Archive-name: droit_du_signeur1-7^7

From: Tommy@f26.n340.z1.fidonet.org

Subject: Droit du Signeur 1/7 (mf, coerce)

Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories

The THC Adult Text Archive: DDSIG1.TXT (331 lines) Please do not allow anyone under 18 to read the contents of this message. Note: I did not write any of these stories. They are being posted from the archive as a public service only - any copyrights belong to the authors. See the footer for important information. ========================================================================== Droit du Signeur 1/7 (sort of historical, mf, coerce) <*> If you are over 18 you may view this story freely. Heck, if you're under 18, you can read this part, since it doesn't have any naughty bits, just some melodrama and a bit of faulty history. But you'll have to save the rest until you're old enough to handle it.

Author's note: This story as originally conceived began with the idea of "first night," a salacious practice in parts of Europe (perhaps including the Holy Roman Empire, perhaps not) which allowed the local lord to sleep with a bride on her wedding night. However, it quickly grew in scope and it soon included even more atrocious examples of Medieval non-history. I know I should have pruned them out, but whatever skills I may have as a writer, I am a horrible editor, so they remain. Please keep any comments concerning historical accuracy to yourself and confine criticism and/or praise to characterization, eroticism and style. Flames, of course, shall be cheerfully ignored.

Feel free to spread this thing around electronically, as long as you don't charge for it and keep everything below the asterisks intact. Thanks bunches.

Oh, and one other thing before the main feature. I know this is advertised as being in seven parts, but that's just because I got to a place that's convenient to stop. There's more to the story, but it involves Bad Things happening to characters I've grown rather fond of. I might pick it up again someday, though.

Part One

Kirsten grunted and gave a last mighty shove. The heavy wooden yoke fell into place on the rack, and wobbled a few moments as she and Leni collapsed onto the stable's dirt floor in near exhaustion. She never wanted to plow another furrow in her life. All the men and most of the women were needed to get the last of the harvest in before winter came -- old Mother Maude said this one would be the worst in many years. But the strips still had to be plowed so they would be ready come spring, so she and Leni and the other young women had had to do it. Usually, one man could handle the team of oxen, but Kirsten was small and unskilled. She was more suited to baking and spinning than plowing. Even with Leni, or perhaps because of her, the plowing still took all day, but they had gotten it done.
She looked down at her hands. There were blisters on her thin, nimble fingers, where she had handled the plow. They felt fat and useless, like they were someone else's.
"You'll have to have lotion for those hands," Leni said, watching Kirsten flex her fingers. "Tomas'll not want to wake up thinking it's Ralf that's caressing him." Leni giggled at her own boldness.
Kirsten blushed, herself. She was not as experienced as other girls about what went on between a man and a woman. Some of her friends had talked about seeing their parents "doing it" like the sheep or dogs, but Kirsten refused to believe Leni's mother and father -- her own adopted parents -- behaved like that. Indeed, since Leni's father was the blacksmith and therefore a well-off man, she and Leni had their own room and had never seen Gustav and Gretchen do more than kiss and caress,
"Don't worry. When I kiss him, he'll know I'm not Ralf." She clicked her teeth at Leni and smiled to cover her nervousness, but her face was still rosy pink, up to her pale blonde hair.
She was excited, of course, but she was even more nervous. Tomorrow she would be married, and it was about time. After all, she was almost nineteen, as well as she could reckon. But Tomas had waited until his grandfather died to post banns in the chapel. The old goat was a right bastard, Tomas said, but he needed those fertile strips of land if he was going to feed himself and a family. It was that or depend on his father. The fine linen dress her mother and grandmother, and probably her grandmother's grandmother, had been married in was all mended with the best thread she could afford and drying on the fence outside Gustav's smithy. The dress and a few pennies were all that were in the small cedar chest that had saved Kirsten from the fire that had taken her parents. Tomorrow night she would wear it for the first and last time, she thought. Thoughts of tomorrow night also reminded her why she was nervous.
Tomorrow night, her wedding night, she would spend in the castle. She looked through the door up onto the low hill where the stone fortress sat, casting its shadow on the field where the sheep grazed. She shivered in silent dread. Droit du signeur, they called it. Filthy and barbaric, she thought it was. It was a right not much practiced by the nobles in these parts, but one that could not be denied.
Weddings were held in the castle's chapel, and the festival afterwards took place in the bailey, or in the great hall if it was winter or raining. And then, after nightfall, the bride was taken up to the bedchamber of the lord of the estate, and deflowered by the lord.
That was what awaited Kirsten tomorrow night. It almost brought her to tears. How could she sacrifice her virginity to someone other than her husband? It didn't seem a very Christian thing to do. But Kirsten well knew her place. It was her lord's right to be the first to take her, and she was not someone to go against the rights of those God had placed above her. She would just throw back her shoulders and... No, that wouldn't do, she thought as she glanced down at her firm bosom. Oh, what was she to do?
As though she knew what Kirsten was thinking, Leni put an arm across her shoulders and kissed her cheek. "Don't worry on it, dear heart. It'll be over in a night, and you'll be with Tomas the rest of your life." She sounded so motherly, Kirsten had to laugh, despite her mood. A girl smaller and younger than she, trying to comfort her like a grandmother to a toddler. She laughed at least until she saw Count Heinrich riding up to the castle gate, with a brace of bloody rabbits hanging from his saddle.

In one of the outer fields, Tomas leaned on his scythe and mopped his brow with his patched and rough sleeve. He too could see Heinrich on his bay stallion. "It ent right that. No man's got a right to another man's bride."
Ralf planted his own scythe and looked for a moment at the young man. "No it ent right for a common man to take another's woman. But the Count up there, he ent no commoner like us. Things is different for folks like him. Always was, always will be. But I reckon I understand how you feel. After all, a year agone it wouldna mattered. The old count woulda just put her in a soft bed and himself in another. What with his 'war wound' and all." His weathered face cracked in a wide grin, showing his crooked yellow teeth. It was well known that the "war wound" old count Heinrich had suffered from was the shrewish wife given to him by his duke for bravery on the field. But Heinrich the younger had no such impediment. His lady seemed to care little about the count's activities, so far as the peasants could tell.
"If he lays a hand on Kirsten, then count or no, I'll wring his bloody neck. On my gran's head, I will."
"Aye, likely it will be your gran's head, and the rest of your family's as well. But you wouldn't get off so easy as that, boy."
"Listen to him, Tomas," said Otto, who had just walked up. "My own Hilde was born nine months after my wedding night, to the day. She favored her mother more than anyone else, so no one knew if she were mine or Sir Albert's. But I'll tell you this, boy, we had a good thatched roof, and a bit of meat in the pot come midwinter, when most everyone else did without. And when the sickness took her and my Ruth, Sir Albert made sure they both had good wooden coffins and deep graves, frozen ground or no." He walked back off to his own row, sniffling and muttering.
Tomas just took up his scythe and went at the barley with a vengeance.

The fires at either end of the great hall were slowly dying down, but Kirsten was still flushed. She had danced with every man at the feast, save for the minstrel and Count Heinrich; but most of all, she had danced with Tomas. Tomorrow, she would finally share his bed, but tonight.... She would just treasure this last hour before she had to go up to the count's chamber.
Tomas sat beside her, his hand in hers, staring at his feet and trying to moisten dry lips. Suddenly, he turned to her and pulled her face near his. "Kirsten, love, let's run away. Let's go to King's Ford, or even to Bromburg. Let's get away from this place, from this man." He shot a dark look at Heinrich, who stared back with calm dark eyes and whispered something to his lady.
Gustav had suggested they do that, and even offered her the small amount of gold he had saved up, as long as they took Leni with them, for she would be married within a year, he was certain. Leni and her mother had managed to get the blacksmith drunk and home before he made a scene and got himself in trouble with the count.
Gustav and Tomas were much alike. Like most men, they could not accept the world for what it was. Kirsten was a woman grown, now, she had to have the strength of a woman. She gripped her groom's hand more firmly. "Tomas, what would you do in Bromburg; what trade do you know besides farming? And where could you find land besides here? We've both of us got family here, and if we run away, we'll never see them again."
"But I just cannot bear the thought of you with him. You are MY wife now, and no man worth the name would let another--"
She put two fingers to his lips, then kissed them. "We can't do anything about that, Tomas, so try not to dwell on it. Just remember that you are the one I love, that I have always loved." She kissed him again, tenderly, then deeply. "That I always will love," she whispered.

"They seem to love each other, don't they?" Heinrich murmured to his wife.
The dark-haired, dark-skinned woman with the regal features glanced from the minstrel over to the newly-wedded couple. "Yes, they do." She noticed the cold eyes of Tomas over the rim of her goblet. "You'll watch that young man, if you are wise, love. He looks like one to try something foolish."
"No need to worry," he whispered back as he took her smaller hands in his calloused ones. "I've dealt with worse than a foolish boy."
Esmerelda grinned back and made to refill his goblet, but he stopped her pouring. "Not too much. It's a long night I have ahead of me."

It seemed like the festivities had only begun when Count Heinrich placed his hard hands on Kirsten's shoulders. She noticed the white scars that stood out even on his pale flesh, the marks of a man who lived with a sword in his hands. "Well, my dear, it seems most of our guests have departed." A drunken snore from some old peasant punctuated the lord's statement. "In one way or another." Bright teeth broke through his thick dark beard as he grinned, in friendliness it seemed to her. "Say goodnight to your husband, my dear," he added, firmly.
"Goodnight, Tomas." You won't do anything foolish? Tomas just grunted and swallowed another half-mug of ale, refusing to look at her.
Kirsten took Heinrich's proffered hand and let him lead her out of the great hall.
"Don't be overly concerned about the young man -- Tomas, isn't it?" Heinrich said as they ascended the narrow stairway. "Just let him get himself good and drunk and tomorrow he'll be as docile as a sheep." He stopped suddenly and pulled her up onto the stair he was standing on. "But if he is angry with you for some reason tomorrow -- and some men can be -- know that you may seek refuge here, until he is reasonable again." She could not meet his eyes, so she stared at the bright silver medallion on his chest, a giant cat of some kind, in mid-leap. When he saw she was not going to respond, Heinrich continued leading her up the winding stairs.
The door to his bedchamber was open and they walked in. The walls were covered in tapestries of forest scenes and fanciful creatures. A maid was just turning down the blankets on the great bed, which looked to be very, very soft. Kirsten followed Heinrich across the room. She gazed intently at a tapestry of the Ascension, which seemed to glitter in the flickering candlelight. Golden threads! That single wall hanging contained more gold than she had ever seen in her life. She suddenly tripped on something on the floor. Looking down for the first time, she saw that a tapestry even lay on the floor, instead of the rushes she was expecting. She jumped back, afraid to walk on something so beautiful. "One of the treasures I acquired on Crusade," Heinrich commented, noticing her expression. "Pretty isn't it?" He held out his hand again. "But not as nearly as lovely as you, Kirsten." Kirsten blushed and a small smile tugged at her lips. She took his hand again and followed him to his bed.
It was indeed as soft as it looked, but she sat only on its edge. He asked if she cared for more wine, and she shook her head. He dismissed the maid, but in a language Kirsten had never heard. She bowed and left, closing the door behind her.
"Now my dear, I know you do not relish my touch on this night, but believe me when I say that I mean you no harm, and only want to make this night as pleasurable as possible for both of us."
Kirsten refused to look at him.
"Tell, me Kirsten, are you a virgin?"
"Yes, my lord," Kirsten replied indignantly. Did he take her for some harlot?
"And do you believe your Tomas has never been with a woman?"
"Never. We have been betrothed since we were little. We have always known we were for each other and no one else..." She jerked her hand to her mouth, too late to stop the offending words.
Heinrich merely grinned indulgently. "My dear, a young woman's first man -- or a youth's first woman, for that matter -- should be someone experienced in the ways of love. It is a time that makes one much too nervous to give much pleasure to the other. To get the full pleasure of the experience, you must have a teacher as well as a partner."
"Yes, my lord." But it was obvious she was unconvinced.
"My dear Kirsten, I..." The door burst open and the maid interrupted him, babbling something incomprehensible. But Heinrich was on his feet and had pulled a sword from somewhere, placing himself between Kirsten and the open door.
Immediately, Tomas rushed into the room. The servant threw herself between him and her master. With a strength born of rage, Tomas threw her aside. Brandishing only a cudgel and his knife, he lunged at Heinrich, who had the scars of a man who lived with a sword in his hands.
"Tomas... NO!!" she screamed. But too late, he was down.
She ran to his limp form and cradled his head in her arms. She felt along his body for the wound, hoping against hope to save him.
"Don't worry, I hit him with the flat of the blade. He'll have a headache and a bump, but nothing more serious."
Kirsten didn't believe him at first, but there was no blood, no visible wound anywhere she could see.
The maid was already coming to. Heinrich went over to check on her; half her face would be an ugly bruise for a few days, but she seemed to be otherwise unhurt. Guards came running up the stairs and into the room, looking ashamed, and hungry to punish whoever had made them look so foolish. "Take this man to the dungeons," Heinrich commanded. "Tell my wife I am unhurt. You two help Rosa to her chambers, gently now." He turned to Kirsten and looked at her darkly. "Do not leave this room, I'll be back shortly."
He turned to go, but she grabbed his arm. "Please don't hurt him, anymore. You won't... do anything to him, will you, my lord?"
He pulled his arm away firmly. "I haven't decided yet." He left her alone.
She threw herself on to the bed and screamed into a pillow. Tomas, you idiot, if you've gone and gotten yourself killed, I'll strangle you. The logic of her thought struck her and she began to laugh, quietly but hysterically. A widow on her wedding night. She would be laying him in the ground before she ever took him into her bed. Gradually, the laughter turned to sobs, then gentle tears. Oh Tomas, Tomas. Don't leave me.
It seemed like days before Heinrich came back to the bedroom, but she saw the candles had only half melted. "Is Tomas alright?"
He looked down on her. He pulled a cloth from his tunic and gave it to her. "Dry your eyes, Kirsten, he is well. Whether he remains so depends upon you."
He's still alive, thank God, still alive. Depends on me? "H-how, my lord?"
"Your young husband has committed a serious crime, Kirsten. Attempting to murder his lord, in his own bedchamber."
"But -- but he was only trying to protect me."
"Protect you? From what? I certainly had no intention of hurting you, and this is the safest place for you to be short of the castle of the Emperor himself." He sat on the bed beside her. "Be that as it may, I am willing to put the blame on too much drink and the excitement of the day. But only if you give yourself to me, willingly, and do whatever I tell you without hesitation."
"My lord?" This is what she was expected to do in any case.
"Oh, of course I will do nothing to harm you, and I promise you that I will try to make the experience as pleasurable as possible. Do you agree?"
Tomas will not be hurt? I will not be hurt? "I agree, my lord."
"Excellent, excellent. Well, I know it has been a hectic night for you. I'll leave you do get some sleep. We will talk again in the morning."
"Tomorrow, my lord? But aren't you going to... Aren't you going to... take me... tonight?"
"No, no. We have a two whole weeks to take care of things like that."
"Two weeks, my lord? But I thought... You said that...."
The count smacked himself in the head. "Ah, where is my head! I must be more tired than I thought. Of course I can forgive your young man for assaulting me, but he also struck two of my servants and a guard. The guard is expected to take blows for his lord, but I owe my servants protection, so he must be punished for that. Two weeks of confinement. Any other man would get a month turning the millstone for each assault.
"Just be thankful I am a forgiving man, Kirsten. The penalty for assaulting one's lord is death." He closed the door, and locked it from the outside.
Kirsten tried to stay awake and worry about her fate and Tomas's, but the excitement of the day, and especially of the night, had exhausted her. She fell asleep on the softest bed she had ever felt and dreamed of nothing.

