Part 1: Fresh From Auction Katrina said a silent prayer during the moment of silence that followed her bid. Somewhere behind her there was a rude comment that she ignored. The flies biting at any exposed flesh they could find were harder to ignore and she swatted at them subconsciously. Her nose wrinkled and eyes watered from the ammonia stench of livestock dung and the body odor of the predominantly male crowd. She was thankful that the slaves were the first items on the docket, ahead of the livestock. She was anxious to be on her way, not only because of the long trip ahead but because this place awakened bad memories. ...

Offa’s Dyke In the late eighth century, King Offa of Mercia ordered a boundary to be made between his kingdom, which was most of Southern England and the Midlands, and the lands held by the tribesmen of Wales.It was an earth bank some 20 ft high fronted by a wide ditch almost as deep, and ran most of the way between the Dee estuary near Chester and the Severn estuary near Chepstow.Although never regularly garrisoned it firmly defined Wales, and the border still largely holds. ...

Marilyn fidgeted nervously in her seat as she awaited the entrance of the company president into his office. She had been summoned her shortly after starting her work day at NMJ Manufacturing without any reason given. She nodded to a few acquaintances on the way to the office and glanced flirtatiously at a few others who had become more than ’ friends’ in the time she had worked for the company. ...

8 8 Officer Strong by Inmate SWF, 30-SOMETHING, RAVEN-HAIR, ATHLETIC, LAW ENFORCEMENT OFFICER. STRONGER, FASTER, AND SMARTER THAN YOU. ISO M PRISONER FOR LONG-TERM DETENTION. PREPARE TO SURRENDER. He turned back to that page over and over again. The ad was perfect. It was probably a fake, a game, someone looking for a cheap call or some college student doing a paper in Psych 101. Then again, what if it wasn’t… ...

(story continues from Officer Strong)_ Officer Strong : First Weekend (1) by Inmate They drove away from the park…away from his freedom. After only a few minutes they pulled off. He heard her get out of the car, then into the back seat with him. “Prisoner transport is very dangerous,” she said, “It’s too easy for them to escape. We must be very sure the prisoner is secure.” He felt her take off his hat (though not the blindfold), then place a hood over his head. She cut the blindfold a pulled it out through the back of the hood before zipping up the strong leather cover. He could breathe, but he could see nothing. He felt her place a collar around his neck, and thought (through the muffled sounds of the hood) that he heard the distinct sounds of a padlock closing. ...

It was a warm autumn morning and I had the house to myself for the next two days. So after a leisurely breakfast a self-bondage session seemed attractive. As I had plenty of time a bit of rope work seemed appropriate, it would take awhile to apply the bondage and a delayed escape beckoned. As I was alone two backup escapes seemed sensible. So I pre-positioned my sheath knife on the floor in front of the picture window in the lounge, and then a serrated edged knife on the floor in the kitchen. ...

This story contains adult content and a disturbing theme so if you are under the age to view such material or easily disturbed please stop reading, you won’t but hey you were warned. Part One The Olsen ‘family’ Dairy farm had begun as a smallholding some two hundred years in the distant past, as time ground on most of the other local farms sold up to big farming companies or vanished into housing development but the Olsen farm struggled on defiantly growing ever more behind its competitors but prized locally for the quality of its produce. ...

The morning sun warmed Lynette’s bare back as she awoke. She was greeted by Bill her husband, lover and master of 15 years. “Well I just dropped the kids of at your mothers. Ready for the great experiment?” She jumped to her feet and hugged him," Of course I’ve dreamt about being your display slave for a long time. How do I look, I’ve been working out?" She raised her arms and turned. ...

Disclaimer: This is a work of amatory fantasy. Any resemblance to people living or dead is purely coincidental. If you are under the age of 18, please stop reading here. If you are a bit squeamish about graphic depiction’s of rape, bondage and sex, please stop reading here. The author takes no responsibility for those who wish to reenact anything written below. Permission is granted for private use. The author wishes any agencies that wish to publish this work, to please contact him at [email protected]. Any comments are gladly accepted and encouraged. ...

