Tales of the Huntsman

by M Palmeri

  The answer came finally when the latest tool was removed from her. There was some deep, hungry licking (tasting the fruit of what the phallus had done). Then she could see Ella’s strong lines walk around from behind the stocks, her golden weapon still strapped in place. Marie could almost see Ella give Richard and affectionate by sisterly kiss, as if to thank him, then she bent and lightly kissed Marie’s cheek the same way. Marie was shocked to feel the cold wetness of tears as Ella’s cheek brushed hers. But then Ella was gone as Claire had—vanished from her limited view.

  The attacks renewed quickly—in fact, it was already apparent that there were several (no knowing how many or how often the players changed) women enjoying Marie from behind. There were fingers and tongues all over her—some gentle, some tentative, some hungry, some rough. No one spoke, not wanting to identify themselves by their voices. Indeed, the room itself had gone quiet—all Marie could really hear clearly was her own sucking and breathing, and the low sighing moans Richard gave to encourage her.

  She felt the distinct oozing of oil pouring in the valley of her ass, followed by skilled fingers. She felt she knew who this was, knew what was coming, and her expectations were confirmed when she felt a hard, ribbed phallus work its way expertly into her ass. Sharp-nailed but delicate hands gripped her as she was smoothly sodomized—after all she had been through so far, she felt more abraded than torn—and fingers and tongues continued to work at her sex, distracting her.

  One particular set of fingertips—apparently from someone kneeling between her legs—was busy rubbing the hood of her clit from the outside while other fingers reached within and hooked forward behind her pubic bone, finding her most sensitive spots and pressing them against the resistance of the fingers on her clit and pubic mound. This quickly became almost too much to take: the smooth pumping in her ass, the devilish manipulation of her sex by deliberate fingers, hands and mouths on her breasts, Richard in her mouth (and she found that having him so at her mercy—despite her physical helplessness—excited her in and of itself). She began to build to explosion.

  Richard wrapped his fist in her hair, holding her firmly, then pressed down on the back of her neck. She quickly realized what he was doing: her windpipe pushed against the wood of the stocks, partially strangling her. She sang her constricted breath out, trying to make her tone tell him not to stop, to tell them all not to stop. She was getting dizzy—her legs were trembling—she was supporting herself more by her wrists and neck in the stocks than on her own feet—and letting herself fall against the abuses of her unseen tormenters, who did their part in holding her. She began to see spots, and the room seemed to be getting darker…

  Suddenly Richard released the pressure on her neck and pulled himself from her mouth—she found herself almost screaming in frustration at this—and the shaft in her ass was gone along with it. Richard disappeared behind her and Rose took his place. She was rapidly disengaging herself from her harness (and Marie could smell her own ass still fresh on Rose’s tool), then grabbed Marie by the hair just as Richard had been. Marie felt a cock that was definitely flesh enter her, filling her sex along with those fingers that still tormented her mercilessly, fingers and cock together stretching her to the point she thought she might tear (did she feel the fingers of more than one attacker?—there was certainly some variation in their rhythms), and fingers replaced what had been in her ass.

  Rose pushed down on Marie’s neck to resume her strangulation, and substituted herself for Richard by grinding her slick shaven sex against Marie’s gasping mouth. Marie found herself giggling madly as she thrust her tongue out to meet the attack, tasting Rose’s now familiar tang, breathing her musk, almost smothering in her wet flesh. She was quickly brought back to where she had been when the switch of positions interrupted her so frustratingly. And beyond—her explosion was almost unbearable—she thought she would die on the spot—she began to black out, to lose all sense. Rose let her breathe then, but the sudden rush of air and blood flow only made it more intense. Marie heard herself screaming.

  Then someone was kissing her—she felt lips and tongue and breath—smooth and beardless—but she couldn’t see, couldn’t make sense of who it could be. There was more than one mouth, each taking her alternately. She was almost crying as she felt Richard’s sex (and those amazing fingers) leave her.

