Nestling

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Later. Much later. He sits staring into the shadows in the great hall. The banquet is ended. The acolytes have departed to the wine cellars to pursue their rumour mongering away from Lordly ears. He sits listlessly watching the platters being cleared. The tables are practically bare. Bare as she should be. He touches lips to the goblet from which she supped.

Our lordling pushes a serving wench to the floor, vexed by her proximity. He strips the rough Hessian cloth from her shoulders and takes the blonde serving girl roughly, urgently. She squeals as he presses her head to the cold stone floor. She cries as he penetrates her unceremoniously from behind. Animals drawn together in their shared loss among the spilled pools of wine. In this graveyard of discarded bones, it should have been her. He should have been sewing confusion.

The girl would have taken the precious goblet from him. His guest has taken herself from his presence. Would they both dare to deprive him? They should be dealt with severely—chastised for trying to deprive him. Beaten together within an inch of his excitement. But who are they and who should chastise them? He presses his palm against the wench's shoulder blades and wraps his arms around her panting, shivering torso.

There is a stark contrast between the heat of her sexual arousal and the chill of the girl's pale, etiolated skin tone. She has hidden from the sun's glare too long. The contrast parallels the cold metal plate that Confusion's warm lips nibbled from earlier.

Plump grapes satisfied her appetites. Plump flesh will satisfy his. If only. He inhales deeply. His eyes are hard and hot and very, very green. A voice echoes in his mind. It is his own.

"I must have her. I need her promises."

He discards the serving wench, leaving her to finish herself off amongst the detritus. Buckling his breeches malignantly, he marches with a new resolve towards the turret stair, turning his head to see the girl, still on her hands and knees, touching herself frantically and looking at him, wide eyed and truculent, a resentment nurtured by denial.

With each step, as climbs the twisting stair to her turret room, the girl's malice recedes. He can still hear her moaning curses at his disobliging abandonment. She needed his seed and he had denied her invidiously. The Lordling's bastard will have a less frequented womb.

The heavy knock on the budded rose decoration of her door, conceals the pounding of his heart. He taps at the floor with his black boots. He lurks on the threshold, listening for light footfalls as she responds to the urgent knocking. She is there awaiting his call even before he looms up before her like a shadow in the smoky light. Dark eyes brood and darker thoughts fester as he awaits the elegant beauty's response.

"I promised. . ." his voice shakes, breaking the silence first.

"You promised. . . MiLord?" and he listens to the sleepy, quizzical voice.

"I need your promises," he corrects himself, flinging his arms wide, candidly, displaying his muscular torso.

"You need to know me too well, Count," she thinks, draped in thin red silk, smelling the sex dripping from his loins. There are no ruffled feathers in his hirsute plumage. One braid of her flame red hair hangs loose. She brushes it back with tired hand. Her momentarily lack of self assurance causes her to nod rather than look up.

Confusion's pretty head to stirs. Right now, she wants what is wanted of her, above all else. And he is in the room—lips seeking, mouths meeting. The door shuts. A nestling is caged.

The cage is a long low oval room, hung with tapestries. Hunting scenes through verdant countryside. The ceiling of the room is painted with crisp leaves and harvested grains, piled high in rustic bowls. A primitive scene for a primitive lust. Autumn fruitfulness. The floor of the room is strewn with rushes and red silks.

His rushes and her sombre silks: a combination to leave the air is thick with imaginings. The room is lit by candles scattered around alcoves. The chambers are sparsely furnished. In fact, the only furniture is a large bed, half masked by coverlets of silken damask. The entertainment that ensues will delight the captor. Will it also amuse the captive?

She is not bored as she lies back on the bed, undressed and ready for release. A captured bird invariably craves release. This bird wants to spread her limbs, but not yet in flight. She offers him a welcoming embrace, which he declines. Patience is a virtue until it yields another's pleasure. Staring at the ceiling, she is quite certain now that she is the most essential ingredient. Why then is she treated as if she were no more than the perfect accessory: an untried shadow in a murky room?

MiLord's thighs are uncovered. Huge and hard, a fleshy fortress is revealed in the smoky candlelit chambers above the mysteries of her untried country. She is outspread before him. Outspread hands will reach up to that upright rampart. Her hands are long. Her fingers are wise. She runs them up and down the fascinating promontory. She looks up at him briefly—slyly—and finds that his face is a picture of wonderment. Her kiss will be planted and he will quiver as she inches forward.

Her now unbraided hair whips against his thighs, as she rubs her forehead against his pubic bone. Her flesh is damp with perspiration. His groin is musky with sweat. She licks with eager lips. She kisses him. . . there. Tasting the clinging servant girl's secretions, she frowns.

