Fencing Academy Pt 03

Author's Notes

WARNING: You might find this chapter depressing.

I wanted to talk briefly about my schedule for writing these. Chapters of Fencing Academy are quite large, about 10,000-15,000 words apiece. This is because I envisage them more like "episodes" than "chapters", each one being more-or-less a complete story with a discrete arc that relates to the larger arc within the series. I also happen to be a perfectionist, so I spend a considerable amount of time in revision. One chapter every two weeks is very optimistic, but it is my goal, but understand that one chapter every month is probably more likely.

When I'm ready to post, it will be posted to my blog (check my profile for URL) and to Literotica at the same time, but because Literotica takes some time to process you can read it first if you visit my blog. I also write a lot about erotica and Adult Interactive Fiction so that might be of interest to you.

Content: This series' sexual content will be mostly dictated by the story, and so you'll get a mix of b/g, g/g and occasional b/b stuff as is necessary for the plot (but, because I'm mostly straight, there will not be much of the latter). I hope that you enjoy most of it and, if something doesn't appeal, you can glaze over it and enjoy the story instead.

Edited by Redscaledknight, who invokes the eternal question: is he a red knight with scales, or a knight with red scales?

###

All day Lyza had complained vaguely of "problems", and she begged them to go out drinking with her. But, as soon as the first sip of barley wine passed Lyza's lips, it seemed she'd forgotten what it was she wanted to say. And late into the night, as Scarlett and Donovan shared bawdy stories of sex and battle, they realized that Lyza had collapsed. They could be forgiven of that. She may have been face-first on table and snoring, but the Drowning Elephant was loud and she was hidden behind a shocking number of empty flagons.

Scarlett had a puckered smile as she and Donovan looked at each other. Their companion had a strong tolerance for liquid barley, but she often pushed even those limits.

Scarlett lowered her lips to Lyza's ear. "Lyza... honey..." she whispered. Lyza didn't stir, even as Scarlett's brown hair grazed her neck.

Donovan hid his amusement behind a long sip of alcohol.

With a cruel smile, as Scarlett pounced on Lyza's stomach. "Tickle, tickle, tickle!"

Lyza was so startled by Scarlett's hand spidering across her tummy that she bolted upright, with such force that her chair creaked backwards. Lyza tumbled from her chair, her feathered cap lofting away from her.

Scarlett and Donovan were buckling with laughter, even as Lyza struggled to her feet. "Whasssh funny?" she said, putting the cap back on so it tilted over one of her eyes. "Where am I? Whassh happening?"

Donovan rubbed his bald scalp. "Saints, Lyza, you don't

have

to get stinking drunk."

Lyza pushed herself back on her chair. "I can't count," Lyza reported through slurred speech, "but I do know what one more meansh."

"No no no no!" Scarlett and Donovan laughed together. Scarlett even clamped her hand down on Lyza's raised finger.

When they let Lyza go, her eyes unfocused and head lolled unevenly, before she flopped on the wood table. She repeated softly, "Brassh pig, brassh pig..."

Donovan and Scarlett looked at each other with concern.

"We're taking you home," said Donovan.

Lyza belched, and grimaced with the bile that came with it. He eyes traced the deep, cracked woodgrain of the table. "Okay."

They put one arm around each of their shoulders and dragged her from the bar, Scarlett shouting a few promises at the barkeep for payment. Lyza was aware of her toes skinning the floor, the muted sounds of laughter fading, leaving light and warmth for cold, wet darkness.

"Fucking rain," cursed Donovan.

Her two best friends in the world were beneath both her arms. They were united by Madam Picot's employ... they were brothel bouncers and guards and killers three. Just by drinking and drawing swords together, their bond had become something Lyza could not quite express. They were her comrades.

Lyza smiled at the memory of their first time they drank together. She had been appalled.

She couldn't quite remember how it went, but the bald, mildly attractive Donovan was talking animatedly with Scarlett about sucking another man's cock. Lyza sat in a deep, apprehensive silence, trying to decide if Donovan was telling an elaborate, off-color joke. The story progressed, and Donovan was soon giving a vivid description of being buggered in his arse, while Scarlett chipped in little teases and observations.

Finally, Lyza asked, "Is this a joke?"

Donovan looked at Lyza with bemused brown eyes. "No."

"So you were really doing all that stuff?"

Donovan's expression didn't change. But he did glance into his cup. "Yes."

