The Circassian (closed)

Katirah looked at the Comte with lust-glazed eyes. She breathed out. "Powerful? No, my Comte." Her face was puzzled. She thought he wanted to fuck, not talk. She slid along his cock hoping to capture it and pull it inside her. She ground against him again and moaned.

"Good," Marcel breathed out as he felt Katirah's saturated pussy slide along his length, trying to suck him in. Marcel waggled his hips, playing keep away with Katirah until he rolled her onto her back.

Grabbing the head of his cock he slid it up and down her slit. His eyes watched her body as need grew in her. "Is this what you want Katirah? You want me to fuck you?" he asked. His voice was low, heated.

Katirah wondered what it was that she had done to make the Comte ask such a question. She did like to see him enjoy the pleasure she gave him. She liked to know that she could drive him to heights of pleasure the way he did for her. But Poweful? No.

She smiled at the Comte's game of frustrating her. She wrapped her legs around him when he rolled her over.

"Oui, mon coeur, mon etalon, mon Minotaur." She gripped the fabric of his tunic. "Fuck me, my Comte. Make me rattle the moon from the skies."

-----

((I think this is Katirah's horoscope: If you're interested in someone, but don't know what makes them tick -- or ticked off -- then you need to channel your inner detective and find out all you can about their passions and obsessions. I thought it timely that this was my horoscope today *grin* ))

"Oh you will," Marcel said.

He knelt between Katirah's legs, which were wrapped around his waist. Grabbing his stiff cock, he slid the tip of the head into her and nothing more. Maintaining nothing more than the tip in her, his right hand fell between her legs, fingertips massaging her clit. "Before I fuck you, Katirah, you will howl like a banshee."

Katirah was not sure what a banshee was, she would have to ask later. If she remembered. There must be a story in it.

Katirah moaned and moved her legs spreading them further. She pressed her head back against the pillows as her body quivered at his touch. Her nipples were hard as diamonds already, her clit already engorged. She hissed in a breath when the Comte touched it.

She did not doubt he would have her screaming again, and very soon. The Comte's mere presence awoke passion in her. His touch manifested it. She abandoned herself to the pleasure he gave her.

Marcel adjusted his position, his legs splayed along her sides, her legs arched over his hips and thighs. Her hips trembled, stroking the head of his cock.

It was not enough to satisfy either of them, rather it only served to stoke their fire higher and higher.

Quim flowed freely from her sex along the length of his shaft down under the base to dribble frim his nut sack onto the pillow below him.

His fingers continued their ever increasing speed and pressure as her twisted and massaged her clit.


Soon, Katirah's hips were firing up and down, still only getting the head of his cock, as she began moaning louder and louder.

Marcel's free hand reached up and began twisting a nipple in time with his other hand.

Katirah thrashed and moaned. She gasped for breath. "Softly, softly." She pleaded as his fingers worked her clit. Her mouth opened in an O of surprise when the Comte assaulted her nipple. The painful pleasure tipped her over and for a moment she was suspended in time, her body taut, holding her breath, waiting for the inevitable release.

Then so quick it surprised her she was falling, spinning whirling in raw ecstasy. A damn broke inside her and her juices flowed from her in a gush. She shattered the silence with her scream. Her body thrashed like a fish on a hook. Her hands sought his flesh so she could pull him to her, into her. She thought she might faint, or die, or explode.

Marcel had an incredulous look on his face as Katirah's orgasmic juices sprayed all over hus thighs, lower abdomen, and soaking the pillows beneath them.

Her arms flung toward seeking to pull him down to her but he resisted, holding until her body rocked in convulsive bliss and then stilled.

Grabbing her arms her pulled her up into a sitting position. The fading echoes of her orgams were joined by a gasp then a contented sigh as she impaled herself on his cock.

"Now, Katirah, fuck me like you danced for me," he breathed out.

Katirah worked her hips with abandon filling the Comte's fullness inside her. She undulated and gyrated and ground herself against him. She was not thinking of specifics moves of her dance, not trying to put on a show for the Comte. She was trying to reach the same heights of bliss when he had fingered her and teased her with just the head of his cock. And she wanted to bring him with her this time.

