Chateau of Desire (Chateau of Love Book 1)

by Monica Bentley

  Before he knew it, he was feeling something warm in his mouth, tasting something sweet on his tongue. It was like a milk, but nothing like what a mother gave her baby. At least he hoped not. The more he sucked, the more came out. And the more a heat began to grow in his loins. She switched to her other nipple as he realized that his cock was growing hard again. This time, there was no lust. It was doing it all on its own. He had no desire for this witch other than to get away from her as quickly as he could, but with her iron grip on his neck, his body as weak as a puppy, it was not like he could really make a move.

  She reached down and stroked his cock, aching hard again. Aching harder than before. He needed her. He felt that now. He may not like it, but he did need her. His cock was starting to scream for her pussy.

  She mounted him.

  Grabbing his cock tip, she slid it deep within her in one smooth movement.

  It was an eerie moment. That same hot and cold sensation he had felt on his tongue. This one hurt a bit, though. He had never felt anything like it but decided to wait to see if it got better as she began to hump him, sliding up and down the length of his cock.

  It didn’t. The hot and cold grew stronger, in waves now that ran the full length of his cock from tip to balls. It was starting to hurt worse and worse.

  Growing scared, he tried pulling out but he couldn’t. Gripping his shoulders with her talons, her nails again sank into his flesh and muscles, drawing blood. They were so heavy there was nothing he could do. She held him frozen in place as she bounced up and down, up and down. There was nothing to do. The waves grew stronger, alternately scalding and freezing him now.

  He began screaming. She bit his tongue. So he just lay there, hoping it would end soon. He thought of praying. But that was silly. He had already killed far too many to ever hope for God’s help. Suddenly, an image of Phoebe, the scamp, floated before his eyes and shocked, embarrassed, that settled him down.

  He remembered how he had figured out how to please the witch with his tongue. So, tuning out the waves of scalding and freezing engulfing his cock as best he could, he began slowly thrusting inside her. She threw her head back and screamed out her deepest moan yet. And, miraculously, the scalding seemed to fade, and then the freezing, at least a little. Or maybe he was just imagining it. Who cares? he thought. It was better, that was all he cared about. So he kept thrusting, slowly, then faster, then slower, just to see what happened. The hurting sensations faded further and began to be replaced by the stirrings of...it couldn’t be. Pleasure?

  Truly?

  Almost dazed witless, he kept going, as if he were in the sword fight of his life, knowing that if he gave way to panic, he would die. If he kept his head, as best he could, felt nothing, just operated like the excellent sword fighter he had become, he would be just fine. On and on it went. Deeper thrusts, shallow ones, slow ones, faster ones, anything to please her and, he was sure of it now, to please himself as the hot and cold sensations faded to the murmur he had felt on his tongue. Far longer than any fucking he had ever done, had ever heard done. How long? He had no idea, just that it seemed to go on forever.

  Until he came.

  * 5 *

  He woke up later. The room was empty, the fire still going, sunlight streaming through a window he hadn’t noticed the night before. He also saw a small stone block that he must have missed, too. It was set with a stone cauldron atop it. The silver goblet he was happy to recognize for he was thirsty. It was sitting on the same table next to a plate filled with meat and bread. It was also encrusted with several gems that he hadn’t noticed.

  Of the witch, as he thought her now, there was no sign, no sound.

  He was so thirsty his throat ached, his lips felt so dry. He needed that goblet. He started to move then froze as he thought he heard her chuckle. He waited. For several heartbeats. Nothing.

  He breathed a sigh of relief and moved to get out of bed, but yelped involuntarily at the several wracks of pains that gripped him when he moved. Or tried to move. He took a few deep breaths, then tried moving again. At least he wasn’t as weak as a kitten anymore.

  And with a hum and a whirl of smoke, she was there.

  He gasped, afraid.

  “Good, you have rested,” she smiled.

  Or bared her teeth, rather, he silently thought.

  “I have so much to make up for, I think I shall keep you for a while.”

