BOOK ONE: AWAKENINGS
CHAPTER I
In which we are introduced to Bart, whose powers of oneiromancy are beginning to manifest, and an exceedingly obliging barmaid.
BARTHOLOMEW
Like a roiling sea, the tavern bucked and swelled with the uniquely elastic rhythm of the drunken crowd. In his corner, Bart faced the door and bore the considerable strain of not grimacing as it swung inward with the ingress of each dry-throated wayfarer. The nearest candelabra described lazy circles, masking and unmasking his sharp features with shadow.
Vulpine,
was Leopold's word. Of course. So many years down - and indeed, on- the road, Bart had come, grudgingly, to admire his brother's mastery of manners and diplomacy. How deftly he could combine compliment and insult. Leopold.
Bart, however, was masterful in his own ways. Even in the chaos of the crowded inn, others left him mostly to himself. Next to his glass and its latent ring of moisture, rested his dagger, unsheathed. He neither touched nor acknowledged the blade, nor did he affect the slightest air of menace. The other patrons, bumbling slightly too close to his table, caught the glint of its edge and returned the same wary glances with which he regarded the tavern generally. That was enough. The blade, as with the rest of his attire, was of fine quality, though simple in its design. He had retained the tastes, if not the trappings of his noble birth. Here, amongst mercantile travellers and country folk, he enjoyed relative anonymity. The pallid skin and sable hair, and the amber eyes with which all Blackwoods were blessed would have given him away instantly in his home county, but to these merry wanderers he was merely a handsome stranger.
Presently, he met the gaze of the barmaid making her way through the cheery fray. From his pouch he produced a single, rather greasy coin and proffered it, indicating in the same movement his emptied chalice. A lot could be inferred, Bart had long since discovered, as to such variables as profitability and the overall quality of an establishment from the glassware with which it's patrons were entrusted. The glasses at Three Forks Inn were of fine make, absent a single cloud or blemish - which fact had not escaped his notice. After all, there had been nothing else of any real interest to which to devote his attention. The backwater gossip and subsequent carousing had only made his loneliness the more apparent. He fingered the charm at his neck and wondered what dreams would come to him tonight. Lately, they had been increasingly vivid and violent, and he had ruminated at some length what they might possibly mean.
Presently, bearing before her a clear jug of the red wine he had demonstrated his proclivity toward, the barmaid returned. She was unmistakably pastoral in her bearing, though endearingly so. She wore a simple, dun-coloured serving dress and her hair, the colour of straw, lay against her shoulder in a neat braid. She was not beautiful, thought Bart, at least in any traditional sense. She was, however, a friendly-faced and comely girl, just shy of twenty by his reckoning. As she decanted the wine with immaculate, practiced form, he was afforded a view of her ample breasts surging against her bodice's lace. He grit his teeth slightly, suddenly aroused. Wordlessly, the maid turned away once more, palming the coin. Bart smiled, despite himself. Desire (or loneliness, or both) shot through him. He drew his woolen cloak, grey as soot, around his shoulder and took a long sip. At least the wine here was excellent.
*****
And so, the night, and several more cups, drained away. The tavern slowly grew quiet as the revelers retired upstairs, or braved the gathering storm, or else fell into hushed, hunched discussion of rural politics or The War. All this time, Bart had kept a hungry eye on the barmaid. He watched her lean her solid frame against the oak bar, resting her breasts on its cup-strewn surface. Her ass was not pert, like a plump city girl's, nor was it boyishly flat. It brought to mind the firmness of equine flanks- a thought that, to his own surprise, Bart did not find wholly discouraging.
The maid and barman had begun the necessary diminuendo of clearing up, and Bart relished the sweetness of what would likely be the last glass. Gathering his accoutrements, he made his way, with deliberate slowness, to the bar.
As he rested an elbow on the warm wood, he wondered whether this establishment offered services beyond a hot meal and soft bed. The barmaid, demurely, piped up :
"Everything to your liking, sir?"
"Certainly. Have you a room?"
"Yes, sir." She replied, somewhat nervously. "Will you be wanting the standard room, sir, or perhaps something more accomodating? Our suites... " She trailed off, noting his expression.
He weighed the options for the briefest of moments. A hot bath was an excellent idea.
"The latter, I should think." He met her eyes.
"Of course, sir. Here you are."
She presented him with a metal key, incised with a small 6. He took it from her hand, noting its softness. The barman busied himself stacking chairs.
"So." His hand, road-toughened, came to rest atop her own. A bashful grin flitted across his reddened face.
She met his eyes again, and blushed. Her eyes, brown and wide in an expression of earnest, were suddenly downcast. She had taken his meaning. Her reaction surprised him. She had understood the unspoken question, and yet she flushed with apparent shame. This girl was no common country whore, then.
"Sir," she began, softly. Gently, he slipped a handsome pile of coins under her downturned hand. At his touch, she seemed to soften.
