by Jade London
Contents
5
.
..
...
....
*
**
***
****
:
©
&
5
.
What to say?
I want him to keep me. Don’t send me away. But what words will convince him? What action will sway him?
I am no queen, no elegant concubine. Who am I? What worth have I?
I don’t know; I have no answers.
All I do know is that I cannot speak, and don’t dare even shake my head, or shrug my shoulders. I remain perfectly still, my eyes averted.
Conrad rises from his throne, sets the sword across the arms of the chair, and then circles the chair to descend the back of the ziggurat. He doesn’t gesture for me to follow, doesn’t speak a command, but I know I am meant to accompany him. And, of course, I do.
I stay a few steps behind him, down, down, down, across the echoing throne room, my gown whispering quietly on the flagstones. We arrive at a doorway in the opposite wall from that through which I had entered. This is a simple wooden door, rounded at the top, with a plain iron ring pull. A silent guard stands on either side of the door. These guards, however, are unique. No armor, no shield, no spear. Each one is easily seven feet tall, mountains of muscle sheathed in ebony skin, heads shaved bald, each wearing a pair of white breeches, bare foot. Each one holds a single battle-axe, the hafts taller than I am myself, the blades half-moons tapering to vicious points at the top and bottom. A weapon wielded by such mammoth men could cleave an armored foe in half with the ease of a sharp knife through soft cheese. The butt-ends are planted on the floor between their feet and each guard holds his axe extended to arm’s length, so the blades cross to block the door.
As he approaches, the guards pull their weapons back in front of their bodies in a crisp, sharp movement, in perfect unison, allowing access.
A single tug, and the door swings open toward us. I expect him to breeze through in front of me, but he surprises me. He holds the door open for me, gesturing for me to pass through first.
“After you.” His eyes fix on me as I hesitate, and then timidly step across the threshold into a large, but cozy room, which I take to be his personal bedchamber.
Only twenty paces deep and perhaps twice as wide, it occupies but a tiny fraction of the tower’s total area. The bare stone walls have been lined with thick velvet curtains to ward off the chill from outside, and to reflect the warmth back inside. On the flagstone floor is a single hand-woven rug that is a breathtaking work of art, a crimson background woven with gold thread to depict a battle scene. The primary figure is the man holding the door behind me sitting atop a white charger, wielding that same glittering sword in triumph over a field strewn with fallen enemies.
There is a bed, huge, wide, on a high, four-post frame crafted from thick dark wood. The head of the bed is butted up against a wall; the doorway directly opposite the entrance leads out to a balcony overlooking his castle—and, from this height, much of his kingdom as well. Against the wall to the right of the balcony doorway is a suit of armor on a stand. Black steel, so black it seems to absorb the light and swallow it. It is covered in scales, like the armor of the guards I had seen when I first entered the castle, but of infinitely finer quality, the thousands of tiny snake-scales interlocking, allowing him full freedom of movement, yet complete protection from all but the fiercest of blows from all but the mightiest of foes. A snarling lion’s head forms the helmet, done in the same ultra-black metal, with luminous rubies for eyes, the wearer seeing through the open mouth. A shield stands beside the armor, and it is of the same style as that wielded by the guards, but made from the same black steel as the armor itself.
The room is occupied by a fireplace with a roaring fire crackling merry and hot, a plush, cushioned armchair angled in front of it, a small table to one side, on which is an opened bottle of wine and a single dented, stained, old metal cup, the kind of cup a soldier might carry with him on his campaigns.
After closing the door behind him, he crosses the room and spins the chair to face the room rather than the fire. He sits, pours himself a cupful of wine, and regards me with those cunning, arrogant, golden-brown lion’s eyes. I stand three feet away from him, spine rigid, belly roiling, knees trembling, skin tingling, fingers clenched into fists at my sides, breath coming short. Nerves, fear…and excitement.
“I have no need of you,” he says, the words meant to cut. “But you are lovely indeed, so I will allow you to convince me of your worth.”