  He felt his eyes tear up. He didn’t know why. Unless it was fear. But he never felt fear. Not in battle. Not in sacking, pillaging, stabbing, slicing. Ever. Not in years. Until now. Then, remembering last night, he shuddered. Yes, he had. Many times. For his life.

  He swallowed.

  “What is your name?” she hissed, dissolving her dress again. Moving toward him again. Stretching her hand behind for the goblet. Stretching her other hand behind his neck again to hold it as she bent the goblet to his lips. He was so thirsty.

  “I am Tempeste,” she murmured as he drank. “Born in the Ile de la Cite.”

  He blinked.

  She smiled. Her smile was really quite beautiful, he could see, if you didn’t know what lay behind it, he thought. Her eyes, as ever, remained in shadow.

  “Paris? You know it?”

  He nodded. He was growing weak again, he could feel it. He fought down a wave of panic. What was he planning? To run by her? A witch? He tried talking instead.

  But she wanted him to drink some more. He did, and finishing, immediately felt weaker, more confused.

  “I saw it, the island. I didn’t row over to it, though.”

  Her shadowy eyes began to smoke at that and she kissed him. That made him feel better, a little stronger. Her lips were warm when she wanted them to be, he guessed. So, he tried again.

  “It was beautiful. The chateau.”

  She nodded, her eyes smoking more heavily, creating wisps and tendrils that played around her hair and his.

  “Palais de la Cite, home of the King,” she murmured kissing him again. The low growl was beginning in her belly.

  He sighed, resigned. He knew what was coming.

  She pulled him to her nipples and asked once more, “Name?”

  “Tristen,” he mumbled and began sucking, waiting for the feeling of his cock to harden on her command.

  *****

  The days stretched into eternity. Each morning, he woke, saw the goblet, felt his incredible thirst, made a move only to have Tempeste appear within her smoky whirl. Then, she let him drink which made him feel so weak until she began kissing him, then suckling him on her breast milk which made him hard enough to fuck her. He never seemed to eat that meat on the plate. It was always there, he just never made it that far from bed.

  He never even needed to use a night slops jar. Why not? Who knew?

  They didn’t talk much. Just a comment or two about his travels. Never anything about hers. She seemed to want to know more and more about him. So he had told her. Why not? She could be really charming when she wanted to. So, bit by bit, his life story came out in just a few remarks each day. About Phoebe, about Chateau Brionde, his real name, killing the knight, Destrey (which she called for him that day and tied up at the base of the tower) and the Commander and his raiding.

  Bit by bit. Moreover, the more he told her, the more he felt himself slipping away from it all. Away from his life. Slipping into hers, just as easily as he slid into her, for she was always wet for him.

  And, oh, how they fucked. On and on. For how many glasses only angels could say. There wasn’t an hourglass in the room to mark the time. Just a long drawn out fuck session beginning with sunbeams streaming into the window. His tonguing her, her tonguing him which, he learned how to enjoy with patience. Long bouts of being inside her, between her thighs on top of her as she stroked his ass with long caresses that made him shiver with delight in spite of himself. Cumming so many times, first her, always her first, then him, then sometimes both together. All of it finally coming to an end with darkness outside the window
, his last thought as he passed out.

  How many days he was there, he never knew. Always the same. Except for one night when he woke to find her weeping. The witch was weeping. Which, for some reason, scared him more than anything else he had ever learned about her. So, thinking of scamp in the kitchen all those years ago, he took her in his arms, and held her close. She fell asleep again after that.

  When he awoke the next morning, she was gone, as usual. And appeared within her whirl, as usual. And had him drink of the goblet then suckled him, as usual. And fucked him all day.

  As usual.

  The weeping did make him think, however. Just as that one night did when he awoke and saw her by the stone block, stirring the cauldron, murmuring to herself. In the dim firelight, he could see a thick smoke arising from the cauldron, but the sight frightened him, so he pretended to remain asleep until he became so.

  It got him thinking about how he felt farther and farther away with each passing day from his old raiding life. He wondered if there was some sort of spell that Tempeste was casting on him. To keep him there. He had to laugh about it. Once upon a time, this would have been his dream life. Fucking so much his cock was honestly tired. Now he just wanted to stop. But he couldn’t. Why not?

