The Marechal Chronicles: Volume 2, The Hunter (An Erotic Fantasy Tale)

The interminable evening with Lord Perene had finally ended and the Marechal found his bedchamber quite comfortable, if not somewhat cold. He undressed quickly, down to bare skin, and slipped between the many layers of quilts and blankets laid upon the baldaquin bed.

He blew out the candle at his bedside and stared in the darkness at the low red coals upon the grates of the fireplace. They had been hurriedly dumped there and not long ago. He doubted it would do much to warm the room and wondered mildly if he should have kept his shirt.

Choosing not to move instead, he considered the words of Lord Perene earlier, just before the man's idiot son affronted the maidservant.

It would seem that I must read those passages written by Bellamere before I continue south, he thought. Details that would be of little notice, even to a collector accustomed to sifting through the words of rare texts, might be hidden in the recounting of the tale. Already, there was the name of St. Lucq mentioned, and for that alone he determined that he must find some means of reading those pages. It would be delicate and would call for subtlety as Lord Perene would laud it over him, no doubt looking for some means of exacting a price. He would need to be prudent with his request. Or, perhaps, manage the thing without their notice.

A small noise just outside his door drew his attention. The fine line of light from the corridor, at the base of the door, had begun to grow larger in tiny increments.

Then, a diaphanous shape filled the doorway, making no sound, much as a phantom might move. Except that this phantom let out a small hiss stepping onto the cold flagstone floor, shutting the door behind it, then glided across the room to come to rest at the Marechal's bedside.

Bemused, he said, "Helene. Have you come to check on the comfort of your father's guest?"

She replied, "Ah, you have not yet found sweet repose, dear Marechal. I fear that the room is too cool for a valued person such as yourself.

"Will you permit me to apologize?" she asked and then, without waiting for him to reply, her thin night robe dropped from her shoulders. In silhouette, he could see her rigid nipples and slim, smooth waist, just before she slipped under the quilts beside him.

He said nothing as she nuzzled in close to him, bare skin upon bare skin. Hers was cool, dry, and soft in a way that reminded him of the ripe skin of an afternoon peach, freshly picked from the branch.

"Isn't this better, Marechal? I had thought to send the servants for a bed warmer of hot coals brought up from the kitchen ovens, but then I thought of a better solution, a more intimate answer to the chill evening air."

Her voice was softer than the blankets and she paused, waiting for him to fill in the moment, but he said nothing, nor did he move in the slightest.

Her hands found him and touched his chest, searching, until she found the line of the scar that started at his jaw. She traced its lightning strike shape, lingering at his collarbone, before continuing upward to caress, at last, his cheek.

She turned herself half over, draping a leg across his thigh. He could feel her downy hairs below brushing against his leg, promising warmth in its velvet confines. Her hand drifted back the way that it had come, her touch light across the muscles of his torso, still following the jagged track of a scar that did not seem to end.

With a brusque movement, he seized her wrist in a grip of iron. It was sudden and when she jerked back in surprise, she discovered that he did not move in the slightest, as if her wrist had been encircled by an oak that refused to bend in the wind.

"What do you want, Helene? I watched you this evening and could see the gears turning behind your eyes, all that you see caught up in the clockwork of your thoughts.

"I doubt that you do the least thing without some well considered motive."

She smiled, casting her eyes downward, demurring for the moment. She turned away from him slightly, the loose curls of her coiffure slipping from their braided confinement. Her neck curved gracefully in a way that she knew men found captivating, supple and elegant in its charm.

The Marechal's grip loosened upon her wrist and she slipped smoothly from his grasp only to place her hand upon the well defined muscles of his abdomen. There she found fine hairs that descended from his navel, coarsening and thickening under her searching fingertips, until she reached lower still, her fingers spread wide, to the hair between his legs, letting it fill the spaces between them.

She held him and he was rock hard, as rigid as his grip had been a moment earlier. He reached out to her, touching the outline of her side and the ribs that would show just under her silky skin. He brushed the side of her breast before taking it into the palm of his hand. She was not an overly endowed woman, a perfectly delicate equilibrium showing in her noble bloodlines. The light frame and structure of her body reflected in her delicate breasts, tipped with small nipples. He had no doubt that in daylight they were champagne pink in color and that her breasts as exquisitely formed as the finest crystal goblet.

He rolled her nipple between forefinger and thumb, thinking of how she had grown very still, even while holding him firmly in her hand under the quilts. She laughed lightly as he squeezed before she pushed his hand away.

She lifted up the quilts and then dived away and underneath them, her elegant body graceful in its every movement. Instantly, the Marechal felt warm, humid breath before she closed her lips around him. Her tongue danced around the tip of his cock, light as a feather, from one side to the other in small circles that took his breath away. It was nearly too much and he had to steel himself from pulling back and away from her.

Sensing him and the tension in his legs, she changed the dance of her tongue, skipping as lightly as ever before coming to rest firmly under his head, where her tongue flattened and pressed him with an amazing firmness before lifting up every so slowly in a long, single stroke that stopped short of the tip.

Despite his self control, his desire of self mastery, the Marechal groaned in pleasure.

He felt her smile then, believing that she had won, before she took him entirely inside her mouth, descending in luscious full movements, accompanied by a tongue that danced as if fevered.

Her hand slipped around his sack, cupping him, then she held two finger underneath it and pressed firmly. Inside her mouth she could feel him growing fuller under the pressure of her fingers, his tumescence heightening as she continued her fervent rhythm.

The Marechal reached out to her, to run his hand along the inside of her thigh, searching for the velvet hairs he had felt earlier. Finding them, he touched her lightly, only to find her cool and dry. In the same moment, she came to a sudden stop, her mouth suddenly less welcoming as she let her teeth rake down the side of his shaft. It was just short of unpleasant and the Marechal read the warning in her breath.

She twisted her buttocks from his grasp, then returned to the rhythm of her mouth upon him. She fondled his balls, returning her fingers to press again and again just below, where the root of his erection began before giving way to his anus.

What game is this? he asked himself, then decided that he would see it to the end.

Her tongue lapped at him and danced, and with a heave of his long thighs, the Marechal thrust himself into her mouth, matching her rhythm, daring her to back away. She came back at him with force and did not hesitate to take him even deeper.

The faint glow in the hearth had fallen down to mere embers while the two of them broke into fine sweat. The elegant, fine lips of a noblewoman held him, and despite him, she was his match. She did not release him, nor did her tongue tire of the deep lapping strokes at the underside of his cock, until the Marechal could contain himself no longer, biting down hard, his jaw clenched, then the breath hissing out from between his teeth as the veins just under the skin of his hips lifted, as the motion of his abdomen stilled, tensing in the instant. He rose up off the bed, his back arched, and came hard into her mouth. He came like the lashes of a whip, striking out at the nobleman's daughter, yet she was his match and took all that he had to give.

She slipped out of the quilts, stooping lightly to the floor for her robe, and put it on before turning back to the Marechal.

"My father grows old and my brother is a fool, so our future falls to me and the small measures at my disposal. What I want is protection for my family...for my house, Marechal. You are an influential man, so I have offered what I have to give. I trust in your honor as a gallant man that you shall not forget it."

She padded lightly to the chamber door before letting herself out.

The coals in the hearth had fallen to ash. The Marechal frowned as he remembered her smile and the way it did not reach her eyes...even if he had to admit that he no longer felt the chill air.