Lyza was confused. "Isn't that wrong?"

There was a silence for a while, soon shattered by laughter, but they didn't give her an answer. Donovan simply continued his story with no lost enthusiasm, leaving Lyza with questions.

As it turned out, Donovan was what they called a "boy prince", a man who let other men bugger them. What surprised her most was Donovan's pride. She had always imagined such men to live in shame and shadow, but this one wore the name "Prince Donovan" like it was his real title. When Lyza had finally gathered the courage to ask, he laughed and responded:

"You think the Saints care about an old prince like me? The deepest, darkest secret is that the Saints put a kernel of princedom in all men, and they're tortured by it. I'm different, because I love it. Plus," he sidled closer to Lyza, "I know which nobs are princes are which aren't. They know if they try and get me, I'll put out all their nasty little secrets."

Scarlett had been wordless, but her smiling eyes told her all Lyza needed to know. She was once one of Picot's girls, it was said, and was certainly pretty enough, but Picot found her better at fighting than bedding. She had the nasty habit of taking care of unruly customers herself than summoning a guard, and from her chambers came a steady stream of old and rotted men with open throats. As a brothel guard, Scarlett was loose with her sword and her morals; she had men almost as often as when she was paid for it.

Once, when the three of them were drinking, when Lyza had become their friend, Scarlett and Donovan were giggling amongst themselves, like they had shared a joke in secret. Lyza had begged them to tell it. Scarlett finally relented.

"We blew the same man," said Scarlett, blushing for the first time ever.

Lyza was confused. "You do that all the time."

"Yes, but not together."

Donovan laughed uncomfortably, he took a timely sip of foamy beer. Mixed feelings seeped into Lyza. It was confusion for the scene she could not conjure, a jolt of excitement for the madness of it, and a lingering envy that they had not included her in this strange new activity. She would have at least liked to have been offered.

It was true Donovan and Scarlett had at least ten years over her, but she didn't like this treating her as a child. They thought her innocent and helpless. She was not. But, in times like this, when they each shouldered her, and kept her upright in the driving rain to her kipping, when she appreciated them for that.

I'm one of you,

she thought as the rain drizzled off her hat,

I'm an adult

,

I'm a killer.

The world had lost it dimensions. It stretched in contracted in confusing ways, and Lyza could barely make sense of it. Her friends helped her negotiate up the steps to her kip.

"What was it you wanted to tell us, Lyza?" asked Scarlett.

There had been some deep dilemma Lyza was pondering over, but it had been lost in the tide of laughter and barley wine. Lyza supposed that was what she was trying for all along. If she could not remember what had bothered her so, it was clearly not a dilemma anymore. Problem solved.

In any case, her head was swimming in drink, and even if she could remember, she wouldn't be able to summon the words to explain it. She did manage to say:

"Booooby trap," she slurred, with a playful emphasis on 'booby', "Doorsh boooby trapped..."

Lyza lived in a ramshackle wooden extension in the rear of an alley, serviced by a set of rough-hewn, uneven steps. Her front door was so warped that, if one were to put their eye to it, it was possible to see through the gaps. Still, Donovan was tentative as he pushed the door firmly in.

Some caltrops skittered to the floor.

Donovan kicked them aside with his boot.

"I gotta teach you about trapping," muttered Donovan as they entered small room.

Lyza's bed was a straw-filled burlap mattress, raised from the ground with a squat table. Carefully they lay Lyza on it, then pulled a linen blanket over her. A gentle snore was already issuing from her parted mouth when they were done.

Donovan shook his head. "That girl..."

Scarlet became expressionless. "I wonder what's her story."

Donovan looked at Scarlet. The only light in the room was emitted by a moon-like lamp that hung out in the alley. It tinted their skins ice-blue. "What do you mean by that?"

She raised an eyebrow. "Do you really believe she's the daughter of a potato farmer?"

Donovan sniffed. "No," he said, looking at Lyza's scar, which was a dark, deep line in that light, "but whatever it is, it's gotta be interesting."

Scarlet nodded silently, without much to say.

That was when Donovan decided it was time to go. He spun on his feet. "Come on. The night is young, and I've got some princing to do."

###

None of the noises of the city awoke Lyza, neither the screaming of merchants nor the wail of housewives. It was someone pounding on the door. It matched the rhythm in her head, like hooked pans banging in the wind. She swore and grasped her forehead and slipped out of the covers.

