Hugues had not said so, but the whispers of the messengers had reached Nele’s ears: in Guy de Freche’s establishment, they bound their captured girls to whipping posts, and thrashed them to their hearts’ content, before riding them long and hard—sometimes still tied to the post for all the company to see, and then to share. Nele’s shame at his envious desire to be one of those crusader patrons of Guy’s house in Sicily knew no bounds.
He rode straight South for Poitiers, unable now as the miles passed beneath his charger’s hooves to keep from thinking about Anne; unable to stop imagining her taken by Guy to his Sicilian brothel. Nele would stride in, in his clanking mail, and choose her from the row of naked girls bound to the wall next to the counter where the arbiter poured out the wine.
Five—no, ten—beautiful naked girls, of every shade, from darkest black, like the girls Nele had seen once in Provence, come from Africa, to palest white like the Scottish girl he had once bedded in York, and Anne of Mowton the most beautiful of them all, looking at him the way she had when he had found her with her hands upon her cunt, abed in Hawner Castle waiting for him.
He would approach, pulling off his gloves and tucking them in his belt, he would tell her to spread her legs, and she would obey, for fear of him and also overcome by his lordly air and handsome face. Nele would put his hand upon her sweet, wet cunt, and say in her ear, “Are you so very naughty, little whore?”
Anne would whisper, “Yes, my lord.”Click here to buy it on Amazon!
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