The Rose Knight is the ultimate tragic romantic hero. Mel Gibson has nothing on him. Hell, Mel Gibson is old.
Trenton gets himself dressed and prepares to leave. I’m surprised at how sorry I am to see him go. After all, my heart already belongs to Pembroke. . .or does it?
“Alas, milady Louisa, I am afraid I must now take my leave,” he says, giving me a graceful bow. “But I think we shall meet again soon. Very soon.”
“Good luck with your whole vengeance thing,” I say. “And like I said, your secret is safe with me.”
“Methinks you shall be a help to me on my quest, Louisa. And sooner than you might think.” With that, the Rose Knight departs.
I sink back into the bedpillows, trying to take it all in. In the past two hours, I’ve fucked two very, very different men—both of whom are on missions to escape from (and subsequently destroy) Lord Verdigris. And they both want my help. I’m not sure where my loyalties lie. Conflict stirs deep in my belly.
Then again, there’s no reason why I can’t be loyal to both of them. They’re after the same thing after all—some tied-up-and-whipped nooky with me, along with my help overthrowing Lord Verdigris and his evil time-traveling minions. Hell, maybe I could even get the two of them to work together.
In my bedchamber.
A ménage a trois between a New Jersey toll collector, an English Regency gentleman, and a bloodthirsty, vengeance-seeking medieval romantic. With a little bondage stirred in.
Now that would be interesting.
I’m daydreaming about the crazy sexual adventures I’ll have with Pembroke and the Rose Knight tied up together in my four-poster bed when Bridget bursts in.
“Milady! Milady! I just saw the Rose Knight leave! An’ ‘e was grinning from ear to ear! Providence knows that man nivver smiles. What on earth did you do to ‘im, milady?”
I chuckle. “More like what didn’t I do.”
At this, Bridget blushes. “Ye are already gettin’ quite a reputation in the Hall of Harlots, milady,” she says. “I daresay that some o’ the other workin’ girls are a-gettin’ jealous of ye.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Really? Is that good or bad?”
Bridget finds a clean silk underdress in my wardrobe and holds it out for me to put on. “’Tis a little o’ both, lass. Some o’ the more experienced—dare I say, older—Harlots will be glad you’re takin’ a bit o’ th’ workload off o’ them. But the younger an’ prettier Harlots—well, I daresay most o’ them’ll be jealous. An’ scared. For sometimes His Lordship is known to turn out the Harlots ‘e’s tired of that ain’t yet earned their keep.”
“What do you mean, earned their keep?”
Bridget purses her lips. “I thought I explained that to ye already, lass.”
“Refresh my memory.”
“Well milady, there ain’t a way to put it delicately, so I’ll just cut straight to th’ chase. Lord Verdigris’ knights an’ vassals, they pay him a duty to bed with ye. The younger, prettier, and more popular the Harlot, the more she costs. An’ ye are quite expensive at present, milady. The Rose Knight, he just paid ten thousand silver pieces to bed with ye this afternoon.”
My jaw drops. “How do you know that?”
“Oh, a little bird told me, lass.” Bridget takes a hairbrush and a pot of pomade from my dressing table and begins brushing out my bed-tangled locks. “Methinks ye will earn yer keep soon enough. Mayhaps even in a few days. That alone’ll be enough to have some o’ the more jealous Harlots a-plottin’ yer destruction.”
I jump to my feet, yanking the hairbrush from Bridget’s hand, and a clump of my hair along with it. “Wait a minute. Exactly how much does a Harlot have to earn before she earns her keep? And what do you mean, plot my destruction? Who would do such a thing? And what would that entail, exactly?”
Bridget gives me a grave look. “Quite a lot o’ things, I’m afraid. I’ve seen it ‘appen many a time in my years in the Hall.”
“Be specific.”
Bridget sighs. “Well, could be anything from puttin’ a caterpillar in yer bowl o’ buttermilk to killin’ ye, lass. And ‘most anything in-between.”
“Kill me? Someone in the Hall of Harlots could actually kill me just because they’re jealous? Are you serious?”
Bridget nods. “I’m ‘fraid so. I’ve seen it ‘appen, lass. Why, just last winter, me favorite lady among the Harlots was killed, alas.They never proved who did it, but I’ve always thunk ‘twas Madam Jasphet. I’d watch out fer that Madam Jasphet if I were ye, lass. She’s a cold one, she is.”