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Path: ultrasparc-2.g-net.net!cpk-news-feed1.bbnplanet.com!news.bbnplanet.com!cpk-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!newsfeed.internetmci.com!howland.erols.net!EU.net!usenet2.news.uk.psi.net!uknet!usenet1.news.uk.psi.net!uknet!dispatch.news.demon.net!demon!mail2news.demon.co.uk!not-for-mail From: Tommy@f26.n340.z1.fidonet.org Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories Subject: Droit du Signeur 2/7 (mf, coerce) Date: Thu, 07 Nov 96 03:01:10 -0800 Lines: 395 Message-ID: <637902352@f26.n340.z1.ftn> X-Mail2News-User: Tommy%f26.n340.z1.fidonet.org@f26.n340.z1.fidonet.org X-Mail2News-Path: mail.spydernet.com!network);!hades.spydernet.com!arakis.spydernet.com!f13.n340.z1.fidonet.org!f26.n340.z1.fidonet.org X-FTN-Sender: "Tommy@f26.n340.z1.fidonet.org" <Tommy%f26.n340.z1.fidonet.org@f26.n340.z1.fidonet.org>

The THC Adult Text Archive: DDSIG2.TXT (379 lines) Please do not allow anyone under 18 to read the contents of this message. Note: I did not write any of these stories. They are being posted from the archive as a public service only - any copyrights belong to the authors. See the footer for important information.

