Elena's Conquest Read online

  ‘Now, my handsome young friend Henri,’ she said softly. ‘On your knees before her. See how her flesh burns for you! See how the little convent girl yearns for a real man’s caress! Bow down before her - taste her -kiss her -’

  Henri understood not one word, but he did under­stand what he was meant to do. Eagerly he kneeled between Elena’s spread legs, and she wrenched her head aside, closing her eyes in shame.

  But then, as she began to feel his slow, rasping tongue wriggling along the folds of her secret flesh, the hot tide of pleasure began to build up inside her like an unstoppable flood. His touch was exquisite. Skillfully, he drew his long, pointed tongue up and down the entrance to her inflamed love channel, sliding lingeringly along the moist plump flesh, flicking at the pleasure bud at the end of each stroke, until she cried aloud with the sweetness of it. The girls who pinned down her arms were licking moistly at her distended nipples until she squirmed with pleasure; still she fought desperately to hold back, because she couldn’t bear the thought of these women witnessing her shame­ful delight in this degradation.

  Then the young soldier slowly slid his stiffened tongue up inside her, gently thrusting against her pulsing inner walls. At the same time, the two girls nipped and sucked at her swollen breasts, drawing out her aching nipples with their teeth; and Elena, lost in a haze of voluptuous sensation, crashed into a violent frenzy of rapture, writhing her hips against the man’s delicious tongue, and rubbing her breasts against her tormentors’ sweet mouths.

  In endless waves, the exquisite pleasure washed over her and slowly receded. The girls smiled down at her, pleased with themselves, and looked round for their next entertainment.

  The soldier had enjoyed Elena’s cries of rapture, and was fully erect again. The girls on seeing his proud, handsome appendage thrusting out so eagerly, squab­bled fiercely over him. They ended up in a confused tussle in the corner; until three of them crouched over on all fours in a row, desperately thrust their juicy, naked hips towards him, openly parting their moist flesh lips with eager fingers. Henri, taking his time and thoroughly enjoying himself, crouched on his knees to fondle their plump bottoms and to service each one of them briefly; then he withdrew, and moved on. Each girl panted breathlessly with excitement as her turn approached; each girl savoured every second as his glistening red phallus drove passionately into her hungry flesh; then moaned in despair as he withdrew and moved on with a grin. Every eye was on his long, jutting penis, every eye watched enviously as he lin­gered at last with the third girl, who-convulsed into orgasm the minute his rampant shaft slid up her tight, aching love channel. Her little gasps of pleasure were too much for the soldier. They all watched avidly as he clutched at her plump hips, pumping hard into her until, with a groan of shattering delight, he spasmed into her quivering flesh, the sweat glistening on his ecstatic face.

  ‘Hush! Someone’s coming!’ hissed Gytha.

  They all froze. They could hear heavy footsteps coming down the stairwell beyond the wooden door. The soldier Henri, exhausted though he was, sprang to his feet in alarm and pulled down his leather jerkin; the women rearranged their rumpled tunics and shrank back into the shadows, completely silent. Elena felt as if everyone must be able to hear the heavy pounding of her own heart. She had watched, transfixed, as the young soldier drove the three women to distraction, her own body still awash with delicious sensation. Oh, if only it had been Aimery, she yearned silently.

  Rusty hinges grated, and the door slowly opened. The light from a lantern poured into the dark, airless dungeon.

  A captain of the guard stood outlined in the doorway, his sword drawn, his grim face menacing.

  ‘Henri!’ he grated out. They have been looking for you this past half hour. Your turn for the night watch, lad, or had you forgotten? A good job someone remem­bered you were due to take bread and water to these sluts.’

  The young soldier Henri, his face admirably straight, said, ‘I stumbled and fell down the steps, sir.’ He gestured apologetically at the scattered loaves, the spilled pitcher of water. ‘Gave myself a knock on the head. These girls were - most helpful, sir.’

  Someone stifled a giggle; the captain raised his lan­tern and scoured the shadows suspiciously. They all gazed back at him, wide eyes innocent. Meanwhile, Henri had bent to pick up his fallen dagger.

  ‘Move yourself, then, lad!’ said the captain gruffly. ‘Your turn at the gate!’

