Obsessed, Possessed
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Smashwords Edition
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By B. Alston
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Copyright 2012 All Rights Reserved



This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the authors imagination or are used ficititiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. 

Copyright 2012 by B. Alston. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For more information regarding subsidiary rights, please email at greyeyesnovel@gmail.com.
First edition. 


Dedicated to Lovers the world over, especially my own!


Chapter One
I was ten the first time I stared into this mirror, bone thin and starving, my face sunken in and pale. It had been months since I’d last seen my own reflection, and it took a few moments of staring before I realized that it was, in fact, me I was looking at. Had there been anything in my stomach I might have thrown it up. 
“Take a look at what you are,” Lady Farrow had said, her hands on either side of my face to prevent me from looking away. “Always remember how you began. Keep it fresh in your mind so you’ll remember to work hard in this life to better yourself. Here at the Farrow Home for Lost Girls, we will teach you the skills necessary to obtain employment in a reputable household. We will give you the means to provide for yourself.”
To say that the lessons were difficult would be an understatement. Twelve hours each day we trained to be proper handmaidens, learning to serve and be beneficial to the highborn ladies of the realm who might someday take us away from here. We studied geography and language, flattery and etiquette. The Lady tolerated nothing short of perfection, and was quick to put her strap to your ankles or backside if she found, at any point, a discrepancy in where your abilities were, and where they ought to be.
Half of the girls who started with me are long gone, having run away or been dismissed for not continually meeting the Lady’s standards. But I have persevered, have kept that sickly little girl ever present in my thoughts, so that now, only days after my nineteenth birthday, I am ready for my first Introduction. Standing in front of that very same mirror as a woman, as one half of Lady Farrow’s chosen pair, means that I’ve come full circle. It’s the proudest moment of my life.
The groomers—girls of seventeen, who though proficient, are still too young to be introduced—have finally finished with the rubbing, the dabbing, and the plucking, and now stand idly at my sides, whispering to one another across my face. 
“Have you ever heard of a Lady Spencer?” one of them asks. “Spencer sounds much too common for a Lady, don’t you think?”
“Perhaps she’s a northerner,” the other shrugs. “I’ve heard that everything’s backwards in the north…”
A hand falls upon my shoulder, and my head snaps around to find Catia, the Spanish girl who is to be my companion and competition for the night. We have never been particularly close she and I, but I’ve never had any reason to dislike her either.
“You look very beautiful,” she says, her silky voice haunted by an accent.
I nod and say thank you and she wishes me good luck before sliding back to the other side of the room. There a flock of smiling faces await, all of which count her as a friend, and they giggle and make jokes and keep her mood light—the entire night magical. I have always been more interested in books than in people, and it’s for this reason that the only girls who wait with me are the girls who must. Girls who would much rather discuss between themselves just how poor or strange my possible employer might be.
It is rare that a woman gets selected on her first Introduction, so I’ve guarded myself against hoping. I tell myself that it’s an honor just to be included. Soon, my time will come.
It’s at that moment the room quiets and Lady Farrow appears behind me in the mirror, eyes darting and frantic. “Girls,” she says, her whole body shaking. “It seems that ‘Lady Spencer’ was just an alias. Tonight, you will vie for a place in Hampton Court, His Majesty’s home in London. Tonight you shall meet a King.”
It’s a mixture of shock and confusion that fills my head as we’re rushed out of the room and down the stairs. Our king is unmarried, famously so, therefore it’s a mystery as to why he might require a female attendant. He could be recently betrothed, but even if that were the case, surely it is below him to handpick servants.
Catia and I stand shoulder to shoulder in a small wood paneled space that is most certainly not the Introduction Room. This is Lady Farrow’s private study, where her rare books, paintings, and tapestries are kept. A chandelier of twinkling crystal hovers above us while Lady Farrow paces before us, her grey head bowed. In all my time here I’ve never seen her so flustered as this. But then, I’ve never met a king, either. The Lady pauses to remind us not to stand from our curtsy until ordered to do so. We both nod and she continues her pacing.
The seconds roll past. Strange or not, this is it. There is a real chance my life will be forever altered. Might I live in a palace? The thought fills me with excitement. I can barely stand still. Gooseflesh bristles down my arms.
Men in polished steel breastplates enter first, without forewarning, taking up positions in each of the room’s four corners. An elderly man comes next; he has a gentle face and smiles at us before shouting, “His Majesty, the King.” 
My eyes shift back to the door and a figure appears, long and dark, his riding leathers tight around a lean, muscular build. At the sound of Catia’s gasp, my gaze lifts—he’s just swept aside his raven black hair, revealing a face that parts my lips as well. High cheekbones, eyes of the deepest green, straight-nose, full lips. He would almost look pretty, feminine even, if not for the square set of his jaw. His stride is sure and powerful, like an advancing predator, his authority thickening the air to such a degree that his introduction could have been omitted. There is little doubt as to who is in charge.
The full force of those depthless emerald eyes come to rest on me, so completely overpowering that I’m forced to look away. It isn’t until I break his stare that I realize what I’ve done to gain his undivided attention. I am only person in the room still standing.
“My apologies,” I say in a faltering voice, descending quickly into a curtsey. My eyes flit to his handsome face and find a smile playing at the corners of his lips. My cheeks burn with embarrassment. 
“Rise,” he commands in a voice that is deep and husky. As I move to regain my full height, a shiver spills down my back. 
“Who will be first?” His eyes go between us before resting on me. “How about you, little lamb?”
Little lamb? “Yes, Your Majesty.” I do my best to hold his stare. He smiles and with a wave of his hand, empties the room.
“After you,” he says, gesturing to a polished wooden table that shimmers in the candlelight of the chandelier. Two chairs sit on either side of it. Once we are near enough, he steps in front to pull one out for me.
With a nod of thanks, I take my seat, smoothing out my dress. I should be calming my racing mind, but instead I watch him round the table, stalking down his chair as though he means to cause it harm. I’ve never been so captivated by a thing so trivial.
“Miss…” he starts, taking his seat.
“Sharpe,” I finish.
“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Sharpe.”
I nod as I’ve been taught to do when accepting a complement. “The pleasure is mine, Your Majesty.”
“Lady Farrow says that while you are not the prettiest of her girls, that you are by far the smartest. Is that an accurate assessment?” His words are cold and precise. His eyes intent. Whatever lightness he displayed before is gone—now we are to the task at hand.
“I-I am very fond of learning, Your Majesty. As for my appearance—well, I’ve always assumed that I look the way I’m meant to.” My words are sure, I mean them, but the moment they leave my mouth I’m staring down at the table again.
“Please, Miss Sharpe. Don’t let my title intimidate you. If we’re to be working in close quarters, we’ll need to get as familiar as possible as swiftly as possible.”
“Yes, of course.” I pull my eyes up to that face and feel my heart flutter. It isn’t just your title that has flustered me so…
“Tell me then, Miss Sharpe. Why does a girl who enjoys learning, who is gifted at it, wish to waste her talents serving drinks and bathing stodgy old women?”
The question strikes at my pride. It snaps back a retort before I can stop it. “Service is an honest living, Your Majesty. We can’t all be so fortunate as to have been born a prince.” His expression changes, cooling my indignation. I swallow. My God, what I have just done? This is the King.
At first I think him angry. But it becomes clear once a chuckle leaves his lips that what I witnessed was a failed attempt at concealing his laughter. “You are spirited, Miss Sharpe. I relish these chances when they arise—the opportunity to speak with someone who does not think my ego so fragile. A woman unafraid to voice her opinion.”
If only he knew just how terrified I truly am.
He leans over the table now, his face alive and interested. “Let me rephrase the question: Were I to hire you Miss Sharpe, would I find that your ambitions call you elsewhere?”
