The Enchantress of Ingley Ch. 04

Within the shadow bound halls of Ingley Manor, Squire George sat within his great wooden chair, stooped with age before his time. The crackle of the hearth nearby had gone from pleasant white noise in the background to a harsh and unforgiving assault on the silence he so craved. Wearily, he rested his head within one hand, feeling as if all strength had fled his body. Within that grand hall that had seen so many celebrations in ages past, he felt the weight of solitude press down upon him.

He wasn't alone there, though. No, within the shadows there, out of sight, was the woman he at once loathed and longed for. Since the day he first laid eyes upon her, she was a dangerous addiction, one he could not escape. He knew she was there without seeing her, without hearing her. Her very presence was a constant, terrible beacon to his thoughts and desires.

"She approaches." Isolde's voice was soft, alluring, but it was still the sibilant hiss of the serpent he knew her to be. "And she is alone."

George's face twisted into a scowl. He didn't know why the thought that the girl had failed angered him so. True, when his lover had suggested the idea, he thought it was a perfect fit, but now it seemed the little slut couldn't even worm her way into a man's bed.

He caught Isolde's scent long before he heard her gentle footsteps. It was pleasant, a heady mix of something flowery and something spicy that he couldn't quite place. Whatever oils she used to produce that fragrance, they were not local. Soft, slender hands took the back of the great chair he occupied, and slowly turned it, with him still seated within. The legs scraped and scratched along the old stone, but he made no move to assist her.

Soon enough, he faced out over the twisted shadows of the room, lit only by the hearth behind him. It cast his silhouette over the flagstones, and toward the grand doors. Above his was the shadow of Isolde, the stark lines of her stately figure rising like some lurking raptor above his own form.

Those old, oaken doors were flung wide, and through them stumbled Marissa. Tears rolled down her cheeks, and her features bore a mingling of rage and crushing disappointment. Her own generous chest heaved with ragged breaths, straining the dark fabric of that elegant dress.

"Father, I-"

"I see the prince is not with you." He and Isolde spoke the words together, and in the same cadence, providing an odd, dual toned effect. He paused, and glanced up to his lover. A cruel smirk crossed her crimson lips, and she slipped her hand down to pat his shoulder gently. It was remarkable, how they synced up so often. Perhaps they were the soul mates that she had so often suggested.

"I shouldn't have expected you to succeed in such an important task." This time, it was he alone that spoke, and his words were heavy with reproach.

His tone seemed to strike the girl like a heavy hand, and she collapsed to her knees there on the cold stone floor before him. Sobs wracked her form. His own dark eyes drifted over her figure, he could not help but admire her appearance, at least. Those lovely coppery curls, the way her dress clung to her every curve, even when she was in disarray. In truth, some small part of him liked seeing her that way, crushed under his disapproval.

"I'm so sorry, father, but when I got there... When I got there, he was already speaking with Jenrea, you know, the innkeeper's daughter?"

Oh, George knew the girl. She reminded him of Isolde greatly, but without the sheer malice his mistress could possess at times. No, Jenrea had the beauty, but also the innocence that men so craved. He'd desired her himself, at one point, but couldn't risk demanding her. His position was more tenuous than he cared to admit at times, and both the master of the Tepid Toad and the smith Garn were old warriors of some skill, and close allies. If he tried to press either of them, they would no doubt turn against him, and he'd be facing a revolt.

Isolde left him, and though her steps earlier had been silent, now each mincing stride brought the sharp report of a tall heel upon the flagstones. The Squire let his eyes drift toward the woman who so enraptured him, taking the time to admire her from behind as she approached Marissa.

She was a dark haired beauty, her form slender enough where it mattered, but her curves ample in those places that invited a man's gaze. Her breasts were more than a handful, her waist a sinuous dip, then her hips flared and broad. They had a natural look, not the product of some wizard's touch, and she always chose her clothing carefully, to draw the eye.

Tonight, a black silken dress tied behind the slender column of her neck, but left her arms and back free. It was thin enough to show she had nothing beneath, at least until the material gathered at the small of her back. The skirt drifted over her hips, then fell loose to the ankle, continually swinging and swaying at each step she took, each twitch of those succulent hips. From time to time, a slit along the side allowed one stocking clad leg to peek forth, and her feet were shown regardless, sheathed in those deep red stockings and crisscrossed with the straps of those stiletto heels. It was all foreign fashion, but she wore it well.