  ‘Sir!’ said Henri smartly, and hurried through the door and up the stairs. The captain turned one last time to glare at the women. Damned Saxons, he muttered to himself. All the same, a good-looking young bunch. And the air in here was strangely heavy and scented, musky, almost as if - as if …

  Shaking his head, he followed Henri out of the cell and slammed the door.

  Back in the darkness, the girls collapsed with laugh­ter, and huddled in a circle to relive the delightful ordeal of their all-too-willing prisoner. Someone gath­ered up the scattered rye loaves that Henri had brought, and they devoured them greedily. Then Joan sat back suddenly, and sighed. ‘I wonder how much longer we’ll be shut up in here?’

  Gytha said curtly, ‘You heard the orders when they rounded us up. All Saxon serfs are to be locked away until Aimery le Sabrenn returns.’

  ‘Perhaps’ murmured someone longingly out of the darkness, ‘the lord Aimery himself will visit us …’

  ‘Then we could kidnap him’ murmured another girl excitedly. ‘Oh, every time I see him riding out through the castle gates, I go hot and cold all over. That face, that voice, that body! I tell you, the things I’d do to him, if the lord Aimery were my prisoner!’

  Gytha said sharply, ‘Best steer clear of him if you’ve any sense.’

  Elena, kneeling at Joan’s side, almost stopped breath­ing. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because, little convent girl, I’ve heard stories. About the Breton.’ She looked around the hushed circle, seeing how their pretty young faces watched her avidly. ‘I’ve been here longer than any of you. And, believe me, I’ve heard tales of how the Breton likes to amuse himself.’ She paused; the silence was absolute.

  ‘Our fine lord Aimery,’ she went on softly, ‘has a liking for Saxon girls.’ Someone gave a murmur of excitement. ‘Yes, girls like you. Any of you. He picks on a pretty serf, and takes her upstairs, to his private chamber. Lavishes her with fine clothes, wines from his own cellar, the finest, most delicate food. And nights of exquisite pleasure. Unimaginable pleasure.’

  ‘How do you know all this, Gytha?’ someone whis­pered eagerly.

  ‘I heard it with my own ears from the lady Isobel’s maid, Alys. You know how she’s always eavesdrop­ping, spying at keyholes. Poor Alys, she’s so desperate for a man, she’d tell us any secret, if we find a sturdy Saxon to service her. She told us - ‘ and again her voice dropped - ‘that’s it’s the Breton’s twisted idea of enter­tainment to choose himself an innocent Saxon girl, one who’s new to the estate, then he drives her mad with devilish pleasure, and when she’s quite besotted, demented with longing for him, he casts her out again. Back onto the dungheaps, where he reckons all we Saxons belong.’

  It seemed suddenly cold in their dark cell. ‘But why?’ someone faltered. ‘Why would he do that, when he can have his pick of anyone?’

  Gytha shrugged grimly. ‘I’ve heard it said that he hates all Saxons - especially women - with a deep, poisonous hatred. There’s something hidden in his past, that’s burned into his very soul.’

  The others sat in silence, absorbing what they’d just heard.

  Elena, glad of the near-darkness, was clenching her knuckles until her nails dug into her palms. No. She wouldn’t believe it. He had called her caran - his beloved. She wouldn’t believe it. She was different!

  But wasn’t what Gytha spoke of happening to her already? Already the powerful Breton lord dominated her every thought, her body, her soul. Even at the height of sensual pleasure bestowed on her by the soldier, Henri, it was Aimery’s name that rose to her lips. And,
if what Gytha said was true, then it explained why she was imprisoned down here, at Aimery’s command.

  ‘Are you all right, Elena?’ Joan, who’d been watching her, put a friendly hand on her shoulder. Elena pushed her tousled hair back from her white face.

  ‘I’m tired, that’s all.’ She tried to smile.

  Then sleep,’ said Joan soothingly. ‘We’re friends, you know.’

  Elena nodded silently, and curled up in a corner on the straw. Someone covered her with a tattered cloak, and she slept through the night, exhausted.

  She awoke with a start. It was morning. The daylight flooded down the stairwell through the open door of their cell. She was aware of lots of noise and confusion, with armed guards standing by the doorway hustling the women out.

