The Inn

Author's note: this is my first real serial on Literotica. I'll be publishing the chapters as I write them instead of finishing the whole story first the way I normally do. So it may be a bit longer between installments than usual. No idea how long it will run. Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy it!

*****

Chapter One:

In the middle of a wonderful hedge-maze I found a carved marble bench to sit on, where with one leg crossed beneath my notebook, I began to write. The slightly brisk British morning air, the blue sky making a long, bright panel atop the looming green of the hedges, the distant sounds of English birds - every speck of sensation felt at once peaceful and alive, a perfect muse of an environment, brimming with creative promise.

"If you're ever in England and want to stay in a castle, Mister Kettridge, look me up,"

Lord Eric Weltfordshire had told me at a convention two years earlier. I almost hadn't done it - in fact, I'd almost thrown away his number that very night. But for whatever reason, I'd held onto the regally emblazoned calling-card, and when the invitation to this book launch in London came up, I'd decided what the hell, and gave him a call.

And now here I sat, having been picked up at Heathrow the evening before by a chauffer in a vintage Bentley, spirited out to the countryside on impossibly spacious, immaculate leather upholstery, and then literally treated like royalty by Lord Weltfordshire's staff until bedtime. Even my nervousness of having to sit around making conversation with a fan for hours hadn't materialized, because Weltfordshire had some overnight aristocratic engagement to attend and left right after dinner - an outrageously elegant feast the likes of which I'd never consumed in my life, made even better by the fact that Eric turned out to be a clever and engaging host with just the right combination of fanboy nerdishness and highborn British accent.

The only awkward moment came when he gave me a present - a sapphire blue fountain pen with fittings that for the life of me looked like real gold. He said it had been in his family for ages, and I tried every which way to turn it down gracefully, but he insisted with such good cheer and charm that I really ended up with no choice.

"It's small recompense for all the hours of joy and contemplation your books have given me," he said.

Now, after a fantastic night's sleep in the most comfortable bed I'd ever experienced, and with several hours to go before time to leave for my book launch, I decided I'd write my host an original story, just a brief one, as a token of thanks. My new pen turned out to be a marvel - weighted and balanced just right, with ink that flowed smoothly, effortlessly onto the page and never blobbed or smeared. Before I knew it, I'd finished the first page and moved on to the second. And then the third, and then the fourth. Fifth. Sixth. The story absorbed me. I stopped counting.

And then ...

A raindrop smacked down onto the open notebook, making me blink.

The light, I realized, had gone dim. When I looked up, I found the hedges around me topped with a ceiling of dark cloud, heavy and portentous. More drops hit with leaden weight against the bench, the gravel walk, the manicured lawn.

I'm about to get drenched,

I thought. Shutting the notebook, I capped my pen and put it in a pocket.

Which way out of the maze?

I hurried across the close-clipped grass to the break in the hedges through which I'd entered. Rain tickled and spattered against the leaves, making them quiver, random drops giving me a tap or two on the head, running through my hair to the scalp. Thunder sounded off to my left. How had I missed the storm approaching? And how long had I been sitting there writing? I hadn't brought my phone with me - it still sat charging on the nightstand in my room.

I'm going to miss the launch.

Surely not. Surely I hadn't been out here that long. But the rain fell steadily now, and I couldn't remember which turn to take to get out of the maze.

More thunder. Closer.

The skies opened up.

I ran through sheets of rain so thick I could barely see the hedges around me, navigating more by the sound of the storm hissing off their leaves than by actual sight. Instinctively, I huddled my notebook against my chest and moved bent over to keep it from getting soaked and ruining all the work I'd put into writing that story.

Lightning flashed across the narrow strip of sky overhead, providing a moment of light in the night-black downpour.

'Author Simon Kettridge was found this afternoon on the estate of Lord Eric Weltfordshire, drowned by a freak storm.'

I tried to laugh at the idea, but the water gushed down on me so hard I almost thought it would push me to the ground.

Is that a gap up ahead?

