A long time ago there was a Lord who ran his Barony well, who was faithful to the king, kind to his wife and good to the people in his charge. As strong and valiant as he was, his daughter was dark and sinister. Her disposition was such as to abuse her station, and although she carried no power, her father did, and all feared any retribution from the doting Baron.
Cassandra, a grown woman in stature of 22, but with a soul that had not matured, was showered in servants. They were eager to enter her employ, but then walked on pins and needles as she put them through her paces. Her appetites were such that she would call in the purest and most chaste of her handmaidens and order them to please her as she lay amidst the decadent comfort of her bedchambers. She would also call in the stable master, or cooks, or any other man she could find to defile the poor young woman, to ravage her maidenhead and stroke her sensitive depths, while she feverishly worked to please her mistress. Cassandra particularly loved to hear her handmaidens scream as they were penetrated for the first time, their faces a rictus of pain and pleasure as they struggled to kiss her most secret folds. And, oh, how she would laugh at their suffering, flailing her raven black hair to and fro upon the soft cushions, laugh and coo as they entertained her, both sexually and emotionally. When it was over, they would collect their clothes, some still dripping with the servants’ seed implanted within them, and slink away and Cassandra would drift off to sleep, after bidding a very good night to her accomplices.
As a result, there was no lack of young men who wanted to be in the Baron’s employ, so they could be called in secretly to share in Cassandra’s ravenous revelry. Cassandra often paid a portion of her considerable allowance in order to have the butler inspect the staff, to be certain that everyone was properly endowed with qualifications. And, so, night after night, Cassandra was pleasured, as men of girth and length lined up to make her servants shriek, all to her twisted delight.
This particular night, Cassandra was in rare form, eager to meet with the new kitchen girl, who had just come of age, all of 18 years, and she sent herself to work for the Baron. She was petite and lovely, in her homely, dirty way. Sarah had long blonde hair, falling down her back, although she often tied it into a single braid. Her legs were slender and strong and her small but proud bosom made Cassandra wet with passion. She had no interest in touching the woman herself, she was not so inclined. But the sight of her! Kneeling before her, face glistening with sweat and wetness, as she struggled and moaned, the other servants’ swords being stabbed again and again into her crimson gash.
Barton the cook, and his assistant, Fel stood eagerly in Cassandra’s chambers. They too were eager to see the sweet young woman who would be the centerpiece for the night’s festivities. Barton in particular, who was still nursing the angry bruise on his face, wanted his piece of the little wench. Earlier, as they prepared dinner for the Baron’s family, Barton had taken some time to accost the new kitchen girl, pressing himself against her from behind, jamming her hips painfully against the counter as he reached beneath her skirts and rubbed his coarse, grimy hands against her pallid, supple thigh. She had managed a hand free and swatted over her shoulder, feeling the satisfying thud as the iron skillet bounced off his skull. He let go of his grasp, mewling over the growing lump on his head. Sarah recovered quickly, grabbed a plate of meat for the table and fled the kitchen. She was careful to keep others around her as she returned to the kitchen and nothing further occurred, but Barton did not forget.
When their duties were completed, Barton gathered his partner in crime, Fel, as skinny and retched as Barton was fat, and the pair petitioned Cassandra to be welcomed to one of the late night trysts. With fire in her eyes, she complied, inviting them both to her chambers, and then putting out the call for the kitchen wench.
“I want to go first m’lady,” Barton drawled, “She owes me.”
“Very well, Barton,” she replied, her red silk robe open, her fingers lazily running trails of perfume across her belly and along her thighs. She dipped the cool glass tip between lips, pressing the bulb against her clitoris, and moaning softly beneath her breath. “You will have it.” She then reached out to the unclad cook, his stiff, pulsing member was warm in her hand. She gave it a couple sample strokes, Barton groaning in his throat. Cassandra leaned forward, bringing her ruby lips to the wet tip of his meat, and as her lips parted, it disappeared between them, the thick vein underneath bulging against her tongue.
Barton resisted the urge to grab her black locks and pump his cock into her throat, but he recalled the time spent in the Baron’s dungeon for such a breach. She hadn’t claimed that Barton had violated her: That would have led to him hanging from the gallows on the hill. Instead, she claimed that he had been snooping in her room, and that was sufficient. She visited him down in the cells, and smiled like a cat that ate the canary and supped on the goldfish for dessert. Barton learned his place after that, and that given pleasure was not in his control.
And so he stood there, rocking on his feet as her head bobbed up and down, her soft lips caressing his thick shaft, goading him to explode into the mouth that the Baron kissed every night before bed and every morning at breakfast. She pulled away, though, not so eager to have one of her best men lose his temper so quickly. She sat back on her bed, her grin wicked as it was beautiful, and returned to gently abusing her tender pinkness. Fel looked on helplessly, pumping his own meat in anticipation.
There was a knock at the door.
Cassandra waved the pair away behind the curtains in the shadows.