“Well,” I whisper, debating if I’ll continue with my statement—a secret I haven’t shared with anyone. “It is my dream to become a governess someday.” I watch him for a smirk, but he only tilts his head. 
“A governess? I wonder if you are not a spy, Miss Sharpe. You see, I am in need of a governess, for my daughter. She lacks the natural talent for learning and I have little time to help her along.” He pauses to stare at me a moment. “But I think you’re much too young. I’d prefer someone with worldly experience.”
Now I’m leaning over the table. “I am a very good teacher, Your Majesty. Proficient in Latin and all its derivatives. I already teach the youngest girls arithmetic, and I can assure you that what I lack in worldly experience, I will more than make up for in focus and singular determination.”
He smiles. “Spirited.” The King leans back in his chair. “And you have no attachments here, no young man who would be heart broken to see you go?”
“I am unattached, much as I’ve always been.” The words leave my lips without permission. My face flushes. How pitiful I must look.
His jaw flexes. Something wild flashes in his eyes. “Are you as innocent as those ‘doe eyes’ suggest?”
Somehow the conversation has turned—the atmosphere is suddenly quite different. “I don’t imagine eyes to be the best determiner of innocence, Your Majesty.” I fidget in my chair.
He grins. “If I asked you to visit me tonight, in my rooms, that you might gain some of the worldly experience you lack… What would be your answer, Miss Sharpe?”
My throat pinches. My pulse thunders in my ears. I picture his hands on me, the gentle caresses I’ve caught Lord Farrow offering to the Lady when he thinks that no one sees. My skin tingles at the thought. I remind myself that a visit to his bedroom means much more than mere caresses—more than I am ready to give to any man just yet. “I would politely decline, Your Majesty.”
His grin vanishes. Those eyes become cold again. Calculating. “I am not a man who is used to hearing no, Miss Sharpe. It only riles me up, makes me want what it is I desire all the more.”
I’m trembling. “I should hope Your Majesty would understand.”
His hands clench the edges of the table tightly. His fingers are white from the lack of blood. “You cannot experience life through mere books alone, Miss Sharpe. At some point you must open yourself to the world around you.”
“They have served me thus me far, Your Majesty.” And with that I turn from the table and sprint for the door as fast as my feet will carry me. 
Lady Farrow would be appalled.


Chapter Two
My room is small, with only a bed, a stack of books, and a tall drawer to hold my handmade dresses and personal belongings. It’s where I’ve been hiding since my escape from the King. I’ve packed and unpacked my things (alternating between wrapping them up in my bed sheet and dumping them out onto the floor) several times in anticipation of Lady Farrow’s asking me to leave. I cannot imagine the King was not offended.
Night has fallen and still no one has come.
Countless times the conversation has played out in my mind. At moments he was charming, others insensitive, but always overwhelming. He is so physically beautiful, his masculinity so blatant and intruding. If too dazzled to fully appreciate it then, it scares me now, the absolute power his crown confers. And yet, inexplicably, there is a very real part of me that yearns to again be inhabited by that uncertainty, that danger. 
I feel like one of the silly girls from my books.
Still, I can’t deny the emotions brought about by this reality: The most powerful man in the realm desires me. I don’t imagine the King has difficulty seducing beautiful women, who like Catia have been blessed with the full figures men find irresistible. I have always been rather dainty, my breasts and buttocks modest by anyone’s estimation. And yet, the King desires me.
Calm yourself, Isabel.
I’m half asleep when a knock sounds on my door. My pulse quickens. Lady Farrow has finally come to have words with me, I’m sure of it. I open the door slowly, peeking around its edge. It’s Catia.
“We have been summoned,” she whispers. I almost ask, “By who?” but catch myself. As if I didn’t know.
Catia and I walk in silence. I keep glancing up at her, hoping to catch her eye so as to get some indication of how her meeting went. To my frustration, she keeps them fixed straight ahead. I want to know if the King has propositioned her as well. It occurs to me after time that this must be so. Aren’t the both of us headed for his rooms?
I won’t be herded along like cattle to be used and then discarded. I promise myself to make this clear but a part of me knows that if he wants my virtue, he can take it without consequence. 
The hour is later than I thought, for we pass through the manse’s empty halls unnoticed. Catia leads the way with no hesitation, even once we enter the portion of the house where we aren’t permitted. Only the Lady’s family is allowed into the home’s east end. For a moment my worry is dimmed by the natural curiosity of entering a place I’ve never been. We navigate a ballroom with floors so shiny they seem permanently wet and a high-ceilinged library of impressive scale. Finally, we reach the base of a carpeted staircase where two men stand guard. 
I imagine myself on the way to meet God—I am helpless to this man’s whims, can be struck from the earth with but a single command. 
His guards wave us by. 
At the top of the stair is a hall leading to only one door. And in that door stands a figure dressed in only the thinnest of robes. Little is left to the imagination. My upbringing informs me that I should look away but my eyes can’t help but devour the sight. Heat floods my body as though fire swims through my veins. We seem to reach him too quickly.
“Miss Sharpe,” he nods, that familiar ghost of a grin about his lips. My dazed stare has amused him. “A man in my position seldom finds the need for apologies, but allow me to offer one to you. My earlier behavior was appalling.”
“It is forgotten,” I say, again unable to meet his eyes. So much time spent worrying…
“I would like you to accompany me to London, not as a handmaiden, but as a governess to the Princess.”
My jaw drops. Catia glances at me, and then turns her head. My voice stutters. “T-Thank you, Your Majesty.
“Consider it my way of making amends. I should like to speak with you immediately following Miss Zapatero’s meeting. If you would wait here, I shouldn’t be too long.”
Before I can process fully what it is happening, Catia disappears into his room and the door shuts behind them. 
Not only was the offer into his bed not unique, but Catia said yes.
Relieved and hurt and slightly—if shockingly—envious, I lean against a wall and allow myself to slide down to the floor. Am I meant to just wait here while they… 
The thought of him in the act of coitus sends liquid warmth flooding into my thighs. It’s a reaction I’ve experienced only once or twice, both times while reading from Lady Farrow’s forbidden literature, but it has never been so dizzying as this.
It is not long before sounds begin to touch my hearing, passing easily through the door. The purring I hear is Catia. I should leave. This is a moment too intimate… but how can I risk offending him a second time? Especially when I’ve just been granted a position beyond my wildest imaginings.
“Your turn,” his voice sounds. “On your knees. Please me.”
The room goes eerily silent. If the King is being pleased then he is not so vocal as Catia. I find myself pressing my ear to the door, running through all the scandalous passages I’ve ever read for some clue as to what might be happening. When I visualize her in front of him, propped up on her knees, the answer is so very obvious. And so very shocking that I must remind myself to breathe.
“Enough. Turn around.”
He’s about to enter her. Like any virginal young woman old enough to know what it means to go to bed with a man, I’ve wondered many times what it must be like to have someone inside me. To surrender myself so completely. Biting my lip, I can feel myself moisten in my most private place, my womanhood pulsing with curiosity. 
Catia begins to moan. Slurred words and other more primal utterances of pleasure fill the hall. The clapping of their bodies colliding quickens to an almost frantic pace. She cries out now, begging him not to stop.
What must it be like to be so totally enthralled, so overwhelmed by bliss that you should scream from it? I want to know. I sit in the hall intolerably aroused, the pressure building between my legs unbearable. Desperately do I need some type of release.  
I pull back my dress and touch myself, jumping at the contact. I’ve never felt it so sensitive, so wet. I run my pointer finger along its lips flicking at the moist opening. I move it to the small protrusion at its apex. Oh god. My bare thighs close around my arm, my whole body shivering with delight. 
“Miss Sharpe?”
A jolt rips through my body. I look up to find the King standing in the doorway. “I…” There are no words to explain away my shame. He stands there, smiling wickedly, knowing somehow that I would react this way. 