Isolde advanced from him toward Marissa, then slipped one long nailed hand down to toy with the girl's hair. The younger woman trembled under her touch, face twisted in revulsion.

George simply laughed. It was a hollow, cold sound as he watched the young lady he called daughter so disgusted by his lover's gentle touch. Her eyes lifted, and she shot a dagger's glare across to him.

"Call your bitch off, father. She makes me sick."

If Marissa intended to say anything more, it was lost in a strangled yelp. Isolde's hand fisted in those luxurious red locks, then yanked hard, twisting her head back and lifting her from the ground by her hair. The older woman snarled, her face twisted from a serene kindness to a bestial rage as swiftly as a serpent's strike.

"Watch your tongue, slut, or I'll give you to the servants as a playtoy."

The younger woman was wholly outmatched, but with a cry she struggled against his lover's grasp. George shook his head slowly, amused by the two. He cleared his throat to interrupt them, and though a look of annoyance shot across Isolde's fair face, she said nothing to him.

"Well, it's clear that you failed, Marissa, and likely embarrassed yourself and my name in the process. You will be punished. But this Jenrea, if she has so caught the Prince's attention, then we will simply have to do something about her."

Isolde raised a single brow, but the faint smirk that tugged at her lips told him he had her approval, at least.

"But first," The Squire continued, "We do have to teach my dear daughter a lesson in failure. Secure her."

"What?! No!" Marissa shrieked, and her struggles redoubled, until Isolde hissed something in her ear. Whatever she had been told, the girl's face paled, and she went very still.

George watched as his lover dragged his daughter by the hair. Not toward where he remained seated, but toward the side of the great hall. There, amidst the shadows, a structure of wood rested. He had seen Isolde have it brought up from the dungeons below earlier in the evening, but had thought nothing of it. Apparently, she had anticipated just such an occasion.

A grand wooden frame, it had iron shackles attached to it. Isolde reached down to grasp one of Marissa's hands, then forced it up toward one of the cuffs. As the cruel, unyielding metal closed about one delicate wrist, the young woman's struggles began anew.

She clawed at Isolde with her free hand, and it was all that his lover could do to press Marissa's other wrist up into the opposite cuff. He could help, certainly. He could call men at arms to do so as well, but he did neither. No, he simply watched as Isolde shackled the girl spread eagle within that frame, rather enjoying the way both women strained and struggled against one another. Neither female was unpleasant to gaze upon.

Besides, Isolde could clearly handle herself.

Soon, Marissa was clasped within that wooden frame, which Isolde then grasped and dragged away from the wall, to leave the younger woman suspended, spread before the room. There were small tears in that oh so elegant gown now, revealing glimpses of pale flesh beneath.

Isolde, by contrast, merely had a few locks of hair out of place, which were quickly tucked back behind her ears.

"Father! What are you doing?!"

Marissa's cries began to grate on him, though Isolde simply walked back along that wall. there was a small cart there, which he had mistaken for one which the kitchen servants used. Indeed, it was, but rather than food or snacks, innumerable wicked tools were laid out on the surface, and only glinted in the light when they cleared the shadows and drew closer.

"Shall I silence her, my dear?" Isolde grinned to him as she let one hand drift over the tools on the table. Long fingers traced over a suggestively shaped gag of black material, and she lifted it upward.

It was phallic, to be certain, but resembled no manhood he could even imagine. Terribly thick, he was hard pressed to picture Marissa's mouth accommodating it. He simply nodded, mutely.

The sight of the tool sent Marissa into further struggles. The frame she was bound to creaked, but held, and soon Isolde simply stepped before her. She fixed her gaze on Marissa's, meaningfully.

"If you want me to stop, tell me to."

"Stop! Stop, you bitch!" Her cries grew frantic.

Isolde merely laughed. "Not that. I mean tell me. Really tell me. Make me stop with words alone." Something in Isolde's tone was dark, and George wasn't certain what game she was at.

Marissa's continued pleas did not seem to stir his lover's sympathies, or whatever she was aiming for. Indeed, the raven haired beauty seemed disappointed as she finally placed the thick tip against Marissa's lips.