(story continues from On French Soil 9 - “Unto the weary and all-watched night”) Chapter 10 “A peaceful and sweet retire” Catherine listened to Edward’s breathing, her head rising and falling as she rested on his chest. She had not realized it, but she missed this Englishman’s flesh; the rough down of his chest against her cheek, the slick musk of his labors, the rumble of his heart inside him like the gallop of a stallion. All these things strangely comforted her as she lay curled, still bound, beside this English knight. How she wished her wrists were not tied behind her. She so wanted to run her hands over this knight’s breast and cradle his sleeping form to her bosom. Sleep eluded Catherine. It was like a songbird whose song one could hear yet cannot find its singer. She was tired and being here against Edward filled her with an ease that she had never felt before, yet the events of the night and the past few days kept her mind awake as well as the warmth stirring in her quim. Edward stirred a bit beside her, his arm reaching around her. “Are you awake, my dear ransom Catherine?” Edward said in his gruff French. “Yes, Englishman, my lord, I am.” Edward smiled, his strong arms bringing the slight Catherine closer to him. The French captive looked up at Edward with her dark eyes and smiled. “What, pray tell, are your thoughts?” he asked. His fingertips began to trace lightly over her smooth back. “It is not my position to say, my lord. I am, by-the-by, your ransom; to do with as you will.” Edward grinned at this. The game was afoot and his coney still was baiting him. It was now a game of words with Catherine. “And if it was my will to know your mind, dear ransom, would you then tell me?” “I would not. I am your ransom. My flesh and my blood are yours to do with as you will, but my soul is still Gods and mine. You cannot force a thought from me just as you cannot crush milk from a butterfly, my lord.” Edward thought on this a bit. He sat up and began to untie the binding about Catherine’s wrists. “You are free to go, my butterfly.” Catherine looked in Edwards’ dark hazel eyes. “You play me a simpkin, my Englishman lord,” Catherine replied. Edward kept silent, his arms crossed across his chest. “You know what lies for me beyond these walls of stone,” Catherine continued as she stood up beside her bed. “What, pray tell, my dear ransom Catherine, lie beyond these walls. . .your precious Mother France, whose bosom you will go to with open arms,” Edward smiled as he looked upon her slender, marble-like form glistening in the morning light. A cathedral angel made flesh. Catherine’s eyes narrowed, “I need not remind you, English knight, of what evils lurk out there for one such as myself. Unescorted and without a single piece of silver to my name, I would be little but a scrap of meat amongst hungry wolves.” “A very lovely scrap, yes,” Edward grinned. “I am your ransom, English Knight,” she continued, “You cannot shirk the responsibility to this. . .” Catherine pointed to her breast, “. . .your ransom! You took me and now my life is in your hands.” The grin had disappeared off of Edward’s face. Indeed, Catherine was his ransom, even though his feelings towards this fiery daughter of D’Astier were growing more binding with each hour. He was bound by the rules of war to keep his ransom safe until her ransom was paid or until it was not paid. Edward had not even sent word to Philip D’Astier letting him know that his daughter was now in the hands of one Edward de Valence. In his passions, Edward had almost forgot the reason why he had searched for Catherine in the ruins of Harfleur. Catherine looked directly into Edward’s stern, hazel eyes, “I am your ransom, my dear English knight.” -o0o- Outside, the mists that clung to the gray morning like ghosts over a grave, slowly letting loose the ground. A pale sun greeted the both besiegers and the besieged. A column of smoke still cloaked the second tower from the night’s fire. The men awoke and coughed and cursed and spat and itched and prepared themselves for another day, the victory of the past few days lost in the daily routine of war. Death still breathed in the smoke. Richard had not gone to bed. He walked slowly through his retinue and though he saw their faces and heard their voices, they were like a far away tolling of a bell. His tired mind was thick with thoughts that he knew better than to have. Edward de Valance, his lord, had done much for Richard, including shedding his blood for Richard. There was nothing that Richard would not do for this man. However, this ransom of his, this raven-haired beauty, was unlike any woman he had know and the thought of her heated his loins. Best not to think on it, Richard, thought. Another day of siege was at hand and the second tower should soon be taken. “Life is too short, my dear Richard, to be so dark,” a warm lilting Irish voice said to him. “Margaret?” he replied. “It looks as if you have the weight of many a catapult stone upon your brow, my dear lord sergeant,” Margery smiled as she got up from her spot, an emptied keg. In her hand she cradled a ceramic mug. “It has been a hard siege, Margaret.” “To a woman likes me, dear Richard, whose son is still carrying a sharpened sword, everyday of this cursed war is as hard as an iron helm.” Richard looked around to see if anyone had heard, “I would speak silently of this, Margery. King Harry’s work here is blessed by God.” “I know, my dear Richard. At times I think this is an atonement for the sins of my flesh.” Richard hugged the redheaded washerwoman close to him and whispered, “You have been a comfort to me, Margery, more so than any stone saint staring out from a cathedral niche.” “You should not say such things, my sergeant. It is ill favored.” Richard did not smile as he looked down at Margery, “My soul is already burning and will continue to burn long after the I die.” Margery read the pain in Richard Corfes’ blue eyes. She had seen it too many times before. They were the eyes of a man to whom singing arrows and slashing blades mean as much as a stroll through a meadow ripe with spring. Richard’s eyes had seen too many men scream and cry and curse at their own mortal wounds. Richard did not know how to wash the blood from his hands. “Come,” she said. Margery lead the sergeant through to a where she had made her tent, inside the skeletal remains of what was once a bake house. Now all that remained was a stone chimney and oven and a few blackened timbers. Her tent, stained and patched from many years of travel in Wales and Scotland as well as there in France, was almost as welcome sight as Richard’s own home. By his hand, she pulled him inside and without a word, began to slowly undress him. With each lace she untied, every clasp she unbuckled, the weight of the world seemed to slip away from Richard. That was what a woman does best, Margery thought to herself. It was not long before Richard’s armor and weaponry lay in a pile along with his shirt and leggings. Margery’s skilled fingers and palms began to caress and knead his weary muscles as he lay on her sheepskins. The lay of his back was very familiar to her. She knew the curves and ridges. She smiled at the memories of past couplings with this man whose chest was as smooth as a newborn but as solid as a hornbeam. Margery began to undress herself and it pleased her to see the effect it always had on Richard. It was not like with Edward, whose hunger was more of that of a hungered wolf, rather it was like that of a graceful dance of swans upon a mill pond, slow and lingering, wanting to savor each moment as it passed. Margery watched his eyes wander over her heavy breasts with their petal pink nipples and travel down the flat of her belly to her lush nest of reddish brown curls. There Richard’s eyes rested as Margery walked over to the man-at-arms and cradled his head to her womb. Richard breathed in the scent of Margery and he began to nuzzle at her soft coney. His lips met with her soft curls and, as Margery parted her slender legs, his nibbling trailed lower, caressing her quim with gentle kisses and licks. Margery felt his warm, rough hands upon her buttocks and soon, Richard’s hands and fingers began kneading her flesh and drawing her nearer to his tongue. Already, she felt his rough licks upon her swollen sex. They were like little, warm licks of flame, igniting the tinder of pleasure in her womb. She was already letting out little moans of pleasure and his tongue delved deeper within her, touching her pearl and send showers of sparks rushing through her. It was all she could do to remain standing; her fingers running through this man’s straw blonde hair. Richard guided her to lie down upon the skins and he now knelt above her, looking into her green eyes. His lips met hers and their tongues danced around each other in a slow dance. His hands now gently brushed over her pale nipples. Each touch was like a flame of bliss. The man’s warm kisses left Margery’s lips and continued as he kissed her cheek and neck and shoulders. Richard’s lips and tongue then caressed Margery’s stiffened nipples, adding fuel to the growing fire within her. Little moans leaked from her lips. Richard’s rough tongue and lips attended themselves to each of Margery’s bosoms, going from to the other and then back. And then Richard stopped. Margery opened her eyes to look into Richard’s. He gave her a slight smile before continuing his downward path of warm kisses over her smooth belly to the soft forest of curls below. Richard could smell her incense, a scent far powerful than any censers. Richard gently lifted her legs over his shoulders and rested them there before holding her hips and lifting them so that her tender folds bloomed before him. His tongue began to trace through Margery’s petals, slowly and firmly. Each lick sent more flames of bliss searing through her soul, engulfing her more and more. She tried to press her hips further to his lips, but his hands remained firm, holding her in place. The redheads’ struggles with her passion hardened Richard’s ardor for this woman. Richard stopped his attentions. “Noooooo,” Margery moaned, “Prithee, do not stop, my lord sergeant.” Richard smiled a bit as he rolled the washerwoman over. Without a word he grasped her wrist gently but firmly and began to wind a leather thong around them, binding them behind her back. For Margery, this was unexpected from Richard, whose company varied little from coupling to coupling. This was more like lord De Valence than it was Richard, yet there was the familiar gentleness as he tied the knots around her wrists and then her crossed ankles. He gently rolled Margery back over. Neither Margery nor Richard said a word as they gazed at each other. Richard then bent down and kissed Margery again, this time, with a bit more heat. His tongue seeking hers out in a slow, passionate dance of Eros. His rough hands found her breasts and began kneading her stiff nipples anew. Her being helpless only threw more wood onto the passionate pyre that was growing within her. Richard’s touches and caresses and nibbles on her skin fanned the flames so. Margery moved more and more beneath him; a storm made flesh. Her wide hips bucked up at him and her kisses were born of hunger. He slipped his legs between hers and knelt above her, her bound legs embracing him; spurring him on with her heels. Richard slid into her. Margery felt him fill her with his swollen member, thrusting into her a feeling of wholeness and bliss that she could not hope to describe. Richard’s thrusts into her were at first slow and deep. She tried to move him to a quicker pace, but he would not go but his own speed. Building in speed slowly. Her pyre of bliss was growing hotter with every push. Her moans were load and wanton and drove Richard to go faster as his own pleasure began to boil in his shaft. Faster and faster, Margery’s pyre began to erupt into pure joy as his hot seed flooded her and filled her. Roar after roar of heated bliss engulfed her until she just collapsed from being crushed under the fiery waves. -o0o- The land was not so unfamiliar. Geoffrey Potterson had foraged around Harfleur during the months of the siege and he had at least a good knowledge of its’ stands of forests and its’ gentle hills. The grasses were now dry and dead as he made his way towards a hut he had remembered earlier, not too far away and within sight of the ruined remains of the town. Geoffrey’s mind was filled with fears as he crept through the pre-dawn fields. How would he get home to his wife and furrowed plot of land he called home? He was not a man of coin and satin. That is why he had come to France and it’s promise of plunder. King Harry’s war would bring more than just a few coin into his pouch. It would bring him a wealth he had never known. Had Geoffrey had smelled the woodsmoke coming from the hut, he may have turned away. However, his nose was a gristly ruin of reddened flesh and dried blood. One of his eyes was swollen shut and he could still taste the blood from several teeth that the sow of a woman had kicked out. Geoffrey never saw the crossbow bolt that pierced his shoulder. All he felt was a searing pain as the force of the bolt spun him around. As Geoffrey looked down at the shaft protruding from his chest, a second pierced his back. “Arrrrrr!,” Geoffry screamed as he dropped down to his knees. “English dog!” a voice spat in French from behind dying man. Geoffry looked around, feebly trying to draw his falchion with is blood-slicked hands. Behind him were four men-at-arms, two of them bringing to bear the crossbows they had just spanned. The others held out their blades. The men carefully approached the whimpering Geoffry. Smiles caressed two of their faces. Geoffry had stopped trying to get at his weapon and fell onto his side. The pain was too much. He could barely breathe and blood gurgled from his breath. “Are you from Harfleur?” one of them asked, his English words thick with French. Geoffry nodded. “Are you English?” the man asked again and again Geoffry nodded. “We will help you if you answer a question or two, English. My surgeon is not but a few paces away and he will attend to your wounds. First, have you seen a beautiful young lady within the Harfleur’s walls. Her eyes and hair are like mine, as dark as a ravens.” Again, Geoffry nodded. “Is she still there?” Geoffry nodded his head. The pain was branding through him and he could barely draw a breath. “Do you know her name? Is it Catherine?” the man asked again. “Yeahhhhhhhh,” Geoffry hissed, blood gasping on his own blood. The man nodded. “Slit his throat,” Bois D’Astier said in French and one of his men stepped over the curled Englishman and with a quick swipe, ended Geoffry’s pain. Since it is usually a long span of time between postings and re-postings of ‘On French Soil’, I am compiling a mailing list so that you can receive chapters as they are produced. If you would like to be on that list, please e-mail me at [email protected] . Or visit my weblog at http://fesselnsfiction.blogspot.com/ . Any and all comments are welcomed and appreciated. ...

