Damsel

by Lizbeth Dusseau

  “I’m sorry, sir, I have been told many things these weeks.”

  “Well, I tell you now that you are leaving in the morning. I’d make haste to be ready, for if you’re ready or not ready, you will be traveling with the merchants who will take you to General Drago—even if I have to bodily carry you to the caravan myself.”

  “Uncle, you will not need to do so!” she returned his indignation with the overtly testy retort—although she hardly cared now, as her affection for her uncle had significantly diminished in recent days. “But with the merchants?” she went right on, being both suspicious and concerned.

  “I’ll have my guard positioned with them,” her uncle said. “You’ll be quite safe.”

  “I-I—” She was aghast.

  “You have something more to say?” He’d already risen from his chair and gazed at her with imperious intent, daring her to raise another objection.

  Withering under that stare, she finally responded with a quiet, “No, sir.”

  “And that little tart, what’s her name—Celia? You’ll be sure she’s ready as well. Drago will have a use for her, I’m sure.” His lust-filled eyes gave away his meaning.

  Appalled but speechless, Roslyn watched her uncle leave, hoping that he did not see the tears welling in her eyes.

  Whether she was safe or not, Roslyn was almost thankful that she and Celia were finally to be on their way. Returning to her chambers, she informed her maid of the anticipated journey, although she tried not to think of her uncle’s suggestive remark about the girl as she went about her packing. In two hours, with all prepared, Roslyn sat for a time with her embroidery, until her eyes were too tired to work. Sleep would come soon, she prayed.

  “Lady Roslyn,” she heard her door creak, and looked to see Celia’s sweet face peek in.

  “Yes, girl?”

  The maid slipped into the room, giggling, and stood by the door with her hands behind her back, her face awash with a blushing pink.

  “What is it, Celia?”

  “I um…” she bit her lip self-consciously, hesitating from embarrassment. “I, ah, you know what I spoke of some weeks ago?” she finally started.

  Roslyn shook her head, puzzled. “No, I’m afraid I don’t know what you are referring to. Spit it out, girl.”

  “Well, I, I took it upon myself to fashion something that will bring us closer—” Roslyn’s face remained a blank. “In that carnal sense…” Her blush enduring, Celia cocked her head, as if trying to gauge her mistress’s thoughts.

  “I have no idea what you are talking about. Does it have something to do with what’s behind your back?”

  “Yes, milady,” she gulped as she moved one step closer.

  “Let me see it,” Roslyn ordered.

  Blushing deeper still, Celia withdrew a mass of tangled leather straps along with a curious item that Roslyn could not quite identify.

  “Come closer,” she held out her hand.

  “I should explain,” the maid rushed in nervously.

  “No, let me see it, or I’ll cuff you, girl.”

  Bound to obey, Celia thrust the strange items into Roslyn’s hands and stepped back. “The old lady in the laundry helped me. She knows all about these things, she says.” Roslyn gazed at the tangled leather in her lap, puzzled, and almost afraid to touch it. Celia, meanwhile, stood anxiously waiting, becoming worried with no immediate response from her mistress. Then, with her emotions at the edge, she boldly flung herself at Roslyn’s feet, then looked up, imploringly. “Oh, milady, I prayed we would not leave until this was done. I am most sincere in my desire to have you rent my womanhood, just as I spoke of when we lay together—that very perfect moment,” she rushed on, afraid to let her mistress speak. “This will do the task that you’re not equipped to do. I beg your kind, but fearless, attention to this matter. We go to the wild lands, to Drago’s fortress. Is there any hope that my virginity will be taken from me with love? I think not. I have been warned a dozen times. Even if just half the stories are true, I’m doomed to suffer at the hands of treacherous men who will force me to give up my body for their pleasure. I ask just this one thing, milady—” she stopped, having run out of pleas, but now watched as Lady Roslyn fingered her way through the harness and the phallus that she had so carefully fashioned. “You don’t think it is too big?” Celia wondered aloud, as Roslyn’s hand glided over the smooth surface of the wooden carving.

