Virginblood (Seven Brides for Seven Bastards, 4)

by Georgia Fox

  The seven bastard sons of Guillaume d'Anzeray are on a mission to find wives -- women to breed the next generation of a dark dynasty that many wish to see extinct.

  It won't be easy to find brides from among the Norman nobility, for the d'Anzeray are upstarts, their family's fortunes raised through bloodshed and violence. As one holy man and chronicler of their times has written, "From the devil they came and to the devil they will return". But these brothers don't care much for holy men or for what is written about them. Now, with the future of their bloodline at stake these mercenary warriors need wives and they have no scruples when it comes to claiming the women they desire.

  Virginblood

  Seven Brides for Seven Bastards, 4

  by

  Georgia Fox

  M/F/M/M/M/M/M/M, M/F/M, F/F, ANAL,

  SPANKING, VOYUERISM, ORGIES,

  PUBLIC EXHIBITION, DOUBLE PENETRATION,

  CONSUMPTION OF VIRGIN’S BLOOD IN WINE,

  DUBIOUS CONSENT, AND FORCED SEDUCTION

  Twisted Erotica Publishing, Inc.

  A TWISTED EROTICA PUBLISHING BOOK

  Virginblood

  Seven Brides for Seven Bastards, 4

  Copyright © 2013 by Georgia Fox

  Edited by Marie Medina

  First E-book Publication: September 2013, SMASHWORDS EDITION

  Cover design by K Designs

  All cover art and logo copyright © 2013, Twisted Erotica Publishing.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

  DEDICATION

  To: Debbie

  "They were ruffians, murderers and wife-stealers. They took as they desired without bowing to law or God, or conscience."

  Herallt, medieval chronicler, on the deeds of the d'Anzeray family

  Prologue

  It was one of the three wives who told the story at supper. Aelfa, a Saxon woman, had spent her early childhood listening to extravagant, adventurous tales told by her mother. Many of them had stuck in her mind, and she was a good storyteller, so the others often encouraged her in the evenings for entertainment. Whether the tales were true or not, no one cared. They listened avidly, soon caught up in Aelfa's words, which she spun as cleverly as a cobweb.

  Little Jeanne, the maid of Lady Isobel, had tried not to listen, for the stories were too often of a saucy nature and painted pictures in her mind that she would rather not have there. As a chaste young woman, god-fearing and timid, she was very much out of place at the castellany d'Anzeray, where men shared wives and women shared husbands, where sexual acts were freely spoken of, celebrated and sometimes performed in public. Where there was apparently no guilt, no shame, and no passion restrained. Just as there was no prayer.

  But she had gone there with her mistress when Lady Isobel became one of the d'Anzeray wives, and now this wicked, unholy place was her home. Loyal Jeanne could never leave her beloved mistress to suffer alone in this den of uncouth beasts, so she had sacrificed herself as a devoted servant should and entered this dark fortress to defend her lady from whatever horror awaited.

  Not that Lady Isobel appeared to be suffering at all. If anything she was flourishing, much to Jeanne's pert disapproval.

  Whenever the merry redhead Aelfa began with one of her stories, Jeanne tried to stop her ears from absorbing the words, but on this particular evening the woman began by explaining that her heroine was a virgin. Jeanne's attention was caught and trapped immediately because she hoped this tale might not be as vulgar as all the others. A virgin, she thought—finally a worthy heroine. Perhaps there would be some moral lesson to this story.

  Ha! She should have known better. By the end of Aelfa's tale the prim, haughty virgin had been thoroughly and haplessly deflowered by a dozen men on the feast of Samhain, much to the raucous amusement of all those assembled at supper. Except for Jeanne who, being the only virgin in that hall, felt as if they laughed at her.

  "The sacrifice of her maidenhead brought great fortune to the Thane and his people for the following year," finished Aelfa, once the laughter had died down, "and thus, every Samhain thereafter, a virgin was hunted down and ceremoniously awoken to womanhood. It became tradition, and they called it Virginblood."

  Chapter One

  1072

  The Castle of Guillaume d'Anzeray

  The first time Jeanne watched her mistress being mounted by all seven of her new husbands, she almost fainted. Her toes and fingers went numb. Her belly felt hollow and a strange, wicked heat began in her loins. She did not, however, become sick with disgust. The shocked maiden had fully expected to cast up the contents of her stomach, but it did not happen. If anything she became quite hungry.

  And shamefully curious.

  At once she ran to the threshing barn and prayed. Had there been a chapel she would have gone there, but in this castle there was no such place. The d'Anzeray family to which her wayward mistress now belonged, did not hold much respect for holy men, and it was said that the patriarch, Guillaume d'Anzeray, would not have one anywhere on the property. He allowed only one nun, a very old lady, to tend him with medicines, but she was not permitted to speak of god. Indeed, she did not speak at all—at least while others were present—but flung incense around his room, shook her head and pursed her lips. Jeanne had wondered why the nun went there every day, when she was treated with such disrespect, but no one else seemed curious. It was, like many strange things in that place, accepted without question.

  With nowhere designated for prayer in this castle, Jeanne must make do with the barn, a warm, quiet place where she could kneel in the straw and pray for her soul—and that of her mistress.