(story continues from On French Soil 10 - “A peaceful and sweet retire”) Chapter 11 - “To Know What Willing Ransom” “She is within those crumbled walls of Harfleur, John,” Bois D’Astier said under his breath as he stood beside his seneschal, looking at the siege-torn town in the distance. A column of dark smoke curled into the lead-colored sky. “I think that you wish it so, my lord,” John replied. “I can feel her there, John. I can feel her breath as if it were my own. And did you not hear what that Englishman said?” “The words of a dying man, saying anything to save his wretched life, my lord,” John shook his graying head, “I think your sword wants a shroud of blood. I urge you, my lord, the English rule these vasty fields in which we creep like wintering mice. We are here by stealth and cunning and we will remain breathing if we continue thusly.” “My Father wants Catherine,” Bois said simply. “Does he want to consign you to a cold marble vault for the sake of a daughter?” “You speak too plainly at times, John.” John looked at his lord with gray eyes as sharp as arrows, “I speak plainly because I need to, my lord.” Bois continued to stare out at the broken walls of Harfleur. In the distance, they looked like gravestones in the mist. A dark column of smoke was testament that not all of Harfleur was English. From what his men could descry from the babble of folks that once inhabited that noble port, two towers had refused to bend to King Henry’s pennant. “Patience, my lord. The English are not leaving this prize and if your fair Catherine is within those walls, she will not be leaving her native soil soon.” In the distance, an English patrol on horseback was riding in their direction. “We must go, my lord.” Bois nodded. But he would return. . .soon. -o0o- Edward looked upon his nude ransom, Catherine D’Astier, with a slow-boiling anger. Her heated words had lit a fire within Edward that he had nearly forgotten about while enjoying the pleasures of her fair gifts. Now, the memory of his dead son swept like a whirlwind through him. . .all the pain and fiery thoughts of revenge. Edward De Valence was not here just to fight for King Henry the V’s just crown of France. He was here to kill Phillip D’Astier and avenge his son’s murder. He needed his ransom, Catherine, to do it. “You are right,” Edward said coldly, “You ARE my ransom. I must remember that. Where is your father so that I might write him to fill my coffers . . or at least a groat or two.” “He is in Paris the last I heard, m’ lord,” Catherine replied. Catherine did not like this sudden coldness from Edward. She did not know what her words did to her captor, but it did not have the effect that Catherine was hoping for. She wanted to be with this Englishman and did not want to be sent back to her life as bait to add to her father’s treasury of power. She would be married off to someone with wealth and station and she would have little to say about it. Her beauty and grace would assure this as well as her father’s full coin box. “. . .but I believe he was headed to Rouen on a matter of some importance” Catherine lied. “Rouen? I will send my demands to Rouen as well as to Paris. It will find his ears soon enough.” Catherine knew this to be true. Her father’s reach was far and such news as her ransom would race to wherever he was. A cold fear started to form in the pit of her stomach. Catherine felt as if she was about to be sentenced to a pyre. “M’lord. . .” Catherine almost whispered. “Yes,” the English knight replied curtly. The silence between them was as cold as a tombstone. Catherine desperately wanted to say how much she cared for Edward but the words were caught in the same chill pit as her fear. She could not say the words. “Yes?” He said again. “Nothing, m’lord Knight. . .” she trailed off. Edward reached down and grabbed at the red garment that Margaret had been working on, a simple gown with knotted sleeves. However, it clinked when he threw it onto the bed. “I can not have a ransom of mine as unclothed as Eve. . .” Catherine lifted the dress. There were chains sewn within and manacles in the sleeves. “Put it on.” Edward said evenly. Catherine lifted the houppelande over her head and tried to struggle to get her arms into the sleeves. After a few moments, it was obvious to Edward he would have to help his young ransom in her raiment. It was difficult, but at last Catherine was wearing clothes for the first time since Edward had rescued her from the fire. A chain encircled her just under her breasts, blending in with the houppelandes' waist. Edward locked it into place with a padlock as well as locking the manacles around her wrists within the sleeves. The manacles had a short chain that lead from them to the chain around her waist, keeping her from reaching out further than a hand spread. It also kept them close together in front of her. Her bindings were all but invisible to anyone she might pass by. “Not quite finished, my prize,” Edward said with a slight, wicked smile. Edward reached under her dress. Catherine felt a piece of soft cloth being pulled up between her legs and threaded through the chain embracing her waist. The English knight tightened the strap until it was tautly wedged between her nether lips, rubbing not too unpleasantly against her pearl. While still under her dress, Edward then shackled her ankles together. Tying the span of loose chain up with the end of the strap. Catherine took several tentative steps. She found if she took too big of steps, the cloth would tighten within her quim. She could see that wearing this could be a torture of a sort that no inquisitor would have thought to include in his arsenal. Edward finished lacing up her dress in back. Catherine always found having a man do this was slightly erotic, having memories of several men doing the same after coupling. It was usually a chore for one of the ladies of the household and men’s fingers were rough and clumsy. . .except for this man. Edward’s fingers seemed adept at the lacings, tightening them firmly as he went, ensuring the gown did not bunch up in the back. “You seem at ease, m’lord, with a lady’s garment,” Catherine said, “It seems you have had practice.” Edward smiled a bit, “I enjoyed dressing my wife in the early morning hours when the world was still ghosts and shadows in gray.” Edward could still picture brushing Eleanor’s long, dark hair aside and seeing the soft curves of his wife’s back revealed in the open lacings of the dress. He would plant tender kisses there as he slowly laced up her gown, causing her to laugh her small, musical giggles. The early, early mornings were their only time alone, when they could drink in each other’s company without the obligations or duties of the castle. They were a man and a woman; husband and wife; a love that came to flower through arrangements of lands and titles. Edward had always counted himself blessed by fortune’s wheel to have had a wife that he cared for and could count upon to give him good counsel Edward lived for those mornings. “She must have been a wonderful lady, m’lord,” Catherine spoke. “Eleanor was,” Edward said softly. Edward picked up a headdress and carefully tucked Catherine’s raven tresses into it. Again, Catherine felt his gentleness while he did this task. Edward had thought he had found another love unexpectedly in his ransom captive. Here was a lady not unlike his Eleanor, dark-haired and with the grace and stature of a hind; and just as wild. And, for just a few hours, Edward thought this daughter of D’Astier felt the same way about him. But her insistent words about being ‘his ransom’ and responsibility clearly showed to Edward that that is the only way she pictured herself with the knight. “What are thinking, m’lord?” Catherine asked. “I wish you were more than ransom,” Edward said and almost immediately regretted it. There was a long, empty silence between to two as Edward finished fitting Catherine’s headdress on. It was Catherine who finally broke the silence. “What do you mean, m’lord?” “You are . . .” Edward tried to search for less direct words, “You are more than a mere ransom to me, Catherine.” Catherine turned around and tried to look into Edward’s downcast, dark hazel eyes. “My English knight, I can be what you want me to be. If I must be a ransom and wear these chains, I would do so as long as I can to be with you for even a few moments more. In my mind, I should hate you; I should tear at your throat with my bare teeth and rip the lifeblood from you; but my heart cannot let me for I care for you, my dear English