Part Two

Kirsten awoke to Tomas's soft kisses on her lips. But how had his scraggly beard grown so thick? Her eyes popped open in surprise and remembrance. Count Heinrich and her wedding night. Tomas facing Heinrich's sword. Tomas in the dungeons!
"Good morning, lovely Kirsten," Heinrich grinned. "Are you ready for breakfast?" He held forth a tray overladen with food while she sat up in bed. There were eggs and ham, a bowl of porridge smothered in honey, chilled milk and watered wine, and half a loaf of bread and soft cheese and creamy butter. Some winters, she had less to eat in a whole day. Such a large meal before any work had been done -- it was positively, delightfully sinful.
She began to pick at the meal, but the previous night had tired her more than she thought. Soon she was eating as though it were the first meal after Lent. Heinrich nibbled on some of the bread and cheese, and watched her eat. She realized how she must look, stuffing herself as though she hadn't eaten in days. She grinned in embarassment, her cheeks stuffed with bread and ham. "Please, eat, Kirsten," Heinrich told her. "After all, it's well past noon."
"Mmph. Noon?"
"Well, you did have a long and eventful night."
She chose not to comment on the previous night. She went back to eating. She had no idea why she should be so hungry, but she could not deny her appetite. Heinrich sat on his bed (she briefly wondered where he and the Countess Esmerelda had spent the night) and watched her in silence. "After you've finished eating, I'll send someone up to help you bathe and dress. You look of a size with Esmerelda; you can wear some of her older clothing."
"Please my lord, this is all so much, too much."
"Nonsense, Kirsten. You are a guest in my home. I'll wager besides your wedding gown, you only have one other garment not covered in patches or stains. Esmerelda refuses to wear something once it has gone out of fashion. In fact, next year or the year after, we have to go to Florence to see what everyone is wearing these days." He let out such a put-upon sigh that Kirsten couldn't help giggling, at which Heinrich broke into a wide grin. "Much better. I'll see you in a couple of hours." He went to kiss her again, but she turned her head. He settled for a peck on her cheek and left.
A few minutes later, a head with raven hair, black eyes and full lips poked through the door. Seeing that she was awake, the head was followed into the room by a thin, graceful body in a plain black dress. "Senorita? I Beatriz. Bath time, yes?" Her accent was very thick, but pleasant, almost as musical as her native language. When Heinrich had taken over the castle from his father, he had brought almost the entire household with him. No one in the village knew for certain where they were from, but Heinrich had been on the Crusade when old Heinrich had died. Kirsten supposed they were converted Saracens.
"I'm coming." She climbed out from beneath the heavy covers and glanced down at her gown, to see how wrinkled it had gotten. But she wasn't wearing it. Her wedding gown had been taken off at some point, but she had not noticed until now. She was not even wearing her own shift of wool, but one of fine linen. She ran her hands down her body, feeling the soft material. "Beatriz, how did I get into this?"
"Wedding dress not for sleep. I get that for you. You like? Senor say it yours if you want."
Kirsten started to protest that it was too fine for her, but then realized the futility of it all. "Thank you, Beatriz."
"De nada. Welcome." She made a brisk beckoning motion with a thin strong hand. "Follow, please."
Their destination was a small room downstairs just off the kitchen. "Clothes off, please. In tub." The tub was much bigger than the one she and her family used. Both her brothers would fit comfortably in it, and they were unusually large. It was made of bronze and had inlays of silver and gold. The decorations reminded her of the rug in Heinrich's bedroom. Complex designs, weaving in and out of each other in wonderfully strange and beautiful patterns. It was impossible to follow a thread of the design without getting lost in the pattern. It was meant to be appreciated as a whole.
She was more than a little embarrassed because this woman was a virtual stranger, but she refused to let it show as she let the shift fall to the floor. She saw that a block of stone was meant to be stood upon. Inside the tub was a molded step, obviously with the same function. The water was pleasantly warm, and reached to her waist when she sat down. Beatriz tapped on another door opposite the entrance and immediately two large women walked in with large buckets of steaming water. Slowly they filled the tub to her breasts. The water was much hotter than what had already been in the tub, but she quickly grew acclimated. As she sank further into the water, Beatriz poured some scented oils into the tub, followed by a powder that made wonderful bubbles when stirred. Kirsten felt like a princess.
She scrubbed herself clean with scented soap and a soft cloth, then allowed Beatriz to clean her back. She soaped her hair thoroughly, and Beatriz told her to stand. She took a bucket of warm water and poured it over Kirsten, rinsing off the soap. Then she rolled up her sleeve to the shoulder, reached into the water and pulled a cork plug out of the bottom of the tub. The water ran out of the tub into a shallow trench in the floor, to be carried out a small hole in the wall, which had been closed by another plug. Beatriz patted her dry with a towel of some kind of cloth as soft as a cloud. When Kirsten asked what kind of cloth it was, Beatriz told her it was "cotton, from Egypt." Egypt of all places. What a wonderful place Egypt must be, even if it was crawling with heathens, that they had such cloth!
Beatriz sat her on a stool to dry her hair and disappeared into the other room, only to return an instant later with another towel and... a knife!
Kirsten threw her towel at Beatriz and dashed for the door, but Beatriz had blocked her, holding out her hands, saying, "No, please. No, please." She didn't move toward Kirsten, so she forced herself to calm down. Beatriz had draped the towel over the rim of the tub and was displaying the knife in a decidedly non-threatening manner. "See? No knife, is razor. To shave, yes? Watch." She gently took Kirsten's arm and scraped at the fine hairs, then held the limb up for inspection. Kirsten caressed the bare spot and found it to be smooth, smoother even than her father's chin after he shaved ("Better to get a burn on the chin than have a beard go up in flames," he would say when asked why he went to the trouble of keeping his face bare.) And Gustav made the finest knives for miles around.
"No, it's no knife. So why do you need it?"
"Senor say. He say you to shave like Senora Esmerelda."
Puzzled, but not wanting to upset Count Heinrich while Tomas was in his power, Kirsten nodded. Beatriz exhaled in relief and picked up the towel. "Arm up, please." Kirsten raised her arms and Beatriz placed the hot towel against the fine layer of hair under her left arm. "Hold there, please." Kirsten held the towel, while Beatriz left. No sooner had the door shut than she had returned with an earthenware mug. She was vigorously stirring something inside it. She knelt beside Kirsten and applied some kind of lather to the hair under her arm with a stiff brush, then, with feather strokes of the razor, she removed every hair. When one side was bare, they began the process on the other side. Beatriz ran the razor over her own arm again and gave a satisfied grunt. "Good steel," she said to Kirsten, as though explaining something. "From Toledo." When her underarms were completely bare, Beatriz began on her legs. The razor was indeed good; she was only nicked once, on the rough part of her knee, but the wound was tiny, and the blood soon stopped.
When she was smooth all over, Beatriz placed the still warm towel against her privates. Shocked, Kirsten pushed Beatriz away. "What are you DOING?!?" she screamed.
"Like Senora Esmerelda! Como la senora!" Beatriz pleaded from the floor, where she had fallen in surprise.
Heinrich burst into the room, a knife -- a real one -- in his hand. Kirsten screamed even louder. "What is happening in here?" he demanded, sheathing the knife and brushing his beard. Kirsten noticed he had cheese crumbs in his beard and remembered that the kitchens were next door. The embarrassment she felt for that second scream served to calm her enough to try to explain.
Kirsten tried to cover herself with the towel as she pointed a stiff arm at Beatriz. "She tried to... She said that..." At the same time, Beatriz kept saying, "Like la senora! You say like la senora!" and pointing at Kirsten's midriff.
"I see, I see," Heinrich said, holding up both hands for silence. When both women were quiet, the count turned to Kirsten. "Do you remember our agreement, Kirsten? In exchange for your husband's life and freedom, you will do whatever I ask."
"Yes, but..."
"It is a custom among some Moors," Heinrich continued over Kirsten's protests. "It is I style I grew fond of during my courtship of Esmerelda. The hair will grow back, if you desire. Is it really so much to ask?"
"No, my lord, I suppose it is not."
"Good. Please continue, Beatriz."
Kirsten was going to complain about Heinrich remaining in the room, but thought better of it. She would only have to give in in the end. She would rather say nothing than lose an argument.
Beatriz went and got another hot towel, which she used to massage Kirsten's sex. She had to admit the heat felt good. She squirmed on the stool, as her pussy moistened, from the excitement and from the towel. She glanced over at Heinrich, relaxing in a chair, watching her through hooded eyes, and the tingling sensations increased. He was handsome, certainly, but she wondered if she would feel so excited if he were not there.
Slowly, ever so slowly, Beatriz brushed the lather into Kirsten's pubic hair, completely covering the area. Once, the stiff hairs of the brush gently rubbed her clitoris and Kirsten practically leapt off the stool. She had to restrain herself from reaching down and rubbing it herself. She refused to openly acknowledge any pleasure while in the presence of the man who held her husband hostage.
With soft, short strokes of the razor, Beatriz slowly removed the fine hairs that made up her thin bush. She spread Kirsten's legs and carefully shaved the area surrounding her labia. Kirsten was momentarily embarrassed by the moisture her slit had produced, but rationalized that Beatriz probably had not noticed because of the damp towel.
She was wrong. Beatriz grinned slyly up at her. Under the pretense of stretching the flesh to make a tight surface, Beatriz began to lightly rub Kirsten's clitoris. Kirsten bit her upper lip, trying to ignore the feelings the kneeling woman was producing inside her. She simply could not contain them. Between the cooling of the lather on her thighs, the intent gaze of Count Heinrich, tingling scrape of steel, and -- above all -- the dancing fingers of Beatriz, Kirsten had to give in to her body or explode. The flutter in the pit of her stomach expanded until her belly visibly trembled. Her breath came in gasps until she could inhale no more. She let out her breath in a long, shuddering exhalation and slumped against the cool stone at her back.
She opened her eyes when she felt hands between her thighs again. She grasped the hand, it belonged to Beatriz, and said, "Please, no more. I'm too sensitive down there."
Beatriz smiled and said, "Finished anyway." Then she did the strangest thing. She took Kirsten's hand and lightly kissed the inside of her wrist. She stood and, with a shallow curtsy to Heinrich, left.
"Lovely, simply lovely," Heinrich mused, staring at Kirsten's now-hairless pussy. Abashedly, she closed her legs and blushed, and tried to cover her breasts with her crossed arms. The count stood and handed her shift to her. "Come, Kirsten. It's time for your lessons to finally begin."
Kirsten allowed herself to be led back to Heinrich's chambers. He told the guard at the foot of the stairs that the only person who would be allowed to interrupt him for the next few hours (Hours!) would be Beatriz or the Countess, and only for matters of the utmost importance. The guard leered at Kirsten, but was careful to do so only after the count's back was turned. She cast her eyes downward and followed Heinrich up the stairs.
The bed had been made and refreshments had been placed on a table by the bed. Heinrich motioned her to the bed and took off his belt and knife, putting them on the floor near his sword, which was propped against one side of the bed. He poured two goblets of watered wine and offered her one, which she accepted.
They sat on the edge of the bed in silence for a few moments, sipping their wine. It was sweet, but not too much so. Given what was going to happen in a few moments, Kirsten wished that it were stronger wine, or even mead. She tried to relax. Her mother had told her it would only hurt more if she was tense. But she could not. Her first man was going to be this brutal man who slept with a sword by his bed and went armed even in his own home. She wished she had let Tomas pressure her into sleeping with him before the wedding. She had just never truly believed that this would be happening. She kept thinking that the count would not really deflower her, or that maybe she could talk him out of it.
But Tomas was in the dungeon, and his life was dependent upon this man's mood. And his mood was dependent upon her.
"My lord? Are we going to... make love, now?"
"Eager now, aren't we?" She tried to appear so, but he saw through the pretense. "I am not a boy any longer, Kirsten, eager to get inside a woman as soon as I have her in my arms. I know you feel no passion for me. You want to get this over with, but you want to put it off, yes?"
"No, my lord. I mean, yes. That is..." she tapered off.
"It is the moment before something momentous happens," he continued, "that our emotions are strongest, don't you believe?" He drained the goblet and put it down. "I enjoy letting myself anticipate."
He took her goblet from her and set it aside, then pulled her shift down, baring her shoulders. "But now the anticipation is finished. Desires brought to their peak must be satisfied."
He held her face in his hands and kissed her lips, gently at first, then insistently, breaching her lips with his tongue. She responded because she knew the better the experience was for Heinrich, the better for Tomas. Think of Tomas alone in that dark cell, she told herself as the count's hands wandered down to her breasts. He massaged them through the fabric of her shift, rubbing the nipples with his thumbs.
Think of Tomas, she told herself again. Ignore the hardening nipples. Stop breathing so heavily. Stop that; get your tongue out of his mouth.
Her pussy began to tingle and itch, and she squirmed on the bed, trying to relieve it, but her motions only served to increase her own passion, and Heinrich's. Perhaps that was what she wanted. She would never know for sure. All she knew was that her body was no longer in her control. It had needs that would be fulfilled despite her own will.
Now his hands were pulling her shift down further. And to her amazement, she was helping him. She told herself that she was helping only for Tomas' sake, but she knew, deep in her soul, that she wanted to feel his sword-calloused hands on her naked breasts. She wanted his mouth on them, devouring them, devouring her.
When the garment was down to her waist, Heinrich cupped her breasts in his hands. "You are beautiful, Kirsten, do you know that? Beautiful. The most beautiful woman in the whole Empire." He kissed her breasts. "If you had been with me in Cordoba, the poets would have composed an epic around your beauty. More beautiful than Helen, they would say." She wasn't sure what he was talking about, but she liked it. And she liked what he was doing -- very much.
He gently pushed her back onto the bed. He kissed and sucked on her breasts. He nibbled on her nipples, alternating between them. He went back to her face and kissed all over it. He sucked on the hollow of her throat and where her neck and chest met. He was everywhere at once, it seemed to her. Teasing awake the areas of pleasure of her body, then moving on to another before it was satisfied. He went back to her breasts, wet with his saliva. He nipped the skin all over with his teeth, raising goosebumps and making her nipples impossibly hard. He kissewd and licked his way down her stomach. He gently licked her belly button and moved down further. He took her shift and began pulling it down her hips. "Had you been held in Granada, the knights of all Christendom would have taken Spain to rescue you." Slowly he pulled the shift off her hips and down her thighs. Now she was completely naked before his gaze, even more than when Beatriz had shaved her, for he could see her naked emotions play across her face.
He kissed his way down her thighs, her calves. He tickled the backs of her knees and massaged her feet. He nibbled on her toes, and kissed his way back up her legs. He was almost worshipping her body, she thought. He kissed his way back up her thighs, on the outside and inside. She knew what he was doing, and she wanted it. God herlp her, she wanted it; she wanted him. She opened her legs to him, inviting him to kiss her bare virgin sex. She played with her breasts with one hand and tangled her fingers in his hair and pulled him up with the other. There was nothing between him and his goal -- no clothing, no hair, no resistance.
His lips finally touched her and she pulled his face tighter against her in her convulsion. His pleasantly bristly beard against her shaved flesh increased the pleasure radiating from her pussy, as his mobile lips and tongue sought out her most sensitive points.
"My lord, this is, this is wonderful." He only grunted his response, not wanting to miss a single drop of her by speaking. "Kiss me, lick me." She ground her crotch against his face. He nibbled on her lips. He sucked and fingered her clitoris. He thrust his tongue inside her to get all her sweet juice. Always he went back to his clitoris with mouth and fingers, keeping her on the edge of climax, but always holding her back. She pulled on his head with both hands, trying to get him to bring her over. He fought her, taking his time. She reached down to masturbate herself, but he caught her hands. Holding her wrists with his one strong hand, he wrapped his lips around her engorged clitoris. He sucked until the bud protruded as far as it could, then took it softly between his teeth. When he had a firm hold on it, he flicked it with the tip of his tongue, rapidly.
"Yes, mmh, ahh, yesss. OH, AH, AH, OOO, AAAAAHHhhhhhhh." A single long shudder and her body went limp, her climax seemingly draining all the energy from her.
Heinrich licked up the remaining juice, where it had poured from her as her climax had approached, where his soaked beard had spread it along her thighs. He crawled up her body, supporting himself on his hands and knees. Her eyes were closed and a satisfied smile curled her lips. He kissed them and she responded by opening her mouth to him. Her eyes opened wide in surprise when she tasted herself on his lips and in his beard.
Heinrich's hands roamed over her body again, keeping her aroused. In response, her hands darted along his body to his groin. Her hands fumbled at his crotch, trying to unbelt and untie his trousers. She wanted him inside her. She felt like she had never felt before: empty inside, needing a man to fill her. The twitchings she felt when kissing Tomas were nothing compared to the raging fire inside her now. Heinrich was helping her now, and soon his manhood was free. She grasped his cock in her hand, marvelling at the heat it generated. She explored it with her hands, feeling the hardness of the flesh and the softness of the skin, the pulsing ridges and the warm furry balls hanging from its base. It felt huge; she was not sure she could take it all, but she needed something inside her now.
"Do it, my lord. I need it. Please. Please."
She guided him to her entrance. Heinrich moved forward, easing the head between her sobbing pussy lips. He moved forward slowly, exploring her, searching for her hymen. The head of his cock nudged against it, and he stopped. "Brace yourself, Kirsten. This will likely hurt, but the pain will quickly pass."
He took a deep breath and counted three, then plunged forward.
"AAIIIEEEE!!" Kirsten screamed as her maidenhead was ripped apart, not entirely because of the pain. She was finally full. She wrapped her arms and legs around the count, pulling as much of him against and inside her as she could. She panted in his ear, from the pain and emotion, "Wait, wait. Let me get used to it."
"Lovely Kirsten, I hope you never get used to it." But he held himself as still as he could for a few moments.
When Kirsten released her grip on him somewhat, he began to move back and forth, easing his cock out, then sliding it back in, smoothly and slowly. Each motion drove some of the pain away, until she felt nothing but pleasure. Soon, Kirsten was again using her arms and legs to pull him back inside her. He kissed her full young breasts as he thrust into her, and lifted her buttocks with his hands so he could penetrate her even more deeply.
Kirsten clawed at his tunic with her strong hands, and bit at his bearded cheeks. She kicked his buttocks with her feet, urging him to fuck her faster, and he complied, riding her to one orgasm on top of another, pushing her to a new peak before she could come down from the previous one.
Soon, sooner than either of them wanted, he erupted within her. He pounded her on the last few strokes as he emptied himself deep within her, grunting and moaning her name over and over, punctuated by her cries of ecstasy and whimpers of "my lord," whether to him or to God he didn't know or care.
He remained hard inside her pussy, and as he began to breathe normally, he began thrusting again, languorously, enjoying the sensation of her walls squeezing his cock. Kirsten herself was exhausted. She fell asleep with him inside her, and wasn't aware when he came again, though her body shuddered involuntarily in tiny ecstasy.

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Path: ultrasparc-2.g-net.net!cpk-news-feed1.bbnplanet.com!news.bbnplanet.com!cam-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!howland.erols.net!EU.net!usenet2.news.uk.psi.net!uknet!usenet1.news.uk.psi.net!uknet!dispatch.news.demon.net!demon!mail2news.demon.co.uk!not-for-mail From: Tommy@f26.n340.z1.fidonet.org Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories Subject: Droit du Signeur 3/7 (mf, coerce) Date: Thu, 07 Nov 96 03:01:12 -0800 Lines: 225 Message-ID: <2288848783@f26.n340.z1.ftn> X-Mail2News-User: Tommy%f26.n340.z1.fidonet.org@f26.n340.z1.fidonet.org X-Mail2News-Path: mail.spydernet.com!network);!hades.spydernet.com!arakis.spydernet.com!f13.n340.z1.fidonet.org!f26.n340.z1.fidonet.org X-FTN-Sender: "Tommy@f26.n340.z1.fidonet.org" <Tommy%f26.n340.z1.fidonet.org@f26.n340.z1.fidonet.org>

The THC Adult Text Archive: DDSIG3.TXT (209 lines) Please do not allow anyone under 18 to read the contents of this message. Note: I did not write any of these stories. They are being posted from the archive as a public service only - any copyrights belong to the authors. See the footer for important information.

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...

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Path: ultrasparc-2.g-net.net!cpk-news-feed1.bbnplanet.com!news.bbnplanet.com!cam-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!howland.erols.net!EU.net!usenet2.news.uk.psi.net!uknet!usenet1.news.uk.psi.net!uknet!dispatch.news.demon.net!demon!mail2news.demon.co.uk!not-for-mail From: Tommy@f26.n340.z1.fidonet.org Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories Subject: Droit du Signeur 4/7 (mf, coerce) Date: Thu, 07 Nov 96 03:01:14 -0800 Lines: 294 Message-ID: <1972697080@f26.n340.z1.ftn> X-Mail2News-User: Tommy%f26.n340.z1.fidonet.org@f26.n340.z1.fidonet.org X-Mail2News-Path: mail.spydernet.com!network);!hades.spydernet.com!arakis.spydernet.com!f13.n340.z1.fidonet.org!f26.n340.z1.fidonet.org X-FTN-Sender: "Tommy@f26.n340.z1.fidonet.org" <Tommy%f26.n340.z1.fidonet.org@f26.n340.z1.fidonet.org>

The THC Adult Text Archive: DDSIG4.TXT (278 lines) Please do not allow anyone under 18 to read the contents of this message. Note: I did not write any of these stories. They are being posted from the archive as a public service only - any copyrights belong to the authors. See the footer for important information.