  It also got him thinking about the way he felt strong until she made him drink from the goblet. Or did she? He was always so thirsty. He couldn’t imagine not drinking from it. He had peeled too many tubs of potatoes in the chateau kitchen not to know how to work on a problem while doing something else. So, after he had figured out the ins and outs of pleasing her, fucking her just the way she liked, he cast off in his mind and worked the problem.

  Finally, one morning he tried an experiment. He woke feeling strong, she whirled, gave him the goblet. Instead of refusing it, he reached for her breast instead. In less than a heartbeat, gone was the sweet, charming Tempeste, the girl from Il de la Cite who was taking care of Destrey. Instead, returned was the frightening, hissing snake, now spitting with rage.

  He drank from the goblet. And while he immediately felt weak, he realized he had found his answer.

  What to do about it, however? That took several days of fucking to give him the answer.

  To give in was impossible. No matter how charming Tempeste could be when she wanted, he knew he had to leave. He would die here. He had to get away from her. Could she pursue him? After a few hours of thoughtful fucking, he decided that she couldn’t. If she could have, why use a firefly to lure him? She was so honestly desirable, he would have followed her that first night had she only crooked her finger at him.

  She was desirable now, he thought, varying the rhythm. He had yet to see her eyes and, realizing he never would, he sat up and held her very close to him while he thrust inside her as gently as he possibly could. Which surprised her and made her cling to him. It also made her cum extra hard, he realized. So he continued such close, tender fucking for the rest of that long day. By the end, just before passing out, he realized two things. He had finally made love to her. He also knew how to leave her.

  That he woke to her weeping in the middle of the night saddened him. No matter, he hardened his heart even as he pulled her in close. It was time to go.

  The next morning, then, as he felt his strongest of the day, he waited. She appeared in her whirl, smiled at him and held the goblet to him. He took a deeper draught than usual, which deepened her smile until he spat all of it right into her eyes. She screamed out in a hissing rage but he didn’t care for he was already out the door in a flash, stumbling and slipping down each one of those damnably too many steps until he simply fell the last couple of dozen. But Destrey was there and just as he saw Tempeste’s smoky whirl beginning to form next to him, he slipped the knot, leapt on his steed and galloped for dear life.

  Where? Did it matter? Anywhere but there.

  Behind him he heard her shrieks of rage subsiding into one long mournful wail. “Tristen!”

  * 6 *

  Louis woke from the bench and stretched. He groaned, working some of the kinks out of his back and, oddly, his calves. When the Master had kicked him out last night, he had been surprised because it wasn’t a Sunday. But, then, he had heard the Master pacing. This happened on occasion. Usually when the Master had to do something that he didn’t like. Louis didn’t have to think too hard about it. It was obvious. So obvious that he didn’t dare ask. He just glanced at the set, hard look that had come into the Master’s eyes after being charged with destroying the abbey with its monks inside, and Louis had kept his mouth shut.

  The pacing went on for several glasses. For some reason, Louis couldn’t go to sleep himself. Every time he shut his eyes, he kept seeing brown and gray cowls burning or bodies leaping, shrieking from the windows of some high building. He wasn’t sure what he thought about any of this. He was just glad that m’Lord hadn’t given him the task. He also was glad that the Master clearly thought, without saying a word, that his ward was far too young to even consider bringing on the mission.

  Finally, in the darkest part of the night, just as the Master seemed to have laid down at last and Louis’ eyes were settling themselves, he felt a cool touch on his cheek. He sat up with a gasp and reached for his rapier (which was inside) to the smell of carnations. Coletta, m’Lady’s private servant. The perfume had come all the way from Paris, given her by m’Lady last Christmas. And Coletta had made sure that everyone in the chateau and village had known it by New Year’s.

  “What’s this? The Golden Boy sleeping outside tonight?” her voice softly caressed him, making his cock immediately twitch.

