by Lisa Cach
Or so I’d thought.
Now, seeing him cower against the wall, terrified of a naked, lusting woman, I felt something shift inside me, like the stone lid of a sarcophagus being shoved aside to reveal a frightening monstrosity within.
And that monster was my desire to conquer him. I wanted him to surrender to me, to admit himself powerless. I wanted him terrified, with a staff that stood at my command even though he loathed what I did to him.
I thought of Tannet, where the sexual humiliation of women was the nightly entertainment, encouraged or inflicted by Mordred. I thought of how he’d displayed me to anyone who cared to look, his fingers working me as his men laughed. His arrogance in treating me so was what galled. It was as if he’d assumed himself my natural master, when I knew he was not worthy of that role. He’d intended to humiliate me, and that was what I could not forgive.
In a twisted, sexual way, I’d enjoyed the fondling display, even as I’d despised him, but I was a strange creature who fed on being pushed beyond my limits, whereas those haunted, unhappy Briton women who’d suffered the same treatment were not. There was no one who could fight for them, no one to change the situation they were in, nowhere they could flee to, no hope for a different life at all. I laid their misery at Mordred’s feet, and I vowed to make myself into their Fury and wreak their vengeance.
There’d be no wreaking if he fainted from fear, though.
“Shh, my love. Shh.” I dropped my voice to a soothing murmur and held out one hand. “It’s all right, there’s nothing to be frightened of.” Oh, happy lies. “Come, my darling.” I started to sing a cradle song I’d heard the Briton women sing to their children, and Mordred’s eyelids fluttered. His arms relaxed and hung loose from his shoulders. All the while, I inched closer, sensing that if I could lay my hand on him, he would be mine.
If Maerlin had been able to paralyze me with his kiss and pick through my mind, then maybe I could do something similar to Mordred. I’d already begun to realize that such control of another was possible, not only when I’d made Mordred release himself in his breeches but with Alaric, in Tolosa. I’d caught Alaric in a spell of lust and held him there, without even being aware of what I was doing.
Under the enchantment of the song, Mordred’s wariness lessened; as the fear went, though, his ability to think started to come back. A glimmer of rationality returned to his eyes, and he stood up straighter, looking more like himself.
I couldn’t have that. He was far too large and strong and could too easily overpower me. I closed the distance between us in a rush, wrapping my arms around his waist and burrowing my face into his chest. The moment I touched him, I tried to shove my mind into his.
He grunted, and his broad paws shoved at my shoulders, trying to peel me off him.
I couldn’t feel my mind going anywhere or breaking into his. How had Maerlin done it? How had I done it? It was like poking a stick at a wall and seeking a loose stone, a crack in the mortar, a spot where a drain pipe used to come out, anything that would let me in—or even anything that would let me out of my own mind, where I seemed trapped.
Arousal had been part of it—mine and maybe his, too.
I made murmuring sounds and rubbed myself against Mordred’s body, then took hold of his wrist and tugged his hand down toward my breast. He resisted, and without my hands clasped behind his waist, it was easy for him to start pushing me away, though he did so with care, as if fearing I might turn rabid on him. I barely clung to him with one arm, his hands still at my shoulders. I only had a moment or two more of contact, my hand still tugging at his wrist.
I closed my eyes and focused on my breast, the feel of the cool air on it, the tightness of the nipple from being rubbed against his wool tunic, the full, heavy feeling of a breast that wanted to be held by a man’s hand, his callused thumb flicking against its end. A rush of warmth filled my sex, and as it did, I felt his wrist relax. I dragged his hand down over my breast and leaned against his palm, my breath sighing with the relief of an ache satisfied.
Again, I blindly sought entrance to his inner world. Again, I was denied, although I could feel it now, faintly, like the heat of the sun through a curtain. I wrapped my hand around his neck and rose onto my toes, lifting my lips to his.
