Elena's Conquest

by Lisette Allen

  She threw herself into the air, spasming wildly, as the pleasure exploded in white-hot shafts through her tense, yearning body. Wulf drove himself into her fiercely, his taut hips jerking, until at last, with a husky groan, he shuddered to his own delicious release, his penis pulsing wetly within her.

  ‘Now me,’ said Osric softly, his ravening member jutting hungrily into the empty air.

  He was still crouching astride Elena, though careful not to lean his full weight on her. Now, he lowered himself again, rubbing his thick, hairy sac against her lips; she opened her moist mouth as wide as she could, to suck and caress at the coarse skin. He gasped with dark pleasure, throwing his head back; Wulf leaned forward with a wicked grin and took his twin’s engorged phallus in his mouth. He swept his lips down hard over the silken, throbbing flesh, licking fiercely at the sensitive glans; then, just at Elena felt Osric’s balls tighten and quiver in pre-orgasmic tension, Wulf lifted his head away.

  Osric groaned aloud as his hot semen began to spurt into the air; he pushed his testicles hard against Elena’s soft mouth, and she shivered with renewed pleasure as she felt the milky liquid surge through him and spatter on her heated nipples.

  Then the twins kneeled gently on either side of her and began to lick up Osric’s sticky seed from her flushed breasts. She lay back dazed with pleasure as the two brothers, their faces exquisitely tender and handsome in the moonlight, caressed and stroked her sated flesh, murmuring her name in adoration as they did so.

  They bathed themselves in the moonlit stream, gig­gling and whispering. Then they headed back towards the clearing, Elena still light-headed with wine and lovemaking.

  The fire was burning low. The others reclined in a circle around it, murmuring in low, hazy voices. From the disarray of their clothing, Elena guessed, blushing, that they too had all been busy pleasuring one another; Gyrth and Freya were still together, kissing languor­ously. Elena wondered hazily who Leofwin had been with. Did it matter? It certainly didn’t seem to when he saw her at the edge of the clearing, and reached out his hand to her with a gentle smile. She went to sit with him, settling contentedly in the crook of his shoulder.

  They were talking, telling stories about battles and the old times, before the Normans came. Elena listened, fascinated.

  Then Sahild sat up. The twins had settled on either side of her. She was still drinking wine, and her eyes were unnaturally bright. Her tunic had slipped over one shoulder, exposing one high, small breast; she leaned forward, her hands clasping her knees. ‘When I first came to the forest,’ she began huskily, ‘before I met up with you all, something strange happened to me.’

  Wulf laughed easily, fondling her bare, suntanned shoulder. ‘Is this another figment of your over-vivid imagination, sweetheart?’

  She shrugged him off. ‘No! Listen, and I’ll tell you! It happened in high summer, around the time of the feast of Lughnasad. I’d been wandering through the forest for days, living off what I could find. I was tired and hungry. Then I found the stone - our stone! It was past midnight …’

  Elena felt the prickles of unease racing up and down her spine. The sacrificial stone, in the sacred grove.

  ‘It was hot,’ continued Sahild. She spoke in a low, breathless whisper; she had everyone’s rapt attention now. ‘I was restless, uneasy. I laid on the cold stone, letting it cool my burning skin. Then, suddenly, I knew that someone else was in the grove with me!

  ‘I jumped up, and a man stepped forward. A big man, wearing a bronze mask of a bull, with dark slits for eyes and great, protruding horns. He wore a crude leather tunic, and was very powerful, with wide shoulders and a great, muscular chest. I shivered as I gazed up at him. He was so strong, so incredibly virile, so mysterious. I wanted to run but I found I couldn’t move.

  “Who are you?” I whispered.

  ‘He said nothing. But he lifted me, and turned me, forcing me to crouch on all fours on the cold stone slab. My heart was thudding so fiercely I thought it would burst.

  Then, my bull-man kneeled up on the slab behind me and, tearing off my clothing, began to ravish me. And, oh -’ Sahild shuddered deliciously at the memory - ‘never, never have I known anything like it! Up and up his wonderful shaft slid into me, never-ending. I thought I would die of pleasure! With his weapon as magnificent as any bull’s pizzle, he filled me to bursting, and then began to take me wildly, riding up and down, gripping and pawing at my quivering buttocks.’

  ‘Did he say anything?’ asked Freya enviously.

