The Fall of Lady Westwood

by Evans, Trent

  She turned her face from Lawrence, nuzzling her head under Andrus’ bearded chin, her cheeks flushed scarlet.

  “Good”, he said, making sure the fabric was clear above the swells of her youthful bosom. Her high breasts were not large, but were perfectly suited to her petite frame. The nipples were a deep pink, the areolas crinkled. He stroked the tender flesh with a finger, watching the nipple draw tight.

  “Andrus … ” Lawrence moved to stand, his hands moving at his flies.

  “Go to him, dove,” Andrus whispered into her ear. “Serve him well. I’ll be watching.”

  She slipped from his lap to kneel before the Captain. Her hands went between his legs, and Andrus watched her slowly move her head as she took Lawrence into her mouth. Her round little bottom swayed as her movements became urgent, the clutch of the Captain’s hands in her long hair more insistent.

  Andrus could wait no longer, his cock painfully twisted in his trousers. He stood, opening his flies and moved to stand close behind the girl, gazing upon her as she serviced the Captain. Her lips were stretched tight around his cock as she bobbed up and down the stiff shaft, gleaming saliva leaking from the corners of her mouth. Andrus lay a hand against her hollowed cheek, caressing her, and she moaned around the hard shaft. Lawrence gritted his teeth, his hands clasping her hair in two fists.

  Andrus nodded to Lawrence, and the Captain used her hair to pull her off of his cock. She peered up at him, confused.

  “My Lord, what can I—”

  Lawrence sat down again, drawing her between his thighs, his fist entwined in her blonde tresses. His long, wet cock bobbed as he shifted forward, and she bent over him. The posture threw out her lovely soft bottom, beckoning Andrus. He dropped to his knees behind her, and laid the throbbing shaft of his penis across her buttock. She froze.

  “Keep going, Ryndra. I didn’t tell you to stop,” Lawrence said, his voice thick. He pulled her further downward onto his cock, and she gagged as it struck the back of her throat.

  Andrus ran his hands over the girl’s bottom, savoring the silky smoothness of her flesh. She had surprisingly generous buttocks for so slight a girl. He squeezed one of the globes, enjoying the feel of its soft weight in his hand. She wriggled her hips at him, and he slapped her bottom in response. The muscles of her trim thighs clenched at the sting, and she murmured around the Captain’s cock.

  Andrus placed a palm on each of her cheeks and yawned them apart, fully exposing her charms to his gaze. The cleft was still slick with oil. Her dainty rosette was an inflamed, swollen red, and gaped open slightly. The Captain’s semen leaked down from the well-used opening, her perineum wet with his seed. Andrus chuckled, glancing up at Lawrence. “No wonder she was making so much noise, man. You spared her nothing, I see!”

  Lawrence grinned, the cords of muscle standing out on his neck, his face flushed.

  Andrus moved his hard cock down, the broad head leaving a sticky trail across her buttock. His cock brushed her cleft, the meatus just kissing the girl’s sore bottom hole, and she tightened.

  “Easy, dove,” Andrus said, his hand stroking the curve of her hip. “Your Captain has served you well there already. I want something different.”

  He drew the head of his cock through the soft folds of Ryndra’s pussy, up, then down. She moaned around the Captain, who growled at her to keep sucking.

  Andrus, eased forward until his cock was bedded fully, his hard legs tight against her trembling thighs. She shuddered against him, the sounds of her sucking the Captain’s cock filling the room.

  “Gods! This pussy is tight.” He thrust languidly, gazing at his shaft glistening with her juices as it pistoned in and out of her sex. He leaned his head back, closing his eyes, inhaling deeply of her scent.

  Lawrence grunted, thrusting his hips quickly, Ryndra gagging again as he drove deep. Andrus grasped her around her incredibly narrow waist, pulling her more fully onto him. The two men pounded into her, rocking her slight body between them.

  Lawrence was first to break holding her face down upon him as he groaned out his climax. She coughed and sputtered when he finally let her up off of his spent cock, the brisk thrusting of Andrus continuing to jostle her.

