I was such a young thing back then—so fresh and not quite ripe. At eighteen, my body was strong and flexible, as it always is in the blossom of youth, and it permitted me to do anything. Days and nights in Aquitaine—where the land was lush and the people languorous and passionate—were spent moving. In the early days, before I became duchess, I would wake midmorning and go for my ride, and later I would dance from dusk to dawn to the court musicians.

Estela was the most magnificent horse. Father had purchased her from a Castilian horse merchant four years ago just for me. She had pure white hair atop dark skin, a high-set tail, and large, dark eyes. All her tack was made from black leather per my request and had offset her coloring most strikingly.

Just last week I received a new saddle for Estela. It was much nicer than the last; the leather smoother and more firm.

When I returned to the stables after my ride, I found the building empty. I was not shocked—this was Aquitaine, after all. The stablehands were likely enjoying a nice long lunch by the pond or some alone time with their sweet hearts. I didn’t mind; I was perfectly capable of removing Estela’s tack on my own, and I liked the privacy.

The new saddle had been causing the oddest sensations between my legs. My cunny was tingling, like an itch that needed to be scratched but I wasn’t quite sure how to do it. Once I had turned Estela loose, I found a soft patch of hay in a corner of the stables. I sat upon one of the bales and lifted my skirt to my waist. The silken material felt lovely as it brushed against the sensitive, private skin of my thighs.

I let my fingers travel to my tingling core. Experimentally, I caressed and pulled at the hard little rosy bud—how sensitive it was!—and stretched the elegantly folded flesh that framed it. The tingling increased, as did the sense of urgency to reach some sort of end. I had no idea what outcome my young desiring body was striving for—no clue what to expect. All I knew was that each moment, each touch I granted that plump little mound, felt better than the last. I dipped one finger down to the wet little hole some ways beneath my rosebud, and dragged it back upwards, moistening my already damp sex.

To my wonderment, I found myself moaning as the petting went on, becoming louder as I reached the peak of my desire. I yearned to discover the landscape of my cunny, and stuck one finger up the warm hole. I flicked my finger back and forth, swirled it around inside the tight chamber that contracted and pulsated. My finger was soaked with my juices and my pleasure was heightening. In ecstasy, I rested my head upon a patch of hay and closed my eyes as I moaned and played with myself.

“My lady?” a voice spoke. I jumped—startled—and screamed, in turn alarming the horses. My eyes shot open, and one of the troubadours—a man I knew only by sight—was standing not steps away from me and my open cunny. I was deeply humiliated.

The troubadour’s name was Jaufre Rudel, and he was the most celebrated—and romantically desired—poet in the court at Poitou. Jaufre was tall—taller than most men, and had swarthy olive skin, darkened with the southern sun. His hair was black and fell below his ears—the color an intriguing contrast against his clear blue eyes. Though he was not a knight, he was very well muscled and I found myself wondering what his body looked like beneath his tunic and trousers. I blushed at the thought.

Jaufre glanced down at my open legs. I was too startled to speak, or even move in an effort to cover myself. He let his gaze linger as he appraised me.

After a few moments, I found my voice. “Please don’t tell anyone,” I squeaked out. I wasn’t positive, but I believed what I was doing was sinful. Most everything private was a sin—that’s what my nurse always told me.

Jaufre threw his head back and laughed. My skin flushed a deep red. “I won’t tell, my Lady Eleanor. I promise.” He stopped speaking but made no effort to move, nor did I try to close my legs.

“What I was doing—was it a sin?”

He stepped closer to me and grabbed a handful of my red-gold hair. He tugged it gently and let it fall through his fingers. The act thrilled me and sent a shiver up my spine. “Mhmm…it was very sinful. I believe you have to do three years of penance if caught—but I won’t tell. You’re much too beautiful a girl to keep your carnality locked in a little box until your marriage.” He knelt down before me—our bodies very nearly touching; my breath caught in my throat. Slowly, he reached outwards and rested his hand upon my bare knee. “Have you done this before, Eleanor? Touched yourself down there?”

I shook my head negatively and my loosened hair fell before my eyes. He pushed it off my head and tucked it behind my ear. I felt his fingers tickling the soft down on the side of my face, tracing my jawline and finally landing at my lips. Pressing his fingertip upon my bottom lip, he pulled it out slightly, moistening it from the wet interior. It wasn’t soft and gentle—the touch was rough, and pain shot through my lip for just a second, but it turned right into pleasure, exhilarating my anxious cunny. “Did you like how it felt?” his voice was lower now, making every word seem more intimate.

