Tomas opened his eyes. At least, he thought he had opened his eyes. He could
see nothing before him. He remembered charging Count Heinrich, and a massive
steel blade being swung at him. I'm either dead or in the dungeon. Thoughts of
rats and insects and God knew what else that inhabited the cells made him wonder
which would be worse. He sat up and immediately realized he was still alive. A
dead man's head couldn't possibly hurt this much. Gentle hands, a woman's hands,
forced him back down. "No, don't try to get up. You've a bump on your head the
size of my fist." The voice was very soothing, with an accent unlike anything
Tomas had ever heard. The words caressed his ears like her hands caressed his
shoulders, spreading warmth through his aching head and body. "Rest now. Here's
another cool cloth for your head." Light peeked at him as the cloth covering his
eyes was removed. Another cool damp cloth replaced it, but allowed him to see
his surroundings. Far from being in a dungeon, he was in a soft bed in a
well-lit, well-furnished room. Cool air wafted through the open shutters. A
canopy above the bed fluttered in the breeze, and real wax candles flickered. A
face appeared before his eyes, looking into them with concern. It was an
exquisitely beautiful face. Sharply chiseled cheekbones and a small, full-lipped
mouth. Bronze skin and black -- deep, soulful, impossibly black -- eyes. It was
the Countess Esmeralda, the mysterious bride Heinrich had brought back from the
Crusades. Heinrich! The bastard who was probably even now.... Tomas tried to
rise again, and again was forced down. The woman didn't look particularly
strong, but then Tomas didn't feel particularly robust himself. "Lie back down,
young man. You've taken a serious blow to the head. Your brains have been
shaken very badly, and if you stand, they'll probably fall out. "Not that you'd
notice. What made you do such a stupid thing anyway?" "He was going to... Him
and Kirsten were... She's MY wife, damn it!" "She was very nearly a widow,
idiot. You had no right to go about beating on my servants and frightening your
bride the way you did." She spoke to him like his mother did, even though she
surely had not long ago turned twenty. He was practically dumbfounded. All he
could say was: "Where are you from?" She was surprised by the non sequitur, and
could only answer truthfully. "I am from Cordoba. In Spain." "You are a Moor?"
"I am, though I have converted to Christianity." "How come you speak such good
German?" The young countess rolled her eyes at his rapid questions. "Because I
spent a good deal of time with Heinrich and his soldiers. But that is neither
here nor there. You have to lie down and rest. It has been a very trying time
for almost all the castle. "My husband has decreed that even though you attacked
him within his own home, in his own bedroom" -- She shook her head as though to
say, 'men, fools' -- "your life is not to be forfeit. However, for your attacks
against our servants, you have been sentenced to two weeks of confinement. Not
in the dungeon, you can thank your stars." "But Kirsten..." "Is intelligent
enough, I'm sure, to know that nothing can change her situation except you, and
you can only make it worse." Tomas shut his mouth, having no response. The
pounding in his head seemed to tell him, "You... Knew... That... You...
Knew... That..." He realized he had known this all along. Male pride and drink
had carried him up to the master bedroom. Kirsten was in no real danger, and
Tomas had come damn close to spitting himself on that sword. He let himself
collapse on the soft bed, in self-pity rather than in resignation. "He wouldn't
harm her, would he?" "Of course not," she scoffed. "Heinrich is the most gentle
man I know in the Christian lands." "I suppose I should be grateful for that
much, at least." "You should. Many a man is brutal toward women, considering
them only so much property. Kept if pleasing, discarded if not." "You say that
as though you experienced something like that, ma'am." Her hands tightened on
his
shoulders and she withdrew them. "Perhaps I'll tell you the story sometime of
how
I met Heinrich. In the meantime though, you must rest and recover. A day or so
in bed and you'll be as good as new." She blew out most of the candles and left,
locking the door from the outside. He could smell roses in the room, but roses
were not in season yet. It must be her. He inhaled deeply. Not roses exactly,
but pleasant, very pleasant. Tomas was still uncomfortable about the whole
thing,
but he was also still exhausted from the knock on his head. He fell asleep after
only a little tossing and turning. He dreamed of Kirsten, of course. Lately, all
his dreams had been about Kirsten. They were almost all the same, and this one
was no exception. He held her in his arms. They were both naked. He knew well
what Kirsten's body looked like unclothed. It shamed him to think of it, but he
had seen her once, when she and Leni had gone bathing in the small lake a mile
from the village. He had only done it the once, because of his shame, but the
image stayed with him. Her pure blonde hair and creamy white skin. Her pale
pink nipples atop the full breasts of a grown woman. And the patch of blonde
hair in the middle of her trim hips, so pale it was almost invisible. She was
like a spirit, fragile-looking put powerful and beautiful. In his dream they
kissed each other's face all over, frantically; in these dreams, everything was
frantic. Her flesh smelled of meadow flowers and her lips tasted of honey. She
kissed his neck and his bare chest. He tried to bring her up so he could kiss
her lips again, but she resisted. She took his manhood in her cool hands. She
did not do that often. Sometimes she helped him enter her, but usually, he found
her opening himself and entered her, savoring her enveloping warmth, and he
would
orgasm almost immediately. She stroked him. He never imagined his Kirsten doing
that. When he was alone and thought about her, he would stroke it himself,
though
he knew it was a sin. No girl like Kirsten would do that. Only Marian had ever
done it to him, the day he was burning inside after seeing Kirsten's beautiful
body. He had orgasmed almost immediately, and Marian had laughed at him. His
faced still burned anytime a girl laughed within earshot. The ghostly Kirsten
now
took him inside her mouth, swallowing him, her tongue darting along the
underside
of his cock. It was a horrible thing to do, something only a slut like Marian
would do. But he liked it. He liked it a lot, despite himself. Even in his
dreams, he wanted to tell her to stop, that she shouldn't. But he could not
break through the wall of pleasure to speak. She moved faster and faster on him,
swallowing him whole on each stroke. He could not contain himself, soon he
would... he would... would.... Do nothing. For Kirsten had grabbed his cock by
the root, preventing his eruption. He wanted to cry. He could not even have the
satisfaction of a spirit Kirsten. But she had not abandoned him. She stroked his
wet cock, and began kissing his thighs and his balls. She licked the sac and
nibbled lightly on the juncture of his thighs and groin. And she continued to
stroke him. When the hardness had completely, painfully returned, she took him
again inside her wonderful mouth. This time, he did not even try to stop her.