  Andrus held out little longer than the Captain. The Lord groaned, his balls tingling as he drenched the walls of her pussy with his seed. He kneaded the girl’s buttocks as he knelt over her, panting.

  Lawrence used Ryndra’s long blonde hair to clean his flaccid cock, leaving her with a pat on her flushed cheek. She hung her head, trembling, waiting for Andrus to catch his breath. He finally released her with a gentle smack to her ass, and he stood, tucking himself back into his flies. He watched her pull her shirt back down over her breasts, glancing up at him as she did so.

  He smiled at her, nodding his head. She inclined her head in reply and retreated to the bunk she’d come from, curling up on her side to rest, the swollen lips of her pussy glistening with his semen.

  Andrus slumped back into his chair, taking a deep drag of mead from the cup Lawrence offered. He stared into the dancing orange hues of the popping fire, wondering again about what to do with his Miriam. What was she up to? Why did he feel guilty for using the servant girl, when he had a very good idea of what Miriam got up to with the servants in his absence? Lastly, he wondered where in God’s name that idiot Laird had gone.

  Chapter Six

  East of The Night Road — The Frontier

  The cat slashed into the exposed flesh of the captive man’s back, his hoarse cries lost to the depth of the nighttime sounds of the forest.

  “I’ll ask you again, human. Where is Westwood?”

  The man, his voice hoarse from his screams, shook his head, frantic. “I told you! He’s at the Palace of Peace. I’ll take you to him. No, don’t!”

  He yelled again, as the leather of the cat cut into his flesh once more. The skin along the right side of his rib cage was raw, and threatening to break. The two figures holding his outstretched arms, shook the man between them as if he weighed nothing, his head lolling wildly on his shoulders.

  “Try again, Laird”. The tall, broad-shouldered figure who wielded the multi-tailed whip, stepped around to stand in front of the kneeling captive. “Where is Westwood Manor? It can’t very well be at the Palace. Tell us, or we’ll make this last.”

  Laird shook his head, looking down.

  The black-clad captors exchanged disgusted expressions. The tall man reached out and slapped Laird across the face, rocking his head to the side, blood flying from his nose and mouth. Laird slumped, his head hanging down.

  “Your race disgusts me” the man said, wiping the blood from his hand on Laird’s sweat-soaked hair. “So pathetically weak. You’ll betray your closest friends just to avoid a little pain.”

  One of the men holding Laird tilted his head to the side. “Maybe we should try one of them, Valery?”

  Several bound and gagged soldiers lay on the forest floor a few paces away, their striking blue uniforms appearing almost purple in the darkness. Their frightened eyes shone bright in the moonlit forest, their gags allowing only muffled sounds. Several of the soldiers struggled at their bonds, while others appeared almost catatonic with fear, lying as still as the dead.

  Valery, his dark coat swirling about his ankles turned and walked over to the bound captives. He picked one of them up by the hair, the man yelling through his tight gag. Valery pulled the man up until he hung suspended, his bound feet kicking above the soft loam of the forest floor.

  Valery turned to look back at the whipped captive. “So, are you going to be a leader? Someone who protects his men? Or shall I start on them too?”

  Valery’s fingertip traced the pulsing throat of the suspended man, the long, sharp nail cutting a narrow furrow into the skin. Blood oozed into the laceration immediately, but the wound was not deep. The man shrieked into his gag, his struggles increasing.

  “All right! I’ll tell you. Please, let them be.” The kneeling, defeated Laird lift
ed his head, his eyes glazed with pain, his lips and teeth smeared with blood.

  “So tell us human, and this will end quickly. Mercifully.”

  Laird swallowed, the Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “Westwood Manor is due west of the Palace of Justice. Two hours ride along the Night Road. Now, let them go.”

  Valery heaved the suspended man onto the ground. The soldier groaned and rolled onto his side. Valery strode over to the kneeling captive in less time than it took to blink an eye. Laird looked up at him, firming his chin. He nodded, closing his eyes, tensing for the killing blow. Valery drew his hand back, the razor sharp nails extended.

  “Marshal Valery!”

  He turned toward the voice. Another tall man, dressed in the same long coat that Valery wore, rushed forward, flicking a glance down at the kneeling Laird.