  ‘No, but I could hear him grunting, panting deeply, like some big animal in the shadows behind me. I was so filled with dark excitement that I cried out, over and over again, as he drove himself into ecstasy and spent himself deep, deep within me.’ She sighed wistfully.

  ‘I tell you, he drained every last drop of pleasure from my body with his magnificent penis. Short, juicy caresses that made me melt; long, satisfying thrusts that made me cry out in delight - oh, if only I could have seen him properly as he serviced me! I still dream of it now - how his shaft must have looked, so thick, so angry, so wet with my love juices as he pumped himself between my cheeks.

  ‘When at last he slid himself slowly out of me, I slumped face down on the slab, exhausted. And when I turned round, he’d gone! Vanished, into the blackness of the forest …’ Her voice trailed reluctantly away.

  Everyone hung onto the echo of her words, rapt and aroused again.

  Only Elena shivered, disturbed by Sahild’s strange tale.

  In the silence, the dark presence of the forest pressed in around them. She was only too aware again of the mysterious, supernatural forces, the old magic, that underlaid the lives of all these people.

  Freya was listening open-mouthed, her eyes glazed with excitement and longing.

  ‘It sounds,’ she said, laughing a little shakily, ‘like one of the stories they tell about Aimery le Sabrenn! I’ve heard that the Breton is a truly magnificent lover.’

  Elena felt the shock jar through her at Aimery’s name. Leofwin’s arm tightened protectively around her. ‘It’s all right, princess,’ he murmured soothingly. ‘You’re safe from him here.’ Aloud, to the others, he said, ‘Who knows? You might have the chance to find out for yourselves soon.’

  Freya turned on him, her eyes wide with excitement. ‘What do you mean?’

  Gyrth said, with a grin of triumph: ‘He means, my sweet, that we found out today from one of our Norman prisoners that the Breton will be travelling to Lincoln shortly, for a meeting with the king’s justifiers. If we can get him away from his men, he’ll be ours. To do with as we wish.’

  A hush fell over the ring of faces. Sahild fondled her dagger. ‘How will he die?’ she whispered.

  ‘We’ll take pleasure in deciding that when the time comes’ said Leofwin chillingly. ‘And in letting him know a long time in advance, so he can dwell on the prospect.’

  Elena went tense in his arms, her face drained of blood. Leofwin looked anxiously down at her.

  ‘Something is wrong. Elena?’

  ‘No! No, I’m just so tired. Will you all forgive me if I go to bed?’

  Leofwin touched her hand affectionately. ‘Of course. It’s late. I’ll join you shortly.’

  Sahild watched her go, narrow-eyed.

  Elena was asleep by the time Leofwin joined her. She tossed and muttered, dreaming again of the ring of dark, malicious faces around the captive knight in the clearing. ‘Aimery’ she groaned aloud. ‘Oh, Aimery.’

  Leofwin turned restlessly in his sleep and held her close, not hearing what she said.

  But Sahild, wandering restlessly outside in the dark­ness, heard the convent girl cry out the Breton’s name and froze outside the hut, her breath an indrawn hiss of discovery.

  Elena was down by the stream one evening, fetching water, when she heard the men get back. They’d been gone all day - hunting, Leofwin had told her. She was glad they’d returned before nightfall, because the wild forest still frightened her without Leofwin�
��s arms around her.

  It was late summer, and the nights were drawing in. Already, the gibbous moon hung palely overhead, and a nightjar let out its eerie cry, making her jump. She picked up her heavy wooden pail and hurried back to the clearing.

  It seemed the hunting had gone well, because the men were in high spirits as they stood in a circle gazing down at their prize. Leofwin saw her coming through the trees; his face lit up as he reached out for her, but his eyes were strangely cold, cruel, almost.

  ‘See what we have here, princess’ he said softly. ‘A fine day’s hunting.’

  Elena, bewildered by his mysterious air, stepped forward into the circle of men and looked down.

  An unconscious man lay bound on the mossy turf. A soldier. Stripped of his chainmail and helmet, he lay limp and defenceless in his linen tunic, his arms trussed behind his back, his legs tightly bound. She couldn’t see his face, but his hair was thick and tawny, and streaked with blood.

  She let out a low cry.

  ‘Recognise him?’ said Leofwin with grim satisfaction. ‘Aimery the Breton - ours at last! We got him away from his companions on the road to Lincoln, though he still put up a damned stubborn fight.’