  But then she could see (if only because those kissing her had backed away somewhat). It was Rose and Claire kneeling before her, their faces slick with sweat, hair all matted and disarrayed, panting, smiling at her. Richard was there immediately—this is why the two ladies backed away: to greet him. And he was in some haste. The two fell on his cock with their mouths—sharing it between them like starving pups—Claire taking the more aggressive share while Rose’s mouth slid up and down the shaft—and Marie saw him almost immediately explode into Claire’s mouth, both of them roaring together.

  But Claire was in the mood to share. She pushed Richard’s still pouring member into Marie’s gasping mouth, then sealed it there with her own. And even after Richard—spent and trembling—pulled himself away, Claire kept kissing Marie, playfully sharing his seed between them.

  Marie was almost delirious by the time she was released. Claire held her head in close embrace while the stocks were unlocked. Many hands were there to help her stand, to walk her—almost carry her—back to her chair. The Great Hall spun around her. Claire did not leave her side, nor did Richard.

  But she could see Juli alternately feeding her fingers to Ella and Rose, all three grinning and appraising their flavor like a fine delicacy, and she caught Juli wink at her girlishly when she tasted those fingers herself. Juli had been the one with the skillful hands—she, too, had had her “turn”.

  The Great Hall was now a scene of chaos. As promised, the three newest members of the estate (those that had earned their asylum so dearly this night)—the auburn, the chestnut and the dark hair—were now experiencing what torture device they had not, but this time each was being attended by half a dozen eager tormenters. Perhaps a score of other couplings were occurring throughout the Hall—on cushions on the floor, on tables, against the walls. Marie could barely distinguish whose limbs were whose. And the Hall was no longer silent—it sang with moaning and gasping and cries and roars.

  And in the midst of it she found Rose and Ella: Rose had Ella on her back on one of the tables and was devouring her passionately, while Ella seemed to lose herself to euphoric delirium.

  Another body was now in the stocks—it took a few moments for Marie to realize it was Leanna. Juli was kneeling behind her, her hands and tongue ministering to her much like she had done to Marie, leading a handful of other ladies to take similar advantage, while on the opposite side of the clap-boards Leanna held Rose’s ivory phallus in her mouth while her attackers made alternating use of it.

  Marie held hands with Richard and Claire, each seated on either side of her—her head leaned on Richard’s shoulder, Claire’s on her own, all three exhausted, sweat drying thick and salty on their skin.

  Then Richard got up, knelt in front of Marie’s chair, and pushed himself between her legs to lick at her gently. She tried to respond to him, but she was numb, sore, exhausted. He continued his attempt for awhile, seeming more like he was trying to be soothing or simply enjoy her taste than start something anew. And then he moved and did the same thing to Claire, who thrust into him and seemed to enjoy the service with greater enthusiasm, but then she, too, looked as if she would simply fall asleep happily in his care.

  Their idle bliss was only interrupted when he was approached by one of the other girls—Marie was not sure of her name—who shyly touched him on the shoulder and wordlessly bade him to give her attention, bringing herself close against him.

  Richard looked at Marie, and she could only smile and weakly nod her consent. Richard got up, smiled again at Marie, and took the girl somewhere out of sight.

  Marie awoke sometime later, in the arms of someone carrying her gently up th
e stairs. It was Claire. She laid her in Richard’s bed, then crawled in next to her, spooning their bodies together. Claire was asleep—still holding her—in moments, and Marie closed her eyes.

  Marie knew then that she was happy. And home.

  Chapter Twenty-Three: Narrative Omissions

  Marie awoke the next morning, still in Claire’s arms. The red-headed huntress was not sleeping, just looking at her silently with those bright eyes of hers. Marie found it difficult to read what she was feeling (Joy? Sadness? Pain? Fear?), and did not interrupt the moment with words.

  Richard was not to be seen—it did not appear he had come up to bed that night at all. The sun was already well up in the sky, almost at noon. Someone had come in—a serving girl, perhaps—and left them trays of fresh fruit and bread. Neither moved to touch it.

