Knights and Kink Romance Boxed Set (42 page)

Chapter
9

It’s Thursday night, and as such it’s time for my
once-weekly overnight stay in the Hall of Harlots at large. Not
only does my luxurious private bedchamber require a once-weekly
cleaning that takes almost twelve hours to complete (all that
woodwork takes time to oil and polish), I am
required
by
Lord Verdigris to socialize with my fellow Harlots, or face severe
penalties.

Penalties which—I’m told—include death.

And I use the term “socialize” loosely. As I scan
the vast stone room, I see that the scores and scores of my fellow
harlots interpret “socialize” in any number of ways. Some Harlots
are just lying prostrate on their upholstered fainting couches,
arms folded angrily against their voluptuous chests, their features
pointing ever downward as they make it known to anyone and everyone
around them that being stuck amongst their competition in the
wide-open Hall of Harlots is the last place they have ever wanted
to be. At the other extreme are Harlots who lie naked among each
other in twisted piles, licking cunts and rubbing clits in a
one-off showcase of lesbian erotica.

Right now, I’m somewhere in between.

I’ll be the first to admit that I’m not thrilled
about the prospect of spending the day with a thousand or so of my
closest enemies. Bridget’s warning has me on edge. And the tension
in the air around me is palpable. Bridget wasn’t kidding when she
told me my sudden popularity among the knights and vassals of
Bellwether Castle had made me a lot of enemies in the Hall. Half
the ladies in the Hall of Harlots are giving me the evil eye. And
the half that aren’t want to sleep with me.

Well, I guess there are worse problems to have.
After all, I could be dead.

And for all I know, I could be dead very soon. Rumor
has it that Madam Jasphet has already done away with
six
of
her biggest enemies in the Hall. Nobody can prove it, of course.
Supposedly she knows how to mix a poison that nobody can taste,
smell, or otherwise detect—sort of like iocaine powder in
The
Princess Bride.

What I wouldn’t give for a copy of a
Princess
Bride
DVD right now. All this lying around the Hall of Harlots,
staring at the drippy stone ceiling and forever looking over my
shoulder, worried about Madam Jasphet poisoning my goblet of hot
spiced cider has got me stressed out. And there’s nothing to
relieve stress like reciting every single one of Cary Elwes’ lines
in the movie along with him and imitating Andre the Giant’s doltish
accent.

God, even in the twelfth century, I’m still a
geek.

I yawn and stretch like a cat on my red velvet
fainting couch. Something’s got to give. I can’t just lie here on
my couch not talking to anybody, worried that I’ll be stabbed or
poisoned any minute. I may be a prisoner here, but that doesn’t
mean I’m dead—not by a long shot. I intend to go right on living,
and to have as much fun as I can while doing it.

And since my arrival here in the Hall of Harlots,
I’ve had all manner of sexual adventures. Why not add sex with a
beautiful lady or two to the mix? It’s obvious that there are more
than enough of them here ready and willing to get naked with
me.

I scan the room, looking for prospects. My eyes
settle on a timid-looking redhead in a 1920s flapper outfit. She’s
already making eyes at me, and I’m making them right back. The
flapper is flanked by a willowy blonde in a Civil War-era
hoopskirt. The willowy blonde is licking her lips and waggling her
tongue in my direction. It’s pretty clear they both have the same
thing on their mind—a little lesbian loving with me, Lady Louisa of
the Crossroads.

I think those two ladies will do nicely.

I’ve never had sex with a woman before—let alone two
at once. I never even experimented by kissing my dorm roommates or
sorority sisters in college. The idea of getting down and dirty
with a woman just never appealed to me.

Until now, of course. There’s just something in the
air at the Hall of Harlots that makes everything seem that much
sexier. Maybe it’s the pheromones of a few thousand time-traveling
sexpots in the air or something. Whatever the root cause, all I
know is my cunt is starting to get warm at the idea of a beautiful
young flapper and a willowy, tightly-wound Victorian licking
it.

Really,
really
warm.

The flapper and the hoopskirted Victorian make their
way over to my couch just as I’m beginning to spread my legs.
Without being asked, the flapper introduces herself as Mabel, lifts
up the hem of my gown, parks herself between my legs, and begins to
lick my clit.