“Yes,” I replied breathlessly, “I liked it very much.”

“Did you have a big ending?”

“I don’t know—what do you mean by that?”

He looked down between my legs. “Did it feel like a race? You were going towards the end. Did you finish?”

“No—I don’t believe so. Is it very good to finish?”

“Yes,” he nodded and smiled, “It is very good to finish.”

“Well, how do I do it?” I asked. At that moment, I wanted nothing more than to experience this end he was talking about. His slow and sensual tone of voice made it seem most enticing.

“I can show you, my lady. That is—if you don’t mind me touching you down there?” he asked.

My stomach flipped and my cunny was so eager for more pleasure. To my surprise, I found myself hungering for Jaufre, craving his touch on my skin, his fingers upon my sex. I didn’t answer—I merely nodded. He reached out to towards my bare shoulder. His touch upon my raw skin was so exciting—so arousing!—and I moaned softly.

Then his breath was hot on my face—his stubble scratching my silken skin, setting my sensibilities afire—and his lips meet mine. I had been kissed before, but never like this. My only partners had been fumbling young squires my own age. Jaufre was quite a few years older than me, and clearly knew what he was doing. Every touch was static and made my hair stand on end with delight.

His large hand traveled down my neck and chest. He swiped at the low-cut neckline of my dress, palming my small, pert breasts over the fabric. His other hand was traveling down my back, deftly undoing the abalone buttons that fastened my dress. Within moments, the fabric ceded and his hand was caressing my bare back. I shuddered as his fingertips drummed along the hills of my spine. Then he was peeling away the rest of the garment to reveal my breasts. He wrapped one hand round each, plucking at my swollen nipples, introducing me to a whole new uncharted territory of pleasure.

Jaufre bent his head down and brought his mouth to my breast, nibbling my papilla and sweeping his tongue across my areola. Each pinch and bite sent a trill of pleasure through my body, landing on and alighting my swollen bud.

He pulled back and removed my dress fully, tossing it atop a bale of hay. I was perfectly naked for him—displaying my purest form—and I watched with delight as he drank in my beauty. He brought his touch to my clavicle, tracing downwards. Along the way, he pinched my left nipple with a rough shock of pain, and brought his mouth between my breasts, tracing a line downwards to my navel. He swirled his tongue round the little inwards button and continued traveling south.

I felt his callused fingers tracing through the sparse, brassy tuft of hair above my sex. Jaufre’s touch made me tremble as he rolled his fingers lower and stroked the heated, pouting lips of my cunny, pointedly avoiding the bud. “Do you enjoy this?” he asked me. I trembled with wanton greed, rolling my hips, bucking against his hand. My clitty was reaching for his touch but he wouldn’t grant it—not yet. He caressed the sides of my soft triangle, his fingers floating downwards towards my bottom. I stiffened in surprise—no one had ever touched me there before, and I wasn’t sure I liked it. But he didn’t pause in his gentle, deliberate ministrations, stroking the curved skin of my plump cheeks, and I eased into it, enjoying his touch.

My legs were spread open wide for him, like a new-formed butterfly opening her wings for the very first time. He was teasing me—slowly caressing me and pointedly staying away from my aroused core. Finally, I could take it no longer. “Oh, Jaufre! Won’t you please touch me there!” I cried. I didn’t believe I needed to elaborate on “where” was.

Jaufre looked into my pleading eyes. He lowered his head to my cunny. “Touch you like this?” he asked as he wrapped his lips around my hardened little button, clamped his mouth down around it sending a shot of bliss through me. Then he pulled back, leaving me wanting and waiting. I was nearly sobbing with untapped sexual zeal.

And then the most wonderful thing happened. He set his tongue against my cunny, stroking it up and down continuously. I had never felt pleasure so boundless, so acute, as he pulled and nibbled on my bud, flicking it with his tongue before delving into my tight little virginal hole. I was crying with lust as he took care of the itch I didn’t know how to scratch.

When he stuck a finger up my hole, it was too much. He pressed his fingertip back and forth on this one little spot that felt just like paradise when touched. Something was building inside of me as he licked and sucked my cunny and fingered me mercilessly, and I let go, not knowing what to expect.