She felt awful: her insides were leaden and churned slowly. It was like they were being roasted over a low burning fire.

Still, she opened the door.

"Tom," she said.

Hawker leaned against the door frame, wearing knee boots and a black-blue doublet. He cut a dapper silhouette against the glaring sunlight.

Tom looked her up and down. "You look like shit," he observed.

"I was out drinkin'," Lyza explained, blinking painfully at the sun behind Tom.

Tom laughed. He popped onto his feet and sauntered inside. He had to kick aside some of the caltrops, which he didn't pay heed. "Smells like it too. Did you fill a rain barrel with mead?"

"Liquid barley," she corrected, closing the door. "I'm gonna fix up some breakfast, if you don't mind."

Tom snorted. "Lunch you mean. And thanks, I've already eaten."

Lyza glared at him. "I didn't ask."

Tom looked at her with a sharp smile. "I know."

As Lyza gathered her breakfast, a couple of eggs suspended in a jar of waterglass, and some rashers of bacon from her icebox, her headache finally began to subside. She wondered if it was the distraction posed by Tom.

"Who were you drinking with?" asked Tom, taking a creaking seat and throwing his legs on the table.

"My lover," she answered as she struck up the hearth, "one of my many actually. 'Twas the primer before the beastly fucking we all did. It was a good thing you weren't there, you would have gone mad with jealousy."

Tom sniffed nonchalantly. "I would have waited patiently for my turn."

The hearth began to spark and burn. Lyza turned and said, "You'd have me as I am right now? Still hanging over, unwashed and smelling of retchings?"

Tom gave her a glittering smile. "Is that an offer?"

Lyza shook her head in disbelief.

You're a true letch.

The rashers sizzled temptingly as they hit the pan. Lyza began to break the eggs when Tom cooed, "Ah, that sound made me hungry again."

"I'll put some on for ye," said Lyza.

"Thanks. You'd make a great housewife yet."

Lyza grasped the iron fry pan and gestured at Tom with it. Bacon fat jumped and skittered angrily inside. "I'll force you some hot grease if you're not careful."

Tom raised his hands and pushed himself against the wall, laughing, as though to escape the wild bubbling grease. "Okay, okay! Sorry, you'd make an awful housewife."

Lyza slid the pan into the hearth. "That's better."

She did, however, put in some more eggs and bacon for Tom.

The smoky smell of cooked bacon replaced the lingering scent of alcohol. It brought both their appetites up, and when Lyza pulled the pan from the hearth it was brimming with meat and eggs, plumes of fragrant steam cleansing the room. Just the hit of it across Lyza's face made her feel fresher.

Lyza had no plates, so they ate directly from the pan, digging into it with spoons and cautious fingers. Lyza had some hard, dark rye bread they sopped up the bacon grease with. The resulting spongy wet mass had a smoky, sweet flavor to it. They washed it down with some heavily watered barley wine.

Tom searched for errant pools of grease with which to finish the remainder of his bread. "That was good," he remarked.

Lyza shrugged as she swallowed the last scrape from the pan. "It was just bacon and eggs."

Tom tipped the pan to make a little grease pool. He gingerly sopped it with the bread. "Do you want to go see a play with me?"

"Depends. Is it a soppy, kissy one?" asked Lyza.

"No," said Tom, popping the last piece of bread into his mouth and swallowing. "It's funny, and full of violence. You'd love it."

"Wot's it called?"

Tom wiped his mouth. "It's called

The Assassin

."

"Wot's it about?"

Tom shrugged. "It's about an assassin. I don't know. It's supposed to be funny."

"How long is it?"

Tom rolled his eyes and sighed. "By the Saints, Lyza, if you don't feel like it, just tell me."

"I'll go," said Lyza, "but I'm working this evening."

Tom's smile was full of bemused befuddlement. "Well, sure. Great. But you might want to wash up. You reek."

The chair creaked as Lyza stood up. She threw the pan into basin of milky cleaning water. "That's what you get when you show up at my place unannounced. If ye excuse me, I'm gonna take your advice."

Tom nodded. "Go right ahead."

Lyza turned to him annoyance. "I mean, I'm gonna wash up."

He was non-plussed. "Yes, I know. I won't say anything."

"Get out," Lyza commanded.