  Elena whispered, ‘Is - is he dead?’

  Leofwin laughed shortly. ‘Not yet. I promised the others we’d have some fun with him before he breathes his last.’ He pushed at Aimery’s shoulder with his booted foot, turning him onto his side; Elena’s heart lurched sickly as she saw the familiar, strong-boned face, the silvery scar, the dried blood on his forehead. His eyes were closed, with shadows under them like bruises; and she saw that his leg was gashed, the blood seeping through his woollen hose. She dug her finger­nails into her palms to stop herself crying out loud and said, as steadily as she could,

  The King would give a fine ransom for him. Lord Aimery saved his life once, in battle.’

  Gyrth smiled chillingly. ‘Don’t worry, they’ll give us gold for his body. When we’ve finished with him.’

  That’s right.’ Sahild stepped forward, her face a cold mask of triumph. ‘And Elena will want to join in with his punishment. She’ll want to see him beg aloud, and plead for death, won’t you, Elena? Won’t you?’

  Elena felt the bile rise in her throat. Blindly, she stammered out, ‘I must go. I’ve left things down by the stream -’

  She got to the water’s edge just in time. She leaned over the bank and retched helplessly. They were going to kill Aimery, and she realised that she couldn’t bear it.

  When she got back, her pale face outwardly com­posed and calm, the outlaws were drinking and cele­brating. Their laughter was wine-soaked and coarse; they talked determinedly of vengeance. Suddenly to Elena her summer idyll seemed a summer lie. Even the twins, of whom she’d grown so fond, had a hard, cruel light in their eyes. They all hated Aimery so much.

  She forced herself to take her usual place in their circle beside Leofwin, and said quietly, ‘Where is he?’

  Sahild said scornfully, ‘Where he should be. Bound to the old oak by the stone - ready for us. Though we hardly needed to bother to tie him up. With that leg injury he won’t get far.’

  Leofwin said, ‘It’s nothing serious. Tonight he’ll stay where he is, and tomorrow we’ll feed him, restore him to some semblance of strength. Then - we’ll begin.’

  His calm words chilled Elena to the bone. She bowed her head, her eyes dark with distress, and pretended to drink the mead they offered her in celebration.

  The injured, helpless Aimery le Sabrenn was to be their next sacrifice.

  Sahild watched the convent girl with cold scorn. How she despised her. She’d come amongst them uninvited, with her innocent blue eyes and soft feminine ways, and cast her spell over the menfolk until they were all besotted with her.

  No-one had listened to Sahild when she warned them that the convent girl was a spy. They wouldn’t listen to her now - she knew better than to try. But she, Sahild, had heard the girl moan out the Breton’s name in her sleep; she’d watched her face go pale every time he was mentioned, and had followed her secretly as she went down to the stream to be sick.

  Sahild thought she knew how to deal with her. She caught Freya’s hand quietly in the darkness. ‘Freya. You know those stories you mentioned about the Breton?’

  Freya nodded avidly. ‘Yes. Oh, yes!’

  ‘Then let’s,’ said Sahild, ‘find out if they are true.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  Aimery stirred and groaned as consciousness returned. His head hammered painfully from the blow that had finally felled him. He remembered, with a brief grimace at his own stupidity, how the Saxons who waited in ambush on the road to Lincoln, had lured him away from his men, yelling to him that they had Hamet and were about to kill him.

  A trick, of course. He realised it the instant before the blow that felled him, when he saw the Saracen gallop­ing wildly towards him - too late.

  He shifted his limbs experimentally; his leg throbbed damnably where a sword had caught him a glancing blow. Fortunately the wound was superficial, but it was enough to slow him down. Not that he’d get away tonight, with these leather thongs round his wrists and ankles, strapping him to the tree.

  Judging by the position of the moon and stars, it was well past midnight. There was a curious raised stone slab in the middle of the shadowy clearing; he thought wryly of pagan ceremonies, of tales of human sacrifice. Then he shut his eyes and tried to empty his mind, as he’d taught himself to do during the long night before a battle. Waiting for dawn, possibly for death.

  He was brought back to reality by the sound of whispered giggles. He opened his eyes, startled, and saw two women approaching him stealthily in the darkness. One was plumply pretty, with curling blonde hair; while the other was slender and boyish, with her silver hair cropped short like a soldier’s around her elfin face.

