Knights and Kink Romance Boxed Set (33 page)

“Wh-where am I?” I stammer.

“Ye are in the House of Harlots,” the woman replies,
slipping a cool, wet cloth onto my forehead. “Lord Verdigris’
guards brought ye here ‘bout four hours past. I’m Bridget
MacDonough, yer lady-in-waiting.” She pauses and gives me a small
bow. “It shall be a pleasure to serve ye, Lady Louisa.”

I sit bold upright, knocking my damp forehead cloth
into my lap. “Wait a minute. Who’s Lady Louisa?”

Bridget purses her lips. “Why
ye
are, milady.
Ye are Lady Louisa of the Crossroads, the great princess of the
unknown lands to our kingdom’s north and west. I must say, milady,
methinks ye must ‘ave taken quite a blow to the noggin if ye can’t
remember yer own name!”

I shove my way past Bridget and jump out of the bed.
My eyes survey the luxurious bedchamber, which is filled with
heavy, carved teak furniture and hung with gorgeous tapestries. A
dining table is set for a sumptuous meal to my left—roast venison,
pheasant, and harvest fruits and vegetables upon shimmering gold-
and silver-plated dishes. A sleek young greyhound sleeps faithfully
at the foot of the velvet-hung bed. The bed is made up with satin
and velvet bedclothes, and hung with red damask curtains.

I’ve never seen such a beautiful room in my life.
“Is this
my
room?” I ask in wonderment.

Bridget smoothes her apron and stands. “Aye, milady.
Is it satisfactory to ye? We ain’t had such a high-born noble
maiden like yerself among us here in the Hall of Harlots in a long
while. ‘Tis our best available room we’ve given ye by far.”

“It’s lovely,” I say, still dazed. “But what am I
doing here, exactly?”

Bridget’s expression softens as she guides me over
to a velvet settee and has me sit down. “Ye are here as the
prisoner of Lord Verdigris,” she says softly.

Bridget’s clearly used to being the bearer of bad
news.

“’Tis me understanding that ‘e captured ye from your
faraway land and was so taken with ye that ‘e ‘as made ye ‘is most
preferred courtesan in the whole Hall of Harlots,” Bridget goes on.
She takes my hand and squeezes it. “I know ‘tis no pleasure to be a
slave, milady. I’m a slave here meself. But I ain’t as pretty an’
lovely as ye no more in me old age, so that’s why I’m just a
servant now an’ not a Harlot no longer. But I know meself what ‘tis
like to be a Harlot in these chambers, so I make it me business to
keep all the harlots under me watch in comfort an’ care. To ease
their burden a ways.”

I’m too stunned to speak. The memories of what
happened with Lord Verdigris and me in his quarters come flooding
back—the physical ones pleasant, the mental ones horrifying. I
recall with a shudder that I’ve often secretly wished to be
someone’s sex slave—especially during my oh-too-recent two-year dry
spell of no sex outside of what I watch on
Sex and the City
DVDs and get out of my vibrator collection—just before Lord
Verdigris found me in a 21
^st
-century restroom. So in
some ways my secret sexual fantasies have been fulfilled. But to be
a sex slave trapped in another century and in an unknown land with
no way home—that’s something else entirely.

Still, I might as well make the best of a bad
situation. At least I won’t have to worry about getting laid. And I
won’t have any bills to pay or any housework to do, either.

“Is there more to the Hall of Harlots than this
room?” I ask. “As lovely as it is, I don’t want to be shut up in
here all the time.”

Bridget stood up and clapped her hands. “Aye,
milady. The Hall of Harlots takes up an entire wing of Bellweather
Castle. I’d love to show ye round. And ye can meet some of t’other
Harlots too. ‘Tis important to know where ye stand among all the
Harlots,” Bridget went on. “For if ye don’t attract enough
gentleman customers, milady, Lord Verdigris’ll put ye out.”

Put me out?
Put me out where? The moat? Or
maybe the dungeon? Or worse? I better check out what else the Hall
of Harlots has to offer—my life probably depends on it. “All right
then, let’s go.”

Bridget claps her hand over her mouth. “Oh no,
milady. Ye must be properly dressed afore ye go out into the Hall.
Lord Verdigris don’t let none o’ his harlots to wander round in
their chemises. This
is
a nobleman’s castle, after
all—‘tain’t a common wench tavern.”

I sigh. This new time and place will take some
getting used to. “Fine. Help me find something to wear, Bridget.” I
have the sudden urge to pee. “And by the way, where’s the
toilet?”

