Table & Bed

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Gallantry is rewarded.
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Alex De Kok
Alex De Kok
1,354 Followers

The agonized scream that pierced the hazy somnolence of the afternoon was muffled in the thick carpeting of needles under the pine trees. Geran reined his horse to a halt, listening, his heart pounding. The scream came again. Animal or human, he could not tell, but it was close. He swung easily from the saddle of his gelding, tying it quickly to a convenient branch. He eased the short sword in the scabbard at his side, then strung the longbow that had been slung over his shoulder.

With an arrow nocked he eased his way between the trees until he could see the trail ahead. He moved cautiously, careful where he placed his feet, easing forward. He stopped as movement caught his eye. A roughly-dressed figure, coarse-featured, had stood upright for a moment, then bent again. Geran eased forward, soft, silent, then drew in his breath.

Ambush! A body was sprawled slackly beside a dead horse. Whether male or female Geran couldn't tell, the tunic and trousers very much like his own, the features concealed by the horse. The man he had spotted was now bent over another. An arrow protruded from the supine figure's leg. As Geran watched, the outlaw took hold of the arrow and moved it, causing a fresh cry of anguish from the victim, a mirthless laugh from his assailant.

Geran moved his attention away from the torture. Three others were in the clearing, two of them apparently from the same band as the torturer. One of them held the third with her arms twisted behind her back; the other reached out and as Geran watched ripped the tunic from the girl's torso, revealing her slim perfection. The man reached out a filthy hand and squeezed the girl's breast, egged on by his companion.

Geran made his choice and stepped out into the clearing, drawing the bowstring back. No sooner had he done so than the single attacker by the downed figure was dead, pierced by Geran's first arrow. The noise of his fall drew the instant attention of his companions and a part of Geran's mind took a moment to admire their discipline as they seized their weapons, pushing the girl away from them in a stumbling run, then separated as they came towards him. The nearer brigand was down almost instantly, an arrow through his chest. The third halted, uncertain, confused, and died that way, still bewildered by the speed of the weapon which had killed his companions. Geran nocked a fourth arrow and stepped forward, cautious.

The girl, the ragged remnants of her tunic held to her chest, regarded him, uncertain, poised for flight. He smiled to reassure her and stooped to the outlaw who had died last. Geran put a hand to the man's throat to make sure and the absence of pulse let him relax. Checking the others was the work of moments and he turned to the girl. She regarded him steadily, wary, yet no sign of fear on her face.

Geran smiled and gestured to the figure with the arrow in its leg. "We must help your companion."

The girl nodded and ran to the moaning figure. As Geran got closer he saw that it was a young man, a boy rather, and the missile had pierced the meaty part of his thigh. 'Crossbow', thought Geran, that must be why they charged me. They expected me to be using a crossbow, too, and would be slow in reloading. They mustn't have seen the longbow before. He turned to the girl, on her knees beside him, her face anxious.

"Are these bolts barbed?" he asked, indicating the missile in the boy's leg.

"Yes, they are," she replied, her voice low and throaty, attractive.

"In that case I'll have to push it through, before your friend wakens."

"My brother," she said quietly. "How can I help?"

"Hold him steady. If he wakes he'll think I'm torturing him."

"I am awake." The voice was thin with pain, but steady.

There was a dagger in the boy's belt and Geran took it from its sheath. The girl stiffened in alarm. Geran smiled and flipped the weapon so that he was holding the blade. He turned to the boy.

"Bite on this," he said, offering the hilt to the boy's mouth. "What I am going to do will hurt." The boy bit on the hilt and Geran turned to the girl. "Hold him firmly, while I get this bolt out."

Careless of her torn tunic, the girl took her brother by the shoulders. As he turned to the missile, Geran could not help but glimpse the loveliness of her shapely breasts. Glimpse too the flush which suffused her face. He was careful not to look at her, to preserve in some way a shred of dignity for the girl. The crossbow bolt had penetrated the meat of the boy's thigh. Geran felt carefully at the back of the leg and was rewarded by the feel of a hard lump in the flesh. The bolt was almost through. He turned to the boy.

"Ready?" he asked. The boy nodded, the dagger hilt clenched in his teeth. On his shoulders his sister's knuckles whitened. Without hesitation, Geran pushed hard on the bolt, pushing it through the boy's leg. The scream was muffled by the dagger hilt clenched in the boy's mouth, then the weapon dropped to the ground as the boy fainted. Geran quickly checked and was rewarded by a firm pulse.

