A Well-Bred Lady

The dilemma was ordinary, but the solution, inventive. Isadora, the lady of a provincial English estate, had recently concluded a fourth year of childless marriage to her husband Gareth, the lord, who was becoming rather desperate, a younger brother bearing down his neck, a mother clamoring for divorce from across the valley.

It didn't much matter that the inheritance dispute in question concerned little more than a border outpost, one of the four castles Gareth's kinsmen kept in their possession, or that Isadora's dowry was about as substantial as half a castle in and of itself, her with her literary name being from the better part of society.

It mattered even less that Gareth loved his wife with profundity and that all these calls for separation drove him into a state of anger and despair, or that he suspected (upon recollection of his wilder days spent in taverns and whorehouses without consequences) that he, not Isadora, was responsible for their lack of parental success. Still, the situation was grim. Something had to be done to silence the brother's usurpation murmurs and placate the harridan of the family. Everyone was running out of time; patience even less so.

And so one night, after an evening of lovemaking, curled up in silk and ermine, Gareth turned to his wife and said, with feigned casualness, "I am beginning to think it matters little, really, who the father is as long as my mother and brother see a round belly in the near future." He'd been thinking such a thought for quite some time and didn't know a better way to express it.

Astonished, Isadora replied, "I should think it matters very much!"

He brought her hand up to his mouth, well-kept brown beard tickling her fingers. "It matters less, my love, than losing you."

Warily, she asked, "What, exactly, are you thinking?"

He kissed her temple, her neck, brushed a swell of reddish-blonde hair from her shoulder, warming her somewhat against her will. "I am in possession of many fine men who I believe would provide my family with a strong and capable heir, men with whom I often entrust my very life. They are handsome fellows, well-built. Indeed, I've seen your own curiosity towards them, all within the restrictions of propriety of course -- no accusations, my love -- merely some favorable glances, kindly smiles on your part, as is your right as a woman of good breeding."

Isadora turned away, embarrassed. "I admit to nothing, and what you say to me strikes me as odd. If I am to assume correctly, you wish for your wife to make love to the men in your service? Does such a thing not strike you as humiliating?"

"No more humiliating than my lacking an heir." He sighed. "Matters are becoming quite dire with my brother and mother. My brother himself threatens a feud. Do you think I would even suggest such a thing were it not from a place of utter desperation?"

"Regardless," Isadora replied coldly, "I've never heard of such a solution. It reeks of scandal and shame. What on earth will happen when everyone finds out your son is a bastard? We shan't ever hear the end of it."

"The people most concerned with the matter will hopefully be dead by the time it becomes noticeable. All children look the same for many years."

"Your brother?"

"He's far too stupid to tell the difference. Indeed he wouldn't behave as he's behaving now were he a smart man. And besides, are you, Isadora, not a little curious about other men? You, who have only ever known my arms?"

"And those arms have satisfied me."

"It pleases me to hear."

"And aren't you, Gareth, worried that the arms of another might satisfy me more?"

He kissed her shoulder. "Why should I worry about men who do not love you as I love you? I, who love you to such an extent that I am willing to submit myself to cuckoldry and bastardry just to keep you here by my side?"

Isadora closed her eyes. "Must you say it like that?"

"I can't help but be frank. Besides, let me reassure you. I would assemble only the best from my ranks. I would make them take a blood oath in order to protect your honor, but also mine, the collateral being their own lives. We would lock ourselves away in a secure place. No pages, no squires, no servants. A guard at the staircase who will know nothing and will not allow anyone to come or leave. I shall be with you the whole time, lest you wish to stop."

Isadora said nothing, though her body had grown very tight. Gareth's lips wandered close to his wife's most sensitive place, where her ear met her jawline, and there he murmured, "Ah, Isadora, I can see the color swell in your face, your neck, you are thinking about it, aren't you? Pleasure will come as reward for your sacrifice. Indeed, all these men live to serve you, for you are still their lady, and they will be reminded of this ceaselessly. And in their service, they will be diligent and respectful, devoted as they have always been."

