Elena's Conquest

by Lisette Allen

  This, to Morwith, was new; the pleasuring of a female, the feel of the moist, wrinkled folds of flesh against her tongue. But she knew only too well what she herself enjoyed; knew how the tongue’s soft, teas­ing delicacy could be a most delicious replacement for a man’s rigid phallus. Delicately she drew her tongue between the soft labia that were already engorged with desire. If this was how fine ladies lived, then she, Morwith, would be a fine lady!

  Gliding her tongue steadily up the smooth pink slit, Morwith’s pointed tongue at last found Isobel’s sweet bud of desire, already enlarged and sensitive. Careful not to abuse it, knowing how easily a harsh touch could kill pleasure. Morwith let her tongue circle the quivering stem, caressing it tantalisingly. Isobel threw her head back and clutched at Morwith’s heavy breasts with desperate fingers. ‘Kiss me. Oh, your tongue is so sweet, Morwith. Let me feel your tongue, deep inside -oh, yes, yes!’

  With a little smile, Morwith drew her sensuous mouth in a swirling caress round Isobel’s tender flesh. Then, pointing and stiffening her ready tongue, she glided lightly up and down between Isobel’s inner flesh lips and thrust it gently, teasingly in and out of the entrance to Isobel’s juicy love channel.

  Isobel groaned aloud and jerked her hips desperately towards Morwith’s teasing mouth. Morwith gave a low chuckle and continued to slide her tongue up and down, but more firmly now; lightly swirling Isobel’s engorged pleasure bud, then gliding down to thrust slickly inside her, to satisfy her. So close now - so close …

  Her tongue glanced, then flickered on the shaft of Isobel’s swollen clitoris. Isobel’s body arched violently into the air, her buttocks tight and straining in her extremity. Morwith, taking a deep breath, stuck her tongue as far as she could inside the other woman’s love passage, making little jabbing motions to simulate a man’s phallus, using all her skill to satisfy her new mistress.

  lsobel exploded, uttering fierce little cries. She spasmed again and again against Morwith’s busy mouth, almost throwing her off the bed, then she collapsed, sated with exquisite pleasure.

  Slowly, Morwith slipped from the bed, the coverlet of wolf pelts exciting her own heated, sensitised skin as the fur brushed her belly and thighs. She kneeled on the floor at the foot of the bed, her heart beating wildly. Unbearably excited herself, her own secret flesh was moist and slick and hungry. She bowed her head, submissive but hopeful.

  After some moments of utter stillness, Isobel stirred and drew herself up, stretching in lazy contentment. Her cat-like green eyes regarded the kneeling, naked serf thoughtfully.

  ‘You show some promise, Morwith.’

  Morwith looked up, her eyes bright, her body flushed with her own eager desire. ‘My lady?’

  Isobel chuckled as she surveyed the wet pink flesh between Morwith’s parted thighs. How the woman begged, wordlessly, to be pleasured! But she would have to wait. ‘You must learn patience, Morwith, if you are to progress. I can see that you are all too eager for your own satisfaction.’

  Morwith licked her lips, her eyes pleading. Isobel slid from the bed and smoothed her silk gown so that her skirts fell in rich swathes to the ground.

  ‘But first’ Isobel went on calmly, ‘you must help me in another task. You seem to have forgotten, Morwith, that we have someone else to punish.’

  Morwith’s eyes widened. ‘My lady, if I can help in any way -’

  Isobel poured herself more wine, and drank content­edly. Aimery would not be back for a long, long time. Which was as well, because there was so much she had to do. She went on, ‘You can help me indeed. You see, we must punish Hamet the Saracen for neglecting his duties, and for serving you so lasciviously. Don’t you agree, Morwith?’

  Morwith gulped and nodded, her heart pounding with excitement.

  The hot afternoon sun beat down relentlessly on the procession of wagons and horses travelling slowly northwards along the sandy track. The clumsy wooden wheels of the baggage carts kept embedding themselves in the ruts; the drivers cursed impatiently, whipping on the plodding horses, sweating and grumbling in the baking heat.

  Aimery le Sabrenn rode at the head of the armed escort, watchful and wary. Here, at least, bracken and thorn scrub replaced the dense oak forest to the west, making visibility better and Saxon ambush less likely.

  Though if the Saxons knew that the twelve baggage wagons contained arms and provisions for the isolated garrison at York, Aimery had no doubt that they would attack, and kill.