It was. A narrow column of greyish-black instead of greenish-black. Another flash of lightning confirmed it - the way opened up in front of me instead of just making another turn or intersection with a new corridor of the maze. I dashed forward. Something snatched at my right foot - I tripped, fell -

Lightning. A crack of thunder as I slammed to the ground, losing my grip on the notebook. More thunder, rolling in closer and closer as I tried to get to my feet, dazed. Strangely, this new barrage of thunderclaps had a steady cadence, and didn't follow on the heels of a series of flashing bolts. Instead, it came at me, I swore, from ground level.

And then it shrieked, just as a female voice cried, "Hey!"

Now the lightning came again, and as I staggered up, I found an enormous stallion rearing over me, hooves flailing, its rider pulling at its reins for control.

"Jesus Christ!" I yelled, jerking backward and instantly falling to my ass in the mud. The shriek sounded again as the hooves came down right beside me, and I recognized the sound as a horse's whinny of alarm.

"

Ofara's hairy cunt!

" swore the rider, regaining control of her mount. "Are you trying to get yourself killed?"

I froze, hands and butt planted in ice-cold muck, rain streaming down my forehead through my eyes.

"

What

did you say?" I shouted, unable to believe my ears.

"I

said

, are you trying to get yourself killed?" she shouted back.

"No, before that!"

"Oh, gods of all fucking," she said. "You're not some priest going to lecture me about language while the storm's trying to drown us both, are you?"

This can't be happening,

I thought. And then,

Of course it can. Weltfordshire's more than rich enough to hire somebody for a gag like this.

"Eric hired you, right?" I asked the mounted figure through the rain and dark. "Lord Weltfordshire?"

"No idea what you're talking about!" she shouted down at me. "Are you going to just sit there on your arse waiting for the road to flood and sweep you away?"

Another stroke of lightning showed me her face, at last. Oval, flawless, the skin a rich, earthy brown, the eyes black as night yet somehow flashing at the same time, lips full and sensual, eyebrows sharp, sarcastic ...

Juliette Ravendark.

What the fuck?

It had to be Weltfordshire. But where had he found such a dead ringer for my most famous character?

And is he rich enough to somehow pay for a thunderstorm to come up out of nowhere?

Of course not, but I told myself the storm must just be coincidence.

"Hello! Did you get brained by a hoof? Are you getting up, or not?"

I maneuvered my feet under me and tottered up, staring at her, though the dark had closed back in and she was barely a shadow in the curtain-thick rain.

"Look," I said, "I don't know -"

A gloved hand thrust down through the rain at me. "Shut up! I've been riding half the day and I'm chilled to the bone! It's maybe a quarter-hour more to Piperville. Do you want a ride, or will you stay here and try your hand at suicide again when the next horseman comes along?"

I glanced around but could see nothing of the manor or even the hedge-maze behind me. It looked almost as if I'd run out of a stand of woods.

"Well?"

My clothes were sodden by this point, and the cold had started to get to me. I could either tell her off and try to find my way back to Lord Weltfordshire's mansion, or I could play along and let her take me wherever this practical joke was meant to take me.

Reaching up with my hand, I said, "I guess I'll -"

But she grabbed my arm and heaved before I could finish the sentence, and quick as that, she'd swung me up behind her in the saddle and whipped the reins to get us moving. I had to grab on around her waist or I would have fallen.

This is fucking crazy,

I thought. Finding a woman who

looked

exactly like I'd always imagined and described Juliette was one thing. Finding one who also had the raw muscle-power to lift me up one-handed like a doll? Surely it wasn't even possible.

Well, what's your alternative, Simon? Are you thinking this is really the Phaeland Empire and the ass you're bumping up against belongs to Juliette Ravendark?

I didn't answer that question, though. Because I realized that I was, in fact, bumping up against a woman's ass with every galloping lunge of the horse's body beneath us. And I had my hands around her waist, which felt at once powerful and supple, and my belly was pressed against her spine.

Oh, crap. I'm about to embarrass the hell out of myself with this actress or whoever she is by getting a boner right in her ass-crack. Think about something else, Simon. Think about how cold you are. Think about the fact that you're missing the goddamn book launch that's the whole reason you came on this trip.