He needed release too badly. He just allowed himself to enjoy the sensations.
It was a dream, and he knew that dreams could do no harm. Otherwise Marian would
have long been dead of a horrible wasting disease. Thankfully, this time the
phantasm Kirsten showed no sign of stopping. This time he would finally... WAKE
UP. Her teeth had scraped his flesh a little too roughly, and the surprise more
than the pain brought him out of the dream world. Except that it was no dream.
Kirsten truly was sucking his cock. No, it wasn't Kirsten. Instead of a head of
spun gold, he saw loose ebony tresses spread across his naked hips. The face
tilted up at him to reveal deep, soulful, impossibly black eyes. "Countess!
What are you doing!?" She took her mouth off him, but continued to stroke him in
her dainty hand. "I'm sorry, Tomas. I came to check on you and saw the blanket
sticking up." She quickly licked him. "I meant to do it quickly so you wouldn't
notice. But you tasted so good, I couldn't stop myself from prolonging the
experience." She winked at him. "Shall I continue?" She engulfed him. "Yesss,"
Tomas moaned as he fell back onto the soft mattress. She wasn't Kirsten, but she
would do. A beautiful lady. A countess. The bastard Heinrich's own wife.
Heinrich's wife! SHIT! If he catches me, he'll have me castrated, then beheaded!
He pulled himself out of Esmeralda's mouth, again scraping against her teeth,
and
dragged her bodily to the door. He was so terrified, he couldn't even hear, much
less answer her indignant questions. He had to get her out before the count came
to see about his prisoner. He quickly checked the hallway, saw that it was
empty, then practically threw out the most breathtaking woman he had ever met.
His fear had caused his head to start throbbing again, at the same rhythm as his
racing heart. He wasn't sure if his head would explode before his heart
collapsed, but he just knew one would happen. Calm down, Tomas. You weren't
caught. Everything's fine. Just serve your two weeks and you'll have Kirsten,
and you can finally start your life with her. Heinrich'll never find out, and
what can the countess do, have you killed? He stopped his pacing. She might.
She could convince him to change his mind. No, no. A count can't just change
his mind about a death sentence. He'd soon have a revolt on his hands. He
dragged a heavy chest over to block the door, though, just in case. He poured
cool water from the pitcher into the washbasin, then held his face in it for a
count of twenty. By the time he came up for air, he had convinced himself that
everything was going to be fine. He just had to keep out of Countess Esmeralda's
way for the next fortnight. As he pulled the blanket over his body, he noticed
that despite his panic, or maybe because of it, he still had a full erection. He
glanced at the door. No one tried to open it. He pushed the blanket back down
and pulled up his nightshirt. The cool air felt good on his exposed flesh. He
began to stroke himself. He thought about Kirsten in the lake, water beading on
her flesh and dripping from her breasts and from between her thighs. He thought
of his dreams of Kirsten, when he would take her for the first time. He imagined
the passion between them. Then, his mind drifted to the last dream he had of
Kirsten, when she sucked his cock. He wondered if he could ever get the real
Kirsten to do that. And then, so gradually that he never noticed it, the image
in his mind changed to thick dark hair spread across his thighs as Kirsten
became
Esmeralda, and she sucked vigorously on his prick. Faster and faster, those wavy
tresses flowed as her head moved on him, and then he erupted. He fell asleep
like
that, exposed and wet. But he didn't dream of a patch of pale hair between white
thighs, but of dark hair between brown thighs. And deep, soulful, impossibly
black eyes, looking up at him in passion.
Bewertung
(0 Bewertungen)Zum Bewerten bitte einloggen oder registrieren.
Du musst eingeloggt sein um Kommentare schreiben zu können. Klicke hier um dich jetzt zu registrieren.
Impressum