It was the most wonderful thing I’d ever felt—the huge release and lazy throbbing afterwards. I lifted my head up and looked at Jaufre. His face was wet, and to my deep humiliation, I realized I had pissed on him. I began apologizing immediately but he put a finger to my lips to quiet me. “Eleanor, you did a beautiful thing. You didn’t piss—you released your sweet nectar from your cunny. It means I gave you a really good climax.”

I smiled with relief and Jaufre lazily stoked my smarting cunt. Sap still trickled from the secret cistern within me, and my nipples were still hard and tender. Looking downwards, I noticed a bulge in Jaufre’s lap. I knew his cock was there, and I had been told in the past that cocks got hard when a man saw something particularly beautiful. In spite of my sheltered upbringing, I quickly concluded that a hard cock was part of coupling (which no one had ever explained to me), as was what Jaufre had just done to my cunt. I reached towards his crotch and ran my fingertips gingerly upon the peak of the clothed phallus. Taken by surprise, Jaufre stood up immediately and I pulled my hand back fearing I had done something wrong.

I looked up at him. “I’m sorry Jaufre. I was just exploring. I had never touched one before. I didn’t realize—” I started.

He hushed me by putting a finger (still smelling of my cunt) upon my lips. “Don’t worry, my lady. What you were doing was perfect. I was startled because I hadn’t been expecting it,” his voice was low and heavy with wont. “If you want to keep exploring, I’m more than happy to play host to your ministrations.” His fingers crept up his erection to his waist and pulled each end of the knot holding his trousers together.

Rapt, I watched intently as the fabric sunk downwards and to the side revealing his bare skin masked with a layer of shiny, wiry hair. Hooking his thumbs at the waist of his trousers, he tugged downwards and released his turgid cock. My breath caught in my throat as I took in the display. Jaufre’s pelvic bone stood a purely carnal frame for tapering into his manhood. His cock was darker than his skin, with almost a purplish hue to it, and was about the length and thickness of an average cucumber. I crawled towards him—briery hay scraping at my knees as I moved—and wrapped my hand around his phallus. He let out a small moan as I tugged, moving down the shaft to the smooth, bulging head. I tapped my fingertips along the head’s little slip, eventually massaging him slowly and carefully. He leaned back in pleasure, and I wrapped a second hand round his cock and pulled back and forth.

An idea bubbled in my mind and I spoke: “Would it be nice if I were to put my lips around it?”

Jaufre nodded. “That would be nice, Eleanor. And your tongue would feel really good as well.”

I moved my head towards his cock, about to take it in my mouth, when I had a rush of emotion. I felt apprehensive and so very young I nearly hesitated. But I so desired the thick cock set before me that I pushed the feelings aside and took him in my mouth. Wrapping my moistened lips at the head, I carefully worked my way downwards—as far as my mouth would reach—towards the shaft. A space about the span of my little finger was left untouched by my mouth, and I hoped that one day I would be practiced enough to fit more down my throat. Despite this, Jaufre seemed to be enjoying fucking my mouth and I sucked my cheeks together to make the pressure tighter as I bobbed up and down the shaft. I ran the tip of my tongue over the tip of his cock, and then clamped my soft cheeks around him and nibbled the seam of the head ever so lightly. I had no clue what I was doing—it was almost as if my subconscious had overtaken my body.

Burrowing his cock deep as possible in my throat, I then reached beneath and stroked his cod. It had a lighter smattering of hair and a funny little seam running straight through the middle. I noticed that it was swollen and tighter than it had been when I began.

Jaufre dug his fingers into my hair and pulled my head closer, controlling where my mouth went. His body went stiff and he groaned, shooting a salty trickle of liquid into my mouth. I swallowed as much of it as I could but it was too much for me and it dripped from the corners of my mouth down to my chin.

Jaufre looked at me, eyes glimmering and laughed. He bent down and wiped the liquid off my chin with his thumb, fastened his pants, and left me in repose on the hay, my cunny once again afire.

When winter fell into spring in the year 1137, I was in Bordeaux—an unwilling ward of the Archbishop while my father went on pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela. Bordeaux was a thoroughly unimpressive metropolis. My sister Petronilla—two years younger than me at sixteen—and I spent our days in languorous confinement in the Archbishop’s chambers, reading, singing, and dreaming of being rescued from the boredom, and our nights at the Ombriere Palace. My thoughts were occupied by Jaufre’s electrifying touches that I missed so very much. I didn’t miss him—I yearned only for the magic that came from his skilled fingers and tongue. The troubadour played me like a lute and then made me sing. Sometimes we would meet in the stables, or in the forest, or if I was feeling risky, a shadowy corner somewhere in the castle. This delicious pleasure lasted every day until I was whisked away all because of my father’s odd and selfish desire to prostrate himself at the shrine of Saint James. It baffled me—I found religion thoroughly uninteresting, which brings me back to why I so hated spending my days with the clergyman.