  Elena scrambled to her feet; Joan reached out to grab her hand, pulling her urgently towards freedom. But at the last moment, two of the guards seized Elena roughly and pushed her back into the cell so that she stumbled and fell.

  ‘Let her go, you oafs!’ said Joan sharply. ‘Isn’t she to be freed, like the rest of us?’

  ‘That one stays’ said the guard warningly. ‘You’d argue with the lord Aimery’s orders, would you, wench?’

  Joan was pushed, protesting, out of the cell. The guards followed and the door was locked.

  Elena lay on the straw in the corner, her arms wrapped around her shivering body. ‘The lord Aimery’s orders?’

  Gytha had been right about the Breton, but her warning had come too late for Elena. Already, her punishment was beginning.

  Morwith should have been locked up with the other women. In fact, she’d been rounded up with the rest of the Saxon serfs when the order for their restraint first came through; but she’d quickly pointed out to the guard the error of his ways. In fact, she’d whispered in his ear and the young guard, confused and excited, had promised to take her to the guardroom instead, to keep her safe while the alarm was on.

  Two other guards were rolling dice at the roughly-hewn oak table as she was shown into the barely furnished guardroom that lodged by the main gates to the castle. The candles flickered as the door opened; the soldiers looked up from their game, and grinned slowly as the young guard ushered in his prize.

  Morwith returned their challenging stares with a slow smile, tossing back her thick red curls, and smoothing her plain woollen gown tightly over her voluptuous hips.

  One of the seated soldiers said slowly, Tell you what. We’ll play dice for her.’

  ‘What a good idea,’ said Morwith, moistening her lips as she surveyed them. They were all young, all sturdily built and sternly attractive, with their leather gambesons and sunburned faces framed by close-cropped dark hair. Her own excitement surged. ‘Just as long as you all win …

  The soldier who’d brought her in, the youngest of the three, gulped noisily. With a wicked smile, Morwith untied the girdle at her waist and pulled her long gown over her head dropping it on the hard earth floor. Then she slipped out of her cotton chemise and stood provoc­atively before them, clad only in a pair of Isobel’s silk hose, that were gartered with silk ribbon around her plump, freckled thighs. She clasped her hands demurely across her ripe mound, where the red-golden hair so tantalisingly outlined her sex. In doing so, her upper arms squeezed her full breasts up and together, so that the large brown nipples, already stiffening, pouted hungrily.

  She felt the heated excitement licking like tongues of fire at her belly, here in this bare guardroom, with three fine soldiers and all the trappings of war, the armour and the weapons, scattered about the room. This was the kind of power she’d only dreamed of, when she was a shabby, homeless outcast in the forest!

  All three of them - why not?

  ‘Well, lads,’ said one of the guards thickly, scarcely able to tear his eyes from Morwith’s glorious body. ‘Looks like we’ve got ourselves a tasty, willing morsel for tonight. Which one of us first?’ and they began to roll the dice with feverish haste.

  A straw pallet intended for the use of off-duty soldiers lay in the shadowy corner of the guardroom. Morwith swayed tantalisingly across the room towards it and sprawled languorously on her back, her hands behind her head, watching the three intent soldiers as they played by the light of the candle. ‘Come on, then,’ she murmured provocatively. ‘Show me what you can do.’

  With a cry of triumph as the dice settled, one of the soldiers jumped to his feet. Swiftly he unfastened his belt and loosened his leggings. He had no time for any further preparation, and Morwith soon saw why; he already sported a huge erection. Her eyes widened with joy as he kneeled eagerly between her parted legs and, frowning with concentration, gripped at his throbbing member.

  ‘Ah, soldier,’ she breathed, drawing up her knees to display her ripe, moist flesh. That’s a beauty! Stick it up me - oh yes, yes!’ She wrapped her legs eagerly round his muscular hips, and her words were lost in a delighted cry of pleasure as he slid his engorged shaft up her juicy love passage and began pumping eagerly away.

  And now the second soldier had won his game of dice; he pulled down his leggings swiftly, and his angry red penis reared up from his loins, searching blindly for an orifice. Morwith’s mouth, gasping with pleasure as the first soldier made his deep, searching thrusts, was open and tempting; with a groan he kneeled astride her face and thrust himself within that velvety opening, feeling her soft lips adjust instantly to receive the swollen glans, her insolent tongue darting, licking, sucking as hard as she could.

