Elena's Conquest Read online

  Aimery’s strong mouth curved in the dangerous smile that always sent a shiver of fear through even his closest friends. His tense, powerful figure dominated the room; it was as if everyone had stopped breathing, waiting for his reply. He still wore his leather gambeson, though he had removed his armour. The heat and dust of the long hours in the saddle were with him still, streaking his tawny hair. His eyes were like cold steel as he surveyed the still figures on the bed in the corner. Elena, lying helpless in her bonds, shivered when she saw the icy scorn in his glance.

  He hadn’t known. He hadn’t wanted all this for her. Isobel had lied. And now, thinking that she’d willingly submitted to this degradation, he despised her with all his heart. She had lost before the game had even begun. Isobel had won.

  Pierre, bemused and more than a little frightened by the lord of Thoresfield’s presence, slid from the bed and backed into the shadows, his erection drooping quickly.

  ‘So’ grated the Breton to Isobel. This is how you spend your afternoons when I am absent?’

  Isobel moved swiftly towards him. ‘It was all for you, my lord!’ She ran her dainty hand down his muscular shoulder, gazing up with rapt emerald eyes into his tired, harsh face.

  ‘And the girl?’

  ‘You mean Elena? Why,’ said Isobel, thinking quickly, ‘your new acquisition has been most willing to join in with everything, my lord! She has displayed a touching eagerness, you will be delighted with her progress! So enthusiastic, so passionate! Hamet, Morwith, Pierre -she has enjoyed them all!’

  Aimery le Sabrenn felt suddenly sick. The dark bitter­ness rose in his soul. Once more he’d been mistaken, deceived. As he’d been deceived by the Saxon, Madelin …

  Abruptly, he crossed to the chair and sat down, pouring himself a full goblet of wine from the silver jug resting on the nearby table. He drank it down and poured again. He felt a sudden, wild rage that trans­muted itself into a hardening lust, a familiar tightening at his loins. So, they’d all pleasured the Saxon girl. Very well, then he, too, would take his pleasure from her, before throwing her out - off his property, his land, his demesne.

  Elena had given up struggling. She was gagged still, and even if she were not, she knew, from the look on the Breton lord’s face, that there was no point in trying to deny what Isobel had just told him. He would not believe her. He looked so tired, so bitter; and she burned desperately with longing for him.

  Isobel, not sure which direction things were taking, said quickly, ‘My lord, you are weary. I will dismiss these others, send for food, and you and I can spend some time alone.’

  Aimery’s face twisted cynically. ‘What, Isobel - send them all away, when it seems that I have missed most of the entertainment already? Surely you can exercise your imagination and share a little of your diversion with me?’

  Isobel, uncertain of the strangely harsh tone in his voice, felt suddenly uneasy. ‘My lord - what is your will?’

  Aimery let his black, bitter glance scald them all. His gaze alighted on the bewildered Pierre, who hovered, still hopeful of pleasure, in the shadows. ‘What about him?’ Aimery grated out. ‘Your new favourite looks disappointed, Isobel. Have I interrupted him? Let him choose his pleasure - presumably he had finished with the slut on the bed. Let me see him try the other one, the redhead!’

  At this, Pierre brightened considerably; so did Morwith, who had been kneeling in stillness, breasts pout­ing, naked thighs just slightly apart, hoping desperately that she would catch the Breton’s attention. Now was her chance! If she performed well, the Breton might take her himself.

  Shivering at the very thought, Morwith moved volup­tuously to crouch on all fours, her heavy, brown-nippled breasts dangling, her full buttocks wide and plump beneath the leather corset. Pierre, his erection suddenly jerking into life again, kneeled joyfully behind her, feeling for her juicy cleft, and with a soft hiss of delight thrust himself deep within her ripe, glistening folds. Morwith groaned aloud in ecstasy as his long, thick shaft possessed and filled her silky inner flesh. ‘What a fine lad you are, Pierre,’ she muttered in encouragement. ‘Let me feel all of it, all of it - ah, yes, that’s it.’

  Meanwhile, Isobel kneeled hopefully beside her lord and let her fingers rest on his strongly-muscled thigh. He ignored her and drank more wine, seeking oblivion, of the body and the mind. He was strongly aroused by the crude coupling going on in the shadows, and felt once more the urgent need for his own release. Not with Isobel. Not with the redheaded Saxon, whom he remembered from that midnight journey through the forest. She was doing all this for him, he knew, casting sideways glances at him through lascivious eyes. Dis­missing her, his eyes strayed to the bed.