  ‘My lord, a horseman! Coming down the track -about a mile away - ‘

  Aimery nodded acknowledgement at the hurried warning from the sergeant-at-arms, his hand tightening briefly on his sword. He reined in his big black destrier, aware once more of the sun’s heat burning through his chainmail hauberk, and ordered his men to halt. Another wagon was stuck anyway; at least a dozen of his men were heaving and grunting at the wheel where it was embedded in a deep, sandy rut.

  He could see the horseman himself, could see the glint of armour through the cloud of rising dust. Lean­ing back against the high cantle of his saddle, Aimery pushed his hand through his dust-streaked hair and silently gestured to his men to fan out around the convoy, all of them warily scanning the bracken wastes that surrounded them. Perhaps the horseman brought news of battle. He was aware of a swift, unusual regret, that his return to Thoresfield might be delayed. The fair-haired Saxon girl had haunted his thoughts all day.

  ‘One of de Ferrers’ knights, my lord, by my reckon­ing’ muttered the sergeant at his side.

  The horseman rode up in a cloud of dust, pushing back his helmet from his sweat-streaked face.

  ‘My lord Aimery?’ he gasped.

  Aimery pushed his horse forward, but there was no need; his air of natural authority had already identified him. ‘You have a message for me?’ he said quietly.

  ‘Aye, my lord. You are shortly to be relieved of your escort duties, by a convoy of Henri de Ferrers’ men travelling northwards to York for garrison duties. They will converge with you shortly, my lord, at the next crossroads. They carry all the necessary papers, by your leave …’

  Aimery turned round to his silent, waiting men. ‘It looks,’ he said, ‘as if we shall be returning to Thoresfield earlier than planned.’

  His men grinned and relaxed. That’s good news, sir,’ said the sergeant. Escort duty was never popular, with the constant fear of ambush and the possibility of scrappy, isolated fighting in the outlaw-ridden forest, though Aimery knew that his men would follow him to hell and back if he asked them.

  Aimery smiled back at the burly sergeant, his scar twisting his firm mouth. ‘Good news indeed’ he replied softly, half to himself.

  He found that he was thinking of the girl again. Remembering her soft, tender body in his arms last night, he grew hard. He gritted his teeth silently against the harsh, burning desire that leaped through his body.

  Chapter Seven

  Throughout that day, Elena had struggled to do her work alongside the other serfs. She knew, without being told, that she was hopeless at it. She could barely carry the heavy trays of dough to the bakehouse; the great cauldron of stew that she was ordered to stir burned and stuck to the sides of the pot; and as for plucking chickens, the other serfs took the half-feath­ered birds from her in disgust when they saw how little progress she made. Everything about the busy, bustling place confused her; people shouted and scolded, and try as she might, she succeeded at nothing.

  And all the time, the love belt chafed insistently at her flesh, filling her bewildered body with unfamiliar sensations, like a secret caress. A reminder that she was a prisoner. Every minute of the day, the lord of Thoresfield’s scarred, beautiful face haunted her mind; the look of tenderness in his steel-grey eyes as he mur­mured, ‘We have all night, caran …’

  She struggled on alone, because Isobel had told her it was Aimery’s command, and only once did someone try to help her.

  She was carrying two pails of milk across the yard, for the cheese-making. The wooden pail
s were so heavy, she was afraid of dropping them; but she did not dare to put them down. The sun burned down on her and her arms ached as she struggled on.

  Then someone came up behind her, and took the pails from her, swinging them easily into this own strong hands. ‘Let me take those’ a strangely familiar, male voice said quietly. ‘Just follow me across the yard - don’t trouble to express you thanks, or people will notice us.’

  Elena gasped as she gazed up into the man’s face.

  The tall, golden-haired Saxon - the rebel. The man she had met coming from Father Wulfstan’s house. The man she had taken water to, that night in the forest, the night she had first seen Aimery. ‘You!’ she whispered, gazing up at him as he stopped outside the kitchen.

  He put down the heavy, frothing buckets. ‘My name is Leofwin,’ he said quietly. T am a serf. A prisoner here, like you. But, lady, if you need help of any kind, then summon me. I will do anything I can to help you.’

