Hellion

by Bertrice Small

  Then he yanked Belle almost off of her feet and led her across the courtyard into the castle. He took a turn here, and another there, and she was forced to half run up a flight of stairs. She had absolutely no idea of where she was, having only seen the Great Hall of La Citadelle, and nothing more. They saw or passed no other living soul. Then it dawned upon Isabelle, as she finally began to gather her wits about her, that the castle had four towers and he was taking her up into one of them. She fell suddenly, bruising her knee.

  “God’s bones!” she swore softly.

  Guy d’ Bretagne laughed. “I thought you would have spirit,” he said. “A weak wench could not have survived the life you have been living. Well, here we are!” He flung open an ironbound oak door.

  “Where are we?” she demanded as she entered the room.

  “My apartments, of course,” he said. “I have a bathing room, Belle, but you, of course, would not know of such things. Come! I shall show you. My grandfather was a Moor, and he introduced the amenity to La Citadelle.” He flung open another door and drew her into the chamber.

  Belle gasped. This was a room nothing like the utilitarian bathing chamber of Langston. The marble walls were smooth and white, veined with green. The floor was tiled with great blocks of white stone. In one corner of the room was a depression shaped like a scallop shell, with a gold drain in it. There was a long, rectangular tub of the same marble as the walls. Its interior was also carved to resemble a scallop shell. Near it stood a waist-high marble bench. There were alcoves set into the walls, filled with towels, all manner of decanters that held scented oils, and blocks of soap.

  “Where is the water?” she asked him.

  Reaching over the tub, he turned the tails of two golden fish protruding from the wall, and lo, there was water pouring forth from their mouths, which acted as spigots.

  Belle gaped, which seemed to delight him. “How have you done this?” she asked him, genuinely amazed.

  “ ’Tis just some of my magic,” he said quietly. “Now, let us get your clothes off, Belle.”

  She jumped back. “I am quite capable of undressing myself,” she said nervously.

  “But it will be more fun for me if I do it,” he said, his dark violet eyes dancing wickedly. “Are you a virgin, then?”

  She pondered the wisdom of lying to him, and decided against it. “Nay, my lord.” She said no more, and he asked not.

  “If you are not a virgin, then you know there is no reason for you to be shy of your nakedness, Belle,” he told her in a gentle voice. “You must learn to render me complete obedience, my sweet. Come here to me now.” He took her hand again, drawing her to him. Again his eyes met hers, and once more the weakness assailed Isabelle. “You are like a wild creature,” his rich, musical voice murmured into her ear. “I won’t hurt you, Belle. Nay, I only want to offer you pleasure, my pretty one.” His fingers fumbled with her clothing, pinching a nipple sharply. She cried out softly, and he laughed low. “You are sensitive, eh? Then it has been a long time, I’ll wager, since you had a good strong cock to fill you up. We’ll remedy that soon enough, my beauty. Now,” he said briskly, “raise your arms up so we can get your cote off, my pretty wench,” and he pulled the garment over her head, dropping it on the floor. Then lifting her up onto the high marble bench, he removed first one worn leather boot and then the other, tsking at their sorry state. “How long has it been since you had a new pair of boots?” he asked her.

  “I cannot remember,” she answered him, avoiding his gaze. Not just the nipple he had pinched, but both nipples were absolutely throbbing.

  “These don’t even fit properly,” he said, noting where her hose were worn. He rolled them down, relegating them to the growing pile of her clothing. Then he undid her garters, pulling her chausses off her shapely legs, which he silently admired, running his palms over her calves. He examined her feet, roughened by weeks of walking.

  His big hands were warm. They slid up her legs to linger on her thighs a moment. Belle nervously slipped from the high bench to the floor. “The poor,” she told him, “cannot be fussy about fit. The boots were hand-me-downs, and I was happy to have them. I have never had anything new,” she added for effect. She had to keep her wits about her, and it was becoming more difficult with each passing moment. His magic was obviously robbing her of her puissance, and she was becoming ever more helpless to his will. Despite her bravado, Isabelle was now afraid. Had Hugh felt this way when Vivienne d’ Bretagne began weaving her spell about him? Still, Guy must be convinced that she was a nobleman’s by-blow, as Lind had so cleverly told him. “I wore my half sister’s castoffs until Lind decided I should be safer being a boy.”