  Elena lay very still, her eyes to the wall, the black cloth still fastened crudely round her mouth. Her beau­tiful blonde hair cascaded in disarray over her slender shoulders; her small, firm breasts rose and fell slightly with every breath she took, the rosy nipples tender and sweet. Her legs were drawn apart by the cords at her ankles; he could see the tender pink flesh of her femininity peeping out from either side of the tight leather belt. How many of them had used her today. Which of them had she enjoyed most?

  Last night, he had thought she was different. But now he knew that she was just like all the rest.

  He could feel his penis rearing up against his belly, hot and hungry. ‘Untie the girl’ he rapped out to Isobel at his side. Isobel got up slowly, slanting a look of venomous hatred at the fair-haired Saxon bound to the bed. Pierre and Morwith were by now totally engrossed in their copulation; the young male serf kneeled above her, his muscular hips pumping away enthusiastically, while Morwith’s face flushed with delight as Pierre’s satisfying length of iron-hard flesh worked vigorously up and down her moist love channel.

  Elena, freed by the coldly furious Isobel, the gag removed from her mouth, got to her feet and stood with her head held high.

  ‘Come here’ said Aimery flatly, and she obeyed slowly, still not looking at him.

  Blood of Christ, but she was beautiful, swore Aimery silently. Her wide, vulnerable eyes were dark sapphire pools in her pale, delicately shaped face; her glorious hair framed her head and shoulders like moondust. Her body was slender and graceful. Even in that tight leather belt, which must have been driving her into a frenzy of lust all day, she looked so pure, so untouched. Surely …

  Isobel, crackling with jealousy, said with a light laugh, ‘You will find dear Elena somewhat exhausted, my lord. She has such enthusiasm for our little games! Spare her your attentions as well, my lord, the poor girl can barely stand, so sated is she with pleasure.’

  Elena’s head jerked at that. She looked as if she were about to speak and gazed almost imploringly at Aimery le Sabrenn, her fathomless blue eyes dark with some kind of pain, then she changed her mind and lowered her eyes, her full lower lip trembling with passion.

  So, she was ashamed. Aimery’s empty stomach cur­dled suddenly on the strong wine he’d been drinking so freely. He said in a low, venomous voice, ‘You mistake me, my lady Isobel. The girl is to give me pleasure, not to take it for herself. Obviously, you are taking her training very seriously. I wish to see the results so far.’

  Elena stood before him with her hands clasped and her head bowed, so that her golden hair almost obscured her face. Her whole body burned for this man. His mere presence melted her; his voice, harsh though it was, sent impossible arrows of desire quivering through her helpless, naked flesh. He despised her so utterly, that she knew he would scorn anything at all that she tried to say in her defence. Would he take her word instead of Isobel’s? Never.

  Behind her, Pierre and Morwith reached their noisy climax, bucking wildly in each other’s arms before collapsing, sweaty and sated, onto the floor. Aimery waited till they were still, then bit out roughly, ‘Very well, then, Elena. Show me what you have learned.’

  Elena gazed up at him, bewildered; Isobel gave her a little shove, and hissed in her ear, ‘Pleasure him, you fool! Have you learned nothing
all day? Kneel, and pleasure your lord!’

  With sudden realisation, Elena fell to her knees. Pleasure him. As Morwith had pleasured Pierre, when he first entered that hateful room.

  Her cheeks flooded with colour now, Elena bowed her head so that her swathes of golden hair hung like a silk curtain across the Breton’s strongly muscled thighs and brushed the tops of, his leather boots. With trem­bling fingers, she reached for the lacings that fastened his woollen hose. Oh, if only men’s clothing were not such a mystery to her! Unintentionally, as she fumbled beneath his leather tunic, she brushed the Breton’s heated groin, saw his strong hands suddenly tighten on the arms of the chair. Her throat went dry. His bare forearms were tanned and sinewed, the skin covered with fine, sun-bleached hairs that she longed to kiss … She was this man’s slave, she acknowledged hope­lessly, in more ways than one.