"Is he..." the girl began, her hands at her mouth.

Geran shook his head. "He fainted." He looked the girl in the eye. "I need bandages."

She nodded and stripped the torn remnants of her tunic from her torso. There was a high spot of colour in her cheeks as she held the rags out to Geran. "This is all I have."

Geran smiled and pointed. "Over there in the trees you will find my horse. In the saddlebag you will find two clean shirts. Wear one and bring me the other," he said. "Go!" he said as she hesitated. She leaped to her feet and ran.

Geran turned to her brother. He took a deep breath then snapped the bolt where it protruded beneath the boy's thigh, before taking a firm hold of the feathered end of the shaft and tugging firmly, to be rewarded by the sight of the broken shaft coming free from the wound.

Running feet approached and the girl scrambled to a stop beside him, carrying both shirts. She held one out to him and as he took his dagger to slit it into strips, hastily donned the other. Geran slit the boy's breeches with his dagger, then quickly bandaged the wounded leg. The bandages reddened as he applied them, but as he wound a further layer around the leg he was relieved to see that the bleeding seemed no worse. 'Not the artery', he thought, relieved.

"Will he live?" asked the girl, tension in her tone.

"He should be fine, if we can get him to a bed and shelter," said Geran. "What is near?"

"We were almost home when we were attacked," she said. "It is but five miles further, sir." She sniffed and dashed her hand across her eyes. She pointed. "Aldor was killed in the attack. I think they were after me," she said in a small voice.

"What makes you think so?" asked Geran.

The girl drew herself up proudly. "I am Illana n'Ellora, House Pesdal. I would bring high ransom."

“I think they had baser things in mind,” said Geran. He bowed courteously to her. "Fral Pesdal, allow me to introduce myself. Geran m'Handor, House Tolnan."

"You are well come, sir," she said. She looked around. "The other horses bolted."

"Would you go and fetch mine, please. Your brother needs to ride." The girl nodded and ran back into the trees, returning in moments with Geran's gelding. Geran went over to the body beside the dead horse, then smiled in spite of himself. The 'dead' body was on its knees, shaking its head. As Geran neared, the man looked up, a scowl of rage on his bloodied face and staggered to his feet, groping for the sword at his belt.

"Aldor! No!" The girl's voice was shrill with entreaty.

Aldor stopped, his sword half drawn. "My lady?" he said.

"I am a friend," said Geran. He gestured. "Your attackers are bested."

Aldor looked around him, dazed, and put his hand to his head, wincing, his hand coming away bloodied. Geran stepped closer and studied the wound.

"You have a hard head, my friend," he said. "It looks as if a crossbow bolt has hit your head at an angle, then bounced off your skull. The wound is messy and will need stitching."

"Let us get the lass safe home first, then we can look to stitching me," Aldor growled. "How is Jonal?"

"The lad?"

"Aye."

"A hole in his leg, but he'll live. Can you give me a hand getting him on my horse?"

"That much I can. I think." Aldor put his hand to his head and winced again.

Very shortly they had Jonal on Geran's horse, his sister leading it. Geran took point and Aldor, his head hastily bandaged, rearguard. Geran led off and they had gone scarcely five hundred paces when they came to a clearing where three horses were tethered. From their equipment Geran guessed they were the outlaws' mounts. Mounted now, Geran led off again. They had gone but a mile further when a thunder of hooves alerted them and Geran led the way off the road, but when the ten riders came into sight, Illana uttered a joyful cry, spurred her horse onto the trail and waited. Geran followed Aldor onto the trail as the riders drew their horses to a halt.

"My lady," said the leader, a lean, scarred veteran, giving a quick but searching glance at Geran, "we feared the worst. Two horses came back riderless, Jonal's with blood on the saddle."

"But for this gallant warrior, I fear Jonal and Aldor would be dead. Myself...," she broke off, shuddering.

The soldier turned his full attention to Geran, studying him carefully. He nodded. "We owe you thanks, sir. May I ask your name?"

Before Geran could reply, Illana spoke. "He is Geran Tolnan, and he is my guest."

The man nodded. "My lady." He turned to Geran and held out his hand. "I am Seth Dulan, Captain of the Lady Ellora's guards." His clasp was firm. "Come, let's return and get Aldor and Jonal medical attention."

