tagNonConsent/ReluctanceRoyal Sentence Ch. 12-13

Royal Sentence Ch. 12-13

byMProst©

So here it is, the next installment of Sabine and Roland's story. And the hottest (I think). I'm terrible at writing these scenes, which is why I'm trying my pen here, to get some expert reader's advice.

So please don't hesitate to voice your opinion, give plenty of stars (I'm hopeful), and follow!

Thanks and good reading!


*****

Chapter 12:

Smiling, Roland unwrapped her at the same leisurely pace one would a long coveted gift, folding the nearest flap of the blanket towards him and letting the other slide over the edge and pool on the floor. A heated whiff of perfume hit his nose, a heady mix of Sabine's natural scent and rosewater. He mentally patted himself on the back for picking the latter. The suave fragrance suited her perfectly.

Exposed to the cooler air of the room, Sabine shivered, the rosy peaks of her breasts tightening and poking at the gauzy lace.

"On second thoughts, I might purchase this chemise. It offers a rather enticing view..."

A tray of bite-size delicacies and a decanter of sweet wine waited on the side table. Choosing a piece of marzipan, Roland popped it into her mouth, gagging her with sugar. Her ensuing frown amused him, and he placed a miniature jam tartlet in her hand. "Your turn."

Hesitantly, Sabine raised the treat to his lips. What happened to her doing nothing? She yelped when he seized her wrist and gobbled the food, sucking her fingertips clean.

"Delicious..." he drawled, "My turn again..."

He offered her another bit, holding his fingers still until she took the hint and wiped them with her tongue.

She was resigned to feeding him again when he poured a glass of wine and offered it to her. She waved her hands in refusal but he insisted. "Drink, it will soothe you."

"I don't really like the taste..." The nuns had warned their wards against liquor's nefarious effects, and she never had more than a polite few drops of the sour liquid, enough to cringe and wonder how anyone could abuse it.

"You will like this one. Try it."

Warily, she obeyed. The first drops engulfed her taste buds in honey, dried fruits, and spices. She swallowed and took another sip, and another, pouting when the glass was moved out of reach.

"Slow down, I don't want you drunk." She was eager as a child who just discovered candies, but also light of frame and unused to strong beverages, and this particular vintage packed quite a punch under the sweetness. "I see my valet forgot the towels. Allow me..."

Roland lapped at the lost drops, starting at the edges and moving on to cover her lips. She didn't pull away. Encouraged, he pushed forth his tongue until he encountered the unyielding barrier of her teeth.

"Let me in, ma douce..." he whispered against her skin.

Puzzled, Sabine obeyed. What could a kiss entail beyond the contact of the lips? As a result of his attentions, hers already felt strange, wet and swollen and restless, with an itch that could only be eased by firmer, longer pressure. Would it get worse if he went on? Surely it couldn't be harmful...

Roland pressed on as her jaw relaxed, exploring her mouth with great care. Her taste was inebriating, her teeth healthy and smooth like a string of pearls, while her tongue, shy at first, soon responded to his teasing. He savored her for a brief moment before releasing her. Too much too fast might scare her. The night was young.

Or mayhap no so young, he mused, as a muffled cough echoed from the dark corner. Louis was bored; patience was never his strong suit. It might explain why the Queen didn't often seek her husband's affections. Oh well, he'd better watch and learn, for Roland had no intention of rushing the seduction of his wife. The authority of the King stopped at the door of his bedroom, or, in this case, at the lit area of it, this being likely what Bassompierre was sotto voce stressing to the youngster.

Ignoring the disturbance, Roland moved on to the next round of pastries and wine.

Sabine's head was swimming. Lucky she was to be sitting, for she certainly wouldn't trust her legs to keep her upright. The silly appendages lay on generously stuffed upholstery, content and boneless, alike the rest of her. Why would she try standing anyway? She giggled at the notion. She wiggled her toes and curled into the man's warm embrace, rubbing her nose and cheek on marvelously scented fabric. Lavender. She loved lavender. It mixed so wonderfully with the taste of cake and...

"More wine, please..." The nuns had been so wrong. Wine was scrumptious, making her languid and giddy.

A light laugh, a finger under her chin, and eyes were peering into hers. The courtier's... her husband's. They were a stormy grey, not as dark as she had first assumed. The flames of the hearth reflecting on the black pupils added a hellish touch.