Despite her reserve she resolves to enjoy his reaction and disregards the residue of his recent tryst. Looking down at her longingly, he knows she cannot be compared. Touching her cheek with his hand, he nods. She takes him into her kittenish mouth. The muscles work well. Nibble, nibble, little red. Gobble, gobble for more and more. The greedy mouth takes over.

She delights in the manner in which he leaps under the angler's bait of her wet, wet tongue. Sucking and sucking, while creamy fingers touch and caress. The stroking is insistent. The playing is tender. There is a helpless urge to chase round and round to the indelicate root of his desire. He kneels above her. Dark and hairy against the smooth white flesh, the red hair and the silken damask of the bed.

Poised, coiled and so contrasting. Her thighs pressed tight to feel his thrust as he forces her down and falls upon her. Leaning down to touch the perfumed folds, he waits for her to take him into her embrace. Primal anxieties are relieved by the spread wings of this elusive nestling.

"Do not hurt me, MiLord."

"There may be a slow tying of wrists and ankles to bedposts later," he offers, "but the real pain will lie in your release."

The bonds that she infers from that infectious promise will be just tight enough to restrain, but not so as to render any real discomfort. Her breathing accelerates at the thought. A flush spreads over the pallor of her cheeks and the slow, undulating indulgence begins. Her chest rises with each inhalation of air. Her heartbeat flutters rapidly. Breasts quiver under straying fingers: jutting.

He envisions a strange continuance of this scenario that can only be perceived by him, but who is she? She is both a single dissipated entity and part of an evolving synergy. She notes the way, tome by tome, a unique history is written across her body as her psyche is gently probed.

She wriggles on the bed, twisting onto her belly to offer him new freedoms. He can hardly resist the whispered urge to punish her elevated flesh now. Whose lips part to utter these sacrileges? She may dissuade him for a while by rolling and tossing: febrile panting on the black damask. Her lips twist in a grimace of ecstasy, crying out his hot wish to need her to be whipped. Harder. Harder still. Hardest. Insatiable and superlative.

He will chastise her bare behind thoroughly. She might love it. She may need it. She certainly deserves it. Her body will glow definitively, inflamed by the pink kiss of his pouting discipline. He has a tumultuous need to inflict pain on her recumbent form. The need is satisfied in other ways as he thrusts into red-haired Confusion—up and down. Shoulders, back, derriere—all will be marked with his vicious kiss.

"MiLord. . .", she begins, gasping as a thing possessed.

The accelerating rhythm to his steady advance locks them together exquisitely. She takes his thrust into the receptive groove of her womanhood. A candle flames as he takes her. Conscious that she is accepting this sleek penetration, she shuts her eyes and tries to constrain the first tear that squeezes from her tightly closed eyelids.

The first tear of pleasure turns so quickly to recrimination. Burying her head in the pillow, her fleshy thighs are upthrust over a pile of cushions, giving him better access to the forbidden. She stares into the orange flame of the candle. It burns for her and she flames for him. Her face is a blush of greedy delight at what she desires him to do to her. The sheet grazes her belly as he comes to her, in her. The candle burns low too quickly. He has done and he withdraws. One sided promises seem to be forgotten in the aftermath of lust. She says nothing.

"Promise me more, always more," he demands, underwhelmed by this silence. His eyes close, ignoring the answer that never came. The waxy residue of his pleasure sticks between her wet thighs. She rubs the cheeks of her behind against the waning member as he drifts towards post-coital rest. For a brief while, Confusion seeks to engage his renewed interest in vain.

The deep rumblings of his luxuriant rest steal the escape that sleep might offer. She lies there quiet and thoughtful. He takes her rest. He has stolen her path to pleasure. She will take his road to a tranquil aftermath. She reproaches his somnolent form. Your fortress will be a castle of mocking ghosts, MiLord Count. Yes, gaunt phantoms, MiLord Minstrel. The first crack of dawn chinks through the high arched window and the cage door is already ajar. Wretched tears are released to nestle on her face...

******

Wretched and yet released, Confusion rides away from fresh commitment. She has slipped into her riding gear and crept out to the mare at dawn. Stealing through the stables, smiling thin-lipped at the blonde servant girl who assists her to mount, smiling at her waspishly. Both of them spurned and denied in their way. Both of them eager to taste the rankling, bitter fruit of revenge. Spurring her horse in a clatter of hooves across the still moat, she disowns ownership.

MiLord awoke to the sparking fury of her fiery departure. He was soon hot foot after her, enraged at the potent unmet need his lust for her has engendered. Hear the gasps as he crashes out into open country under the sharp portcullis:

"See, the black pursues the chestnut. . ." a kitchen lad cries out from the castle ramparts.