knight, more than you could possibly know. I feel safe within your arms or ropes, a feeling I would have never pondered m’lord, if you had not taken me so. You have opened my golden-caged life and offered me a glimpse into what love might be.” “You are my ransom,” Edward said, “How could you lay at my side as wife when I need you as ransom?” “Why, m’lord?” Edward paused. “You do not want to know.” The knight could not tell Catherine about his plans to ultimately reap his revenge. He had sown his plan carefully once he had heard that the soil of France would soon be planted with the English banners of war. The murderer of his son would pay and pay and pay again in his own blood. “M’lord, please. . .” “No, Catherine,” he said sternly. Catherine could hear the coldness edging back into his voice. Catherine knew then that it was not mere ransom that her English knight sought. The purpose of her capture ran colder and deeper than just mere coins in a purse. The raven-haired captive recognized that pressing on about that murky purpose would also drive Edward away. “Yes, m’lord,” she acquiesced quietly. “I do not want you to speak of this again, my Catherine,” Edward said. “Yes, m’lord.” “Now, Catherine, I need to see to a few tasks,” Edward said, “You can go about the town if you wish, but I am afraid it is not the town you knew and it is still dangerous. These chains will keep you close by.” “I do not need chains to keep me by your side, m’lord.” Edward saw that look in her dark eyes that he had seen before in his Eleanor’s eyes. It was the look that told him that she would indeed be at his side and that the chains that bound her were not nearly as strong as those forged out of the coals of her love. -o0o- As Richard Corfe unknotted the thong from around Margaret’s wrists and ankles, she sensed he was almost embarrassed about what had just happened. It was not the coupling part of it, she assumed, rather the fact that Richard had tied her up. “What is th’ matter, pray tell, my dear Richard?” “I am indeed sorry, Margery. I did not mean to do. . .” the soldier’s words trailed off. The redhead leaned against Richard, her fingers combing through his hay blonde hair, “Y’ pleasured me wonderfully, my Richard.” “The siege has put lead on my brow, I fear, and has made me do things I do not care to do.” “If’n y’ mean the rope, dear Richard, pay it no mind. It has been done to me before, even by th’ likes of your lord De Valence. . .” “I am not him!” Richard spat. Margery was taken aback, “I know y’ not him. I never said that y’ were, my Richard.” Richard and Margery sat in silence for a bit. The redhead continued to stroke her fingers through Richard’s hair. “She is a sorceress, Margery,” Richard Corfe said quietly, “She is like a vine that enwraps around My Lord De Valence and entraps him in her coils, slowly engulfing him, squeezing his sense out of him.” “She is ‘is ransom,” Margery said, “Her life is’n ‘is hands.” “That woman may be De Valence’s ransom, but I think Edward is her captive.” Another awkward silence fell between the two before Margery spoke, “‘Tis been a long time, dear Richard, since m’lord ‘as had a lady. Since m’Lady Eleanor died, ‘is soul was ripp’d from ‘im. This woman, this ransom of ‘is has given him some of ‘is soul back and ’e wants to keep it. She is good thing for ‘im, dear Richard. For nows, anyway.” “That woman clouds his mind,” Richard said quietly. “Notn’ as much as you think, my dear Richard,” she spoke softly and pulled him toward her, “Now rest.” Richard closed his eyes. -o0o- Catherine felt strange about having clothes on for she had not had any on for several days now, since the English took over Harfleur. She had wanted to die that first night, amongst the burning ruins of her home. However, like waking up into a world filled with elves and nymphs, she was in a different world. Catherine was in a world that she enjoyed very much, enclosed by the four walls of the room she was in. Just thinking about being here and the things that her English knight did to her flooded her insides with a warm, lascivious feeling that Catherine was finding harder and harder to resist. She was still bound, captive now of chains sewn into her dress, but much more free to indulge herself. She lay back down onto the bed that had been her world for what seemed to be a lifetime and began to hike up her dress. With some difficulty, she found the cloth strap that was wedged within the folds of her quim. She grabbed it with both hands and tugged, bringing up her open legs and also rubbing against her pearl, sending a tiny flood of pleasure through her. She thrust her hips, chains jingling and the cloth burrowing into her more, burnishing her bliss more and more. Kicking her legs in the confines of her irons and bucking against the cloth strap, she began to feel a fiery rush of passion burning through her, engulfing her bit by bit as if to swallow her slowly. She found herself whispering Edwards name, herself begging the knight to make her feel the pure bliss he had done so to her before. Her struggles became more frantic as she neared her quest. Her orgasm was so close yet as much as she bucked and squirmed and imagined Edward’s swollen sword thrusting into her, she could not push herself over the chasm. Catherine found herself nearly crying, wanting herself to be pleasured so much. She continued her struggles, weeping and struggling and rubbing herself against the cloth. . .the fiery finger of pleasure slowly licking over her body. . .so wonderful and yet wicked enough not to embrace her fully. Then it came. A fire of pure bliss whirled through her like a storm of flame Catherine writhed and fought against her chains until she was thoroughly as used up as the ashes in a fireplace. She lay there limp, her dark hair a tangle about her and the smell of herself filling the room. There was a warmth in her womb that sated her, like embers of a fire on a cold winter’s night She did not think she would venture out just yet. -o0o- Edward De Valence first felt the sun peeking out from behind its dirty gray mask of clouds and mist like a woman behind a veil. It felt like God had tapped on Edward’s shoulder and given him a small blessing. The English knight stood there for a few moments, staring up at the sun, enjoying its meager warmth touch on his face. The thundering roar of a cannon interrupted his brief revelry. There was still a soldier’s work to be done against the second tower, his destination. To some, sleep had become part of the past. The bellowing of the cannon and the moans of the dying and the curses of the living all made sleeping as far away a dream as their beds at home in England. The taking of Harfleur elevated the men out of their miasma. Supplies were coming in and the sick being taken back to England or billeted under village roofs. The column of blackened smoke looked like the remains of a long dead tree reaching up into the sky. As Edward drew closer, he could inhale the foul-smell of the burning wet hay and oil. There were no arrows coming from the windows of the tower now and the men besieging the tower seemed more at ease knowing that soon this evil work would be done shortly. “Do you think that there is anyone alive inside, My Lord?” Talbot asked as he came up beside Edward, his tired eyes half covered by his wide-brimmed steel helm. Another cannonball shook the ground on which they stood as it cracked against the tower. “How long since the last stirring from inside, Talbot?” “Not since the church bells tolled Vespers yesterday, My Lord,” the man-at-arms replied. Edward nodded. It was time to end this. “Give orders to silence the guns, Talbot, and clear away the burning hay by throwing it into the river. After this is done, we will batter down the door and see if those stubborn souls are still drawing breath.” Talbot nodded. “I also want you to find Corfe and invite him to join us here. His presence is sorely needed.” Again the stout man-at-arms nodded and hurriedly went upon his duties. “Soon,” Edward said to himself while looking up at the scarred stonework of the tower, “So very soon we will be out of this vipers pit and in open country again. I pray to God this is so.” Since it is usually a long span of time between postings and re-postings of ‘On French Soil’, I am compiling a mailing list so that you can receive chapters as they are produced. If you would like to be on that list, please e-mail me at [email protected] . Or visit my weblog at http://fesselnsfiction.blogspot.com/ . Any and all comments are welcomed and appreciated. ...