Chills travel down my spine and land at my insteps. “What could Madame Jasphet possibly have against me? I don’t even know the woman.”
“Quite a lot, I’m afraid. Ye usurped her as Lord Verdigris’ favorite, fer one.”
“But Lord Verdigris is our kidnapper, prison warden, and a generally an all-around evil bastard. You’d think I’d have done her a favor.”
Bridget shakes her head and laughs. “Ye’d be surprised at what Harlots will take offense at, ‘specially the most senior ones. Ye all may be prisoners here, yes, but ye also depend on Lord Verdigris for yer very existence. Anything that comes between a body and her very existence is bound to bend a body out o’ shape, lass.”
I start to pace the room. I’m hyperventilating now. After all, it isn’t every day that one learns one’s life is in danger—and in another century to boot. “So, what I can I do to prevent my own destruction? I don’t know about you, but I’d prefer to stay alive, even if I am a kidnapped sex slave.” Not that I’m not having a very good time as a kidnapped sex slave—but that’s beside the point.
Bridget shrugs. “I’m afraid there’s very little to be done ‘bout it, lass. I’m a prisoner here meself, same as ye. I can’t do anything that’ll draw too much attention to meself by the wrong folks, and nor can ye.” She crosses to me and takes both my hands in hers. “But I can tell ye this. If ye become of a mind to start protectin’ yerself from all things menacin’, I’d start out by puttin’ a little distance between yerself an’ Master Pembroke. He’s assigned to guard ye, not to bed ye. An’ as much as I think ye two are made fer each other, ye are playin’ with fire, lass. Ye’d be much safer cozyin’ up to the payin’ customers, like the Rose Knight.” She gives me a naughty look and squeezes both my hands. “Ye still ain’t told me how ye got that melancholy lad a-smilin’ from ear t’ ear, lass.”
I squeeze Bridget’s hands in return. “Let’s just say the Rose Knight has a weakness for a lady with a whip.”
Bridget lets out a hearty laugh. “Methinks when word gets out about how ye brought the Rose Knight ‘imself to his knees, ye will be a-beatin’ the lads off with a stick.” She bites her tongue. “Or a whip. Milady, that reminds me of what I came here to tell ye.”
“What’s that?”
“The annual Harlot’s Ball is comin’ up next week, just five days hence. It’s the only party His Lordship affords ‘is Harlots all the year long. An’ it’s the one time that ye Harlots can live and roam ‘bout Bellweather Castle as ye will, if only fer one day.”
The Harlot’s Ball? I can’t resist a snicker or two. The number of double entendres in that phrase is ridiculous.
But if what Bridget says is true—that I and all the other Harlots will have free run of the castle for one day and one day alone—it does seem that would be mine and Pembroke’s best chance at escape. And maybe the Rose Knight’s best chance at vengeance, too.
The only question is, how?
As Bridget gets back to work tugging all the tangles out of my hair, my mind’s gears start turning, and turning fast.
The Harlot’s Ball is less than a week away. I don’t have any time to waste.
Chapter 9
It’s Thursday night, and as such it’s time for my once-weekly overnight stay in the Hall of Harlots at large. Not only does my luxurious private bedchamber require a once-weekly cleaning that takes almost twelve hours to complete (all that woodwork takes time to oil a
nd polish), I am required by Lord Verdigris to socialize with my fellow Harlots, or face severe penalties.
Penalties which—I’m told—include death.
And I use the term “socialize” loosely. As I scan the vast stone room, I see that the scores and scores of my fellow harlots interpret “socialize” in any number of ways. Some Harlots are just lying prostrate on their upholstered fainting couches, arms folded angrily against their voluptuous chests, their features pointing ever downward as they make it known to anyone and everyone around them that being stuck amongst their competition in the wide-open Hall of Harlots is the last place they have ever wanted to be. At the other extreme are Harlots who lie naked among each other in twisted piles, licking cunts and rubbing clits in a one-off showcase of lesbian erotica.
Right now, I’m somewhere in between.
I’ll be the first to admit that I’m not thrilled about the prospect of spending the day with a thousand or so of my closest enemies. Bridget’s warning has me on edge. And the tension in the air around me is palpable. Bridget wasn’t kidding when she told me my sudden popularity among the knights and vassals of Bellwether Castle had made me a lot of enemies in the Hall. Half the ladies in the Hall of Harlots are giving me the evil eye. And the half that aren’t want to sleep with me.