Part Four

Kirsten gently placed the silver tray, heavy with their breakfast, on the table beside Heinrich as he lay sleeping. His deep breathing was hypnotic, and she stood for a moment listening to it and looking at his face. In sleep, his face looked very different than it did when he was awake. It was certainly as handsome, but in a different way. She peered closely and all at once recognized what the difference was. He was relaxed now. Even at the wedding feast, she now recalled, he was somewhat tense. His thick beard hid it, but he wore a perpetual frown. It was slight, so slight, she would never have noticed it had she not seen him like this, drained of all cares.
She reached down and brushed his hair back from his forehead. She noticed the scar, just at his hairline. It was an old scar to judge by the whiteness of it, but it must have been a very bad wound. As near as she could tell without waking him, it went around the entire right side of his head. What could have caused a wound like that? she wondered.
On impulse, she pulled the blanket off his chest, watching his face for any sign that she was disturbing him. She looked down at his bare chest and gasped in horror. Heinrich woke, reaching for his sword. He saw her beside the bed and pulled the blanket back up to cover his chest. Only an instant passed, but it was enough for Kirsten to see something she would carry to her grave.
His chest had been covered, literally covered, with scars. There were two or three puckered circles where arrows had penetrated flesh. There were white slashes crisscrossing his chest where blades had cut him, some deeply. But they were not the worst.
As the adopted daughter of a blacksmith, Kirsten knew what red-hot metal could do to human flesh. Her father's arms had a couple of scars where he had been careless around the forge. But those scars were nothing compared to the ones Heinrich bore. They were ugly and still pink. They were too bad and were too patterned to have been accidental. They seemed to cover his entire chest. Someone had done this on purpose. Someone had mercilessly tortured her lord and her lover.
She did not like to think of the extortion that had brought her to Heinrich's bed, but she had at least enjoyed herself once she was there. But for someone to torture any man in that way was inhuman.
Gently, but insistently, Kirsten pulled the covers completely off of Heinrich. He did not resist. There were several swordcuts on his arms, and another arrow wound on his right thigh that didn't look too bad. But his thighs and calves were covered in more burn scars. There were even places where it looked as though the skin had been torn away in strips and grown back.
Tears began to form in her eyes. The world was harsh, she had long known, but she had never imagined it could be so cruel as well. She looked back at that handsome face. The subtle look of worry was back, and there was also a look of shame. She knew that she was the cause of that shame, because she had seen what he thought of as a weakness. He had once had a strong and beautiful body, she could tell. It may be strong until the day he dies, she thought, but it can never again be considered beautiful. War and another's cruelty had taken care of that.
She knew she shouldn't, but she could not help herself. "My lord," she asked, "who would do a thing such as this?"
His jaw firmed even more and his eyes changed, becoming murderously hot for just a moment before they were veiled in cool dispassion. "A dead man," he said simply.
She knew that was all the answer she would get for now, so she pulled the blanket back over the old painful wounds.

They ate a hearty breakfast that Kirsten would have considered divine were it not for the silence that hung between them.
When they had finished, she set the tray outside the door, and Heinrich got out of bed and went behind a curtain to use the chamber pot. Kirsten saw that the backs of his legs and his buttocks were scarred the same way his chest was, but his back only had the ordinary war wounds (would she have considered them ordinary half an hour ago?) of an experienced warrior. A single arrow wound and two blade scores.
But there were also four parallel scars making a diagonal band from right shoulder to left hip. They had healed badly and were still raised from the skin. The two outside scars were more than two handwidths apart, and the symmetry of them was somehow beautiful, despite the violence of their nature.
Heinrich returned and placed the chamberpot outside the door with the leavings from their breakfast. He then went to the washbasin, filled it, and began washing himself with a dampened cloth.
Staring at the relatively unscarred back, she began to imagine what his body had looked like before he went off to war. Muscles rippled smoothly under his skin as he washed himself. She enjoyed watching the strength that was in them, held at bay, but eager to be unleashed. She remembered feeling those muscles ripple against her flesh the night before. She wanted to feel them again.
It was a realization that had come in the night and had been strengthened by the scars' testimony of Heinrich's humanity. Desires she had kept dormant had blossomed yesterday. She remembered awakening during the night, finding Heinrich watching her, just sitting crosslegged in bed, watching her sleep. The memory still produced a warmth in her. They had made love slowly, because she was still sore. But it had lasted hours. Made love and paused, kissed and caressed, made love again, changed positions, building slowly, almost reluctantly, to a final climax. This man before her had awakened that need for a masculine touch, and right now only this man could fill it.
She also felt another need, now, a need to comfort him, to ease the pain she knew she had caused by bringing up the memories of whatever it was he had gone through. "My lord?" She saw his shoulders tense. He's been waiting for me to ask about the scars again. "My lord, could we make love again?"
He turned to see her pulling the shift from her body. She noticed that his groin was completely unblemished, and that his member was hardening, even though some pain could still be seen around his eyes.
He walked up to her and lifted her chin. "Whatever you wish, lovely Kirsten."
She guided him to the bed and began to kiss him and caress his body, so that he could see she wanted all of him, even his wounds. She kissed the scar on his forehead. She kissed his nose, which she had just noticed had been broken. She kissed his throat and his quivering Adam's apple. She kissed his chest, on each scar -- the war wounds, not the burns, for she wanted him to know that she thought of him as a proud if bloodied hero, not as a powerless victim.
When she reached his unblemished groin she could go no farther, so she lingered. Last night, he had pleased her with his mouth, so this morning she would return the favor. She nuzzled his penis, inhaling the clean scent of him. Her tongue darted from between her lips to tease it. It jerked at her touch, becoming more rigid. Clear fluid leaked from the head, and she licked up a drop. It tasted salty and strange, but not unpleasant. She kissed the head and down the underside. She licked the hollow of his sack where it joined his cock. She took each testicle in her mouth and lightly sucked it. She wasn't sure what she was doing. She was only exploring, testing his reactions to see what pleased him most. She took the crown in her mouth and sucked on, drawing more fluid from it. She brought up a hand and stroked the shaft. The heat of it amazed her.
She played her tongue around the head as she sucked on it, and Heinrich seemed to react to that. He grasped her head and tried to push her down farther on his shaft. She complied, and took more of his cock into her mouth. She began to bob her head in counter-time to the stroking of her hand. With her other hand, she caressed his balls. Deeper and deeper she took him. In no time at all, without ever noticing, her lips were touching his pubic hair. She surprised herself, so much so that she began to gag. Quickly, she pulled back, letting him out of her mouth.
Still stroking him, she kissed his lips again, forcing them apart with her tongue. Without breaking contact with him, she swung a leg over him, straddling his crotch. She placed his cock at her entrance, and he thrust himself upward, burying his cock to the hilt inside her wet pussy. She used her own hips to force him back down, then began to raise and lower her hips. Slowly, she rose and fell on him, moving so that each stroke of her constricting walls caressed the most sensitive parts of both their sexes.
Only her buttocks moved on him, as they held each other tightly. Heinrich stroked her sides and her breasts, but let her control the tempo of their lovemaking. She held him fiercely around his neck as she kissed him passionately, fervently. She made to pull him up, and he followed her, until he was half sitting and she was rocking back and forth on his lap. He took one of her pointed nipples between his lips and the other between his fingertips. She kissed the top of his head as he began to nurse on his breasts.
Soon, Kirsten could feel the climax building within her. Her movements grew more rapid, more ragged. Her vision blurred as her eyes lost focus. She began to moan in earnest as she neared her peak. Heinrich began to thrust against her, as deeply as his position would allow him. "Ah yes. Yes, my darling, my love," she gasped as the pressure inside her mounted. "Yes, ah, yes. Yes, yes. Ahhh." Her eyes rolled back in her head as she fell backward, off of Heinrich's cock. He got on top of her and began to thrust himself inside her, desperate to come as well, now. His mouth and tongue were all over her breasts now, and his hands explored every inch of her. He came inside her, so powerfully she could feel it.
He was not through with her, though. His touches and kisses continued, not as demanding, but just as persistent. He nibbled on her breasts at the same time that he tickled her ribs. She giggled, and said, "Do what you will with me, my lord."
"Open your eyes Kirsten."
She did, and was greeted by the sight of Heinrich sitting on the edge of the bed, and his wife, the Countess Esmerelda, nibbling on her nipple and fingering her slit. The woman was as naked as Kirsten herself.
Heinrich placed a hand over her mouth before she could protest. "Remember," he murmured. "Anything I want. I want this." He removed his hand, and it was replaced by his wife's mouth. Her lips were soft, and her tongue, strong. It forced itself between her lips and explored her mouth. Heinrich was back, tonguing her clitoris and fondling her breast. A hard, calloused hand on one breast and a soft, delicate hand on the other. Eager lips and tongue on her pussy, patient ones on her mouth. And naked flesh everywhere on her. The sensations overwhelmed Kirsten, and she responded to them.
Her tongue sought Esmerelda's, met it, danced and dueled with it. It breached the countess' lips and explored her mouth. Her hands went to the lady's breasts of their own accord. She grasped them and enjoyed the warm sigh that washed over her face.
Heinrich left her pussy; Esmerelda left her mouth. Heinrich knelt over her, his cock looming above her face. She took him into her mouth as Esmerelda buried her face between her thighs. It felt odd to have a smooth face nestled against her smooth skin, instead of Heinrich's luxuriant beard. Her lips and tongue felt different too. It was a softer touch than her husband's, more sure about the most sensitive places. She fluttered from place to place on her flesh, her touch as light as a butterfly or as strong as an eagle from moment to moment.
Heinrich thrust shallowly in her mouth, to remind her that he was there. She sucked on him, savoring the flavor of his flesh and her own juices. She had completely swallowed him before, without realizing it. She now was determined to do it on purpose. She placed her hands on his buttocks and pulled him closer to her. The head of his cock bumped against the back of her mouth. She felt like she wanted to throw up, but she knew she could do it. She experimented with the muscles at the top of her throat, and her throat suddenly opened, allowing him in.
Esmerelda was sucking and slurping on her. Her tongue thrust inside her just like Heinrich's cock. She nibbled on Kirsten's clitoris, and Kirsten nibbled on Heinrich's shaft. Kirsten hunched against Esmerelda's face, and Heinrich pushed deeper into her throat. She came, her legs spasming around Esmerelda. Heinrich came, and she pulled back, not to escape the flood, but so it would land on her tongue and she could taste it. It was hot, and thick as honey, but pleasantly salty. She swallowed eagerly. Even as Heinrich shrank within her mouth, she sucked on him, trying to get the dregs of his ejaculate.
Heinrich sat heavily on the bed. Kirsten sat up and leaned against his chest. Esmerelda sat across from them, her back against the headboard. The lower half of her face glistened with Kirsten's juices. Her face reminded Kirsten of a cat, but not as soft. A hungry cat. Her body was lean, her breasts, small with dark hard nipples. Her waist was trim and her hips were narrow, gradually forming strong but thin thighs. She was opposite in almost every way from Kirsten. Kirsten was much rounder in breasts and hips. Her blonde hair was fine and straight instead of thick and wavy.
They were physically alike in only one respect, Kirsten noticed as her gaze travelled down the countess' body. She was shaved just as bare as Kirsten was. As she stared at the area where a dark triangle should be, she felt a new hunger. "I want to do you, now," she said, lust in her eyes.
Esmerelda opened her arms and thighs to her. Kirsten wanted to waste no time; she wanted to taste this dark lady. She crawled between her thighs, never taking her eyes off the moist opening before her. She smelled the musky scent of arousal. She stuck out her tongue and daintily tasted it. Nectar, ambrosia. When the minstrel had used those words on her wedding night, she had not known what they meant. Now she did. She burrowed into the soft flesh, doing all the things with her mouth that Esmerelda had done to her. She traced the lips with her tongue, she rubbed the exposed pleasure bud with her thumb. She pushed her fingers inside and sucked up the fluid that poured out.
She felt Heinrich's hands on her upraised buttocks. He spread her thighs apart and walked up behind her on his knees. She felt him spread her pussy open and place the head of his cock against it. She forced her hips back against him, engulfing him. She concentrated on the weeping pussy against her face, letting Heinrich do what he wanted. Every thrust drove her more firmly against Esmerelda. She savored Esmerelda. She rubbed her face against her pussy, trying to get as much of the smell of her as possible.
Heinrich drove harder and faster into her. He pulled her hips against him, and she had to wrap her arms around the countess' waist to keep in contact with her pussy. Heinrich's thrusts came faster and faster. The lips of Esmerelda's pussy quivered against her face. Heinrich erupted inside her pussy and the same time that Esmerelda flooded her mouth.
They all collapsed in a pile on the bed, exhausted. Slowly they rolled apart and simply lay there. Kirsten sat up between the nobles, and looked down at their relaxing forms. She found herself drawn to those horrific scars again.
"My lord?"
He opened one eye to look at her. "Hmmm?"
"Have I pleased you?"
"Yes, of course you have. Both of us."
She traced a finger along one of the long burn scars. She inhaled deeply. "Then would you tell me how this happened?"
He looked over at his wife. Kirsten followed his gaze. Esmerelda did nothing for several long moments. Then she nodded her head, without opening her eyes. "Go ahead."

