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The great hall had hardly changed since she left. Once they returned, Charlotte slid back down to her husband’s side just as he was awakening.
“Were you gone?” he asked.
“I had to pee.”
“Ask permission next time,” he said, absently. That was a given; though he hardly seemed upset by this small breach.
“I am, however, quite hungry.”
“You’ve fasted several days as I ordered?”
“Yes, sir, and I’m famished.”
“That is good. You won’t want food in your belly until the day is done. The wine will do.”
“And send my head spinning, I’m sure.”
“Just as well. There is much more of yourself to see today.”
There were some games played on the lawn—brawny men’s sort of sports, and races on horseback, and a jester juggling fruit and bottles of wine. Finally, as the shadows of the later afternoon began to creep into the glades and grottos, and even the great hall, the dancing began.
Charlotte was pushed into the center of a round dais with other slaves. Scarves flew from her collar, lending an ethereal quality to her body as she moved seductively to the haunting music. The wine had made her dizzy, though the inebriation was making her wild. She felt like a savage responding to the pulsing sound around her and the other women, their bodies writhing with hers, and soon undulating together as their asses, hips and breasts began to touch with erotic intent. The lithe Jontile began to kiss her mouth while her groin moved in the same swaying motions. Charlotte’s sex was coming alive. Lena stroked her breasts with her own pink ones, then moved down to capture her crotch against her fair face and work her tongue inside the labia where she could still smell Charlotte’s spilt blood.
“Hummm,” the lovely sounds from the bride’s lips forecast a delirious end, which would have been a welcome sound and sight to the teeming audience of voyeurs. But then, it was far too soon when the day’s events were just beginning. This bride had much more to suffer and enjoy.
“Bring on the spirits!” Mountbane suddenly announced as he jumped to the dais wearing only his leather britches. His muscled chest was robustly puffed up with expectation. While his genteel slaves continued to make love to their newest mistress, Lord Mountbane accepted a pot of spices that were rich in aphrodisiac qualities. Charlotte would find her inebriation become more intense as the thick resin was rubbed deep into her cleft, to the portal of her darkest channel, and then pressed beyond the reluctant opening where it could do its sinful work.
“Ah, my, milord,” she gasped feeling the instantaneous burning sensation in her ass as the brew spread its powers far deeper than any cock would go. Her dancing became more turgid, her body grinding on itself, on air, on Mountbane’s hand pressed against her belly, and on Lena’s face, still seeking out the pleasure of her ripe sexual mound. “Ah! I could faint!” she almost shrieked. But the shriek died away and was replaced with a gentle mewing.
“A hearty staff,” Mountbane directed one of his aides, who quickly handed him a thick and studded wooden shaft. He greased the tips and sides with more of his devilish spirits, then pricking the hotly fired end at her nether doorway, he pressed the rounded head against the muscle and demanded it release. To the anxious eyes of their audience, the device slipped effortlessly beyond the iron rings of the slave’s interior, driving her into another orgy of feeling. Far too much to fathom, she had no choice but to succumb to Mountbane’s prodding staff in her insides, to the lips of the slave between her thighs, and the growing fire that threaded through her blood and bones. Like pain, but it wasn’t pain, like something peaceful, but there was little peace in this. As though everything inside her would suddenly burst. There was no touch to her skin that didn’t make her shriek, or kiss, or breath, or gentle nibble that didn’t bring her more rapture.
“Ah, I die………” she then let go into her husband’s arms as he carried her toward a bed to begin her final rape.
The first of seven lovers lay prone, cock erect, awaiting the descent of Charlotte’s cunt to begin the orgy. She shuddered, wondering if she would survive this night with body or brain intact. She was unworried over her soul—which seemed so satisfied in such surrender. She lay against Sir Tristan, feeling the powerful thrust of his erection lodged deeply beside the shaft that widened her ass. The spirits flowing through her body now laid waste what tiny pieces of propriety that might remain in her.
“Ah, sweet sir, fuck me soundly. Drive me to my end,” she growled as her body roared in rapturous exclamation. Surely these two pricks were more than one fair slave could take! But there was more. Aptly primed, she swooned, feeling her husband abruptly remove the wooden stalk, and then poise himself at her behind and thrust his meaty prong into her last realm of virginity.
“Aaaaaaaauuuugggghhhhh!”
Two erections were far more reckless than one real phallus and one fake. As though jousting for a prize, they worked her holes in frenetic rhythms, each his own. She would try to capture one and hang on, only to have the other become more demanding. Mountbane grabbed her hair, while Sir Tristan grabbed her sides. Would they tear her limb from limb? And would she care? Grappling between the two, her full hips were knocked side to side while her breasts bounced before Tristan’s grateful face. To view the lewdness from behind, the eye beheld the amazing truth of Charlotte’s fine, broad ass, pulled wide with two thick penetrations stretching her womanliness to the limits of her flesh.
And in the shadows waiting were the other lovers who’d claim ass or cunt once the first were spent.
Groans, hisses, cries of pain and mirthful laughter joined in chorus, until Mountbane, taking the ascendant position, as well he should, came first, spilling himself into his wife’s rear portal and plunging his seed to her depths until his cock could take no more and he was forced to retreat and repair. A second noble was on her ass to take his place, easily inserting his erection inside the emptied hole. His took a far less prominent place in the lady’s asset, until Sir Tristan let loose his cry and his cum as well. Charlotte, unconscious of her intimate physical response, groveled against this nobleman’s chest as though she would disappear inside him; while at the same time she almost lost the prick inside her ass. Yet, as Tristan pulled out and was replaced by another lover for Charlotte’s feast, the one behind restored himself and began to work the locked trio into a feverish pitch.
The orgy went on for nearly two hours as positions changed and lovers came and went. She was fucked straight up, and lying down, and in positions too complex to describe. Legs askew, her crotch spread wide and in varying angles, Mountbane’s bride hung on. The exhaustion gripping her at the end left her body vanquished, but nonetheless, serene.
“Was she as fine a fuck as I?” This was Gwnyth's voice. The wife of Sir Tristan hardly bothered to whisper as she asked the question of her husband.
“What right have you to ask, my jealous one?” Mountbane’s exhausted bride heard him respond as she lay recovering alone on her bed. She peered at the departing couple from
one lazy hidden eye, seeing the discontent on the woman’s face.
“I should like such passion poured out on me,” she retorted, not at all slavishly.
“Then you should be as yielding as Lady Charlotte,” Tristan retorted back.
Gwnyth was a small, raven-haired woman, with such beautifully carved features—bright violet eyes, small pursed lips and an aquiline nose—one would swear that God had used the most excellent chisel to make such an exquisite face. Though in His shrewdness, He gave her a visage of such sharpness that it matched her cunning wit and the tigress temper she was famous for. Only Tristan did not fear her since she’d been conquered by him some time ago, and knew her place.