  Valery’s brow creased, and he dropped his hand. “Corporal Endek, what is it?” The corporal handed Valery a rolled length of tattered parchment.

  Valery read, shaking his head slowly. He looked up at Endek, a dark brow quirked. “Did this come by runner?”

  “Yes, Sir. Just arrived.”

  “All the way from Druas?”

  Endek nodded.

  Valery cursed, smacking the parchment against his thigh. He turned and walked several paces away, his hands clasped behind his back.

  “Sir,” Endek asked. “What are your orders?”

  Valery was motionless for over a minute, the only sounds the faint groans of the soldiers, and the night wind whispering through the trees overhead. He turned back to the corporal, Valery’s eyes flashing a bright silver in the darkness. “If the runner came from Druas, he’s going to need to feed, and soon.”

  “Yes, Sir. He can barely stand.”

  Valery looked down at the bound soldiers, and gave a quick nod of his head. Corporal Endek stooped and grabbed the arm of one of the captives.

  “Not that one, Corporal.” Valery glanced at the two figures still holding Laird. “I think Taidon there has plans for that one.”

  One of the men holding Laird chuckled, a rapacious grin lighting his face.

  “No!,” Laird yelled. “I told you what you wanted to know. Leave them alone!”

  Valery, his silver eyes cold, pointed the parchment at the kneeling man. “I changed my mind, human.” He gave a quick twitch of his head to Endek, and the corporal plucked another soldier from the ground, carrying his struggling form off into the darkness.

  “You fucking bastard! Monster!” Laird struggled anew, blood spraying from his lips, his eyes blazing with rage.

  Valery was before him in an instant, the long fingers of both hands extended around Laird’s head. With a swift, brutal movement, he broke Laird’s neck, the sound like a muffled snap of a branch. Laird slumped over with a long, fading wheeze. The two figures holding him dropped his lifeless body to the ground. The other captive soldiers became frantic, yelling into their gags, eyes wide with terror. One of them actually managed to raise himself to his knees, before being struck back to the ground by a growling Taidon.

  Valery nudged Laird’s corpse with his boot. “Adril. Take that back to the men before he cools. They’re going to need all they can get.”

  Adril scooped up Laird’s body as if it was so much firewood, heading back toward the encampment. Taidon knelt to hogtie the hands and legs of his chosen captive, growling at him as he worked.

  Valery glanced at the parchment again, breathing a curse. He strolled away from the captive men, and Taidon joined him at his side.

  “You can’t resist the redheaded ones can you, Taidon?”

  “We all have our vices, Sir.”

  Valery frowned. “I don’t understand what you see in them. They’re our food.”

  “Do you see your Rayja as food?” Taidon’s voice rumbled, the tone carefully neutral.

  Valery raised an eyebrow. “Careful Lieutenant, Taidon.”

  “Apologies, Marshal.”

  The two walked in silence for a few moments, the moonlight dappling on their dark skin as the branches swayed overhead. A lost, pain-filled cry erupted in the distance, spiraling upward before being abruptly cut off.

  “Sounds like Corporal Endek delivered our gift.”

  Taidon grinned, his teeth gleaming in the moonlight.

  “The men will have to feed all they can tonight,” Valery said holding up the parchment. “Our plans just changed.”

  “Sir?”

  “It would appear the Consul has decided to move faster than we’d planned.”

  Taidon shook his head, looking down.

  “Let the men rest for today, Taidon. We’ll need them first dark tomorrow. We have less than a week.”

  “A week! Marshal, that’s half the time we’d planned.”

  Valery shrugged. “There is the Night Road. That would save us two days at least.”

  Taidon shook his head. “We wouldn’t get through one checkpoint. Those cursed dogs always smell us out.”

  “Then it’s off the Road we stay.”

  “In less than a week, Sir? We’d never make it crossing open terrain.”

  “We have to, Lieutenant.”

  Taidon raised his arms, palm up. “I don’t think we can push the men that hard, Sir. Plus we have a bigger problem.”

  Valery glanced at his Lieutenant. “Oh?”

  Taidon nodded. “Food. The men won’t last long without feeding soon.”