Isadora closed her eyes, her mouth parted, conjuring images she hadn't dared to before. "Alright," she whispered. Gareth's hand on her breast, coaxing the nipple into arousal, his tongue against her skin. As he draped his body over hers once more, she asked, with some insecurity, "I shan't be a whore in your eyes?"

"No," he sighed, slipping his hand between her legs. "Anything but. You shall be no less than a queen."

**

Gareth's was an elaborate plan, not something to be rushed. Five men he had in mind as potential mates for his wife. He approached them all differently, tested the waters. At first, the men weren't sure if they could trust their ears. What is my role in this? Am I understanding you correctly, my lord?

Some, already lightheaded from the very thought of being asked to mate with the lady of the house, feigned solemnity when they agreed to the proposal. Others returned the offer with embarrassment, but even embarrassment was no match for erotic curiosity. Two of the men were dubious degrees of happily married themselves and certainly welcomed any sanctioned opportunity for a little fun. To all of them, Isadora, their lady, was a beautiful woman, blue-eyed, slender and tall, neck swanlike, mouth red and full. That much -- a body -- was easy to offer.

The rest required negotiation. Most of the men were apprehensive that Gareth would grow so jealous he would do harm to them even though they were merely following his orders. Gareth swore that, should he or his wife wish for the situation to end, he would simply end it and it would never be spoken of again. One of the men inquired whether would it be possible to kiss and caress the lady -- or were they all to be reduced to mere studs, stallions to a broodmare?

"By all means," said Gareth with unexpected glee, "Make love to her. It would be to her benefit and your honor." Two men asked if they could be alone with Isadora, but Gareth declined this for her safety. It was imperative that they all be in the same room, bound by the same set of circumstances, witnesses to the same shame.

A month later, once all was taken care of, Gareth returned to his wife.

In bed, he asked, "Do you wish to know which men I've selected? Or would you rather them be strangers to you?"

"Sometimes," Isadora confessed, "I think about not knowing who they are at all. About not being able to see them. Perhaps it would allow me to preserve some dignity. They can take me to bed, but I will only have ever laid eyes upon you."

"My, you should be a poet with sentiments like these," he teased, but the husband in him swelled with pride. He could share her, but not all of her. There would still be some part of her body that would belong only to him. Or so he thought.

**

The meeting took place in their bedroom, at night. The hearth was lit; candelabras graced every table, the room bright and warm as could be. Rugs were strewn about the floor and great pillows made of silk and damask from the great hall were brought up surreptitiously. Before Isadora came in -- she lay in wait in her dressing chamber -- the five men were assembled before Gareth.

Some had come directly from guard duty, armorless, but still in their gambesons and leather gloves, swords on their hips. Some had time to dress themselves in their best clothes -- fur-lined mantles and silken tunics. Most came in their ordinary dress, wool surcoats for winter, cloaks, hose hoisted up high by their girdles. Each looked warily at the others, as though to say, really, my lord, him?

"Gentlemen," said Gareth, who was in his dressing gown, curls of dark hair peeking through, "We are gathered here today to perform a sacred rite of brotherhood and honor, bound by secrecy and dedication to service and to one another. I have chosen you to be here with me because you are loyal, strong, good-natured, and handsome, all qualities I wish to have in the child that will one day inherit this estate. It is a tremendous gift and privilege I am offering to you, but in return..."

He picked up a silver chalice, ruby embedded in the center, held it in one hand and his dagger in the other. As they had agreed to: the blood oath. The composition of the scene seemed to all quite heady. Gareth had a penchant for dramatic affect.

"No one shall hear of what takes place in this room, and what takes place in this room shall die with us. Even the priest shall be made a stranger -- any penitence one feels should be taken up directly with God. Is this understood by you, my vassals?"

It was understood. Each man took the dagger and sliced the tip of his index finger, squeezing the blood into the cup, their breath growing collectively heavier as the moment of her arrival neared. No one knew exactly how to feel about his situation, or what to do.

"Alright then," said Gareth, "Let me tell you what will happen here. We shall draw pieces of wood to determine the order of participation. My wife will come out in her night clothes. She is blindfolded, and knows not who you are, though she may be able to tell by your voices. Each of you is to take a turn making love to her. The rest shall watch. No one is to leave this room, even when he is finished. You have my permission to enjoy watching, with all that entails. Far be it from me to forbid you. Take your time, but within reason, and be good to her. She is not a whore, but your lady, and perhaps, even the mother to your child. Should things go awry, she or I have every right to put an end to the matter."