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The THC Adult Text Archive: DDSIG5.TXT (429 lines) Please do not allow anyone under 18 to read the contents of this message. Note: I did not write any of these stories. They are being posted from the archive as a public service only - any copyrights belong to the authors. See the footer for important information.

Part Five

Heinrich's Tale:
I was knighted at a very young age and was very proud of myself. I had even managed to beat my closest friend, Lothair, by a week. However, it was a time of peace, and there are few ways a young knight can prove himself save on the battlefield. There was not even a renegade robber knight. Naturally I was very disappointed, and despaired of ever matching lance and steel against an opponent who wanted my blood.
Until, that is, the pope called on all Christian nobles to go to Palestine and liberate the Holy Lands from the heathen Saracens, as he called them. Every young knight tearing at the bit to be in battle scrambled to raise enough gold to outfit himself properly and be off to retake the land where Christ was born and lived. Fortunately for me, my father's lands were prosperous enough for him to afford armor and steed and provisions for me, as well as provide a loan for Lothair, and his brother, Rolfe.
We three set out for Venice, where the Crusade was gathering. We were eager to see fabled Byzantium and then to kill every Saracen who was defiling Palestine.
The overland trip was uneventful (who would try to rob three young men with blood in their eyes, after all?) and the voyage to Byzantium even less so. If only I could show you Byzantium, my loves. You would have thought God had placed some of his mansions on Earth, and put them all in one city. No Florentine merchant in his wildest fantasies could imagine building the least of the Byzantine palaces.
We lingered in the city until spring, and then we set off through the land of the Turk, down the coast, capturing strategic cities here and there to use as bases. I saw many men die, mostly Saracens, on that journey, and I relished every drop of blood spilled before me. More's the pity for my soul.
By the time we reached the border of the Holy Lands, autumn was upon us. Most of the nobles wanted to halt the advance and settle in for winter, when the rains would make the roads impassable. My patron, Lord Lothair (no relation to my friend) was eager to be back on the offensive while we still had momentum and before the enemy could consolidate his forces. Myself, I was in no hurry. Although I was not tired of the blood -- not at all -- there was still whoring and drinking and gambling. The soldier's life certainly agreed with me, I thought.
It turned out that Lord Lothair was probably right. When we set out again the following spring, we met fierce resistance, and every foot of ground took as much time to seize as a league had taken the previous year. I was bloodied for the first time during that campaign, and I lost many friends. But I was foolish enough to still love the life Providence had given me.
Jerusalem was our goal, but we were not going to reach it, we knew. Lord Lothair suggested a bold plan. Instead of following the coast as the enemy expected, we would go east through the mountains, flanking the enemy and severing his supply lines. Of course, our own position would be even more tenuous, but morale was low. We needed a bold victory desperately.
There was an old Roman fortress up in the mountains. That would be the anchor for our lines. Lord Lothair detailed a small army of five hundred men, myself, Lothair and Rolfe among them. Our commander would be Count Helmut, a mediocre warrior at best, but one of the largest contributors to the Crusade. Lord Lothair was counting on the fort being lightly defended, and considered five hundred men to be an acceptable loss if it wasn't.
We set out in great spirits for our objective, knowing that the fortress would fall to us like an overripe apple. We were entirely successful in sneaking up on the fortress. The area was lightly patrolled and we managed to ambush the ones we came across. The Saracens had no idea we were coming.
They didn't need to. There were only about a hundred men in the fortress, as Lothair and I saw from a ridge overlooking the structure. It had sheer cliffs on either side and a clear view of the north and south approaches. The walls were easily ten feet thick and made of stone. Wide trenches were cut on the open sides and ran from cliff to cliff. The only way past the fortress was through the fortress. A hundred men could hold that place forever, or at least until their supplies ran out. It was impossible, and we all knew it.
What could not be taken by force, however, might be taken by guile. Lothair and I had spotted a narrow cut in the cliff that looked like it might lead down to the fortress. It was a treacherous climb down, but we saw that, yes, there was a small door in the wall not twenty yards from the cliff face. I had no idea why someone would have cut their way through that cliff (for there were definite toolmarks in the stone), but Lothair surmised that the Romans had done it, possibly as a way to get messages past the enemy.
Whatever the reason for its existence, that cut would be our passkey into the enemy hold. Lothair's plan was brilliant. Our physician and priest, Father Marco, was an Italian, and looked much like a Saracen, and his Arabic was very good. We outfitted him in turban and robes and told him to run up to the northern wall, screaming that a mighty Christian army was close behind him. A hundred knights riding as hard as they could and dragging bushes would give proof to Marco's claims. While all the Saracens would naturally be gathered at the northern wall, the rest of us knights and common soldiers would storm the small door Lothair and I had found, taking the enemy by surprise and putting him in complete disarray.
Lothair's plan worked perfectly. Only a few Saracens managed to free their blades before we were upon them. Some managed to unbar the gate and escape us, only to be run down and spitted on the lances of our horsed contingent. We gloried in the bloody victory.
Not one Saracen escaped. All were swiftly buried in the sandy ground and the cross was soon flying over the mighty fortress. Perhaps it would have been better to let some of the enemy escape, because then perhaps they could have warned their brothers to find another way through the mountains.
As it was, a few days after the capture, an army of Saracens was at the gate. They looked battle-weary and bedraggled. Obviously, they were on their way home after a long season of campaigning. And now we were in their way. Both sides set in for a long siege, but we were confident. After all, we had this strong fortress and we knew that we were soon to be reinforced. And while we had taken the stronghold easily, we would not fall for the same deception. All we had to do was hold our place until relief came.
We did not count on the deadly archery of the Saracens. They went up to the high cliffs and rained arrows down upon us. Every archer of ours had to have another man with him to hold a shield above their heads. We managed to get a few, but only by chance. Our bows were just not strong enough. I have heard that the English free farmers have bows that can kill a man at a thousand yards. How I wish we had had a troop of them with us.
It was the arrows that proved to be the death of us, the arrows and cursed bad luck. Flame arrows managed to set the casks of fortified wine afire, burning much of our supplies. Count Helmut was foolish enough to want to parade the walls in front of the Saracen host. A lucky arrow shot took him through the top of the skull. It was the only wound he ever received in battle. That was how I became commander. We were a young bunch, and only Lothair and I had been knights for any length of time.
Not many of us went unwounded. After the arrows had softened us up, the assaults on the walls began. I had never seen so many swordsmen. They rushed upon us so fast. It seemed like they ignored the causeway altogether and simply ran across the air of the trenches. Ladders sprang up along the wall like bees out of a hive. We pushed one down and two more arose. The top of the wall, and then the courtyard was full of Saracens screaming for our blood. I took two cuts, but I don't remember them. My own sword was bloody from point to guard, but I don't remember using it. To that point, I knew exactly how many men I had killed. I have no idea how many lives I took that first day.
The assaults continued every day, sometimes two or three times a day, for weeks. I'll never figure out where they got the wood for all the ladders they set against that bloody north wall. They always took more casualties than we did. But then, they were desperate. They knew that another army was coming to relieve us, and they were trapped against our walls. I knew relief was coming, and I was eager for it. If I could have left my sword sheathed forever, I would have given up my soul. All of us who survived, and there seemed to be damned few of us, felt the same way. We had come to Palestine full of bloodlust, but we spent it all within those walls.
As I said, many of our supplies had been burned, but we lost more men every day. The only thing we had plenty of was water. Water, ha! The most precious commodity in the desert, and we were practically drowning in it, thanks to those seemingly bottomless Roman cisterns. I would have traded all of it for a single day of rest.
How many times did I come close to losing my life? I don't know. A score of men must have taken arrows while standing right next to me. A Saracen sword nearly took off the top of my head, if not for a someone cleaving off his arm. I don't know who that man was, or whether he was noble or common, and he probably didn't know who I was, either. All we ever knew was that someone in a turban and desert robes was trying to kill someone, and that someone was probably a friend. A Saracen trying to kill Satan himself would have been in danger from Christian steel.
I'm not sure how long it was before we were down to only two hundred walking wounded. There were none among us who were not wounded. Any day now, I kept telling myself, Lord Lothair would come down that valley and roll our tormentors up before him. But he did not show, and still he did not show.
Father Marco and I were talking about the men too weak from their wounds to hold a sword. There were twenty now, and Marco was exhausted from caring for them in addition to keeping enough men well enough to hold the walls. Lothair came running into the sickroom, his armor clanking; we all slept in our armor, and it was heavier every day. "Heinrich," he said. "A messenger got through. His back was full of arrows, but he managed to give us his message before he died."
I could see his face, but I asked anyway. "Good news, I hope?"
Lothair shook his head. "Lord Lothair was ambushed. He had to retreat back to Sidon. We'll have no relief until spring."
"Spring?" I repeated, unbelieving. "We'll never hold out until spring."
Lothair only nodded. He knew that as well as I.
I tried to put on a brave face. I told Lothair and Marco to meet me in my quarters after I had made my inspection rounds. "Between the three of us, we'll think of something." They didn't believe me, and neither did I, but they agreed not to call my bluff. The men had heard about the ambush. Bad news travels faster than fever in an army camp. I kept my face jovial and told them we'd get out of this scrape. They didn't believe me either.
A knight went over to one of the cisterns for water. Halfway there, he fell, an arrow in his side. I rushed over to him, calling for Marco. We reached the fallen man at the same time. He convulsed a few seconds, then stopped. He was dead, from a relatively minor wound. Marco jerked the arrow free. He examined the gory head closely, then sniffed at it. He spat in disgust and threw it away. "Poison!"
Poison! Now, of all things, I had to deal with poisoned arrows.
"You and Lothair and Rolfe to my quarters, now. We're getting out of here."
Marco showed obvious relief. I could understand it. He had been responsible for the lives, for the souls, of five hundred men. Now almost three hundred of them were dead. With this new evil, he knew as well as I that the other two hundred would soon join them if we remained in that accursed hold.
"We cannot stand here any longer." Lothair made a good show of staying to the end as his duty demanded, but underneath, he was as eager as Marco to be rid of that place. Rolfe was even more obvious. I ordered Lothair to gather as many men as he thought capable for a charge out of the gate and through the enemy ranks. That charge would be a distraction for Rolfe to lead the more badly wounded up through our secret path. They were to load the packhorses with a week's rations and as much water as they could carry. Then they were to empty the middens into the cisterns. I would not leave the enemy as strong a fortress as we had taken from him.
"What about me, Heinrich?" Marco asked. "Am I to go with Rolfe, or can I stay here to care for those too weak to move."
I covered my face with my hands, gathering strength. "Father Marco," I said, with none of my emotion rising from my heart to my mouth. "Father Marco, you will give those men as much poppy juice as it takes to put them to sleep. Then you will perform last rites for them. Then I will send them into the next world as painlessly as I can. Then I hope you will absolve me. I will not leave those men to the mercy of heathens who have found the water here undrinkable."
Lothair and Rolfe were soldiers, like myself. They knew how things stood. Marco was a priest, for all that he had spent life and death with men of war. But even he nodded his understanding.
By nightfall, all was ready. In the meantime, we had lost ten more men to those arrows. Rolfe set off first, led by a handful of scouts. The rest were with Lothair. I wished them luck at the gate. They gave a mighty cry and charged out into the night. I heard the screams of men and horses as I helped Marco shut and bar the cedar gates. Since then I have always thought of horses' screams when I smell cedar. They make a haunting sound when they are in pain, you know. It is even sadder to hear a horse die in pain than it is a man. Man has bred the rebellion out of horses, so they go through life completely trusting us. I think the screams are cries of betrayal more than anything else.
Well, I am just putting off the inevitable. It happened years ago, so I should have put it behind me. But sometimes I wake up at night, my palms sweating, and I swear it feels like blood soaking my hands. Marco had given them all heavy doses of poppy, and as he walked down the line of beds, performing last rites, I followed close behind. I grasped their wrists in one hand and slit their throats with the other. Marco never looked at me; he just moved along -- one man after the other. It was so... efficient, the killing. It is something that no German, no man, should ever have to do.
When the bloodletting was done, I stripped off my tunic, threw it into one of the cisterns. The sounds of battle were receding. I knelt at Marco's feet and took his hands in my bloody ones. "Bless me, Father for I have sinned. It has been an hour since my last confession. Since that time I have killed twenty men." I listened to the battle outside the walls. "That I know of. Will you absolve me?"
"My son," he said with a quivering voice. "His Holiness absolved you of any sin you may have need to commit on this Crusade. But I do not think even he could absolve you of this, no matter how grave the need. No, I cannot absolve you, but I do give you penance. It is this: that you live, that you live a long life, and that every day you remember those twenty men. Now let me go. I must wash my hands."
He went to a cistern to clean the blood from his hands, just as the gate broke apart. The Saracens cut him down between one step and the next. I don't think he ever saw them. Twenty-one.
I turned and ran for the side door and the secret pass, soon to be a secret no longer. I ran up the steep incline, to find my horse tethered at the top. I quickly blessed Rolfe as I mounted and sped away. I could see down into the valley. A track of white robes lay still in the moonlight. The moon also glinted off many armored bodies. How many deaths was I responsible for this night?
I didn't see the patrol. They must have been going to their posts to fire down on the now-Saracen fort. All I knew was that my shoulder and thigh suddenly went numb just before a pair of screams were cut off by my gelding's hooves.
By the time I reached the rendezvous, my shoulder and thigh were on fire. Lothair and Rolfe were clasping one another, so I assumed they had just joined up and were glad to see each other alive. I, too, was happy to see my old friends. But my joy was tempered by the sight that greeted me. About a hundred men remained alive, and more were slumped in their saddles than sat straight. To be honest, more had survived than I expected. The Saracens were more interested in the fort than they were in us. But when I thought of how many had died... it withered my heart.
Of course, I smiled at Lothair and Rolfe when they ran up to me. They were concerned about my wounds, but the arrows were not deeply embedded. I told them I would be able to sit my horse fine once they were removed. This was done in short and painful order. We set off west, toward the sea. We had deserted our post. We could not return to Sidon. I hoped to hire a vessel to Egypt and then back to Germany. We had no hope of travelling overland very far.
We were almost out of the mountains when the next calamity struck (curse the day I ever set foot in Palestine!). Lothair and I were walking our horses. Actually, I was riding Lothair's horse, and he was leading mine. He had caught a stone in his hoof and was limping badly. I heard a horrible roar and was thrown to the ground as my mount reared. A terrible searing pain ran down my back. The breath was knocked out of me as I hit the ground, hard. I think I must have blacked out for a moment, because the next thing I knew, a huge lion was standing over my body. I should have been dead, but God must have blessed me. Or, considering the penance Marco had given, cursed me.
My gelding lay nearby, dead, blood trickling from his opened throat. Black and white and brown fur hovered above me. The ribs were plainly showing through taut muscles. The hunting must have been poor; I hoped we -- the men -- had enough food. I turned my head and saw a wall of men with drawn bows. "Put those away," I said in what I hoped was a quiet but commanding voice. They hesitated, but finally obeyed. "Lothair, help me up." My friend and his brother crawled toward me and took my outstretched hands. They pulled me from beneath the unmoving cat. When we were clear, I ordered the men to leave the canyon. We all backed out, I last of all.
The lion tore into the flesh of my horse and was quickly joined by a female and three cubs, all as thin as he was. Lothair stepped up behind me and told me I had been injured again. My tunic was slashed by four long scratches down and across my back. The blood was flowing more heavily than I liked, but I shrugged him off as I watched another faithful companion disappear by the mouthful.
"Heinrich," Lothair said, gently. "We have to go through this pass."
"No." I turned to the men standing and sitting astride their steeds, all watching me, their commander. "No. That lion is only doing what we ourselves have done, defending his hold until he can defend it no more. He is my brother, as much as the rest of you. And I am tired of seeing my brothers die. We'll find another way through these mountains. Somebody unload one of the packhorses and saddle it for me."
Two days later, we had reached the sea after dodging many Saracen patrols and a Christian one. Fortune finally smiled upon us. Moored offshore were two small ships... and they were riding high in the water, empty. Two small boats were pulled up on the beach, guarded by two men. They were as black as night, the first black men I had ever seen (though they were fairly common in Cordoba). We walked down to them, swords sheathed and bows cased to show our friendliness.
Their hands went to their swords, but the blades stayed in their belts. I hailed them in Arabic. One stepped forward. He crossed his arms across his bare muscular chest. "What do you want? You've destroyed the trade up and down the coast; you'll get nothing more from us, for we have nothing more."
"All we want from you is passage. And we will pay."
He opened his arms and his mouth opened in a wide grin. "Ah, yes. I should have known Allah would not make our water go bad without a reason! Know that I am Abdul Mohammed al Saff, captain and owner of the Ivory Dolphin and owner of the Nile Emerald. And I am at your service -- for a very reasonable price, of course."
I was tired, we were all tired, but this Abdul's levity was infectious. Despite myself, I smiled for the first time in ages; it felt good. "I need passage for a hundred men as to as near the Holy Roman Empire as you can take us."
"Germans, eh? Well, I suppose I can take you as far as the Caliphate of Cordoba. You can make it overland from there."
"Fine. What is your price?"
He considered for a moment, looking over us, as though counting the coins in our purses. "Your horses," he said at last and with finality.
Now, a knight without a horse is not a knight, any more than a king with no crown is still a king. But when I looked at his face, I knew he would take no other price.
"Look, my friend. I cannot carry those horses, and none of you looks like you can ride all the way back to Germany. Keep your coin and let me sell the horses."
I went back to my men and told them Mohammed's price. As I expected, all the knights, who now made up most of our band thanks to their superior armor, were against the notion, and they were vocal in their protests. I held up my hand to cut them off. "I like it no more than any of you. But we have no choice. Some of us will die if we try to go overland. The wounded must have a chance to rest without having to worry about accidents or Saracens or lions." A few men laughed at that.
"I promise you this. We will all be going home. I will not rest until that promise is fulfilled, but I need your help. Take an oath with me. An oath that, like that lion, we will persevere together. That we will support one another, to the death. We must rely on each other, my friends, my brothers, for there is no one else."
My companions all formed a tight circle around me. As one, we raised our left arms to the sun and held our right hands clasped to our hearts. I said the words which honor demands I never say again, and a hundred throats repeated them. We were bound together more closely than before. I thanked them all and kissed a few. Then, with tears streaking the dirt on my face, I, told them to unsaddle their mounts and tie them in a picket line.
While my brothers did as I bade, I went back to the captain. "They're yours." I held my hand out to him to seal the bargain and gave my name only as Sir Heinrich.
Abdul Mohammed leaned forward slightly. "You have no other name?" he asked.
"Were I in a position to give you my full name, I wouldn't have to give over those horses."
The black man moved in even closer, conspiratorially. "Deserters, eh?"
"Some might say," I replied, coldly. I would not let a mere trader know my shame. "Others would say we were the ones who had been deserted."
The other waved a hand. "No matter. The gold from your horses would be no better were you true sons of the Prophet. As soon as my men sell your horses in Jerusalem, we can depart."
I had not considered that our mounts would soon see battle again, but against fellow Christians. But what was done was done. "Captain, I'm afraid many of my men are badly wounded. I would like to leave as soon as possible, for their sake."
Abdul pulled on his lip in thought. "Very well. The more grievous wounded can board the Emerald and we will sail immediately. The rest can wait a few days, I suppose?"
"Yes, thank you, Captain."
"Fine. Divide your men while I go to explain things to the Emerald's captain. But first, here comes my water party."
Finally, thank God, we had left Palestine. I would like to say that the voyage to Iberia was uneventful, but it was not. Lothair and I travelled with the first group, so as to arrange for care of the wounded once we made land, and to find employment for the rest of us. Not long after we sailed, the wound in my shoulder began to fester. Every treatment we tried did no good. The wound got worse and worse. It swelled to the size of a man's head and was so tender the slightest touch sent me into convulsions of pain.
Thankfully, I succumbed to the fever and fell into a delirium, so I remember little of most of the voyage. Lothair later told me I issued orders to ghosts as though I were still fighting the Saracens. The best physicians in Venice looked at me, to the detriment of our purse. All they could say was that it was a poison, but what kind, they had no idea. They provided potions that would keep me alive until we reached Cordoba. Since it was a Saracen poison, they were confident that the Moorish physicians would be able to cure me. When I later recovered, I thanked God we had escaped when we did, otherwise my men would have all died slow painful deaths. But for me, my wound was fortunate, for I met my love as a result.

