Hello my fellow pervs,
This week I’m returning to more from my epic fantasy erotic novel, A Lady and a Maid. Sophie’s predicament gets worse by the day at Westwood Manor , and as we join the story, her miserable day is just beginning…
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Sophie awoke to the sound of the lock turning.
She never in her wildest dreams imagined such an innocuous thing would elicit such dread — and something else. She could hear it as if time had slowed to a crawl: the tumblers moving, the barely audible scree of metal on metal. Then the air pressure in the dark cell that passed for her sleeping quarters changed; a rush of cooler, fresh air to mix with the humid closeness that had surrounded her all night.
“Up, girl. We’ve work to do today.”
She’d come to hate his voice, the overseer. She hated his whip more, but his voice every morning was the first confirmation to her that this really wasn’t just a nightmare.
This existence, this horror, was actually happening.
He kicked at her bunk. “I said, up. Don’t make me get you up.”
How she’d like to claw out his eyes, shove that hated whip down his throat.
She stumbled out onto the cold stone floor, her toes curling. Her wrists were sweaty and itchy under the leather of the cuffs, and she tried in vain to scratch under them, even with her wrists bound together in front of her. The overseer grabbed her by her bare upper arm, and marched her down the narrow central corridor of the servant’s quarters. She could hear some of the other servants still sleeping soundly through the barred windows of their cell doors.
It was early. It was always early.
Arnaud, the overseer, seemed to take great delight in rousing her first, so that Sophie would know the others still slept peacefully while she began her daily toil.
He dragged her through the common dining area and out into the chill morning air of the yard. She felt her breasts moving under the threadbare mockery of her sleeveless shift as he dragged her stumbling form along at a brisk pace. She was thankful she’d not been hobbled, which would have made keeping up with his long strides all but impossible.
She shuddered at the bite of the cold, and he chuckled. “Buck up, girl, you’ll have something to warm you up soon.” His grin was crooked, cruel eyes peering at her from dark, sunken hollows, his black hair was cropped close to his skull. She thought he might once have been a handsome man, but the ravages of time and the corruption of his soul seemed to her to have twisted his features; it had wrung out any warmth, leaving only cold, hard edges.
Peering up at the battlements above, she could see the occasional guard leaning over the stone of the inner rampart, looking down upon them. The sun had only just risen, the grass of the inner courtyard still laced with tendrils of smoky mists. She heard the neighing and grunting of the horses from the stable block, wondering who could be stirring them this early.
Arnaud stopped by the well, pointed to the trough set out nearby. “Get in, girl. Mistress wants you cleaned up.” He unlocked her hands but left the leather cuffs on her wrists. The rectangular trough, constructed of rough-hewn timber was half-filled with water.
He didn’t really expect her to …
“Come on, get on with it. Mistress will be ready in a few minutes. Don’t make her wait.” He shoved at her shoulder, his other hand fingering the leather tail of his whip.
“Sir — it’s too cold.” She looked up pointedly, lowering her voice. “Everyone will — see.”
Arnaud burst out in a peal of laughter so hardy she heard it echo off the interior courtyard walls. “Girl, we’ve seen all you have to offer before. You’re really still bashful about this?” His eyebrows were raised, the mockery and satisfaction in his gaze all too evident.
Cheeks flushing, she lowered her eyes. He stood close to her, the handle of his whip raising her chin so that he could gaze into her eyes. “If you aren’t in that tub in the next ten seconds, you’ll find yourself going in with a tight dozen. Which is it to be, girl?”
Her fingers flew to the buttons of her shift, and she shed the garment, trying to ignore the murmuring she heard from the watchers above as her erect nipples were exposed to the morning light.
She would get through this, as she’d gotten through every other day in this horrid place. One day, one minute, one second at a time.
Thoughts of Owen helped her during the darkest times. She wondering what he was doing at that very moment, wondering if he thought of her, longed for her as she did for him. She thought about how he’d see her now though. Would he see her as damaged, defiled even? Would he still desire her after the hell she’d been put through in this nest of perversion?
But there was more than that wasn’t there? More than she wanted to contemplate. It had to be the influence of this place; her demonic Mistress and her depraved friend the Countess. It had changed her somehow, perhaps in much the same way she thought Arnaud had been changed.
She yelped, violently shaking as she lowered her naked form into the frigid water. She washed herself as fast as she could, the cold seeping deeper into her with every second, stabbing into her skin like daggers. She stood to wash between her legs, her nipples so hard they ached, the icy water running in chilling rivulets down her skin. She flushed crimson at the clapping she heard from the soldiers on the wall. It sounded like there were more of them now, but she didn’t have the heart to look up at them.
Arnaud paced just a few feet from the trough, watching her the whole time. The cold of the water was soon too much, and she scrambled out of the trough, the water sloshing over the side to splash her ankles. She clutched her arms over her breasts, bent over in an effort to preserve what warmth was left in her blood.