"Can we talk to her?" asked one of the men.

"I don't see why not," said Gareth. He walked over to the table and fisted small fragments of wood in his hand.

The five men drew. In order, they were Godfrey, the bailiff; Henry, a guardsman; Philip, the cup-bearer; Sigmund, the marshal; and Owain, a young knight. Each was very different than the other, in appearance and disposition. Godfrey, having won the ultimate prize, couldn't hide the smile twitching at his lips. And secretly, Gareth was glad it was Godfrey who would go first, for his bailiff, a clean-shaven fellow with a head of black hair, was an infamous partaker of women and thanks to his talent in that area would perhaps be able to put Isadora at ease. Besides, Gareth suspected that the bailiff had a fat cock. Everyone else, on the other hand, was rather jealous, but that was how the die had been cast. Thus the night began, with no one the wiser as to how, exactly it might end.

**

The bailiff, it could be said, was a very intense person. He spoke, at times, in a sing-songy voice full of a bit too much irony for someone his age, which was around thirty or so, and other times softly, his eyes aflame when peering into those of whoever he spoke to. His work collecting tithes required great patience, which he had in abundance as evidenced by a kindness towards children. Godfrey boasted an intellectual sharpness, broad, lovely hands, and relaxed shoulders. A permanent bachelor, many women thought of him, and he rarely disappointed them. Despite all that experience, his heart lobbed in his chest.

"Ah, Godfrey, lucky boy," said Gareth, clapping him on the shoulder. "Have you any questions?"

Godfrey, hiding his excitement, smiled pleasantly. He began uncinching his belt.

"Shall I undress her, my lord, or shall you? It rather seems a task for her husband."

"I undress her every day," replied Gareth, with the hard edge of ownership in his voice. He walked over to the dressing room, disappearing behind the stones of an arch before reappearing with Isadora, her hair down, her eyes obscured by a tightly tied span of red silk. Her white nightgown gave her a formlessness punctuated only by the hardness of her nipples, whether from cold or arousal no one could tell. Her feet were bare, and she needed her husband's help to be led over to the center of the room, which had since fallen silent.

The other men made themselves comfortable, took to the couches and rugs. They weren't sure exactly how to behave, only that each stayed well away from the other out of propriety. Owain, young and shy, almost (joked Godfrey to Philip earlier) as slight as the woman herself, doffed only his cloak, and politely, too, for the fire had warmed the room sufficiently. His face cast down, he seemed to find the rug more fascinating than the situation.

Henry, graying, closer to forty, undressed shamelessly save for his undergarment, which he untied to hang loose around his waist. Already his hand began slipping beneath the linen, a sheen in his eyes as he watched the scene in front of him unfold. Philip, a man's man in appearance and disposition, a real soldier-type with appropriately rough and ruddy features, kept his clothes on, rested his hands on his slightly protruding belly. Immediately aroused, he took deep breaths to try and wind himself down.

Sigmund, the strongest and most handsome among them, added a bit of ritual to his actions, knowing that his blindfolded lady could hear everything he did with heightened sensitivity. He made a show of taking off his belt, of stepping across the room to rest his sheathed sword in the corner, of humming to himself. He removed, then folded his mantle, his tunic, pulled his shirt over his head, revealing a broad torso punctuated by a few blond curls matching those tumbling around his shoulders. In only his underclothes and stockings, he sat on the floor, rested his back against one of the sofas, extended himself languidly. None of these men looked at one another. Gareth, of course, looked at all of them.

And Isadora, blindfolded, the floor cold against her feet, listened, her stomach clenched with nervous excitement. Her husband's familiar hands guided her until he told her to stop. Those hands, with a spate of hair on the knuckles, brushing the hair from her shoulder as they always did, how he loved doing that, Gareth, and what would these other men love doing to her? How would they kiss her? What would they taste like? Would they be intrusive with their tongues? Would they caress her as fondly? Or would they be forceful, raw, rough?