Well, I guess there are worse problems to have. After all, I could be dead.
And for all I know, I could be dead very soon. Rumor has it that Madam Jasphet has already done away with six of her biggest enemies in the Hall. Nobody can prove it, of course. Supposedly she knows how to mix a poison that nobody can taste, smell, or otherwise detect—sort of like iocaine powder in The Princess Bride.
What I wouldn’t give for a copy of a Princess Bride DVD right now. All this lying around the Hall of Harlots, staring at the drippy stone ceiling and forever looking over my shoulder, worried about Madam Jasphet poisoning my goblet of hot spiced cider has got me stressed out. And there’s nothing to relieve stress like reciting every single one of Cary Elwes’ lines in the movie along with him and imitating Andre the Giant’s doltish accent.
God, even in the twelfth century, I’m still a geek.
I yawn and stretch like a cat on my red velvet fainting couch. Something’s got to give. I can’t just lie here on my couch not talking to anybody, worried that I’ll be stabbed or poisoned any minute. I may be a prisoner here, but that doesn’t mean I’m dead—not by a long shot. I intend to go right on living, and to have as much fun as I can while doing it.
And since my arrival here in the Hall of Harlots, I’ve had all manner of sexual adventures. Why not add sex with a beautiful lady or two to the mix? It’s obvious that there are more than enough of them here ready and willing to get naked with me.
I scan the room, looking for prospects. My eyes settle on a timid-looking redhead in a 1920s flapper outfit. She’s already making eyes at me, and I’m making them right back. The flapper is flanked by a willowy blonde in a Civil War-era hoopskirt. The willowy blonde is licking her lips and waggling her tongue in my direction. It’s pretty clear they both have the same thing on their mind—a little lesbian loving with me, Lady Louisa of the Crossroads.
I think those two ladies will do nicely.
I’ve never had sex with a woman before—let alone two at once. I never even experimented by kissing my dorm roommates or sorority sisters in college. The idea of getting down and dirty with a woman just never appealed to me.
Until now, of course. There’s just something in the air at the Hall of Harlots that makes everything seem that much sexier. Maybe it’s the pheromones of a few thousand time-traveling sexpots in the air or something. Whatever the root cause, all I know is my cunt is starting to get warm at the idea of a beautiful young flapper and a willowy, tightly-wound Victorian licking it.
Really, really warm.
The flapper and the hoopskirted Victorian make their way over to my couch just as I’m beginning to spread my legs. Without being asked, the flapper introduces herself as Mabel, lifts up the hem of my gown, parks herself between my legs, and begins to lick my clit.
It’s probably the most intense stimulation that part of my anatomy has ever experienced. My back arches and I begin to whimper at the red-hot sensations emanating from my clit and vulva as they’re worked into a frenzy by Mabel’s tongue. Yet it’s clear from the get-go this is going to be a slow burn—Mabel not only knows how to get my crotch going, she also knows how to keep the afterburners in check, holding off my orgasm until I absolutely cannot stand it anymore. At the rate this is going, I won’t come for hours, but when I do, I just might have an out-of-body experience.
Meanwhile, the corseted Victorian—who has chosen to remain nameless for now—has set to work on my left breast. She slowly unlaces my overgown’s velvet neckline, loosens it, then peels down my loose silken underdress until my left breast falls into her waiting hands. She runs her fingertips around and around the edge of my areola, watching with delight as my nipple grows firm and erect underneath her ministering touch. The heat intensifies as she takes my whole nipple into her mouth, sucking, licking and biting. The Victorian and Mabel the Flapper must be regular partners in crime, too, because before I know it, the movement of their respective tongues against my nipple and clit become perfectly synchronized.
I’m suddenly beginning to appreciate the old saying “once you’ve gone lesbo, you never go back.”
I hike my skirt up further and spread my legs wider to give Mabel better access. She follows my cue and steps up her licking to an insane level, interspersing it with lots of pokes, prods, and strokes with her fingers, first against my clit, then inside my vagina until she’s finger-fucking me right into my G-spot. I start bucking my hips wildly, hoping to take her deeper and deeper inside me—and I quickly succeed. All at once, Mabel has thrust almost her entire hand inside, giving me my first “fisting” treatment. It’s intense, oh so intense. For a minute I think I might explode.
