My King

Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

Babes

Suffering in his loveless marriage to his wife of four months, a King is left scorned and lonesome. Desperate for companionship, he makes the decision to bed a whore, but she proves to be not at all what he had expected.

*****

The marble balcony was warm to Ulric’s touch, heated by the setting sun, and a gentle wind whisked the curled locks of his earthy-brown hair. Though the West Sea was behind him and his keep, he could still smell its salted breezes as they drifted past. The city proper stood hundreds of feet below him, and its busy streets fell under cloaks of long, sleepy shadows as the sun fell behind the city’s stone skyline. Weswyn was a great city, its walls strong and durable, and its people no less so. War, fever, and famine all lashed out at Weswyn as the years passed, but all failed to bury it. The city was the greatest the land had ever seen or would see, and it was Ulric’s. The city was his, the land was his, just as it all was his father’s before him.

Twenty-five years Ulric had watched that sun set across Weswyn. He’d watched it a thousand times, first with his late father, as the Prince, and now alone, as the King. Ulric had seen it more times than he could count, and still it had an effect on him. The quarrels of his court and cousins, the barbs he suffered from his hateful wife he had been chained to, it all took a toll on Ulric, wore on him—the ever-growing shadows under his blue-gray eyes told as much. But when he came to this balcony, when he watched his city drift to sleep, he was better. Calmer.

Ulric sighed deeply, turning his back to the sunset. He strode through the silk curtains to his chambers, the smooth fabric brushing pleasingly against the rough stubble of his face. He swung open the heavy door to his chambers, a vast bedroom, with a lush carpet across its floor that hugged the soles of one’s feet, and walls adorned with lavish tapestries that served well to trap errant ocean breezes against the wall. Ulric’s chambers often suffered from a damp coolness, as any room in a seaside keep often did, but, God willing, it was warm that night.

Beside Ulric was a wide dining table, fashioned from the finest maple wood, sporting a shining, polished finish. An ornate glass pitcher full of a dark red wine rested on it, with a gold-cast goblet beside it. In the far corner of the room sat his wooden desk, with a quill, inkwell, and several lit wax candles across its upper shelf. In a third corner sat a vast bed, with a finely-woven duvet and down pillows. A nightstand with a dark, unlit lantern stood at the bed’s side.

Ulric took the pitcher of wine from the near table and poured full his goblet. He was a man of healthy thirst, but that was no different than his father. Did Ulric drink a bit more these days in particular? Maybe—but he wasn’t ashamed of it, no, far from it. It was as his father had always mused, laughing merrily as he said it: ‘a King needs two things to rule well, little Ully: a fine wife and a finer wine.’ He was a man of many faces, Ulric’s father. He could laugh and sing one moment, raising high mugs of thick mead or glasses of dark wine, and he could glare daggers the next, striking fear into any who failed or angered him, nobles and commonfolk alike. He was a man who had loved his business almost as much as he had loved his pleasure.

Ulric raised the gold goblet to his lips and took a thick swig. The wine tasted as it smelled: potent, hearty, with a faintly spiced edge to it, a true pleasure to the tongue. ‘A fine wife and a finer wine’—the thought had Ulric smiling somberly. He had never before thought that one of those two could send him clambering for the other.

The iron knocker rapping against his chamber door roused Ulric from his thoughts. He sighed at the sound of it, as it perhaps was Elise, his wife and his Queen. Ulric had been certain she had retired for the evening, after their early dinner—she had certainly announced it loudly and arrogantly enough. By Elise’s own request they did not share bedchambers, a hallmark of a Lord and Lady engaged in a loveless union. That request had once hurt Ulric, wounded him deeply, but now, four months after their wedding, he had come to be thankful for it. Seeing Elise as often as he did was unpleasant enough.

“Your Grace?” The voice was not of Ulric’s wife, but rather the stagy, expressive voice of his steward, Edwin Pollard, a man who had long served Ulric’s family. “I’ve something for you,” He said through the door.

Having lost himself in his thoughts, Ulric had almost forgotten. Not three hours ago he had sent Edwin in secret to fetch him a whore, the prettiest he could find, with the biggest tits and fattest arse. It had been weeks since Elise had ‘graced’ Ulric, as she loved to call it, and Ulric was far past letting that hateful woman dictate the sating of his basest of needs. And Ulric was of course no stranger to whores. After all, for seven years of his adult life he had been unwed, and in those years—and even a couple years before—he had been a young man with the same needs as any other. Again, like his father before pendik escort him—whom he had spoken to at length with matters of the flesh, unashamed—Ulric was a lustful man. He needed to sate himself often, and he would do it tonight.