"Will you... warm my bed tonight?" he asked.
It was clear that the gentle frankness with which he spoke pleased her. She gave a single nod.
"Sir... if... you will wait for me, in the room. You shan't be waiting long. I'll just. Sir."
He smiled, hoping to reassure her.
"Thank you." The stairs to the lodgings were sumptuously carpeted, and Bart felt slightly uncomfortable trudging up them in boots filthy with the day's ride. His room, too, appeared to be well worth the cost. A solid, double bed lay in one corner, next to a small table. On the other wall, a tin bath and a basin stood. The wine in his blood made his fingers clumsy as he stripped off cloak, jerkin and trousers. His boots, he arranged neatly at the foot of the bedpost. He made his way to the bed, which was richly quilted, and sat in just his breeches, eager.
*****
She was good to her word. Within a few minutes, the girl appeared in a dainty slip of white cotton, which clung to her large breasts and the mound of her sex. Carefully, she closed the door. Her eyes were shy, but unafraid. Like a leaf, the shift fell from her shoulder to the ground and pooled at her feet.
He gazed at her, again thrilled with desire. His cock sprung hard in an instant. She blushed at his noticing her noticing.
Her breasts were indeed full, a woman's, and in the chill air the brownish nipples stood erect. Now nude as she stood before him, he more charitably noted the charms of her form. Her decidedly feminine curves, the smoothness of her skin. The strength and suppleness of her limbs,her neck, her taut stomach.
Her cunt was unshaven, crowned in blondish fuzz. This only incensed his lust further, so accustomed had he become to the bare sexes of brothel harlots. This girl was no whore, he mused. And yet, with what practiced grace she knelt before him, affording him a delicious gaze down her spine to the muscled buttocks, pressed against her heels. It was almost endearing, the readiness and care with which she took him in her mouth, sliding his breeches simultaneously below his backside.
Her mouth was warm, her lips full and moistened. He felt her tongue gyrate against the base of his cock, and stiffened slightly. He took hold of her braid in one hand and gently tugged at her hair. At first, she flinched ever so slightly, but then she looked up at him and he felt as though her would come right then, staring into the sweet eyes of the
very
obliging taproom wench. She was tender with him, slowly, slowly taking him deeper into her mouth until his cock was slick with saliva. As the pleasure mounted in the base of his cock, he grasped at her braid more firmly. She responded immediately, sliding her lips over the length of him more and more rapidly. Bart gasped, and suddenly realised he'd been holding his breath. His was clearly not the first cock to grace her lips, but the thought bothered him not at all. He imagined, briefly, the lonesome barmaid fucking some pimpled knight now and then, or sucking the cock of some old merchant, too decrepit even to rut.
He sensed, somehow, her surprise that he had lasted so long. Doubtless what experience she had was with lusty wanderers too inebriated to offer much performance, or fat, itinerant pedlars who could barely keep from coming before she got her clothes off. The thought was equal parts amusing and depressing.
She took him in her hand, jerking his slippery cock whilst she took his balls, tentatively in her mouth. Her tongue was attentive and curious, a welcome change from the fierce impatience of a whore. She ran her eager tongue from the bottom of his shaft to its quivering tip. As she brought her lips once more over the head of his member, he shivered with ecstasy. The deliberate care of her movements thrilled him, the almost loving touch of her fingers against his thigh. Gently, she traced the scars that flecked his groin and waist as she began to bob again. Her warmth there, the wetness of her mouth, the feeling of her smooth skin and sweet-smelling hair against his crotch, the coolness of her palms, the ripple of her spine as she undulated rhythmically, the flashes here and there of muscle as she moved. He felt the urgent pressure of his seed about to burst forth.
Straightening on the bed's edge, he was momentarily unsure how she would react to his impending climax. She was certainly aware of it. Would she shrink back and have him shamefully explode over himself? No, she was too devoted a lover to shy from him. Would she gag, and spit his seed into the basin like the whores in Garrow did? Sensuously, as if to reassure him, she slowed her rhythmic movement, taking him deeper into her throat than before. He felt her lips against his pubic bone and grinned at the sucking, gasping, moaning noises she made. He stood and she slid backward deftly, returning his gaze. Her hands rested behind his legs, just below the curve of his buttocks, gripping him tenderly. He felt the spasms of climax roll over his body, and she gave the slightest nod of consent at his look of askance. Instantly, a fountain of come erupted from him, filling her wet mouth. She grinned and blushed again, but her sucking continued. His seed came in a torrent, starts and spurts of it spilling onto her tongue. Eventually, as the faintness came over him, she released him and swallowed deeply, his thick load stickying her gasping mouth.
The maid stepped delicately away and fixed her braid. Without a word, she turned from him and began to cross the room.
Prostrate, his cock still leaping and slick with post-orgasmic excitement, Bart cleared his throat and called urgently;