"It's a shame, isn't it?" His mistress cooed to the younger woman. "If you had magic in your blood, you could tell me to stop, and I would have had to." Her tone then grew icy, commanding Marissa, "Open your mouth, slut."

To his surprise, the younger woman complied, parting her lips and jaws wide as she could. They still stretched as Isolde forced the massive gag between them, and the older woman had to use some force to get the gag into her mouth. Marissa gurgled as her jaws creaked a bit, but she accepted the thing.

"There there, if you are having troubles with this, then maybe you need more practice. And here I thought you'd grown used to having your mouth stuffed..." His lover mocked the girl openly.

The Squire was glad that Marissa had no magic, for the glare that she fixed through tearful eyes upon Isolde would have certainly slain her and continued on to him.

Isolde leaned in, and buckled the gag in place. As she did, her body pressed in close against Marissa's. George let his greedy eyes drink in the scene, and when she caught his gaze, the older woman just giggled, then licked slowly along Marissa's neck. A tongue that the old Squire knew was quite skilled traced up along to the younger's jaw line, then down toward her chin.

Marissa mumbled and screamed into her gag, but she could do little to protest. Her limbs tightened nicely within her bonds, taut as a spring.

Finally, Isolde stepped back from Marissa, and traced her hand down along the younger woman's neck, then along the swell of one breast. She teased her long nails along toward the bodice's lacings, and with a sudden, quick rip, tore the fabric asunder. There was a certain strength in the way she did it that was unexpected, she made it look easy.

Muffled screams accompanied the spill of those large, pale breasts into the light of the distant hearth. Ragged remnants of material clung to her flesh, but failed to conceal it. Isolde grasped a rosy nipple in each hand, and sank her sharp nails into that sensitive flesh.

The younger woman bucked and screamed, though thankfully that gag was doing its job, even as it seemed to make her neck bulge. George watched in mute fascination, then licked at his lips. In truth, he wished he'd never named Marissa his daughter, if he had known she would look like that. She was much more suited to be some concubine.

Isolde stepped away from Marissa, and retrieved a long, slender knife from the cart. This brought more struggles, but the Squire's mistress simply set to work slicing the rest of Marissa's dress off. Bit by bit, her form was exposed to the Squire's eyes, those full breasts, that smooth skin, the flat of her belly, then her stocking sheathed legs. Isolde left the girl's garters and lacy underthings on. Things designed to catch the Prince's attention, now instead revealed to the Squire and his lover.

She brought the knife up to her lips, and traced her tongue along the blade, watching Marissa's eyes all the while. The younger woman trembled, blushing fiercely. Still, her nipples peaked, and the Squire noted her gaze lingered on him more and more. Could she truly be excited to be so exposed before the man she called father?

With a quick, questioning look, Isolde stepped back toward the table, and drew up a long, coiled leather whip. George simply nodded once more, "Do it."

Isolde smiled cruelly, and unwound the long leather lash. Marissa's eyes widened, but she could do little before the Squire's lover brought that whip to bear. the crack it made before striking the younger woman's flesh resounded through the chamber, and the younger woman flinched and thrashed. A red welt, just on the verge of drawing blood, traced from shoulder, along the inside of one breast, to her opposite hip.

"You're going to love this." Isolde's voice was soft, and the Squire was sure she was speaking to Marissa, rather than him, as her eyes were fixed upon the younger woman's.

Again that whip struck, except this time the muted scream which followed was punctuated in a low moan. A look of horror and shame crossed Marissa's features, and she struggled to control her breathing.

Squire George hefted himself to his feet. His strength had faltered from his peak, certainly, but it was still with an easy grace he moved toward the two women. Again that whip lashed out, most strikes aimed for Marissa's torso, a couple wrapped about to her sides. A few kissed the inner thighs of the younger woman, lighter than the rest, but the response was the same.

Here and there, blood trickled down pale flesh, rising from particularly cruel slashes of that whip. As he approached, Marissa's eyes pleaded with him. There was something beyond pain and fear there, however. There was raw lust, needing want.

George held his hand up to still Isolde's arm, then stepped toward Marissa. The younger woman's chest heaved as she drew rapid breaths through her flared nostrils. Slowly, George traced one hand along her cheek, and the woman who called him father leaned into his touch.

