The Exile

Her stylus marked the last letter in the tray of fine sand. Reading it over once more, she checked that the message was safely hidden in the jumble of letters. She copied them over onto a strip of thin paper, blotted the ink, and rolled it tightly. The sand went back into a jar. The strip of paper went into a smooth, round-ended ivory capsule that she closed with a waxed stopper. The message that had prompted her reply went into her mouth, the delicate rice paper melting on her tongue. She tidied her workspace for good measure, but there was nothing here to hide.

Waiting in the outer chamber was the messenger.

"My lady?" he said.

She inclined her head. "Are you ready to bear the reply?"

"I am," he said.

She raised the capsule and nodded. She anointed it with salve from a small pot on the windowsill. He turned away, loosened his belt, lowered his trews, and raised his tunic.

She smiled. Once upon a time his bared buttocks would have been an insult to her station. Now she had no station, and this was a matter of routine. Her slim fingers touched the ivory capsule to his opening, and when it yielded, she tucked the message inside his body.

His ring twitched, catching her forefinger as it withdrew, and his stones rose in their sack. She cupped them in her hand and squeezed gently. "You rise. Would you bear your own message to me this night?" she asked.

His breath deepened and quickened. "Your h..." he began.

"Hsht!" she stopped him. "In your heart, not on your tongue."

He bowed his head. She raised his chin and looked in his eyes, then held out a flat palm and tapped it with her gathered fingertips. He smiled, remembering the story she told of how an emperor traveling incognito was saluted discreetly by his retainers.

She reached down and took his manhood in hand. "You always rise when I touch you behind," she said softly.

"When I was a squire, my master taught me well," he said.

"Do you teach your squires so?" she asked, stroking him gently.

"Squires are few," he said. "But I am to receive a new one when I return."

"And he is to receive you?" she teased.

"He shall," he said. "And he shall rise for me."

"Tonight you rise for me," she said. "You are warm tidings from home." She leaned closer to his ear and whispered, "I am halfway between moons. Tonight you must take me like a boy."

"My lady," he whispered in return.

"Follow me to the window," she whispered. "I would look toward home." She handed him the pot of salve and stepped to the window.

He coated the nut of his manhood thickly with salve, stroked it down the length, and scooped another dab on his fingers. She stepped to the windowsill and parted the curtains to look across the walls and over the darkened hills in the direction of her native home. She pulled up the back of her plain robe and tucked it into the soft rope belt. In the candlelight her buttocks were lit with an orange-rosy glow, a dramatic shadow in her cleft. This was no squire's tight square fess, nor the skinny hindpart of the desperate refugee girl she once had been, but the broad soft rump of a mature woman who spent much of her time seated. Seated at a copyist's desk, or upon a throne, he supposed it was all one. Either way she was his Lady, and he would serve with gladness.

She braced her hands on the windowsill and presented her hindparts. "Serve me," she said urgently. "Honor me." She looked over her shoulder. "Present yourself and enter me."

"My lady," he said. He dropped to his knees and applied a gentle kiss to each soft cheek. He spread her buttocks and paused. The rich scent of her womanhood was wine, food, and perfume to him. He took in one slow deep breath of her, then dabbed the salve on the tight, springy ring of her opening. He pressed gently, rubbing, testing, rubbing, testing, until she opened as he knew she would.

"Yes," she said. "Enter."

He rose to his feet, a hand on her flank so as not to let go the touch of her skin. He steadied his manhood against her sally port. No forcing, just gentle insistence that he was a welcome, well-known guest. There was a pulse at his lance tip, a tiny kiss of wind, a quick tight slide and he was in her once again. She whimpered. He stood still, only head-deep into the heat of her bowels, but she could take little more with comfort.

Holding his lance head-deep, he leaned forward awkwardly to whisper in her ear. "My princess. My Queen."

"My loyal knight. My champion," she breathed. "I am your squire tonight." Her ring squeezed on him. "Ah!" she exclaimed quietly, then put her mouth to the soft folds of her full sleeves. Her ring tightened again. "Mnf!"

His own rear gate tightened on the ivory capsule she had inserted. He was the bottle for her message. His lance was the message for her bottle.

He straightened up to put his weight on his feet. With well-learned patience, he moved his hips in tiny thrusts, just enough for his shaft to tug her ring a little in, a little out, a little in, a little out...

She sighed through her nostrils and breathed in deeply, nodding for him to continue.

He read the pleasure and the tension in her body, the body he had the secret privilege to know and serve, and adjusted his depth and rhythm and the grip of his warm hands on her naked skin. Longer thrusts now but never deeper than a thumb. as was his Lady's custom for the puerile service. He moved faster, always attentive to her breaths and the tone of the faint moans muffled by her sleeve.

Just as a knight would honor a squire's pleasure with a sure, stroking hand, so he would honor his lady. He reached down into her soft thicket of secret curls, finding and parting the lips. There. He took her pearl in his fingers, rolling it gently. Her hips jolted and she moaned into her sleeve. When she was a hotly pursued fugitive of war, there were many descriptions of her, good likenesses on paper, even the size of her feet. But no account had told that the fugitive princess might be known by a womanly pearl as big as a grape. And her libido was as outsized as her pearl, nor would it be denied. And so he served his Lady, polishing her pearl with his cock up her ass in the dark, drafty garret of her exile as she moved against him, craving a touch of home, seeking pleasure and release.

His cock swelled inside her and he rubbed faster and harder. No dainty pearl, his lady's swollen knob welcomed a firm, quick hand. Her hips dipped and rose as he stroked. He felt her tense just so, just so, until she bucked under him. Warm wetness splashed his hand. Her head strained up and down as the waves of her release coursed through her body. Her jaw tensed against her sleeve and she whimpered faintly.

In the long moment of her climax, feeling her ring clench his shaft again and again, he felt he owned her body and soul. But his duty, his love was to serve and protect his Lady. He would serve, take his gift, and withdraw. He moved his cock in her ass for his own pleasure now.

"My lady!" he hissed. He screwed up his face, holding his mouth clenched shut. His cock swelled and erupted in the heat of her bowels. His climactic thrusts forced him deeper than her depth of comfort. She cared not, trying to keep on her feet as her orgasm rolled on and on, wetting their clothes with her own liquid tribute.

His thrusts stuttered to a stop, as did her waves of release. He gently pulled back to a shallow depth. In a minute he softened and she squeezed him out. He blotted her quickly with a handkerchief, then fell to his knees behind her bare bottom. It glowed faintly redder and he could feel its heat on his cheeks. Odors of sweet grass and barnyard were now mingled with her rich womanly scent. He kissed her buttocks left and right. She quivered. A faint laugh sounded through her muffling sleeve.

She straightened up, the hem of her worn scholar's robe falling back down toward the floor. She bent to kiss his forehead. "Full well you served," she said. "Rise. I must retire, and you must depart."

"My lady," he said, straightening his drab tradesman's clothes.

"Go with every blessing," she said.