Arnaud merely looked down on her a moment, pleasure in his gaze. She couldn’t fathom how he found such joy in her misery, how a soul could be deadened to such an extent? She wanted to feel pity for him, knew she should, but instead, she nursed a burning rage, held tightly in check. Sophie wanted to make him pay for her humiliation, even if he was just a pawn in Lady Westwood’s games. Arnaud was her daily torment, the source of the now routine humiliations that had almost numbed her. He may have only been following orders, but he didn’t need to take such pleasure in doing it. He didn’t need to relish her degradation.
“Please, Sir. I — n-need … ”
He threw a cloth at her. It was merely a swatch of thick cotton, really, but it would have to do. She vigorously scrubbed the icy water from her skin, trying to ignore the fact that she stood naked in a courtyard in broad daylight, the avid gaze of dozens of men upon her. She would cry her shame out later, alone. Now though, she wasn’t about to give them the satisfaction.
As she bent to dry her legs, Arnaud laid her shift over her shoulder, flicking a dripping nipple as he did so. “Meet me in the stables, girl,” he said, walking away, twirling the deadly length of his whip.
Dread uncoiled in her insides; nothing good happened in the dark stable block. She had enough memories of her torment there to last a lifetime. Still, she knew she’d be the worse for it if she didn’t obey. She’d learned it paid to be obedient; it meant less pain, less humiliation.
So Sophie righted her shift as best she could, her eyes downcast to avoid meeting the gaze of the guards, and made her way to the gloom of the stable block.
As a young girl, she’d loved horses, the atmosphere of stables always engendering feelings of excitement and adventure in her. What could be better than bounding onto your strong steed to fly like the wind across the countryside?
Now, she fought the sick dread that sank in her belly that merely setting foot in the stable elicited. She walked down the dim corridor that ran down the center of the building, looking into each stall as she passed. She found Arnaud in the large open room that served as the tack and harnessing area for the draft horses.
She froze when she realized he wasn’t alone.
“Ah, there is our charge,” Lady Westwood said, just climbing up onto the saddle of her favored horse, Osiric. “Care to take a stroll this fine morning, my dear?”
“Yes, Mistress,” Sophie whispered, every ounce of her being wanting something, anything, other than that.
“Splendid! Unfortunately, your new admirer the Countess won’t be joining us. She asked me to bid you a fond goodbye though.” The Lady turned to Arnaud. “The Countess — and Sophie — will be accompanying us on the fall retreat to Farrier’s stead, though. They will have a happy reunion then, I’m sure.”
Arnaud grinned, enjoying Sophie’s discomfiture.
Sophie dared a glance up at the Lady. The noblewoman was dressed in a deep tan colored jacket, the collar lined with fur. The jacket buttoned up to the base of her slender throat, and was attractively form fitting, highlighting the elegant curves of the woman’s body. Her ivory jodhpurs, tucked into the gleaming black leather of riding boots, seemed nearly skin tight. Her rich chocolate tresses were tied back into a thick braid. As was the case the first time Sophie had encountered her, the Lady was armed with a short sword, the elaborately decorated scabbard crossing her hip. She held the reins in one gloved hand, the terrifying length of a riding crop in the other. Her brilliant smile, on any other person, would have been dazzling. Sophie found it chillingly predatory; the cat finally spying her chosen victim.
Arnaud approached her with a coil of rope in his hand, and Sophie’s heart began to gallop. He manacled her wrist cuffs together, affixing the rope to the cuffs in several knots. He finished by using the rope to yank hard on her wrists, ensuring she was securely bound. He smiled at her, patting her cheek. She suppressed the urge to bite his hand.
Arnaud handed the length of rope attached to Sophie up to the Lady. She wrapped the rope around the pommel of her saddle, pulling on it to seat it well. Arnaud made sure the Lady’s saddle was secure, then climbed up on his own horse, a black brute that dwarfed the Lady’s swift-footed steed.
“Let’s have a walk,” the Lady said, winking at Sophie and shaking the reins. “I’ve something to show you.”
The horse moved out of the stables, the rope hauling on Sophie’s arms. The leather of the cuffs bit into her wrists harshly, and she chewed into her cheek to prevent crying out. In order to keep up she was nearly running, walking just wasn’t fast enough. Determined not to be a victim — or at the very least not appear to be a victim — Sophie raised her chin, intent on preserving what little dignity she had left. She consoled herself with the fact they’d at least allowed her clothing!
The two riders moved out across the now bright courtyard, and passed through the main gate. Sophie kept her chin firm, but couldn’t help but lower her eyes as she passed some of the guards. She felt their heated gazes crawling all over her, especially her traitorous bouncing under her shift. The cursed rope raised her arms too high to allow her to shield the globes, and now their languid movement was there for all to admire. The injustice of her treatment, as it had countless times before, galled her, and she had to swallow down the bilious unfairness of it all. She wasn’t sure how things could get worse for her, dragged along behind a horse like some mangy dog.