Tom huffed and rocked back on the seat. "I'd like to but y'see, I've gotten quite comfortable here. It might take me a bit." His grin was broad and lecherous.

Lyza gave up. "Then turn around."

There was no way Tom could squirm out of that one. He frowned and shifted the seat so that it faced the plastered wall, the legs squealing against the wood floor. Lyza watched him, waiting for him to try to peek, but he was untwitching, his hands in his lap.

She started with her linen shirt. She wore it baggy, it being fitted for a man, and as she worked each button it slid further and further down her shoulders. As she undid the last few the fabric finally fell off her breasts.

A breath caught in her throat.

Tom had his back turned from her, solid and unmoving, but she could sense, somehow, the will it took him not to turn around. If he resisted, if he turned his head a little, if his eyes rolled slightly to the side, he'd see her freckled chest, each apple-shaped breast, crowned by a stiffening, pink nipple.

She realized suddenly, she'd never been naked before, not with a man in the same room.

A blush of shame rolled over her. She wanted to bark at Tom, blame and berate him, but he had not flinched at all, not even to turn and mock her. It would, she admitted, have been a great relief if he had.

The shirt slid off her arms.

She kept her eyes fixed on Tom, who still faced the wall. She daren't look away, or else the letch might take a peek. But the feeling evolved. As she began to finger the laces on her breeches, loosening them with a gentle tug of her finger, she almost began to feel she was undoing them for him, so that he could watch her with his hungry, lustful eyes. A crop of orange pubic hair slowly emerged from the hem of her pants, and she eased them downward with the hooks of her thumbs.

When the pants were to her thighs, to her embarrassment, she began to swell and wet. Sexual arousal and embarrassment rolled over her, mingling. She felt exposed even as his back was turned, an image of him flashed in her eyes, looming over her shirtless, a dirty smile full of mischief, an erect cock popping from unlaced britches.

Lyza took in an unsteady breath. Tom was not a large man, but he was solid, wiry, and unashamed. He wasted little time in trying to get her into bed with him, and there innumerable reasons why she didn't want that. Not the least of which was that Tom was her male doppelganger, looking more akin than even brothers and sisters, which made finding him attractive all the more queer. But, she knew one day, her resistance might break, then he might finally succeed. If he touched her now, she knew he would.

Liam was the last to kiss me,

she realized.

It frustrated her that she still had quite a way to go. She had a soapy bucket of cold water she had drawn the day before from the public font. She dipped a sponge into it, and began to rinse herself. Itchy residue washed from her body. She ran the sponge across her breasts and stomach, the suds frothed over it. She had long, taut legs, which she scrubbed gently. Soon, all that was left was her groin.

Again, she looked at Tom. As she thought about him being so close, her blood pumped harder into her lips. That made her light-headed. Her hand animated itself. She reached down and pressed a finger against her hard clit.

She had done it softly and silently, she had not wanted Tom to know. Even so, the sensation almost made her moan, and instead she buckled, grimacing, the strength leaving her legs. It felt too good to stop, too dirty,

too hot

... and so, full of shame and need, she began to masturbate.

She had to bite down on her lip to keep herself from making noise, and she rubbed herself so gently that the soft sopping sound could barely be heard, drowned out with the sounds of the city. She massaged the length of the hood, then made little circles around the button itself. Her chest rose and fell. Redness crept across her chest and face, moisture beading on her brow.

She did not need to touch herself long. She had become so worked up that orgasm came quickly.

Her mouth wrenched open and her eyes shut so tightly she thought she might bruise her lids... but for all it was it was completely silent. The energy that would be made into sound became movement and expression instead.

But no amount of care could silence her falling backwards.

Tom's head twitched imperceptibly to her left. "Are you alright? Do you need help?"

Did he know?

she wondered. "No, I'm fine," she panted, "keep your filthy eyes on the wall."

Tom didn't say anything. Her arousal faded, she found it easy to rinse her crotch. It was a relief, actually. Once she dried off, she slipped on a white cotton shirt with loose, puffy sleeves, and a black vest over that. Her fresh britches were black and flared out at her thighs. Finally, she slipped on her favorite hat, making sure the feather was prominent and brim folded back. And, of course, she put on her sword.

"I'm done," she declared.

Tom stood and looked down at her body, laughing and giving a little whistle. "Woo. What is it about you and men's clothes?"

Lyza sighed playfully. "Perhaps you are a prince and don't know it."