Elena's Conquest Read online

  Isobel vowed anew in that moment that she would subjugate this girl herself, if Aimery would not.

  Elena was slowly lifting the rough woollen tunic over her head when Isobel reached out languidly to stroke the exposed, taut skin of her abdomen. Elena gasped and froze; Isobel, with a smile, trailed her fingers towards the juncture of the girl’s thighs, where the soft gold hair curled so delicately.

  ‘My dear,’ she murmured, ‘just like gold silk! So delicate. Quite, quite charming. But you really do need educating, don’t you? So sadly lacking in any refine­ment. And Aimery really does not care, you know, for unsophisticated women.’ Isobel’s thumb brushed tantalisingly at the top of Elena’s secret place, stroking the pleasure bud, pinching the outer lips swiftly, then withdrawing her hand. Elena gasped and flushed at the sudden burst of pleasure that assailed her, and Isobel laughed at the girl’s consternation.

  ‘So,’ she went on, ‘the lord Aimery has given me something for you. A little gift, if you like. He made it quite clear that he wished you to wear this special garment.’

  Elena, her spine tingling with unease, said suddenly, ‘Where is lord Aimery?’

  ‘Gone out with his men. He then has to escort a convoy from Lincoln through his territory, so he will not be back for some time. But he left this for you, my dear. Here - let me show you.’ And, reaching into the recessed folds of her skirt, she drew out what looked to Elena like a small leather belt.

  Elena, still naked, clutched the serf’s tunic to her defenceless body, and shivered with apprehension. There was something sinister about the belt that Isobel dangled teasingly before her, with its buckles and straps. ‘I would rather not wear it,’ she whispered.

  Isobel, watching her, felt a renewed surge of hatred. This girl was fresh, young, innocent. And Aimery had gone to her room last night . . ,

  ‘Oh, dear’ chided Isobel in her sweetest tones. ‘Dis­obedience already! I shall have to tell Aimery - he will be most disappointed in you - ‘

  She saw how the girl’s face became drained of blood. She was obviously terrified of Aimery’s disapproval. Poor girl, she was besotted, like all the others before her. And therefore well on the way to her downfall …

  ‘So, of course,’ Isobel went on brightly, ‘you will wear the belt, won’t you, my dear? Here, let me help you.’

  ‘It is the lord Aimery’s wish?’ said the girl quietly.

  ‘Of course.’

  The girl bit her lip and nodded mutely. With a secret smile of satisfaction, Isobel helped her into the little belt that was one of her own favourite devices. Elena had to step into it because, although the main strap was buckled round her waist, there was a further piece of leather that pulled up tightly between her legs, cradling the soft mound of her femininity, narrowing at the back to slip between the rounded cheeks of her bottom. Elena gasped at the unfamiliar feel of the cold leather against her outer flesh lips. ‘It is too tight!’

  ‘Nonsense!’ retorted Isobel briskly as she nimbly tightened the big buckle at Elena’s small waist, thus drawing up the strap between her legs even further. This is how it is meant to be worm. You will soon be perfectly used to it. It is quite customary for favoured female slaves, I assure you!’

  She let her fingers trail along the firm leather that pressed against the girl’s delicious femininity, secretly revelling in the exquisite combination of soft, tempting flesh and dark, thick leather. The girl, with her stupid, innate modesty, recoiled with a shudder from her touch; but Isobel knew that already the cunningly-made love belt would be doing its work. Because where it pressed against Elena’s pink folds it was slightly ridged, so that it would exert gentle yet persistent pleasure on her tender flesh lips. It would eventually part them, chafing against her sweet pleasure zones with every step she took, preparing her for the entertainment that Isobel had in mind for the afternoon.

  Already, Isobel could see that the girl was breathing raggedly with the secret combination of shame and promised pleasure. Isobel smiled. The lord Aimery will be most pleased to know that you are obeying him,’ she lied softly. ‘Now I will send my maid Alys, to take you down to the kitchens.’

  And with that, the lady Isobel left the room.

  Elena stood very still after she had gone, trying desperately to order her reeling thoughts. She would run away from Thoresfield! She would not suffer this humiliation!

  Pulling on her coarse woollen gown, she moved purposefully towards the door. The castle gates were open. No-one would notice yet another serf heading off towards the fields.