She soon found out how wrong she was.
The Lady and Arnaud moved their horses to a slow trot, and Sophie had no choice but to run after them, terrified she might her footing and be dragged through the dirt by the merciless rope. Soon her lungs were burning, and she was breathing hard, sweat pouring from her body under the early morning sun. The riders took to one of the dirt tracks that led out from the central manor like spokes on a wheel. Cropland stretched out in all directions as far as the eye could see. Here and there were the simple, thatched or sod-roofed huts that the bonded farmers lived in. Pens for various livestock were attached to the huts, and occasionally she saw farmhands, wearing their distinctive broad straw hats.
She remembered the times she’d worked alongside the hands at her father’s farm, sharing a much needed drink from their canteens. Owen had always managed to get himself placed nearby, even if it was a broad field being planted by dozens of hands. Soon, she realized it hadn’t been coincidence that kept him near. Eventually, she realized, she wouldn’t have had it any other way, even if she’d never tell him.
How stupid she’d been!
She stumbled, and the rope went taught, pulling on her arms with an aching twinge of pain. A yank much harder than that, and she feared she’d find herself with a dislocated shoulder.
“Pay attention, girl,” Lady Westwood said, twisting around in her seat and smacking a hand onto the taut rope. “Look to your left.”
Arnaud’s chuckle was just audible above the clop of hooves.
Sophie scanned the field to her left. There was nothing planted yet, and she wondered if it might be fallow. Then she spotted something. She tilted her head, ignoring the cruel hauling on her wrists.
“What … ” she whispered.
The riders left turned on to a smaller track that passed between individual plots, drawing her closer to the confusing sight in the field. The Lady and Arnaud slowed their mounts to an ambling walk. Sophie would have been grateful for the comparative respite for her exhausted legs and burning lungs, but what greeted her in the field beyond banished those thoughts from her confused, fearful mind.
There was a woman and a man in that field. The woman was naked, her flesh fair pouring with sweat.
No, she wasn’t entirely naked.
As Sophie drew nearer, she could see that the woman had some sort of harness about her, black leather clasping her tightly round her waist and hips. Her very long, rather pretty hair was tied back with a ribbon of white, the bright color striking against her tanned, sweat-slicked skin and silky black of her hair.
Lady Westwood and Arnaud pulled their horses to a halt, Osiris shaking his head side to side. Sophie lowered her arms as the rope grew slack, sighing with the relaxed tension in her limbs. But the two figures in the field commanded her attention.
Sophie blinked, not quite believing what she was seeing, the mortified shock (and if she were honest with herself, the fascination) making it hard for her to get her mind around what she saw.
The woman was pulling a plow.
Attached to her hips were metal shafts that reached down to a stout length of wood, itself banded in what looked like iron or rusted steel. Three heavy metal wedges encrusted with soil dug into the ground directly behind her, leaving shallow, uneven furrows in her wake. Straps from the woman’s harness ran up and across her torso, framing and squeezing full breasts. Her generous, muscular buttocks flexed and bunched behind her as she struggled with the heavy burden. Her hands gripped the bars tightly, her wrists wrapped in thick cuffs that were chained to the shafts. The slim muscles of her forearms stood out in tense relief against the strain of pulling the plow. Thin leather straps wrapped like snakes around and down the woman’s powerful thighs. Heavy boots covered her feet, ending just below the well defined, bunching calves. A thick black leather collar wrapped around the throat, forcing the woman to keep her chin up. A faint chiming could be heard on the warm breeze.
Sophie swallowed in sympathy when she realized were the sound was coming from. Small shiny bells were clipped neatly to the turgid nipples; the constriction of the clips had turned the tender flesh a dusky, inflamed red.
A deeply tanned man, his arms corded with sinew walked alongside the struggling female, speaking to her in soft tones. He was at least a head taller than the woman, his faded indigo shirt plastered to a broad, sweaty back. The wide straw hat shrouded his face in shadow under the high mid-morning sun.
Arnaud raised a hand. “Escott, come—”
“No, Arnaud,” the Lady said in a low voice. She extended her crop toward Sophie. “Look at the girl. She can’t take her eyes off them.”
Averting her gaze from the toiling woman, Sophie chanced a glance at her cruel Lady. The noblewoman was beaming, mirth dancing in her eyes. Arnaud watched Sophie too, a finger tracing the braided leather of his whip.
Sophie looked back at the farmhand and the harnessed woman, unable to stand the cold regard of her Lady and the hated overseer.
The woman was struggling, bending over almost double, the blades of the plow unmoving in the dirt. She jerked forward once, twice, her buttocks squeezing mightily, but the blades appeared to be stuck fast.
