The Hunted Bride

He enjoyed the strangling contractions that tormented his iron cock. The secreted nectar served its purpose too. He coated it up and into her furrow, probing cautiously with his fingers and thumbs, preparing her. She moaned and wriggled, but never in a fashion that warned him. Matilda was a model of compliance, and richly endowed with arousal.

But he had his Zalim to satisfy. And they both knew it.

He drew her up onto all fours, moulded his massive form around her lesser one, and inched his way into her tightest place. No matter how prepared she might be, the first penetration was the least amiable. However, she was brave and willing. It meant much to him that she took the full measure of his cock without a sound.

He rested there, enjoying the transformation of her body from edgy to relaxed. The contentment was short-lived, though. He rose above her straight-backed, his hands pinioning her hips, and he thrust his pelvis forward. The heat emitted by her striped arse diminished and was quickly replaced by a familiar burning sensation in his tyrannical cock. With fire came the pounding of his heartbeats and the roar in his ears, and also something that afflicted his mind: the thrill of the hunt and the distant cries of his fellow hunters when they realised they had lost. All memories brought back to life by Matilda.

He rocked heavily in and out, using the length of his shaft effectively and somewhat roughly. He looped her apricot hair around his grasping fingers and reined her back onto him. She responded by bucking against him. He moved his hands over her form, from swaying breasts to fragile neck, from trim waist to shoulders. He supported her, when needed, by holding up her hips, and if she cried out, he paused and kissed the sweet spots of her spine, acknowledging her with a kindness and allowing her breathing to calm.

Time passed, and she held out. And so did he. He heard several times the crack of his own spine as he thrust repeatedly, felt the elasticity of his tendons put to the test by gyrating hips, and through it, the rigidity of his cock was maintained while the urge in him to come was suppressed. When finally her knees and elbows gave out, he altered positions. However, he refused to relinquish his control, and she begged him not to.

“Take me harder,” she said, neither feebly nor in a demanding tone of voice.

He took her off the bed and against the wall, then over a chair. He switched targets, alternating between the lush pussy and the puckered hole, ensuring his cock was kept erect and insatiable, but never losing sight of precautions and necessities. Bathing came naturally to him, and he wasn’t one for shunning cleanliness when it was essential. The beast wasn’t that grotesque a monster. The use of all of her meant they had different playrooms to explore; he flipped her over several times, approaching from front or back, up by her mouth or down between her legs.

However, she was with limits. Exhaustion took her eventually, long before his energy gave out. At that point, he remembered he was a man, and that the Zalim had had his way with her for plenty of the night. Closing his eyes, he steadied his breathing, spooned his body around hers and drifted in a haze of sleep for a while. Stirring, he kissed her awake with a peppering of his lips along her nape and shoulders. His cock was bound to the hilt inside her pussy, and he summoned it to action, achieving something he had never done before. Without using the harshest pummelling, which was a requirement of the Zalim, Gervais filled her with a few purposeful strokes of his cock. A remarkable sensation accompanied the spurts: a calmness and wholesome sense of fulfilment.

He knew, as the dawn chorus began outside the windows, that he had seeded her. A child would come as an aftermath of that night. And whatever promise he made to Lord Barre was nothing in its sincerity compared to the one he would make to Matilda.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Gervais preferred his private solar to conduct the affairs of his castle. He held a mini court there, listening to the grievances of his tenants and serfs, the local burghers, merchants trading near and far, and the lowlier branches of the nobles, those sons who had inherited little. The petitioners presented their disputes and grievances, and he heard them out, questioned the facts, and award settlements or fines. For the more serious cases, he dispatched the wrongdoers to the county assizes for judgement.

Matilda sat to one side of his table, which was raised on a small dais, and listened with interest. Her father had never permitted her to attend his own sessions, and it was something of surprise when Gervais invited her to join him. He behaved dispassionately, but his justice was fair and considered. Jacob brought order to the proceedings with his sharp voice, relieving his lord of the nastier side of the business. Two men-at-arms stood to attention by the door, but weren’t needed.

With the midday bell ringing, the last petitioner left and Jacob closed the ledger. Gervais stretched his arms above his head and rose, the height of him casting a long shadow across the room. He dismissed the men, and Matilda followed them, believing Gervais wanted time alone.

“No, stay,” he summoned her back. “I have something to tell you.”

He pulled up a chair next to the table and offered it to her. She seated herself, her velvet skirts fanning out, and wondered what occupied his thoughts, since he wore a pensive expression.

There was a dispatch box on the table, intricately carved with a hinged lift. From out of it, he retrieved a bundle of letters, and unfolded each one. Some came with elaborate seals indicating the sender was of importance. He rested his hand on top of the pile.

“I have been writing to people, those in positions of authority, some I admit who are nothing more than paid spies, and from them, I have gleaned what has become of your rogue priest, Father Mark.”

“Why have you pursued him?” What awful fate awaited the priest if he was discovered? She couldn’t imagine Gervais’s investigation was benign in nature.

“To ensure he does not ever sully innocent young women, since it seems, according to my correspondence, he has made a habit of it.” Gervais grinned. “Which, given he should not be wearing a habit of any religious order, condemns him twice over.”

She shifted to the edge of her seat, her stomach tying itself into knots. “I don’t understand.”

“Mark is not a priest. He never took any vows of celibacy, nor does the diocese have records of his Rite of Ordination. They mistakenly assumed another diocese conducted the ordination. The man is a fraud. He moved from abbey to abbey, but had no right to say mass or baptise babies.”

She covered her mouth. “He knew the liturgy.”

“He’s not stupid.” Gervais picked up one letter. “This is from a convent that suspected him; he was caught tampering with a holy relic, and acting inappropriately. Although the details are inconclusive. It seems postulants are not inclined to speak up when ques

tioned.” He raised his eyebrow.

Matilda felt the bloom of a blush. “No, they’re not. So he’s made mischief elsewhere?”

“Mark Poulter is the son of a fisherman. A prosperous one who lived by the sea. Married with one boy. Sadly, during a storm, he was washed overboard and drowned. His grieving wife was left to fend for herself.” Gervais moved to another parchment. “This was told to my man by a fishmonger. The widow was taken by a knight, the son of a well-liked baronet who owned property near to the coast. Sadly, she was unable to stop his unwanted advances.”

Matilda lowered her eyes. “Poor woman.”

“Quite. By the time he had finished with her, her reputation was in tatters and the chance of a second marriage unlikely. Mark witnessed her decline, and it drove him to revenge.”

She furrowed her eyebrows. “By pretending to be a priest?”