When he offers his hand, I refuse it, using the wall to pull myself upright.
“I suppose such things are not handled in your books.”
I affix a glare at him that only serves to broaden his grin. 
He steps into the hall fully, wrapped in his robe. His face glistens with sweat and his hair is stringy and damp. “I desire you, Miss Sharpe. I crave you in a way I cannot fully understand.  Speak the words and I shall never see the Spanish girl again.”
Thoughts of myself in his arms, delirious with pleasure, rush through my mind. But it feels all so very wrong. I don’t want to resist him, and yet I know that I must. I will not compromise my morals for his fleeting wants. “My position on the matter has not changed, Your Majesty.”
He steps closer. “Are you certain? I’m willing to wager that it was not the thought of Catia that moved you to touch yourself.” I flinch at the words. He stalks the floor around me, moving like a wolf through the brush, hungrily eyeing his prey. He pauses at my back, placing his lips next to my ear. The scent of him engulfs me, the warm sensation of his breath on my cheek battering my resolve. “You want this, little lamb. I can smell the desire on your skin. I will never force myself upon you—it shall always be your choice. But why wait for what is inevitable? You have only to give yourself to me, fully, and I will make your tender flesh sing my darling. Lie with this lion, little lamb, that my cravings might devour your innocence.”
My knees are weak, my womanhood tight and burning. In this weakness my lips form several times to say yes; I just barely stop myself. 
I think of Catia. What will her night of bliss be to her in the morning if I accept his offer? He will have used her and cut her loose. What would forever be a glaring moment in her life shall to him be a thing quickly forgotten.
Is that what I want for myself, to be a tool discarded once he eventually stumbles across a woman he finds more desirable? “Whatever you think of me right now, Your Majesty, I’m no man’s whore.”
His lips brush my ear. “I think you judge me unfairly, Miss Sharpe. That is not my intent at all.”
Does he hear himself? “I don’t see how it couldn’t be.”
“Then you deny me once more?” he asks, his tone much darker.
“Yes,” I whisper. His face slides away from mine. 
“Then I shall see you in London,” he says. “And I shall not trouble you again.”
I feel his eyes on the back of my head as I force my stiff legs forward. I have disappointed my sovereign not once but twice, and though I desire him, God knows I desire him, I have also stayed true to myself.

Chapter Three
My eyes jump open at the cracking against my bedroom door. From my window, a streak of sunlight pierces the darkness. I wipe my eyes and roll off of my bedding. As I stumble toward the door, I flatten my nightdress down past my knees. This couldn’t be…
Lady Farrow. 
Relief.
She looks furious. 
Worry.
“What did he make you do?”
“Nothing,” I reply. “He made advances, but I did not give in to them.”
Her eyes search my own. She has always had a knack for identifying a lie, and it’s precisely that which she looks for now. A smile reaches across the Lady’s face and she steps past me into the bedroom. She believes me. “He left in the night...” She sighs. “With Catia.”
My blood turns to ice. “Then he’s rescinded his offer? Decided to leave me behind?”
The Lady blows a heavy breath. “Quite the contrary. A carriage from Pemberley Manor arrived just now. The driver says he has instructions to bring you to meet His Majesty’s daughter. You’re to begin in your role as her governess. Governess to the Princess of England!”
A smile parts my lips, but it is out of embarrassment. The Lady has never known of my secret ambition to be more than what her training has prepared me for. Looking at her reddened face, I cannot tell for certain what emotion the news has wrought. “Are you angry with me?”
A full throaty laugh. “No, no, child. I have always known you were special. So many of the girls who come through here are so hopelessly broken, or too dim-witted to be anything more than a common servant. It has always been my hope just to be able to give those girls a place in this world, a means of survival. Not until you have I met someone so focused, so naturally talented. I mention all of this to say that today I am a very proud woman.”
First the King rewards me for spurning his bed and now the Lady is proud of my abandoning her plans for me. I wonder if I know as much about people and the world as I think. Still, it brings me much joy to know that she is happy for me. “Thank you for all that you’ve done. You saved my life.”
She nods as she has taught me to do. 
Her expression shifts. “I want to also warn you, Isabel. You have kept the events before your arriving here private, and I respect that. But I cannot imagine you’ve experienced anything the like of what you can expect at the court of a King. It is a hall of unrivaled opulence and hedonism, and as an unattached young woman it will take all of your determination not to become a victim to it. I was once a woman not so old, serving His Majesty’s mother as a lady-in-waiting. I know these things because I’ve been where you’re going.”
I make sure to meet her eyes. “I shall be sure to stand up for myself.”
She reaches out her arms and pulls me into the warmest of embraces. “Then I shall miss you, Isabel Sharpe. May your life be full of adventure.”
*****
Despite my lack of real friends, every girl waves to me as my carriage starts along the dirt road. I find myself tearful as they fade from view. When the road turns and The Farrow Home is gone, I slide to other side of the carriage to watch the river—the same river which winds through grass behind my old bedroom. I tell myself that so long as I can see the river, I cannot possibly be so far away as I feel.
Pemberley is half a day’s ride and I use the time to think of my future, of how the Lady described His Majesty’s court. Am I truly ready for such temptation? I can’t help but think of how close I came to accepting the King’s offer. I have always been so very curious in all things—I pray it does not get me into trouble. 
*****
Pemberely is a small holding compared to the Farrow’s manse, just a wide house in the middle of a wider field. And yet this field is brimming with people. As we advance up the road, a rider breaks from the crowd, trailed by men in leather and shimmering armor. It takes but a glance to know who this man is. 
The King.
As was the case in our first two meetings, I cannot prevent myself from staring. His black hair jumps around his flawless face, and he presents for me a smile. It isn’t until he is practically on top of me that I notice the pretty brunette girl riding with him on the large gelding. She is every bit as beautiful as her father.
“Welcome, Miss Sharpe. You turned down my offer to ride last night, I trust this one suited you better?” His eyes flash and my body stiffens with surprise for such talk in front of a child, for I know enough to guess at what he’s insinuating, but so carefully veiled are his words that not even his men—two of whom waved us up the stair—seem to catch on.
“It suited me much better, Your Majesty,” I reply. “I thank you for it.”
“Of course,” he grins, his bright green eyes lingering.
“Is this your daughter?” I ask, seeing the girl of six or seven cross her arms, obviously annoyed with being ignored by her father.
He breaks from what seems like a trance. My cheeks flush from the realization that I am the cause. “Yes, Miss Sharpe. This is Elizabeth.” The girl gazes up at her father adoringly. She loves him. 
It’s undeniably endearing. My rough perception of the man skews a bit. 
“This is to be your new governess, Elizabeth. Introduce yourself.” The girl frowns. “I don’t like governesses. All they do is tell me what to do and bore me senseless.” She crosses her arms again.
The King smiles awkwardly. “Forgive her, she hasn’t had the best of luck with governesses in the past.” 
I give her my warmest smile. “You shall never have as much fun as with me. That is a promise.”
The girl eyes me skeptically, but it quickly gives way to a smile of her own. “I can’t wait!” she exclaims.
The King is watching me, his eyes softer than I’ve ever seen them. “It seems I’ve made the right choice, Miss Sharpe. Go inside and change, if you haven’t noticed there’s a carnival out today.” He and his men ride off, the sounds of he and his daughter’s laughter serenading their departure. It’s at that moment that I realize just how much he loves her too.
*****
I’m shown to a chamber even smaller than my tiny bedroom back at the Farrow Home. I hardly mind. Everything feels brand new and the excitement of change is still fresh. On my bed lies a gown of scarlet. It’s silk, and much more extravagant than anything I’ve ever owned. I know immediately how it came to be here. If the King was being subtle about his continued interest before then this is something else entirely. 
