Arto's Enchantress

by Morgan Henry

He went back to her pussy. This time, he slid a finger inside her, agonizingly slowly. Cella raised her hips, trying to impale herself more forcefully on his digit.

  Arto gave her a light tap at the crease of thigh and buttock. “You will be still, or I will stop.”

  She immediately settled back onto the bed.

  “Good sola.”

  His finger went slowly in and out of her pussy as he licked her folds gently. When she thought she would go crazy with need, he added a second finger. When he had played with her some more, he added a third.

  Now she was full. She could feel every knuckle of his fingers and he was moving them in and out with more vigour, licking her clit harder. Cella pulled against her bonds and the friction and sense of capture sent her over.

  She could feel her walls clamps down rhythmically on Arto’s fingers and the pleasure raced around all her nerves like the wind through a mountain pass.

  Arto licked her until every last spasm had ended, as if he was desperate for her juices.

  She trembled a little as he left her pussy and rose over her. Again, the feeling of helplessness aroused her all over again. Having rarely climaxed with her other lover, she wondered at her body’s willingness to go again where Arto led.

  He reached up, as if to undo her bonds, and Cella shook her head.

  “No? Ah, my little Cella, you’re a treasure. But your arms will be sore.” He undid the sash and released her. “Put your hands on my shoulders and keep them there.” That note of command was back in his voice again.

  Cella immediately complied. Her pussy was begging for him, she could feel the desperate need urging her to speak, to move, to do something to get her filled again.

  Arto dragged his cock through her folds, spreading his pre-cum through her, making them both slick. He pushed the head barely inside her.

  Oh, he was large.

  She could feel her lips thinning, spreading to accept him. He went slowly, rocking in and out, gaining ground each time. Cella was panting, with both excitement and the effort to take him.

  Finally, he was in. Cella looked up. Arto’s muscles were tensed, the cords on his neck standing out. He grimaced, then smoothed his features as he looked down on her.

  “You feel wonderful, sola. So hot, so very, very tight. It’s all I can do not to come right now.” His voice was hoarse, forced. Cella was astonished to see how hard it was for him to hold back.

  “Please,” she whispered.

  That seemed to be his cue. He slid out and thrust back in smoothly. Cella’s eyes rolled back into her head. Was it possible for him to render her unconscious with pleasure?

  He set up a brisk rhythm and all Cella could do was hold on. She was too overwhelmed to coordinate her body enough to do anything but receive. Quickly she spiralled tighter and tighter, her orgasm looming over her much like Arto was.

  His thrusts became harder, faster, and he changed the angle of his body just enough that her clit was pounded by his pelvis. That was what she needed.

  She flew again, higher and harder this time. If her last orgasm was like the wind in the mountains, this was like a massive spring flood, the pleasure pouring and raging through her sensitized nerves.

  She held onto Arto, his shoulders anchoring her in the storm.

  She heard his shout of completion, felt him grind his body into hers as his cock twitched and poured his seed forth. He collapsed partially, down onto his forearms overtop her.

  Her mouth was taken in a fierce kiss, tongue thrusting into her and conquering again. She tried to give back, tangling her tongue with his and following it back into his mouth. Arto groaned as he released her.

  He eased out of her channel and Cella felt their combined liquids dribble out of her. Panting, Arto curled beside her for a moment, his arm around her tightly.

  Then he rose and Cella was confused.

  Why would he leave her now?

  Just as she opened her mouth to protest, she saw him wet a cloth and heat it with a murmured spell. Curious now, she didn’t speak. He came back to the bed and spread her legs again with a warm palm and cleaned her pussy. She flushed and tried to close her legs, but he would have none of it.

  Chuckling, he said, “Now you’re embarrassed? I could clean you with my tongue if that’s less of a problem.”

  Cella huffed at him. “I’ve never had anyone do that for me.” It still felt almost too intimate, him washing her.