  As she knelt on the ground before him, the leather belt pressed in again on her soft, moist flesh. Already this afternoon, Morwith’s sweet mouth had aroused her almost to breaking point. Now, with the Breton so near, she felt the drugged desire build up almost unbearably. She tried to hold herself very still, so that the leather strap would not slide any further between her swollen lips, but already her breathing was short and ragged.

  Isobel’s sneering laugh mocked her as she struggled with the stubborn laces. Then she found the opening, and her fingers shook as she caught a glimpse of smooth, taut thigh, darkly covered with soft, secret hairs. And then - between his thighs was that thickly curling pelt, from which grew his mysterious phallus, already thickened and stirring with life …

  Forgetting her anguish, she gazed silently at its beauty, her breath catching in her throat. This was the heart, the dark, masculine core of this man who domi­nated her every thought.

  From behind her, Isobel hissed, ‘Go on, you little fool. Don’t just stare!’ She was aware of Morwith and Pierre, too, watching avidly from the shadows behind her. She panicked. What was she supposed to do?

  Suddenly, she remembered how Morwith had taken Pierre’s manhood in her mouth, when he first entered the room. She had been horrified then by the act, by the redhead’s blatant sexuality. But this was different.

  Elena felt herself filling up with an exquisite, yearning tenderness. No-one else in the room mattered, no-one else existed, except for Aimery. She leaned forward gently, to press tiny, delicate kisses on the warm flesh that stirred so strongly between the Breton’s powerful thighs. As she did so, the root thickened still more, nudging her, caressing her parted lips. Elena kissed it again, carefully, along the now rigid shaft. Her heart thudded slowly as she felt the veined silken skin puls­ing, tautening, lengthening. It was so beautiful, so warm and full of life.

  Dimly, she heard Isobel exclaim impatiently, ‘My lord, would you rather I gave you satisfaction instead? Clearly the girl has much to learn yet!’

  Aimery, not taking his eyes from the girl’s bowed head, said coldly, ‘Isobel, your interruptions annoy me. Can’t you find something, or someone else, to occupy your time? Another crude kitchen serf, perhaps?’

  Isobel gasped aloud, as if he’d struck her. With a swirl of her silken gown, she turned and left the room, slamming the door behind her. Pierre, watching the kneeling Saxon girl as she paid homage to her Breton lord, was stirring with excitement again; Morwith too watched with moist, open lips.

  Elena was oblivious to them all. All except her lord, Aimery. This suddenly seemed to be the only way she could express her love for this proud, bitter man, and her whole body hungered to serve him. All her yearning self, all her pulsing flesh, so exquisitely tormented during that long day, centred on her slow, deliberate caresses. His penis stood proudly erect now, straining at the flat, hard muscle of his belly; with a little gasp at the sight, almost frightened by it, she leaned forward on impulse and rubbed her small breasts, one by one, against the throbbing, silky glans.

  The feel of his strong phallus against her tender, rosy nipples excited her unbearably. Sweet flames of sen­sation burned through her flesh, to meet in a molten blaze at the pit of her abdomen. Oh, to feel that massive pillar of flesh deep within her, caressing her, filling her!

  Aimery groaned aloud at the unexpected delight of her breasts against his fevered phallus. Reaching out blindly, he clutched at her mane of hair and pulled her face down close to his throbbing erection. Shyly yet defiantly, Elena parted her lips and kissed him there, softly running her small tongue around the ridge that encircled the swollen glans. Then, drawing a deep breath, she took him in her mouth, sliding her moist lips down the straining shaft as far as she could, sensing rather than hearing the Breton’s harsh gasp of pleasure.

  He tasted exquisite. Warm, silken, aromatic - the very essence of masculinity. Knowing that she could take no more of that imposing shaft into her mouth, she instinc­tively gripped the base of his phallus with her hand, and continued to run her soft mouth up and down up and down the rigid flesh, shuddering with pleasure herself as he gasped and clutched at her shoulders.

  Suddenly, Elena, her blood pulsing by now with almost unbearable excitement, felt the Breton’s taut hips go very tense and still. With exquisite sensitivity, she continued to lick and suck, pouring her whole heart into her caresses; his strong hands moved to cup her breasts, his palms working deliberately to and fro across her stiffened nipples. Conscious of her own surging rapture, Elena gasped and felt the leather belt rub more tightly than ever against her secret parts. She thrust her breasts against Aimery’s cool hands, rubbing the swol­len globes desperately, dipping her head to pleasure him more fiercely than ever.