(story continues from On French Soil 1 - Unto The Breach) Chapter 2 - ‘With Hard-favor’d Rage’ With the gray of early morning, Sir Edward de Valence awoke, his muscles as stiff as bark. In the half-shadow of the baggage wagon, he could just make out the pale shape of his captive still sleeping curled up in the bindings he had put her in last evening. Her long, black hair obscured her delicate face and gagged mouth. Her breasts were the size of ripe apples, her nipples as dark as dates, her slight waist long, as well as her bound legs. Hidden was her dark nest of curls and quim from which Edward had raped his pleasure. ...

(story continues from On French Soil 2 - With Hard-favor’d Rage) Disclaimer: This is a work of amatory fantasy. Any resemblance to people living or dead is purely coincidental. If you are under the age of 18, please stop reading here. If you are a bit squeamish about graphic depiction’s of rape, bondage and sex, please stop reading here. The author takes no responsibility for those who wish to reenact anything written below. Permission is granted for private use. The author wishes any agencies that wish to publish this work, to please contact him at [email protected]. Any comments are gladly accepted and encouraged. ...

Disclaimer: This is a work of amatory fantasy. Any resemblance to people living or dead is purely coincidental. If you are under the age of 18, please stop reading here. If you are a bit squeamish about graphic depiction’s of rape, bondage and sex, please stop reading here. The author takes no responsibility for those who wish to reenact anything written below. Permission is granted for private use. The author wishes any agencies that wish to publish this work, to please contact him at [email protected]. Any comments are gladly accepted and encouraged. ...

Disclaimer: This is a work of amatory fantasy. Any resemblance to people living or dead is purely coincidental. Many historical liberties have been taken in this work and apologies to those who notice them. If you are under the age of 18, please stop reading here. If you are a bit squeamish about rape and graphic depictions of violence and sex, please stop reading here. The author takes no responsibility for those who wish to reenact anything written below. ...

(story continues from On French Soil 5 - Of The Heat Of The Ginger) Disclaimer: This is a work of amatory fantasy. Any resemblance to people living or dead is purely coincidental. If you are under the age of 18, please stop reading here. If you are a bit squeamish about graphic depictions of sex, please stop reading here. The author takes no responsibility for those who wish to reenact anything written below. ...