It’s probably the most intense stimulation that part
of my anatomy has ever experienced. My back arches and I begin to
whimper at the red-hot sensations emanating from my clit and vulva
as they’re worked into a frenzy by Mabel’s tongue. Yet it’s clear
from the get-go this is going to be a slow burn—Mabel not only
knows how to get my crotch going, she also knows how to keep the
afterburners in check, holding off my orgasm until I absolutely
cannot stand it anymore. At the rate this is going, I won’t come
for hours, but when I do, I just might have an out-of-body
experience.

Meanwhile, the corseted Victorian—who has chosen to
remain nameless for now—has set to work on my left breast. She
slowly unlaces my overgown’s velvet neckline, loosens it, then
peels down my loose silken underdress until my left breast falls
into her waiting hands. She runs her fingertips around and around
the edge of my areola, watching with delight as my nipple grows
firm and erect underneath her ministering touch. The heat
intensifies as she takes my whole nipple into her mouth, sucking,
licking and biting. The Victorian and Mabel the Flapper must be
regular partners in crime, too, because before I know it, the
movement of their respective tongues against my nipple and clit
become perfectly synchronized.

I’m suddenly beginning to appreciate the old saying
“once you’ve gone lesbo, you never go back.”

I hike my skirt up further and spread my legs wider
to give Mabel better access. She follows my cue and steps up her
licking to an insane level, interspersing it with lots of pokes,
prods, and strokes with her fingers, first against my clit, then
inside my vagina until she’s finger-fucking me right into my
G-spot. I start bucking my hips wildly, hoping to take her deeper
and deeper inside me—and I quickly succeed. All at once, Mabel has
thrust almost her entire hand inside, giving me my first “fisting”
treatment. It’s intense, oh so intense. For a minute I think I
might explode.

Just when I think it can’t get any more intense,
Mabel plunges her arm into me well past her wrist, and the
Victorian moves from sucking my left breast to kissing and licking
the tiny puckered rose that is my back passage.

Oh, Lord.

The Victorian somehow eases a finger into my back
passage, which was been strictly “exit only” up until this moment.
Then two fingers, then three. Those three fingers press up against
my G-spot in reverse, creating sensations so insane I think my eyes
just might pop out of my head. I never thought I would like anal
fucking, but I guess I was wrong.

I’ve got ladyfingers stuck up both ends. And I’m
loving it.

Mabel and the Victorian finger-fuck me for several
minutes. I’m caught in such a firestorm of sensation that my body
seems frozen in time. I don’t buck, writhe, moan, or do anything
else in response to the wild pleasures wracking my body. I just
float on a cloud, letting my two lovely female partners penetrate
me at will.

Suddenly, my body unfreezes. I begin to vibrate from
within, then to buck and thrash without as the climax to end all
climaxes overtakes me. My vagina is pulsing hard, clamping down on
Mabel’s hand and wrist, becoming a vortex of wild, bumping,
thumping sensation. And my ass is doing the same, but in perfect
counterpoint. I feel almost as if I’m riding a wild stallion all
the way to heaven, coming hard all the way.

And then, it’s all over. Without a word, Mabel and
the demure, corseted Victorian both pull out of me, give me gentle
smiles, and retreat back to their own little corners of the Hall.
None of the scores of Harlots take any notice of our little public
liaison. Hell, half of them are fucking each other right now
themselves.

I lay back on my red velvet couch, and for the first
time truly appreciate exactly why it’s called a
fainting
couch. My body is totally spent—I’m more exhausted now than I’ve
probably ever been in my entire life. It’s all I can do just to
keep breathing. I can’t think. I can’t speak. I can’t even remember
my name. My two lady friends have managed to fuck my brains out.
The room starts to go fuzzy, a shower of black spots clouds my
vision. I’m a millisecond away from fainting dead away when my eyes
refocus just long enough to recognize that Madam Jasphet is
standing over me.

Madam Jasphet is saying something to me, but I don’t
know what. I can see her mouth moving, but I don’t hear anything
other than something that sounds like an out-of-tune trombone—sort
of like the teacher’s voice on old
Charlie Brown
TV
specials.

My vision is blurry, and there are plenty of black
clouds moving in, but just before I black out entirely, I see Madam
Jasphet sprinkle some kind of liquid from an elaborately painted
ceramic bottle onto me. When it hits my skin, it burns something
awful.