Or perhaps I’m adding layers that aren’t there. Certainly he knows that I’m of modest means, perhaps he simply wished for me to have something nice to wear. My gut tells me I’m in denial. That I should expect him to try again. 
I put the thought out of my mind, now pondering as to how he might have procured it in such short notice. The answer comes quickly: Because he is the King and nothing is beyond his reach. Except me.
At least, that’s what I tell myself.
“Isabel?” 
I turn to find Catia in my door. She looks to me with uncertain eyes, as if she has a reason to be wary of me.
She sighs. “I know what you must think of me. I hear the whispers whenever I pass through the halls, but I did what was best for me and I won’t apologize for it.”
“I would never judge you, Catia. Your decisions are your own.”
The tension leaves her, shed as though it had been nothing more than a heavy coat. She comes running up to me, wrapping her arms around my shoulders. “Thank you, Isabel. I’m so glad you’re here.”
Once she releases me we sit down on the bed, and she holds both my hands as though we are very young girls sharing secrets. 
“Are you happy?” I ask her, once she’s inquired as to Lady Farrow’s feelings about her departure.
Her entire face lights. “Moreso than I’ve ever been.”
“And do you love him?”
She jumps at the question. “No, no, no. I think you misunderstand the nature of our relationship, and of my happiness. What we have is purely a physical arrangement. And only until we reach London. The King has a weakness for women, that’s true, but he is also kind though he doesn’t need to be. In his gratitude he’s arranged for me to marry the Spanish ambassador, a widower for several years now. I met him just today—he’s very sweet. I’m to leave with him when he returns to Spain, and he’s agreed to help me find my family, Isabel.” Her eyes fill with tears and she shakes her head. “From a servant-in-training to the wife of an ambassador with the opportunity to find the thing that means most to me in this world… Not in my most desperate of dreams would I have thought my life to turn out like this. And you, did you imagine yourself a governess in the royal house at nineteen? Our King, he is a maker of dreams. And for that I put my all into pleasing him, if only for a few days.”
Her hands squeeze me so tightly, and there such joy in her brown eyes that I can only stare. I was so completely unaware of the depth to the King’s kindness, and yet, as Catia has pointed out, I have benefited from it. “Perhaps I shall try to view him differently,” I whisper. 
She smiles.
“And does he also please you?” I barely look at her when I ask. I already know the answer, but I’m dying to hear it from her lips. 
She closes her eyes before she speaks. “There aren’t words for the things I experience in his bed. Sometimes I lose myself completely.” Catia’s smile turns sheepish. “I suppose I shall miss it when I’m married to the ambassador.” She dissolves into laughter so infectious that I catch it too.
We spend hours in my chamber, whispering and giggling about things scandalous and not, about the humorous experiences of our life before now, when we were but two girls dreaming to be handmaidens. I can’t help but wonder after she is finally called away and whilst the sun settles into the horizon, how it is that we could share a dwelling for so long, and never know one another so well as when we left it. 
There is to be a dinner and dancing tonight, and the King will be there. It’s so hard to find him as objectionable as before, and I fear that if he presses me tonight, I shall be unwilling to resist him.
I find myself very anxious to find out.   

Chapter Four
I have been dressed and ready for a while now but can’t bring myself to be happy about it. Never have I worn something so decadent as this and now that it’s on, I can’t help but feel a bit silly, like a horse in a fancy dress. 
A head peeks into my room.
“Hi Catia.” Before she left, she agreed to escort me to the dining hall.
“Red suits you,” she says, nodding. “But…” With one hand, she takes loose the ponytail and spreads my hair down over my shoulders. “All the girls of the court wear their hair unrestrained.”
Unrestrained. Thoughts of the King pass through my head that redden my cheeks.
“What is it?” Catia notices.
“It’s nothing. What’s that in your other hand?”
Her curiosity gives way to excitement, her eyes going wide. “Our masks! Tonight is to be a masquerade party!”
Relief floods my limbs. The mask offers place to hide. The others will only see the dress and not the self-conscious young woman behind it. I smile. “Ready?”
Catia takes my hand, leading me through the halls at a dizzying pace. 
I can hear the music long before we actually arrive. When we do, it is to a large room full of small tables. Catia pulls me toward the nearest one, where two chairs sit empty. We nod a hello to the strangers who sit with us and then allow our eyes to take in the spectacle of the room. At the center of the wide space hangs an enormous chandelier, the like of which I’ve never seen. Beneath it there is dancing, every face hidden behind a mask. I’ve only ever danced at the Farrow Home, and then it was only ever with other girls. I watch them as they step and slide, touch hands and then change partners, all synchronized and in-step with the music. Around the floor, the expressions on the faces of the men and women who are seated get haughtier and more disinterested the closer to the floor-to-ceiling windows they are. Pressed up against the window, and framed by the illuminated gardens outside is one long table. Seated there are the most bored people I’ve ever laid eyes upon. I scan their faces, finding nothing so remarkable as to explain their arrogant expressions, until I see him dead center. He sits with his head resting on one hand, his eyes focused on me. I’m quick to look away.
“Enough sitting,” Catia squeals. “Let us join the dancing!”
I’m pulled to my feet and received by a blonde haired man whose blue eyes twinkle behind his mask. He smiles, staring into my own. “Lovely,” he says, before the line shifts and I am presented with a new dance partner. With a clap we all turn our right. The King’s chair sits empty.
My breath hitches.
The line shifts again and again, taunting me on more than one occasion with handsome black-haired men who cause my heart to flutter or miss a beat entirely in the seconds before I realize that it is not him. I’m starting to feel lightheaded.
Once the line comes back around and I see a girl eagerly waiting to join in, I nod to her and then to my new partner and step aside, eager to find some fresh air. 
“Miss Sharpe!” a voice calls and I turn to find one of His Majesty’s guards stepping away from the dancing. Was the King having me watched?
I am prepared to be quite harsh with my words but quickly come to the conclusion, as he pulls off his mask, that it isn’t he I should be angry with. 
“I’m to escort you to the study once you’ve completed your dancing.”
It is pointless to refuse when I am not even being asked. I nod and follow him, noticing Catia seated very close to an olive-skinned man who could only be the Spanish ambassador. They smile warmly at one another, their fingers interlocked. 
I am led only a short distance, to a room with no door that is lined on every side with shelves of books. At the small desk centering the room sits the King. Looking at him now, I wonder how it was I could have imagined any of those men to be him. In his crimson tunic—which is the exact match of my dress—he is breathtaking.
“Miss Sharpe,” he smiles.
“Your Majesty.” I drop into shallow curtsy. Breathe Isabel.
He dismisses the guard with a wave. 
We’re alone. 
“Are you enjoying the dancing?” he asks.
My pulse drums in my ears so loudly I almost don’t hear him. “Um—Yes, it was fun to do it with male partners.” Male partners. I swallow. I need to find a reason to excuse myself before… “I haven’t eaten yet, have you?”
A smile flickers on his lips. “I shall be dining in a moment, little lamb.” The teasing manner in which he says this makes me shudder. But if there is a double meaning, I am unaware of it.
I take a deep, calming breath. “Does this—” The music has started up again in the ballroom. “Does this meeting have a purpose?”
“I wanted to ask you to reconsider my offer,” he says leaning forward. 
Visions of the last time he asked, when his body was pressed up close to mine, flash in my head. I’m suddenly flushed.
Keep your head, Isabel. “Why would you assume that anything has changed?”
“Because you have chosen to tempt me in that dress.”
“But it was a gift from you!”
“One you didn’t have to accept. You look…appetizing in it.”
The ravenous, lustful expression that passes over his flawless face disrupts my thoughts. I tear my eyes away. 
He stands from his chair. “Why do you continue to resist me? I know you want me, Isabel. Look at how you shake with anticipation, your face flushed with longing. You heard Catia, you too want to be made to feel like woman. Is it because you fear what others will think of you? Is your denying me meant to uphold morals set for you by old men who are long dead—silly rules meant to instill shame for exploring and expressing yourself in the way that is most natural? Tell me Isabel, what is it?”