  Then, the Breton suddenly withdrew. She feared she’d displeased him, but he soothed her, stroking her hair, restoring her confidence. At the same time his fingers squeezed her heated breasts, kneading and pinching her engorged nipples; the leather belt seemed to press harder between her moist inner lips, rubbing unbearably against her clitoris; until at last, with a wild shudder of ecstasy, Elena’s racked body arched and exploded, all her senses obliterated by the shimmering waves of pleasure that rolled through her exquisitely-tormented nerve endings.

  Still dazed with sensation, she felt an overpowering urge to bring him to the same plateau of rapture. Pushing her hair back from her flushed face, she leaned forward to draw her tongue tip around the sensitive glans of his urgently throbbing phallus, taking as much as she could into the soft cavern of her mouth, while with her hand she stroked and gripped the base of his rigid shaft. She felt a wonderful sense of power as he started to thrust strongly, uncontrollably within her mouth, and when his first spurt of semen shot out, she felt her body ripple in renewed orgasm. Dazed with the pleasure of it, she continued to suck and swallow the salty, exquisite emissions as his penis jerked powerfully at the back of her throat.

  At long last he was still, and she felt the rigid shaft begin to soften within her mouth. She kissed it tenderly and knelt before him, her head bowed in silent homage. Surely, he would realise now what he meant to her. Tears of emotion welled in her eyes, making them translucent.

  She felt his hand cupping her chin. He raised her head gently, compelling her to look up at him. His scarred, handsome face was stern and expressionless, the grey eyes cold. Yet behind it all, she knew, she was triumphantly sure, that there was some tenderness for her! He had sensed her own approaching release and urged her towards it, with infinite skill, even though he was so close to his own climax of passion.

  Then suddenly, Aimery le Sabrenn saw the unshed tears of emotion in Elena’s eyes, and stood up so abruptly that Elena almost fell.

  ‘My lady Isobel has failed in her tuition,’ he grated out sharply. ‘You are not supposed to shed tears, Elena. Even if I am the person you hate most in all the world.’

  ‘My lord!’ she stammered out, shocked. ‘I - ‘

  ‘Enough.’ He cut her short. ‘From now on, you can take your pleasure with the rest of Isobel’s rabble -presumably they please you more!’ Swiftly, in less time than it took to blink an eye
, he fastened his clothes and left the room. Elena drew a deep, shuddering breath of despair and gripped at the legs of the chair he had just left, fighting back the sharp pain that seared her. He had misunderstood. She would go after him.

  From behind her, Morwith said softly, ‘Dear me. You’ve got a lot to learn, haven’t you? A lot they didn’t teach you at the convent.’

  Elena whirled round. Pierre, sated, was asleep on the floor; Morwith was watching her with a strange light in her pale eyes. ‘Was I so bad then?’ Elena whispered brokenly.

  Morwith frowned. In fact, she’d been wildly jealous of the Saxon girl’s exquisitely natural, sensual caresses, and she’d seen, only too well, the effect they’d had on the Breton.

  But she wasn’t going to tell her that, because Morwith wanted Aimery too, and she hoped that she might be able to turn this incident to her own advantage. ‘Not bad,’ the redhead conceded grudgingly. ‘Not bad - for a first time. But I’d be very, very surprised if he came back for more. I’ll tell you what, I’ll give you lessons sometime.’

  Pierre stirred in his sleep, and emitted a gentle snore.

  Elena went slowly over to the bed and started pulling on her serf’s tunic, her heart unbearably heavy. Sud­denly, she wanted more than anything to be out of this room, away from the heavy, overloaded atmosphere. ‘Thank you, Morwith,’ she said. ‘I will remember your offer.’

  Then she went back to her own little room further along the gallery and lay on her bed, the despair washing over her.

  In the great raftered hall, brightly lit by scores of smoking wax candles set in iron sconces on the walls, the evening meal was drawing to a close. Knights, men-at-arms, stewards and reeves relaxed noisily at the trestle tables set up through the length of the hall; shouting for more ale from the serving wenches, telling bawdy stories, picking at bones and mopping up the last morsels of juicy gravy with slabs of manchet bread. In front of the great log fire that always burned, day and night, several shaggy hunting hounds sprawled on the freshly-strewn rushes, gnawing contentedly at the half-finished scraps that had been thrown to them.