Bridget gives me a blank look. “The
what
,
milady?”

I make a motion towards my crotch. “You know, where
people go to pee.”

Bridget smiles and nods. “Of course, milady.” She
retreats into a corner and returns with a small copper pot. “Here’s
yer chamber pot.I’ll clean it meself when ye finish. An’ here’s
somethin’ fer yer personal wipin’, lass.”

She hands me some dried brown leaves.

I sigh. The people in the twelfth century might know
how to fuck, but when it comes to personal hygiene, they’ve still
got a ways to go.

****

It takes me awhile to figure out the chamber-pot
situation—that’s a tale best left untold. But I can sure get used
to having my own personal lady-in-waiting. I haven’t had to lift a
finger since I woke up. Hell, if Bridget were capable of peeing and
pooping for me, she’d probably do that, too.

In the past half-hour, Bridget has given me a sponge
bath, washed and dressed my hair into the most elaborate and
beautiful braided style imaginable, rubbed milk-and-honey salve
into my skin, massaged my feet with scented oil, rimmed my eyes
with kohl—the twelfth century’s answer to eyeliner and mascara—and
colored my cheeks and lips with a rouge made of a mix of raspberry
juice and lard.

She’s also gotten me dressed. And given how
elaborate and complicated my wardrobe full of new medieval outfits
are, I’m sure there’s no way I’ll ever be able to get dressed
without her. I’m wearing at least eighteen different layers of
clothing—that I counted, anyway. I’ve got a double-layered lace-up
corset-bodice thing on, too—it simultaneously cinches my waist down
to near zero while shoving everything that used to be around my
middle up into my boobs. As a result I look like a medieval Dolly
Parton.

The biggest irony of all is that underneath all
eighteen layers of chemises, petticoats, underdresses,
corset-bodices, over-tunics, and sideless surcoats, I am completely
naked. No panties for me. “To keep you ready to receive a gentlemen
always,” Bridget explained when I asked why.

Because no matter how much I might look like a
princess on the outside, no matter how many layers of beautiful
silk, satin, and velvet I have on, underneath it all I am still a
sex slave.

A harlot. A harlot in the Hall of Harlots.

And now, Bridget is leading me into the Hall of
Harlots itself. It’s time to meet my competition.

Bridget takes me by the arm and leads me out of my
bedchamber into a narrow stone hallway. The corridor is silent save
for the distant sound of dripping water. My satin-slipper-shod feet
pad softly on the hard cobblestones as I follow Bridget around a
corner and down a winding stone staircase. At the bottom of the
staircase is a small door, low enough that I have to duck to keep
from bumping my head as I pass through.

I’m suddenly blinded by bright sunlight. I shield my
eyes with one hand and try to adjust. Once I do, I’m stunned by
what I see.

The Hall of Harlots is at least as big as a football
stadium. And it’s packed from wall to wall with beautiful
women.There are hundreds of little stalls dotting the vast, oval
room, half of which is roofed over with thick wooden beams, the
other half open to the bright, sunny sky. Each little stall
contains a carved wooden chair, a light velvet fainting couch—and a
woman.

By the looks of it, I’ve got at least
seven
hundred
competitors. And they’re all beautiful.

If I’m going to stand out, I’ve got my work cut out
for me.

Bridget leads me up and down the aisles, pointing
out some of the choicer specimens. “That one’s Hermione the Husky,”
she says, pointing out a voluptuous woman in a pale blue Greek
tunic and leather sandals. “She’s from a faraway land of long ago.
Quite popular among Lord Verdigris’ yard henchmen.” Bridget leans
closer and gives me a wink. “I’ve heard that she likes to put
pomegranates up her bum.”

I wince. “Is that so?”

Bridget nods. “She’s a strange one, that Hermione.
Doesn’t know a word o’ our tongue, but the young ones, they love
her, they do. She’s a devil behind closed doors, she is.”

Hermione looks to be from Ancient Greece. I guess
Lord Verdigris wasn’t kidding when he said he’s traveled throughout
the ages in search of history’s most beautiful women. For all I
know, Hermione was around to fuck Plato and Socrates.

Sheesh. Talk about competition.

I’m already intimidated. Besides Lord Verdigris,
I’ve only fucked three loser guys from New Jersey. One was a shoe
salesman, one was a postal worker, and one had the toll lane next
to me on the New Jersey Turnpike. Not an ancient Greek philosopher
in the bunch.

