There was no sound former than the drip-drip-drip of running water supply somewhere that only enhanced the damp feeling in the dungeon. clay sculpture crawled slimily along the walls, breeding a fuzzy stratum of slick super acid wet that coated each brick and Isidor Feinstein Stone with a clammy skimming of mire. In the nub of the aisle a gutter ran the duration of the hallway, and a horridly putrid stench rose from it, indicating that it was all the prisoner had regarding a sewage system of rules. Rusty bars spanned the length from floor to ceiling, and deep iron Chain clinked gently in the gentle zephyr of air that hummed from some distant opening in the wall. Stiff-faced guards, filled with ennui and fidgeting wordlessly in their overweight chainmail and buddy-buddy gig, stood before every three mobile phone, keeping a still watch over the captive who were caged there. The air was unbelievably foul, and the only succour from the smell was the continuous caress of fresh air that brushed against each unyielding wall like the touch of a lover.

She sat dazedly in her cubicle, crouched in the turning point, shivering. Her knees were locked to her chest, and her weapon were wrapped like vice around her long legs. A pair of smoky dingy optic, the coloration of a tempest-tossed ocean, regarded the floor seriously and studiously as she trembled to herself, wishing she were wearing something less give away and more warming. The plain dress she had worn when she had been taken had been thin enough to begin with ; now, after nearly three months of captivity with no reinvigorated clothes in spate, it was positively bone-chilling, and tattered to flush. Her hair, which had once hung in corkscrewing gilded curls around her round out cheek, now draped limply over each articulatio humeri in a matte up bulk. Her unkempt appearance was supplemented by her slightly-hollowed buttock and several fresh cuts tattooing her pegleg and arms. One or two of said lacerations were still oozing a scabby droplet of ancestry, but virtually were healing rapidly.

For a legal brief moment, she closed her singular blue-grey eyes and willed herself to relax. The moment she began to loose her tensed brawn, the cold seeped in without restraint. Hurriedly her muscles went taut in an effort to discontinue her shivering. A good dark sleep was a luxury she had not indulged in since she had been brought here ; the only affair that served as a bed was a pile of ill-gotten straw in one corner that was crawling with lice. No cover or pillow had been provided for the unseasoned girl - indeed, she wondered if she even remembered what it felt like to be covered with something clean and warm. She had not been here long compared to her other yard bird - one man had been here for coming up on seven years - but the everyday tortures of life so rustically was enough to rob anyone's head of goodness retentivity.

Suddenly the alloy room access clanged opened with a loud report that made every haircloth stand on end and every muscle jump wildly. Both guards and captive alike turned instinctively to the noise that had shattered the dome of glassy silence that had descended over the dungeon, but upon seeing who it was, convict folded themselves farther into various recession. Only the girl had not moved, keeping her stormy drab middle on the cracked, ugly donjon floor. The sound of boots thumping dryly on the wet storey permeated the air, along with the casual gentle plash as afore mentioned boots walked through one of the many puddle that dotted the landscape painting of the trading floor. The noise seemed to go on forever, perpetual, but then they stopped when they reached her door.

There was the almost unheard-of sound of a out of practice bolt of lightning being drawn back ; the heavy rattling jingle of keys being thrust into lock chamber, and the door swung open with a squall of nuisance. She didn't dare flick her center upwards to the man who entered her cell ; it was forbidden to look upon the gaoler - or the Maker who owned all of them. There was a mute squeak of leather as the man crouched down to look at the very young little girl who sat positively slopped with terror in the corner, her jaw locked to continue from trembling. He extended one bridge player - clad heavily in a leather glove - and turned her buttock with one finger. Still, she didn't look at him as he inspected her lowered lashes."flavor at me."he commanded.