Katirah kept her hands on the Comte's shoulders for a time both to aid balance and because she wanted ot feel his flesh under her hands. Once she fell into the rhythm of this sexual dance (for even though it was wild and raw, there was still a rhythm to her movements, and his), she was able arch her back and put her hands behind her, letting her head fall back, her breasts and ribcage thrust to the ceiling of the tent. She shook her head and thrust her pelvis forward rubbing and clenching the Comte's cock. Her cries and gasps were her only accompaniment.

"Like this?" She said between gasps and grunts. "Is this how my Comte wishes to be fucked?"

Marcel laid back, his eyes never leaving Katirah as she began to dance on his cock, a primal movement that knew no limits. Her body, her mind, and seemingly her heart all tied in the one act.

His hands trailed over her sweat slick skin grasping her hips and holding on tightly. "Yes, harder, faster," he gasped out.

His cock flailed around inside her, battering at the walls of her tight pussy which leaked quim copiously. At times her thrusts were so hard and violent that she almost slipped off his dick, only to right herself and slam herself back onto him fully.

"Sing for me, amour, I want to hear your voice," he whispered.

Katirah moved faster at the Comte's urging. She righted herself and pushed and pushed against him. She held his shoulders with such a grip her fingernails made half moons that broke the skin. She was a wild thing impaled by his sword, but unlike a wild animal, her struggle was to drive it into her to the hilt over and over again.

"Sing for me, amour, I want to hear your voice," he whispered.

"Mon coeur. Mon coeur!" She cried out for him. "I want to fuck you, Minotaur." She pushed against him with even more vigor. "My Comte, my Comte. I..." She could not make coherent speech for him any longer. Not that what she had said was all that coherent. She buried her head against his neck as the orgasm took her pressing her body tight against him.

Marcel extricated himself from under Katirah as her orgasm faded. He moved behind her, and pulled her hips up off the pillows, thrusting her ass up in the air. Pulling her legs together, Marcel placed his knees outside of hers and rubbed his hands over her ass and thighs.

Grabbing the head of his cock, he rubbed it up and down her slit until he came to her opening, and pressed his hips forward slowly filling her again.

Using his thumbs to spread her ass cheeks, he grabbed her hips and began thrusting in and out of Katirah, his balls slamming into her thighs.

Katirah sighed and tried to keep her exhaustion out of it. The Comte had driven her to heights she had never felt before and still he had not achieved his own. She let him maneuver her into the position her wanted her in. He must come this time. He had held off for so long.

She knelt on all fours for him. She moaned as he handled her. Wheh he spread her ass cheeks for a moment she tensed up fearing he would take her in the forbidden place. But he toyed with her a little then filled her sex with his manhood. She could not help but gasp with each of his thrusts. She wondered if she would be able to walk back to her tent when this was over.

She pushed back against him meeting each thrust. "Mon coeur. Mon coeur, please, please, I want to feel you come." She begged him.

"You shall," Marcel said.

His hips fired back and forth as if Jack Henry's hammmer battering the mountain. His balls slapped agaist her thighs with each rhythmic clanging of bodies together.

Marcel reached forward withs his right hand and wrapped it in her hair and pulled mightily craning her head far enough they could look into each others eyes.

He saw her love, her trust in him. Tue knowledge she was his, contracted his balls as his cock expanded, firing the molten boulders tyat was his seed.

((Hmm, I think Jack/John Henry is an anachronism...Perhaps Thor's Hammer? Marcel would probably have been schooled in Latin and Greek and probably knows about mythological gods as well.))

The Comte thrust so hard Katirah would have been driven nearly across the room if he didn't have such a tight grip on her pulling her back again and again.

He twisted his hand into her hair and yanked her back. Katirah's moan turned into a yelp of pain. When she let herself be pulled back she found the sensation strangely pleasurable. The Comte held her so they could look into each other's eyes. She could never be with another man the way she was with him. She never wanted to be with another man, this way or any other.

She moaned again. The angle, the tension of the hair pulling on her head, all contributed to to pushing her toward another orgasm.

She saw the Conte's face change knowing his time was upon him. She closed her eyes and came with him. She shuddered and bucked grinding her ass against him. The moment seemed to last a very long time as the Comte emptied his seed in her. he truly was a bull of a man.

