by Georgia Fox
In her too-youthful wedding gown, Ami took her place at her new husband's side and silently watched him raise a toasting horn while the inhabitants of his manor danced and drank with the merry whores from Marazion.
Thus it was done. She was married, no more a spinster.
Yet she felt no different than she was when she rose from her pallet earlier that day. There was no transformation at all; she was still Ami. A woman in the way.
She had slipped up today by mentioning Elsinora. She bit down on her tongue and felt her cheeks grow hot whenever she relived that moment by the cliffs. He thought she was questioning him, showing a spark of jealousy. It was too intimate a subject. Clearly his wounds still smarted. And why had she mentioned it as they rode together under the iron-grey clouds? Had she hoped he would deny it, tell her Elsinora was nothing to him?
Surely she did not begin to cultivate any romantic ideas about her husband.
Villette had informed her that Stryker Bloodaxe called for a whore, only half an hour before they said their vows. The man was insatiable and had no conscience. He was every bit the barbarian she'd expected and Ami could not believe she ever thought he might have more substance.
Looking across the crowded hall, she found Villette, pink-faced and dancing happily with that young soldier Ifyr—the one who had watched her and Stryker in the forest yesterday. So much for Villette steering clear of the brazen fool as she'd promised her mistress. The maid was plainly enamored for she mentioned his name at every opportunity. Ifyr, meanwhile, was busy surveying the hall over her head and shooting sly winks at every other young woman who danced by.
A short way into the feast, their neighbors from across the moor arrived. They'd been delayed due to the bad storm that blew in from the sea that afternoon, but they were, it seemed, determined to attend. Ami strongly suspected that the scarred Norman warrior, Dominic Coeur-du-Loup, was so anxious to be there because he wanted to ensure the wedding took place. Although there was supposedly peace between the two men, since everyone knew Stryker was still in love with Dominic's wife, how deep and meaningful could their friendship be?
The Norman introduced Ami to Elsinora in a proud and loving manner that told how much he loved and esteemed his wife. Why would he not? Elsinora was stunningly beautiful and sweet natured. She had an easy way about her and there was no pretense, nothing but an open friendliness in her gestures. She presented Ami with wind-chimes she'd made from shells and pebbles found in the sands at the base of the cliffs. "If you hang it by a window, it will catch the breeze and play music for you," she said, smiling.
And keep me awake all night like a constant drip through a leaky roof, she thought.
Ami thanked her for the gift and they talked politely about the weather, the moor, their gowns and many unimportant things. She learned that Elsinora had two children—a boy and a baby girl. "You must visit us soon," she said. "It will be good to have another woman of my age about the place." Before they parted, Elsinora extended an invitation for her husband's Yuletide celebration to bless his half-built castle on the cliff side. "Many knights will attend with their wives. People you might know from court. It may help you feel less homesick."
Although Ami had not often been to the royal court, folk assumed she was frequently in such exalted company. With the king for a father and the powerful Baron Burleigh for an uncle, it was natural, she supposed, for that mistake to be made. In truth, she'd been shuttled from one dank, dismal castle to another and when she met with her father it was usually a brief, stilted audience in which he feigned interest and she feigned gratitude for his "notice". The bright little girl he once found amusing was now a grown woman of only mild attractiveness and limited accomplishments. By her uncle she was treated as nothing more than a burden on his household accounts—and in recent years he'd begun referring to her as his "bane". In some attempt to pay for her food and shelter she'd assumed the chores of housekeeper and he thought nothing of giving her the lowliest tasks to perform. She'd often thought he might be hoping to make her so miserable that she would throw herself out of a window. Ami had actually considered it, but she did not know who would find her shattered remains and she would not like her little cousins to be thus cast into hysteria. They were annoying little turds at times, but they could not help what their father made them. They were not to blame for the ways of the world.
She thanked Elsinora for the invitation to share the Yuletide with them, although it would not be her place to accept it. That would be up to her husband, of course.
Glancing across the hall, she caught him looking at Elsinora as he drank his ale. He looked especially handsome tonight, cruelly so. His eyes were bluer that evening, trying to hide their admiration for Elsinora and failing. Ami quickly turned back to her conversation, ignoring the strange, pitiable ache in her heart.
Chapter Five
The bed chamber, so she'd heard, was newly constructed, as was the boat-sized bed housed within it. Ami might have been impressed if she could imagine it was made for her, not for Stryker's fantasy wife—the woman he loved and lost. But as soon as she thought this she shook her anger aside. She had not sought his love. When she came there, she knew what to expect and he made it clear when they discussed the terms of their marriage. They were two people doing what had to be done. He needed her money and she needed a husband to save her from a life of drudgery in her uncle's household. Possibly even to save her from death, or worse—a convent. At her darkest point she knew that. Her uncle's patience with her had run its course, and it was said that her father, the king, would not live much longer. Ami the unwanted was therefore living on borrowed time.
Here, in the barbarian's bed, she would begin a new life, become a new woman.