(story continues from On French Soil 7 - A Slave No Gentler) Chapter Eight: “Silken Dalliance in the Wardrobe Lies” Catherine D’Astier finally closed her eyes and let her tired and satiated body fall to sleep still captive within Edward’s tight bindings; her wrists cinched behind her back, her ankles bound together and that wicked length of thong that still rubbed between her still swollen petals every time she moved. The last rampage of pleasure that raged through her weakened her enough that sleep was an easy breath away, like a heavy cloud that drifted dark over herself. Catherine’s dreams crept into her mind like a poacher in the forest and were both wanton and frightening. Catherine dreamt she was Edward De Valence’s wife-servant, being there for whatever needs he desired of her. She was not just a mere wife and woman of the household, but a woman who would do anything to please her good man. They were in a castle somewhere in a dreary countryside that she imagined England would be. She watched out of the rippled-glass window as a storm thundered and the rain chattered against the panes. She was naked and bound as she stood in front of the window, her wrists manacled behind her back and her ankles cuffed also. There was cloth ball between her lips so she could not say a word to the English that was her master and lover. The window’s imperfect reflection showed to Catherine her lovely, lithe form. Her skin the color of polished ivory, her hair long and as dark as a raven’s wing; her eyes as soft and dark as a doe’s. Her breasts were not large nor small but befitted her slender form. Catherine was, she knew, a very desirable woman. Catherine saw Edward in her dream, sleeping on their bed, his broad back to her. The sounds of his sleep were familiar and comforting to her and she so longed to feel the warmth of his body next to hers but her chains prevented her from moving into the bed with him. She struggled a bit and felt the same, powerful shudder of pleasure rippling through her as another thunderclap erupted outside. Catherine knew she needed this English knight to ease her lustful thirst and she knew that if she was in bed with him, Edward could perform the blissful magic he was so good at upon her. But the chains held her before the cold window. Catherine looked in vain to try to find where the chains were bolted. They were loose about her slender ankles, their length locking her iron anklets together. She could not see her iron manacles locking her wrists behind her, only the cold feel of their metal, unyielding to her wishes. She felt as if she should be able to take small steps towards Edward’s bed, but it was as if her feet were anchored to the cold, stone floor. Catherine tried to tell Edward of her desire for him, but the gag muffled her words and did not waken her English knight. With every passing moment, her desire for him grew and she could not come to him. Another roll of thunder roared outside, the lightning flashed in the black sky. Catherine desperately searched for what kept her chained here. Her struggles became frantic and she whimpered behind her gag. She could feel the tears running down her cheek. . . “Catherine!” a gruff voice bellowed. The captive woman looked up and saw the sturdy form of her father, Phillip D’Astier, a sneer scarring his grey bearded face. In her father’s gauntleted hand, the end of her chain. In his other hand, an unsheathed sword still dripping with gore. “Come here!” he growled and yanked on her chain. A lightning flash distorted his raged face, twisting it into a gargoyle’s foul visage. Catherine shook her head and yelled “No” into her gag but nothing came out. Her terror was a better than any gag of cloth. She could feel him yanking on her chains, pulling her toward him, the metal of her cuffs growing hot and painful as she tried to get away. . . “You WILL come here, Catherine!” Phillip spat. Red ichor continued to flow from the sword, pooling on the floor like the blood of a beheaded man. Catherine tried to scream to Edward but he continued to sleep, unaware of her father and his evil intent. She thrashed and kicked and threw her head and cried great sobs as her father yanked one last time and she fell against him. His armored hands grabbing her arms violently. . . “Catherine!” he yelled. “No, no, please no father!” Catherine cried uselessly into her gag. “Catherine wake up,” a more tender voice came from above her. Catherine awoke to find she was looking into the most wonderful dark hazel eyes she had ever known, the eyes of her English knight, Edward de Valence. “You are having a dream, dear Catherine,” Edward said in Catherine’s native French tongue, “You have nothing to fear while I am here.” Edward’s large arms embraced Catherine to him and he slowly rocked his captive. Catherine wept with both pain and joy, remembering vividly her dream and now the comfort of Edward’s arms. She wanted to tell this English so much, to declare her love for him but the gag he had tied between her lips muffled and mutated her sobbing words. All she could do is cry gently into Edward’s chest. Edward held his captive; his Catherine until her tears stopped and she was limp and asleep in his arms. He could feel every breath of hers; every little movement against him. Her skin was warm and smooth to his touch as he gently ran his fingers over her hip and down her side. Edward could feel himself stirring again at the sight of this woman so much like his departed Eleanor, yet there was differences too that made this woman bound before him as heady as unwatered wine. Eleanor never was this passionate towards Edward. She cared for him and was a dutiful noblewoman but Edward knew deep inside that she did not love him. She was very beautiful and gifted woman and he was glad that he was not there when the plague took her life. He had seen too many bodies marred by the bulbous purple sores to want to imagine what Eleanor might have looked like in death. He wanted her pristine in his mind. Catherine stirred against him, turning onto her side and settling her firm buttocks against Edward’s now hardened self. There was still the smell of her passion on her and her fingers twitched a bit, tickling Edward. Margaret had left, leaving the dress she had modified for Edward. He would dress Catherine in it before he left her. It was a deep red with long sleeves that would be knotted fashionably. She had sewn the arms against the bodice and a pair of manacles in the sleeves. It would allow Edward to take her in public yet make sure she did not leave his side. She would still be a captive yet not appear to be. The only problem Edward could see was silencing her for she did have a wicked tongue at times. Edward glanced out the window. The sky was a darker shade of grey. Night would come all too soon and Edward needed to leave. The English knight was about to wake his ransom up when he had second thoughts. He wanted her to be this way when he came back in the early morning darkness. He would wake her then and enjoy her company again before dressing her. Quietly he slipped out from beside her and eased out of bed, leaving her bound and sleeping soundly. -oOo- The canon belched forth another fiery spew with loud report, bathing it’s gunners in it’s unholy light briefly before the cold darkness enshrouded them again. Richard Corfe saw his commander, Edward de Valence striding over towards him, dressed in his coat of plates and visorless sallet. “‘Tis cold as a Marches’ winter, m’lord de Valence,” Corfe said as he met Edward. “Indeed, my dear Richard,” Edward looked into the pale blue eyes of his sergeant and saw the fatigue there. He needed this man too much to kill him with the burden of these two towers, “Go rest your bones with a wench or two. You know where we are lodged at.” “Yes, m’lord,” he said tiredly. Richard knew better than to argue with Edward, “However you must know that the Earl of Dorset is amongst our works, m’lord.” “Thank you, dear Richard, now go and relieve your men also. The gunner’s that rested during daylight will take over.” Sir Thomas Beaufort, the Earl of Dorset, Edward thought to himself, a good man with a solid skill at war but the youngest son of John of Gaunt was always a cursed paycock. The Earl of Dorset was much more at home in the stone halls of the court where his armor always gleamed. Being in the field did little to his dampen his fiery temper; it only tended to fuel it. A brave man to the point of foolishness. Edward eyed to two towers whose round