenly laugh at the ridiculousness of it all.
"Your flux has ended, I see?" he growled.
She nodded.
"Good. Tomorrow night you will ready yourself to be serviced." He pushed himself off the bed. "You will bear me a child. A son. I will not wait longer, and I will hear no complaint from you."
Isobel watched him leave, puzzled. How exactly did he intend to service her? Well, he was drunk. In all likelihood he would forget he ever came to her chamber that night.
"My lady?" said Jeanne softly, "shall I finish what I began?"
After considering for a moment, she sighed listlessly. "Yes." She fell limply on her back, her shift discarded, her legs dangling off the end of the bed. This time there was no one to shout at her for closing her eyes, so she did. Timid little Jeanne's gentle mouth was not enough for her tonight. Instead, a dark haired, dark-eyed villain came into her mind immediately and it was his mouth, his lips and tongue she felt upon her pussy. She parted her legs wider, imagining his large, strong hands forcing them open, pinning her to the bed.
Oh, he made her do it. He was ruthless. The uncouth bastard.
Isobel moved her hips, her bottom bouncing against the bed.
Poor Jeanne could barely keep up, too afraid of hurting her mistress.
How could she explain what she needed, thought Isobel in despair, tears gathering under her eyelids. No one would ever understand her for she was surely wicked to want the things she did. She was born of noble stock and yet she had thoughts like a slattern, a filthy base whore.
Jeanne's touch would get the task done, but it was no more than a drip of water to ease her thirst when what she needed was a raging flood.
* * * *
Alonso leaned his buttocks against the ale barrel and spread his feet wide, while the two plump serving wenches knelt before him and took turns sucking happily at his cock and balls. He looked down at the two fair Saxon heads and wished one of them at least was dark. He could then have pretended it was Lady Isobel taking him in her sulky mouth, giving him pleasure. But if he shut his eyes he could still imagine. He thrust his hips and grunted.
Yes, swallow me down, haughty wench. Suck me dry.
He placed his palms on one woman's head and guided it to a slower pace so he would not finish too quickly. His thick cock speared in and out of that soft, wet mouth, plunging and withdrawing slickly, while he tipped his head back and pictured Lady Isobel forced to submit to various crude acts at his hands. Unfortunately the serving wench had lank, greasy hair that smelled of the cookhouse and he knew the Baron's wife had lush, clean hair under her wimple. Probably smelled of herbs and flowers. Like those wild roses by the stable wall. He always thought of Lady Isobel whenever he passed those pale pink blooms and caught a drift of that tender fragrance.
Alonso pulled his dick out and swung to the next giggling mouth. "Mind your teeth," he grunted. This one did not share her companion's expertise, but he rather liked the clumsy, over-eager sucking and then the gulping struggle of the novice as she tried to take his entire length down her tight throat. He imagined that must be how Lady Isobel would try. It was unlikely she'd sucked much cock.
The other woman was handling his heavy balls and whined at her friend to save some for her.
"Worry not, wench, there's plenty to go around," he muttered gruffly as he felt the seed building.
Alonso licked his lips and quickened his rhythm, pumping lustily, the head of his cock hitting the back of the wench's throat, almost choking her as he gripped her head tighter and slammed home. He shot his semen deep into that warmth, thinking of a certain sable-haired lady's fine, noble cunny and how it was clearly neglected by her husband.
Damn. If that were his, he'd fuck that sulking expression right off her face and leave her sore.
He opened one eye, jerked back, slipped out of the novice's lips and sprayed both girls across their wide, flushed faces, while they battled to see who could catch most of his cum in their mouth.
He heard lazy applause and laughter. Opening the other eye he looked for the source of the sound and discovered the Baron standing nearby, watching and enjoying the performance.
"It pleases me to see you enjoying yourself, d'Anzeray. That's quite an impressive cock you have there, and I see your balls are well stocked, eh?"
The two giggling women bowed their heads, wiping their sticky faces clean on their sleeves. Alonso gestured at
them to leave, cleaned off his penis, and retied his breeches. "It's always good to keep in practice," he muttered. "Relieves the tension."
"Indeed." Louvet placed an arm across his shoulders and lead him along the alleyway. "And I have a certain tension that must be relieved."
Alonso regarded the other man through narrowed eyes. "I don't—"
"My wife, d'Anzeray. She requires breaking in and I am, at present, unable — cursed by her evil spells."
"Breaking in?"
The Baron nodded. "She remains a virgin, unplucked. It's time that ripe fruit was plucked."
For a moment he was unable to reply, too surprised for words.
"Think of this as another mission. Get my wife with child and I will pay you handsomely, d'Anzeray. A stud fee for a strong, male child."
Of all the things he'd expected from the Baron this was not it. "I see," he murmured, scratching his unshaven cheek. So much for being relieved, he mused. Already his sac was tight again and the heaviness of lust returned. Was he dreaming? Moments ago he'd imagined filling this man's wife with his cum, making her frosty manners melt under him as he planted himself deep in her slender, clean, sweet-scented body. "You want me to make love to your wife? To Lady Isobel," he clarified carefully.
"No, d'Anzeray. I don't want you to make love to her. I want you to fuck the skin-and-bones bitch. Fuck her hard and often until her womb bears fruit."
Again he scratched his cheek while waiting for his pulse to steady and his breath to calm. "Why me?"
"Because you are just what I would want in a son. Exactly what I need. I can trust you to get the job done with no risk of any deep attachment forming on either side. I know about you ruthless, rapacious mercenaries, and you didn't earn the name Blackheart without reason." The Baron chuckled. "Besides, there will be no chance of my wife developing affection for you. She despises your very name."
"Yes," he murmured, "that much is obvious."
"But don't let that trouble you. She will submit to my wishes in this matter, and you may do with her as you please with only a little guidance from me."