The Princess and the Wart - Chapter 2

Chapter 2

The next night the company made camp in a small copse beside the road. The days' travel had brought them closer to the palisaded fort of Bronwen's family, and Eoin pronounced it safe for Wart and Bronwen to stay at the camp alone while he visited the village ahead to see if they might have food for the journey. To Bronwen's obvious shock, he disappeared into the night without another word.

Wart took his place by the fire, warming himself against the mist rising from a nearby creek.

Bronwen stood beside him, visibly agitated.

"Did you tell him?" She finally asked, impatience getting the better of her.

"Tell him?" Wart fell back on the servant's time-honored policy of pretending ignorance.

"About me! You promised would stir his feelings for me." She glared at him. "And now he's gone off to find some simple wench in the village ahead!"

"M'lady!" Wart raised his hands in sudden astonishment that she would doubt him. "Of course I did. You must be wrong about his intent in traveling alone to the village."

"I cannot believe that. You told him about my breasts? That they are pleasingly plump?"

"Pleasingly plump?" Wart scoffed. "Your ladyship does herself an injustice. I told him they are like the Mourne Mountains under a coat of fresh snow, awe-inspiring mounds of smoothly swelling white, topped with rocky crags upon which a climber's hands might find useful purchase."

"Really? You did?" Bronwen looked down at her bosom, expression softening. "They are rather large, aren't they?"

Wart eyed her sidelong, watching the change in her face. While she admired herself, he stepped behind her, speaking softly in her ear.

"Oh yes, and more. I told him they are ripe like a cow what's gone un-milked for a week."

"It does feel like that sometimes." Bronwen sighed.

"Methinks it is no coincidence. They share the need for the touch of a skilled hand. Not someone rough, mind you, someone who knows to push and pull their flesh in just the right way." His long fingers reached around to unlace her bodice with surprising delicacy. "It's only natural, wouldn't you say, m'lady?"

Bronwen tittered, and her cheeks flushed, but no protest left her mouth.

"Just as it is a cow's nature to need the touch of the one who milks her, so a woman needs the touch of a man to draw out the humors that build inside of her. A build-up of one is no less unhealthy than a build-up of the other."

He cupped her breasts in his hands, encircling but not quite touching the dark circles at the center. With a gentle alternating motion he began to squeeze them, first one, than the other. Looking over her shoulder, he was gratified to see the dark lumps at the top grow and harden.

"We all must be true to our nature, m'lady." He continued our gentle massage. "Even one such as I can see that yours is a passionate one, a yearning that appears as easily as flame when blowing on a glowing ember."

"Yesss." Bronwen whispered.

"And now the heat beats at the walls of your room. It's grown too fast, m'lady, there must be some release or you will be lost."

"Yes." She agreed, breathing more quickly now.

He took the hard peaks between his fingers and she gasped at the sensation. As she shuddered, he quickly dropped his hands to her waist and unfastened it, dropping the rest of her clothing to the ground before she could protest.

"Let your servant open the doors and vent your heat, or I fear you will be quite overcome." He urged her.

For a moment, Bronwen looked uncertain, but the warmth of his hands returning to her breasts melted the barrier around her heart.

"Yes." She breathed.

Sensing her acceptance, Wart's hand quested lower, exploring the skin of her belly-- smoother than the finest silk from far-off Cathay--and cresting the curve of her behind--more beautiful an arc than a dolphin leaping through the waves. In the fullness of time his quest ended in the Temple of the Grail, hidden under cover of an autumnal forest.

"There is one more trick we may use to win my master's attention." Wart whispered as his fingers traversed the course between her thighs, slipping on the wet rocks and burrowing into the hollows.

"Oh?" Bronwen's voice carried a yielding sweetness as she leaned into his touch.

"Mayhap describing the beautiful sights of a destination is not enough to prompt a long voyage, but describing the pleasures waiting there would surely do the task."

Bronwen stiffened momentarily at the affront, astonished that a lowborn servant would even suggest such a thing.

"If that is what we must do to accomplish your ladyship's desired communion with my master, can it be wrong?" He fended off her anger.

"Must do? A man's heart beats in that magnificent chest; he should have come to me this very evening." Bronwen insisted.

"It does indeed, your ladyship. But my master is no ordinary man. His heart is like a mighty pyre, not the simple fire of a hearth. An ordinary man, like an ordinary fire, can be ignited with nothing more than a spark of desire and a warm breath, but the inferno of my master's lust must be prepared and well stoked before it will light up the darkness with its brilliance."

Bronwen flushed. Her eyes glazed over at the image he conjured.

Wart's hand continued its exploration of her crevasse, nimbly leaping from place to place like a goat, nibbling and poking but never staying in one place long enough to satisfy.

"I should very much like to warm myself by that flame." She murmured.

"Helping you do that is my only desire, your ladyship." Wart spoke softly into the hollow of her neck. The thickening in his trousers gave the lie to his words, but Bronwen seemed not to notice as her eyes drifted shut.