But instead, all I could think about was Juliette Ravendark - my perfect heroine, my narrator for nine straight books, strong and skilled and beautiful and bawdy with a laugh to make men quiver in fear or tremble with delight depending on how she used it. Six feet of sublime dark flesh, almost inhuman strength, and a brazen set of larger-than-life appetites that I'd spent most of my literary career developing - and more than a few masturbational hours fantasizing about. How many times had I had my hands around her before, daydreaming? How many times had I imagined us this close, usually with her looming over me, powerful, in control, riding us both into an ecstatic sunset of orgasm?

My dick went as hard as the handle on one of her swords. I couldn't help it. Maybe this was just a prank by Lord Weltfordshire, but he'd put me in a position that was the greatest wish of my adult life: to touch the most amazing woman who'd ever lived in any man's imagination.

Fuck it,

I thought.

Weltfordshire's paying her, right? And it's not like I'm

trying

to have a boner. Just enjoy the ride and apologize to her when we get wherever we're going.

So I spent the next fifteen minutes nursing an erection against this woman's wonderful derriere, as the downpour went to a steady rain and then a drizzle, clouds lightening until we could see storm-doused green farmlands to either side, a line of dark woods behind us, and a rustic little township spread out to either side of the road ahead.

Not a power line or satellite dish in sight. Not an air-conditioning unit. Not a car. The few people out in the misty streets wore clothing straight off a fantasy novel cover, except a little more drab and plebian. We clopped up in front of a perfectly medieval inn, where my benefactor swung a leg up and over to slide lightly to the ground, then turned and offered me a hand down after her.

When I made it to earth, though, she didn't release her grip.

"Felt like you were more than a little glad of the ride, eh?" she asked. The tilt of her smile and the upward nudge of one fine, dark eyebrow made it clear exactly what she meant. And in case I'd been too dumb to read that expression, her eyes flicked down at my crotch for just a second to erase any doubt.

"Look, I'm sorry," I said, both hands up. "I wasn't trying to -"

She laughed that laugh, flashed those amazing white teeth, exactly the way I'd always imagined her doing. Something inside me glowed in disbelief. With the sky grey instead of black and the rain no longer blurring my vision, I could see her clearly now, a marvel in road-scruffed, water-logged clothes, a couple of inches taller than me, silky black hair pulled back in a tail with a few stray strands sticking slickly to her deep cocoa skin. She had on a loose-sleeved ivory shirt beneath a vest of plum-colored leather, sword belts and then tight black breeches below that, knee-high boots rounding her ensemble out. No jewelry of any kind.

Damn, Eric really did an amazing -

She had the notch midway along the upper curve of her left ear. It was small, but noticeable - an old cut, long healed.

"Where are we?" I asked her.

"Piperville. I told you." She turned, tied the horse up, and headed for the door of the inn, stripping off her gloves as she went. "You coming in? I'm going to rent a room, hang these clothes in front of a fire and wring the water from my hair. Wouldn't mind testing out that bar in your pants if you'd like to do me a turn as payback for the ride."

I just stood and stared.

He couldn't have found someone like this. The face, the build,

that

strong, with

that

scar. What the fuck is going on here?

"Are you right in the head?" she asked, lifting her eyebrows slightly. "Didn't hear me? Promised to some girl, or taken a vow of celibacy?"

"I don't know if I'm right in the head or not," I said honestly. "Um, I heard you, not promised to anyone, no vows."

"Then ...?"

Whatever the fuck was going on, this woman apparently wanted to have sex with me. This gorgeous, powerful woman who looked exactly like the woman of my dreams. I might have had a mental breakdown. I might have slipped and hit my head. I might be dreaming. Lord Weltfordshire might be playing the world's most elaborate practical joke on me, complete with a custom-built medieval town and a lead actress willing to cut off part of her ear to complete the picture.

Regardless of which scenario I picked, she was still saying she wanted to have sex with me.

"I ... would ... definitely be willing to do you a turn," I said, stepping up to the inn's wooden stoop.

She grinned and held out a hand. "Better. I'm Juliette."

"Simon," I said, taking the hand in mine, shaking it, and feeling enough strength there to pulverize every bone in my hand, though she didn't squeeze particularly hard at all.

"Come on, then, Simon," she said, opening the door. "Let's see what you've got."