She did so reluctantly, lifting her tempest-swept optic to his body, noting the royal indigo coloration of his richly embroidered tunica and the ponderous muscles that rippled beneath it. His leggings were opprobrious in people of colour, and also equally embroidered with intricate weavings of gold train of thought. The leather boots that had alerted every man and woman to his presence were freshly polished, and the sewing on the thick leather was beautifully complex. Slowly, hardly daring to do so, she raised her stormy blue-gray eyes to his face. It was a broad, handsome fount, with a rugged jaw course and stubble-covered impertinence. His heart were a brilliantly shadowiness of emerald green, and his hair was dark brown. It hung loosely around his berm in the typical dash of innovative Lords ; it suited him greatly, and made him appear even younger. Hardly daring to breathe at this unexpected pleasure of being allowed to gaze upon the typeface of her captor, she studied him carefully.

And he also studied her. She intrigued him, and he remembered her since the day they had brought her here. Her figure was svelte and lithe, small-breasted and slender, with glistening golden ringlet butterfly and an imperial face and nose. But what had struck him, what had managed to seize his attention so thoroughly, was her eyes. Those once-shining gray-blue orbs were boring with weariness and thirst, now rimmed with pink from being denied slumber. He had strictly forbidden his soldiers to stir her, but he doubted his orders had been carried out. His men were rough and savage, loyal but occasionally simple. Even a crisp order from their Lord wouldn't be enough for them not to possess their way with the young girl who crouched shivering before him. It angered him, but it was to be expected. They were men, and she was a beautiful woman.

Abruptly he stood and left with an impressive suction stop of his heels and a swirl of his plum-colored mantle. He turned to the helmeted guard who stood rigidly at attention in battlefront of her cell, and the guard saluted brusquely."Bring the fille upstairs and have her bathe,"he ordered in a low, commanding bark."When she is presentable, escort her to my William Chambers. I wish to speak to her."

It was unheard of for the Jehovah who had taken district over these lands to send off for a lowly barbarian girl who had been captured from one of the villages ; but he was, after all, noble Tristian, conqueror of the Northern Slopes and the Smoky Mountains. If he ordered pigs to fly, every soldier in the living would do their honorable to fit fender on swine. So the guard nodded smartly and rapped on the bars to get the daughter's attention."Girl ! Bring your matter to the door and I shall unlock your cuff. Quickly now, you are wasting my time !"

Lord Tristian almost said something, but he bit his lingua. The guard would not harm her unduly ; and he had matter to attend to. He left the reeking donjon, and banged the alloy door shut behind him. Wide-eyes, the young lady shuffled to the front man of her cell. She nearly laughed at the sentiment of bringing her"things ”. No prisoner was allowed to own anything. Even her worn wearing apparel was not called her own. God only knew how many times the soldiers reminded her of this as they ravaged her and stripped her dress from her slim consistency. Ruthlessly the guard snatched her fragile carpus and unlocked the rusty manacles that swung lazily from her arms, tossing them to the floor with a metal clank. She followed him up the stairs to the outside Earth, the room and halls above the dungeon that she had never known.

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She stood in the toilet uncertainly, clutching the tatterdemalion dress finisher to her melt off figure. The sparkling cleanliness of the bathroom only reminded her of her flow State of dress. One of the maiden, a iron-haired woman with mystifying lines around her mouth and heart, entered hurriedly and eyed the girl with something approaching distaste. In as few countersign as possible, the amah ordered the girl to strip and wait for her to institute hot water for a bath. Then she left with a dig of the oaken door. Her head still reeling, she obeyed quickly, stepping out of the flea-ridden garment that had provided her with only modified modesty. Standing naked in the sprawling privy, she chanced a look at herself in the mirror. Her body was remarkably whole from her months of solitude ; she had seen men and womanhood studded with blackleg and cicatrice from sole Clarence Day of living in the dungeon. former than a few track on her weapon and legs and the episodic cicatrix from an overly zealous rapist, her porcelain skin was rather unharmed.

The fille hurriedly used the bedroom pot before the maid came back in, then stood once Sir Thomas More before the mirror, foolishly wondering what was expected of her. Then the housemaid came back in with two steaming buckets of hot pee, and behind her came another maid, this one airless to the girl's own age, carrying two more. The with child circular wooden tub in the corner was now brimming with steamy water, and the girl hesitantly stepped in. The hot water burned her ankles and sura for a import, and bout unexpectedly sprung to her middle. Seeing the piss in her smoky-blue eyes, the stiff elderly amah softened slightly and handed her a dish of soft scoop. Hardly daring to believe her good fortune, the girl began scrubbing herself. The younger maid took it upon herself to begin untangling the monolithic snarls that had massed together at the al-Qa'ida of her neck opening.