Villette readied her like a calf for sacrifice, untying her braids and combing her hair with scented oil. She remained dressed in her wedding gown, too nervous to remove it. The noise out in the hall died down at last now that the master and his lady were ready for bed. Folk of the manor would be preparing their own pallets by the fire-pit in the great hall, or in other warm niches around the place. She looked at her maid, who was humming and tapping her feet, a distant smile on her lips.
"You will sleep tonight in the little chamber we had last night. And bolt the door tonight, Villette." Ami was thinking of that loutish young man, Ifyr, and did not want him making a grab for her maid the moment the girl was untended. Villette was just silly enough to go with him and think herself in love, but she had scant experience of men like these.
"But I am to sleep with the kitchen maids, mistress, in the loft of the cookhouse. It will be warmer there—the three of us together." She seemed quite excited by the prospect of sleeping with her new friends. "I don't want to be alone in that dark chamber, my lady. Not when the wind howls. I should be too afraid to sleep. Those broken and dented helmets looking at me like the faces of dead men."
Ami sighed. "Very well then. I suppose there can be no harm if you are three together. But stay well away from Ifyr."
Villette somberly agreed and bowed her head. "Of course, my lady."
When Stryker came in, he stumbled slightly against the doorframe, stubbing his toe.
"Are you drunk?" she demanded, too fraught to soften her tone. He drank to forget his true love no doubt, she thought scornfully.
"Certainly not," he snapped. With a sweeping gesture he sent Villette out and closed the door. They were alone. Candle flames flickered and stretched around them, finding sly drafts that blew in to dance with the fragrant air and tease it.
No, he was not drunk, she realized. His eyes were clear, his hands steady. Perhaps he was merely clumsy on his feet. Big, stupid oaf.
"Hurry then," she exclaimed, lying on the bed, letting the emotion drain out of her, until she was empty. "Let's get on with it."
****
When he saw her sitting there, her hair loose, her face so calmly beautiful and yet haughty, he'd stumbled like a fool boy. Then she lay down and gave her terse command
. The woman would be the death of him.
He removed his cloak and belt while she closed her eyes and waited.
So that was the way she wanted it. Fair enough. He'd tried that "wooing" business today and look where it got him. She refused to even grant him a smile and then mocked him about Elsinora.
Stryker grabbed her ankles and pulled her down the bed until her bottom rested on the edge. He took a white fleece, folded it and positioned it under her lower body. Then she opened her eyes.
"What are you doing? Get it over with."
Somehow he restrained himself from cursing at her. "What am I doing?" He laughed sharply. "Fucking my virgin bride. Now lift up your skirts," he growled. "Time to break a hymen." He untied his breeches and swept his tunic off over his head, angrily tossing it to the floor and causing another draft that extinguished two candles completely. From this position he could bend his knees to a footstool and swive her hard, penetrating deeply. The bed was just high enough. As she said, he'd better get on with it.
Amias rolled up her bridal gown and her shift. He thrust her thighs apart with his hands and looked at her pretty pink cunt. Her labia pouted sulkily. Like her damned mouth. The head of his cock tapped against it for he was already hard. He'd watched her for the last few hours and thought of nothing but the moment of consummation, when she could keep him out no longer. Now he would claim his rights and the high-born lady had no choice but to submit to his every filthy desire. His sac was heavy and his penis arched eagerly upward, raring to go, scenting rich, sweet pussy.
But then Stryker made the mistake of looking at her face, only to find her eyes closed tightly. A dead woman would show more concern.
That, he decided, would not do.
Stryker paused. Was she holding her breath?
Slowly he leaned over his new wife's body and reached for the neck of her wedding gown. "This must come off," he muttered.
"Very well," came the haughty reply. "As you wish."
There were laces, criss-crossed across a small v-shaped opening that pointed downward to her breasts, but Stryker was in no mood to fuss with that. He was riven with need to possess this proud creature and make her feel something. In one jerk he pulled the thin, fancy cloth, ripping it asunder, even the shift beneath it, exposing her torso from neck to waist. Her lashes flickered against her cheeks, but she did not lift them. He took a breath to steady his temper.
His wife's breasts were full and well-rounded, the areolas dark and wide. The nipples tightened as his exhaled breath brushed over them. When he held the plump outer curves in his palms and ran his thumbs across the taut peaks, he felt his balls react, his dick swell with need. Drawn to the fragrance in the hollow of her throat, Stryker leaned further, his lips almost touching her skin, his tongue tasting it already, absorbing the scented oil before he even opened his mouth.
The woman arched her neck and her spine, pushing her breasts up until those ripened nipples kissed his chest, and then his column lengthened, aching and pulsing. He rubbed himself against her mound as he lay over her, the coils of silken hair caressing his hard veins, teasing, tempting.
He longed already to thrust his way into her. If this was the simple mating it was supposed to be for the good of his manor, he could have done just that. But now he needed more, not just her dutiful submission with her eyes closed.
"Amias," he whispered.
She made a small sound he could not identify, so he let his tongue roll out and touch her throat, the tip stroking her warm skin, the underside of her chin and then her neck, below her ear. His breeches were around his thighs and he still wore his boots, but there would be no time to remove them now. The scent of her drove him wild.
"I'm coming in. I'm going to fuck you."
She moved under him, her legs parted further, sliding across the furs. "Yes."