For a moment, my arousal flagged. I remembered his picking meat out of his teeth with his knife. To open my mouth to his, to put my tongue in there . . . I shuddered, my lips curling in a harsh grimace. I felt him closing off to me, his gentle massaging of my breast stopping. I couldn’t let him escape.
I pulled harder on his neck and brought my mouth to his, with more determination than desire. He gave me no response, my lips feeling only the stiff bristles of his mustache and the hard line of his sealed lips. His reluctance challenged me and spurred me on. He would fall to me. He would succumb. I would have my way in this. He would beg for my touch; he would crawl for it; he would humiliate himself for a sign of my favor.
With the tip of my tongue, I traced the seam of his lips, back and forth, and when his mouth softened and he gave a soft, unwilling groan, I drew his lower lip into my mouth and sucked gently on it, rubbing it with the roughness of my tongue. His hold tightened on my breast. I raised one leg, my inner thigh atop his hard muscled one, and pressed my mound against the top of his thigh, grinding it there, taking pleasure in the rough, crude contact. As my body began to enjoy itself independently of my mind, I felt my strength grow.
Again, I pushed against Mordred’s mind, and this time, I felt the curtain give way, just as his lips parted and my tongue thrust inside. I fell through, into a maelstrom of emotions and sensations.
Bolts of fear, shooting coldly through his gut, with echoing thoughts: What’s happening? What’s she doing to me?
Desire, pumping hot, heavy, and unstoppable into his cock. I could feel his staff swelling and its growing need to be plunged into the wetness of my cunny, like a blacksmith thrusting a heated, hammered blade into water.
Anger, a flickering fire bursting into his awareness, only to fade again, leaving fragments of thoughts like wisps of smoke: Liar. Witch. Made a fool of me. Thinks she’s special.
I floundered, overwhelmed by the power of the storm inside him, not knowing how to find my way or how to change any of what I saw, heard, felt.
I felt as much as saw a flash of memory: me on his lap and the moment when I’d taken hold of his lust and shot it through his loins. I felt with him the terror of losing control, of being taken over by another’s will . . . and then the ecstatic release of his climax, pulsing out of him more powerfully than he’d ever experienced and lasting for what felt an eternity.
In the echo of that memory, I felt his secret wish, buried so deeply he didn’t know it himself: he wanted it to happen again. All of it. He wanted me to take control of him, even though the thought made his legs weak with fear. He wanted me to wield his lust like a weapon and humiliate him with it . . . because it would mean I wanted him.
Above all else, he wanted to be wanted.
Far back in my own mind, a belief was shattered, and understanding fell on me like shards of falling glass. I’d thought him supremely confident of his appeal to women. In truth, he was terrified they wouldn’t want him. Better, then, to force them to his pleasure than to ask their favor and risk their looks of disgust or even a painfully kind no.
It was pitiable and so very human. And yet it made his acts no more forgivable. We all had the same fears, but most of us were strong enough to risk the pain of failed romance without striking out at others.
I want you, I whispered into his mind. And I’ll want you even more if you do as I command. Will you obey me, Mordred, my darling? My handsome man, with a cock so thick I dream of suckling upon it, will you do as I say? It would please me so.
Anger. Rebellion. He didn’t know that he wanted what I offered. Instead, I felt him panicking at the feel of me in his mind. He tried
to break free, both mentally and physically.
Shhhhh, I soothed, clinging tightly to him. I’m only here because I want you so much. I tried to speak to that deep part of him, the part that, hidden as it was, was the tide that moved all the storming waves of his emotions. It was the truth that underlay who he was. If I could capture that part of him, I could capture all of him.
You’re so strong, so clever, so powerful. I want to see your body. I’ve imagined you naked so often. I reached down to his wide leather belt, pulling awkwardly at it, trying to get it undone. Can you show me if all my dreams are real? Let me admire you.
I felt that frightened, hungry, yearning part of him come forward and lay itself in my hand, trembling with fear, trembling with the thrill of letting go. Hesitantly at first, then with more certainty, he unfastened his belt and let it drop. Then he broke our kiss and began to strip off the rest of his clothes. I kept one fluttering hand on him, moving it as he moved and garments were dropped or pulled off overhead.