walls were now pitted and cracked but still held their occupants in safety. No one ventured within bow range of the towers and so far only three men had been wounded by arrows spit from them. “Pray now, de Valence, how do you plan to take these two shrews?” a stiff voice said from behind him. Edward turned around and saw Sir Thomas Beaufort standing behind him, in full plate armor polished and his colors brightly shown. “My Lord Dorset,” Edward bowed. “Those twin ladies will be hard to break,” Sir Thomas said, “I am glad you are the one that will divest those French of these towers. It will take time to repair, I fear.” “Indeed, my Lord Dorset.” “So, how now, de Valence, pray tell me how it is you will take these twin towers?” “I will first take the one on the right, My Lord. I have enough reeds and hay from the roofs of destroyed houses and from their fields that I will be able to pile it around both and set fire to it. The wet hay will burn smoky and I hope to drive the defenders out of their warren. I will continue to fire upon the one on the right, my Lord, but only those cannon I know whose aim is true. Rafts full of the tinder will drift up from behind and array the faggots and straw around the tower while the cannon keep the occupants’ eyes.” “What of the other tower?” asked Sir Beaufort. “I will silence my cannon against it and let those French within think the attack is upon them. They are weary and spirit heavy, I should think, my Lord, and the need to keep constant watch upon their tower will drain them even more. They cannot see what we do to her sister tower, my Lord.” Lord Dorset nodded, his keen eyes taking in the scene before him and imagining the results of de Valences fine work. “Continue, de Valence. The plan is sound,” he said, “use as many men as you need. I need you to break these bitches for His Majesty. He cannot plan ahead unless we know Harfleur is firmly in our grasp.” “The towers will fall, my Lord Dorset. You can tell good King Henry that he will have these towers in two days time.” “I will,” said Sir Thomas as he turned and walked away from Edward. The work had already begun on Edward’s plan of attack. Several small boats and rafts had been filled with straw an awaited Edward’s command. Soon the guns upon the left tower would be silent while the one’s on the right would continue their assault with less powder to make sure none of the men laying the hay would be killed by their own guns. The night was clear and cold, the rain having left everyone damp and of ill mood. Edward’s breath looked like a wraith in the night air. He nodded his head to his sergeant in charge of the hay and then to his man in charge of the cannon on the left. Nor more would they belch their destruction at that tower tonight. Every roar was now against the right-hand tower. A rock shot shattered against the stonework with a loud snap, like a dry bone being cracked in half. There was little for the English knight to do but watch his plan unfold. He trusted his sergeants with doing their assigned tasks and though he watched over them, he did not hover over them like a raven upon a kill. Edward drew his cloak about himself. The knight was already missing his captive Catherine. Maybe he should not have left her bound as he had, he thought to himself. She was indeed frightened by her visions and he would not be there to calm her if she had them again. He recalled how he had found her, bound and raped by three base men as a fire was beginning to sweep through the house. Catherine had wanted to die there. If Edward had not come seeking her, she would have had her wish. Edward had not really thought about that night. It seemed a lifetime away even though it had been only a day or two. He had seen other woman do similar things, sacrificing themselves to the army’s invading. Perhaps their tears had driven them mad. Edward had suddenly got tired of war. When Eleanor died, everything changed for him. He volunteered for every campaign. Life on the Scottish border helped him deal with her death with every sword thrust and spear lunge. His manor house was as feared as any and he made sure he would have his revenge upon anyone violating his stock and his wards. He inspired the men around him and they would die with him anywhere and it was these men that Edward brought with him here to France. . . The burden seemed to overwhelm him now as he stood, cloaked and alone in the cold night. The faggots and straw around the base of the tower was being piled hurriedly and soon Edward would have to give the sign to silence the guns briefly so they could finish their work. Spare nothing, he had said, pile all the straw you can and it was being heaped high. It was time. He raised is arm and dropped it. The guns fired their last shot and were silent. Hopefully, for the first few moments, the French within will think that the guns a reloading but soon the silence will let them know something was amiss. It was but a few heartbeats before the French arrows began trying to spit Edward’s men at the base of the tower. A man screamed as an arrow pierced his back and he collapsed on his bundle of straw. Another fell like a rag, limp into a pile. But the work continued. The ring around the tower grew. It was enough. Edward raised and lowered his arm twice to signal the throwing of the oil pots upon the straw. Tens of small pots arced toward the hay as the last of Edward’s men ran to their rafts or back to the guns. The pots looked like so many falling stars. Some dashed themselves against the tower in an eruption of oil and sulfur and tar. Others crack uselessly on the ground before the hay. But a few landed in the hay and spilled their fiery burden, starting the smoky pyre. The smoke began to embrace the tower in its curling, wispy fingers. Edward could picture what was happening within. The smoke would start to seep into the rooms in a slight haze that would slowly build. The guards would start to cough and gasp in the smokes stranglehold. They would seek the comfort of the open arrow loops only to find the night obscured by the foul fog of the pyre. Men would collapse, gagging like trout upon the shore. Some would die as others would feel their way down the stairs to the door to fight or surrender. This is what would happen. More hay was piled up into the fire. Edward waited, his cloak about him, thinking of his captive. -oOo- Catherine’s dream were now filled with lustful images of her coupling with her English knight as he bound her to his bed and she made no attempt to escape his ropes. She could feel his hands upon her, his touch more rough than before, roaming her body like hungry piglets upon their mother’s teats. Edward’s hands pulled at her bound ankles, loosening them in fervor. . . then the one’s around her knees. She rolled onto her back and willing parted her legs for Englishman. The knight in her dreams then pulled roughly at the thong that parted her passion slick lips. She gasped in pain as he yanked at them. . . Then Catherine awoke. A gnarled, foul-smelling man was bent over her quim, yanking at the thong and uttering curses under his breath. He was naked and troll-like and Catherine screamed into her gag. The man looked up and gave Catherine a toothy grin of yellowed teeth and said something in his guttural English tongue that Catherine did not understand. The thong’s knot parted. . . The man’s hands forced upon Catherine’s thighs, his dirty nails digging into her flesh. Again, Catherine screamed uselessly into her gag. The captive stared in horror at the man’s dwarfish cock. It was as thick and knobby as a toadstool as he grunted before Catherine’s quim. She struggled and kicked at the man. It was all he could do to hold her down. She freed her one leg. Catherine kicked the troll’s cock with all her might, smashing it. The man roared in pain and grasped his injured member, his bloodshot eyes clouded in pain and rage. . . Catherine’s heel smashed into the villains’ nose with a wet crack, causing blood to gush from it. She did not stop, kicking at the man’s face and belly again and again until he slipped off the edge of the bed. Catherine struggled to seat herself and peer over the side of her bed. The man was laying in a pile, his face a bloody ruin. She prayed that Edward would return before this man awoke. *********************End Chapter Eight******************* Additional chapters will be added as time permits. Any comments, ideas, and feelings, would be most appreciated. Please e-mail me at FESSELN1.aol.com ...

