Eleanor of Aquitaine Ch. 01

Deftly he unbuttoned the back of my gown and it fell down my shoulders. I slipped my arms from the sleeves and slid the bodice down to my waist, presenting my creamy white breasts to him. He helped himself to a handful of each and ran his thumbs across my sweetly pink nipples, pinching them roughly like a child exacting punishment on his foe at play. I shivered beneath his slow and deliberate touch, swaying wavelike as bursts of pleasure rolled through my body. Hugues pulled me closer to him, and I felt his firm cock between my thighs. Through the fabric of my gown and his habit, he pushed the tip of his erection against my cunny mound, and I drew my breath in quick with wanton thrill.

Hugues drew my skirt upwards to reveal my bare thigh and sex. His touch tapped along the puffy lips framing my throbbing clit, tugging at the tender skin, before he inserted one inquisitive finger inside of me. To my surprise, he was clearly well practiced in the art of pleasure and soon he had two fingers inside and I was gasping without constraint. Encountering my virginal barrier, he withdrew for a second and lifted his fingers to my lips. I tasted my own sweet juice on his finger and he spoke to me: "Since I can't enter you, we're going to have to do something else. It will hurt at first but then I promise it will feel nice. Just tell me to stop if you need."

Before I could respond, he had flipped me over onto all fours, my hands pressed against the cobblestone floor. He pushed my hair to one side and kissed me roughly at the nape of my neck, descending lower and lightly suckling each rounded peak on my spine. I groaned with satisfaction as his hands were all over my ass, squeezing and kneading the soft skin. He caressed my private gash, making me gasp as he inserted a moistened fingertip into my asshole. It hurt terribly and I cried out in pain, but I didn't tell him to stop. He eased his way further inside, ever so gently, spreading the tightness further apart. Soon his probing finger was bringing me pleasure instead of pain, and when I felt his hardened cock nudging my ass, I knew what was coming next. I looked back and he had his thick rod in his grasp. He spit in his hand and rubbed it on himself to facilitate insertion, and I sobbed slightly as he entered me.

Starting out slow and gentle, the monk felt his way through my virginal asshole, stretching it to accommodate his sizable member. Each thrust came with a stinging spasm, but as he continued, it gradually was overshadowed by a unique and surprising pleasure. As he gained momentum, he stretched his hand down to my cunny and massaged my bud while he slid in and out. The friction from his ardent stroking matched with the sensations from behind proved too much for me and he drove me into a rapturous climax.

Not far behind me, he managed a few more thrusts before my tired body sank downwards, grunting as he filled me with his warm cream.

Later that night, I laid awake in bed stroking myself to recollections of my evening with Brother Hugues when a gust of wind shook the window, startling me out of my erotic half-slumber. I glanced around the darkened room through my shady, waking eyes—the only light came from a dwindling fire at the hearth. Petronilla slept deeply across the room. I tried to relax yet there was a sense of foreboding fermenting in that intuitive pit of my stomach, and I could not calm myself.

I stood up quietly as to not wake my sister, and wrapped my shawl tight around me. I opened the door leading to the second floor balcony from our bedroom to retreat into the chilly April night. The stars were magnificent—a cloud could not be seen for miles over the gently rolling and shadowed hills around Bordeaux. Now and then I dozed as I leaned across the heavy stone balustrade, always wakened by a wisp of frigid breeze passing over my face, trickling through my hair, and chilling my fingertips wrapped round the stone. At first, when I heard the cavalcade of horse hooves beating down the drive at the early hour, I thought I must have been dreaming. There were four knights a-horseback, dressed in the travel-stained livery of my father, the Duke of Aquitaine. Coming to alertness, I yawned so far back in my jaw that I heard a click and ran downstairs, praying that these men were here to rescue me and bring me back home to Poitiers.

The Archbishop beat me to it, and I found him deep in a tense discussion with one of the knights—a man I recognized vaguely from court as Sir Harduin. When I appeared at the threshold, the conversation halted immediately. I suddenly became aware of my immodest state of dress when all five pairs of eyes were upon me. I pulled my shawl in closer to cover the spike of my chilled nipples, pronounced through the flimsy linen of my nightgown. Sir Harduin fell into a deep bow at my feet—his three comrades followed. "Lady Eleanor," he said gravely. "I am sorry to announce your father passed away from just a week ago. I appreciate any emotional turmoil you may be experiencing, but I am here to inform you that you have now—as his heir—succeeded the Duchy of Aquitaine. I hereby pledge my allegiance to you, Your Grace."