  Arto cleaned himself and tossed the cloth back to the washstand. He climbed into bed and pulled the covers over the two of them. Gathering her in his arms, he asked, “What? Clean you? Or lick your tasty pussy?”

  Cella tucked her head under his chin. “Both.”

  Chapter 8

  Arto looked over at Cella.

  After 10 days in the saddle, she was far more comfortable on her horse than at the start of their journey. Her riding had come a very long way. Now she sat in the saddle, relaxed but alert to her surroundings. Marta was comfortable as well, cognizant of her rider but not uneasy.

  Cella was a treasure he never expected to find.

  Learning about her had more than made up for the lost opportunity for hunting and male comradeship on this trip. She was intelligent, genuine and, he suspected, tougher than she had thought. She had hung in there on those horrible first days, enduring the pain and fear and coming out stronger on the other side.

  She was also learning more about herself in bed with him.

  After they had made love the first time, Cella had curled against him, drowsy and satiated.

  “Why does it feel good when you tie me?” she had whispered.

  “Because that is the way you are made, sweetheart,” he had responded. “You and your body enjoy things a little different, as do I. And there is nothing wrong with that. But if you want to continue to enjoy these types of sexual pursuits, you will learn to do so safely.”

  “What do you mean?” she had asked sleepily.

  “I mean that it’s obvious you like to be bound and the way your pussy clamped on me when I spanked your upper thigh, you will like a bit of spanking or more, too. But you must choose your partners carefully and learn what you like and don’t like in a safe way. I will help you, sola, know that. I would not want anything bad to happen to you.” He had kissed her forehead tenderly. “Now sleep.”

  She had been tucked against him the entire night.

  What was surprising, was that he liked it.

  Normally, he didn’t spend the night with his lovers. He would make love in her bed and go to his own to sleep. If necessary, like the night in the inn, he would share the same bed, but he didn’t enjoy it. His body would be restless and trying to get away from the woman.

  With Cella, he didn’t want to leave her in the morning.

  It worried him, this odd behaviour of his. He hoped that this was just something new for him to experience and, in time, he would tire of her cuddling against him. Then he could go back to his own bed and his bachelor ways.

  Yes, that was it.

  This was a phase.

  The novelty would wear off soon.

  And if it didn’t, she would be going home, regardless. He would ignore the way his heart stuttered at the thought of her leaving.

  Arto tore his attention away from Cella and looked over the rest of his group.

  Tors was riding beside Kyna. His man had taken Cella’s maid under his wing from the first day. He reported to Arto that Kyna knew her duties, but liked to flirt a little too much with the warriors that rode with him. Tors made sure she received an education on what behaviours could get her in trouble.

  The rest of his men were scattered down the road, most leading two or three of the new horses that he had purchased from Ascar. They had held up well on the journey, and he was looking forward to adding them to his breeding program.

  Kerban was more populated in this part of the country, so they had stayed in small towns the last couple of nights. Tonight, they would stay at another inn. Tomorrow evening, t
hey would be with the King in his castle, the capital of Kerfaen.

  The road skirted the edge of a swamp. Thank the Goddess it was late fall, or they would be eaten alive by blood-sucking insects. There was still a hum of less bloodthirsty bugs and the incessant chirping of birds. The breeze rustled through the few leaves still clinging to the trees.

  The weather made for pleasant riding. Now that they were further south, it was merely cool, not snowing. The sun was even out today. Arto caught Cella daydreaming, her face toward the light.

  He looked back down the road at her. She was a lovely vision. Her head was tilted back, hair loosely bound by a leather thong, and her eyes closed. The way her chin curved gracefully to her neck and the glimpse of creamy skin that hinted at the delights below the neckline of her riding habit made him hungry.

  He wondered if he could sneak her away from the riding party to a little known clearing about a half mile away. They could catch up later, when they were both satiated.

  Caught up in his plans to enact his fantasy, he didn’t notice the silence creeping into the swamp.