"Which demon would you be?" she blurted, hand flying to her mouth upon realizing she had spoken out loud.

"I think you had enough to drink, ma belle amie." Roland cupped the back of her head and Sabine frowned as his smile descended, landing in a smoldering kiss. Her eyelids dropped as her hands rose, palms gliding up his chest to anchor on his shoulders.

Kisses were nice, she decided. She didn't believe he was doing it right, though. She had never heard of kisses making anyone weak or hot or dumb. His seemed to melt her bones, and kindle a line of fire from her chest to her womb. Her mind could form no coherent thought while his wicked lips and tongue plundered her, plunging her into a state of blissful abandon.

She had a fleeting awareness that she should not enjoy this, not here and not with him, but she swatted it. She was so tired, tired of suffering, of dragging herself through life with no better prospect than swift death.

Roland guessed her surrender when Sabine softened in his arms. Her beauty would have inspired a painter, resting slightly short of breath, all mussed hair and flaming cheeks and puffy red lips, a freshly tumbled nymph.

He stood, lifting and delicately depositing her back on the lounger, head on a downy cushion, wild curls spread in a halo. Divine. History and temper aside, she wasn't the worst choice of bride. Planting heirs in her would be no chore.

Brushing aside a wayward strand, he offered her a reassuring smile. "To answer your question, I am willing to impersonate a demon of lust tonight, or at least borrow their expertise. Don't worry, you are safe with me."

The new position sobered her a little. She bit her lip, and nodded. While the liquor had dulled her fears, they were still lurking in the nooks of her skull, ready to raise their ugly heads. She wished he had let her drink more, enough for her to become completely oblivious. Clearly, it wasn't his plan.

A pinch on the lobe of her ear forced her to shift her attention back to him. "Ouch, why would you do this?"

His grin was wholly unrepentant. "Do not think. Feel." He nibbled on the sensitive shell and she moaned, unable to master her voice in her fuddled state. Encouraged, he trailed down her neck and settled on a round shoulder, coaxing more musical trills out of her. She was a true little nightingale, he mused, and subsequently felt compelled to elicit a similar song from her opposite side.

The new melody was subtly different and still very enticing. On the last note he reached the neckline of her chemise, considering and opting not to remove it. She would feel less exposed under its cover.

Not that it hid much. It clung to her slim shape, enhancing her curves and showcasing the sharp points of her breasts and the blonde fuzz gracing the junction of her legs. The latter he had forbidden the maids to remove, disregarding the current fashion in aristocratic women. It would go, eventually, his Moorish wench would see to it. Until then, he would relish the novelty.

His hands slid down towards her twin mounds, enveloping them in warmth and gently squeezing until they bulged up. Through the sheer linen and silk muslin, the firm flesh appeared nearly opalescent, fresh as the snow of an Ottoman sherbet and topped by the most appetizing berries.

He chuckled quietly. This cute hellcat was fast turning him into a lousy poet.

He bit into the tempting fruits and soothed them with his tongue, sucking and licking until the lace was soaked. Then he blew cold air. A stifled yelp rewarded him, and Sabine squirmed in his grip, attempting to distance herself from the offending mouth.

Surprising her, he stood and released her. Not for long.

Roland walked to the foot of the day bed, grabbed her hips, and pulled.

Startled, Sabine gripped the sides of the seat and tried to scramble back, which proved an impossible feat with her legs dangling over the edge. The courtier knelt between them, his firm hold pinning her hips in place. Finding no purchase, she screeched and struggled harder, only succeeding in bunching her shift under her waist, baring everything below to the onlookers.

"Please, please, let me go," she begged, the perils of her posture breaking through her drunken stupor.

"Easy now, ma douce, this is nothing we haven't done before. You do recall you enjoyed it?"

She grimaced. It was true, to some extent, and then it wasn't. She wouldn't reward his roguish use of her body to his advantage. "It was awful, I hated it!"

"Mmm, I disagree. It was really more of a friendly persuasion. I will skip this part if you so wish, although I would advise against it. Proper preparation is the secret of pleasing a woman."

He arranged her knees over his shoulders, punctuating each word with a nip to the inside of a silky thigh. "Let me introduce you to the perks of marriage, my pretty, feisty, rebellious wife. Let me teach you the meaning of rapture..."