  "Lady Isobel has been led astray," she whispered into her fingertips, eyes clenched tight as if that might, somehow, erase the vision of what she'd just witnessed in the main hall. But it did not. She saw once again the scene of three d'Anzeray brothers penetrating her mistress’ body with their swords of flesh, possessing all entrances, while their four siblings waited their turn, petting and stroking her mistress. For Jeanne, who had never been touched intimately by any man, it was a picture she could only watch with one eye open. But she could not look away. "My Lady Isobel has fallen to the sin of lust with these terrible men," she shivered, "and I came here with her because I could not leave her side. I could not leave my lady here without a friend. Now I fear that I—"

  A sound in the straw behind her brought Jeanne's prayers to a sharp halt. Her eyes flew open. The skin at her nape, under the long braid of hair, prickled in fear. Was that a man's breath? Or was it merely a breeze making the barn door creak, shuffling through the loose straw? Every sense was on alert, stretched taut, ready to snap. If they caught her praying, what would they do to her? Shivers stroked her skin beneath her garments, as she considered the many and lurid ways she might be punished.

  The eldest brother—Salvador, had threatened her with a spanking once when she got up the gumption to call him a "godless, stinking heathen". But he had said it with laughter in his voice and a bemused light piercing through the sinister dark of his brooding eyes. As if a spanking might not necessarily be punishment for her. Not knowing what he meant by it, Jeanne had stayed out of his way as much as possible.

  She gathered her courage, twisted around and looked back over her shoulder, but saw only the empty barn behind her. Afternoon sunlight, muted to a soft bronze at this time of year, sl
ipped through knotholes in the timber walls and caught on tiny specks of hay dust, making them twinkle as they danced and drifted through the air. All else was peaceful, still.

  Satisfied that she was alone, Jeanne turned back to her prayers, but once again she was distracted by thoughts of what she'd witnessed half an hour ago—those seven bastard sons of Guillaume d'Anzeray rutting with her fine, noble lady, taking her in every orifice, filling her with their filthy seed. Sweating bodies gleaming in the light of the fire as they all writhed about on the furs, stroking, petting, licking and suckling her mistress. A tangle of limbs and tongues. Seven large shafts, erect and eager, pushing in wherever they could, thrusting and throbbing and pumping. And Lady Isobel—once so elegant and dignified— submitting to it with the eagerness of a whore, crying out unashamedly whenever they brought her to climax.

  Jeanne swallowed. Slowly she slid a hand down over her belly and between her thighs. The wicked need had come upon her, and she knew it would not leave until she'd satisfied it. Today it was worse than usual, a fierce, grinding hunger that threatened to devour her if she did not bring herself relief somehow.

  She spread her knees in the straw and touched her pussy, but the thick wool of her winter gown was in the way. Impatient to appease the wicked, fiery beast in her loins and get back to saving her soul with prayers, Jeanne tugged the gown up to her hips. Then there was only the thin, worn material of her under-shift. As long as she kept that as a barrier between her hand and her flesh, perhaps it would not be quite so sinful. Perhaps.

  But when she pressed her fingers to the pulsing heat between her legs, the under-shift quickly became wet and then she might as well have fondled her cunny directly for the damp patch of cloth was thin as gossamer. And growing larger as her dew spread upon it. She bit down on her lip, fighting the urge to groan as the heat gathered in steady waves, mounting one upon the other. By bending forward slightly, she let her breasts hang just enough to feel their heaviness increase and the pinch of her tight nipples catch against her bodice, increasing her naughty pleasure. Arching her back, she quickly hitched her gown and shift higher to feel the slap of cold air on her bottom. Ah, yes. Yes. Now she pressed her fingers against her pussy lips and rubbed frantically.

  * * * *

  Ramon d'Anzeray was amused. So this was what the pious little maid did when she dashed off to the threshing barn. He hunkered down in the straw behind her and watched, enjoying a full view of her round, pink bottom and the pretty, ripe fruit of her sex as her small fingers worked away at the rosy, glistening wet nether mouth. She almost sank onto her belly as her knees spread wider, and her peach was so slick that her fingers slipped inside now, between the folds.

  Although he'd spent his load only recently, his prick was already hard again as he watched this unwitting performance. Innocent, prim Jeanne—she who blushed at the tamest of saucy jokes, lectured other folk on their moral lapses, and never looked at Ramon and his brothers with anything but disdain—apparently enjoyed riding bareback on the one-hand pony.

  He thrust his own hand inside his chausses and hastily straightened out his swelling cock. From where he watched he could hear the soft, wet sound of her fingers moving in and out, up and down. If he crept closer he would smell her musk. But then she might become aware of his presence. Might hear his harsh breath.

  What did that matter? He shook his head, grinning. He'd take her from behind before she could even cry out in surprise. The wench was more than ready.

  She would protest, of course, scream curses at him. Apparently she thought herself too fine for this place and the people in it. How many times had he caught her scowling at him, her lips pursed—no, her entire face pursed! Although she was only Lady Isobel's maid, she had a curious sense of superiority, a very high opinion of herself. No one could fault her work for she was meticulous, diligent and kept herself busy, but she also made no friends and created a distance between herself and the other servants.