It’s the first time he has called me by first name, as though we are familiar. “I just want it to mean something,” I breathe.
When he steps to me I can’t help but notice how much larger he is than I am. He extends his arms, lifts me by the waist. 
No…
He sits me down on the desk, his strong arms on either side of me. His perfect face so very close to my own. 
My eyes dart down to his full lips. “You said you wouldn’t…”
“And I won’t. Give me permission to please you, Isabel. You have my word that I won’t take that which is most precious to you. It’s just that, well…” He grins. “I would have you make an informed decision as to becoming mine. One based on experience rather than guesswork.”
My mind is spinning. “And you swear that you won’t…”
“You have my word, little lamb.”
With every fiber of my being I want it, to know what it is to be pleased in that way. My thighs burn with want, my opening wet and aching to be touched. I cannot stand it any longer… “You have my permission.”  
A breath later I am flat on my back, now fully aware of how helpless I truly am to his strength. I’m shivering as I stare up at the ceiling, the ballroom music in my ears, of the laughter of passersby… 
The room doesn’t have a door! I’m about to slide off the table to put a stop to this when I feel his fingers between my thighs. Please, touch it… They find their way to my little nub, bringing about a burst of feeling that causes me to gasp. 
I forget about the door.
“So wet. You were anxious weren’t you?” I hear him laughing. “Lift your legs.”
I obey without hesitation. The caress of his fingers is too intoxicating. In this moment, to continue the jolts of bliss that race down my thighs, I would do anything he asked. I am utterly helpless to his touch.
 He places a leg over each shoulder and for a moment I wonder if he’s lied to me. If he fully intends to enter me with his hardened manhood. I wonder if I would even try to stop him. But he lowers his head, presses his soft lips to my opening instead. His tongue slides around the edges and my whole body stiffens, shocked and panting, biting my lip, willing him not to stop. To never stop.
He nibbles on my flesh, allowing his hands to graze my inner thighs ever so gently. With his other hand he fingers little circles around my second hole. To be touched in these places where I’ve never been touched before has me squirming with delight.
His tongue slides the length of my crevice, until he’s returned to my nub, massaging it with his tongue. 
“Please,” I beg him. “Keep touching it.” In response, his thick lips close around it, sucking gently. Its throbs in reply, causing my entire body to quake in front of him. 
The little bulb has become his primary focus and he attacks it with mouth. It is too much, my body can’t handle it, my eyes roll back, I’m moaning loud and often. My hips twist and buck but his strong hands keep me still, keep his mouth in place.
My back arches, my body has taken over, hips thrusting myself further into his reckless mouth.  I beg him to release me, I’ve lost control of myself, but he won’t, he just keeps at until I am gone completely. I scream as my body spasms in a violent rush of ecstasy. 
His head lifts into view, framed by my trembling bare thighs. He smiles at me, knowing that if he asked I would give him anything he wanted. But he does not ask, does not say a word; he merely stands and exits the room, leaving me half-naked on the desk—conquered and utterly his.

Chapter Five
I do not return to the party. Instead I’m stumbling back to my room, ignoring the stares I’m getting. I must look like a woman freshly sexed with my tousled hair, flushed skin, and quivering legs. 
 My body still tingles from my encounter with the King, echoes of the bliss from minutes prior. I am not sure what to think of myself, the king, my being his governess—so I don’t allow myself to think at all. I concentrate only on putting one foot in front of the other. 
Slowly but surely I find my way back to my door.
“Miss Sharpe?” a voice calls from down the hall.
Another guard. He begins to run, waving his arms as though I might not see him there. I turn to face him.
He takes a moment to gather his breath before speaking. “Please, Miss Sharpe. I am to show you to your room.”
“But this is my room.”
“The King has requested you be moved.”
The mere reference makes me shiver. “Alright then.”
I follow him back through the halls and up a staircase into another hall. Two doors face one another and we enter the one on the left. “The Queen’s Suite,” he informs me. I stare at him as though he’s mad. He only grins and waves me inside. 
My stomach knots at the sight of this space. A four-post bed the size of my former room fills the center, with what looks to be silk draped around it. The carpeted walls are deep red. The table and chairs, dresser and wardrobe, all flawless white. The far wall is made of only glass and the moonlight bathes everything near it in soft silver light. 
It is all so very beautiful, and yet nothing compared to man standing in the room’s center. 
“Come to me and shut the door.”
Without a second thought I obey him. He places those large hands on my shoulders and allows those heavenly green eyes to slide over the whole of me before coming to rest on my face. 
“You have had a moment to collect yourself, so I shall put the question to you one last time. Will you allow yourself to become mine? You shall want for nothing, shall fear nothing. Your body will become the temple in which I practice my craft and you will know what it is to be pleased, little lamb. But also be aware that it is a lion with which you lay, and my appetite for you will never cater your whims or wants, but rather my own. I require that you bind yourself to me without restriction. I shall demand it. What is your answer?”
I think of what Lady Farrow would say, of what people might think. But I can’t live based on other people’s opinions. I want to explore what it is to be a woman. I want this, and I want it with him. My lips can form but one response. “I am yours.”
He grins and takes my hand, leading me over to one of the chairs. He takes a seat and orders me to drop to my knees in front of him. The imprint of his hardened thickness runs down his leg, as wide as my forearm. I know what he wants.
“I will do it, but I don’t know how.”
“All I require is the effort.” He rips open the front of his pants, tearing the seam, and pulls out his thick manhood. He slides it across my cheek. “Please me, Isabel.”
Determined to give him my best effort, I take what I can into my mouth, rolling the end of it with my tongue. It is the same motion he used on me. When his body tenses, his breaths suddenly audible, I know that I am doing at least something correctly. I take him deeper into my mouth, even bite down a bit causing from him a throaty moan. I can feel my own arousal, a wave of heat from between my legs. The King grabs my head through my hair, pushing himself further into my mouth, until I feel him in my throat. He draws it back and then thrusts again, repeating the back and forth. 
I look up at him, nodding that I understand. I continue this motion, allowing my lips to ebb and flow over his throbbing warm hardness. My mouth is stretched to its limit but I refuse to disappoint him.
“Faster,” he moans and I pick up the pace. The hand that grips my head is shaking, and he leans forward attempting to push himself deeper. His unbending flesh is pulsing in my mouth, his eyes squeezed shut, his teeth bared. 
He snatches my head away and his seed jumps out of him. He’s breathing heavy, me too, and puts his hand up to my face. “You are truly mine now, Isabel. I fear you shall find London a rather sleepless place…” He leans over and presses his lips to mine. “Dearest girl, the things that I shall do to you…”



Chapter Six
I’m walking down a slender corridor, the only light coming from the bright room ending the hall. The dark should scare me, but it doesn’t. I just feel happy. Deliriously happy. 
And nervous. With every step my heart beats faster. It thuds in my ears. When the light is close enough to touch I close my eyes and take in a deep, slow breath. 
This is how I choose to enter the light, eyes shut, the black behind my eyelids shifting to bright scarlet. A hum of murmuring sounds in my ears, as does the rustling of synchronized movement. Slowly, I allow my eyes to open. Hundreds of people, all kneeling to me. Everyone except for the King, who stands beside an empty throne wearing a crown, holding another—
The sound of footsteps jolts me awake. I’m lying in the massive bed of my new bedchamber, upgraded just a few hours ago by the King. It’s the middle of the night and I’m scanning the shadows, vaguely remembering a dream about my being coronated as a Queen. “Who’s there?”
Through the shadows a figure emerges, too tall and too thick to be a female attendant. I ball my hands into small fists. “I demand your name, sir.”