  They simply continued to lay together through the afternoon, neither speaking, until Marie found it necessary to relieve herself. She poured fresh water to drink, and brought some to Claire, who sat up to accept it. Then they lay back down together, but Claire did not hold her again. No one came to interrupt them all that day.

  Sometime in the dark of the next night Marie woke to hear Claire breathing hard—panting, moaning, but as if trying to be as quiet as possible. She could feel the plush mattress shifting, something tugging at their blankets. As her eyes got used to the dark she realized that it was Richard—laying on top of Claire, embracing her, holding her close, slowly and steadily pumping into her as he kissed her gently. Claire’s eyes were closed. Marie thought she might have seen the glint of wetness (tears?) on her face by the faint moonlight. Then she thought she could hear Richard whispering something into Claire’s ear. She did not move to interrupt them, to let them know that she was awake.

  But Richard seemed to know. His hands found her body under the blankets, and she felt his weight shift as he rose up off of Claire and found his way to her.

  It wasn’t like his usual passion—he was slow, tentative, warm—more focused on holding Marie, touching her body as far as he could reach from hair to arms to legs, easing himself onto her. His lips gently kissed her chest, her neck, her face, found her lips—but just the lightest nibbling brushes. Then she felt his hands part her thighs enough for him to settle in between, felt his hard sex press against her pubic mound and hold there, rubbing into her ever so slightly. His fingers brushed her between her legs, but did not invade. Then she heard him in her ear, barely a whisper:

  “Tell me you want me.”

  She did not try to answer with words, she just started rubbing her sex back against his hand, encouraging him. Still, he held back, not aggressing, letting her work herself more intensely until she was pushing his fingers between her slick lips, rubbing her clit against his knuckles, making herself wet. From time to time she would find a spot which was still sore from the prior night’s abuses and recoil reflexively, but she went right back to it. Her mound was rolling into his cock now, and she could feel him breathing harder into the nape of her neck, still holding her close.

  “I want you,” she whispered to him. “I want you inside me.”

  Very tentatively, much like some inexperienced young lover, he positioned himself and began to work his way inside by inches. Once buried to the hilt, he just held there, slowly grinding their pubic bones together. He did not try to open her wider—instead, one of his legs was hooked over one of hers, holding her flat to the bed. Bodies pressed fully together, arms wrapped around each other, he worked her slowly, quietly, his face buried in her hair.

  “Do whatever you want to me,” she encouraged him in whispers. “Anything you want.” But all he did was continue to hold her and grind slowly inside of her. And after a time she heard him whisper back in her ear:

  “You are so beautiful.”

  He began to thrust harder after that, but it still did not seem to be the focus of his intent, and he began to slow down, to settle on top of her, to settle into her. He stopped what he was doing and tried to rise, but she held him into her, arms around his waist.

  “Don’t go. Stay like this. Please stay like this.”

  His body settled into hers, shifting just sideways enough that he was not crushing her. Settling in to sleep.

  She felt the bed shift then, felt Claire roll herself toward them, felt her wrap her own body over Richard’s.

  Both Richard and Claire were gone by sunrise.

  Marie awoke alone in the big bed—which now felt oppressively empty with only herself in it—to the rustling of a maid bringing fresh breakfast. The maid smiled at her politely. Marie did not ask her any questions about Richard or Claire.

  She stayed in bed awake for another hour or so. After necessities required her rising, she wrapped herself in a blanket and made her way down to the baths. Her legs were still sore from her ordeals (as was her sex and anus, raw in spots that became more noticeable when immersed), and there was bruising on her wrists and ankles (and likely her neck as well, though she had not looked in a mirror since that night). She sat and soaked and gingerly cleaned herself out, then took extra time with her hair. She did not bother to shave—her nether hair had grown back to a short fuzz, just long enough to no longer be prickly stubble (she thought of leaving the choice to Richard of how best to groom herself—perhaps he would like to do it himself, or at least watch).