"Oh!" She surrendered with a little gasp as his brave fingers delved into the dark recesses of her pleasure, casting her head upon his shoulder. "I will share the secrets of my womanhood with you, so that you can use them to stoke the fire in his loins, and he will come to me at night, aflame with desire."

Wart knew not whether she had succumbed to his logic or his caressing fingers--nor little cared. It was the matter of a moment to drop his trousers, freeing himself to press against her naked rear.

Bronwen's eyes flew open. Spinning around, she knelt and stared at newly revealed sight.

"Merciful mother of our Lord," she breathed in wonder, "protect your daughters from the ravaging you were spared by your virgin birth."

Wart stood with his hands on his hips and watched as she took his manhood in one hand. Even flaccid, it swung from his loins like a giant's club. She touched it gingerly, as if afraid it might rise up and clout her.

"I have never seen its like." She admitted. Lifting the massive purple head to her face, she stared down it the way a defeated warrior might stare down the length of the spear aimed at his throat.

"How can this be?" She marveled.

"I told you I was full of surprises, m'lady." He reminded her with a smug grin.

"Ooh!" A gasp escaped her lips it twitched in her hands. It roused like a bear in the first flush of spring, uncurling and stretching to the sky.

"You can't." She bit her lip and turned away. "You will kill me as surely as surely as if it were your master's sword."

By this time it was too thick for her to wrap her fingers around, and its imposing weight dragged her gaze back against her will.

"How can such an oak grow in a muddy farmstead? It goes against all nature." She protested. All the while, her hand never ceased its caressing motion.

"It is the nature of woman to swell with the act of creation." He reassured her. "Only when she is filled as an overflowing cup is she complete."

Bronwen looked up at him with new eyes, not seeing the protruding nose or his bony frame, only the iron masculinity that held her as firmly as any chain.

"Turn around." Wart urged. "Make yourself as the lusty mare offers herself to a stallion."

He took his weapon from her grasp, holding it at the ready.

Unable to speak, Bronwen dropped to her knees in the long grass. Her mane hung to one side and she shifted nervously, waiting. The dew in her forest gleamed and danced in the firelight, and Wart lingered, savoring the sight.

He scooped up the loaves of her rear in his hands, kneading them as he pulled them apart to uncover the entrance to her secret center.

"Be gentle with me." She pleaded as the spearhead pressed against her soft flesh.

His coming was like the Black Bull of CuChulainn carving the road from Tara and flinging the forest aside with his massive bulk.

"Aghh." She groaned in sudden pain. "Slowly, you wretch!"

The stallion rested while his mare caught her breath, then with a snort he mounted her back, forcing himself deeper, one uncompromising inch after another.

Bronwen's breath came in loud chuffs as she tried to relax herself to accommodate his presence. When he reversed course it was not the relief she imagined it would be; it was a sudden void, like the hollow in a once solid tree, and she looked back at Wart in alarm that he could cause such a sensation.

"M'lady." Wart groaned in admiration as he re-entered her steamy depths.

The aching pleasure of him moving within her left Bronwen's mouth hanging open in rapture. Her hips began to move of their own accord in wanton jerks and thrusts, as if begging the rapacious intruder to do his worst.

And do it he did, spearing the softness of her womanly flesh without mercy. She shook and quivered in his hands, overcome by her ecstasy, only to be roused again by his lewd invasion.

Wart's assault was not like a fox's hunt, with its quick strike. It was like a wolf pack taking down an elk, patient and implacable, driving its prey to the point of exhaustion and madness until it lays helpless on the ground, yearning for the final conquest.

So it was with Bronwen, who collapsed into the grass at the feel of a gushing spring within her womb. She lay stunned as the torment of bliss ebbed from her fertile body.

"What will you say to your master?" She asked when she could finally speak again.

"Ahhh." He sighed. "I shall tell him that the leaves of your garden glow with the colors of a forest in autumn, but even that cannot compare with the beauty of the pink-petaled rose at its heart.

"And?" She insisted, hanging on his words.

"I shall tell him of the pliant softness of your loins, like mattresses of the finest goose down piled high, yet firm inside, like a supple deerskin glove. I shall tell him that the parting of your womanhood was no less a miracle than Moses parting the Red Sea, frothy and wet."

Bronwen sighed delightedly.

Wart's gaze soaked up the curves of her figure shining in the firelight.

"When I tell him that the motion of your hips is like the prancing of a young colt, a blaze will surely kindle within his loins."

"Yes, it surely will." Bronwen's voice faded. But as she lay down to sleep, she discovered that the images she conjured of Eoin's body had become ghostly and pale in contrast with the hardness of Wart's impetuous vigor.

---

The following morning, none of the three mentioned the night's events, breaking camp and continuing north on the trail. The first time they stopped to relieve themselves, Bronwen made sure to peer through the brush as she squatted, determined to verify that Wart recounted the tale of her wonders. Sure enough, even without hearing the words, his vulgar gestures and rapturous expressions were evidence of his fidelity.