  Suddenly, as she moved, the ridged leather slipped up between her flesh lips and rubbed with heart—

  stopping sweetness at her secret parts. The delicious warmth, the novel feeling of constriction, flooded her belly, and she felt her nipples tingle suddenly where the woollen gown chafed them.

  She remembered Aimery’s dark embrace; her body’s awakening in his arms. Already, the leather belt was moist between her legs. She moved again, tentatively, towards the door; the leather rubbed softly against that very heart of her pleasure, nudging at the little bud that the Breton had caressed so sweetly last night. Maybe tonight he would come to her again.

  Elena knew then that she would not, could not run away. She knew that a day of exquisite torment lay ahead, like a challenge - a challenge issued by the lady Isobel. She drew a deep breath and turned back into her room, to await her next orders.

  She would rise to that challenge, and win.

  Beyond the castle, in the great south field that bordered the encroaching forest, Morwith was growing hot, tired and rebellious. Since daybreak, when they had meagrely broken their fast on bread and weak ale, she and the other serfs had been working their way up and down the field gathering armfuls of the hay, newly mown by the lines of men with scythes. The midday sun burned into her face; the sweat gleamed on her arms; the blades of grass tickled her legs unbearably. Everyone else passively accepted the barked orders of the Saxon reeve and his men, and trudged obediently across to the big cart with armfuls of grass. But Mor­with, who knew she was different, felt the irritation boiling up inside. Somehow, she would find a way to get to the lord Aimery! He, surely, would not expect her to labour like this, to sleep in a hovel with the other women! There must be some mistake.

  ‘You, there!’ The reeve called out sharply to her. She swung round defiantly, pushing her hair from her face. ‘You, who think yourself too good to be a serf - yes,

  you, the redheaded wench! Go to the kitchens, and fetch more ale for the mowers. And be quick about it!’

  Glad at least to escape from the backbreaking work for a while, Morwith bit back her retort and hurried across the fields towards the castle’s gates. At the kitchen, they gave her a big earthernware jug and told her to help herself from the ale cask in the store room. She found her way there slowly, taking her time; it was shadowy and dark in the cask-filled store room, and cool out of the heat of the sun. She filled the jug with the creamy, fragrant ale and took a long drink of it herself. It slid down her parched throat like nectar. She drank more, then set down the heavy jug and went to stand in the doorway, running her hands through her thick red curls.

  ‘You are in trouble, lady?’

  The soft, dark voice broke into her thoughts. She turned with a gasp of alarm; someone was coming along the side of the storeroom towards her, The dark-skinned man, Hamet - the Breton’s servant.

  Morwith stammered, trying to collect her thoughts, ‘I - I was but resting for a moment, sir. They sent me for ale. Ale for the reapers.’

  He nodded, his arms folded across his burly chest, watching her. He wore a sleeveless leather tunic; his hugely muscled shoulders glistened with perspiration in the midday heat. Did he remember her from that night in the forest? Surely - surely he did. He had taken such pleasure in her. Morwith’s heart beat furiously. Now. Now was her chance. Hamet the Saracen was the lord Aimery’s personal servant. If she could find favour with him, then surely he would take her to his master agai
n.

  Morwith moved slowly and thought fast. Picking up the heavy jug, she gave the Saracen a shy smile and moved to go past him. Suddenly, she swayed and lost her balance; the jug crashed to the floor, and the big Saracen caught her quickly, his hands steadying her waist. ‘Lady, you, are not well?’

  Morwith swayed hungrily against him, feeling her loose bodice slipping from her shoulders. ‘No,’ she whispered, gazing up at him hungrily and moistening her full lips. ‘I am not well. But you can make me feel better. So much better …’

  Slowly, tantalisingly, she reached up to run light, provocative fingers over his strong arms. Then she licked her forefinger and touched his lips, half-closing her eyes. With a harsh foreign oath, Hamet crushed her to him and devoured her mouth. Morwith leaned back, panting, against the cold stone wall of the store room. ‘Oh, yes’ she gasped through his kiss. ‘Please …’

  Her eyes opened wide in lascivious delight as Hamet cupped and lifted her ripe breasts, freeing them com­pletely from her ragged gown. Then he ran his hungry tongue greedily across her pouting flesh, lapping and sucking at her turgid nipples. Eagerly, Morwith reached for his belt, but Hamet anticipated her. Swiftly he untied the lacing at the top of his leggings, and freed his huge erection. It sprang out, quivering with tension, already fully rigid.