Ulric set down his goblet and made his way to the chamber door, swinging it open. There, in the hall, was his steward Edwin, a wiry, gangly man garbed in a well-worn linen tunic. And before Edwin stood a teenaged girl, clad in a silk, warmly pink whorehouse robe that hugged her curved figure of full breasts and wide, flaring hips. She was fair-skinned, with long hair of a sunny golden blonde that fell to her breasts, brushed free of any tangles or knots. The girl was a gorgeous young thing, with a soft, angular face, high bones of the cheek, a sloped nose and arched, golden brows. The girl was quite a bit shorter than the tall-standing Ulric, by a good foot or so. A rosy red had bloomed across her pale cheeks when she saw her King, looking to him with wide, sky-blue eyes, starstruck by him. She smiled to him warmly, her hands clasped together at her waist, nervy with excitement.

“Your Grace,” She greeted Ulric breathlessly, bowing low before him.

“I trust she’s to your liking?” Edwin asked, a cheeky grin crooking around his gaunt lips.

Ulric nodded to him. “Leave us,” He said.

“Of course,” Edwin bowed dutifully and exited down the hall.

“Come in,” Ulric said to the girl, gesturing into his chambers.

She did as he asked and strode past him, with the clean scent of rosewater and lavender following her in the air. Ulric swung shut the heavy door behind her, fastening its iron lock. It was a wise precaution, though in truth Ulric wasn’t sure how Elise would react to his infidelity, or even if she would react at all.

The girl stood in the room’s center, admiring the tapestry on the wall before her, tracing with her eyes its blue inlets across its intricate, red-patterned backdrop. She was one of the few commoners to ever have seen these chambers, and one of the very few to see it that were not live-in servants of the keep.

Still not quite feeling loose enough or light enough on his feet, Ulric once again took to the wine pitcher, filling his goblet. “What’s your name, lass?” He asked curiously as he raised his drink to his lips.

She spun ’round to meet his gaze. “Vivian, Your Grace,” She quickly answered, her voice light and high, like that of a songbird. “Vivian Caldwell—but my brother calls me Vivi.”

“‘Vivi?'” Ulric scoffed after draining his goblet. “Sounds more befitting of a dog.” He then paused, taken aback by his own sudden cruelty. He looked to Vivian and saw her frowning weakly. “I’m sorry,” He sighed. “That was cruel of me. It’s been a busy week. Busy month, really.”

“I’d bet,” Vivian said sweetly, a cutesy smile returning to her full lips. She seated herself on the edge of Ulric’s bed, watching him patiently.

“How old’re you, Vivian?”

“Eighteen, Your Grace.”

Again Ulric filled his goblet and drank. The pitcher was nearing half-empty now.

“Your Grace,” Vivian said, and she had begun to wring her hands worriedly. “If you don’t mind my prying… does Lady Elise not… satisfy you?” She looked fearful to have been brazen enough to ask him such, and perhaps she should’ve been. It was an odd thing for a whore to pry into why a client needed her services. But Ulric was unoffended. The modesty of his marriage meant little to him, and he had no trouble speaking of how Elise seemed to take such pleasure in his misery.

“I wouldn’t have had you brought here if she did,” He said dully.

Vivian gave him a puzzled look. “But, then… why did you marry her?”

A stupid question. Commoners wed for love—highborn wed for power.

Ulric had never known a whore to be so interested in conversation, nor one prone to such naïveté. ‘Why did you marry her?’ Why else would he have done it? Why did any King ever marry? “I did it because it needed to be done,” Ulric said, a bit of anger coloring his voice. “I did it for my family.”

Ulric turned to Vivian as she fell silent, looking to him wistfully. She was… sorry for him. Ulric stifled a bitter laugh—he was the King and she the commoner, and she was sorry for him.

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” Vivian said shamefully, frowning again. “It was a stupid thing to ask.”

“It’s fine,” Ulric assured her flatly. “D’you want some?” He asked, lightly shaking the wine pitcher in his hand. “I’ve another cup somewhere around here.”

Vivian shook her head. “I shouldn’t.”

Ulric shrugged. “As you wish.”

Strange for a whore to abstain, but Ulric didn’t think much of it. Besides, there was still quite a bit more drinking to be done before he’d be swimming in a warm, pleasant buzz. He didn’t intend to spoil this night by bedding the girl sober, no, that would be truly wasteful.

“My brother fought with you, Your Grace,” Vivian said, watching him intently and with bated breath, as if fantasizing of Ulric on the field of battle.

“Did maltepe escort he now?” Ulric raised a brow curiously. “And what did he think?” He chuckled as he took another swig.

“He said you were amazing,” Vivian paused, swallowing audibly. “Standing tall, swinging that greatsword, fighting like a man possessed. He said he saw you cut down a dozen Syderans.”