  “That can be remedied, Lieutenant.”

  Taidon tilted his head, considering. “Perhaps the captives? Other than mine of course … ”

  Valery chuckled, shaking his head. “Consul wants live captives. Apparently, the pens of Druas need some fresh bloodlines. These will do.”

  “Only a few of them look strong enough.”

  Valery tapped his Lieutenant on the arm with the parchment. “Consul didn’t say they all had to be alive.”

  “Yes, Sir,” Taidon said, flashing his grin again. “But even with the ones we feed on tonight, it still won’t be enough if we travel that fast. We’ll need more.”

  “Then we’ll feed at our destination,” Valery said, turning to his Lieutenant. “We don’t have a choice, Taidon. We must succeed. If we don’t, we may as well meet the daylight.”

  Chapter Seven

  McClearn Farmstead

  Owen paced outside the stables, fingering the ridiculous black habit he wore. He’d seen the traveling mendicants before of course, and had always found them an odd mixture of both unsettling and sad. Now, he was going to try to impersonate one!

  He stopped, his arms crossed over his broad chest, and stared off to the west. The setting sun was turning the fields a striking mixture of pinks, purples and sienna. West was where they were heading, where she was.

  Sophie.

  Just the thought of her had him pacing again, his flimsy cloth slippers squelching in the dirt of the stable yard. He needed to get her back. Gods knew what that evil witch Lady Westwood was doing to her. He’d gotten a taste of it himself at the hands of the corrupt noble’s soldiers. When they’d dragged him out of the barn, he’d found himself stripped to the waist, tied against one of the poles that supported the roof of the stable block, and beaten savagely. He’d thought he could hear the cries of poor Sophie, but really they could have been his own, interspersed with his foul oaths and threats of vengeance. The brutes had paused to gag him with a foul smelling cloth, and then beat him anew. It was only when his back ran with blood, and he slumped in his bonds did they relent. He had little memory of the next few days.

  He rotated his shoulder, the scar tissue across his back still feeling tight and sore. “I’ll have you back soon, Sophie,” he muttered, staring west into the setting sun once more. “I’ll die before I let her have you a day longer.”

  He didn’t know why he had such a thirst for vengeance. The soldiers were just like many others in Muurland: primitive animals, paid to enforce the will of others. While there were some honorable soldiers, there were too many corr
upt ones. It was just the way things were. But what galled him most was the fact that they’d lashed him at her behest. Lady Westwood. The same woman who could, at that very moment, be doing any number of heinous things to Sophie.

  When his father had told Owen he was to work at the McClearn farmstead, there’d been a huge row between father and son. Owen loved the excitement of the city, just as his father did. He wanted a chance to make his own way in the rough, wild environment of Wyndhaven. The danger, intrigue, and murky politics all appealed to him. Anything seemed possible.

  If he was honest with himself, he also enjoyed that regular, infamous feature of Wyndhaven life: the monthly slave auctions. He’d once snuck out from home to get a peek at what went on at the docks during those events, and the sights he’d witnessed both disturbed and fascinated him. It had been completely worth the whipping he’d gotten from his father upon his return home.

  Initially, the prospect of two whole years spent toiling at the dirty, drab, boring farmstead depressed him. But then he’d laid eyes on Clayton McClearn’s daughter, and things suddenly didn’t seem so awful after all.

  She, of course, wanted nothing to do with some idiot city dweller, but he’d made sure to take any chance he could to see her. Eventually she’d warmed to him, and though she’d never have admitted it, something had grown between them. Nascent, uncertain, but it was there all the same. Then, disaster.

  He wanted to be there at House Westwood with Sophie. He wanted to protect her, to hold her, to tell her he would stand by her no matter what happened next. He wanted to finally kiss those swollen pink lips of hers. The ones he’d dreamt about at night in his stifling bunk above the stables.

  How many times had he awoke with his erection tenting the blankets? How many nights did he fall asleep to the visions of Sophie’s deep cleavage that her conservative work shifts could never quite conceal? He even had disturbing, erotic dreams of darker pleasures with her. She stirred him like no other lass ever had.