  Morwith gasped and coloured at the sight of the dusky, throbbing shaft as it reared towards her. ‘So magnificent’ she breathed huskily, reaching with trem­bling fingers to stroke its satin length. ‘My lord, you are truly a stallion.’

  With a throaty groan of delight, Hamet reached to pull up Morwith’s full skirts. She was wearing nothing underneath; the plump, freckled flesh of her inviting thighs drove him insane. Devouring her luscious mouth, Hamet lifted her in his arms to prop her against the wall, supporting almost all of her weight while he thrust eagerly against her.

  Morwith, breathless with excitement, arched her own moist, pouting secret flesh towards the Saracen’s lung­ing hips, wrapping her thighs tightly round him as he held her off the ground. Hamet prodded blindly, at last finding the quivering entrance to her love-channel. With a sigh of satisfaction, the Saracen slid up inside her.

  Morwith gasped, her arms clutching convulsively at his leather-clad shoulders. Her hungry flesh was a riot of delight as he licked and suckled her pouting breasts. Oh, the feel of his massive penis, gliding so slickly in and out of her greedy flesh! She felt herself rising inexorably to a shuddering, delicious climax as he serviced her; felt him thrust his hips powerfully towards his own release, his penis jerking and spasming within her luscious, grateful body.

  The pleasure washed over her, again and again. Simple, crude and wonderful. Sated, she clung to him still, licking the smooth dark skin of his cheek, caressing his soft earlobe. Slowly she felt his subsiding manhood slip out of her and nuzzle her damp thighs.

  ‘Good,’ she murmured. ‘So good.’ Gently she unwrapped herself from him, smoothing down her crumpled skirt. ‘Hamet, you like me, do you not?’

  He groaned in acknowledgement, swiftly lacing up his leggings. ‘Lady, with you, the pleasure is wonderful.’

  Then,’ whispered Morwith, ‘why do I not come to you again? You sleep within the castle itself, do you not? Near to the lord Aimery?’

  Hamet visibly hesitated. ‘I do. But - ‘

  ‘Send for me,’ she whispered. ‘Your master need not know. Send for me, Hamet, and I will be yours, all yours, for the night!’ She reached up to kiss him languorously. He began to harden again, against her belly; she released him with a soft laugh of delight and whispered, ‘Now, go quickly, before we are seen. And remember - this is our secret’

  At a tiny window overlooking the courtyard, the lady Isobel de Morency, who had seen everything, moved away with a smile of satisfaction playing around her full lips.

  When Isobel had first caught sight of the redheaded Saxon serf talking to Hamet, distracting him from his duties as Aimery’s deputy, she’d frowned, and been on the point of sending someone down to chastise her.

  But then, as Isobel saw how swiftly the lascivious hunger took over their bodies, she felt her own excite­ment rise. Hamet was so straightforward in his pleasures, and so undeniably well-endowed. And the redheaded slut, who must be new to the castle, how ripe and voluptuous she was as she took her greedy pleasuring from the big Saracen! No innocent she; why, she positively crowed with delight as Hamet slid his willing shaft up into her juicy flesh. What a contrast to the pale, virginal convent girl, who would be slaving away in the kitchens, no doubt tormented by the belt that would be chafing so deliciously between her slen­der thighs! Surely, the redhead would be more suited to Aimery’s needs?

  Isobel felt pleasantly aroused from watching the little scene in the courtyard. Smiling to herself, she revised her plans - just a little.

  Later that afternoon, Isobel lounged back on her fur-covered bed, sipping from a silver goblet filled with sweet, heady wine. ‘You see,’ she was explaining, ‘I need a very special kind of servant …’

  Morwith stood in front of her, hands clasped together, head meekly bowed. She’d just enjoyed a luxurious bath, a blissful experience for her, and she’d been given an old but serviceable woollen gown of Isobel’s to wear instead of her serf’s tunic. Her glorious red hair, newly washed, hung in silky tendrils around her shoulders. She looked the picture of meekness; but Isobel, having seen her antics with Hamet earlier, was not deceived.

  Thoughtfully, Isobel poured herself more wine and inspected her new prize. The young woman had a lovely figure, voluptuous yet firm, with full breasts and swelling hips. A trifle plump, perhaps, but all femininity.