  “I would have no idea, girl,” Roslyn answered as her hands felt the well-shaped prong. She shuddered as if it were the real thing, real flesh and blood, as if it had a power all its own: the power to woo her, the power to make her as bold as a man would be. Her imagination went wild as scenes of debauchery flew before her inner eyes, until, rather than look at her sweet maid with amusement, a molten fire burned within, making the waiting girl tremble.

  “Perhaps it’s possible,” she said carefully. “Yes.” She nodded, looking straight into Celia’s eyes. “I will do this once for you, my dear, but that is all. Because I, too, fear that your virtue will soon be ripped asunder. You are a fair flower that many men would seek to pluck.”

  Roslyn wondered if it were prudent to confirm the girl’s fears? Was it better to tell the truth than lie? Indeed, she believed. Celia was that fair flower. Though just a peasant girl, her beauty shone and her heart was innocent. There was little way that Roslyn could protect her, especially now when she suspected that her own uncle was giving them up, and cared little about protecting them from the dangers of a horny man’s crude appetites.

  Roslyn tenderly stroked the girl’s fair hair and let her fingers linger along the smooth, youthful skin. A quickening in her loins, the dampening of her quim resulted, as the fiery need inside the troubled girl spoke silently but with great force. She would lie with her again, and they would satisfy their own cravings, for it might well be the last time they could be so intimately engaged.

  “Go to my bed and be ready for me,” she ordered at last.

  As the girl scampered away, Roslyn rose and went about the room, dousing all but one candle, until the room glowed with a softer hue. The light was faint from the tiny flame, though as their eyes adjusted to the dark, they would note a sensuous stream of moonlight adding to the ethereal aura.

  After shedding her clothes, Roslyn reached for the strange garment Celia had so painstakingly made, realizing as she held the remarkable phallus, what had occupied the girl’s obsessive thoughts during the previous two weeks. Her passion was nothing to be trifled with, for it had taken shape in this strange but defining way, and seemed now to have joined the two women in a lust that neither could cast off. It must be fulfilled! With instinct guiding her hands, Roslyn slipped the leather harness over her bare loins, setting the straps in place. Separate straps circled her thighs and were connected to a belt in front and back. It buckled at her waist. How strange this harness was, and yet, what a potent surge of power rushed through her as she tightened it round her middle. Jutting from a leather pouch that fit snuggly between the straps was the carved phallus, an ugly devil, its shape gross, its meaning terrifying for what it could do. Did she have the courage to do what her maid desired? Could she raise the kind of manly determination needed to complete the act?

  Roslyn questioned herself just briefly, for the answers to her questions instantly appeared and the message was quite clear. If not her mind then her body answered with resounding firmness and mounting lust for the very act that would alter the maid forever.

  Roslyn moved with some alacrity, climbing atop her bed where Celia lay waiting, naked, her legs widely spread and her fingertips stroking her primed virgin home. Her head was thrust back, her body breathing deeply, a fine lust pouring from the milky flesh of her rising bosom. Sensing that lust pulsing through her own body, it pleased Roslyn to know that the girl would no longer be a virgin after this night, that she would bleed, perhaps in pain, as the dreadful, man-cock plunged deep and ripped away the curtain that separated her from womanhood. That unexpected fe
eling of power rose up again, as Roslyn straddled the girl’s shapely hips and bent down to kiss her lips. The dangling cock bobbed teasingly along Celia’s skin while Roslyn moved against the warmed flesh. Their breasts joined the tease, their sensitive nipples enlarging as they delicately stroked against the other, while from their lips came the purring sounds of pleasure.

  “How lovely you are,” Roslyn whispered, then added more boldly, “and how fortunate you are to have me!”

  “Yes, milady,” Celia answered back, her face now a canvas of lustrous sexual beauty.

  Roslyn rose up on one hand and fingered the open portal of the maid’s love nest, positioning the phallus against the small, wet opening. She could see the girl grit her teeth in fear, though she looked up at her mistress as if to say please. Celia’s eyes shimmered in the faint light, defiant and sure. She was such a contradiction of weakness and strength, but then, was not Roslyn herself so possessed by opposing forces? Could she fault the girl? Or judge her?

