Hand Full Of Curls

He bent forward, his weight firmly pressed against her back. The rough wood of the table was now scratching against the skin of her thighs. Skirts up and twisted, and his hand firmly entangled in her dark curls, pulling her head back even as he bent her forward. Her neck smelled like a meadow, clean, herbal and warm. He savored the simple scent, no perfumes of Araby, and so clean, even her hair's scent aroused him. She whimpered slightly, her soft begging beginning again.

"Please milord, please," tears in her voice.

His only answer a sharp tug on her hair, again she yelped," Milord, oh, please have mercy, please release me." She began to struggle a little, which just served to expose more flesh to his eyes. Her bodice straining as her chest heaved, the fabric held firm yet her breasts moved ever closer to revealing themselves. The hand holding her skirts crept forward, onto bare thigh. He smiled, as she shook at the touch.

"No, no, milord," she begged. That reproach cost her yet another yank. His whisper made her shiver again. His voice so softly whispered," My sweet one all resisting shall do is to bring the huntsman in from the tavern. They will not attend this struggle to save your pretty skin. No sweet, they while away their time hunting and will see you as a morsel to savor. If you are trying to fight one man, what will six or seven provoke?" He stared as she closed her eyes and a small tear trickled down. Her defeat beginning and just as intoxicating as the baying of the hounds had been earlier that day.

Lord Moxley Oben moved his lips to her pulse and simply kissed it. He was about to begin a journey and knew full well he remembered the path ways. This right of his title, this simple possession of a serving girl was nothing he'd ever considered. Yet this woman, her scent, her hips in these skirts, had provoked a response he'd not had since a youth. Beltane dances with the comely maids, watching with envy as they paired up with the farm hands and squires, then the night etched ever into his mind when one had leaned into him, and pulled his hand towards her waist. The walking in the woods after the dance completed was the fairy's own. SSoft lips, soft hair and skin like a skein of pure silk, then they were tumbling down and making honey, her cries and his drown out as many others fell under the spell of the Fay and for one night passions rode the woods.

Thinking back to that night, his lips gentle against the pulse drumming in her neck, remembering the pleasures he'd had. He suddenly used his teeth and bit down, not to hard, but hard enough to taste a little fear on her skin. Her struggles again just serving to allow more skin for his fingertips, more flesh for his eyes. A log crackled on the fire as he pushed roughly at her and as he did so stepped between her thighs, forcing them open. Bracing her hands on the table top and trying to squirm away at the same time just afforded him more room to open his breeches. His own pulse sounded like a warrior's drum, he looked at her profile, and saw the fear and shame etched there. Teasingly he also felt that creamy pale skin, now against his loins.

And he pulled her curly hair over again, wrapping his hand within it."Wench open your legs or I shall find another way to sheath myself," he whispered again.

She moaned and tried to obey, his weight making it almost impossible even to yield. Her legs scraped by the table, her mouth dry.

She beseeched, "Please good Sir, I have no wish to displease, noooooooo." Her head jerked up as he slid himself between her thighs, poised to enter her." I doubt you will be displeasing to me, now open your thighs. Now wench." His voice still soft almost calming her, but she knew the whims of men, and she knew how quickly this might turn and become violation and soon tear her body and soul.

"Now," this tone began to edge toward danger. She arched her back and this canted her hips slightly. The submission in this motion made him gasp, his reserve slipping. Her mind unable to concede, as her body began to yield to his wishes.

"Yes miLord," she moaned, her acceptance so reluctant, yet so appealing. In a few moments he'd have her, take her and use her for his pleasure. The denial over, the cold marriage bed far away, and this woman beneath him smelling of meadows and his first maiden. The journey here so long, the wandering lonely, and now he'd arrived. And all because of a simple parcel of land, and a chest of glassware, and thanks to his daughter's delight and the groom's pleasure at each Venetian goblet.