  Elena felt her breath catch in her throat. Even in the ragged tunic of a serf this man was breathtakingly handsome, with his tanned, muscular body gleaming with perspiration in the heat of the day, and his sun-streaked mane of hair. And the way he looked at her, so tenderly, with those fathomless blue eyes …

  Elena suddenly felt the tight love belt rub between her thighs, and a hot, liquid, churning sensation in her stomach. She knew instinctively that this man Leofwin would hate Aimery le Sabrenn with a burning hatred; would want to kill him, for what he had done to her last night.

  From inside the kitchen, someone called out, ‘Hey, you there! With the milk! Are you, going to be all day?’

  Hurriedly Elena picked up the heavy pails and struggled to haul them inside, while the Saxon, watch­ing her with his hands on his hips, said quietly, ‘Remember me if ever you need a friend.’

  In the afternoon, after a meagre lunch of rye bread and weak ale, Alys, the lady Isobel’s maid, showed Elena how to wash the fine household linens in buttermilk, then peg them out in the sun to bleach them dry.

  ‘You are lucky, Elena,’ sighed poor, pockmarked Alys, suddenly stopping her work and regarding the slender blonde Saxon girl with envy. ‘It won’t be long before one of the men chooses you for his own. No such chance for me!’ And Alys squeezed fiercely at the linen sheet she was dousing in the big tub of buttermilk.

  Elena, her heart wrung with pity in spite of her own suffering, said quickly, ‘You may well meet some good man who will wish to marry you, Alys. Looks should not be so important!’

  ‘It’s all very well for you to say that, when you are so beautiful!’ sighed Alys. ‘It won’t be long before one of lord Aimery’s fine knights takes you for himself, I’ll be bound.’

  Elena remembered Aimery in her bed last night, and a slow blush stained her cheeks. As she knelt to peg out the linen, the leather belt tightened at the soft flesh between her legs, sending little arrows of desire burning through her belly and breasts. How long would she be kept in this exquisite torment?

  Someone shouted across the yard at her. ‘You! The new girl! The lady Isobel wants you up in her room. Make haste!’

  Elena paled, and felt suddenly dizzy as she stood up. Alys said laconically,

  ‘Better hurry, then, girl. My lady doesn’t like to be kept waiting.’ Elena bit her lip and set off towards the castle; Alys watched her go enviously.

  Alys knew what the summons from Isobel meant. She knew what kind of things were in store for the beautiful blonde Saxon girl, and envied her wildly.

  Elena blinked, disorientated, as she was shown into the lady Isobel’s chamber.

  The hide shutters had been drawn across the window embrasures, blocking out the sunlight. The heat from a brazier in the corner was intense. Two candles burned in silver holders placed on an oak coffer, their flames casting glimmering, unreal shadows around the tapes­try-clad room. At first, accustomed as she was to the dazzling sunshine outside, she felt blinded.

  Then she began to see. And what she saw made her want to turn, and run.

  Isobel reclined in a carved wooden chair in the corner. Even in this claustrophobic darkness she looked as cool and elegant as ever, with her beautiful green silk gown and coiled black hair. Taking no notice of Elena, she continued to gaze at a little tableau in the opposite corner of the room, and a hazy smile played round her full red lips. Elena followed her gaze, and the breath caught in her throat.

  In the near-darkness, Hamet, Aimery’s servant, was kneeling on the floor. He wore leggings, but his gleam­ing dark torso was completely naked. His hands were tied behind his back to an iron ring in the wall, and he was blindfolded.

  In front of him, with her back to Elena, was a redheaded woman wearing nothing but a strange, tight bodice made of black leather. She was leaning over the Saracen, dangling her large ripe breasts lewdly in his face, as he strained hungrily up towards her. Apart from the laced bodice, which thrust up her breasts and emphasised the curvaceous flesh of her rounded bottom, she wore nothing.

  Elena leaned back against the closed door, feeling suddenly faint. Isobel glanced across at her, and laughed. She had plenty of time, to punish this stupid Saxon girl and get rid of her before Aimery got back.

  ‘You are just in time, little Elena’ she said caress­ingly. ‘Just in time to witness Hamet’s punishment. Hamet, you see, has disobeyed me. He is now paying the price of his disobedience, and you, Elena, are to take part in his punishment.’

  Elena felt her throat go dry. ‘No! I - ‘

  Isobel went on briskly, ‘My dear Elena, I thought you understood. This is what the lord Aimery wishes; what the lord Aimery commands. And you want to please him, don’t you?’