It took some time, but she eventually stood out of the tub feeling light and warm for the start time in what seemed like an timeless existence. Her golden haircloth was once again restored to its usual shimmering flax, and her optic were once more than bright and animated again. The maids left, murmuring quietly to themselves and remarking what a pretty little matter she was underneath all those layers of poop. The female child shifted uncomfortably, wondering what to do. Her unspoken motion was answered when the door opened again and a thin silken robe was placed over her shoulder joint."Outfit time, beloved,"said the jr. maid softly. Silently the golden-haired girl followed her.

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She knocked one at the door of his subject area, her core hammering, palms sweating. There was a brusque Book -"Enter !"- and she opened the door tentatively, slipping around the frame of the square oaken social system like a fantasm. He rose when he saw who it was, and she wondered why he was bothering with this display of chivalrousness. If he wanted her, he should acquire her now, while she was still sleepy-eyed and scavenge. She stood silently at the threshold, one hand plucking nervously at the silvery gown the maid had selected for her.

Dressed as she was, he wondered if she were related to royalty. Her clean profile, light blonde pilus that curled deliciously down around her still slightly hollowed profile, all spoke of a noble birth. Her public figure was slim down and beguiling, teasingly beautiful in an refined way. He ached for her. It had not been long since he had taken a adult female to his bed, but it would be a rag misdirection to his busy life. He beckoned to her once, noting the elaborate silver gown that slid off of one shoulder, leaving one side of her vulnerable cervix bare.

She did not depend at his eye, did not receipt him when he began tracing radiation pattern on the top of the scarred wooden board with his gloved palm tree. Up close, when she wasn't dazed from the frozen frigidity, she could see that he was quite good-looking. He was lounging regally in a chair, his tunic open at the choker, exposing the notch of his collarbones and a few column inch of tanned tegument. He was tall, broad-chested, with deep-set green eyes which were flecked handsomely with Au. His leather boxing glove went up his weapon, his shirt sleeves tucked into them, and her quick blue angel heart noticed that his ness had been thrown lazily over a lure near the room access. There was a fervidness holla in the hearth, orange and crimson blossom flicking eagerly around blackened logs. Off in one recession, shrouded by silk curtains, was what she presumed to be a bed, although it looked more like a deluxe megabucks of satin, pillows, and furs.

"Do you have a name, Cy Young one ?"He asked, mysterious voice breaking the silence. He had a full-bodied, rumbling vocalism, tinged with the speech pattern known to those of the Northern side. It sounded as though a Leo the Lion had been caged in his chest, and his vox suited him. She started guiltily, realized that she had been daydreaming, and quickly bowed her head.

"Amariel, my Lordship,"She said softly. He nodded once, as if the answer pleased him, and then gestured for her to sit.

"Come, Amariel, sit. I have prepared some food for thought for you - no doubtfulness you are hungry."He said, eyeing her carefully. She glanced at him, and the look was full of suspicion and rife with wariness. For the first gear fourth dimension, a grinning quirked the slope of his mouth."I promise it is not poisoned."He added, and sliced off a delicate wedge of mild Malva sylvestris. After eating this, he raised an supercilium in an great manner.

Hesitantly, she allowed Jehovah Tristian to pour her a chalice of red wine, the semblance indescribably abstruse and more ruby than the fire. It was sweet, slightly tart at the destination, but complimented the bread and cheeseflower nicely. It took every shred of her style not to ram everything she saw into her mouth at once - and if she had, there still would possess been intellectual nourishment left over. Two loaf of bread, still steaming from the ovens, were sliced carefully and covered with a table napkin to keep them warm. Tiny wooden bowls were filled with spreads and spices, butter and pick, to compliment the sweet white rolls. At least three different sort of high mallow had been artfully displayed, and a bowl of sheeny red apples stood sentry at the opposite corner. The vino thickened her tongue and created a dull, numb feeling around the base of her neck - it was pleasant, and for the first time in almost half a yr, she felt her muscles relax.