“How—” I begin, but nerves and fear catch at my voice, and I falter. Take a deep breath, start again. “How should I convince you?”
A tiny smile curves the corners of his mouth, amused, sarcastic. “I am a man of action more than words. There is little you could say that I haven’t heard before. I have grown bored and weary of my…companions, shall we call them…of late. Nothing they do pleases me. I’ve felt so few stirrings of desire for any of them that I wonder if the problem is with me rather than with them. A king shouldn’t admit to such doubts, I know, but…” A careless shrug. “I care not for the opinions of anyone.”
He sips from his wine, and his gaze rakes over me from head to toe, examining me thoroughly, piercing me, as if to pry my deepest secrets out of me, undressing me with his eyes. I feel naked under his gaze.
“You are lovely indeed, Hannah. Buxom, fair of skin and blessed with an abundance of womanly curves.” He leans forward. “Is your skin as soft to touch as it looks?”
I swallow hard. “I—I don’t know.”
He lifts his chin. “Come closer, then.”
I step across the room, taking shy, uncertain steps closer and closer until I’m within reach of his big, rough hands. He doesn’t immediately reach out to touch me. First, he merely looks at me. His gaze scours every inch of my body, twice, starting at my hair, then my throat, then my cleavage, then my waist and hips, legs, feet, and back up. It feels as if he is assessing the quality of the flesh and curves beneath my gown. I feel naked beneath that scrutinizing gaze, as if he can see through the gauzy material. I shiver, and my skin pebbles.
“I haven’t even touched you, and yet you shiver, and get gooseflesh.” His voice is a low, amused murmur. “Is it anticipation or fear causing such a reaction?”
“Both,” I say.
He stands up, and now he’s inches away, so close I can feel his breath, smell the wine, feel his heat. “What is it you fear?”
“You.” I can barely breathe, can barely speak. “What you will do to me. What you want from me. Being sent away.”
“You do not wish to return home, then?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“You wish to stay here? With me?”
“Yes. I do.”
He takes a sip of his wine; I watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. “Prove it, then.”
I don’t know what to do, or how to prove this to him. He offers nothing by way of direction, only stands inches away, essentially fucking me with his eyes. His gaze tells me he finds me attractive, and he’s said so himself. The way his eyes continually rake over my body, stopping at my breasts and hips, telling me without words that he wants me. But he doesn’t move, doesn’t reach for me, doesn’t touch me.
I swallow hard, and let instinct guide me—
I fall to my knees.
His eyebrow lifts, and he takes another sip of his wine.
I reach up and find the laces to his breeches. I untie the simple knot, loosen the laces, and tug the edges apart. Then I grasp the waistband and pull the breeches down around his thighs, baring his co
ck. Which is…
Slack, flaccid.
I look up at him, surprised. I’d expected him to be erect.
He smirks down at me. “Takes more than removing my trousers to excite my interest, girl. But I am curious, so you may continue.”
Even slack, he’s an impressive sight. Thicker than both of my thumbs together, longer than my entire hand, heavy hairy balls. I remove his breeches entirely, and then, more for my own enjoyment than his, I rise to my feet and trail fingers up his waist, lifting his tunic. There’s another set of laces at his throat, which he loosens with one hand, the neckline revealing a patch of tanned skin and thick black body hair. Off, then, tugging it up and over, and he passes his wine glass from hand to hand, pulling his arms free, and then he’s naked, gloriously, perfectly, incredibly bare. A god of marble-sculpted perfection, the epitome of rugged masculinity. Long, burly arms corded and thick with muscle, and ribboned with scars. Shoulders broad as mountain ranges, a heavy chest matted with thick black hair covering hard slabs of muscle. Abs like a furrowed field. Narrow, trim hips, tree-trunk thighs. He’s confident in his nudity, utterly composed and at ease.
I sink to my knees once again, his cock at face level, now.