Just when I think it can’t get any more intense, Mabel plunges her arm into me well past her wrist, and the Victorian moves from sucking my left breast to kissing and licking the tiny puckered rose that is my back passage.
Oh, Lord.
The Victorian somehow eases a finger into my back passage, which was been strictly “exit only” up until this moment. Then two fingers, then three. Those three fingers press up against my G-spot in reverse, creating sensations so insane I think my eyes just might pop out of my head. I never thought I would like anal fucking, but I guess I was wrong.
I’ve got ladyfingers stuck up both ends. And I’m loving it.
Mabel and the Victorian finger-fuck me for several minutes. I’m caught in such a firestorm of sensation that my body seems frozen in time. I don’t buck, writhe, moan, or do anything else in response to the wild pleasures wracking my body. I just float on a cloud, letting my two lovely female partners penetrate me at will.
Suddenly, my body unfreezes. I begin to vibrate from within, then to buck and thrash without as the climax to end all climaxes overtakes me. My vagina is pulsing hard, clamping down on Mabel’s hand and wrist, becoming a vortex of wild, bumping, thumping sensation. And my ass is doing the same, but in perfect counterpoint. I feel almost as if I’m riding a wild stallion all the way to heaven, coming hard all the way.
And then, it’s all over. Without a word, Mabel and the demure, corseted Victorian both pull out of me, give me gentle smiles, and retreat back to their own little corners of the Hall. None of the scores of Harlots take any notice of our little public liaison. Hell, half of them are fucking each other right now themselves.
I lay back on my red velvet couch, and for the first time truly appreciate exactly why it’s called a fainting couch. My body is totally spent—I’m more exhausted now than I’ve probably ever been in my entire life. It’s all I can do just to keep breathing. I can’t think. I can’t speak. I can’t even remember my name. My two lady friends have managed to fuck my brains out. The room starts to go fuzzy, a shower
of black spots clouds my vision. I’m a millisecond away from fainting dead away when my eyes refocus just long enough to recognize that Madam Jasphet is standing over me.
Madam Jasphet is saying something to me, but I don’t know what. I can see her mouth moving, but I don’t hear anything other than something that sounds like an out-of-tune trombone—sort of like the teacher’s voice on old Charlie Brown TV specials.
My vision is blurry, and there are plenty of black clouds moving in, but just before I black out entirely, I see Madam Jasphet sprinkle some kind of liquid from an elaborately painted ceramic bottle onto me. When it hits my skin, it burns something awful.
Then I pass out.
When I come to, I’m in a tiny dark room decorated with Egyptian hieroglyphs. My arms and legs are bound with silken bands, and my mouth is gagged with something. Madam Jasphet hangs over me in full Egyptian royal regalia.
“Lady Louisa of the Crossroads,” she growls in a voice that is surprisingly deep and masculine. “Just what do you think you’ve been doing?”
I try to say “What do you mean?”, but since I’m gagged, all that comes out is “Mrrgaugh-goo-doo-eeegh?”
“Lady Louisa, there’s a little something you need to understand. I am the most desirable Harlot in the Hall, not you. I am Lord Verdigris’ favorite, not you. It is I whom all the knights and vassals want to bed, not you.”
I try to argue, but all that comes out through the gag is “Mmmrrrrghhh!”
“Lady Louisa, if you fail to understand this, there will be dire consequences,” Madam Jasphet went on. “Now will you promise to stop treading your toes all over my turf?”
I don’t respond.
Madam Jasphet laughs. It’s a deep, sinister laugh, the kind you usually only hear from villains in cheesy old movies. “Perhaps this will convince you.” She glances back over her shoulder. “Girls?”
To my shock, Mabel and the corseted Victorian appear beside Madam Jasphet, arms folded and looking smug. “I see you have partaken of my loyal servants’ forbidden fruit,” Madam Jasphet purrs. “Mabel and Prudence both acknowledge my superiority in the Hall of Harlots, to the point that they’ll do my bidding. And I bid them both to use their considerable talents to render you helpless. And so they did. Lovely work, girls.”
Knights and Kink Romance Boxed Set Page 31