  When Roslyn finally drew back, she clutched the phallus to steady its aim, pressing it into the gateway and holding it there, pushing firmly and causing Celia’s heart to race and her breath to become shallow. Then at last, Roslyn lunged, dropping her body forward, while thrusting with her hips. On breaking the girl’s feminine treasure, she heard a cry from Celia like none other—being both mournful and sweet in the same breathless instant.

  “Ah, at last!” Roslyn thought she heard the sensuous shriek. Celia’s pained grunting followed.

  Roslyn made her attack brief; perhaps, she would have stopped altogether after she’d ripped away the membrane, but in her own body, the fiercest passion had risen strong. She continued the copulation, thrusting the phallus again and again into the virgin territory, while feeling a rubbing sensation against her own sensitive organ of pleasure. The wildness in her gathered and soon an explosive climax made her body move with deliberate force. Celia had grabbed on to her, the passion claiming her as well. The two women were clutched together as if in a brutal battle, each feeding off the other’s rising emotions and physical lust. Each climaxed with a thunderous rumble deep in their bellies, which, as they began to recover from the torrid moment, seemed to move beyond their spent forms and blanket them in pure love.

  They lay without speaking for some time, both afraid to voice their thoughts, then Roslyn finally managed to say, “I hope your split blood was well-spent.”

  “Oh, milady, my heart is not unchanged.” Celia turned toward her mistress. “Please understand my gratitude. I do love you, Lady Roslyn.”

  “And I love you, dear girl.” She stroked the maid’s soft face. They were not more than two years apart in age, though Roslyn often thought of Celia as a mere child. Was it possible that the girl, no longer being a girl, had become a woman with an understanding greater than Roslyn’s own? Could the simple act of losing her purity make this change so quickly? It hardly seemed possible, but as Roslyn stared at that familiar face, she would wonder if it were true. There was something in Celia’s eyes she’d not seen before, a luster and maturity that defied her present understanding.

  Roslyn was now left to wonder of her own fate in the coming days. Celia’s sexual fate was certainly sealed, but not her own. Would there be a lover not a brute to claim her? She could only wait and see, keeping to her dreams with hope.

  When she pulled off the bed, she unbuckled the harness and let it, along with the bloodstained phallus, slide to the floor where she stepped from the tangle of straps; it seemed vile to her now.

  “Get that out of my sight,” she said to the maid directly. “We’re done with that, and now we both must rest. Tomorrow will be a long and tiring day.”

  “Yes, milady.” The girl hustled from bed and did her mistress’ bidding. Despite the lady’s sudden shift in mood, Celia was still glad, in fact, her heart was overjoyed with a feeling that resided deep within her.

  Chapter Three

  Welcome To Dragon-Horn

  These merchants were a surly sort, all rough-faced and gruff, but one: the man who led the group. That particular fellow was a well-dressed dandy with a corpulent body and an unctuous air, which made him as foul as the others. Roslyn did not know which she despised most.

  While it seemed that all the men were constantly making lewd remarks about their two lovely female passengers, they managed to keep their hands off the tender flesh. Perhaps it was her uncle’s guard threatening them—although the man was half-drunk during most of their journey, and could not have prevented a rape even if he wasn’t. Percival was too old for much of anything but old battle songs and the strong ale that made his singing boisterously loud.

  This would not be a pleasant trip, Roslyn assured herself at the outset; she’d be glad when it was over. And yet, there were pleasant things to look at in the countryside. The air was clear and clean; flowers bloomed and toward sunset on the first day, the caravan of six wagons broke out onto a wide meadow just as the sun was dipping low into a cloud-strewn sky. Spectacular colors leaping from the canopy above caused them to stop, even for just an instant to gaze in awe at the beautiful sight. They camped by a stream that meandered through the meadow, with the men pitching a tent for the ladies and another for the unctuous Belius Fowl. The oily fellow invited Lady Roslyn and her maid to dine with him, but Roslyn declined, saying that she was much too tired to keep good company that night.