Ulric looked back to Vivian. It was clear before, but Ulric only saw it now—the girl was infatuated with him.

It was common for Ulric’s subjects to fancy him. He ruled strong and firm, yes, but he ruled kind and generous as well. That said, Ulric had never once bedded a whore who would shower him in such honeyed adoration. They’d cry out for him, babble ‘God, yes,’ ‘harder, more,’ and other sultry nonsense, but that was after they’d stripped and were tumbling with Ulric in his bed. But Vivian, worshipping him like this, out of the nude and with such seemingly genuine affection, she was… different. It was certainly a pleasant contrast from Elise. It made for a nice change of pace.

“He told me he wouldn’t be alive if not for you,” Vivian said.

“Damian Caldwell,” Ulric nodded slowly as the memory returned to him. The boy couldn’t have been more than seventeen back in the war, clean-shaven with a head of shaggy blonde hair tucked under his iron cap. A good fighter, if a bit wild and unrefined, but skilled enough to fight in the King’s vanguard. The boy had almost lost his head to a Syderan before Ulric slew the savage.

“You remember him?” Vivian perked up, her eyes alight with joy.

“Aye,” Ulric nodded again. “The men you bleed with, you don’t soon forget them.”

Vivian smiled from ear to ear. “That’s very wise to say.”

Ulric fell still. “My father said it.”

Even now, years after the fact, the death of Ulric’s father still lingered on him, heavy on his soul. A man as indestructible as his father, so unwilling to be held back by any worldly person or thing, he couldn’t have been taken by a fever. It couldn’t be. It just wasn’t like him.

Ulric cleared his throat, fighting back the wave of emotion. “Yes, well, if he knew I was speaking of him when I could be bedding a girl, he’d be turning in his tomb.”

That drew a short giggle from Vivian, smiling now with her eyes as well as her lips.

“You certain you don’t want any?” Ulric asked, holding out the pitcher. He couldn’t help but feel odd, drinking in the presence of an abstainer, an abstainer he was about to bed, no less.

Vivian nodded. “I’m certain.”

“A whore that doesn’t drink,” Ulric chuckled, imbibing another mouthful of his wine. “That’s new.”

Vivian laughed with him, giving Ulric a strange, brow-furrowed look. “I’m not a whore, Your Grace,” She corrected him amiably, looking baffled that Ulric would even make such a suggestion.

Ulric slowly lowered his goblet as he looked to the girl, confused. Had he heard her right? “What d’you mean?” He asked.

“My mother’s a tailor, in the Diamond Quarter. I sew with her. It’s where I got this dress,” Vivian said, grinning devilishly as she glanced down to her silken robes. “My mother still thinks it’s in storage. She won’t ever know.”

Ulric’s eyes narrowed—was the girl playing him for a fool, teasing him? Was she roleplaying? “Where did Edwin find you?” He asked, eyeing her cautiously.

“He frequents my mother’s store, Your Grace,” Vivian answered, nodding. “Many lords and ladies do. We’re very blessed.”

“You’re the daughter of a tailor,” Ulric began, “But you took coin to come here, to be bedded by me?”

Vivian reached behind herself, into the rear of her robes, and produced a small, knot-tied pouch—the gold Edwin had given her. She unsealed it, loosing from it a few gold coins. “I shouldn’t have accepted it, Your Grace. I don’t need it. My mother and I make good coin.”

Anger welled in Ulric’s chest. He slammed his goblet on the table, spattering dark droplets of wine on the cuff of his shirt, staining it. “Do you think me an idiot?” He growled. “Why did you agree to come here, girl? You’re not a whore, so tell me, why did you come? To ask me your idiotic questions? To mock me? Did you just so desperately want to see your King in person?”

Vivian rose to her feet. “No, Your Grace,” She assured Ulric as she came to stand by him. “Please, be calm. I came because I wanted to be here for you,” She put her hands gently to his face. “To make you better. You’re my King. You’ve done so much for me, for my family. I don’t want you hurting.”

Ulric stood there dumbly, meeting Vivian’s gaze, unsure of what to think. He had never before met this girl in his life, never so much as laid eyes on her, and if not for his brief time with her brother he’d know nothing of her family, nothing of her life. Vivian had no connection to him. Why in God’s name would she adore him? She didn’t—she couldn’t. No, Ulric knew that any affection he saw from a woman, whore or queen, was a farce. It was calculated, planned only as a means to get whatever was desired from him. In kartal escort their first few weeks together, Elise had shown him that.