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Path: ultrasparc-2.g-net.net!cpk-news-feed1.bbnplanet.com!news.bbnplanet.com!cpk-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!newsfeed.internetmci.com!btnet!netcom.net.uk!dispatch.news.demon.net!demon!mail2news.demon.co.uk!not-for-mail From: Tommy@f26.n340.z1.fidonet.org Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories Subject: Droit du Signeur 6/7 (mf, coerce) Date: Thu, 07 Nov 96 03:01:20 -0800 Lines: 355 Message-ID: <4063548001@f26.n340.z1.ftn> X-Mail2News-User: Tommy%f26.n340.z1.fidonet.org@f26.n340.z1.fidonet.org X-Mail2News-Path: mail.spydernet.com!network);!hades.spydernet.com!arakis.spydernet.com!f13.n340.z1.fidonet.org!f26.n340.z1.fidonet.org X-FTN-Sender: "Tommy@f26.n340.z1.fidonet.org" <Tommy%f26.n340.z1.fidonet.org@f26.n340.z1.fidonet.org>

The THC Adult Text Archive: DDSIG6.TXT (339 lines) Please do not allow anyone under 18 to read the contents of this message. Note: I did not write any of these stories. They are being posted from the archive as a public service only - any copyrights belong to the authors. See the footer for important information.

Esmerelda's Tale:
I was twelve when I was forced to marry Assan. Assan only wanted me because my father was a political rival of his. Not even a powerful rival, just an annoying one. There were fourteen of us in all, because the only thing that exceeded Assan's lust for power was his pride. Having fourteen wives was a symbol not only of his wealth, but of his virility. Assan had little taste for women otherwise, considering us to be unclean creatures, fit only for domestic work and childbirth. He preferred young men and boys for his lovers.
He would not even condescend to treat us like women in bed. I was a virgin on my wedding night, and at eighteen, I was still a virgin. After his sons were born (by his first and third wives), Assan took his wives like he took his boy lovers. My mouth and bottom were well-used, but my maidenhead remained untouched, except on occasion to ensure that it was still there. I knew the law as well as any man, for there was little I was allowed to do except spend hours in Cordoba's gardens and libraries. Until the marriage was consummated, I was not actually Hassan's wife. But he was more powerful even than the Caliph, and if I tried to escape my marriage that way, I or my father would have been forced to pay a heavy price.
At times, I plotted ways to be free of Assan, especially following those nights when he was particularly brutal. But Assan was simply too powerful for me to exact my vengeance without certain retribution. And the constant watch on me and his other wives prevented me from conspiring with one or another of his enemies.
Then, one sunny winter day, Assan himself brought to me my salvation.

At the time, I did not recognize my gift as such, however. Assan had hired a troop of mercenaries in Cadiz. They were Christian warriors fresh from the invasion of Palestine who had no way to get home. Assan had even managed to hire them at bargain rates because many of themn were injured, their commander worst of all. Assan's physicians had managed to purge most of the poison from his body, but he had been sorely ravaged by it for over two months. By the time he arrived in Cordoba, he was more skeleton than man. He did not look like a savior.
I was given charge of his care by Assan. "I promised those barbarians I would give their leader the best care I could. I give him over to you, for I cannot yet risk offending them with kitchen drudges. Just keep that smelly, uncivilized brute alive while I break up his men and bring them into my guard." Assan was forever playing people against one another. He did not even trust his own bodyguard and would set these Christians against them. But I was just a pawn, with not even the power that steel gave his lowest soldier. I was a "filthy, unclean woman" of no account to my husband at all.
For a few days, Heinrich remained in a delirium. I cleaned and dressed his wound, and fed him broths, for he could keep nothing else down, he was so weak. I would read to him -- in Arabic, of course, since I knew no German. And I talked to him about pleasant nothings. And silently I cursed him for binding me down, keeping me away from the few things in my life that were enjoyable.
The guards outside his door never gave me more notice than to leer at me, except for their lieutenant, Lothair. He came by several times every day to check on his commander, and we got to know each other a little. He told me about the siege at the fortress and their escape. The way he described Heinrich -- as a man of honor and worthy of loyalty -- made me see this infirm infidel in a new light. I began to believe that perhaps this man was the answer to my prayers for deliverance.