  “I’m not a...go--golden boy,” he stammered out.

  She chuckled. A throaty chuckle. It made him start breathing fast.

  “Why don’t you visit me, Louis?” she asked in sweet tones that carried another meaning as well. Her cloak didn’t try to cover the large melons of flesh shining in the moonlight. In fact, she was leaning over him so that he could better see them. Up close. They were just a few inches from his lips.

  He could barely believe his eyes, his ears. Was she – Coletta – actually saying this? He must be dreaming. He wanted to reach out to her, but his hands seem frozen at his sides. He wanted to say something, anything, but his tongue seemed glued to the roof of his mouth.

  He tried a manly sound, but it came out like a squeak of a moan, which made him start coughing.

  She laughed, a delighted peal. “Still too young, I see.” Which made him burn in embarrassment. “That’s all right,” she cooed, as if he were a child. “Someday. I can afford to wait.”

  This was too much. His anger, quickly, if belatedly, sprang to his defense. He moved to stand. She stepped back and watched, her eyes sparkling in the moonlight with amusement.

  “Look...” he began.

  But she cut him off. “m’Lady summons the Master.”

  “Now?” he asked with surprise.

  “Is that too much for you, too?” she asked saucily.

  Stung even more deeply now, Louis framed a hot reply only to hear the door to the Master’s hut open.

  Coletta immediately bowed her head.

  “I will attend,” he said, his voice brusque, his tall muscular frame filling the doorway completely.

  She turned, leading the way as he growled to Louis, “Go inside, I may be a while. Get some sleep before sunup.”

  And he was gone.

  *****

  To Louis’ continued surprise, the Master had awakened him with a shake at dawn and given him instructions to hand out to the Guard...

  He would be gone for several days on assignment for m’Lord, taking Jean, Roche, and Karel, the three most ruthless of the Guard, with him.

  Harcourt, his second, was responsible for setting the watches in his absence.

  Louis (!) was responsible for running the training, both archery and rapier. Etienne could sharpen the rapiers.

  If any refused to follow Louis’ orders, after disarming the offender in a fight, Louis was to have hi
m thrown in the castle dungeon. The Master would mete out a suitable punishment upon his return.

  And then he was gone.

  As the Guard gathered that morning to leave their rapiers for sharpening, Louis asked them to stay for a message from the Master. When all had gathered, he explained the orders. His voice faltered as he explained that he was responsible for running the training and a number of the Guard burst out in chuckles.

  Rafe, the new Guardsman from Poitiers, asked what many, Louis worried, were quietly thinking. “We are to take orders from a beardless boy?”

  Taking a deep breath, Louis explained the Master’s final order.

  Rafe chortled, lacing his laughter with scorn. Then, he stared at Louis for a long moment, incredulous. Finally, he shrugged and drew with a flamboyant flourish, bowing to the rest of the Guard, several of whom laughed in response. A few, however, Thibault and Etienne in particular, looked worried.

  Harcourt shook his head, speaking out with a loud voice. “The Master gave his orders.”

  Rafe snorted. “The Master is not here.” Turning to Louis he snapped out, “En garde!”

  Before he knew what he was doing, Louis had drawn, lunged and disarmed Rafe with a triple flick of his wrist. The circular one that the Master had taught him one night when he had felt bad for beating Louis too hard.

  In silence the Guard watched Rafe’s rapier flip end over end to bang against the wall of the Master’s hut. Rafe, his eyes wide, stared at Louis. All watched without making a sound, waiting.

  Then Harcourt took over, pointing at two Guardsmen, “You two, grab Rafe and follow me.” He led them away to the base of the castle, throwing out a nod to Louis, “See you on the walls for archery practice in a few moments, sir.”

  Louis was too stunned to do anything more than nod in return.

  There weren’t any more problems after that.

  Etienne eagerly sat down, collecting everyone’s rapiers and setting to the grinding. He had watched Louis do it often enough. Thibault led the way to the top of the walls and was already at the locker door waiting to hand out bows, quivers, arrows and targets as soon as Louis unlocked it.