But Vivian’s touch was not like Elise’s. Elise’s touch was pointed, hard, and always so goddamned cold. But Vivian’s hands were soft, soft and so very warm, almost hot against Ulric’s face. The way she held his stubble, caressing him with a gentle affection, it all seemed so real. Good God, Ulric needed it to be real.

“Can I kiss you?” She asked him in a whisper.

Ulric could not find the words, and Vivian did not wait. She put her lips to his and kissed him deeply. Ulric closed his eyes and, slowly, hesitantly, put his arms to the small of Vivian’s back, holding her tight. He ran a hand up her golden hair and took a gentle handful of her silk-like mane. Vivian slackened in his arms, pushing her soft frame lovingly against his, her full breasts pressing heavily against him. Ulric brought his tongue to his lover’s mouth, and she accepted it eagerly. They kissed noisily, with the passion of lovers.

Ulric wanted to praise Vivian’s beauty, to profess to her his sudden, lustful love for her, but he stopped himself, if only because he knew the time for words to be past. Ulric took the small girl by her waist, lifted her, and wrapped her legs around himself. He broke their kiss and spun themselves ’round, pinning Vivian’s back against the wall. With ravenous hands he pulled apart the front of her robes, baring her hefty breasts to the air with a fleshy jiggle. Ulric put his mouth to the underside of Vivian’s jaw as she moaned, leaving a trail of wet, sucking kisses as he worked softly down her neck toward her chest.

Ulric took in hand Vivian’s right breast while he craned his neck downwards, holding the supple flesh as he put his lips over its pink nipple. She let out a quick gasp as he flicked his tongue over her stiffening little bud, suckling her breast deeply. He put his free hand to her other breast, squeezing it, and thumbed its hardened nipple. Vivian purred softly, lovingly, and held her arms tight around the back of Ulric’s neck, partly to keep herself in place, and partly to keep Ulric to her teat. The fat of her breasts yielded lewdly to Ulric’s rough suckling, urging on his lust. His erection now pressed painfully into his trousers, jutting forward like a steel-forged spearhead.

A sole strand of spit hung from his lips to her nipple as Ulric finally tore himself from Vivian. Her breast now glistened wet from his passion. He set her down to her feet and helped her shrug off the last of her robe, baring to him the smooth flesh of her nubile body. Ulric tugged his shirt over his head and tossed it aside, and Vivian put her hands to his trousers, unfastening his belt as Ulric backpedaled. Ulric spun his lover ’round and eased her onto his bed, its heavy blankets molding softly around her nude form. Ulric kicked off his shoes and slipped out of his pants and linen breeches. His lengthy, iron-hard shaft stood at full-mast, aching and needy, throbbing with every heavy thud of his heart against his chest.

With firm hands Ulric parted his lover’s smooth legs, admiring the flowering pink lips of her cunt and the bushel of golden hair nested around it. The heady, musty scent of her sex tickled Ulric’s nose, stoking the fire of his lust. His manhood twitched at the smell of it, a single drop of early seed spilling from its crown. His cock was eager to be sheathed in the woman before it, to shudder in her hot flesh, but Ulric would not sate it just yet. He would taste her first.

He fell to his knees by the bed, raising Vivian’s right leg and pecking quick kisses up her inner thigh, up toward her crotch. When his mouth came to rest just off the side of her outer lips he quickly reared back his head, teasing her. The nectar of a woman now bubbled over from her sopping sex, sodden in heat. Ulric would not tease Vivian long, as he then brought his jutted-out tongue to her cunt, pushing it into her tunnel. Her nectar poured over the flat of Ulric’s tongue, overwhelming his senses with her taste. It was like ambrosia; a bit salty, not-quite-sour, and intoxicating. He drank it eagerly as it came. Above him Vivian held an arm under her breasts, pinching a single nipple, panting with desire. The sight had a grin forming around Ulric’s open maw. He drew back his tongue and flicked its hot tip across the budding glans of her clitoris, prompting Vivian to draw a short, hissing breath and lock her thighs around him like a vise. She yipped and squealed cutely as her King dined on her, sampling with his tongue every last crevice and corner of her cunt.

Ulric could keep his urges at bay no longer. He pulled himself from between her thighs and rose to his feet, taking Vivian by her calves and gently easing her further into his bed, so that her legs did not hang off. He crawled into bed over her, putting his knees between her open legs. Vivian wrapped herself around her King, arms over his neck and legs around his hips. Ulric took his throbbing manhood in hand, gave it a few readying strokes, and guided it to Vivian’s waiting cunt. He brushed his cock across her sopping lips, wetting his flared cockhead. He gave her one final, deep kiss, pushing his tongue into her mouth, and, at last, eased his aching cock into her depths, parting her folds around his length.

Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

Bir cevap yazın