In the vein of the all-consuming love service that was so popular, Jaufre had laid his head before my feet, pleading me not to go. I felt embarrassed, and I think he did too, but there was no way—no matter how much I wished—to avoid Bordeaux. He then offered to come with me, but there was no place for him at the cathedral lest he was willing shave his beautiful dark hair into a tonsure and tuck his cock away forever.

One afternoon Petronilla and I were taking a walk through the cloisters and around the courtyard, and I overheard two monks talking. One was the cellarer, and the other the sacrist, and they were deep in conversation about a large delivery from one of the monastery’s holdings—a vineyard. Petronilla and I exchanged a glance. Back at court in Poitou, we were allowed as much wine as we desired, yet in Bordeaux, under the supervision of the Archbishop, everything was rationed and we were only allowed wine in limited amounts with meals.

Later that evening, when the monks were at Vespers, I let myself into the cellar and noted with glee that there was, indeed, a large shipment of wine. The cellarer had left his records out on a nearby desk, indicating that he had not yet taken full account of all the bottles. So, I reasoned, no one would notice if I took a bottle or four.

I gathered my contraband in my arms and made for the doorway, only to find it blocked by the cellarer himself—Brother Hugues. “Lady Eleanor,” he spoke with a glimmer in his eye. “Thought you would help yourself to some wine?”

Impertinence was one of my foremost talents. “Aren’t you supposed to be at Vespers?” I replied rudely.

“I hardly go to Vespers. Eight sacred offices a day is just not for me,” he said. He ran his hand through a cap of golden curls, making me note that he had avoided the tonsure. “I prefer to be spiritual in other ways.” His eyes surveyed my body, from the golden circlet at my forehead to the bottom of my skirts.

I was surprised. I had thought all monks were deeply devoted to their vocation, but clearly Brother Hugues was not. As I looked at him more closely, I noticed that he was broad and muscular. He rested one hand on the back of his neck as he looked at me inquiringly. He stood tall and strong, void of the scholarly hunch that inflicted most monks.

After a long pause I finally spoke, breaking the awkward miasma that had accumulated. “So may I take the wine, Brother? No one need know,” I bit my lip in an alluring little grin, and looked down slightly. This was one of my most tried methods of manipulation and it never failed me.

He thought for a moment. “If I let you have the wine, what will you give me in return?” he took a step closer to me and crossed his arms about his chest.

I ran my fingers through my hair. “What would you want? I don’t have much to give. I have some coin, some jewels,” I replied.

He took a step closer to me again and we were nearly touching. “I don’t want anything material, Eleanor.” I stiffened as he reached over and placed his hand upon my shoulder. The sleeve of his habit grazed the mouthes of the wine bottles—held close to my chest—with the movement. His hand travelled downwards and he stroked the curve of my breast, pinching at the hard little nipple above the fabric of my gown.

“Brother Hugues!” I exclaimed, incredulous to the turn of events. “You forget yourself! Have you not taken a vow of celibacy?”

The cellarer looked me up and down, licking his lips like I was a choice cut of meat. “If God didn’t want me to pleasure you, he wouldn’t have placed this desire in me. The vow is something that the church leaders dreamed up—the God I believe in would want me to stick my cock in you, Eleanor.” My breathing was labored as he drew in closer, placing his hand at my cheek and tracing it along my jawline. His breath was hot on my face, his lips prowling right near mine yet not touching.

Suddenly he pulled away—just as the latent heat in my cunny had broken the vestal dam that arose after my parting with Jaufre. I squeezed my thighs against my sex, feeling the telltale dampness across my skin. Hugues reached over and took the wine bottles from my arms.

He then grasped the back of my neck, just at that knobby spot where the spine starts, and slowly ran his big hand down my back until his palm met with the ripe swell of my ass. His fingertips danced at the bottom, close to my thigh, moving inwards to my cunny. In his hand he held a mass of blue silk from my skirt, and it brushed against my attentive rosebud from behind. Whereas Jaufre had always hurried to get to my cunny, Hugues took his time lingering round my most sensitive areas, pushing and pulling and driving me to the edge of desire.

September 2018
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