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She couldn’t lie. The loops had settled, and her breasts no longer felt crushed by them. “No,” she said sheepishly.
He pressed his hand on the nape of her neck and she folded, bending down until her bottom was raised. He knocked her feet apart and examined her slit and folds.
“Wisely, and perhaps unknowingly, you are aroused, my sweet.” He stroked his hand over a buttock, along her quivering furrow, past the puckered entrance and into the opening of the other, the one that generously admitted his fingers. He wriggled them about, murmuring something about her ‘cunt’ and ‘wantonness.’
She grasped her knees and closed her eyes. He continued to inspect her with leisurely nonchalance, before remembering his purpose. The lower straps were fitted snug around her waist and between her legs; the solitary thicker band of leather was drawn up and inward. The first protuberance entered her pussy and lodged itself there. She felt no discomfort, not even an unwanted tightness. However, the second object required a firm nudge and a measure of pressure before it slipped inside her back hole. She groaned, pained at first by the intrusion, then as she accepted it was part of her, she relaxed around it and resigned herself bodily to the occupation.
“Good girl,” he said. “Stand up.”
She gingerly straightened, and as she did, the two wooden pears dropped. The one in her pussy hovered half in and out, the other was trapped, but she felt its weight drawing down inside her.
“Oh,” she whimpered.
“Do they hurt?”
“No. But how will I walk?”
He laughed. “With ease, once I have tightened these straps.”
“Tightened!”
The strip holding the wooden appendages rose in response to the jerking tugs of both buckle and strap. She crept up onto tiptoes, trying to alleviate the friction of deep penetration within her pussy and bottom. But she ran out of height. The lower band, attached at each end to the leather belt around her waist, drew tighter and tighter. It burrowed between her folds, eking out the depth of her slit and furrow, and then it applied pressure to her pubic mound. Her clitoris, now engaged, was unable to yield in any direction. Her jaw dropped and she finally understood the harness’s purpose.
“Your arousal is acute, I guess,” he said, staring into her wide eyes.
The rapidity took her by surprise. Each notch of the tightening had rubbed against her clitoris, and now it pulsed and swelled. “Yes, sir,” she stuttered. “May I come?”
“Ha.” He kissed her cheek. “Absolutely not. You’ll hold that need in your belly and arse. You’ll walk on dainty tiptoes and straight-backed. When you sit, you’ll feel each jiggle of your hips, each flex of your sex. As for your breasts, they will only hurt when you move suddenly, remember that. So remain graceful and ladylike.”
“Oh, my God. I can’t.” She touched her face. “The shame. I’m so hot and flustered.”
“Indeed. Sara.” He summoned the bewildered maid from her hiding place. “When you dress your mistress in her gown, do so carefully. The harness should not show through the fabric. You will also ensure she is heavily veiled. No man may look on her flushed cheeks, or see her doe-like eyes. Or the beauty of her constant arousal. She will be curtained and kept discreet.”
“Why?” Tilda murmured.
“Because like the lady hawk, you will be hooded, kept bound with straps, and fed strips of meat from my plate. You will not lift a finger to help yourself. I have had bells put on your slippers, so that when you move, I shall hear your every step. Soar, Matilda, use your grace to fly high in the rafters of the Great Hall, and later I shall reward you, but only if this apparel remains in place until I permit its removal.”
Chapter Seventeen
Gervais greeted his six companions and beckoned them to the high table where he sat in a tall-backed chair. They bowed, and took up places on either side of him, leaving one seat spare for his lady. Servants poured wine into their silver goblets and they waited expectantly for the words of the grace to be spoken by the castle’s priest, who hovered by the fireplace in his black habit.
The signal had not been given because Gervais was waiting. He cocked his ear to listen over the hubbub of quiet conversations. Then he heard it—the jingle of tiny bells. She was approaching.
“My fellow knights and gentlemen, my betrothed, Lady Matilda Barre.” He rose, and so did the others to greet his bride-to-be.
She walked daintily, toe to heel, with her gown swaying around her ankles. Veiled as requested with her long tresses bundled under an extravagant headdress, her face was invisible to the men—the silvery tissue of the veil shimmered and only close up was it possible to see her eyes and the outline of her lips. He held out his hand and she grasped it. There was a slight wobble in her steps as he guided her to the solid chair next to his. She hesitated, curtsied to the lords, then cautiously with grace borne out of her delicate situation, she seated herself on the plump cushion. He was not so unkind, he thought.
His friends bowed, muttering appreciative words of welcome. He introduced them each in turn, from the oldest, Lord Caspian, to the youngest, Sir Eustace, who once was Gervais’s squire.
She replied in a high-pitched voice, “My lord, you’re most welcome.”
Gervais had little doubt her knees were locked tight together beneath her skirts and given the way her bosom rose and fell, brushing those hardened nipples against the fabric of her shift, she was likely to be in a state that offered neither comfort nor displeasure.
The priest stepped forward and intoned the grace in Latin. Matilda crossed herself with a trembling hand. Jacob signalled and a row of waiting servants brought dish after dish to the table.
Matilda’s plate was empty. She kept her hands clasped together and her head slightly bowed. The conversation, which Gervais initiated, circled around the topic of politics, and was beyond her comprehension. It meant she had little to do but allow him to offer her meat from his plate.
“Thank you, my lord.”