  Isobel ran her finger round the rim of her goblet and stretched her legs languorously beneath her silk gown. Leaning back against the soft down-filled pillows that were piled up behind her, she went on casually, ‘You know, I take it, that you are in the stronghold of Aimery le Sabrenn?’

  The woman seemed to flush slightly; then nodded.

  Isobel continued, ‘My lord Aimery, like all great and powerful men, needs his relaxation, Morwith. He likes me to arrange certain little - entertainments for him. I wonder if you understand?’

  There was certainly now no mistaking the brightness in the redhead’s pale blue eyes. Isobel slid languidly from the bed, still holding her wine, and walked over to her. Morwith’s gown, a little too tight, strained provocatively across her chest; Isobel ran a slow hand across the woman’s constrained breasts, felt the instant hardening of her nipples, heard her sharply indrawn breath.

  ‘Are you a good servant, Morwith?’ Isobel said softly. ‘Are you going to be truly obedient to your lord?’

  The Saxon woman moistened her lips eagerly. ‘Oh, yes, my lady,’ she breathed.

  Isobel’s hand whipped up and struck her hard across the cheek. Morwith bit back a cry and staggered back, her flesh glowing red where Isobel’s hand had caught her.

  ‘You lie to me!’ You are far from obedient! I saw you earlier today, out in the courtyard with the Saracen! Who gave you permission to pleasure yourself so vilely, to distract my lord’s servant from his duties? You will be punished, Morwith!’

  The young woman sank to her knees, trembling. ‘My lady, I crave your pardon. I humbly beg your forgive­ness. Please, please don’t send me away!’

  Isobel watched her thoughtfully, a little smile playing at the corners of her lips. Morwith, on seeing that smile, shivered and felt a sudden dark excitement leap in her breast. Isobel said very quietly, ‘You will most certainly be punished. Remove your gown, and abase yourself.’

  Morwith, still kneeling, her eyes lowered, slowly lifted the woollen gown over her head, then her cotton chemise. She crouched naked before the lady Isobel, her red hair sweeping her pouting breasts, her plumply rounded thighs splayed just a little so that Isobel could glimpse the secret flesh veiled by the tightly curling red hair. Her flesh was creamy white, dusted with light freckles like a sprinkling of gold dust.

  Isobel licked her lips and
said, huskily, ‘You are ready, then, for your punishment?’

  Morwith lifted her pale, glittering eyes. ‘My lady,’ she whispered. ‘Only tell me how can I do sufficient penance for my dreadful sins?’

  Isobel laughed aloud. Without bothering to reply, she eased herself onto her bed and leaned against her pillows. Then she drew her silk gown up above her stockinged thighs, and whispered, ‘Pleasure me.’

  Morwith could not believe her luck. Her heart pounded. First the encounter with the Saracen, and now, for some reason, the lady of Thoresfield; this beautiful, sophisticated woman who was lucky enough to be Aimery the Breton’s mistress, had singled her out!

  Entertainment, she had said. Entertainment for the lord Aimery …

  Keeping her head low, so that the lady Isobel would not see the lascivious gleam in her eyes, Morwith said meekly, ‘Anything you say, my lady.’ Then, with a slow, wicked smile, she walked to the foot of the bed and climbed up between Isobel’s parted thighs.

  With a little groan, Isobel reached out for the Saxon woman’s dangling breasts. They were heavy and full, with large, dark brown nipples that already jutted fiercely. Isobel leaned forward to suckle hungrily, strok­ing the turgid flesh with her fingertips, then she leaned back against her pillows, her eyes closed dreamily. ‘Kiss me, Morwith. Kiss me, down there.’

  Breathless with excitement, Morwith stroked softly at Isobel’s thighs above her gartered stockings, parting them still further. The sunlight from the narrow window fell across the bed; she could feel it warm on her back, though Isobel was in the shadows beneath her. Now she could see the lady’s most secret place; the softly curling dark hair, the crinkled flesh lips; such a luxuriant contrast to the white smooth skin of Isobel’s belly and thighs! Morwith, already excited by Isobel’s urgent suckling of her breasts, felt the heat begin to churn in her own loins. Hungrily she dipped her head between Isobel’s thighs and licked softly, parting the dark outer folds with her gently exploring tongue.