Within the hour Geran was being shown to an elegant guest room within the fortified house, castle almost, which was the home of the Lady Ellora and her family. Courteous attendants brought fresh apparel for him, and his travel stained clothing was taken away to be cleaned. The senior attendant, a slender woman in her middle twenties, alone remained. Adjusting the flow of hot water into his bath, she smiled at him.

"Is there anything else my lord desires?" she asked, unmistakable meaning in her question, bent as she was over the bath, her smile broadening, cheeks dimpling, as his eyes were drawn to the sensuous cleft between her breasts.

Geran chose to ignore the obvious invitation. "Thank you, no," he said, smiling at her. Seeing her obvious disappointment, he softened his refusal. "Perhaps later."

"Does my lord then require a bath attendant?" she asked hopefully.

About to refuse, he thought, 'why not?', and smiled at her. "That would be pleasant."

She smiled. "If my lord would care to disrobe and step into the bath, I will join him in a moment."

"Very well," said Geran, and discarded the loose robe which had replaced his riding clothes. He was aware of the admiring glance from the attendant as she left the bathing room, aware too of her quick appraisal of his dormant prick. Geran stepped down into the bath and eased himself into the warm water, stretching out comfortably, his head on the padded rest provided.

The attendant was as good as her word, coming in with an armful of towels and a bag slung from her shoulder with what he assumed were oils and unguents. He tried not to stare, for she had discarded her robe and had a mere scrap of cloth twisted about her hips. She had tied her long, dark hair up and her breasts were bare. Bare and beautiful, and he felt his prick stir in the warm water. She loosened and discarded the cloth and stepped naked down into the huge bath. She reached to the bag she had placed at the bath side and took out a bottle of oil and a strigil.

"Would my lord please lie on the bath side?" she asked, indicating the length of soft matting laid along one edge. "Face down," she added.

Geran did as she bade him and soon felt strong hands rubbing the oil into his skin, then the scraping of the strigil as she removed the oils and dirt from his skin. Finished, she took a cloth and rinsed him with warm water from the bath.

"Please turn over now, my lord," she asked. Geran did so, a little embarrassed at displaying the beginnings of an erection. The woman glanced at it and the trace of a smile appeared on her lips. She began to rub the oil into his chest and legs.

"What is your name?" Geran asked.

"Melora," she replied, meeting his eyes for the first time, then taking the strigil she began to scrape the oils and dirt from his chest. As she worked, her face was close to his and Geran was sorely tempted to take her in his arms and kiss her. Perhaps the thought was in her own mind, too, for there was a flush in her cheeks as she worked. As she moved down his chest, towards his waist, Geran watched the pretty sway of her breasts as she worked, wondering what she would be like between the sheets, for it was long since he had enjoyed the attentions of a woman. She was undoubtedly attractive and he wondered idly how she would navigate his prick, which was beginning to thicken and swell as his interest manifested itself. As she reached his hips with the strigil, she ceased to pretend that nothing was happening and gave her open attention to his now hard weapon.

"My lord is mightily endowed," she said softly and made a tentative move to touch him, but paused and looked to him for permission.

"Please," he said thickly, then closed his eyes as her fingers clasped his hardness, her touch gentle, her still oily fingers moving easily over his prick, stimulating him, her thumb running lightly over the end, her other hand cupping the sac of his balls. She paused and he opened his eyes. She was staring at him, her eyes pleading.

"May I serve my lord?" she whispered.

"Gods, yes!" he muttered, his voice hoarse, and she clambered from the bath to kneel astride him, before lowering herself onto his erection, the wet heat of her a scald on him. She was soaking with her own need and she sank easily down onto him and paused, her eyes closed, a sigh of satisfaction escaping her as she adjusted herself to having him within her.

"Oh, yes!" she whispered, "my lord is indeed mighty." She began to move then, raising herself so that he almost left her, then lowering again to take him deep within her, raising, lowering....

He raised his hands and cupped her breasts, soft, heavy in his hands, the nipples stiff, hardening even more as his thumbs moved over them. She sighed and briefly clasped his hands to her, never ceasing her slow, hot stimulation of his pole. Her movements were almost languid in the damp warmth of the bathing room, but the nerves beneath his skin were responding to her steady motion and he could feel the pressures building in him, slow but sure.

The moment was getting to her too and her movements quickened, soft gasps escaping her lips each time she came down on him, liquid slither of her nether lips against his hardness, lubricating, easing his passage. Faster she moved, imperceptibly faster, until she was slamming down on him, gasping, her eyes wild, her breathing frantic, gasping for breath, sweat beading her brow in the warmth of the bathing room.