Finally, one day Heinrich awoke. He came to his senses immediately. One moment, he was sleeping peacefully, the next, he was staring up at me with clear blue eyes. But his eyes were the eyes of a man hunted and running, running from something inside himself.
Then, like a curtain falling, his eyes became calm again. He asked a question in German, then repeated it in Arabic. "Where am I?" he asked. "Iberia?"
I nodded, smiling. "In the city of Cordoba."
We introduced ourselves, as though we had met in a doorway on a rainy day. He was concerned about his men, of course. I explained the circumstances as far as I could. I did not think it wise to detail Assan's machinations. His health had to be his first priority, and my own.
The following weeks Heinrich spent slowly regaining strength. We taught each other our respective languages. I had a great deal of trouble with the gutteral sounds of German, and all he knew of Arabic were a few phrases to deal with surrendering soldiers and whores. I never told him about Assan. He never told me about the siege. We spoke of little pleasantries and his health.
When he could move about, we went into the gardens. We were watched, I know. When in his room, Heinrich was guarded by his own men. Lothair was no fool; he knew that Assan was trying to bribe some of his soldiers away from the troop, and that for Heinrich to succumb to his illness would facilitate its dissolution. Heinrich was in no danger in the gardens, but there were eyes everywhere, so I dared not broach the subject of escaping Assan's power. I did not worry about Assan punishing me for spending so much time with Heinrich. As long as I was waiting for him on the nights it was "my turn," he could not care less how I conducted myself. I was no threat to him, I was mere property. More valuable than other properties, perhaps, but with no more volition.
Weeks I spent vacillating. Can I ask his help, dare I ask his help? No, I cannot. But I must. I could not -- even when Assan bruised my back because he was too drunk for his manhood to function. Once I took that step, begging for Sir Heinrich's help, there would be no turning back. It would be success or death, no half measures, no backing out. I was too weak: As horrid as my life was, I feared losing it. The very thought of it paralyzed me.
But when I was with Heinrich, the fear fell away from me. For a few hours, I could love life as life was meant to be loved. I could look into his eyes and see the hardness there. I knew what he had gone through, the summits of living and the depths of dying, and I could live vicariously by staring into those eyes over a chessboard or a volume of poetry.

When Heinrich could hold his great sword for ten minutes without trembling, he began training, retraining weakened muscles and a ravaged body. His body was beautiful as it moved through the forms, striking out at invisible opponents, defending against phantom swords. As weak as his body was, it seemed to move effortlessly, for a few minutes at least. He dueled shadows until he literally staggered and sweat dripped from him like rain. His was a singularity of purpose I did not have, but longed to.
One day I mentioned to him that I had heard his nightmares. How could he bring himself to brandish his sword again, I asked.
He stopped his swings and parries and turned to me. He held the sword perfectly parallel to the floor, as he considered his answer. "Were it my choice," he said at last, "I would let it rust away to nothing." He held it before his face and stared at the edge. "I loathe it. But I swore an oath to my men. They depend on me. I would do anything for them." Then he turned his back to me to fight his unseen enemies.
I think that was when I began to fall in love with him. I had seen strength and determination in him. I had seen tenderness and humor. Now I had seen sacrifice. True nobility.

Over the next days, our conversations became more personal -- or at least I thought they were. Heinrich's eyes seemed to linger on me when we talked or played chess, and he chose more love poems for me to read during his Arabic lessons. Was it my imagination? I was not sure, but I could not afford to be unsure. If he was not in love with me, I could not stand being rejected.
One night, I found out for certain.
I was enjoying the moonlight and the scent of the orange blossoms in one of the gardens. The man in the moon reminded me of Heinrich, but lately everything had reminded me of Heinrich.
I could hear him on the other side of the garden wall, in a small courtyard, striking at a wooden post with a double-weight practice sword. We were the only people out and about. A head appeared over the wall that separated Assan's house from the countryside. Assassin! Assan had many enemies, none of whom could afford to strike out openly. Assassins were a constant threat. The shortest route to Assan's quarters would have been through the courtyard that held Heinrich. Hoping to avoid one witness, the assassin had stumbled into another.
The assassin hesitated for a brief moment. I could read his thoughts: abandon the mission and lose the opportunity for months, or kill this girl? He made his decision, and leapt the rest of the way over the wall. I wanted to tell him to go ahead and kill Assan, but I couldn't speak. Not a whisper. He came at me with a long dagger and murder in his eyes. I ran around the other side of a fountain, and he pursued me. I have never been so incredibly terrified in my life.
Finally, I was able to scream. Actually, it was more like a squeak. No one could have heard me. I managed to increase the distance between myself and my pursuer, only to find myself trapped in a corner of the garden. The assassin's teeth gleamed as he advanced upon me, dagger held for a killing stroke. And still I could not scream.
Then the assassin grunted and fell to the ground. Before me stood Heinrich, wearing only a loincloth and holding his practice sword, a wooden staff with a lead core. He glanced at me, to be certain I was unharmed, then turned to his opponent, who had rolled to his feet. They circled each other warily, each testing the other with a lunge here and a swipe there. Heinrich attempted an overhead stroke, an attempt to crush the assassin's skull. But the killer crouched down and swept his blade upward. He severed Heinrich's loincloth and sliced open his side.
Heinrich, in obvious pain, dropped his sword. It fell on the assassin's foot and tangled his legs. Again the assassin went down. Heinrich leapt upon him and took his head in his hands. Over and over he lifted the man's head and slammed it back down on the stone walkway. I heard a sickening crunch, and Heinrich slumped over the assassin's corpse, exhausted.
He stood and examined his side. He shrugged to himself, as though it were spilled wine running down his side rather than his own blood. "Are you all right, Esmerelda?" he asked. "Are you hurt?"
"No, I mean yes. I'm fine." I stared at his body. He had an enormous erection. I could actually see it throbbing in the moonlight, jerking rhythmically.
Heinrich looked down and saw that he was naked. He blushed, but his erection did not shrink. He picked up the tatters of his loincloth and covered himself as best he could. "i'm sorry, Esmerelda. I hate it, but the excitement just takes over me."
I ran to him and wrapped my arms around him, as though seeking comfort. That was true, but I did have an ulterior motive. I pushed my arms between his arms and his torso. As he put his arms about me, he was forced to uncover himself completely. I felt his beautiful manhood poking into my stomach. I buried my head in his chest and sobbed out the fear that was pent up inside me. He caressed my back, comfortingly, but I felt him get even harder. His blood was hot on my arm, and his skin warm under my hands. To me, his sweat was sweeter than any perfume, more luxurious than any oil. I reached up and pulled his face down to mine.
"Oh, Esmerelda," he whispered as our faces neared each other. "I love you, have loved you since first I saw you." Our lips met and we devoured each other. I ran my fingers through his matted hair, pulling him tighter against me. I felt his hot breath against my cheek as he panted from his pain and passion. Then, sweet Allah, I felt his hands fumbling at the hooks of my gown. His hands were trembling too much and anyway were too callused to make much progress. He took the fabric in his fists and ripped it away and the thin shift beneath it.
I stood against him, bared to the waist. For the first time in my life, I was naked before a man who really appreciated a woman. I reached behind me to untie the belt that kept my gown at my waist. It fell to my feet. I stepped out of the dress and slipped off my slippers. The stones were cold against my soles. The body of the assassin lay a few feet away, but it might have not existed so far as I was concerned. I took Heinrich's hand and pulled him into the shrubbery, off the walkway and onto the soft grass.
Heinrich stared at my body, taking in the sight of me, the parts and the whole, as though he would never see me again. "Come to me," I whispered. "Take me."
He put his hands to my flesh once more. They were so hard but tender, so unlike Assan's, which were soft and cruel. I stood there, beneath the pale moon, surrounded by greenery and budding blossoms, as those hands, which had minutes ago taken a man's life, brought me back to life after three years of dormancy.
His hands roamed over my body, exploring me. He seemed fascinated by my smooth skin. "So soft," he murmured as he stroked and caressed my arms and shoulders, my neck and breasts. Oh, my breasts. As he at last touched them, I gasped for breath, like I was stepping into an icy lake. Every nerve seemed to be sensitized. When I threw my head back, I could feel each strand of hair flick across my buttocks. I could feel every stray breeze across my flesh, each ridge of Heinrich's fingertips on my nipples. I swear I actually felt the moonlight on my body.
Lower, lower, Heinrich's hands moved. Along the undersides of my breast, across my taut stomach and down to my pelvis. "Why don't you have any hair?" he asked, puzzled.
I wasn't sure I heard him correctly. "What?"
"You have no hair on your..." He knew no Arabic term, and I did not know the German. "You have no hair down there."
"No woman of status in the Caliphate does. I have a cream that keeps my body hair from growing. Don't German noblewomen do the same?"
"No, never." He ran his fingers across the area where hair should have been, utterly fascinated. How could German women stand it? Had they no concept of hygiene? And the itching under their arms. I shuddered inwardly at the thought.
By now, I was frantic. I had to have him inside me. I pulled him to the ground and laid him on his back. His rod stood stiffly above his hips. I took it into my mouth and ran my tongue all around it. My mouth had been watering at the thought of tasting him, and in no time he was almost as wet as I was. I wet my fingers in my dripping slit and thrust them into my back opening. Remember, Assan had me checked on occasion to be certain I had no lovers and was still a virgin. My bottom was the only place I could risk having Heinrich enter. And while my skin crawled at the thought of Assan back there, it tingled when I imagined Heinrich plunging into me.
I straddled him and carefully placed the head of his prick against my anus. Gently, I pushed down on it. He was much bigger than I was used to, but I persevered. I made myself bounce slowly up and down. Gradually, I felt the head enter me. I pushed harder and harder still. Then, suddenly, my sphincter muscles were clamped around the neck of his prick. I let gravity take over and sank slowly down until I felt his testicles nestled between my buttocks.
"Ahhh," we both said.
For a few moments, I just sat there astride his hips, letting my passage grow accustomed to his girth. I clamped my muscles against him and felt him flex inside me in response. I smiled down at him and raised my hips an inch or two, then dropped back down. His face went into contortions of pleasure such as I had never seen. I supposed it was his first time buggering a girl.
I took his beard between my fingers and pulled his upper body up to me. Heinrich leaned back on stiffened arms, but was sitting up enough for me to be able to lean down and kiss him and still be fully penetrated. He tried to thrust up into me awkwardly. Concerned about his wound, and worried that he might hurt me in his inexperience, I pushed down on his hips. "Let me do all the work," I told him. He nodded, jaw clenched and eyes squeezed shut.
I leaned in and kissed him. I nibbled his cheek and tugged on his beard with my teeth. I kissed him. We held our lips pressed together as I rode him, tongues dancing in each other's mouth. We broke away, panting. I was nearing orgasm. My strokes on Heinrich's staff were become longer and faster. I bit my lip to keep from screaming in passion, as I knew I surely must. Heinrich's eyes rolled back in his head and he groaned, softly and deep in his chest. I felt a new warmth flood my bowels as he emptied himself in me. It drove me over the edge. I bit his neck where it met his shoulder and screamed into his flesh.
I fell back along his legs in a daze. Heinrich remained hard inside me. He eased his prick out and slid out from underneath me. I just wanted to lie beside him for the rest of the night. I felt completely drained. After all, this was the first time I had ever made *love* to a man, and my emotions had overwhelmed me. But Heinrich was insistent. He crawled between my spread thighs. In one smooth motion, he placed the tip of his prick against the mouth of my slit and slid inside. I imagine he didn't even feel my maidenhead, so great was his need. All I felt was sick with fear. When Assan learned I was no longer virgin, there was no predicting what he would do, or how cruel he would be.
But after a few strokes, I no longer cared. All that mattered was that Heinrich lay on top of me, taking what was rightfully his as the only man I had ever loved. Now I was glad that Assan had always had me like a boy, because now a real man was making me a real woman.
I wrapped my legs around his waist, wanting him inside me forever. I felt him stretching me, invading unexplored territory. I was in pain and the pain was sweet. Let the future happen, the present was everything. Heinrich assumed that, since I was married, I was used to this kind of love. He moved inside me with certainty, unaware of my pain because he wanted to give me pleasure. The pain wore away quickly though, and I learned just what pleasure Heinrich could give me. Pleasure radiated from my womb, making my fingers and toes and scalp tingle. It built up inside me, demanding release. I let go and it flowed through my body like a torrent. I was lost in pleasure, in love for Heinrich. The two were intertwined, I thought, for there could not be one without the other.
My orgasm rushed upon me quickly. It was of an intensity I had never felt, and I am sorry to say I remember little of what happened after it began.
Heinrich awoke me from a light doze. "Wake up, my love. Wake up. You have to go back to your rooms, and I have to hide the body. It's cold now and people would otherwise wonder why I didn't report it."
I came to my senses. In more ways than one. I was discovered. It was only a matter of time before Assan would learn that my maidenhood was no more.
Heinrich was still talking. He was leaving tomorrow. The entire troop would be gone, making the rounds of Assan's properties, collecting rents and ensuring that none of his administrators were taking bribes to under count the crops. He would think of me every day, and when he returned, it would be like he had never left.
But all I could think of was my lost virginity and Assan's anger. You have killed me, my love.