His voice had dropped low, a hushed promise of sinful ecstasy, and a shiver of dread and anticipation slithered down Sabine's spine. Defeated, she closed her eyes and rolled her head to the side in mute disapproval. Tears she refused to shed prickled her eyelids. She would not grant the King the spectacle of her weakness, nor would she offer him a pretext for her execution. As womenfolk had done since time immemorial, she would endure with patience and dignity.

Roland noticed the change. She seemed placated, for now. It wasn't ideal, yet far better than her fighting and screaming.

Back to the task at hand, he drank in the alluring sight. His wife's cunt resembled a rose blossom nestled in gold threads. Her aroma filled his nose, the floral hint fading under the musky, honeyed flavor of her desire.

She might not admit it yet, but she wasn't wholly adverse to her ravishment.

He smiled.

Nearly reverently, he parted the soft petals, revealing a gorgeous pink pearl and a glistening cleft, leading to a narrow opening already quivering under his hungry gaze. There was quite the pool of dew there, and his neck bent in order to slowly, carefully taste her.

Sweet and earthy with a sharp edge, so alike her.

Sabine failed to hold in a sigh when the courtier's mouth made contact. His tongue was a cruel, wicked appendage. And skilled and smooth and gentle. Especially when it touched her there, right there...

She arched, chasing the malicious organ which had disappeared just as she was going to...

He was doing it, again! His wicked torture.

He wouldn't win this time. She couldn't allow him to win, not with two other men oggling her. The King... he would think her wanton. A lewd criminal. Twice more reasons to despise her. Only one head to lose. She nearly laughed. She was definitely going crazy.

Fingertips circled her entrance, a phantom touch, occasionally dipping in, not quite deep enough. Again.

And again.

She groaned her frustration. Her hips tilted, seeking him. The elusive digits vanished.

Before she could protest, both tongue and fingers were back. Oh God, the sensation was too intense. She couldn't hold it in... She panted, locked in a hopeless struggle against her senses.

"No, no, no, no, no, no, no..." Her head shook in time with her frantic denial. Her fists squashed the blanket as she fought against the delicious tension tugging at her womb.

A light chuckle vibrated against her skin. "Oh yes, my fierce wife, your resistance will make your surrender even more delectable..."

Roland wasn't inclined to mercy. He focused on her inflamed bud, teasing and circling and sucking maddeningly. She was clenching on his fingertips, her body both fearing and yearning to be filled. His own arousal ached, his instinct screaming at him to plunder and ravage, but he wouldn't cave. Soon. She had to want him, need him inside. She was close.

Sabine whimpered, her legs shaking and squashing Roland's face. She was losing fast. The pressure climbed and climbed until it burst, ripping a scream from her throat as the flow of sizzling bliss rolled through her veins.



Chapter 13:

While his bride lay on the day bed, catching her breath, Roland extricated himself from the clasp of her thighs and rinsed his face and mouth. He doubted she would like tasting herself.

Off with the starters, on with the pièce de résistance. He hoped she was ready. He certainly was.

He sat behind her and brought her head into his lap, his hand brushing her hair, offering her a few moments to recover.

Why did he smell so good? Sabine craned her neck out of the courtier's tender hold, reeling against the comfort it brought her. For all his pretense of kindness, this man was her enemy. She might disregard it for the sake of surviving the night, but it didn't change the facts.

Unlike her body, still sluggish from the wine, Sabine's mind has regained a level of clarity. She forced herself to sit up and confront him.

"What now? Have you more plans of whoring me out for the benefit of your friends?" They had watched her writhe and succumb under his spell, ogling her exposed flesh, soiling her with their eyes. She felt filthy.

Her nemesis didn't answer. He hauled up his shirt and threw it aside, appearing in front of her in all his glory. And what a glorious sight he was!

Before she could stop herself, Sabine's gaze traveled from his fashionable goatee to his broad shoulders, wide chest, long limbs, and flat stomach. He didn't have the heavy, sturdy frame of a peasant, but the lean and flexible muscles of a fencer, built for speed and endurance rather than brute strength. His skin was golden down to his waist, lighter on his legs under a dusting of hair. He must have exercised shirtless quite often.

Her eyes followed the darker trail below his navel, widening as they landed on his erect manhood.

Sabine paled and skittered back, but Roland caught her wrist.

"This particular beast wishes you no harm," he stated, dragging her hand towards the root of her nightmares.

She squeezed her eyes shut and squeaked when her palm came into contact with something warm and smooth, hard and flexible all at once.