  “Another night, then?” he said, while toying with his mustache, a nervous habit that would make Roslyn cringe every time she saw it. “It will be a long trip and we must find ways to pass the tedious hours pleasantly.”

  “To be sure, sir, although my maid and I are unused to the strain of travel and I’m sure we’ll need a good night’s rest to refresh our bodies and our spirits. It would not do for your company to be weighed down with irritable females.” She smiled graciously and ducked back inside her tent, whispering to a giggling Celia, “I will not dine with that man!”

  Roslyn found her vow quickly broken, as two nights later, she was unable to fend off the man’s invitation. At Belius Fowl’s insistence, they stopped early. “The ladies need a break,” he’d announced to his company with his eye on the reluctant noblewoman. Roslyn could have kicked herself for remarks about how tiring the journey was; she wanted only for it to be over in as short a time as possible. Now, she was faced with breaking bread with this slimy fellow.

  To add to Roslyn’s misery, when she and her maid presented themselves at Belius’s tent, the man motioned Celia toward his fellows.

  “I should love to speak with you without your servant present, milady?” he said, offering her his hand.

  “But sir, I’d rather not see the girl alone in the company of so many men,” Roslyn objected.

  “No need to worry; she will be just fine.”

  Thus Roslyn entered the tent alone and sat across from her host at a small table that had been drawn from one of the carts. She need not worry how they would pass their time. Belius Fowl enjoyed the sound of his own voice and for the entire meal, he talked of his travels without pausing for her comment, assuming that she would be fascinated with his life history.

  Toward the end of the meal, the man rose from his seat and circled the table, moving in behind Roslyn. One fat hand rested on her shoulder—to which she instantly recoiled—then those plump fingers moved to her face and she shrunk back, gasping, “Please, sir!” in a surprised voice.

  “No need to worry, milady,” he stroked her cheek, all the while Roslyn shuddering in silence. “We shall make the arrangement simple.” Though still speaking in his fawning manner, there was something threatening in his voice.

  Scared, but not too scared to move, she suddenly jumped from the table, turning it on end, “No, sir, there is no arrangement,” she whirled around indignantly. For just a moment as she stared into his eyes, she saw the intention there and worried that she’d be unable to get beyond the man’s corpulent body. She was, however, saved from that dilemma, when Percival suddenly appeare
d at the door of the tent.

  “Anything wrong, milady?” he asked. He appeared unlike she’d seen him the last three days, with his large body looming over the much smaller Belius Fowl. His eyes were clear and there was barely a hint of liquor on his breath. One would have thought he was a man years younger than he normally appeared. He looked about the scene, the upturned table, the scattered plates, sensing the truth without being told.

  “No, Percival, nothing is wrong,” Roslyn said. “But since my meal with Mr. Fowl is now finished, you can escort me back to my tent.”

  “I’d be most happy.” Percival bowed and took her arm. The two left, leaving the merchant scowling under his breath.

  Celia had already been rescued from the other merchants by the dutiful and much changed guard, and was deposited in her lady’s tent.

  For the rest of the trip, no man gave either woman any trouble, while the surprising Percival continued to play the drunken sot. Was he truly drunk, or only playing a game? No one knew, but no one had the guts to challenge him again; the picture of his soldiering body was one no one wanted to forget.

  ***

  The merchants with their special cargo arrived at General Drago’s stronghold late in the evening three days hence. The General himself met them at his gates, shouting orders as if they were his troops. Roslyn recoiled at first glance, yet could not take her eyes from Drago’s manly visage. He tall like a warrior would be, his build solid, his dark eyes flashing with authority under thick, black brows. His uncombed hair was as black as a raven’s wing, his two day’s growth of beard like dusty soot on his striking face. No sweet-faced youth, no pretty man, no polished gentleman, he was hardened by wars and driven by survival, creating such an awesome impression that the air seemed to rumble about him.

  “Welcome to Dragon-Horn, Lady Roslyn,” he held his hand for her, but only after he’d given orders to the rest of the caravan of travelers, arranging for their carts and horses. By the time he finally attended to her, she’d become restless, wanting desperately to remove herself from the uncomfortable cart.