A wordless moan escaped her lips, then she stifled a scream as her orgasm took her, lifting her, a spasm grasping him and pushing him over his own orgasmic precipice as his prick pulsed and his seed jetted deep within her, a gasping, exultant "Yes!" her only utterance as their shared climax shook them both into gradual immobility. She collapsed across him, boneless in her post-coition languor, breathing heavily.

Gradually they stilled, until suddenly she sat up and scrambled from him, but lost her balance on the edge of the bath and fell into the water with an untidy splash. She scrambled to her feet, her hair dripping and stared at him in alarm, trembling.

"What’s wrong?" Geran asked, bewildered by the sudden change, fighting to suppress a laugh at her bedraggled appearance.

"I have not yet finished cleaning my lord," Melora stammered.

"You have not yet finished pleasing your lord," Geran said, smiling.

"What is left undone, lord?" she whispered, a worried look on her face.

Geran took her hand and smiled. "Kiss me, Melora," he said. "Then finish cleaning my legs. Then you can wash me, and I can wash you, before we dress." He grinned at her. "That will please me."

A smile came to her face and she leaned down and gave him a quick, light kiss on the lips, then turned to her oils and strigil, beginning her work on his legs.

Alone in his quarters, later, Geran reflected on Melora. Beautiful, undoubtedly, and passionate, for there was no mistaking the eager way in which she had served him. And she had certainly enjoyed washing him and then being washed in her turn for her giggles were still ringing in his ears. He hoped he would have a further opportunity to sample her delights. He was pondering on this when a knock came and the door to his quarters opened to reveal Seth Dulan.

"You are ready?" asked Dulan. "The Lady Ellora seeks your company at dinner."

"I am ready," said Geran. He smiled at the tough-looking captain. "And hungry."

Dulan grinned, then held up his hand as Geran made to leave the room. "A moment, please," he said soberly.

"Yes, what is it?" Geran asked, curious.

"The Lady Ellora intends to offer you the hospitality of House Pesdal, 'Table and Bed'. Do you know what this signifies?" Dulan asked.

Geran looked at Dulan, trying to remember his history of these mountain people. "I believe it means that she intends to offer me my choice of the female members of her household to share my bed," he said slowly, thinking 'perhaps I can ask for Melora'.

Dulan nodded. "Good, but not quite," he said. "It means you must choose from the female members of her immediate family. She does you a great honour, Geran Tolnan, for saving her son and her daughter. Were it only your choice from the household, the offer would be, ‘this Household, Table and Bed’. Because she intends to name her House, that is what makes the difference."

Geran was startled. "What if I were to decline?" he asked.

Dulan frowned. "The Lady Ellora would be courteous, but she would be deeply offended."

"I will take care not to offend her, then," said Geran. "Shall we go?" he said, wondering just who was going to be in his bed that night.

Seth Dulan led the way to a dining room, the table set with silver and sparkling linen. The Lady Ellora was sitting on a couch at the side of the room, elegant in a gown of blue and silver, modest in cut. Illana sat beside her mother, clad in a rich red robe which clung to her shapely contours, low at the neck, the upper slopes of her lovely breasts bare. On Ellora’s other side an older girl, sufficiently like Illana to make Geran sure that she was her sister, red-headed, in a gown of deep green. The Lady Ellora caught sight of him and Seth Dulan and stood in welcome.

“Geran, son of Handor, House Tolnan, welcome to my home.” Ellora surprised him then by dipping in a low and gracious curtsy.

Geran bowed low in return. “You honour me, Lady Ellora.”

“Ah, no, Geran, you honour us. My son and daughter owe you their lives and for this there can be no reward great enough.”

Geran smiled. “Their safety is reward enough, Lady Ellora. How is your son?”

“Jonal is well, thanks to you.” She gestured the girls forward. “My daughter Illana you have met.” Illana dipped in deep curtsy, bending forward, the cleavage between her breasts drawing his eyes like a magnet.

Geran bowed. “My lady Illana.”

Ellora indicated the other girl. “Illana’s sister, Eliena.”

“Lord Geran,” said the redhead, dipping in curtsy as deep as her sister. She smiled at him in obvious invitation, a deep dimple appearing in her cheek.

“Lady Eliena,” Geran responded courteously.

Alex De Kok
Alex De Kok
1,354 Followers
12