The meal was taken in quiet, and Tristian kept a laugh at bay. She was trying so hard not to eat everything in sight, but there was no doubt she was more confused than thirsty. She knew of his intent - she shot him a warning look every now and then, between bites. But she seemed to be relaxing, just slightly, and then she pierced him with those tempest-tossed center again."Creator Tristian, may I ask as to your intentions ?"She asked, her vocalism low and carefully tinged with just the redress total of respect and mix-up. He hid a smirk behind his hand as he looked at her one live clock time - she was related to royal house, she had to be ; her etiquette was faultless.

"I will not blot out my intentions, Amariel,"He said, and looked her firmly in the eyes."I brought you up to my sleeping accommodation to call for the pleasure of your company for the evening."

All at once, she felt them on her - hands, twisting, pinching, grabbing, ramming. Her small breasts chewed and mauled as they brutally used her, pinning her down with weights and roach, fucking her like a dog. Their rowdy shouts and whoops as they came into her, on her, throwing her back into her cell like a piece of laundry. She could see their jeering faces through the bars, and her hands began to shake. Tristian noted her abrupt change in demeanor, and shifted his weight to attract her aid and keep her eyes on his."noblewoman Amariel, I can call you one thing - if you accept my proposition, I can see that this evening is mutually concordant and enjoyable for the both of us."He said, trying to save her tending in the present.

"Animal,"She hissed, on her feet in a flash. Her eyes were panicked and jittery, and her limbs were shaking as she scowled at him. And even that motion made him want her Sir Thomas More - he could lease her by personnel, but he didn't want to. He wanted to undo her slowly, savor each moan and cry and kiss and truly take his mind off running his land for perhaps a few hours."All of your men are devour ! Selfish, greedy, terrible men ! And you're no better !"She cried, backing up against the door.

In an instant he was on his feet. Terror hit her severely, realizing again how tall and broad and muscle-bound he was."madam Amariel, if you do not wish to accept my fling, than I shall return you to your electric cell and the script of the guard. But whatever you determination is, do not impeach upon my honor or my gravitas. I brought you up here on respectable fate, and you should weigh yourself fortunate that I did not merely take you the inst I saw you !"He was angry, she could taste it in the air and feel it in his words. She cowered, fearing a strike, but instead of his gloved hand hitting her unprotected, slender physical structure, she felt his touch in an entirely different manner. He lay a script on her shoulder and his representative dropped lower."Amariel, I can not pack away the damage my soldiers have caused you. But I can help oneself you forget, at to the lowest degree for a moment."

She looked at him with cipher confidence in her eyes, but her shoulders slumped, workforce dropping away from their defensive situation by her font. He tilted her chin back, tucking her thick golden curls away from her stormy eye, and just looked at her. Her hint was warm on his face, her secrecy tentative. And then, with barely sufficiency motion to justify the activity, she nodded.

He leaned forward, his hired hand reflexively settling on her hip, and brushed his rim to hers. It hardly qualified as a osculation, merely a tactual sensation, and she relaxed slightly. It might have been the vino, it might have been her fatigue, but she felt safer. He wouldn't hurt her, she could tell. He seemed to be testing her reaction, gauging the look on her case, and then he kissed her again, their lips making full contact and parting slightly. Her hands - still trembling - slid along his astray torso and settled on his broad shoulders. She didn't quite know what to do with her hands, wasn't sure she even wanted this to occur. His gloved fingerbreadth tangled through the blonde Curl which fell in a curtain down her back, and the osculation he graced her with again was deeply, but still just as restrained.

He broke the kiss softly, slowly, and her eyes opened slightly. She hadn't even been aware that she was now leaning against the door and enjoying his candy kiss, but apparently she had been, because he was interlacing his fingers with hers and bringing her hand up to his mouth. The kisses he bestowed on her inner radiocarpal joint and up to the sensitive dapple on her elbow were more of warm mouthings, humming over boldness and making a line of heat pool in her abject stomach. His gloves were stripped off and tossed on the table, and now she could feel the rasp of his callous hands across her skin. She felt a blush pelage her face as he palmed her left titty, his touches feather-light but somehow reassuring and controlling. He had a scent, a deep, natural state musk which reminded her of sawbuck and open fields, a grassy, cardinal perfume which tingled her senses and nerves.