“Only I am allowed to make demands, little lamb.” The gravelly voice is one I recognize, but it bears an edge that unsettles me. Before I can form a reply, he is already beside the bed. His thick hands slide beneath the blankets, gripping my bare thighs and pulling me toward him. 
I lay on my back, staring up at his darkened outline, my legs around his waist. Is this it? Is he about to take me?
“I haven’t been able to sleep,” he says. “I can’t stop thinking about you—what it will feel like to enter you. I tell myself to be patient, but I fear I may lack the strength.”
The deep tone of his voice, the gentle graze of his fingertips on my upper thighs, and the firm bulge pressing against my womanhood has my insides on fire. The anticipation has me panting.
“You want it, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I reply.
“Yes, Dominus is how you will refer to me. You have given yourself to me, Miss Sharpe. You are mine now.”
I became fluent in Latin during my time at the Farrow Home, so I know that Dominus means ‘master’—a term used by slaves when addressing their owners. Is that what I’ve agreed to become? I’m still processing the possible implications when suddenly I’m flipped over onto my stomach. With a loud clap his hand falls against my bottom. The harsh sting of it causes my eyes to water. 
“You will acknowledge me when I’ve addressed you, little lamb.”
“Y-Yes, Dominus.” I stutter. I’m too shocked to even offer a proper rebuke.
His hands begin to move across my cheeks, squeezing and caressing. Whenever he touches the tender flesh where his strike landed, I tense. That skin is so much more sensitize, so alive, so pleasing. My thoughts harken back to days spent at the Farrow Home for Girls, where Lady Farrow would administer corporal punishment in order to discipline us. I was always such a model student; it was rare for me to feel the Lady’s lash. The King’s painful reprimand makes me feel altogether different, as though beneath the layers of my careful self-restraint there’s more—a woman who is unruly, naughty, who enjoys being bad. A woman who relishes the opportunity to be punished. I can’t believe I enjoy having my bottom struck.
Without warning, his wide fingers slide into me and I moan loudly. 
He laughs. “You never cease to amaze, Miss Sharpe. You’re dripping wet.” Another smack while his fingers probe inside me elicits a shout. I feel my walls tighten around those fingers, my body convulsing in pleasure. 
“Again,” I plead. 
“Beg,” he says.
“Please, Dominus. Again.”
He smacks my rear end again and again. I’m gripping the sheets, my face pressed into the bedding to muffle my cries. Sharp jolts of pain explode over every inch of my bottom. I’m shaking when he’s finally done, the lobes of my buttocks so tender I can feel the breezes from the open windows across the room. I want him to touch me again, to run his hands over the aching lobes but he doesn’t.
When I turn my head to find out what he is doing, I feel something thick and warm settle between my cheeks. I grip the bedding. Oh god. It feels as though it would rip me in two. 
And yet, if his fingers can make me shiver, what must it be like to feel the full width of his manhood throbbing inside me? 
“Is it time?” I ask in a voice that is barely more than a whisper.
Another hard smack. I’m wincing as I ask, “Is it time, Dominus?”
“I will have you when I am ready and not a moment before.”
I’m both relieved and disappointed by this, but those thoughts fade completely once he grips both cheeks, still agonizingly tender, and squeezes them against his thickness. He runs the length of it back and forth between them, the underside of his manhood caressed by my compressed lobes.
As his pace quickens, he groans, and begins to breathe heavily. “Your bottom is so soft, little lamb.”
I don’t answer. My eyes are shut and I’m biting my lip again, my body shuddering at the sensations I’m experiencing—the contrast between the rough grip of his fingers on the outsides of my cheeks and the gentle friction of his hardness against the insides is almost too much.
He pushes it faster, his grip so tight he’s pressing me down into the bed. My bottom is so sensitive that nearly every stroke brings a moan to my lips. My womanhood throbs with longing.
His pace becomes frenzied, he’s grunting. I feel his tip slide back too far, it goes down instead of back up and before I can react, I feel the blunt tip of his manhood dive inside me. 
My whole body stiffens. It’s out as quickly as it entered but that doesn’t erase the memory. Or the sting of his sudden entrance.
“Turn over.” When I don’t turn fast enough, he does it for me. I still can’t see him clearly; he is only a shadow having his way with me in a room full of shadows. “It was not my intent to have you tonight, but after experiencing what it is to be inside you—so tight, so wet—I have to have you. Do you want this?”
I’m tempted to say no. What was obviously pleasurable for him wasn’t at all enjoyable for me. 
He must sense my wariness because he says next, “It only hurts for a moment. I assure you it will begin to feel much better very quickly.”
There is no doubt in his voice. I think of Catia. Her screams of bliss. I want to feel like that. “I want it,” I reply.
“Good,” he says. He leans over me, his thick hands taking control of my slender hips. His face brushes my own. He kisses my neck. It’s such a gentle act in comparison to the manhandling of before that I practically melt in his arms. Those hands begin to slide across my skin, just barely grazing the surface, both tickling and igniting my flesh with desire. 
His teeth close around the bottom of my ear, tugging gently. Fear clouds my thoughts, but the rest of me isn’t nearly as conflicted. My body begs for his touch. 
His hands close around my breasts. They feel small in his wide palms and he manipulates them easily, taking the hardened nipples between his fingers and squeezing. I had no idea they were capable of producing such delicious joy.
His kisses a trail down my neck, between my breasts and down to my navel which he flicks with his tongue. His lips continue southward. My opening is hot and moist in anticipation of his arrival. He doesn’t make me wait very long. He parts the folds with his thick lips and the moment they close around my tiny bud I lose it. He sucks on the bulb, lashing it with his tongue as I lock my legs around his face. He keeps at it until I can’t take it anymore, until my insides spasm, my whole body quaking in ecstatic release. My cries fill the room.
Barely in my right mind, I hear him say, “It’s time, little lamb.” The reality of the moment sobers me. “I’m ready,” I whisper. 
I open my legs, not breathing, preparing myself for that first touch of his sex to mine. When it comes I shiver, it feels too thick, too rigid, and the only thing that keeps me still is the knowledge that it’s entered me before. 
I yelp as the tip pushes inside, gripping the sheets tight as the rest of him slowly spreads my walls. It feels strange to have someone else inside of me, but it doesn’t hurt like that first intrusion. The gentle advance doesn’t cease until it feels like he’s pushed his way into my stomach. It’s a relief that it doesn’t go any further.  “Mmm. So tight,” he moans. “Am I hurting you?”
“Not yet,” I say.
He chuckles at my answer. He begins to pull it back and then thrusts it slowly forward again. He repeats this, gradually increasing the pace. The feeling begins to change as he pushes himself into me; I start to like it, the walls gripping his hardness beginning to appreciate the slow friction of his filling advances.
 I adjust my hips to accommodate his entry, an act he apparently takes as a invitation to go even harder. His next stoke slams into me, rocking my entire body, a wave of pleasure, far greater than his previous thrusts, washes over me. 
With his hands on my hips, the pounding continues. His length seems to stretch me too far but the pleasure from being stretched is so great I cannot bring myself to stop him. I can hear his moans even over my own. The shots of bliss come one after the other, until blending into a continuous state of ecstasy. I feel myself drowning in it; my eyes roll back, my body tensing like coil. 
I feel it coming, that same sensation from before. I want it. I need it. 
It comes. An explosion of feeling that breaks me apart, that has me screaming at the top of my lungs, shivering in its wake. Such exquisite release. 
Moments pass before my thoughts refocus and only then do I realize that he’s pulled out of me, the warmth of his seed dripping down my right thigh. Lips press down to my forehead. 
“I would ask if you enjoyed it as well, but you left little doubt.” 
My faces flushes. I’ve just been taken by a man.
“I’ll have some heated water brought up with which to bathe yourself. We’ll be leaving tonight.”