"The Count has called his hounds," an elderly huntsman interjects, nodding like the sagest of sages at his own profound wisdom.

"Hear MiLord call for Confusion under the pale daybreak sky," a serving girl's soft awe echoes MiLord's anguished cry.

"No," the elder interjects dispassionately. "The hunt must chase dawn's breath, through the autumn mists."

"They cannot be together now, though," the serving wench romanticizes.

"No, not together though," the huntsman echoes and all three fall glumly silent as the hunt disappears from view. . .

The hunter pursues his foxy prey, past damp piles of logs, through half mown fields, towards the woods and into the forest. Winding paths will not serve in this frantic chase. The hooves beat. The hounds bay.

He will come to her. Yes, he will come again for her fiery red elusiveness. His passion was sated, but still he follows her promise. He had ridden through this brushwood many times before, round and round the gnarled root of his desire, but his pursuit is ever more unsure.

At last, she reins in and brings her mount to a stumbling halt. Taking in her surroundings, she looks around the clearing up and down along the banks of the stream. She has come full circle, back to the place they first met at dusk the previous day. Red-haired woman and chestnut mare both pant fiercely after the exertion.

Listen to the heavy snorting breath of the mare.

The red hair is an unwieldy, disordered cluster. It rivals the pink clouds that gather round the waning translucent moon. She lingers there. Does she really await his arrival? After all, she has already seen his coming and the loneliness of the aftermath of MiLord's lust.

There are no disparate paths in this pursuit, even if he really knew which path would lead him back to her. He used to understand which thirsts to slake. Numberless encounters, month by month, from farmstead outbuilding to seedy inn, have jaded his palate. Though he could disregard her silent refutation of his requirements, he must not recant the intimate history between them. A rewrite of his new creation would certainly be more splendid than the events themselves.

He won't indulge in this, however, for he is uncertain whether these events ever actually happened now. Looking away from the forests, his eye catches the bright glint of reflected glass from the east. The fortress lies over his shoulder, the sun reflecting pinkly on the extensive lead tiles of the main hall roof. Last night's banquet and the passion after cock shut linger there.

She should linger too over the pummel of his saddle. She too could please him, glowing as pinkly as the blushing glass, reflecting the sunlight. He glows at the thought of bringing her back. She will be caught like fresh game, taken over his saddle, his hand resting on her pert behind.

Fresh game should be hung and where better to hang than from MiLord's whipping posts. She is red and ripe and the taste of the lash will tenderize her wilfulness. The blonde's creamier flesh will make a nice contrast. They are two sides of the same coin. Who will cry the loudest? Mistress or servant? Seeded or denied? Is such vainglory premature?

His would-be prey — his special prize — certainly thinks it is.

Ignoring the yapping hounds, he measures his pace against the tallest trees—the yews and the larches—that sway in a breath of wind.

The sway is reminiscent of her feminine wiles. The sway is redolent of his indecision. His mount trips and nearly throws him. It falters and forces him to slow the gallop to a canter and then to a limping trot. Head down and despondent beneath a hanging branch, he leads the injured beast into a clearing.

By happy chance, his instinct and his perceived injuries has led him, where neither his head nor his heart could map. This is the very same clearing, where she has waited patiently for him before, beneath the forked tree, within faint hearing of the crashing waves on the rocks.

Red-haired woman and chestnut mare. Right in the centre of the clearing. Right in the middle of the stream. She trembled last night in a stream of impossible desire. She won't shiver today now that these desires have been shown to be so implausible and so incompatible. She shakes in a need to begone, back to the freedom of that natural buttress and the foaming spume of the sea below her russet belly.

He offered her the bitter, cloying sweetness of ephemeral flowers. She wanted something enduring. A rock in the water would have sufficed. Rough edges to cling to in the shifting sands of time, in the conspicuous self absorption, at the nub of her pleasure. The passion has flown away too soon. So must she.

Gazing at her reflection, she observes the rippling mirror of the flowing water. Decision time. Her feelings are swooping away with the cool forest air stream. Her face will follow, but not before she murmurs her thanks and discounts his promises without interest. She flies from him into the shadows.

Thoughts dart with her. He bends and clutches at the transformed confusion of a fleeting form. His rage is powerful. His clasp is firm. Yet, he only catches the confusion of a few residual feathers, downy as the plumage of the red tailed hawk flying away overhead.

Listen again for the downward slurring 'keee-arrrrrrr', MiLord. Watch for the uniformly reddish coloured tail, with the narrow dark band and the light hued tip. Soft as a baby's skin—the translucent skin of the heir that our Lordling will always be denied. All you will have are the empty cradle and the empty souvenir of a long-departed nestling. . .

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