  The third soldier, the youngest and the one who’d brought her here in the first place, stood watching enviously, his hand pumping despairingly at his own slim, pulsing shaft as he watched.

  Then he noticed the first man’s buttocks, tight and muscular as he drove himself in and out of the Saxon wench. He saw the man’s heavy balls dangling between his thighs; saw the shadowy curls of hair that outlined the dark mysterious crevice between his bottom cheeks; caught a glimpse of the tightly puckered brown hole that he knew would be pulsing with excitement.

  Eagerly, the young soldier spat into his hand, and rubbed the moisture over his ravening penis. Then he knelt behind the other man, smoothing his hands lovingly over those muscular bottom-cheeks, parting them, rubbing his finger along the dark, hairy crease and poking his forefinger exploratively into the tightly collared hole.

  Then, swiftly, he pushed himself into the tiny aper­ture, groaning aloud with delight as the narrow anal rim caressed his hot, angry phallus. The other man shouted aloud as he felt the intrusion; gasped with excitement, and began, almost immediately, to climax into the redhead with harsh, spasming jerks. The young soldier who impaled him was also carried over the brink, his own orgasm washing over him in hot, flood­ing waves; while at Morwith’s head, the man who occupied her mouth let her wonderful, silky lips suck him into a rapture so extreme that he cried aloud in delight as his seed gushed into her throat.

  As for Morwith, she had never known anything like it. Three virile, splendidly-equipped, muscular men, all writhing in ecstasy above her, within her. She arched her hips convulsively as the ripples of exquisite sen­sation coursed through her body and exploded in a blinding torrent of pleasure.

  Slowly, grinning somewhat sheepishly, the men withdrew and got to their feet. Morwith lay on the pallet, flushed and sated, her red hair billowing about her shoulders and her eyes drowsy with delight.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ she said softly, ‘consider me your pris­oner for the night. Another game of dice? Only this time, I’ll join in …’

  Chapter Ten

  It was late afternoon when the lady Isobel de Morency, flanked by guards, stood expectantly in the sunbaked castle courtyard. She had come to witness a punishment.

  The sergeant-at-arms pointed brusquely to where a man was fettered on his knees against the stable wall.

  That’s the man, my lady. Just some Saxon clod, a serf. My men caught him trying to escape from the armoury where he’d been locked in with the rest of the rabble. An informer warned us -
said he intended to escape and join the rebel army. He’s been in chains all day, without food or drink and now, by your leave, my lady, he’ll be flogged, as an example to the rest of the rabble.’

  Isobel nodded, her green eyes narrowing as she surveyed the prisoner kneeling on the hard cobbles, trapped in the full glare of the hot summer sun. Without water to ease his thirst, he would be suffering. She felt a pleasurable pulse beat in her white throat.

  She’d known he was Saxon by the striking colour of his ragged, shoulder-length blond hair. He looked young and muscular, a fine figure despite his ragged breeches. Out here in the dusty courtyard there was no relief from the sun and his bronzed back glistened with sweat. Moistening her full lips, Isobel drank in the subtle interplay of taut muscle and assessed the stretched tendons and corded sinews of his powerful, imprisoned arms as he knelt there in his humiliation, his hips upthrust into the air.

  Isobel smiled to herself. Suddenly, life didn’t seem quite so tedious. Walking slowly across the yard, the guards following, she stopped in front of the bowed prisoner. Then she reached out for the sergeant-at-arms’ leather quirt, and trailed the lash of the whip softly across the serf’s broad shoulders.

  The man shuddered briefly, then looked up at her in silent defiance.

  Isobel’s eyes widened, taking in the regular, tanned features; the strong, square jaw shadowed with blond stubble; the proud yet sensitive mouth and the vivid blue Saxon eyes that were filled with a natural arro­gance, even in this hopeless subjugation. A find indeed.

  They tell me’ she said softly, ‘that you were trying to run. What a coward you are. What is your name?’

  The proud Saxon moistened his parched lips and grated out, ‘I am no coward, lady. And my name is Leofwin.’