  Guy d’ Bretagne did not answer, for he was far too intent on eliminating the remainder of her garments. He drew off the two smocks she wore, lastly unbinding her bosom from the length of cloth that had tightly suppressed its natural curves. Then he stepped back and looked. It was obvious that he was enchanted by what he saw. Finally he said to her, “Go and stand in the shell. I will be with you in a moment.”

  What do I feel? Isabelle wondered as she padded across the room on bare feet to do his bidding. Should not I at least be embarrassed by my situation? But she wasn’t. Isabelle of Langston had divorced herself from Belle, the bastard girl. She had to if she was to survive. She had to if she was to save her husband from Vivienne d’ Bretagne. If they should find out the truth of who she really was, Isabelle suspected her life would be quickly forfeit.

  Through a twist of fate she had gained entry into the castle proper. She knew that she would not be leaving soon. Guy d’ Bretagne was a big healthy man with an obvious appetite. He wasn’t allowing her a real bath out of the kindness of his heart. He wasn’t just amusing himself by bathing her personally. He meant to make love to her, and Belle realized that if she was to obtain her real objective, she was going to have to let him. She thought of her righteous outrage, and her noble indignation over the king’s attempted assault on her wifely virtue. Yet she was now about to allow herself to be seduced by this mysterious man all in the name of aiding her husband. A year ago she could have never imagined such a thing.

  God, and His Blessed Mother, forgive me, she thought, but I know of no other way. I could not have left La Citadelle until I knew for certain that Hugh was here, and when I did, I could not leave because they would have come after me, believing me a falconer. Life is very complicated away from home, but if I hadn’t left, then there would have been no chance at all of regaining my husband. Is there even one now? What have I gotten myself into?

  Guy d’ Bretagne rummaged among the crystal decanters, and then finding what he sought, he uncorked it, sniffed appreciatively, and, walking over to the tub, poured a good dollop of the pale purple liquid into the water. Then he replaced the bottle, and leaning over, turned the spigots off. She watched curiously as he next poured wine into a carved amethyst goblet set in silver filigree, added a pinch of something, and swirled it about until the goblet appeared to be filled with a royal purple liquid laced with swirls of gold. He handed her the goblet.

  “Drink it all down, it will calm you,” he told her, then said, “The art of bathing is quite simple really. When one finally enters the tub, one should already be clean. To sit soaking in dirty water defeats the whole point of bathing. I will wash you first, Belle, and then you may relax in the perfumed water. When you are through, you will agree that you have never had a bath quite like this one, I promise you. Come now, drink all your wine down,” and he gently forced the goblet to her lips, holding it there until the liquid was utterly consumed.

  Next he filled a silver basin with water from the tub. Reaching into a nearby alcove, he drew forth a soft cloth. He selected a small alabaster jar and removed its gold lid. “The scent I have chosen for you is called freesia. It is a delicate flower that grows in the south.” He dipped the cloth into the jar and held it out to her to sniff. “Do you like it, Belle?”

  The aroma was sweet, yet heady an
d sensual. She did like it, and told him so. He smiled at her, pleased, and then began to wash her. Kneeling, he began at her feet, the cloth slipping between each toe, rubbing assiduously. He lifted each foot, washing its sole, shaking his head again over the condition of her feet. Carefully he washed each of her legs in turn, and when faced with her bush, said, “Is your hair naturally dark, Belle?”

  “No, my lord,” she answered him.

  “Walnut stain?” he inquired calmly.

  “Yes, my lord,” she replied.

  “I have something that will take it out right away,” he told her. “And I have a special elixir that will help your hair to grow again. How long was it when you cut it?”

  “To my buttocks, my lord,” she said.

  “And it is this wonderful red-gold color?” he asked, tweaking her flaming mont.

  “Yes, my lord.” What an odd conversation, Belle thought.