“Ach, girl,” her tall companion said, unclipping a broad piece of flexible leather from his waist. He clasped the girl by her upper arm, his tight grip turning her bronzed flesh white, and stooped down slightly. He tapped the leather against her protuberant buttocks. A warning.
Sophie noticed that the lower half of the woman’s broad buttocks shone a congested red, unlike the rest of her sun-kissed skin.
The woman strained harder, grunting. Her lips pulled back, exposing the white of clenched teeth. Still, the plow refused to budge.
The leather cracked against the woman’s buttocks, a shiver passing across the flesh of her haunches. She yelped and the cords of her hamstrings stood out starkly as she continued to struggle.
“Come on, Tani. You can do it now” The man’s voice was low, urgent. “Pull.”
“Please,” the girl grunted.
Sophie could see a tear track down the girl’s cheek to catch at the corner of her mouth.
The paddle slashed up again, the sound echoing like a shot across the empty field, lifting the dense flesh of the bottom in its agonizing embrace. The woman keened, her voice gurgling as she threw her head back. Her buttocks clenched tight, loosened, then tightened once more.
Lady Westwood’s white steed blocked her view of the woman and Sophie looked up, squinting against the sun.
“Interest you does it, Sophie? Would you like a term in the fields with our trusty Escott?”
Arnaud laughed, reaching out to stroke his horse’s neck
“No, Mistress,” Sophie whispered, trembling at the very thought of it.
“Then you will listen and obey, won’t you?” She could hear the threat in her Lady’s smooth voice. “But there is something else isn’t there, girl?”
Oh no, please.
The Lady leaned down, her crop stroking Sophie’s cheek, the leather cold and menacing. “If I were to run my fingers through that juicy cunt of yours, I might find a veritable lake there, wouldn’t I?”
Sophie gasped. “No.”
The Lady smiled, the flat end of the crop playing over the tips of Sophie’s breasts. She held her breath, trembling. She felt so helpless with her arms bound to the horse. If she could just get the rope free somehow, she could run. But where would she run to? Home? She didn’t even know where home was. When Miriam had taken her, Sophie had been lashed securely to the rear of her Lady’s saddle as if she were so much cargo, blindfolded and gagged, then hauled away from her beloved farm to the hellish manor. She’d only known in the most general sense where Westwood Manor actually was — but she hadn’t a clue how to get back home from there.
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There’ll be more to come next week:) Until then, please have a look at the depravity on display at the other blogs this week. Go ahead. I dare you.
Maggie Carpenter says
You are quite the wordsmith, Sir…
She thought he might once have been a handsome man, but the ravages of time and the corruption of his soul seemed to her to have twisted his features; it had wrung out any warmth, leaving only cold, hard edges.
Trent Evans says
You are very nice to say so, Maggie;) You’re not exactly a slouch in the wordsmithing department yourself, you know. Thank you!
Natasha Knight says
You ARE quite the wordsmith but that’s not what’s got me all world up. It’s like 9:21am here. Is it not too early for pony play??
Trent Evans says
It is NEVER too early for pony play, Natasha:)
Jolynn Raymond says
Oh my, what a predicament Sophie finds herself in. Just when she thinks things couldn’t get worse… In comes author Trent to make her life more hellish. Well done.
Trent Evans says
What kind of self-respecting evil author would I be if I didn’t make her predicament even worse?
(Glad you liked it, Jolynn.)
LA Cloutier says
Another Fabulous excerpt, Tent. I’m falling in love with this story. I’m currently just starting chapter 4, and advised myself against reading your excerpt today so that I wouldn’t get to far ahead. But I couldn’t help myself, and found myself on your blog first thing this morning to read more of this delicious story.
Quite the storyteller you are Mr. Evens…. Thanks for sharing.
Trent Evans says
Thank you, LA!
shelly douglas says
I hear Dana’s therapist has an opening at 3:00 today for an hour session … if you don’t take it – I will. There’s some serious, dark, cruel stuff going on here. And what disturbs me more than the fact that you write it … is that I read it … every week! I . must . stop . enjoying . what . you . write. 🙂
Trent Evans says
Now, THAT is a high compliment:) I’m currently working on the sequel, and if you think this book is dark … you ain’t seen nothin’ yet. Thanks for commenting.
Christina Mandara says
Nice snippet of depravity there, yourself 😉 Loving the plough and the exercise session – meanie 😉 Hope Sophie has a field day 😀
Trent Evans says
Meanie? I’ll own that:) Thanks for reading, Christina!
What a fine field day, especially when the crop comes into play. I loved the lake comment.
Trent Evans says
Sometimes the draft animals need a break from their labors:) Mustn’t allow the slavegirls to become idle — so this takes care of two birds with one stone!