Lord of Moxley Oben, proudly sat as his daughter exclaimed over yet another item in her trousseau. His only child, and a daughter, but he viewed this as a stroke of luck and had cherished each moment fatherhood had presented. Her mother alas had passed early on, as a terrible illness swept many of his village from their families. His second wife had made it clear this was simply a political move on her part, she was doing her duty as a good daughter and the land deal made the marriage a worthwhile venture. The passion had been thin at best and for the last many years had faded until none of it remained.

He watched her joy at each goblet and remembered his own bride's pride in her dowry and trousseau. He would be journeying shortly to deliver this precious young woman to her new family, her new husband. He considered whether she had been prepared for this moment by her maids and decided she must know what lies ahead for she had been giggling with cousins all day. As he sat on the bench before the fire he flexed hands slightly sore from the change in weather.

His wife watching him like a hawk, snorted," Not as much the youth as now the elder."

"Yes, thank you for making it known that age has settled upon my shoulders, I'd mistaken it for my cloak," he replied apathetically. Another acidic exchange, sour like her demeanor and even the sharp barbs held no passion.

A serving girl hesitantly stepped aside to retrieve their mugs and his wife slapped at the girl, she cried out in pain. "That's enough you clumsy wretch," again her voice dripped nastily.

He made the effort to look at the poor girl whose only crime was attempting to wait upon his wife. She glanced away, with her face reddened by the concern in his eyes, he'd embarrassed her.

Embarrassment flooded her cheeks, the firelight revealed as much as he struggled not to mount her like an animal in rut. He kept himself right at the edge of her, sensing the dampness despite her begging. Roses blooming against her lightly freckled skin, her chest so open to his eyes, and his fingertips brushing the tops of the ribbons she'd tied her stockings with earlier. The loud laughter of the Duke's huntsman echoed into this small room. The Duke was telling yet another conquest story as the mead and ale filled cups and bellies. His lips paused again at the nape of her neck, he'd not been this free to explore in years. No wife had allowed these liberties, no making honey, slow and sweet. The Duke's earlier words as they'd eaten rang in his ears.

"My Grace, beds are oft too cold when wives are the only source of warmth. The wenches know their place; they know a man's appetite. Tell me you just hunger for venison when you see a doxy like that?" The Duke's gestures most obscenely drew the eyes toward the woman he now held pinned beneath him.

The Duke continued," She'd be a good ride for the Fair, maybe even a good run for the hunt, eh? She's no slattern, her man's in the guards now up taking back my lands near the sea. But I hear no villager can touch her, she keeps to herself, yet you my good friend now have privileges here." The food turned to ash in his mouth, take another man's wife, was the Duke unsound to suggest such a thing? He speared another piece of venison and tried to distract himself with it as he cleared his throat and carefully spoke," I do not practice the right to another's woman, never did my friend, and neither did my father. I own the lands not their beds."

The Duke, his belly full and comfortable without the restrictions of a fastened doublet, leaned back and laughed. "She's not a virgin," he roared with glee. "She married, maybe sired, and she is closer to our age then the wee maiden who took our cloaks." The tiny girl child who had scurried to get their cloaks like a little bee, busy, busy her red curls bobbing, and so was delighted with the copper tossed her way.

"Friend I know a man whose hungry, I've fed you well served you fine ale yet not filled your need or slaked your thirst." Picking his teeth thoughtfully the Duke continued," Men have hungers, and these women serve them, all of them if need be, especially any request from the Duke." He slapped his thigh as a rounded blonde came and cleared trenchers off, she giggled and seated her ample rear on his knee. The Duke toyed with her mouth, stroking her full lips until again her laughter rolled across the room. Then he helped her to her feet and slapped her rump. She continued clearing the dishes and smiled invitingly at the Duke.

"Do you see she knows, and would gladly roll this old man in the hay, had I not imbibed so deeply at the casks at our children's wedding? They do it because they know their places, know I will toss a few coppers and perchance a dowry if I am sated." He leaned forward and poured another mug of ale. "They also will take you wantonly, let you do things you've heard whispered, let you have your way, feed that hunger," the Duke leaned forward to whisper," They love it, love it like no wife does, well not wives like ours, eh?"