“That’s very nice, Mordred,” I said aloud. “And it will be even better if you move into the light.” I scooped up the belt, bringing it with me as I followed him back into the room lit with tallow lamps. “You should lie down, so I can see you better. On your back, yes. Now, tuck your hands under your buttocks and spread your legs a little. Very good.”
A jittery excitement bubbled up my throat. I was astonished that he was doing as I said. He was looking up at me now with anxious eyes, as if awaiting my approval.
What should I do now? I had no plan. It was very well to vow vengeance, but when you had a naked man lying on his hands with his thighs parted and his bare mentula angling up like the gnomon on a sundial, reality had a way of numbing one’s thoughts. I was not like Sygarius, who had planned every perverse moment in advance and had an endless wealth of knowledge on which to draw.
All I had were the memories of his lessons and a desire that this man before me be punished.
A spark of sympathy lit within me, thinking about the vulnerability that lay at the core of Mordred’s bad behavior. I couldn’t hurt him for being weak, could I? It would be cruel. It would accomplish nothing. I shouldn’t do it.
Then I remembered Terix. He’d given Terix away as a sacrifice to a tree trunk.
The belt slashed down, the end smacking Mordred’s rod and wrapping around it with the force of the blow. He screamed—more from surprise than pain, I could sense—and I clutched his balls and sent my command both through his body and with my voice. “You’ll be quiet and take what I give you, Mordred, my love.” I rolled his sacks in my hand. “You don’t want to make me hit these, do you? And that little smack I gave you didn’t really hurt that much, did it?”
“No,” he said, his voice hoarse.
“You may call me ‘my lady.’ ”
He wet his lips. “My lady.”
I rose and ran the belt through my hands. “Did you like it?” I wasn’t sure that I had. While I was swinging the belt, I’d been thrilled, but the moment after it hit, I felt a twist of queasiness that I recognized as guilt.
“No,” he said, and I raised my brows at him. “My lady,” he finished.
I tsked. “You need to be faster with your answers. And more honest.” Smack.
He yelped but kept it behind his teeth.
“Did you like it?” I asked again. I’d sensed that his hidden self did like it; if he wasn’t enjoying this on some level, I couldn’t have continued. Striking someone for the fun of causing pain—or even for the dark joy of revenge—was proving difficult for me. My arm felt limp even at the thought of raising the belt purely to punish.
“No, my lady.”
Smack.
Another yelp.
“Did you like it?”
He licked his lips, and a defiant light lit his eyes. I recognized that look; I had worn it myself during my lessons with Sygarius, daring him to push me where I pretended I didn’t want to go. “No, my lady.”
Who was I to disappoint him? I ran the belt through my hands, spread my feet for better stability, and then: Smack.
Smack.
Smack.
Smack.
I was breathing heavily by the time I stopped, both from the exercise and from getting excited by his excitement. Mordred was gasping for breath, his face crimson, his cock bobbing. I ran my gaze over his body and admitted that it was a fine one, thick with muscles. Hair grew heavily on his lower legs and arms and in a massive pelt across his chest, and it suited him. The vanquished Celts of Gaul were known to have fought naked, and I could imagine him doing so himself, running naked across a plain, screaming in battle rage, a sword in one hand and a shield in the other.
“Did you like it?” I repeated. My toes touched his leg, and I felt within him the intensity of his arousal. It drowned all other thoughts, all other emotions. All he could feel was his achingly sensitive, stinging cock and a tightness in his balls that yearned for spewing release.
“Y-yes, my lady.” As soon as he said it aloud, I felt a shift within him. He let me into his awareness that he did like it, enough that he would do anything to please me. His cock bobbed again, as if asking me to notice it and give it another thwack.
“You’ve been a bad man, Mordred,” I said. “I don’t think I should give you what you want, do you?”
“N-no, my lady.”
“Do you know why you have to be punished?”
“Because I’m bad?”
