Page 22 of The Taking of House Westwood

Lawrence grinned, the cords of muscle standing out on his neck, his face flushed.

Andrus moved his hard cock down, the broad head leaving a sticky trail across her buttock. His cock brushed her cleft, the meatus just kissing the girl’s sore bottom hole, and she tightened.

“Easy, dove,” Andrus said, his hand stroking the curve of her hip. “Your Captain has served you well there already. I want something different.”

He drew the head of his cock through the soft folds of Ryndra’s pussy, up, then down. She moaned around the Captain, who growled at her to keep sucking.

Andrus, eased forward until his cock was bedded fully, his hard legs tight against her trembling thighs. She shuddered against him, the sounds of her sucking the Captain’s cock filling the room.

“Gods! This pussy is tight.” He thrust languidly, gazing at his shaft glistening with her juices as it pistoned in and out of her sex. He leaned his head back, closing his eyes, inhaling deeply of her scent.

Lawrence grunted, thrusting his hips quickly, Ryndra gagging again as he drove deep. Andrus grasped her around her incredibly narrow waist, pulling her more fully onto him. The two men pounded into her, rocking her slight body between them.

Lawrence was first to break holding her face down upon him as he groaned out his climax. She coughed and sputtered when he finally let her up off of his spent cock, the brisk thrusting of Andrus continuing to jostle her.

Andrus held out little longer than the Captain. The Lord groaned, his balls tingling as he drenched the walls of her pussy with his seed. He kneaded the girl’s buttocks as he knelt over her, panting.

Lawrence used Ryndra’s long blonde hair to clean his flaccid cock, leaving her with a pat on her flushed cheek. She hung her head, trembling, waiting for Andrus to catch his breath. He finally released her with a gentle smack to her ass, and he stood, tucking himself back into his flies. He watched her pull her shirt back down over her breasts, glancing up at him as she did so.

He smiled at her, nodding his head. She inclined her head in reply and retreated to the bunk she’d come from, curling up on her side to rest, the swollen lips of her pussy glistening with his semen.

Andrus slumped back into his chair, taking a deep drag of mead from the cup Lawrence offered. He stared into the dancing orange hues of the popping fire, wondering again about what to do with his Miriam. What was she up to? Why did he feel guilty for using the servant girl, when he had a very good idea of what Miriam got up to with the servants in his absence? Lastly, he wondered where in God’s name that idiot Laird had gone.

Chapter Eight

East of The Night Road — The Frontier

The cat slashed into the exposed flesh of the captive man’s back, his hoarse cries lost to the depth of the nighttime sounds of the forest.

“I’ll ask you again, human. Where is Westwood?”

The man, his voice near to breaking from his screams, shook his head, frantic. “I told you! He’s at the Palace of Peace. I’ll take you to him. No, don’t!”

He yelled again, as the leather of the cat cut into his flesh once more. The skin along the right side of his rib cage was raw, and threatening to split. The two figures holding his outstretched arms, shook the man between them as if he weighed nothing, his head lolling wildly on his shoulders.

“Try again, Laird.” The tall, broad-shouldered figure who wielded the multi-tailed whip stepped around to stand in front of the kneeling captive. “Where is Westwood Manor? It can’t very well be at the Palace. Tell us, or we’ll make this last.”

Laird shook his head, looking down.

The black-clad captors exchanged disgusted expressions. The tall man reached out and slapped Laird across the face, rocking his head to the side, blood flying from his nose and mouth. Laird slumped, his head hanging down.

“Your race disgusts me” the man said, wiping the blood from his hand on Laird’s sweat-soaked hair. “So pathetically weak. You’ll betray your closest friends just to avoid a little pain.”

One of the men holding Laird tilted his head to the side. “Maybe we should try one of them, Valery?”

Several bound and gagged soldiers lay on the forest floor a few paces away, their striking blue uniforms appearing almost purple in the darkness. Their frightened eyes shone bright in the moonlit forest, their gags allowing only muffled sounds. Several of the soldiers struggled at their bonds, while others appeared almost catatonic with fear, lying as still as the dead.

Valery, his dark coat swirling about his ankles, turned and walked over to the bound captives. He picked one of them up by the hair, the man yelling through his tight gag. Valery pulled the man up until he hung suspended, his bound feet kicking above the soft loam of the forest floor.

Valery turned to look back at the whipped captive. “So, are you going to be a leader? Someone who protects his men? Or shall I start on them too?”

Valery’s fingertip traced the pulsing throat of the suspended man, the long, sharp nail cutting a narrow furrow into the skin. Blood oozed into the laceration immediately, but the wound was not deep. The man shrieked into his gag, his struggles increasing.

“All right! I’ll tell you. Please, let them be.” The kneeling, defeated Laird lifted his head, his eyes glazed with pain, his lips and teeth smeared with blood.

“So tell us human, and this will end quickly. Mercifully.”

Laird swallowed, the Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “Westwood Manor is due west of the Palace of Justice. Two days ride along the Night Road. Now, let them go.”

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