The words barely register. There is a dull ache in my womanhood as the sound of his footsteps moves away from me. Already I find myself looking forward to the next time. 


Chapter Seven
The warm bath is heavenly. My skin still tingles from the King’s sex and the water swishing about me is intoxicating. If not for the gentle knock on the other side of the door I might have stayed in the bathing tub all night. 
A handmaiden waits in my bedchambers. It’s a bit surreal to have her fussing over me, showing all the courtesy I myself have been taught. I’m tempted to ask this woman who is only a handful of years beyond my own age if she too learned her trade from a home, but I do not. To bring to light my sudden rise in fortune would be in poor taste. 
The handmaiden, whose name I learn is Margaret, dresses me in riding leathers fit for a highborn Lady. They are thin and the leather is adorned with brightly colored flowers. It is the kind of thing worn entirely for show, and the type of extravagance I find myself struggling to get used to.
Should I get used to it? Even if I remain governess to the Princess once this business with the King ends, I would never again wear anything so fine as this. 
“Come,” she says, pulling me out of my thoughts. “I’m to make you pretty for His Majesty.”
Margaret sits me in front of the wide mirror and goes about making up my face, until there is no trace of my freckles and my pale skin looks as smooth as warm milk. She pulls a brush through my tangles and twists a crown braid around my temples. The braid reminds me of that dream, of my own silliness. Be satisfied, I tell myself. He has allowed you into the Royal Household. Enjoy these few nights of bliss, Isabel, for he will eventually tire of you, and another woman, undoubtedly more beautiful, will catch his eye and this is will be over.
I scold myself internally for being so pitifully pathetic as to fret over being some man’s mistress. And yet, he is not just any man…
“You look beautiful.” The King’s raspy voice fills the room. I glance up in the mirror to find him standing just behind Margaret. His handsome smile is warm, and starts my heart to fluttering. In this moment, I hate the effect he has on me.
“Where can we be going in the middle of the night?” I ask him. I realize immediately that I’ve forgotten to address him as Dominus, but the sharp look in his eye tells me that I’ve done well not to use it in front of another. 
“Sometimes I prefer to travel on my own. My daughter will ride with the full procession tomorrow, but I’d like it if you’d accompany me tonight. Only if you’d prefer it, of course.”
The smirk on his lips indicates that this is not really a question so I merely nod and allow Margaret to finish with my hair. The King takes his leave. 
Twenty minutes later, Margaret is finally satisfied with my appearance. I wonder just what all the fuss is about if we’re only to be riding tonight. Just what does he have in store for me?
*****
Margaret escorts me down to the courtyard, where the King rides the largest horse I’ve ever seen. We watch him as he puts the horse through its paces, turning quick circles and wide figure eights. Bathed in moonlight, it is a beautiful thing to watch, the way he controls the animal. 
It’s much in the way he controlled me. Like the horse he rides, my body is his possession, his flesh to command.
I shake the thoughts from my head, but notice that I am not the only one who finds the visual stimulating. Margaret stares with bated breath, eyes wide, absently stroking her arm. I can’t help thinking that I’ve lived the fantasy twirling about in her head. It brings a tiny smile to my face. 
Eventually the King notices my arrival and directs the horse toward us, pulling up alongside me and extending a hand to help me up.  I take it, wrapping my arms around his wide torso as best I can. With a jolt, we start toward the road.
*****
For as long as I’ve dreamed of riding, I’m finding the experience altogether miserable. I quickly discover I rather hate being so high in the air, with complete control of my own balance given over to some mindless beast. A “beast” which obeys only its master, ignoring my frequent mental calls to slow down, or keep steady—every step feels likely to be the one that throws me to the ground.
I’m rather partial to not breaking my neck.
“We’re here,” he says, slowing the horse to a trot.
I’ve had my face against his back, eyes shut tight for much of the ride. They open to a dark wood. “What’s here?”
“You’ll see.” He climbs down and then lifts me off the horse with little effort. The feel of his strong hands around my torso brings to mind images of the last time they were there, when he was pounding into me. A wave of heat passes over my body.
Taking up my hand, he leads me through the woods. Every so often a streak of moonlight catches his face through the trees and illuminates his beautiful features. I find myself staring at him, waiting for the next beam of light to catch his face and steal my breath away. Not for the first time do I wonder to myself what a man that looks like him, a man capable of having whatever he wants, finds so striking about me. 
“There,” he says, pointing to the bright orange light that’s appeared in front of us. 
“What is it?” I ask again.
The light finds his face and I see him smiling. “You and my daughter will get along quite well. The both of you are quite impatient.”
“You were rather impatient yourself back in my bedchambers,” I return. I tense at my directness.
He laughs loudly and says softly, “I suppose I was.” For the moment, it seems, he is okay with me acting as myself and not his ‘sex slave.’
As the orange light draws nearer, I can see that it comes from a bright fire. Shouts and laughter fill the air, sounding a lot like the day before, at the…
“Welcome to the carnival,” he grins. “You missed it yesterday, I thought you might enjoy it if we caught up to it here in Brighton.”
The carnival is my first, not counting yesterday’s drive through, and is filled with interesting sights and sounds. Men blow streaks of fire ten feet into the air and then drop flaming batons into their mouths. Contortionists fold themselves into human knots, bending in ways that make me cringe. Songs break out among the people at any given moment, and the King joins in with the singing as though he were really one of them. Those that recognize him do so discreetly, nodding their deference. In the tents on the far side of the field are bearded women, a dwarf man, a pair of Siamese twins, and a beast covered in fur with the wrinkled face of an old man. The King eats up the sights, and for a time it is hard to reconcile this boyish side of the man with what I’ve come to know about him.
With one swing of an axe he splits a log in half, winning for me a red rose. I’m leaning into him as we walk away, grinning from ear to ear when I feel him take a firm grip of my backside. Wordlessly, he guides me around a tent and bends me over a stack of wooden crates.
We are not so hidden as I would like. A group of men step in view, the first to notice us elbowing the others. The first time he had his way with me there was only the possibility of being stumbled upon. This time there are already spectators.
“They can see us,” I say over my shoulder. 
“I’m aware of that,” he replies.
“I don’t think I’ve fully recovered from the last time…” I say next, still hoping to dissuade him. 
My leather trousers drop to my knees. “I warned you of my appetite.” His manhood slides up the inside of my thigh. My hips sway in reply. My body delights in the knowledge that I’m about to be taken once more, but my mind can only think of the grinning spectators, of being bent over crates behind a tent to be taken from behind like a common whore.
“I don’t want to do this,” I say. My voice is weak. My eyes are welling up. There is nothing to stop him from doing what he wants. He is the King.
My trousers slide up my thighs. His hands fasten the buckle around waist. The men voice their disapproval, volunteering to take his place. When I force myself to turn around, to face him, I find the King walking away from me toward the woods. I move to follow but stop myself. 
I broke our deal. He turns to look as he nears the trees, his expression fierce. “Come.”
Silently I start after him, head bowed like a disobedient child. I’m wondering whether or not he’ll punish me, and if so, how? 
We continue like this, me trailing him through the woods, not speaking for what seems like an eternity. I imagine us to be headed back to the horse, but the return trip seems to take twice as long as the approach.  Several times I’m tempted to break the quiet, to apologize, but I can’t bring myself to say the words. I don’t like that I denied him, but I am not at all sorry for standing up for myself. The thought being watched by those men during something so intimate, it makes my skin crawl.
Finally the horse comes into view. The King reaches it first and after adjusting the saddle, he turns to face me. “I don’t enjoy being made fool of,” he roars. I believe our arrangement has come to an end, Miss Sharpe.”
Unable to meet those striking green eyes, I just nod. 
A long quiet follows. I almost look up to see why, when he seizes my shoulders, startling me.
“I’m sending you back to Lady Farrow.”