  Arto was envisioning Cella tied to a tree, naked, and begging him to fill her with his cock, when the Goddess visited disaster upon them.

  A juvenile gerto burst from the undergrowth.

  The lizard was only about six feet long, including the tail, and was the lighter green of a young one. Despite the smaller size it was still heavily muscled, fast, and had a full set of teeth. It was male, with a spiny plate that started between the eyes and headed in a ridge down the back. The plate would grow larger with age, and darken in hue. It was bony and added yet another weapon to the razor sharp teeth.

  The tail was a cross between a cane and a whip. More muscled at the base, it tapered to a slender but tough end. A juvenile would leave painful welts with a strike of its tail, but an adult would open jagged lacerations.

  The hide was tough. Tanners prized it for boots, scabbards, and anything else that required extreme durability, it was damn hard to get a weapon through. The quickest and safest way to kill a gerto was an arrow through the eye, but that was near impossible—a task for a very skilled archer.

  The predator had singled out Marta and Cella, of course. They were the smallest target among the group. And they were virtually alone.

  Arto had been admiring them from a distance and Cella had been daydreaming.

  What a damned combination.

  Marta, normally immune to all manner of noises and sights that would frighten a horse, chose this time to bolt. With a scream that would do any mare proud, she took off.

  Unfortunately, Cella and her saddle didn’t go with them. The billet straps broke as the horse ran. Cella and the saddle tumbled to the ground.

  Even as Arto turned Merlo to go after them, he could hear the horrible thump of her body hitting the road and Cella’s cry of pain. Her head hit the ground and she was still.

  The gerto advanced on her, tongue flicking, tasting the air for his little sola.

  Sir Gyl, the best archer of the group, fired at the beast. The arrow glanced off the eye ridge, so close, but not enough.

  It made the gerto pause and look toward the threat down the road. Hissing, it moved quicker. The muscles of its shoulders and legs bunched and rippled as it headed toward his Cella with its strange, slithering gait.

  The beast was too low to the ground for Arto to fight it on horseback. He didn’t have a lance to impale the beast from the saddle, so Arto had to leap from his mount and try to fight on foot.

  Never before had he felt so desperate. The best he could hope for was to hold the beast off until the rest of the men could arrive to help. His heart pounded and his palms sweated as he realized he would literally give the beast his left arm if it bought time for Cella to be safe.

  Merlo was too well trained to abandon him in a fight and challenged the gerto. Merlo got a bruising strike in with a front hoof, but had to dance away to avoid the lashing tail.

  Arto positioned himself in front of Cella and managed a lucky stab with his sword, impaling the tip of it into the right shoulder. Dark blood poured from the wound, but it was shallow. The hide was too tough for even his sword to do much damage.

  Arto had to leap aside to narrowly avoid the jaws clamping on his leg. It was so close, the folded flap at the top of his boot didn’t escape damage from the beast’s large eyetooth.

  The gagging smell of the gerto’s breath and blood permeated the air.

  Arto could hear the warriors in the group pounding toward them, but time seemed to slow as he tried to protect Cella. At least it slowed for him, not for the gerto. The lizard was still too bloody fast.

  There was no use going for the eyes. The ridges around the sockets made it impossible for his sword to penetrate deep enough to kill the beast.

  Arto speared again, trying for the small spot under the chin that his sword might be able cut into. If he could open the beast up there, he might be able to hit a large enough vessel to bleed it out.

  He missed.

  Somehow, the gerto was quick enough to lower his head and the sword wound up in its jaws instead of his neck. The beast clamped down on the steel, and Arto was unable to pull his weapon free.

  “Still!” came the bellow of Sir Gyl.

  Arto froze for the second needed for Gyl’s arrow to find its target.

  The brown shaft of the arrow suddenly filled the eye socket. Locked with the lizard, Arto’s eyes were drawn to the blue-speckled fletching against the dark wood with the green of the gerto in the background. It was startlingly beautiful in the frozen moment of the gerto’s death.