  He laughed as if reading her mind, which made her decidedly nervous. “The hair on your head I shall appreciate, but no lady should have a bush, or legs overgrown with hair. Only peasants have such body hair. It hides a woman’s natural glory, and I do not want that, Belle.” He stood up, and reaching into another alcove, drew forth another alabaster jar, this one with a pink marble cover. Opening it, he dipped out a thick pink paste which he smeared over her mont, her legs, and beneath her arms. “We’ll give it a few minutes to work while I finish washing you, and then we’ll rinse it off.” He returned to his task of bathing her. His hands moved over her belly, up her torso. The cloth swirled over her breasts, teasing at her nipples; up to her throat and over her shoulders. He turned her about and scrubbed down her back to her buttocks. The cloth rubbed between the halves of her bottom, and she stiffened. He laughed, and patted her reassuringly.

  Turning the fishtail handle of a spigot in the wall, he filled a crystal pitcher with water several times over while rinsing her. As the water sluiced down her body it took with it the red-gold hair that had formerly covered her Venus mont, her armpits, and legs. Belle was amazed, and not just a tiny bit uncomfortable, with the plump pink flesh that was revealed. Her slit was so visible. So voluptuous, and carnal. Surely it shouldn’t be.

  He moved away from her, and returning, set a small wooden stool in the center of the shell. “Sit down, Belle. I want to wash your hair before I let you soak,” he told her.

  She sat, and almost at once he was wetting her dark locks, rubbing something fragrant into it, his fingers briskly kneading her scalp. She gasped as he dumped a basin of water over her hair, and then she felt him beginning the process all over again. When he had finished, he knelt before her again, gently cleaning her face with a fresh cloth. His touch was very light.

  “You can open your eyes now,” he said, and drawing her up, led her over to the tub. “Get in, Belle. You may soak for a few minutes.”

  She gratefully sank into the warm water. If the truth be known, she had never felt better in her entire life. This, then, was what bathing a person was really all about. She had learned a great deal from him this day, and she would remember it. She reached up and touched her wet hair. Was it really her own color again? She longed for a silver mirror in which to view herself. Perhaps he had one and would share it.

  “Come now, it is time to get out,” he told her, helping her from the water. He dried her quickly and efficiently, and then brought her back to the high marble bench. “I want you to lie upon it, facedown,” he said, helping her up. Then he began to knead her flesh with the same oil that he had swirled into the bathwater.

  It felt marvelous. Belle almost swooned with pleasure, but the pleasure was not a sexual one. She hadn’t allowed herself to acknowledge how sore her muscles were until this very moment, but now his supple fingers soothed away all the aches, and she almost purred. If it was magic, then certainly it was very good magic, she decided. She had never felt more relaxed in her entire life. He rolled her over and continued his massage, and there was no lewdness in it.

  Finally, when he was finished, he helped her up and brought her through a different door into another room, which she immediately recognized as a bedchamber. He had remained fully dressed the entire time he was bathing her, and standing next to him now, she felt more than just naked. She suddenly felt very vulnerable. Sensing her sudden change in mood, he poured a pale green liquid into a small, narrow silver goblet. “Drink this,” he said, and she took it, but again was hesitant about drinking it.

  “May I have my clothes back now, my lord?” she asked him.

  “You would put those filthy rags on that magnificent, clean body?” he demanded.

  “You could have my clean clothes sent up from the barn,” she suggested.

  “You will not wear boy’s clothes again, Belle,” he said. “Such a thing is a sacrilege against nature and the mother who created you.”

  “What shall I wear, then, my lord?” Belle inquired.

  “I have not decided yet,” he told her frankly. “Until I do, you will remain as naked as the day you were born. You have a beautiful body, you know. Though you be a big girl, you are delicately made. Now drink your drink. If you do, I shall fetch a silver mirror so you may see your lovely hair returned to its natural state.”

  “What is in it?” Belle demanded suspiciously, sniffing the goblet.

  “It is a blend of wine and herbs I have formulated. It will not hurt you, you silly creature. I did not bathe you so tenderly to murder you,” he said with a laugh.