  There!’ whispered the plump one. ‘I told you he’d be awake!’

  They stood in front of him, assessing him. ‘Greetings, Breton’ said the short-haired one softly. ‘My name is Sahild. And this is Freya. We’ve come to get better acquainted with you.’

  Saxon witches, thought Aimery to himself.

  Freya was saying, nervously, ‘What if Leofwin finds out we’re here? Won’t he be angry?’

  ‘He won’t even know.’ Sahild laughed chillingly.

  Aimery listened grimly, his face expressionless. They talked of Leofwin - the Saxon leader Elena had helped to escape. Her beautiful face still haunted him, damn her.

  Then he braced himself, expecting death, because the Saxon elf-witch Sahild had drawn a wicked knife from her belt, and was holding the point at his throat.

  She smiled, chillingly. Then to his surprise she started to cut at his tunic, ripping the linen away from his chest, slashing at the lacings of his hose so that they fell in tatters round his leather boots, fragments of fabric clinging to the dried blood on his leg.

  Then she went very still, the knife still poised in her hand, while Freya edged up close to his other side, her eyes wide.

  ‘Oh,’ Freya sighed happily, ‘It’s true, what they say! He’s so beautiful!’

  And with eager fingers she began to stroke his pinioned shoulders, running her palms over the ridged muscle of his bronzed chest, sliding down to the flat plane of his stomach where the dark, silky mat of hair arrowed down to his groin. His phallus hung long and thick between his iron-hard thighs.

  Aimery’s eyes glittered. ‘I suppose’ he said calmly, ‘that it’s a long time since you’ve seen a real man.’

  The girl Sahild whipped the point of her blade to his neck, nicking his throat. ‘So you speak Saxon, do you? Arrogant scum!’ She turned to the other girl, who was stroking the rough silk of his heavily muscled legs with rapt attention. Time to teach the Breton some manners, Freya!’

  Freya whispered keenly, ‘What are we going to do?’

  ‘We’re going to humiliate him,’ said Sahild. She smiled, and Aimery felt a shiver of unease ripple down h
is spine. Already his phallus was stirring though he fought hard for control.

  Then the two blonde Saxon witches began to undress in front of him, and he groaned inwardly.

  ‘See here, Breton,’ Sahild was whispering. She was slim-hipped and boyish, apart from her pointed breasts. ‘Wouldn’t you like a taste of this?’ And she stood in front of him with her hands on her hips, dressed only in her soft deerskin boots, her body firm and lithe in the moonlight.

  His lip curled. ‘Saxon slut,’ he said. ‘You think you can interest me?’

  Sahild gasped, then she reached out to grip his heavy testicles, laughing softly. She twisted hard. ‘I know I can interest you,’ she said. ‘Animal. Animal.’

  Freya gave a little cry of delight, wriggling her plump breasts. ‘Look at him, Sahild! Oh, look!’ She was gasping in pleasure as the Breton’s heavy phallus stirred into life. The blood pulsed along the thick, veined shaft that prodded hungrily against Sahild’s cool hands as she caressed and squeezed his big, velvety sac.

  Aimery shut his eyes, trying to fight his helpless arousal with all his iron strength; but the girl’s cool hands were too much. He clenched his fists tightly in their bonds and waited, resigned, knowing that he was fully erect.

  Freya’s eyes widened as she gazed on the massive shaft that reared so powerfully from the pinioned Bre­ton’s loins. ‘Oh, Sahild’ she whispered, licking her lips. ‘Please - can I?’ And she reached to touch.

  ‘One moment’ said Sahild sternly. ‘We’re going to make the most of this, you and I.’

  It was then that Aimery saw that she’d brought ropes with her. She was clever and resourceful, this elf-witch - he’d give her that. With nimble fingers, she retied him at the wrists with a long loop of rope, which she secured to the tree. Then she cut his old bonds, and forced him to slide down and kneel on the ground with his back against the tree trunk, his arms stretched taut above his head. He resisted, every inch of the way; but she held the knife to his throat menacingly.

  Tight any more, Breton, and you’re dead. Now for the real test. You think you can defy us. We know you can’t.’ She moistened her lips salaciously, running her nar­rowed eyes over his bronzed, naked flesh. ‘We’re going to pleasure you, Freya and I. And every time you give in to us - every time you climax - we shall punish you.’