Yvain lay on her back on the Seigneur’s bed. Her legs splayed as far as she could open them, to make it clear to the Seigneur that his attention to her cunt was welcome. More than welcome: it was the sweetest sensation she had ever experienced, even when she’d used her own fingers to bring herself off.
She felt him bite her, very gently, even tenderly. She knew that if she could see his face she would see him smile. Then he resumed tonguing her, lapping and licking, quite rapidly. He seemed tireless.
She pressed her thighs to his ears, to show him fondness. He had beaten her, and he had had her beaten, and now, somehow, she was half in love.
In love with what he was doing, and possibly even with him. She pressed her thighs tighter, and felt the welts on her inner thighs, from his riding crop.
She could feel the pain in those stripes renew, and that felt good too. She felt pressure on her little bud. It must be his thumb, she thought. I hope he doesn’t … And ten it was done. She felt herself penetrated for the very first time. It was uncomfortable in that first second, but it was already becoming more than comfortable: comforting. She felt herself tense, her stomach muscles clench, and she knew she was likely to come very soon.
She writhed when the wave of pleasure overtook her. She pressed her thighs on his cheeks, hard, savouring her painful stripes. The pain he had given her. Then, suddenly afraid of hurting him – not of being punished, but of hurting him, her … lover? – she let her thighs fall open and apart.
“Oh, my Seigneur.” She reached a hand down and stroked his hair, the back of his head.
At last he looked up, wolfishly triumphant, and their eyes met. He said, surprised, “Do you always come so quickly?”
“No, my Seigneur.”
“Do you think it was your whippings, first?”
“They aroused me, certainly. But, with your permission, my Seigneur – ”
He nodded. “Of course. You may speak your mind. I will tell you when you begin to bore me.”
His smile widened. “Then if the opinion of a peasant slut mattered, I would, of course, be flattered.”
Yvain decided the smile cancelled the sting in those words. “My Seigneur?”
“Yes, peasant slut?”
Yvain took a deep breath. She knew she might well be whipped for this. “I would like to address you as something fonder than ‘my Seigneur’. Like, ‘my jo’, or ‘my lordly lamb’? ‘My darling’? May I, please, my Seigneur?”
“No.” But he was still amused. “I think you need to do something else with your mouth, little Yvain.”
She knew that had to be coming. She was surprised how much she now wanted to do something she had only recently dreaded. “You mean, pleasure you? My Seigneur?”