Those fingers traced over heated, flushed skin, down along the column of her neck, then toward one breast. One of the whip strikes had caught the edge of her nipple, and the skin was marred with red and purple in places. Still, she arched her back, to press that breast in against his hand.

Isolde's arms slipped about his waist, and her lips brushed his ear. "See? She loves it. She adores the pain." Those moist, crimson lips toyed at the shell of his ear, and he nodded.

"So it seems. What a slut my daughter is." He chuckled as Marissa flinched from his words, but then she moaned against her gag when he cradled that one breast, and squeezed firmly.

Isolde's hands stroked down his own belly, not near as tight as it once was, then began to work at his trousers. As she unbuttoned his fly, she leaned closer still, and pressed her own bosom against his broad back.

"You shouldn't reward her with your touch, this is supposed to be a punishment, after all."

Marissa glared at his lover when she made that suggestion, and the Squire laughed. He raised his hand up, then brought it down with a firm slap against the side of one heavy orb, sending it careening against the other.

Her scream was impressive, as muted as that gag kept it.

Isolde's slender hands dipped down to circle his shaft, and began to stroke it slowly. "She wants you. Feel her."

Her voice toyed with his senses, as did that exotic scent. George nodded, and that hand returned to Marissa. Over her belly, that flat, taut midriff marred with the marks of the whip, then along one hip. Those lace panties she had chosen were damaged. The whip had caught them at one hip, leaving them have ruined and dangling, revealing that neatly trimmed little copper tuft.

His eyes fixed on Marissa's, then his hand pressed between her thighs, to cup against her. She was warm and wet indeed, wanting and ready.

As the Squire's thick fingers toyed over the younger woman's sensitive folds, Isolde squeezed his length firmly, then began to descend to her knees. There were few enough reasons that she ever knelt, and all of them had to do with pleasure.

As a pair of skilled, moist lips engulfed his manhood, George gasped. His eyes never left Marissa's, and he whispered in a gentle tone, "Do you want me? Do you want your own father?"

The young noblewoman nodded, and her hips began to rock against his hand. She sought to press herself upon his probing fingers, in time with the bobbing rhythm of the raven haired woman below.

George dropped one hand to wind within Isolde's hair, but he dared not guide her too swiftly. His arousal built and built, and soon his own hips joined in, thrusting forward to meet each dip of Isolde's head. He pressed down her throat needfully.

For a moment more, Isolde remained on her knees, then drew her head back. Her hand grasped the base of his shaft, and squeezed to keep him in check. "No," She spoke the single word as almost a command, and he stood there, quivering. With a wicked little smile, his lover rose to her feet elegantly, and pushed him away from Marissa.

Slowly, theatrically, she drew her skirt upward, to expose those long, toned legs. Gathering the material about her waist, she revealed a total lack of even the most basic of smallclothes. Her mound was shaved, as he knew it would be, her flesh slick with want.

She turned to face Marissa, then gradually bent forward, spreading those legs. One hand lifted to brace herself on the very frame that kept the younger woman in place, while the other beckoned him near.

When the Squire was within her reach, she grasped his thickness once more, and guided him forward. She nodded approval when his hands found her hips, and spoke in a low, lusty tone, "I am all you will ever need."

George nodded, and smiled in return, "All I will ever need." He repeated, reassuring her, then guided himself up between her thighs. His heart pounded with renewed desire, and after positioning himself against her waiting slit, he thrust forward. It was a slow, easy penetration, and he paused only when he was sheathed within her exquisite body.

Marissa, meanwhile, had become irate once more. Watching him take his mistress was something she obviously loathed, and there was another rattling and creaking as she thrashed within those bonds. She did little but wear out a body already glistening with perspiration and tinges of blood from her whipping. The view, at least, was lovely, and he watched the younger woman bounce and strain even as Isolde began to rock back against him.

With his hands settled firmly at her hips, George began to move to her rhythm, letting her set the pace. He glided within her readily, and soon the two were entwined in full view of the younger noblewoman.

Every hard thrust by the Squire sent Isolde arching in toward Marissa, and more than once or twice, bare breasts brushed against still clothed ones. Isolde was whispering something, but George was too caught up in the feel of her, the sense of her warm body bucking roughly back against him. Even if he could hear every syllable, he wouldn't have cared.