Within hours, an army had descended upon Ombriere Palace to protect me (apparently I was at risk of an abduction or attack), and according to the Archbishop, my—no longer my father's, but my very own—vassals were heading towards Bordeaux. I suppose I was grieving for my father, but it was not my nature to mourn. Life is too precious to waste a day in black clothing, crying indoors while there was feting and dancing and singing and riding elsewhere. While my father did love Petronilla and I, he was now with his father, beloved mother, my mother, and my poor little brother William Aigret who had lived so briefly. I reasoned that a reunion with four loved ones trumped sticking around with me and my sister.

Petronilla and I hid from my vassals and courtiers wishing to pay respects. It wasn't that I didn't like the attention—I did—it was only when their good wishes turned into requests and political insight that I grew frustrated and abandoned it all together. I was not yet ready to start ruling.

At dinner a fortnight from my ascension, a hushed and judgmental murmur spread through the Great Hall—the sort of murmur reserved for Grandmother Dangerosa. She came in dressed in a scarlet traveling cloak, luxuriant black hair askew from travel. As she advanced towards the dais, I rose to meet her. Her lips turned upwards in a grin, illuminating the catlike eyes that I had inherited. Embracing me tightly, she apologized for her late arrival, but I didn't mind. I was just happy she was here. She was the closest thing Petra and I had to a mother since our own passed when I was eight.

Dangerosa took the seat beside me and the servant poured her a deep goblet of wine.

"How was your journey, grandmother?" I asked politely. In the presence of the court, I tended to ask only the most superficial questions because I never knew who might be listening—a tactic I learned from my father.

"It wasn't terribly long," my grandmother replied between sips, "the whole countryside is ablaze with the news. Everyone is talking of your fathers' death and of your fate."

I nodded slowly, not quite sure what to make of it. "Well we shall see what happens."

"We shall," Grandmother agreed with her trademark wicked grin. "My old bones are exhausted after that ride and I shall retire to my rooms now. I will meet with you later to talk more." She squeezed my hand and was off with a servant and a refilled goblet.

"I've heard Prince Louis is rather monklike and boring," Petronilla said provocatively.

Grandmother scowled at her. "Hush, Petra, let Eleanor form her own opinions about the young man when she meets him."

Petronilla demurely returned to her embroidery and fell uncharacteristically silent. Grandmother turned to me, "Don't worry Eleanor. I'm sure he'll be a wonderful partner." This morning word had come from Paris that the king, Louis the Fat, custodian of my estates until I found a husband, had arranged a marriage between myself and his son, Louis. The news was welcome to my advisors. I have to admit that I was intrigued by the prospect of being Queen, though I knew nothing about the prince. Petronilla seethed with jealousy—she knew of Jaufre and Brother Hugues, and now Louis. She had never so much as been kissed before.

"That's not what I'm worried about, Grandmother. You, of all people, should know that. I've heard he's never even touched a woman. How can I live my life with such a mediocre lover?" I tried not to sound like I was speaking from experience but I had never been able to lie to my grandmother. She always saw right through me—we were too alike, she said.

"I should never be saying this," Dangerosa started, "But you don't have to. You always have options. Hopefully he'll get better at it with time and you will grow to desire him, but if you do not, no one expects you to live a life without passion—as the future queen of France, you will just have to be discreet about it, and careful that you don't get pregnant with another man's child. The northerners are not like us down here in Aquitaine. They'll far more stolid and judgmental. They take their religion quite seriously and dress modestly. They don't like to have fun. I remember once when I accompanied the old duke on a trip to Paris, I had to pose as a minor noble and sleep in a separate bedroom. Had they known who I was, your grandfather said, they never would have received me. And honestly, from what I observed when I was there, I'm sure he was right. There was no singing or dancing at all."

"Why am I marrying him, Grandmother? He sounds so unlike me. I can't even imagine fitting in at the Parisian court. Is there any way I can refuse him?"

"I'm afraid there's not, darling. I know you had very little say in the decision of your betrothal, but it's already been agreed upon and he should be arriving any day now. And I must impress the point—you should not form an opinion of him already. Things do have a way of working out and I'm sure the two of you will grow to love each other very much. And who knows? He very well might be the exception to the rule and prove me wrong about Parisians."