She didn't quite retrieve how they ended up near his bed, but she remembered with diamond-edged lucidity the tone of his work-roughened handwriting slipping off the strap of her project dress. The silvern rag of material slid off her body in almost a liquid, pooling on the floor and was forgotten by the two partners. She wanted to pace, to fidget, to tap her finger against her genu, but his drawling osculation and calloused thenar were keeping her frozen. Not to cite the ignominy of what she was doing - her mother would have died if she knew that she was lying in Jehovah Tristan's bed, with his palm stroking the satiny skin between her breasts. Not that it mattered - she was idle anyway. But with the war over and the valley where they lived now under the domain of Lord Tristian, cipher cared much about honor.

His mouth on her ear suddenly brought her sharply back to the pose, and she realized that whatever he was doing against her cervix was doing deliciously sinful things to the trail of heat between her thighs. And his touches, those for certain, strong touches as he began working at the thin strap holding her undergarments together. And oh, his bare hands on her exposed cutis was estrus, just pure, raw, rut, and everything burned as he began to lick his way down to the velvet of her breasts. As soon as his back talk drew her beaded nipple inwards, her back arched and she couldn't restrain the gasp of vulnerability, a rebuke breather which betrayed her baser emotions. His touches burned, but the heat was so unspoilt, and she was craving something she couldn't think of, a need which had to be filled.

Tristan had never seen such a responsive dead body - every touch, every kiss, it all lingered in his psyche and she showed her delight in that simple, innocent way of which all girlfriend new to the sexual experience did ; she wove her fingers through his tomentum, her hips rising as her middle closed, and he finally gave her what she wanted, his depart hand traveling lower as it finally brushed against the soft golden curls between her thighs. She was wet, and he could experience the tension and high temperature rolling off her in wave, and he teased those dewed folding with two digit as he flicked at the raw bud with his thumb. Her response to that was an open-mouthed moan and a convulsive jolt as the alien sensation sparked the heat in her body. Every nerve was fraying as he stroked her slickness again, and this time she cried out, a racket fraught with joy and sheer torment.

Her saneness seemed to be shattering piece by piece as his dentition closed lightly over her nipple again, and then everything broke at once. Sights, sounds, and emotions all blurred together in one piece as the fundamental delight savaged her. The oestrus had exploded like a thunderclap, a white-hot piece of paper of pure ecstasy, her back arching, head falling back as he kissed her, this meter plundering her mouth with his lingua. And oh, the sensations were overwhelming, and snag slipped out of her eyes in spite of herself as she gave a palpitation, raw, moan and then sank back into the bundle of pelt and pillows. His fingerbreadth were sliding through her beautiful gold hair's-breadth, and he dropped a kiss on her split up lips, tugging her lower lip into his sassing. He seemed wont to prolong her pleasure as long as potential - his finger's breadth were still lazy stroking her soakage core, and his hired man was still rubbing her tight mammilla, his thickened workforce rasping over her soft skin.

"Y- you are a wicked man,"Amariel breathed, her voice breaking as her breath still danced elusively out of her compass. Embarrassing whimpers were still trying to break free from her pectus, and she kept them at bay with only the greatest possible possession. How could he make her feel like that, such a whizz, when there was still cloth between them ? His adventitia and leggings were still intact, and her hands fluttered, then came to settle on his shoulders. He was looking down at her with something like a ruthful grin ; even in the dim light from the ever lowering fire, she could see the leash passion in his eyes. This was a man doing everything he could to concord himself in check.

"Am I ?"He asked, slowly tracing figure up her side. He sat up and then tugged his tunic over his pectus, flinging it carelessly to the level. Now that his chest was bare and disclose, she could see the tapestry of roughly hew out brawniness, carved from sword fight, training, and grueling equitation. A dark ridge of hair's-breadth led downwards and disappeared into the buckle of his trouser, and she was seized with a drowsy urge to run her finger down this knickknack. She lay there, uncertain what to do, and then he rewarded her with a searing, distracting kiss which banished every cerebration or memory from her head in an blink of an eye. Oh, his kiss were as kingly and graceful as he was, to the full of power and dominance, just as he was. He trailed his proud kisses down her neck opening, and before she knew what was happening, there was skin on skin.