  Isabelle brought the goblet to her lips and began to drink, looking at him over the silver rim of the cup. He was surely the most handsome man she had ever seen in her entire life. He had to be the most handsome man in all the world. His fair skin seemed even more so in contrast to his jet-black hair and violet eyes. His features were absolutely perfect and symmetrical: oval eyes beneath thick black brows; a high forehead, and higher cheekbones; a long, perfect nose; narrow, perfectly shaped lips; a square chin with a deep cleft in it. And he was certainly taller than anyone she had ever known.

  The last of the strangely spicy liquid slid down her throat. He took the goblet from her and led her by the hand into an alcove of the bedchamber that she had not previously noticed. Within was a strange device, padded in a black leather; one end shaped like an X, the other end like a cross. Before Isabelle could ask, Guy d’ Bretagne lifted her up and laid her upon the device, quickly snapping manacles of gold lined in lamb’s wool over first her wrists, which were bound to the cross, and then her ankles, which were spread wide by the X. Her torso lay on the comfortable bench.

  “What are you doing?” she asked him. Her head was spinning just slightly, but for some reason she wasn’t afraid.

  “I must join my sister and her lover, Hugh, in the Great Hall for the evening meal. When I return, Belle, I will want to satisfy a different sort of appetite. As I sit with Vivienne eating venison from the deer she killed this day; eating the ducks your birds brought down; drinking my sister’s excellent wine; I shall think of you here, clean and fragrant; your beautiful, fair body spread wide, eagerly awaiting me.”

  “I shall await you, my lord, for I can see I have no other choice,” Belle told him with a small attempt at humor, which he greatly appreciated, “but I shall not be eager.”

  “But you will, Belle,” he said softly. “I shall see to it that you are.” He moved to a small table nearby, and lifting the lid on a long, carved box, drew forth an object such as she had never seen. Holding it up, he asked her, “Do you know what this is, Belle? Nay, of course you do not.” He caressed it. “Look closely, and tell me what it resembles, my beautiful wench.” He held it before her.

  She looked upon it, her eyes widening. The object was made of a soft, yet supple cream-colored leather. It was long and slender. Its shape was that of a manhood. “What is it?” she whispered, a tiny curl of fear knotting her belly.

  At first he did not answer her. Instead he dipped his fingers into a vial of oily liquid. Then he tenderly spread the substance over he
r mont, spreading her netherlips wide to thoroughly massage it in. Belle, however, could not take her eyes from the thing he held in his other hand. The object was attached to an oval-shaped gold ring through which he now laced his fingers. “It is called a phallus,” he said, noting her gaze. He dipped the phallus into the same liquid. Setting the vial down, he stood over Belle. Then, to her immense shock and surprise, he inserted the phallus smoothly within her, turning it just slightly once or twice, smiling at her gasp. “Now,” he said softly to her, “when I return from the Great Hall, Belle, you will indeed be eager for me. The phallus with its special oils will act to prime your passion. You may cry out if you wish. This entire tower is inhabited by me alone. No one will hear you, but just imagining you here thusly, my own passion will burn brightly. We will give each other great pleasure this night, Belle. You are now securely within my power,” he purred to her, and bending down, he kissed her mouth softly. Then he turned, leaving the chamber, and she was alone.

  At first Isabelle lay stunned with shock by what had just happened. Oh God, she thought, her heart pounding. I am ensorcelled even as my poor Hugh, else I should never be brought to this condition. She was very aware of the phallus within her. It felt enormous, and it seemed to be throbbing. That could not be! It was nothing more than an inanimate object. She had never imagined being violated by such a thing. No woman could imagine it. She shifted her body just slightly, and gasped, for the merest movement was torture. The walls of her sheath seemed to cling to the phallus despite her desperate attempts to have as little contact with it as possible. She was beginning to tingle with her arousal. It was agony, and yet it was not.

  * * *

  Guy d’ Bretagne entered the Great Hall of La Citadelle to find Vivienne and Hugh already at table.

  “You are quite late,” his sister said. Her beautiful mouth was greasy with the duck she was eagerly consuming.

  “I have made a rather interesting discovery,” Guy told them. “The young falconer, Lang, is in reality a girl! What think you of that?”