Then I pass out.

When I come to, I’m in a tiny dark room decorated
with Egyptian hieroglyphs. My arms and legs are bound with silken
bands, and my mouth is gagged with something. Madam Jasphet hangs
over me in full Egyptian royal regalia.

“Lady Louisa of the Crossroads,” she growls in a
voice that is surprisingly deep and masculine. “Just what do you
think you’ve been doing?”

I try to say “What do you mean?”, but since I’m
gagged, all that comes out is “Mrrgaugh-goo-doo-eeegh?”

“Lady Louisa, there’s a little something you need to
understand.
I
am the most desirable Harlot in the Hall,
not
you.
I
am Lord Verdigris’ favorite,
not
you. It is I whom all the knights and vassals want to bed,
not
you.”

I try to argue, but all that comes out through the
gag is “Mmmrrrrghhh!”

“Lady Louisa, if you fail to understand this, there
will be dire consequences,” Madam Jasphet went on. “Now will you
promise to stop treading your toes all over my turf?”

I don’t respond.

Madam Jasphet laughs. It’s a deep, sinister laugh,
the kind you usually only hear from villains in cheesy old movies.
“Perhaps this will convince you.” She glances back over her
shoulder. “Girls?”

To my shock, Mabel and the corseted Victorian appear
beside Madam Jasphet, arms folded and looking smug. “I see you have
partaken of my loyal servants’ forbidden fruit,” Madam Jasphet
purrs. “Mabel and Prudence both acknowledge my superiority in the
Hall of Harlots, to the point that they’ll do my bidding. And I bid
them both to use their considerable talents to render you helpless.
And so they did. Lovely work, girls.”

Mabel and Prudence the corseted Victorian stare me
down, both chuckling.

I’m shocked. To think, my first experience with
lesbian sex—as incredible as it was—was just a ruse to make me
unconscious. I’ll have to think twice before I ever hook up with
pussy again.

I have got to get out of here. The Hall of Harlots
is hazardous to my health.

I decide to draw upon my old Campfire Girl training
and “play possum.” Hopefully it’ll buy me some time. I let my eyes
roll back into my head and pretend to faint. I let my whole body go
limp.

My strategy works, because I soon feel the silken
bands being loosened from my hands and arms. Somebody picks me up
by the shoulders, somebody else my ankles, and I am carried off
someplace and set down onto something soft. Hoping they’ll give up
on me and go away, I don’t open my eyes for a long time.

Finally, after almost half an hour, I hear two sets
of retreating footsteps, followed by a slamming door. I open my
eyes slowly, unsure of where I’ll find myself.

I’m surprised to see that I’m back in my own private
bedchamber, tucked in my four-poster bed. I reach over to the
carved oak bedside table and ring the bell that will summon
Bridget.

A moment later, she comes running in, worry lines
pulling at her face.“Milady! Thank heaven yer all right! I’ve been
a-hearin’ the most awful stories from the Hall this evenin’. When
they carried ye in like that, lass, I feared the worst!”

I sit up. “
Who
carried me in? And what
exactly have you been hearing about me?”

Bridget fluffs my pillow and pours me a glass of
cool water. “Oh, all sorts o’ things, lass.”

“
What
sorts of things?”

Bridget sighs. “Well, first I heard that ye’d been
murdered. Then I found out that wasn’t true, but that ye
had
been knocked unconscious by someone, and that someone had kidnapped
ye and hidden you somewhere in the Castle. And I heard all sorts of
rumors about who’uz responsible—“

I cut her off. “It was Madam Jasphet. You were right
about her, Bridget. She
does
have it in for me.” I notice
that the skin of my arms and torso is itching and burning a lot, so
I peel back the linen layers of my underdresses and petticoats to
take a look. I’m shocked to find a bumpy, bright-red rash all over
my skin.“What the hell is that?” I shriek, pointing at the fresh
lesions.

Bridget squints her old eyes at my skin for a better
look. “Oh dear, lass. Oh dear oh dear oh dear. It’s just as I
expected.”

“What do you mean?”

Bridget purses her lips. “I told ye once before that
Madam Jasphet is poison, lass. An’ ‘ere’s yer proof, right on yer
skin.”