Gently he nibbled her ear and felt her breath hitch, her belly lower and then rise again as she undulated beneath him. He hoped she was ready, because he couldn't wait much longer. He reached down between their bodies, slid a finger through her curls and touched her soft, pink cleft. He shuddered when he felt the wetness—the signal he needed. She might not think she had feelings, might not want to show them, but she couldn't prevent her body's reaction to his.
Slowly, rhythmically, he moved his finger in a circle, applying steady pressure where he knew her little rosebud would welcome it.
Inside her waited the treasure he would plunder. She could not deny him that bliss tonight. No more shyness or maidenly reserve would stand in his way. He would come inside her. Deep inside.
But he mustered his patience, even with the white-hot hammer of desire pounding in his temple. Even with his battering ram poised to break down her door.
For women, so he'd been told, getting there was more than half the thrill.
So Stryker garnered the courage to kiss her again, as he did earlier that day, but tonight he was less hurried. His arousal was intense and he needed her to feel the same excitement. So he gave her a leisurely kiss. It was deep, almost contemplative, and full of mute yearning. He tasted spiced wine on her tongue.
Finally her lashes fluttered and lifted. He saw surprise in her brown eyes, but no fear tonight. He quickened his finger against her swelling bud. She squirmed against his hand and when she lifted her bottom off the bed, he took his finger away, halting her climax.
"Not yet," he whispered, relishing his control. Oh, he'd make her feel something. He'd make her feel everything.
She trembled, eyes gleaming up at him. Beads of perspiration formed on her brow, shining in the candlelight.
Stryker returned his finger to her pussy, concentrating on that tiny spot again until she mewled and arched like a cat.
He laughed huskily and carefully he let his tongue sweep her parted lips, tracing the upper and lower bows, assigning their shape to memory. There was a slight dent in her lower lip that made it seem as if she always chewed on it, nervous and doubting. Like the dips and holes worn into the cliffs by constant pounding of the waves.
"Say you want me, Amias," he hissed.
The tip of her tongue emerged to dampen her lower lip. "I want you."
"Say you want me to fuck you."
Pause. She swallowed, shivered. "I want you to fuck me."
With a groan of victory, he diddled her pulsating nub wildly with his callused fingertip. She was coming with a violence he'd never expected, and he plunged his tongue again into her mouth, drinking a series of wanton gasps out of her as if this was his last meal.
****
Ami had not meant to touch him, but she found it was impossible to do otherwise now that he lay over her and pressed his manhood against her mound, the heavy sac laying against her sticky nether lips. She wanted him to shift lower and thrust his cock through her folds. Why did he delay?
Her hands moved to his buttocks. At first she touched him shyly, but the muscle was so hard and tense under her palms. She was sure that she needed to squeeze roughly just to make him aware of her touch. As her hands grew bolder, he moved his hips, pushing his seed bags against her and then retreating. He repeated the motion until his furry balls were slapping her pussy and she grew wetter, swollen. She could smell the ale on his breath and the hot scent of man. He was so strong, so large. And after everything she'd put up with for countless dreary years, she deserved every inch of this.
That dowry he needed so desperately, was hers, was it not? He was, in a sense, her whore. Oh yes, she would get her money's worth.
Perhaps bringing that to his notice could wait for now.
At last his cockhead breached her opening and she lay still, preparing herself for more. He moved his hips, pressing into her and then retreating. Over and over, faster as she became slick and hot. His finger continued exerting slow pressure at the crest of her labia, until his phallus took control and then he readjusted his stance between her legs. He lifted both her wrists and pinned them to the bed over her head.
Breath by breath, shudder b
y shudder, Stryker Bloodaxe claimed her for his bride. There was a moment of searing pain, but she would not cry out. She bit down on her scream, swallowed it.
Then he was housed within her, his massive shaft stretching her conquered maiden walls. He gave a low, celebratory growl that she felt in waves through his body and hers. There would be blood on the bed, on that white fleece he'd laid so carefully under her bottom. Blood stains were hard to remove, she thought dizzily, clutching at a practical concern as if it might save her from falling over yet another peak. But it did not. Ecstasy rippled through her, wave atop wave, until she was drowning in it. When he released her wrists she clung to him, feeling the hot sweat on his back, every muscle moving in smooth coordination under his skin.
She belonged now to him, to the barbarian.
He flung his head back and hissed out some sort of pagan prayer to Odin. That was when she felt the warmth of his seed flood into her and a glorious sense of completion.
She hesitated to call it happiness, for how could she know what that felt like? Whatever it was it invaded her limbs and her bones, rendered her lazy and limp under his heavy frame. Apparently he was betaken by the same sensation, for he lay there a while, his cock slowly deflating, his semen trickling out of where it must have overflowed her tight valley.
There were no words for some time and she had begun to grow accustomed to his weight when he finally rolled off her and removed the folded fleece from under her body. She watched him wipe his prick upon it and then set it reverently aside.
"What is that for?"
"Proof that I bedded a virgin bride," he replied, his tone suggesting she should have known this.
"Proof for whom?"
"The manor." He sat on the bed to finally remove his boots and slip his breeches off. "The manor?"