Following her inside, I found myself in the inn's common room, a wide and deep space dominated at the far side by a substantial bar and at its left end by a fireplace the size of Citizen Kane's - though considerably less fancy. A flotilla of tables filled the area, while a stairway on the right ran up to the second story. Light came from the fireplace, two smallish windows, some oil lamps in sconces behind the bar - and a corner table where a man in robes sat reading. Juliette walked forward toward a young blonde woman in a plain sky-blue dress who stood whisking a broom across the floor near the stairs.

I blinked several times at the one bright corner table.

The light by which the man sat reading had no source.

It was just a floating ball of blue illumination hovering a bit above the grey-bearded fellow's eye level. After a moment he noticed me looking and gave me a scowl. I turned quickly away to find Juliette handing a coin over to the blonde - who was smooth-skinned and stacked in a way that normally would have had me drooling, but currently just added to my sense of being wrapped up in a hallucination.

"That's a fine cut of clothing for someone who acts like he's never been inside an inn," said Juliette as I drew even with her. The bob-haired blonde had headed over toward the bar.

I looked down and plucked at my soggy dress shirt. "Maybe I'm just from a place where inns are a little different."

Behind the bar, the serving girl rifled through a collection of keys hanging in a shallow cabinet on the wall.

"Do they have beds in the inns you're used to?" asked Juliette with a wicked lift of her eyebrow.

"Yes."

"Then this one will probably be close enough."

No shit,

I thought.

The blonde came back with a long iron key, handed it to Juliette. "Number three, up the stairs and to your left. I'll get your horse around to the stable and bring in your saddlebags."

"Thank you, Leyna," Juliette said with a smile, reminding me that I'd made her both good with names and nice to people. Hopefully, I was about to find out

how

nice. With a toss of her head, she beckoned me to follow her toward the stairs.

On the second floor, our room proved modest. A bed just larger than a twin, a small table with a stool, a tiny window, a chamber pot. But it had its own fireplace - cast-iron with a pipe running up through the ceiling. After pulling her boots off, Juliette went directly to it, took a tinderbox from the little shelf nearby, and got the wood inside going with a few clicks of the striker.

My throbbing cock was very glad I'd given this world alchemists cheap enough for inns to afford pre-treated wood. It really didn't want to wait ten minutes for Juliette to fuss over a bunch of kindling and fire-starting.

With flames licking up from the firewood already, she closed the grate, stood, and shucked her vest. Beneath it, the ivory shirt had mostly been spared from the rain. She undid its buttons and tipped her chin up at me.

"The quicker you get out of those, the quicker you'll dry off. And then the quicker we can both get strategically wet. If you know what I mean."

I swallowed and unbuttoned my dress shirt - slowly, because I couldn't help staring at her in awe. As she peeled herself out of the soaked sleeves of her top, Juliette revealed a physique just shy of a female weight-lifter's. Not one of those blocky East European ones from the Olympics, I mean - the kind you see posing in bikinis for sports-channel competitions. Except that she wasn't posing, and she had enough body fat to avoid that ripped, veiny look.

And she had scars.

Not a lot of them - I hadn't written her on the losing end of too many fights, and she didn't let a blade get past her guard often - but they were there, and obvious, and real. Across her left bicep swept four parallel marks where a Herkathian lion had slashed her in her teens.

Definitely dreaming or hit my head.

Juliette squeezed her long, black hair out and then ruffled it with the dry part of her shirt. I watched her as I absently finished the buttons on my shirt and doffed it. Her breasts, full and rich and gleaming from the rain, strained at a simple brassiere that laced up the front. You'd never get away with that design at Victoria's Secret - very unsexy and just meant to hold things in place while riding or fighting. The only advantage from where I stood was that it took her a while to loosen the laces, so I had time to get my shoes and pants off as I watched her.

And as she watched me.

If this had been real life, those eyes - deep brown and piercing - would have had me a bit nervous as I stripped. I'm a pretty good-looking guy, average height, dirty-blond hair that I keep neatly trimmed, and you can probably tell I go to the gym, though not quite as often as I should. But I was a scrawny runt in high school, and that left me self-conscious about undressing in front of a good-looking woman.

In this case, though, the play of Juliette's muscles as she unlaced her bra combined with my sense of surreality to keep me from worrying. Since this

had

to be a dream, she might turn into my high-school geometry teacher at any moment, but for now she obviously liked what she saw ... and what

I

saw left me dazzled.