  Elena was breathing shakily. The door behind her was unlocked. She was not in chains. She knew she should turn and run from this decadent, shadowy chamber, with all its dark promise. But the love belt squeezed gently, insistently at her fevered flesh, and just the mention of the Breton’s name was enough to set her blood on fire. The redhead in the corner, oblivious to everything but the powerful man impris­oned beneath her, continued to torment him by rubbing her creamy breasts against his face. Elena felt the dark hunger in her secret places burn more fiercely than ever. She moistened her lips and whispered steadily, ‘Yes. I wish to please the lord Aimery.’

  Isobel nodded her satisfaction, and leaned forward. ‘Then let me explain. Hamet here has behaved badly, with Morwith, the Saxon slave who torments him so with her lascivious body. He ravished her, serviced her crudely in the yard as if she were some animal on heat; drove his massive member into her quivering flesh.’

  Hamet, in the corner, let out a soft moan of despair at her crude words. Isobel stood up, and Elena saw that in one hand she carried a small leather whip, its lash trailing on the ground as she walked slowly across the dimly lit room towards the imprisoned Saracen. Mor­with saw her coming and stepped silently back into the shadows; Elena saw, with a jarring shock, that the red-gold hair at the juncture of her plump thighs was slick with moisture.

  Isobel stood in front of Hamet, who gazed blindly up at his lady. He let out another moan as Isobel trailed her whip across his broad chest and let the lash dangle across the swelling bulge at his crotch.

  ‘And Morwith too’ Isobel went on, turning suddenly on the redhead. ‘Your punishment is not yet complete. Slut, I remember your face - how you enjoyed every wicked second as Hamet’s rampant shaft slid up inside you. I saw you as you flung your head back in ecstasy! I heard you squeal with pleasure as you felt him impale you!’

  The redhaired Saxon woman hung her head, but her nipples were dark and turgid above her leather bodice, and her pale blue eyes glittered with repressed excite­ment. ‘My lady’ she whispered, ‘I deserve further punishment. I wish to do penance.’

  Then’ said Isobel sternly, ‘you must prepare your­self. Go and lie down on the bed. And Elena, who has been brought here to join in your punishment, will carry out that punishment. Come here, Elena.’

  Elena stood immobile by the
door as Morwith sprawled back luxuriantly on the fur-covered bed. She couldn’t move. The heated blood coursed through her trembling body; the taut love belt pressed more tightly than ever, riding high between the soft pink folds of flesh at the top of her thighs. She knew that she couldn’t bear this exquisite torment for much longer, and that even to move would send ripples of pleasure coursing through her body.

  ‘Come here, Elena, dear’ repeated Isobel sweetly, fondling the handle of her whip, ‘or the lord Aimery will be greatly displeased with you!’

  Drugged with her own dark desires, her abdomen strangely heavy, her breasts tingling, Elena moved towards Isobel slowly, as if in a dream. Isobel smiled.

  ‘Look, Elena’ she whispered, ‘see how hungry Mor­with is for love. Look at her sweet, ripe body, that drives Hamet to such torment!’ Swiftly, Isobel opened up the chest by her bed, and drew out a length of fine silk cord. ‘Here, Elena’ she said, ‘she is yours. Tie her wrists to the bed. See, how she writhes, longing for her punishment!’

  Elena stood hesitantly, her dark blue eyes wide with uncertainty. Isobel said softly, ‘Now, we don’t want to have to tell the lord Aimery how disobedient you are, Elena, do we? Why, he might even send you away! And you don’t want that, do you, my sweet Elena? You don’t wish to leave, never to see Aimery again?’

  Swallowing hard, Elena shook her head. She was completely in this woman’s power. Because Isobel knew she would do anything, anything, to obey Aimery’s wishes.

  Taking the rope numbly from Isobel’s outstretched hands, she silently bound the redhead’s wrists to the wooden frame of the bed, as Isobel indicated. While she worked, the musky heat of Morwith’s voluptuous body reached up to her, inflaming her even more. With a little shock, she saw the wet pink flesh of her woman’s parts protruding excitedly from the nest of red hair between her thighs, waiting desperately for a man’s touch. Elena thought of Aimery’s mysterious, proud phallus, and it was like a dark shaft through her soul, possessing her.