(story continues from On French Soil 6 - Perfection Of A Good And Particular Mistress) Chapter Seven: “A Slave No Gentler” Sir Edward de Valence leaned over Catherine and began to unbind her ankles from the foot of the bed. Her slim legs were weak from the passionate eruptions from not a few moments ago. There was a tenderness in his touch and Catherine could see a gentleness in his hazel eyes as well. Her ankles did not keep unfettered long, however, for he tied them together again at her ankles. ...

(story continues from On French Soil 7 - A Slave No Gentler) Chapter 9 “Unto the weary and all-watched night” Cowering like a trapped fawn, Catherine D’Astier lay huddled and frozen with horror. Her slender wrists were still tied tightly behind her back and the cloth gag was still firmly between her lips, despite her weakened efforts to wrench free of their grasp. The fight in her had ebbed away. Helpless, she wormed her way to the back of the bed; away from the low, gasping breaths she could hear coming from the floor. Every time the wretched man coughed, she winced, fearing that he would awaken and the nightmare would never end. Catherine prayed for it to end. The Church had always been important to her father and thus, to everyone in her family. It was not faith, however, that brought Phillip D’Astier into the sparrow-quiet chambers of Notre Dame. It was the power that lay behind the incense and the albs and the carved saints upon the walls. It was that power that Phillip patiently cultivated to bloom and the reason he placed his youngest son Simon into the clergy. This is The Church that Catherine knew and it’s God could be bought with silver; a hollow faith. But now she prayed the prayers bred of faith and tears and fear. Catherine chanted the Latin words in her mind over and over again, a ward against the evil that lay beside the bed, a demon in the shape of a brutish man-at-arms. A groan came up from the floor like a chill wraith and Catherine’s beseeching stopped. She whimpered from behind her gag and closed her eyes, hoping that this too was a dream like before. However, from her self-imposed darkness, Catherine could hear every breath the man took. She could hear every creak of the floor and rustle of straw. Every cough. The young French captive knew, deep within her, that her demon was getting up. She willed her eyes open. The man’s hand, gnarled and covered in his own blood, clawed at the edge of the bed. Slowly, as if Hades slowed the passage of time itself, the man rose. In the bloody ruins of the man’s face, she could see the hatred branded into the man’s dark, bloodshot eyes. His grin, teeth bloodied and broken from her kicks to his face, looked as viscous as any madden hound. Blood continued to trickle down from his crushed nose. “Sow,” he spat. The man knew he would have her and then he would kill her. His lord’s prize would be a corpse and a corpse was hard to ransom. It served Lord de Valence right for bringing him to this forsaken land of France while his wife was heavy with child. The Welsh borders were harsh; even cruel. He needed to be there, beside his wife’s bedside, instead of being in France. DeValence’s ransom had the fight drained from her and now she cowered on the bed. Her ivory skin now flushed red with her exertions. Her long hair, the color of raven’s wings, hung in a fray over her face and around her head. He could barely discern Catherine’s dark eyes peering frightened from behind those tresses. He could see why his lord kept her for his own. And soon, the ruffian thought, he would taste the same fruits of his lord’s. “No” Catherine cried through her gag as the man grabbed one of the ropes that had tied her legs together and began to wrap it around her slender ankle. She tried to kick him, but now he was far too wary of her attempts at hurting him and he grabbed the other ankle with little problem. Catherine thrashed and cried and twisted in her bindings like a fish caught in a net. First one ankle was tied to a bedpost, than her other was similarly bound, spreading her open for this English troll. But still she weakly struggled. “There’n, wench! Let’n me sees you fight me now,” the rapist said. “Ugggggghhhhhh!” Catherine screamed through her gag as the man picked up his dagger from his pile of clothes and grinned. “I’s will put’n this in you, wench, after I’n done wit you,” he smiled as he positioned himself between her legs, “You’n will not forget’n this weapon, will’n you!” The foul man began caressing her soft, black nest with the tip of the dagger; poking her here and there and laughing when Catherine winced. She had stopped struggling and dulled by fear she just lay there and watched as the dagger probed lower to her most sensitive parts. The cool tip of steel that touched her puffed lips felt like a viper’s fang. The man then set the dagger down and hovered over her, pushing his gnarled cock into her quim. With one hard thrust, he was in Catherine and started forcing himself in and out of her faster and faster. All Catherine could do is close her eyes and whimper at his demonic assault. His member tore at her, the pain it caused not nearly as much as in her imagination; chaffing her still sensitive lips. The man’s sour breath engulfing her as he rammed into her as deeply as he could. Then he stopped. “One more thrust, Geoffry, and this blade will swyve through your arse.” Catherine saw past her grunting tormentor a tall, rain-soaked blonde knight with narrowed blue eyes, sword drawn and pointed between the ruffian’s warty cheeks. “This is Lord de Valence’s ransom and you are violating his will,” Richard Corfe continued to speak, his voice talon sharp. “I’n was just havin’ . . .” Geoffry started to explain, easing himself out of Catherine. “Shut up!” The knight spat, “Is this how you repay our lord’s generosity!” “I’n. . .” “Get your arse out!” Richard spat, withdrawing his sword a bit. Geoffry slowly eased himself off of the bed, palming his dagger and keeping it out of sight of the knight. He was heedful of the tip of the broadsword pointed at him and, more importantly, the man wielding the weapon. Corfe was a fair man but he was not a man to cross for he could be as ruthless as Lord de Valence. Corfe was also very much battle-hardened; the death’s of many a man were light upon Corfe’s soul. Another would not bother Corfe at all. “I’n a going, Master Corfe,” Geoffry said, grabbing his leggings, shoes and leather jerkin from the floor. “If I see you here again, Geoffry, I will make sure that your last dance is with a noose around your neck. That I can promise.” “If’n. . .” “Go!” Robert spat. Geoffry, with clothes in hand, disappeared out the door. Richard stepped over and closed the door before coming over to Catherine and sitting upon the bed beside her head. “Are you hurt, my lady?” Richard spoke softly in Catherine’s native tongue, combing his fingers through her long, dark hair. All Catherine could do is weep and bury her head the wet sleeve of Richard’s tunic. Gently, she felt her gag being untied and removed from between her lips. It was a relief to her, having the cloth not tugging at the corners of her mouth. “There, my lady ransom, I should say that this is much better,” Richard said in a voice as soft as lamb’s wool. The bound girl nodded her head but did not reply. “You are safe now, dear lady ransom. Edward shall return at first light. His task this foul night is the devil’s own work and he will be weary and in need of your magic. Sleep now. . .” He continued to comb his fingers through her hair. Richard’s touch was gentle and calming. Soon Catherine began to sleep again and Richard heard her whispers as her head lay upon his lap. -o0o- Outside, in the cold of the pre-dawn night, Edward waited and watched wrapped in his cloak as the last of the defenders of the first tower coughed and staggered out, the look of defeat deeply etched on their blackened faces. Arrows still were spat from the second tower, but they were few and Edward knew that the French in that tower were running short of them. It would only be a matter of a day or two before they too would be brought out by either smoke or starvation. The defenders defiance would wane like the moon. Edward’s King Henry the V would have his precious port of Harfleur to winter in before his chevauchee the next spring. There would also be a French army to oppose His Majesty. However, Edward knew the French court was nearly in civil war and it would divide such an army. By Spring, Henry’s army would be large and rested and ready to bury it’s teeth into the flesh of the French which still refused recognize King Henry’s right to the throne. The smoke and the cold mist shrouded the skeleton ruins of buildings as Edward slowly made his way home. Few soldiers walked the streets, mostly one’s like himself who were making their way back to their billets to rest their chilled bones. Out of the corner of his eye, the knight saw a naked soldier, clothes clutched to himself, scurry down the street and swallowed in the dark gray. Edward smiled, thinking that the man was probably cast out of a woman’s arms by not enough coin or by a jealous husband. There was no guard posted at Edward’s building. No need. The walls were now guarded by the men of good King Harry’s army. Inside, fires burned low, a warm and welcome light. Many of his men lay on the floor huddled under their blankets and cloaks, the noises of their sleep a cacophony of snores and grumbles and mutterings. Edward eased himself up the stairs into the living quarters, past more of his men, and to his private chamber. Richard Corfe looked up as Edward swung open the door. “My lord,” he said in a harsh whisper. “How now, dear Corfe,” Edward asked, his anger at the intrusion into his chambers starting to boil. “Your ransom is safe and asleep, my lord. . .” Indeed, Catherine lay, still bound, curled up and asleep in the bed beside Corfe, lost in a deep sleep. Her captive wrists were still tethered behind her back but her ankle and crupper bindings were gone. Even her gag was gone from between her lips. “. . .There was an intruder,” Corfe went on to say. “Intruder?” Edward asked, the anger making his words clipped and gravely. “Yes, my lord.” “Who?” “One of the men. . .Geoffry Potterson . . .a man of little value. He was want to have his way with your ransom, lord deValence.” A silence hung between the two men as they looked into each others eyes. Edward saw no lies in his friend’s face. Richard was not one to tell untruths. He was as true as a sword and just as unyielding. “What of this Geoffry?” Edward asked, the anger still locked behind his frown. “I banished him from the camp, my lord. He will not see it fit to return here, my lord, or he will know what it is like to be spitted by my father’s steel.” Edward nodded. It was far from what he would have liked to have done to that foul cur, but, as always, Richard was thinking of all of Edward’s command. Tempers were already ragged from the months of siege and mud and death. It would not do to have Richard killing one of his own here. Such things rotted away loyalty. Richard got up from the bed slowly, as not to disturb the sleeping Catherine, “I shall leave you to your peace, my lord.” Edward nodded. It was not until Richard reached the door that Edward spoke up. “Wait.” “Yes, my Lord?” “You have done me a grand service, Richard. One that will be hard to repay. . .” “I do my duty, my lord, nothing less,” Richard replied. “no, no. . .listen to me, Richard,” de Valence continued, “I want to give to you some thing I now hold very dear. I do not do so lightly, my friend. What I am about to give you is my most valuable treasure.” The blond Corfe just stood, cloaked in a silence. Edward then bent down and kissed Catherine on the cheek. “Awaken,” Edward whispered in French. Slowly, Catherine awoke. A smile crossed her lips and her ebon eyes as she looked up into Edwards’ rugged face. She struggled to nestle closer to her English captor, wanting to feel his body next to hers; the warmth of his touch. Her wrists were still bound behind her back, but her freed legs enwrapped themselves around Edward’s as he sat beside her. Catherine felt her knights’ fingertips gently brushing over the curves of her cheek, as soft as a swans’ caress. “How are you, my Catherine?” he asked, still using her native French tongue. Catherine hugged herself closer to Edward. Her words were slow in coming, as if saying anything would make this dream swirl away into another abyss. “So much the better now that you are beside me, English, “she replied. Catherine’s voice was so much more musical now. It lacked the wicked barbs that had stung his ears earlier. It was a voice as soft and as inviting as a coney’s pelt. “I have heard, my captive ransom, that something wicked almost befell you.” Catherine turned her head away and barely whispered, “yes, m’lord.” ...

(story continues from On the Road Again) story On The Road Again - Chapter 2 by The White Knight (This is a fictional story based upon a similar encounter that did not in anyway turn out like this fantasy.) “You may talk freely now slave Katherine”, I said. “I would very much like to hear from your own lips what you are feeling and thinking, as you kneel helplessly bound before me.” ...