Skin on skin.

She had thought his touches burned - this was anguish in the more exquisite physical body. She could hear his pulse, a steady, rapid thump, a soldier marching towards battle. And oh, with the full moon contact he branded her, made her skin crawling in a sensible, toothsome manner which made the recently dimmed heat in her second joint flash suddenly. He plundered her rima oris with his kisses, a dominant and just ruler as he settled himself on top of her. Her head tilted as he trailed hot, misty kisses down her neck and down past the blanch jut of her collarbone. She had no idea that one could feel so completely surrounded, encased in warmth, and the furs beneath her seemed too hot, too roughly, compared to the easy, Jonathan Swift touches he gifts her with.

She took him by surprise, her digit tangling through his mane of umber hair, bringing him down for another of his deep, heady, passionate kisses which were causing a swimming, arousing feeling. It was like drinking too much unspoilt wine too quickly, and all of the sensations and smell were rushing to her principal with lightning accuracy and electrical timing. She felt the hardness against her subdued plica, and she tensed in malice of herself."Relax,"He told her, more of an unwilling plead than a command, his voice roughened with desire.

And she did, more to follow his instruction and still his frustration ; this had never happened to her before. She had known about the exchange between men and cleaning lady before, but the soldier's harsh, cruel beatings and raping had merely increased her fear of the secret communion. And here he was, delicately pulled past the curtain of her care, and showing her how it was, how it should be. She arched up, and then plunged him into her liquid state high temperature to the hilt with one sure, quiet stroke.

For an instant, there were no Son. No view. Nothing could have described the utter sweetness of being inside her, of having her beneath him and twisting in the furs in agonizing pleasure. She fisted the sheets, her pelvis rising and begging him silently to incite, because the rag of flaming was back, and now it seemed determined to convey her down feather to where her soul and heart combined. His tooth had closed around the suave eyepatch of skin beneath her jaw, marking her with a piercing red mark which would no doubt remain firm out the next sunrise. But the painful sensation only seemed to aid the pleasure in a crescendo, the acme of a mountain, the eye of the storm.

Their calendar method of birth control was the Lapplander, their pulsation matching each early, and her nails raked desperately at his dorsum, his articulatio humeri, anything to draw him farther and faster and now. Her call were becoming louder and increasingly pleading, and he captured her lips once more in a kiss as he brought them, shuddering, to the brink of their pleasance. With a undivided sobbing mewl, she spiraled into a searing, scorching cocoon of raptus, their dual pleasance linking them and causing everything to strain, every muscle on steeled, frayed alarum, and then it was over.

How long they lay there, panting and still clinging to each other, neither of them knew. But she finally let her head fall back, and he turned to the face, easing himself off her, his warm, calloused medal skating down her side, still dampen from their connection. He pressed a kiss against the smooth cable of her pharynx, and she released her grasp from his articulatio humeri, relaxing on her back and allowing his lazy, searching movement to uphold. He was still exploring her, still examining every in of her porcelain skin, and then she heard his low, appreciative growl rumbling through his chest."Am I still wicked, Amariel ?"He asked, his vocalization soft and almost sleepy. She felt smug ; she had made him feel like that.

She would take these memory board with her when she was cast back down the dungeons ; despite what they had told each other, what their organic structure had shared, she was a captive and he was a Godhead. Their finish and honor prevented them from ever bonding like they had, and yet they still did. After tonight, they would quit to be lover and continue to be opposition once more. The thrusting, snatching, gagging hands of the guard duty would be her nursing home, and the stinkpot, their red middle glinting at her from the shadow, would be her protagonist. Tristram would stay in the light, his powerful build and shine looks ensnaring him a world-beater Sooner rather than later, and would be hailed as a subjugation bomber. But for the succeeding few hours, they would stay peer. Lovers.

"No."She breathed .