((Yes, but it was the imagery that came to mind at the time ))

Marcel held his position until long after his balls stopped pumping and his cock began to soften.

He laid down next to Katirah and stroked her back and ass gently.

Katirah rolled slightly and nuzzled up under his crooked arm as he watched the steam rising off their bodies into the cold night air. "Perhaps I should have a fire stoked for us," he muttered half heartedly.

((I fully understand I think we sang that song in elementary school...))

Now that they were finished, Katirah could feel the cool night air on her skin. It cooled the sweat from her body, but no chill had set in yet. She rested her cheek on the Comte's chest.

Katirah smiled, "My Minotaur has already stoked the fires." But she knew what he meant. "If my Comte will but give me some time to find my legs, I will go call for a servant. Or, if what is needed is here, I will do it myself." There must be some sort of brazier in the room. She would have preferred to simply drop off to sleep, but without some warmth in the tent, they would be very cold very soon despite the heat they had generated.

Marcel grunted, "Not necessary."

He reached over and pulled a pile of blankets closer to them and the drug them across their bodies. "Nothing like furs and naked bodies to keep warm by."

Marcel rolled into Katirah and wrapped his arm around her. Kissing her forehead, he whispered, "You are a terrible influence."

Katirah practically purred at the feel of the furs. Knowing she would not have to leave the comfort of the Comte's arms made her very happy.

She rubbed her leg up and down against the Comte's as she got comfortable. "Do I displease my Comte?" She said with a coy smile. "Tell me how not to be a 'terrible influence.'"

Katirah did not think she had done anything to be a terrible influence. It was the Comte who carried her off to some unknown tent and then brought her back to his own. He had told her that she would be staying in her own tent while they traveled and only sharing a bed when they reached an inn. She smiled again. She supposed he had changed his mind about that.

If this was the effect of her dancing on him, she wondered about the rest of the men around the campfire. She hoped Samara would be free from their attentions. But her brother would see to that.

Marcel fell asleep in very short order, the warmth of Katirah and the insulation of the furs, providing more than an adequate amount of sleep. As he woke in the morning, she was still plastered against his body, one leg draped across his thighs, one arm across his chest and her head nestled against him.

He slid out from under the furs the cold air enveloping his naked body and snatched his breath from his throat. Before he could dress, warning horns blared from each end of the camp.

Grabbing a tunic he slid it on and grabbed his sword as thunderous hooves echoed through the camp. Riders, and many of them, were attacking. Not know if she was awake or not, Marcel uttered, "Stay hidden," as he dashed out the tent flaps.

Katirah made a disappointed sigh and snuggled over to the warm spot the Comte had just vacated.She could feel the chill old morning air. She could not expect Samara to come looking for her with breakfast, but she was not ready to face the day yet. She should get up and see to her toilet, the Comte must have a chamber pot. She had no selwars and her abaya had been left at the fire the night before. She would borrow a cloak from the Comte to make her way back to her wagon. She was sure one of his men would show her the way.

She was just opening her eyes when trumpets blared. Surely that was not to wake up the camp. The Comte was half dressed and grabbing his sword was gone.

'Stay hidden.' he said. What was she to do? She could hear many horses but could not tell how near or far they were. Bandits attacking? And so soon after their departure?

She got out of the furs and searched for her clothes. They were not nearly warm enough. Her heart was thumping with fear. But what could she fear with so many soldiers and other able bodied men about. The merchants would fight to protect their goods.

She found a dagger on the Comte's belt near her breeches. Had he run out without them? She smiled at the thought of him fighting naked like a god, smiting all who approach him.

She took the dagger and crawled back under the furs where it was warm though she was sorely tempted to peek out of the tent flaps to see what she could see.

She could hear yells and the clash of steel. She burrowed deeper into the furs and hoped Samara ws safe. Her wagon and tent were well guarded. Katirah ws sure the Comte's tent was well guarded, too. He was for all intents and purposes the caravan master after all.

She sent up a prayer for his safety and the safety of all the caravan.

She heard more shouts. Was that her Comte returning?

The terrain of where they camped forced the caravan to camp in a line, more or less. There were a couple of clusters of tents but overall they were in a line; which played into the bandits hands perfectly.