  The little maid was something of a puzzle to Ramon, who had never met a woman so determined to avoid him. A woman who would sooner pray than fuck.

  But suddenly here she was, on all fours in the straw, slapping her pussy with quick, light pats that made it grow even pinker. Her bottom quivered and her breath hissed like raindrops falling on hot stone.

  Ramon curled his long fingers around the root of his cock, feeling the hard pulse of his desire. He stared at that juicy, ripe fruit as it blossomed under her slapping fingers, the small, delicate pink flesh luring him in.

  He couldn't wait another minute. Launching forward with the full force of his muscular legs, he grabbed her by the back of her trembling thighs and as she shrieked in alarm, he opened his mouth on her hot, wet cunt, pushing his face into her so that she lost her balance and almost rolled head over heels.

  * * * *

  Jeanne screamed as he came at her like a bull from behind. She didn't know which of them it was, but undoubtedly it was one of those fiends her mistress had wed. Who else would assault a young maiden this way? They had no conscience, no scruples, no sense of morality.

  The unseen mouth closed over her pussy and forced a tongue into her, even as she scrambled to get away, straw sliding under her, knees bruised on the hard earthen floor of the barn. His fingers dug into her thighs, trying to drag her back and hold her down. It seemed as if the more she struggled and writhed, the more greedily he sucked and licked at her. The tip of his serpent-like tongue flicked inside her pussy, prying open her tight cleft and pushing her over the edge of her peak. To her intense shame she could not stop it from happening, could not prevent her body from reacting like a wanton. He finished with his tongue what she had started with her fingers. And it was a climax so hard and wet that she could not breathe. Her belly tightened, her breasts ached and her hips jerked wildly as the sensations took possession of her body.

  God help her, but she didn't want it to stop and yet she didn't even know who it was behind her. With horror she realized it might not be one of the d'Anzeray. What if it was that old man from the forge, or that disgusting, pimply boy who turned the spit in the cookhouse? They both looked at her with lust whenever she passed, and the boy liked to make crude gestures with his tongue as if he'd just learned how to use it.

  But the mouth sucking up her come as it flooded out of her was experienced, clever. It knew exactly how to drive her forward again into another peak even before she was fully down from the first.

  Her limbs felt weak. She could not fight him off. "Please don't rape me," she gasped out, still shuddering from the last climax. "I'm a...a virgin. Please."

  The mouth lifted off her, his fingers loosened from around her thighs and he laughed. "Rape you? I've never raped in my life."

  Jeanne wriggled over, taking advantage of the moment.

  It was the one they called Ram—one of the youngest brothers. She was relieved that it was not the spit boy or the old blacksmith. Then, having thought that, she laughed scornfully at her sad situation. How dreadful, that she should find a d'Anzeray enjoying the taste of her pussy and feel relief that it was no worse?

  Shoving him off her, she pulled her gown back into place and sat up. Somehow she gathered enough outrage to shout, "I was praying, you foul letch. Can a woman have no privacy here?"

  He laughed huskily. "Praying to your imaginary deity again, eh? It didn't look like any prayers I've ever seen or heard. Mayhap I was too hasty in my opinion of your religion." He was still lacing his leather chausses and had not even replaced his tunic after copulating with her mistress earlier. The broad, lean planes of his tanned chest loomed over her, and she could not help but admire his physique, although it was sinful.

  "Go away," she snapped. "Is there nowhere I can go to be alone in this wretched place?"

  "If you're such a good girl your god will hear you whether I'm here or not." His hand stretched over the sizeable lump in his breeches as he adjusted himself. "Don't let me stop you, little one."

  He always called her that. She
found it annoying—not the words themselves but the arrogant tone he used. "Oh, you could not stop me praying, even if you tried," she replied, pert, lifting her hands again, palms pressed together. "But while I commune with the lord, I would prefer not to hear you or see you. Or smell you."

  "Why not? If I am to believe you, your lord made me too, did he not? Uncouth and wicked as I am."

  "No. The devil made you. And your brothers. Everyone knows the d'Anzeray are descended from Satan's daughter."

  He laughed, his strong white teeth gleaming through the shifting layers of light and shadow. With leisurely fingers he scratched his bare chest. "Well, I suppose if there was no bad there would be no good. Without me, you would have nothing to compare yourself to. Nothing to make you feel superior, eh?"

  People there were always accusing her of acting haughty, just because she did not laugh at their dirty jests, or copulate all over the place like a bitch in heat.

  Jeanne closed her eyes, deciding to ignore him, but she heard the rustle and crackle of straw as he stood and then his big feet moved around, circling her.

  "So what does your god do for you? Does he answer your prayers?"

  She did not reply, but tried to resume the prayer in her mind. Unfortunately the image of her mistress, lying naked under those brothers, would not leave her head free for holy thoughts. She saw again their full erections, plowing in and out, the Lady Isobel moaning with pleasure, her elegant hand pale as snow against their hard, darker bodies. And she saw this one —Ram—sliding his hand up and down that thick length of cock jutting from his groin.