monk

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.



Deftly he unbuttoned the back of my gown and it fell down my shoulders. I slipped my arms from the sleeves and slid the bodice down to my waist, presenting my creamy white breasts to him. He helped himself to a handful of each and ran his thumbs across my sweetly pink nipples, pinching them roughly like a child exacting punishment on his foe at play. I shivered beneath his slow and deliberate touch, swaying wavelike as bursts of pleasure rolled through my body. Hugues pulled me closer to him, and I felt his firm cock between my thighs. Through the fabric of my gown and his habit, he pushed the tip of his erection against my cunny mound, and I drew my breath in quick with wanton thrill.



Hugues drew my skirt upwards to reveal my bare thigh and sex. His touch tapped along the puffy lips framing my throbbing clit, tugging at the tender skin, before he inserted one inquisitive finger inside of me. To my surprise, he was clearly well practiced in the art of pleasure and soon he had two fingers inside and I was gasping without constraint. Encountering my virginal barrier, he withdrew for a second and lifted his fingers to my lips. I tasted my own sweet juice on his finger and he spoke to me: “Since I can’t enter you, we’re going to have to do something else. It will hurt at first but then I promise it will feel nice. Just tell me to stop if you need.”



Before I could respond, he had flipped me over onto all fours, my hands pressed against the cobblestone floor. He pushed my hair to one side and kissed me roughly at the nape of my neck, descending lower and lightly suckling each rounded peak on my spine. I groaned with satisfaction as his hands were all over my ass, squeezing and kneading the soft skin. He caressed my private gash, making me gasp as he inserted a moistened fingertip into my asshole. It hurt terribly and I cried out in pain, but I didn’t tell him to stop. He eased his way further inside, ever so gently, spreading the tightness further apart. Soon his probing finger was bringing me pleasure instead of pain, and when I felt his hardened cock nudging my ass, I knew what was coming next. I looked back and he had his thick rod in his grasp. He spit in his hand and rubbed it on himself to facilitate insertion, and I sobbed slightly as he entered me.



Starting out slow and gentle, the monk felt his way through my virginal asshole, stretching it to accommodate his sizable member. Each thrust came with a stinging spasm, but as he continued, it gradually was overshadowed by a unique and surprising pleasure. As he gained momentum, he stretched his hand down to my cunny and massaged my bud while he slid in and out. The friction from his ardent stroking matched with the sensations from behind proved too much for me and he drove me into a rapturous climax.



Not far behind me, he managed a few more thrusts before my tired body sank downwards, grunting as he filled me with his warm cream.

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