I cup the soft warm weight of his manhood in my palms, nuzzle the side of his cock with my nose, lifting it, letting it lay against my cheek, over my mouth. Licking my lips to moisten them, I open my mouth, lift my chin so his cock slides across my lips, and then let the tip fall into my open mouth. I chance a glimpse at his face. His brows lower, and his jaw clenches; he’s reacting, at least, so I know I’m doing something right.
For a moment, I just let his cock lay in my mouth, on my tongue, breathing onto him, teasing him. My eyes lift to meet his and I take all of his still-slack length into my mouth, close my lips over him. I cup his sac in both hands and massage gently, rolling the tender weight of his balls in my palms, rolling his thickening and hardening cock with my tongue. I pull away, letting him flop free, dangling, swaying. His jaw is flexing, clenching and releasing, and his mighty chest is swelling with deep breaths. He lets one corner of his mouth lift in a small, curling smile, and then covers it by taking a sip of wine.
Other than the slight smile and the fact he has a burgeoning erection, there is no response, no reaction. His cock is curved to one side, tip still pointing at the floor, but I can see him lengthening, stretching, straightening.
I wrap my fingers around him, feel him hardening, filling my hand. I kiss one side of his cock, noisily, down to the root, to his heavy balls, licking one of them, suckling it fully into my mouth and then releasing it. I move back up his length, licking and kissing one side and then the other, cupping my hand around it, stroking him now. I can feel him begin to lose himself in my caresses, but I maintain my languid pace, fondling him with both hands, then taking the thick, broad, soft head into my mouth and sucking, fluttering my tongue all over him, all the while stroking his unbelievable length with both hands.
More confident now, I take him deeper, and then with a glance up at him take him as deep as I can, until my jaw aches and he’s in my throat. A moment later I back away. He’s fully erect now, the head pointing skyward, touching just beneath his navel, so thick my fingers won’t fit around him.
I stand up. Facing him, I let my hand brush against his cock, idly touching him, not really stroking, just…toying. Feeling him. I lean against him, pressing my breasts against his torso while I explore the heavy muscle of his chest.
I'm touching his body for myself now. Roaming his masculine beauty with my hands. Shoulders, chest, waist. I discover his ass, warm and hard and round, and grip it with both hands, fingernails clawing into the flesh.
His body is rock hard, yet his skin is soft. He is billowing heat. I touch him everywhere, the smooth curves of his arms, the ridges of his abdomen, his hairy thighs, his back, roaming the line between his spine and shoulder blades and then back to his chest. All over. Down again, to his cock. I stroke him, just a few slow, idle caressing touches, and then I begin to replace my hands with my lips.
I kiss him everywhere I’ve touched, biceps, shoulders, chest, diaphragm, waist, thighs. And where I’m not kissing I’m caressing, stroking his hard hot flesh everywhere, avoiding his cock, except now and again at random, pausing almost accidentally to lick him, suck him, kiss the side, fondle his sac, tease him.
I do this ceaselessly, kissing and touching and teasing him until his chest is heaving.
“Enough,” he snarls, knocking away my hands and stepping out of my reach. “What is your game?”
I blink at him. “I have no game.”
I do, though: I want to force a reaction out of him. I want to make him want me. Make him stop his game and touch me.
He grips his erection and strokes himself three times, vigorously, harshly. “Do you intend to finish what you started, girl?”
I shrug, a daringly insouciant gesture. “If you wish me to.”
I close the space between us and brush his hand aside, taking his cock in one hand and stroking him. With my eyes on his, my breasts nudging his chest, I stroke him slowly, unhurriedly, gliding my fist gently up and down his length. For a few beats, he only stares at me, and then he tries to project an ease and casualness I suspect he no longer feels, sipping his wine and rocking back on his heels. Moving his gaze to my cleavage.
“It is not often that I am naked and the woman pleasuring me is clothed,” he remarks.
“Am I?” I ask. “Pleasuring you, I mean.”
“Beginning to,” is his grunted response.