  With the perfect shot, the beast crumpled to the ground.

  Arto pulled his sword free and turned toward Cella.

  She was on her knees, left arm dangling useless and her face stark white. She was not particularly steady, swaying a little. Her right hand held a dagger with a long, slim double-edged blade.

  He was suitably impressed. His little sola wasn’t going down without a fight.

  Two steps brought him to her—the beast had been that close.

  Arto went to his own knees, tossing his weapon aside. “I’m so sorry, sola,” he murmured as he gently took the weapon from her hand. He eased her to a semi-prone position against him.

  Her arm was broken between the elbow and wrist, painful, to be sure, but not life threatening. She was bleeding from a large knot on the side of her head. Arto thought her eyes were somewhat unfocused when she opened them at all, and she clearly was unable to stand. This was far more worrisome.

  Arto was minimally talented with kerfios. He had never felt the lack of the gift until now. He would have given a great deal to have the ability to heal her head and arm, or at least alleviate her pain.

  She didn’t scream or cry as her arm was bound, but Arto felt a stab in his chest every time she winced.

  “We’ll get you to a healer soon, Sola,” he said against her hair. “We are not far from the next town and I know there is a healer there.”

  Cella’s voice was small and quiet as she murmured something he didn’t understand. It sounded as though she was holding tears at bay.

  “Rorec.” Arto’s voice was urgent, but not loud, as he called for the Knight who was his second in command on this trip. Thank the God and Goddess that Rorec was more than capable of leading the group in his stead. “I need to leave you to lead while I take Lady Cella to the healer. Go to The Inn of the Winds, it’s near the healer’s and a good place to stay.”

  “I’ll handle it, your Grace. No need to worry about us.” Rorec knelt to help Arto with Cella.

  Merlo was led to his master, and Arto sheathed his blade and practically leapt into the saddle. He leaned down to take Cella in his arms as Rorec handed her to him. Arto settled his little enchantress against him and, with a nod to Rorec, he set a swift pace to town.

  * * * *

  Cella’s mind didn’t seem to want to work.

  When she had regained consciousness from her fa
ll, she knew enough to pull her blade so she had some protection, but that was about it. She couldn’t seem to focus.

  She knew Arto was between her and the gerto, but everything was somewhat blurry. Their swift movements contributed to her nausea. The world spun around her.

  She closed her eyes for what seemed a second, trying to close her ears against the ringing and roaring in them, too. Arto was suddenly by her side and talking to her. She couldn’t quite make herself understand him, but she knew he would help her.

  She was aware that her arm was bound and she was placed in Arto’s arms. She felt safe, there, wrapped in her cloak and cradled against his warm body.

  “Don’t fall asleep, Cella.” She heard Arto clearly this time.

  She sighed. She was so tired.

  Cella tried to tell Arto this.

  “I mean it, Cella. Stay with me.” Arto’s voice was strong. The command in his voice was impossible to ignore, and normally she would not disobey when he spoke like that.

  But this was not normal.

  She swam in and out of awareness, trying to stay awake for him. Each time she broke the surface of consciousness, she heard him speaking to her. Telling her to hang on, to stay with him and he would get her to help.

  She wanted to stay with him.

  Though they had not been companions and lovers long, she wanted whatever bit of time they had together. He was not hers forever, she knew. She would leave, or he would find another lover, but she wanted him as long as it would last.

  She roused again when Merlo stopped and Arto shouted. They were in a village now, outside a building. A healer’s, she suspected. Someone came to them and Cella was transferred to another’s arms. She didn’t like that. She wanted Arto, and tried to escape from the stranger, but she was so weak. She couldn’t help but give in to the heavy, dark lethargy that crept over her like mortar and solidified.

  When she woke again, she felt better, even without opening her eyes. Cella wasn’t quite ready to venture that yet. She was in a bed, a comfortable one, she could tell that. Wherever she was, it was warm and quiet. It smelled clean. She couldn’t hear any sounds to give her any more clues.