What was the texture of their hands like? With rings perhaps on them? Would they speak to her? Would they feel good against her? Would they make her touch their cocks the way her husband made her touch his, guiding her hand around him, holding it there while he fucked against it? Would their voices ring beautifully the way Gareth's did when he said her name, Isadora, Isadora, while deep within her? Isadora, Isadora. The only time she ever saw him weak.

And perhaps these men, too, would be made weak by her, each expressing himself in a different way, each of them finding helpless pleasure in her, giving her pleasure in return, yet always taking, taking, taking until the moment when they could take no more, and then, yes, they would make her very warm inside, indeed. After so long as a married woman and a virgin before that, it was difficult for Isadora to think about, to imagine, being loved by another, much less by five others, one after the other.

In some ways, it filled her with shame, but in others, she thought, what a beautiful dream. A dream of something like freedom, the freedom to love and be loved that only whores and peasants knew. Who could possibly be standing in that room with her? Who did she hope was there? It felt a sin to hope for one man above another, a minor adultery. But was this not already adultery, albeit sanctioned?

She felt Gareth's mouth where he liked to rest it, in her special spot. He wrapped his arms around her belly from behind. "Are you ready?" he asked. When he pressed against her tighter, Isadora could tell he was already hard. It occurred to her then that her husband would enjoy watching these men do what they wanted to her, that this wasn't, as he had previously portrayed it to be, a situation of sheer necessity. She pictured him sitting in the wooden chair in full view of the bed, cock in hand, indulging in himself.

Isadora answered that, yes, she was ready. He let go of her, turned her to face him so that he could give her a long, deep kiss. Both as reassurance of his love and of his position as the one who ultimately decided what was to be done with her. "I'll be right here," he told her. Isadora listened to his footsteps, to the slight scrape of the chair against the floor as he sat where she expected him to.

Godfrey stood waiting by the enormous bed, its canopy made of fine mahogany, the bed-curtains pulled all the way back, tied neatly to the posts for maximum spectatorship. He loosened his shirt, rid himself of it. Always overcompensating for an insecurity regarding his appearance, in particular, his hooked nose, the bailiff sized up his own, lithe form, compared himself favorably to everyone except perhaps Sigmund and, of course, Gareth.

But Gareth didn't seem so strong now, Godfrey thought to himself, with a vassal's glee. In the moment, under the pressure of being first, he wasn't quite certain of how to approach his lady. She stood there, clueless, in the middle of the room, unable to see. Available for him. At his mercy. The eyes of the others -- especially those of his lord -- unnerved Godfrey, and so he turned his back to them, willed them out of existence.

He took a deep breath. Should he speak? Reassure her? No, he should do as he had long wished to, to touch without asking. All those times watching her walk across the courtyard dressed in her finery, clothes laced tightly to her body, pretending to be modest in that barbette of hers. The way their eyes would meet sometimes, blue to blue, only for her to cast hers down again, embarrassed, her face pale with shame upon realizing that her bailiff was still very much looking at her. And he very much looked at her then.

Godfrey made a big show of his footsteps so as to not startle Isadora when he breached her shadow. His hands on her shoulders, he nuzzled his face in her hair, nose picking up a slightly herbal scent. She must have bathed just for this. He sighed wistfully, and the way he brushed her hair from her shoulder made Isadora wonder if Gareth had returned to her.

But the man who kissed the shell of her ear had no beard to tickle her with. Blind to him, not knowing him, she shuddered, whether from fear or delight, she couldn't tell. Perhaps both. That mouth, whose was it, pressing sweetly against her skin? Whose hands, ringless, unlaced her, sweeping the gown from her shoulders?

The gown seemed to fall in slow motion, free air moving across her breasts, down her stomach. The barely audible sound -- perhaps only audible to this woman who could not see -- the fabric made as it pooled at her feet leaving her completely bare. Everyone looked at Isadora, many as they had long wanted to. She could feel them staring. At her breasts with their small nipples, at her beautiful shoulders and broad hips, at the slight swell of her belly, at her sweet little bottom, at her elegant legs and the V between them, marked by a bed of dense curls.