A few stalls down, Bridget stops short and nudges
me. “Here’s ‘nother one to be wary of, lass.” She nods toward a
stunning, olive-skinned woman in a brightly striped tunic decorated
with gold and sporting an elaborate, jewel-encrusted headdress
shaped like an eagle’s beak. “That’s Madam Jasphet. She’s from a
land even farther away and longer ago than Hermione. She’s poison,
she is. Some o’ the lads that visit her of a night nivver
return.”

That gives me pause. “What do you mean, they
never return
?”

Bridget glances over both shoulders and leans even
closer. “I mean that she wenches ‘em to death. Her kiss an’ her
cunny are both poisoned like a deadly asp, or so they say. Lord
Verdigris once said that in her own time, Madam Jasphet’s love—or
hate, as ye call it—tore whole kingdoms apart an’ sent kings an’
emperors into madness.”

My eyebrows raise. I wonder if Madam Jasphet might
be related to Cleopatra. For all I know, she might even
be
Cleopatra. By the looks of her outfit she’s definitely from Ancient
Egypt, at least.

“Her poison don’t scare Lord Verdigris off none,
‘tho,” Bridget goes on. “Madam Jasphet’s by far ‘is favorite these
days. Lord Verdigris likes ‘em dangerous, he does. Somethin’ for ye
to think ‘bout, if ye want to become a top harlot ‘round here
yourself.”

I have no idea how to be
dangerous
. The
closest I’ve ever come to danger is the high-speed toll lane on the
New Jersey Turnpike. And they don’t have any cars in the twelfth
century. “I’ll ummm, keep that in mind,” I mumble.

Looks like I’m screwed before I even get
started.

I trudge behind Bridget as we walk up and down the
seemingly endless rows of stalls, a sinking feeling in my stomach
as she points out a Chinese teahouse girl from the Ming Dynasty
here, a nineteenth-century Japanese geisha there, quite a few women
who look like they were captured en masse from a 1920s speakeasy,
and even an Amazon tribal queen who could have walked off the set
of
Xena: Warrior Princess.
But I don’t see anyone who looks
even remotely close to coming from my own time. The 1920s speakeasy
ladies are the closest I’ve seen to 2009 New Jersey.

Then I wonder why Lord Verdigris has renamed me
“Lady Louisa of the Crossroads,” branded me a member of the
medieval nobility, and outfitted me with a lady-in-waiting and a
wardrobe full of velvet gowns and corsets. Are twenty-first century
women considered unsexy around here?

It certainly seems that way. But I guess I can
understand why. It’s not as if you see many thirty-year-old single
New Jersey toll collectors gracing the pages of
Playboy
or
Maxim.
I suppose the same tastes apply even here in the
twelfth century.

Then another shocking notion crosses my mind. If I’m
a twenty-first-century woman with a boring job and a dull life in
my own time living in disguise here in the twelfth century, who’s
to say that most of these other grandly costumed and coiffed women
here in the Hall of Harlots aren’t the same as me? Who’s to say
that Hermione the Husky isn’t just a convenience-store worker from
Brooklyn who just happened to know enough Greek to pass as a
princess from ancient times here? And who’s to say Madam Jasphet
isn’t a social studies teacher from Kansas who just happened to
know something about ancient Egypt?

Or perhaps, just perhaps, Lord Verdigris fabricated
their harlot personas just like he fabricated mine? After all, I’m
no more Lady Louisa of the Crossroads than I am Princess Diana.

I chuckle softly to myself. If this is the sex game
that Lord Verdigris wants to play, I can play it to the hilt. The
only question now is, what is my next move?

Chapter
4

I’ve been following Bridget around the Hall of
Harlots for over an hour, and all the faces, costumes, and
reputations of my fellow Harlots are just starting to run together.
I can’t tell Hermione the Husky from a Viking warrior-queen any
more. I need to take a break.

“Okay, Bridget, I get the idea,” I sigh, flustered.
“I have a lot of competition, and if I expect to get anywhere while
I’m here I need to distinguish myself. Can we go now? My feet are
killing me.” The little satin slippers I’m wearing offer no
cushioning whatsoever against the hard cobblestones underfoot; my
feet feel like they’re walking on a bed of nails.

“We’ll rest soon, milady,” Bridget assures me. “But
first ye’ve got to meet the Harlot Guards. They keep all ye ladies
o’ the night safe, ye know.”

Harlot Guards? Well, I suppose that makes sense. The
fact that all the Harlots in the Hall of Harlots are prisoners here
against their will would probably make guards fairly necessary.