The bandits rode up and down the camp recklessly, sawing down opposition as quickly as they could. Here and there Marcel could see his men begin to fight back, hacking at the legs of the horses in an attempt to cut off the mobility of the attackers.

Marcel spun in time to see a bandit bearing down on him, whirling a long club overhead. Marcel ducked under the attack and swung his sword at the man's leg, missing the target by an inch or two. Instead the tip of the sword dug into the flank of the horse, causing it to rearin pain, dumping the bandit at Marcel's feet.

Lashing out with his bare foot, Marcel kicked the man in the chin snapping the man's neck totheside violently. Taking advantage of the bandit's momentary senselessness, Marcel drove his sword deep into the man's chest.

Looking around Marcel saw that the tide of battle was swing in the favor of the Frenchmen. Slowly but surely, his knights and men at arms began to drive back the attackers.

Marcel turned his attention to the surrounding dead and wounded to take stock of who was injured, and who was dead.

Things seemed to have gotten quiet. Katirah was conflicted. Nervous and frightened and yet bored to be in the tent and not know what was going on.

She got the courage to get up. She would peek out of the tent and see what she could see. Perhaps a guard could tell her what was happenning. There had been a guard outside the tent the night before, hadn't there? She could not remember at all. She only remembered the companionable walk with her Comte.

Katirah stood and with dagger in hand, she approached the tent flaps. Before she reached them, however, she heard someone outside. The Guard, perhaps? The Comte?

The person who come into the tent was no guard. He grinned like a snake when he saw her standing there. "Well, aren't you the pretty one, then. Figures the master would have a fine bedwarmer all to himself."

Katirah held the dagger in front of her, she had no problem usuing it on the man, but she had no real experience with weapons either. She knew a dance with two daggers and planned to use some of the stabs and feints from that.

The bandit was upon her in steps. She jabbed with her dagger. He stepped aside easily and laughed. He grabbed her wrist and twisted. She dropped the dagger and cried out. Her scream that followed was cut off abruptly as his filthy hand clamped over her mouth. "None o that, my lovely. I'd hate ta slit yer throat afore I get a chance to sample yer wares. Come along easy now."

He dragged her out of the tent, hand still over her mouth. Katirah struggled and kicked but none of her blows connected. he pulled her towards his horse.

Katirah could see that the tide of the battle was not close to the Comte's tent. She was frantic to get away. She screamed again when the bandit let go of her mouth to try and hoist her onto his horse.

How would the Comte know it was she who was in trouble? There were other scattered screams and cries. "Minotaur!" She yelled out. She was a singer and storyteller. She had a voice that could carry in a large room. He must hear her. He must.

The bandit back-handed her splitting her lip. Her head swam.

Marcel hadn't even had the chance to look at the first man when he heard Katirah's shrill, "MINOTAUR!" rending the early morning air.

Spinning he saw a lone bandit racing away from the direction of his tent, the very naked Katirah face down across the neck of the horse, her legs flailing about quite indecently. "How the fuck..." he murmured as he started running trying to intercept the horse and rider.

It did not take long for Marcel to realize he would never make it. The angle far too acute and the horse much too fast.

He heard a horse hammering up behind him and saw one of his knights jumping off the wrong side while saying, "My Comte."

Jumping into the saddle, sword swinging carelessly, Marcel gave chase.

Katirah screamed and flailed. If she could but slip off the horse she had a chance to get away.

The bandit smacked her hard on her rear end. "Shut up. Save your screams for when I get you back to the caves. Your fine rump will make many a man happy."

Katirah struggled harder and called, "Minotaur!" over and over. The Comte must hear her. Where were his men?

"I had thought to rob that tent of items of worth. I had no idea I would find such a prize." The bandit leaned low over Katirah holding her hands at her back.

"I belong to the Comte!" She yelled at him. "He will see you dead! let me go now if you value your stinking hide."

"Enough, whore." The bandit cuffed her on the side of the head. Katirah saw stars and was still for awhile.

"Hah, peace at last." The bandit patted her rump again. He rode through the caravan scattering people as he went. He saw a man on horseback pursuing them. He urged his horse faster.