He sat considering all this, saying little and letting the noise of the huntsmen fill the room. His eyes now seeking the woman with the curls, he sees her and watches the firelight turning her curls from brown to red and then to gold. Her tousled hair reminding him of leaves in the autumn, he watched her mouth as she laughed. Her bodice dark green with a tiny gold ribbon edging the whole that ribbon made him wonder if her husband had brought it from the Fair. As she bustled near the fire he watched her hips as she turned and tugged at her hem, the saffron colored skirt caught on a branch. Her easy laugh and smile as she struggled to free the skirt riveting to him.

The mead and ale sang in his veins, not much for strong drink these days, he was carried on the river of warmth as it crept through his body. The men's ribald stories and unlikely conquests filled his ears with ideas, images unbidden creeping forth under a warm eiderdown quilt of mead. One of the men told a story of a maid willing to suckle his, this kneeling, this willing mouth, and then her drinking him in, must have been a witch and needed his essence...all around laughter echoed as the jibes about her not needing too much essence since she chose him.

The Lord sat and let the stories swirl around him, no meaning yes, maidens giving freely, often and lustily, beast with two backs, honey dripping. All of this like a river eddying, and nearby the cold reproach of his wife, the unwelcoming bed, the ache unanswered, lonely. The woman tripped on his foot and looked up, flushed, then quickly lowered her eyes, murmuring apologies. Suddenly he'd done it again, made eye contact and embarrassed another wench. He moved to help her up, and his hand touched her cheek, and slowly he traced the rosy hue.

The Duke, motioned to the woman, and she stood, and turned away quickly. As she strode across the room, her curls were shaking, with anger he suspected. The Duke called again to her. She stopped and with one hip balancing her basket turned slowly. "Wench did you not see the Lord wanted you to tarry a while?" A threat beneath the simple words of the Duke, the men turned to look as well.

"So sorry miLord, with the men so hungry and dry tonight the ale must keep flowing and the kitchen's spits turning to provide. Tarry not I must, now work needs done, else my husband returns from defending your lands to an empty Inn and a hungry family," her voice clear but soft and equally firm. Suddenly the Duke stood, and she blanched, no further words exchanged as she carefully placed the basket on the nearest table. She kept her eyes on the floor as she walked towards the Duke. "Show my guest your entire inn has to offer, and with haste, he was not sated by the meat or ale you provided and I would be displeased my guest walks from here with an empty belly," the Duke thundered. Stony faced she walked to him, and the Duke watched him as she extended her hand.

He reached for it as in a dream, and stood as he did so, looking back once at the Duke who'd already sat again and begun a fresh flagon.

He was not himself as she walked him to an anteroom near the kitchen, never saying a word. She stood facing the fire and he saw her shoulders stiffen as she dropped his hand. "There are maidens eager and willing to tumble with you, all for a few coppers," she said slow and clear. She would not look at him, would not speak louder.

"I am sorry to have" he began when suddenly she angled her face to look at him. Dark eyes and pale skin and a mouth he suddenly wanted to taste, a few curls coiled into her eyes. "Perchance I might fetch you one more comely, willing and ready for a game of slap and tickle, miLord," beseeching eyes even as her words rolled easily.

The sight of a doe, eyes wild and beseeching, cornered and terrified by the baying hounds, normally would have made him cringe. Not known as a hunter he rarely ran the woods, and the Duke's abilities and enthusiasm for the sport left him a little addled. The true sport was in the chase the Duke had reminded him as they pushed their steeds into another thicket. His men rounding the forest seeking prey, and then the doe burst forth, dark eyes, pale hide and the flash of long legs as the she broke through.