I lean closer to him, nuzzle my face into his throat, breathing a long warm breath against his skin. Press my lips to his throat, just beneath his Adam’s apple. An inch to the left, breathe, kiss. The hollow at the base of his throat: breathe a hot breath, kiss the soft salty flesh. Up, then, to just beneath and behind his ear, a breath and a kiss. His jaw. His chin. The corner of his mouth. His lips part and his eyes are heavy-lidded, and he leans toward me, perhaps meaning to kiss me, to accept the kiss I’m offering.
Instead of allowing his lips to meet mine, I sink to my knees, darting a smile and a glance up at him. He sucks in a breath, but that is his only reaction. I plunge my fist down his length, baring his plump pink glans, tease a flicking lick of my tongue tip across the bulbous head, then swipe slowly with the flat of my tongue over it once more, and again, and again, until his fingers clench into fists at his sides.
I slide my fist back up, form a cup around the head with my fist, and release a dollop of my saliva into the cup of my fingers and onto his cock. I smear my palm over him, spreading the slick wet warmth of my spit onto his smooth, straining flesh.
Again, I rise to my feet and meet his gaze. Beginning slowly, I caress his length once again, lean into him, kiss his chest, his shoulder, his throat—with each kiss I increase the pace of my stroking. The closer I get to his mouth, the faster I stroke him until I kiss the corner of his mouth, my fist becoming a blur as I pump his cock, his hips flexing involuntarily.
And then I stop.
“You test my patience,” he murmurs between clenched teeth.
His chest heaves, his jaw flexes, and his abs tense as he struggles to hold back, to regain control.
I press my palms to his chest and push him backward, toward his armchair. When he feels the chair at his knees, he folds himself down into it, gracefully, spreads wide his knees, grips the arms of the chair and sets aside his wine.
I take a sip of his wine, replace the cup on the table.
I’ve teased him, toyed with him, brought him close to the edge—and I haven’t exposed a single inch of my own skin.
Time to escalate the game.
Facing him, standing between his knees, I gather the hem of my dress in my hands. I pull the silvery soft loose chiffon upwards, first baring my ankles, then my calves, and then my legs and thighs. He licks his lips, swallows. Inch by inch, I gather more fabric and expose the juncture of my thighs. His eyes fix on me there, nar
rowed, jaw flexing, hands clutching the arms hard enough that his knuckles go white.
Then I turn, bunching my dress up around my hips, and present my ass to him, then drop it back down into place.
A groan, then. The first noise he’s made, the first sign of his loss of control.
I lower myself, gliding my ass against his thighs. I turn my head to peer over my shoulder, watching him as I slide my ass against his erection, the thin skin of silk all that separates our flesh. His thick length fits perfectly between the cheeks and I writhe in place, teasing him with the soft slow brush of my silk-covered ass against his hard erection. And then I grip his knees and roll my hips, sliding against him.
He groans again and now, finally, he touches me. His hands wrap around my waist first, then he grips my hips and then smoothly they move down my legs to my knees, where he finds what he wants—the hem of my dress. Up, and up, he pulls my dress, tugging it upward past my hips to bare my flesh. I’m grinding on him now, writhing against him, gliding his thick cock between the globes of my ass, providing him with just enough tension and friction to drive him mad, but not enough to allow him release.
I reach between my thighs, find his erection, pull it forward, away from his body, and angle it against my slit. Rolling my hips, the head of his cock slides between the lips of my pussy, and now he thrusts, seeking more.
I turn to meet his gaze over my shoulder, gripping his cock, keeping it just barely inside me, his thickness spreading me open, stretching me, creating a sweet, deep, delicious burn. “Like this?” I tilt my hips, letting him fill me with another inch of his cock. “Is this what you want…sire?”
All I get from him is a snarling grunt, a questing thrust.
I don’t allow him to enter me any further, matching his upward thrust by flexing away from him.
Hearing his frustrated groan and feeling the grip of his hands on my hips, I can safely assume he’s losing the war against my teasing game. I move away from him and my dress falls back down and, once again, I’m utterly decent, clothed, and he’s naked on his chair, aroused, the upper two or three inches of his cock gleaming wet with the juices from my pussy.