And yet, that day was no more than a repeat of the first. Bronwen's flirtatious remarks and not-so-subtle touches met with all the response of a child's fist on an iron-bound gate.

By nightfall they had reached a farmstead on the edge of her father's fief, where they could stay in safety. This would be their last night away from the prying eyes of her fathers' servants, and Bronwen was determined to make the most of it.

Eoin, however, had other ideas. When it was time to retire for the evening, he once again begged off and slipped out of the cottage, leaving the annoyed princess behind. With a fierce look, she set off behind him in dogged pursuit. Wart followed along with a long face.

The farmstead wasn't large, and it didn't take long to discover that Eoin had gone to an outlying stable. Lantern light shone from cracks around the door, and from behind it they could hear a rhythmic grunting and the slapping of bodies.

"He abandons me for a farm wench, the cur." Bronwen snarled, stomping her foot angrily. "I am Bronwen Ó Conaill, great-granddaughter of High King Naill himself, and I will not be treated this way."

"Your ladyship--" Wart tried to step between her and the stable door, but she swept him away with an imperious wave.

"Enough of your empty promises, knave. It's time I take matters into my own hands."

Wart fidgeted silently as she flung her robe aside and dropped her undertrousers, standing proudly naked in the mud of the farmyard.

"M'lady--" He tried one last time, but she ignored him, stepping resolutely to the door and pulling it open with a swift and silent motion.

Wart covered his eyes.

Through the open door the sounds of delight were easily recognizable as Eoin's booming voice, but not a peep came from Bronwen.

Wart peered out at her from behind his fingers.

She stood frozen, staring at the tableau inside. Eoin Mac Céile stood naked as in her dreams, sweat running down the his beautiful body. In front of him, the stablehand was bent over a stall, balls hanging between his legs. Eoin's knuckles were white as he gripped the rail and his face contorted as his powerful muscles thrust his prick into the fellow's arse.

Neither of the pair noticed the door swing closed as Bronwen's suddenly nerveless hand fell to her side.

For a moment, Bronwen stood rooted to the spot. Then she rounded upon the cowering Wart, heedless of the way her naked breasts swayed and jiggled as she moved.

"You knew all along." She spat. "You low-born, conniving, rat!"

She pushed him up against the side of the barn, shaking her fist in his face. Wart struggled to find a safe place for his eyes between the Scylla of her gaze and the Charybdis of her chest.

"All this time, you led me on, just to get a peek under my skirts."

Even in the face of her fury, Wart retained a modicum of self-respect. He was, after all, the same man who drove his master's chariot into screaming hordes of enemy warriors with reckless abandon.

"Begging your pardon, your ladyship, but I did quite a bit more than just peek under your skirts."

"You--you--" She purpled with rage. "When my father hears about this he'll cut you open and feed your bowels to the crows. He'll cut your prick off and feed it to the dogs! And when my betrothed, the Lord of Armin, hears what you've done, he'll--"

She stopped suddenly.

Wart recalled accompanying his master to Armin, a palisade fort several days' travel to the west. He remembered the old widower that sat at the head of the table, and the way his hands shook as he lifted the heavy wine cup to his lips. The man's daughter-in-law hadn't been much of a treasure either, a shrew of a woman who would surely resent Bronwen's new status, and had the means to make her displeasure felt.

"Why, he'll--" She faltered, eyeing Wart.

Perhaps Bronwen shared the same memory, he thought. He held his breath, risking a quick glance at her face.

"You didn't exactly lie to me, did you now." The sweetness in her voice was more ominous than enticing. "You do look hideous, but that matters little in the dark."

Wart nodded energetically.

Bronwen stepped closer, pressing her body against his. He was suddenly all too aware of the pressure of her belly against his loins, and as the kraken began to stir, he knew that she knew it too.

"You do have a way with words, I allow. And who would suspect your ugliness is like an old barn hiding an untamed stallion?" She asked rhetorically, grinding her nakedness against his hips to leave no doubt exactly what she meant.

She looked at him with eyes that narrowed in thought.

"I think its time we discuss the terms of your new position in my service."

"Your service, m'lady? But my master--"

She reached between his legs and grabbed of his balls.

"You should hear the racket when my father throws a sausage to the hounds." She said in a fierce whisper.

"I--I--" Wart stuttered, mouth suddenly dry.

"Perhaps you would reconsider your current position?" She finished in a deceptively mild voice.

"I am tired of rabbits and rainy nights outside, your ladyship." Wart confessed.

He couldn't shake the feeling that this would all end in thumbscrews, but perhaps he might enjoy a bit of comfort for a while, perhaps just long enough to find a way to escape before her father discovered what was happening.

His new mistress turned away, arse jiggling as she presented him with the fiery cleft between her thighs.

"Come along then, farmhand. I have a furrow in need of your plough."

The End

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