A horn sounded and the hunt was on, never had it seemed thrilling, yet with the fine horse working beneath him he heard his own shouts and laughter. Frost glistened on the leaves as fog crept back into the bracken. Heart pounding as his mount cleared another jump, and then his pulse thundered as they picked up speed. Hours went by as the dogs bayed and horns called, then it was still, and he faced the doe panting in a bind. The forest floor swiftly giving way to a steep ravine at her feet. Her body shaking, his too as they looked at each other, and then the dogs and the look of fear as she turned and was trapped. The Duke rode forth and dismounted, unsheathing his knife, and the men had arrows at the ready. He edged his horse closer needing to watch.

Dark eyes begging, her skin sweat flecked, and the Duke simply striding towards her, saw her panic and then took another step. His stomach lurched and he thought he must look away. The Duke just laughed and told his men to call off the dogs, he let the doe go, and she bounded with heaving flanks, back into the forest. He turned to his guest and roared, "It's the chase my Grace, simply the chase that makes the blood sing!" Laughing he told his men to let her go, their larders where full, and besides any female who fought that hard deserved to be released.

Riding back to the keep, they decided to ward off the cold and newly begun snow with a stay at the tavern. Rooms were found and the horses stabled and fed. The platters arrived heavy with meat and charred root vegetables, pies of minced pork followed along with small birds, golden and fragrant with herbs. Sweetmeats and mead followed bread and ale. All the men ate well, their wet cloths drying nicely in the fire's warmth.

The same fire warmed this tiny room, filled by the large table where dishes waited. Her hands against it, her face turned. His fingers kept stroking, gently touching that creamy skin on her thigh and her eyes closed now again, as her breath quickened. He watched as she fought it, seeming to fight the delight, now needing her wanton in this, needing her to ache too. He felt her hips against him again, and her little gasping breaths as she felt his hardness, this undid him.

He thrust forward and she fell forward and so his length filled her. He found her wet, ready and like satin, slick and warm. His hands now held her as he worked deeper, her struggles stopping as she moaned again, her skin warm now beneath him, her body so willing. He pulled back and thrust in again, no wifely refusal; this woman accepted, opened and welcomed this. He wanted this so badly, and now he finally had it, her, warm, willing, and now the begging again. But now her voice sang to him,"Ohhhhh please, oh, oh miLord."

His answer was a groan as he mounted her, again and again, her murmurs and little gasps telling him she, too, wanted it. His hand pulled her curls, and this time she arched so that her lips were on his even as she moaned a little as her held her hair. The taste of wine and cinnamon mingled as their lips met. That night of kisses in the May moonlight rushed forth, the same sweetness, the same promises, and now the same pleasures. He tongued her, and with equal ardor she returned the kiss, and into the kiss her moans of pleasure.

She pushed back against him, meeting him thrusts now, meeting his needs, wanton, easy, and so willing. Her loneliness melted by this heat, her ache fulfilled by his thrusts. Fear washed away as she arched again, letting her body take all of him, the thickness stretching her. Lovely and deep, too long deprived of this, this animal lust. Rutting, making honey, all the same when wanted and tenderly done. His strong thrusts now just filled her, no tearing, no taking, becoming giving and receiving.

Now he looked and saw her chest colored, the stain of want and lust on her, his fingers now pried at the lacings, and her breast came free, the corset framing them. He pulled on a nipple making it harden like a berry beneath his fingers. This made him lose rhythm, and his thrusts grew as irregular as her breathing, he felt her tighten as she was fulfilled on his cock. Again and again she yelped and she milked him even as he went deeper. He felt his time, his need and then he was there, filling her, bucking harder his own groan he'd not had this in decades, and he gasped. Then they both were still, panting and locked together. He gently withdrew and she arranged her skirts, neither looking at the other for a moment.

She turned to face him, a blush warming her cheeks, and smiled sweetly," As I said Sir, this Inn is pleased to have found you a lass willing and able to serve you tonight." Taking his hand she led him from the room and towards the steps.

"And what of the dry and starved men? Who'll pour the ale and turn the spits?" he inquired gently smiling as he looked at her.

"There are maidens eager and willing, and all for a few coppers," she would not look at him, would not speak louder, but the swing of her hips as she mounted the stairs said exactly what she meant.