“That’s right. You’ve been very bad to the women in your care. You’ve treated them poorly, when you should have been protecting them. Now I must teach you how to behave.”
“Yes, my lady.”
Now what? Think, Nimia, think.
He was still lying on top of his hands, his mentula eager for whatever came next. An unwelcome image of Wynnetha came to mind. If she got her way, that silly girl would end up lying under Mordred on her wedding night, with that big, blunt cock ramming her gates until he bashed his way through. The only thing to slick its passage would be her own virgin blood.
Any woman deserved better.
I dropped the belt and straddled his chest, then lowered myself until I was kneeling, one knee to either side of his head. His mouth was close enough to my sex that I could feel the warmth of his breath on it. With my fingertips, I gently pulled back my folds. “What’s this?” I asked him, making sure I was in his line of sight.
His eyes almost crossed trying to focus, but it was a target hard to miss. “Cunnus,” he said.
“Cunnus, yes. She’s your goddess,” I said. “It is she whom you must worship. Everything you do in this life you must do for her. You have no purpose but to serve her. And how does she want you to serve her?”
He squinted up at me, as if fearing a trick to the question. “By fucking her?”
“Yes! Very good, Mordred. But you can’t start there. What do you always need to do first, to worship her as she deserves?”
“Lift the skirt.”
I narrowed my eyes at him, but he was serious. “And then?”
“Check for monthly flow.”
I sighed. Good gods. “You must wake Cunnus up and coax her into wanting you.”
Understanding lit his face, and he grinned. “Pinch it. Pull it.”
I grimaced. “Well, yes, if gently. But better to use your mouth.”
I felt the question run through him: Mouth? How?
I built an image in my head and tentatively sent it to him, testing how clearly I could communicate this way.
You can’t mean I should—
“Yes, I can mean that,” I said, and lowered myself until my sex brushed his lips. “Lick me.”
He’d never done it before. His emotions surged: shock and shame at lying beneath a woman, pleasuring her with his mouth. He felt subservient, as if he was the one being mastered and made to enterta
in another. He struggled against it, and against himself, but beneath it all was that desire to be controlled.
I leaned back, sitting on his sternum, and reached behind me. I found his nipples and pinched them hard, twisting them at the end to send a quick shot of real pain through him. He bucked and gasped, and as the throb of his hurt faded, I felt his gratitude. The threat of punishment let him give himself permission to obey me, despite his masculine pride.
I put myself back in position and ran my fingers through the hair above his brow, soothing him. “You want to please me, don’t you, Mordred? I know you do. Now, lick.”
And lick he did. And suck and swirl, flick with his tongue, trace and probe and thrum. I coaxed him through his lesson, using words and the silent communication from my mind, making him work my folds and stamen until I heard my golden swarm. They’d regained their strength, and their wings shimmered at the edges of my vision as I came, then came again. He was tiring, his jaw nearly cramping, but with my own arousal, my power grew, and I held on to his mind and forced him to keep going.
This is what Cunnus wants. Can you taste her nectar? That means she’s pleased. Taste it. Swallow it. It is life to you. Now, thrust your tongue deep inside her gates. Yes, there . . . Harder. Inside.
His tongue flicked at my entrance, weak and unsatisfying. I made him press it hard until the outer lips parted, then inward past the strong gates, until I could feel the tip delve in and flutter just inside my passage. I wanted to force him deeper but knew he could go no further; a tongue is only so long.
I’d spent myself twice already; my sex was still swollen, though. Still aroused, still seeking more. Frustrated, I pulled myself off him and shoved at his side with my foot. “Roll over! Get on your hands and knees.”
“Yes, my lady,” he mumbled through his weary mouth.
“Put your head down, and lock your hands behind your neck. Spread your knees.”
He obeyed, leaving his buttocks high in the air and his acorns visible between his thighs.
I picked up the belt again, doubled it up, and thwacked him across the buttocks. “That’s for not trying hard enough,” I said, and set to turning his pale white ass to bright pink.