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Path: ultrasparc-2.g-net.net!cpk-news-feed1.bbnplanet.com!news.bbnplanet.com!cpk-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!newsfeed.internetmci.com!btnet!netcom.net.uk!dispatch.news.demon.net!demon!mail2news.demon.co.uk!not-for-mail From: Tommy@f26.n340.z1.fidonet.org Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories Subject: Droit du Signeur 7/7 (mf, coerce) Date: Thu, 07 Nov 96 03:01:22 -0800 Lines: 275 Message-ID: <1549550578@f26.n340.z1.ftn> X-Mail2News-User: Tommy%f26.n340.z1.fidonet.org@f26.n340.z1.fidonet.org X-Mail2News-Path: mail.spydernet.com!network);!hades.spydernet.com!arakis.spydernet.com!f13.n340.z1.fidonet.org!f26.n340.z1.fidonet.org X-FTN-Sender: "Tommy@f26.n340.z1.fidonet.org" <Tommy%f26.n340.z1.fidonet.org@f26.n340.z1.fidonet.org>

The THC Adult Text Archive: DDSIG7.TXT (259 lines) Please do not allow anyone under 18 to read the contents of this message. Note: I did not write any of these stories. They are being posted from the archive as a public service only - any copyrights belong to the authors. See the footer for important information.

Kirsten sat up suddenly and looked to her right, where Heinrich lay between herself and Lady Esmerelda. "What happened? I mean, I know it obviously turned out all right, because you're both here. But did Assan find out? How did you get back home?"
Tears pooled in Heinrich's eyes as he stared at the ceiling. Esmerelda's eyes were closed, but tears flowed freely down the side of her head, wetting her black hair. "Yes, Assan found out." Her voice was husky, her throat sounded full of fluid. "He did not examine my maidenhead for months. I managed to keep the morning sickness hidden, as well as the other symptoms. Beatriz, my maid and dear friend, wore some of my undergarments during her cycles, for mine had stopped of course."
"But you began to show."
Esmerelda nodded, and Kirsten saw Heinrich grip his wife's hand tightly. "Assan did not believe me when I told him it was just too much rich food. He..."
Her voice broke. She let out a tiny sob. Her shoulders began to shake, and with a gesture of her hands, signaled she could not continue.
Heinrich broke in, and his voice betrayed his efforts to control his emotion. "He called in an abortionist. We don't know if he botched the job on purpose or not. Now, Esmerelda cannot... can never have children."
Esmerelda let out another small cry. Kirsten rushed around the great bed and knelt on the floor by her side. "I'm sorry," she said, over and over again. Sorry for what you have lost, for what you can never have, for asking you to relive it all. She wiped the tears from Esmerelda's face and lightly kissed her cheek. She hugged Esmerelda's shoulders and held the woman's face against her. She could say nothing but "I'm sorry" so she whispered it differently each time, venting all her emotions, sympathy and sorrow and anger and pity and a hundred others, and hoped Esmerelda could hear them all.
After a time, Esmerelda was able to compose herself. The wound was still tender, but time had distanced her enough that she was able to cope with the pain. She washed her face in the basin under the window. Then she put on her gown and headed for the door.
"Are you sure you're all right, my lady?" Kirsten asked.
She stopped and smiled a sad smile at Kirsten. "Yes, Kirsten. But I know what comes next in the story, and I am afraid it is too horrible for me to bear, even now." Then she went out the door and closed it silently behind her.

Heinrich's Tale:
I did not know it, but I was the only real suspect in Esmerelda's pregnancy. I rode in at the head of my men, glad in my heart for the first time in months, for I would once again set eyes and hands and lips on my love. We had collected the legal amount of tax from Assan's lands, and forced out as many of his underlings as we could determine to be dishonest. We had even confiscated enough silver from one of the more unscrupulous administrators to cast a silver medallion for each of my men, a leaping cat to remind us of our bond, each to the others.
Assan himself greeted me in the courtyard of his townhouse. His smile was wide, as wide as a snake's, I should have realized. He flung open his arms as I walked up to give him my final report and collect our bonus (another reason for my light heart: we were that much closer to home).
"Welcome, welcome, Sir Heinrich. It is a glorious day. Doubly, no, trebly glorious!"
"How so, sir?"
He placed an arm around my shoulders and led me across the courtyard. I heard Lothair's boots stepping lightly up the short stairway from the stables. "First of all, my dear Heinrich, you have returned with more of what is due me than any other tax collectors I have ever sent out. You are to be congratulated."
"Thank you, sir. We did our best."
"And your best was marvelous!" His manner was more cloying than was his habit, and I should have been suspicious, but I was too eager to see Esmerelda alone, to touch her again. But Assan went on. "Secondly, I have the greatest pleasure to tell you that one of my wives -- your own nurse, Esmerelda -- has conceived a child."
I stopped dead in my tracks. Probably the child was Assan's, I thought, but the possibility was there that it was mine. "Th-that is good news indeed, sir. You have my congratulations."
His teeth gleamed inside his dark face. "Thank you, Sir Heinrich. But I have yet to tell you the best news of all."
"Sir?"
He put both hands on my shoulders and pulled his face close to mine. "The child is WHITE!" His hands gripped my throat for a split second, his soft hands crushing in his rage. He thrust me away from himself, and immediately dozens of his household guards appeared from nowhere, nocked arrows pointed directly at me.
"HEINRICH!" I turned in the direction of the shout. Lothair! No, Lothair! He was running toward Assan and me, sword drawn, ignoring the bowmen surrounding us. I ran toward him, to knock him to the ground, or to place myself between my friend and the inevitable.
But the inevitable must happen, I have learned. Before he was halfway to us, a dozen arrows sprouted from Lothair's back and chest. He twisted on one leg, which collapsed beneath him. He fell. He never let go of his sword.
I slid on my knees to him and lifted his head to my lap. His eyes stared lifeless at me. His face was smooth and relaxed. He had been my dearest friend, willing to face death, and the consequences of living, with me. And we did not even have the chance to say goodbye.
"A pity," Assan said above me. "You were the only one I wanted, you know. I would happily keep your men on as a personal bodyguard." He tsked a few times. "A good man, I understand. Dead, as we all will be. As you will wish to be, long before you are."
I was dragged away from Lothair's body, too stunned to offer any resistance. Assan walked behind me, and all the way to the dungeons I could do nothing but look at the red hatred in his eyes.
The next days -- or possibly even weeks, I have no way of knowing precisely how long -- were spent in darkness, eating wormy bread and drinking washwater. Then, one day, more guards dragged me back into the blinding light. I was dropped on the floor before Assan's chair. He looked down at me for the longest time. My eyes were still unused to the light, so I was forced to bow my head.
"We seem to have a problem, German. Esmerelda claims you were not the father of her bastard daughter. She claims, rather, that your lieutenant was the father. Rather convenient for the two of you, isn't it, that he is dead and can say nothing to clear the matter?"
I had a daughter. Would have had a daughter. Should have had a daughter. I did not answer the murderer. Had I been able to, I would have spit in his satisfied grin, or at least on his silk slippers.
"Let me explain my problem to you. Everyone in Cordoba knows how your whore has betrayed me. Everyone knows you and she were lovers. But there is no proof." I heard fruit juice being poured, it sounded pulpy and thick, sweet. Assan paused for a moment to swallow a long draught, then let out a sigh of contentment.
"I need proof," he went on, "if I am to hold a public execution, which would be much more satisfying than strangling the two of you in the night." He drained the rest of his juice. "It's the bitch I want, because I can understand you, as much as I can understand any of your race. I understand the desires of a man. If you are willing to admit that the child was yours, I promise you that you will die painlessly immediately upon your confession. No pain, no interminable waiting. What do you say, hmm?"
What do you say, will you buy the horse or not? Will you betray your love or not, hmm?
I said nothing. I looked in his eyes. He saw my answer, and was not impressed.
He looked almost sad as he sent me away to his questioners. "But leave his manhood intact," he called after me. "I want that for myself."
I was stretched, I was cut. I was burned in a hundred places and had strips of flesh cut from my body. The poisoned arrow I had taken in Palestine was as nothing compared to the ministrations of Assan's toturers. But I never gave in. I never told them the truth. Even in death, Lothair was a friend to me. I told them over and over again that he was Esmerelda's lover. In my less lucid moments, I almost believed it, and was jealous, but I forgave them both, because I loved them both. But the pain always brought me back.
I was brought again before Assan and made to stand on bleeding feet, with tatters of my own flesh rubbing against my burns. I had no more tears, no more voice after the weeping and screaming of the past days.
Assan sat in his chair again. "You still claim Lothair is the father of your child."
I nodded, swaying.
"Esmerelda maintains the same thing."
I found a remnant of my voice. "I'll kill you if you've hurt her."
I don't think he heard me, weak as my voice was, but he knew what I said. "I have done nothing beyond confining her to a small room and giving her a diet somewhat less appetizing than your own. She is still my wife, after all, and her father, while not powerful enough to personally threaten me, could gather allies for the proper motive."
That was something at least. I would be dead long before he began to torture Esmerelda. It was one pain I would not have to bear.
Assan came to a decision. "Bind his hands behind him and leave us." My dislocated shoulders were jerked behind me and chains placed around my raw wrists.
"You have no one, you know." He said to me. "Esmerelda will soon be dead, one way or another. I have paid off your men and they are on their way home." He moved closer to me. "I am the only one who can release you from your pain. There is only me."
Just as I had somehow found a voice, I now found tears. They streamed down my face and fell upon the festering wounds on my chest, adding another small measure of pain.
"I can give you oblivion. Why fight it?"
Yes, why? I was all but broken. I just wanted it all to end. My fire was gone.
Assan went to his chair. Beside it, on the floor, was a cylindrical object covered by a heavy cloth.
"Just admit. Just admit you are the father of this!" And he pulled the cloth off. Through blurred eyes and the brine in the glass jar, I could make out a small arm, floating separate from a tiny body. Blind eyes in an unformed head seemed to stare back at me through the cloudy water.
My fire was back. I stood a little straighter despite my agonies. Assan saw this and realized he had gone too far by trying to shock me into submission, or perhaps had just moved too soon. Another day, and I might have signed my soul to the Evil One. I don't know.
Simultaneous to this, something else happened to bolster my strength. Swords clashing in the courtyard. Shouts of anger, in German and French. Calls of "Heinrich!" My men! They had come back, or had never gone.
Probably for the first time in his life, Assan knew fear. I could see it in his whole body. Taste it, I thought. Savor it, for it will be the last thing you know.
My strength must have come from God, for it was not in me or any other earthly source. I released my rage, and it swallowed me. I shouldered Assan to the floor and fell upon him, kicking him and butting him with my head. I had no weapon with which to kill him except one. Laughing, I used it.
I did not worry about Assan's friends -- no, he had no friends -- his allies, rather, taking vengeance upon me. Even kings fear a man who will rip out his enemy's throat with his teeth. With Assan's blood and flesh in my mouth, I let the darkness take me.

Kirsten had moved back from Heinrich during his story. She stared at his mouth, as though blood still dripped from his lips. Heinrich was staring at nothing as he talked.
"Esmerelda nursed me back to health again, physically and spiritually. Most of my men remained by my side, preventing anyone from storming Assan's villa. Rolfe had taken his brother's death even harder than I, and had left for the Empire even before my torture began, taking a handful of men with him. Assan's other wives divided his holdings among themselves and left Cordoba as wealthy women. Only Esmerelda's personal servants remained behind.
"I could not comfort her, try as I did. After I was healed, there was nothing to occupy her and distract her from her own emotions. She was worse off than I was, for she had not had pain to focus upon. She had to live, conscious, through the memories of her horror. She turned to Beatriz for comfort, and eventually to other men. I'm not sure why. But she returned to my side, sane, and loving me. That was all that mattered, all that matters still. A few years in the Caliphate, and then back here. The end."

Kirsten spoke up, tentatively. "My lord? Why did you choose me? Really. You obviously love your wife, and she loves you."
Heinrich thought for a moment, considering his answer. "Would you believe me if I said it was for your own good?"
"I'm sorry, my lord. I don't understand."
"A nobleman must have an heir, Kirsten, even if the child is bastard. Otherwise, when I die, the Duke will just pick someone to whom he owes a favor. Or the Prince will, or the Emperor. Probably this man would not care what happens to you or your family, or to any of the other families on my lands. Either that or a dozen second sons will duel over the right to my holdings. Nor would they care for the villagers. I have always known my duty, Kirsten, but now I know my responsibility. Duty ends with my death, but my responsibility goes on."
Kirsten took a few seconds to digest this. "You want me to bear your son, my lord?"
"Honestly? You or someone else. All Esmerelda asked was that she be light of hair and skin."
Kirsten nodded her understanding. Then, taking a deep breath, she nodded her acceptance. She knew her duty as well as her lord did. She moved closer to Heinrich. She kissed him, and he kissed her back, but without passion. "Tomorrow, love. I am so tired." Then he turned over and went to sleep.
Kirsten gazed at his bare, scarred back. She kissed a wound, covered him up, closed her eyes and slept. If she dreamed, she did not remember it.

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