Her room was shrouded in darkness. Only the late afternoon sunlight streaming through the pair of narrow windows high in the wall provided any illumination. Dark draperies and furnishings seemed to drink in what light there was, leaving little for the cold stone walls of the manor to reflect. For the act she was engaged in, however, little illumination was needed.
The steady slap of flesh against flesh punctuated every creak of the bed under their rhythm. The man beneath her groaned, which earned a sneer from lips stained berry red. Dark, jade colored eyes gazed down past the plump swells of her own sweat-sheened breasts toward his broad chest, and her hands slipped forth. The feel of skin dragging under her sharp nails as she raked them along his flesh was intoxicating. The muffled cries that rose from him at the sting of those sharp points simply drove her to ride him even harder.
She hardly recalled his name. Thomas or something. It was unimportant. He was just a stable hand, a servant who knew his place, and today that place was beneath her in a more literal sense than usual. Her breasts heaved and bounced with her quick, needful movements. Muffled moans and the faint clink of the cuffs that bound him met her harsh use. She could care less about him, really, but she loved the feel of that thick cock within her. More than that was how helpless that powerful form was beneath her, between her thighs.
The young noblewoman wished he was someone else, however. The young apprentice smith, with his well built form and boyish good looks would be a true prize. She always got her way, or almost always. But a precious couple days ago, Hafred had the gall to turn her down! It had frustrated her ever since, and she'd taken it out on her own servants, either through harsher treatment, or as in this case, raw need.
"Marissa!" The woman's voice that drifted in upon her frantic coupling grated upon her, despite being as courteous as a call for attention could be expected in that household.
She was so close, she just needed a little more. Marissa's nails once more sank into flesh, this time hard enough to draw blood. She bucked her hips and clenched that hot, heated flesh about the shaft within her. Bound as he was by that ring at the base of his manhood, the poor stable hand could do little besides meet her acts, straining at the cuffs which held him to the bed.
"Come on," the spoiled redhead hissed, "You can do better than that."
His efforts redoubled, and she found herself riding that growing wave of pleasure, ever closer to her peak. Her breath came in sharp gasps, her hips bucked raggedly against the bound man below.
"Marissa! Your father demands your presence now!"
Crying out in frustration, she stopped her movements. Hands flung down to pound at the servant's chest, taking out her ire upon his helpless form. Muffled grunts were the only response her tantrum elicited. Panting still, she drew herself up and off of that still rigid shaft.
"Mariss-"
"I'll be right down! My the Dark One take you." She screeched her response out, if only to silence the repeated calls. Couldn't the woman use a servant to summon her like any civilized person? But she could hardly fault her father's lover for not knowing how to handle a noble estate properly.
With hair and curves still damp with perspiration, she threw a simple black dress on, and tugged it over her figure. It hardly came to mid thigh, all too daring to wear without additional skirts. Yet she made no move to gather any. Catching a glimpse of herself in the full length mirror by her bed, Marissa smoothed a hand along her frame. Even with those coppery curls mussed and her skin flushed, she was still the very image of desire. She could have any man in the village. Hafred was a fool to refuse her.
As she turned toward the door, the man still bound upon the bed gave a muffled cry. Marissa turned her eyes toward Thomas, then a cruel smile crossed her features. She stepped forth toward that bed, then traced a single, long nailed finger along his hard arousal. Still slick with her juices, a single drop of his own beaded on the tip, having managed to escape the constriction of that ring.
The redhead gathered that translucent fluid on one fingertip, then watched his reaction as she sucked it from her own digit. Cheeks hollowed as red lips pursed, then she languidly traced the tip of her tongue along that long nail.
"Don't you dare move a muscle," she taunted, "And you had best still be hard when I return."
Ignoring the servant's protests, she slipped out of her chambers, and padded down the quiet corridors toward the manor's great hall. Barefoot, and with scandalously bare legs, she knew quite well that her father would guess at what she had been up to. It amused her to flaunt herself before him, fully aware of how his gaze upon her had changed since she'd grown into full womanhood. If not for Isolde, she'd have him wrapped about her finger like all the rest.
Isolde. The woman enraged her. Marissa couldn't understand what her father saw in the bitch.
The great hall itself was relatively quiet. A broad chamber with high ceiling supported by wooden beams, it had long been the seat of power over Ingley. Tapestries upon the walls did their part to trap the warmth from the grand hearth, and though their colorful depictions of victories past might have interested some, the young noblewoman found them incredibly boring.
The long tables that occupied most of the room stood empty, the wood dry and dusty. It had been many a year since Squire George had entertained guests. Like her own chambers, the great hall was ill lit. A few windows high up in the ceiling had their shutters thrown wide, to allow thin beams of light to strike down from above. Aside from this, only the hearth's flames provided any light.
A lone footman knelt by the opposite entry to the hall. Marissa was well aware of how his wanting eyes followed her smooth, pale legs as they scissored with each step. She intentionally put a further sway to her hips, to reward his gaze.
Before the hearth, two high backed chairs stood, angled toward one another so that their occupants might speak. Only one was occupied, however. George of Ingley, named Squire in his youth, was nominal ruler of Ingley village and its surroundings. His lack of ambition and generally foul disposition had stifled his ascent to higher rank. Since the loss of his wife, he had only further closed himself off from the outside world. The lone exceptions besides the servants were his daughter Marissa and his lover Isolde.
Now George was a shadow of his former self. Gray haired and weak, he appeared frail and worried most of the time. Isolde was a scold and a fuss, and the strain of living up to her demands was taking as much a toll on the old Squire as the passing of any amount of years.
