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Subject: {Lysander}JDR"Droit du Signeur 3"( Mf MF 1st hist )[3/7]
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Copyright 1993 by Lysander
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================
DROIT DU SIGNEUR
by Lysander
Part Three
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 Esmerelda, 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 Esmerelda'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 Esmerelda'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 Esmerelda, 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.
Copyright 1993 by Lysander
================
DROIT DU SIGNEUR
by Lysander
Part Three
-30-
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