"See, no teeth or spikes here. There's no reason for it to hurt you."

She had expected a coarse surface, sharp and abrasive. How could the pain and damage she had suffered be explained otherwise?

"Explore it, don't be afraid."

Sabine's cheeks reddened, yet her fingers complied, shyly wandering over the blade of flesh.

She wasn't demonstrating any skill or enthusiasm, but she was doing it. Progress.

Roland waited stoically for her to quench her curiosity, biting the inside of his cheek to defuse the forthcoming explosion.

She removed her hand in the nick of time.

The air came out as a hiss as his lungs finally released it. And she thought HE was torturing HER!

Sabine stared at him, unsure of what came next. She rubbed her palm on the blanket, as if to erase the feel of him. Her fear had abated, fractionally, yet she was nowhere near at ease.

Roland smiled and nodded at her.

"Get on your knees," he directed, helping her rise into position when she got tangled in the fabric.

"Straddle me."

He secured her as she threw her bent limb over his with precarious balance.

Sabine ended up flush against his torso, thighs flanking his hips, wide open by the bulk of his legs. His shaft tilted menacingly towards her belly. Before she could scoot away, her chemise was bunched up.

"Lift your arms."

Her last shield of modesty flew past her head. She shuddered from sudden cold and frayed nerves.

Roland hugged her, hands sneaking under the cascade of blonde curls falling to her waist.

Her passive resistance didn't deter him. He held her loosely for a moment, and then patiently reeled her in until they were snuggling each other.

Sabine jolted when their bare chests met, fists knotting as her mind briefly evoked the stench of the reîtres and their mucky layer of grime. She inhaled and managed to calm down. Both of these were missing. She wasn't there, it wasn't them.

Nimble fingers massaged the tight muscles along her neck, kneading their way towards the twin dimples marking the top of her buttocks. It was nice, unthreatening. Sabine relaxed a little, and the wandering digits roamed farther, covering her round cheeks and edging towards her slippery folds.

And backed up. And down.

Each time probing a bit lower.

Lingering a bit longer.

Playing.

Taunting.

Sabine burrowed deeper in Roland's arms in a futile bid to dodge them. Her posture left her sensitive flesh fully vulnerable, and they were relentless tormentors, coaxing her fast to the edge of a now familiar cliff.

She swallowed a sob as he abandoned her there. This man was heartless. How could he leave her thus, hot, swollen, heavy, and so, so empty...

Roland unfolded her knuckles and smoothed her palms on his shoulders. Then he dropped a kiss on the top of her head and whispered: "You need to rise a little, ma douce, it is time."

Sabine's eyes widened. Surely he couldn't mean...? Did he?

She gulped and lifted herself up at a snail's pace, delaying the inevitable.

Roland arranged his shaft at the ready and murmured: "Don't be afraid, go down at your leisure." Of all the variants shown in the imagery of Pierre de l'Aretin, he had chosen this specific pose to offer her a modicum of control on the night's main event.

She tried, she really tried to obey, but what her will ordered her muscles wouldn't execute. They tightened and shook and strained like the lines of a sail in a storm, and still she couldn't move.

Her last desperate tentative dislodged him and he slid up her soaked cleft, grazing her humming bud on the way.

"Oh..." The sensation was novel and... exquisite.

Taking her reaction in stride, Roland encouraged her to grind against him, using his throbbing length for her satisfaction.

"Ahem..."

The courtier's head shot towards the sound, brows knotting at the untimely disruption.

"Do not delay any longer, Monsieur. You are taking us for a fool. Proceed, our bed is awaiting us." Louis had a hunt planned early in the morning and wouldn't allow such menial matters to stand in the way of his favorite pastime.

Brutally reminded of the unwelcome presence, Sabine stiffened.

Roland silently yelled a few choice words before addressing her. "Look at me, ma belle."

As she did, a few salty drops escaped and rolled down her burning cheeks, aflame with humiliation.

"They are unimportant. Forget about them."

"How easy for you to say," she sniffled, angrily wiping her face with the back of her hand.

There was no arguing with that. His response was a distracting attack on her mouth, sensual, tender, and relentless, until her thoughts were lost to the lack of air and his talented lips.

By the time she registered his hands on her waist, dragging her down, she was half-impaled on his hard length.

Her nails dug in his shoulders as she frantically attempted to get up, but he held firm. "Hush, does it hurt?"

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