  When she got back to Richard’s room, the dress was waiting for her.

  Blue velvet and brocade, spread invitingly across the bed—it was of equal quality to those that Rose and Ella (and Claire when she wasn’t being the huntress) wore. And it had the same requisite accessibility.

  It was the same blue as her mother’s cloak (the same blue as the boots Richard had given her on her journey here). And when she put it on, it fit her perfectly.

  She could not resist the temptation of a better look—she stepped silently (still barefoot on the wooden floors) out into the corridor and went stealthily (though she did not know why) to Rose’s chambers, easing the door open slowly (it was not locked, which she had almost expected) and peering in tentatively. There was no one inside. She let herself in like a thief and stepped up to Rose’s ancient full-length mirror.

  She stood frozen—she could barely recognize who she saw in the glass. She instantly thought it must be some trick, some illusion. She turned and moved, but the reflection was true.

  “Join us for supper, won’t you?”

  It was Ella—Marie had not heard anyone come in—and it froze her in place with a jolt. But Ella did not seem at all surprised to find her so. Marie could see in the reflection as Ella stepped up behind her, joining her in her self-appraisal over her shoulder, her smile warm, almost proud. Marie thought she could see the strong blonde’s eyes well up. Ella touched her lightly on the shoulder.

  “You look beautiful.”

  Then she took Marie by the hand and led her downstairs.

  The meal was somber and intimate. Only Ella, Richard and Rose were at table. They all smiled warmly as Marie sat down, and she was sitting across from them before she realized what was suddenly shockingly different. Her hands moved automatically to peel off her dress as if she had committed a sin in forgetting to remove it, but Rose gestured to stop her.

  “No, my dear. No need for that tonight.” Her tone was unusually warm and soft—only adding to how odd the entire event felt.

  A pair of servants brought food and wine. No one spoke, and there was no sign of Claire (nor any offered explanation for her empty chair).

  “Richard tells me that you had a question,” Rose began idly, toying with her meat with a delicate silver fork. “A narrative omission to be clarified.”

  Marie could only look at her dumbly.

  “The tale of the Red Hood and The Wolf,” Rose reminded her. “Lady Claire’s version was incomplete. You wanted to know what became of the young girl’s ‘granny’.”

  Marie’s eyes darted to Richard, but he did not seem to be doing anything more than paying polite attention to idle table
conversation as he gnawed at the bones of a wing. Marie nodded.

  “The ‘Wolf’ of the tale planned his seduction well,” Rose explained. “Once he had first met his ‘prey’, he set to arranging the proper scene. And any good bandit worthy of his reputation surely has a band of loyal henchmen, brigands of similar taste and style. They were awaiting his summons close by, and long before the young girl arrived back at the cottage, they had invaded the little homestead and taken the aging beauty at point of blade.

  “She was escorted far into the woods—far enough to assure their master would have his privacy for his scene with the Red Hood—and there the poor woman blanched at what awaited her…”

  Without further cue, something heavy was rolled into the hall by a trio of girls—Marie recognized them as the three anonymous royal runaways from the previous event’s ordeals. They now wore the simple dresses of castle serving staff, and they brought in the portable version of the tower cross device that had been used on them that night. Marie saw that it was already occupied, but from her current vantage (as she was presented only with a view between the naked victim’s spread legs) she could not yet tell by whom.

  “Did you know that the spectacle of the crucifixion of a woman has been a special entertainment of the wealthy and privileged?” Rose rambled. “It is said that many of the great kings and philosophers of our history would indulge in pleasuring themselves at the sight.”

  There was a clacking of latches being released, then the ratcheting of gears. The cross slowly righted itself vertical. Marie watched as its victim squirmed against the wooden frame, her weight shifting as the device became upright, her body sliding down until she was fully suspended from her wrists. She tried to push herself back up against her ankle bonds, trying to relieve the tearing that her arms must be suffering. Her cries were muffled by a kind of bit—a wooden sphere secured between her jaws. Marie recognized her as Ruth.