My fists clench in anger. “My intent was not to embarrass you,” I snap. “You may think of me as your plaything, or maybe you only see a sad little whore when you look at me, but I’m still a person. I still have dignity.
Those green eyes search mine, and his hard expression gradually softens. “There is something about you, Miss Sharpe….” He shakes his head. “Perhaps I moved too fast with you. You’re a spirited young woman—one who seems to have no problem speaking her mind to a King.”
“You were fond of it before,” I say stupidly. I sigh to myself.
A smile reaches across his face. His hand reaches up to stroke my chin. “I find you captivating little lamb, so full of confidence and yet so full of doubt. Can we try again?”
“You can’t hold my being your daughter’s governess over my head,” I whisper. “It isn’t fair. I’m not so naïve as to believe you’ll never grow tired of me. I need to know that I’ll still have a place in this world.”
He places two fingers beneath my chin and lifts my eyes to his. “You have my word.”
I take in a relieved breath, allowing my eyes to drift over him. My god, he’s beautiful. 

Chapter Eight
“You can look now,” he chuckles. 
Before I open my eyes, I take a moment to confirm with my other senses that the horse has, in fact, stopped moving. When I do allow my eyelids to part, I find myself gazing out at what appears to be the edge of the world. Mere feet away the earth drops off completely. Craning my neck, I can see a wide lake twinkling below us surrounded by thick trees. “It’s beautiful. Are we going down?”
“Of course we are.” The horse starts up again, galloping too close to the edge. 
Breathless, I tighten my arms around him as we work our way around, until he finds a trail down the steep hill. I’m tempted to close my eyes again but I’m too enthralled by our rapid zigzagging and by the extreme angle with which we descend to even turn my head. 
It isn’t until we reach the trees and the ground levels out that we begin to slow. The lake stretches out before us. We ride right up to the shore where the King dismounts in front of me. He turns slowly around, that chiseled face smirking for a reason I can’t decipher. 
His hands slide up to his riding coat, unfastening the buckles. He slides the jacket over his arms, revealing his bare chest for what I realize is the first time. My legs tense around the saddle between my thighs. His wide chest is nicked in various places, undoubtedly from time spent fighting in wars, and the muscles of his abdomen ripple down into his trousers. My eyes devour the sight of him, flicking up to his face, still smug, as if he is well aware of the effect his body has on women.
He drops his trousers to his ankles and my eyes lower without permission to the thick link of manhood dangling well down his muscled thighs. The gash on his right leg does nothing to diminish the overall effect of his beauty. He is truly perfect. A warrior. A King. 
He reaches for me, placing those rough hands around my slender waist and lifting me from the saddle I’ve been grinding against. I’m put down in front of him, facing away, to the lake. He whispers into my ear. “Private enough, little lamb?”
I nod. The effect his touch has on me…
His hands encircle me, undoing the straps of my leathers. His deft hands peel away my clothing until I stand stark naked with him at my back. He strokes the outsides of my arms. I feel so small before his wide frame.
 It feels so different from the first time he entered me, so much more intimate to be able to see him clearly over my shoulder. His head shifts and I feel his lips on my neck. My legs go weak. 
 “Come,” he says, stepping from behind me to grab my hand. 
Does he mean for us to go in?
I watch him closely as leads me toward the water, stopping on a patch of soft earth. He turns on me, pointing to the ground. “Kneel.”
I do as he asks. 
He lowers with me, so that we’re both on our knees, facing one another. “You broke our agreement,” he says, that same smug grin on his face. 
I bite my lip. I’d hoped that it would be forgotten given his admission that he had gone too far. 
“Will you resubmit to me?” 
“Yes.”
His hand swings up to the back of my head, taking control of it and pushing it toward his groin, where his manhood rises before my eyes. “Then make it up to me.”
I take hold of it with both hands, feeling him quiver in response. He likes it. I work my fingers over it, watching for his response. He tenses, lips parted, eyes squinting down at me. It is so warm in my hands, pulsing with his lust for me. I want desperately to feel it inside me but I don’t voice it. He pushes my head lower, thrusting the domed end of it into my mouth. 
His throbbing stiffness fills my mouth, slamming the back of my throat. I gag, my eyes water, but he doesn’t relinquish control. With hands on both sides of my head, he thrusts himself into my mouth repeatedly, treating these lips as if they were the ones between my thighs. I’m barely able to take a breath between his advances. 
He increases the pace even more, until I can’t breathe at all. I shake my head to let him know that it’s too fast but his eyes are closed, he’s enjoying this too much to even notice. Panic swells in the back of my mind.
Finally he releases his grip. I fall onto my back, gasping. He pounces on me, as though he were truly the lion and I his prey. He pins me down, driving himself into me before I can make out what is happening. I’m hot and wet down there, so there is little resistance to his entry save for stretching my opening is forced to do to accommodate his size. My back arches, and I practically growl up at him. I don’t like being manhandled like this… I love it.
His thrusts are slow and controlled, filling me, pleasing me, while his fingertips slip across my skin like satin caresses. Every now and again one of those hands will slide between my breasts up to my neck. The fingers close around my throat, not to choke, but to keep me still against the steady push of his sex into mine. I can’t help but feel the strength those hands, and how fragile my slender neck feels in his grip. Without question he could snap it, and for reasons beyond me, the knowledge of how very helpless I am to the sheer power of this man heightens my wanting of him all the more.
He pulls out of me, still hard. Those hands flip me over onto my stomach, then seize control of my waist, pulling my bottom up to his hips. He means to take me from behind. Like a whore. 
Should I say something?
He doesn’t give me the chance. He smacks the right cheek so hard my thoughts blur. I yelp loudly. 
“W-Wait,” I manage. He pulls me backwards, sliding the lips of my hungry opening over as much of his length as I can take. “Oh god,” I moan.
That is all the permission he needs. His next thrust is so strong my whole body trembles afterward. My insides quake around him and his unbending flesh throbs against my walls. He begins to pound my backside hard, as though I am merely some tool, as though he has no regard for my body or my well being after this is over. 
The sensation is so mind shattering, so blissfully overwhelming that I can’t even support myself with my arms. When my face finds itself flat against the loose earth, I can’t even summon the strength to lift it back up. At different times I’m screaming, moaning, grunting into the dirt, arms splayed helplessly to either side.  I lose track of how long he’s been slamming himself into me. The clapping of our bodies colliding, violent jarring collisions, becomes everything. 
I hear him cry out. His body spasms. Warm liquid that is not my own, floods my insides.
The realization of what’s just occurred clears my muddled head. He leans over me, kissing my shoulder gently. “It’s alright, little lamb. I can no longer have children, an injury from fighting. Normally I keep up the pretense by removing myself before spilling my seed, but I could not help myself. Your body is like none I’ve experienced.”
Relief blows over me like a cool mist. Embarrassment too. To be manhandled like that…
Returning to a calmed state, I notice that my body still feels hot and that my opening now aches. 
“Did you enjoy that?” he asks.
“Very much,” I reply.
With a satisfied smile he takes me into his arms and carries me into the lake. The cool water feels wonderful on my overheated flesh. I stare up at him, at the beautiful man so capable of pleasing me and wonder how I’ll react when this is all over. When he throws this attention on another woman. Will I be able to handle living under the same roof as him, seeing him everyday, knowing what it’s like to feel him inside me, and yet be nothing more than an acquaintance? A woman in his employ?
“What’s wrong?” he asks. Those green eyes sparkle in the silver light of the moon. I almost forget to answer.
“Nothing,” is all I’m capable of saying. Despite what we’ve been doing, I do not feel so close to him as to be able to spill out my innermost thoughts and feelings.
Gently he kisses my forehead. 
I feel like a child to be held in his arms like this. It suddenly makes me uncomfortable. “Can you put me down?”
He does so without a word.
The water comes up my shoulders; it only reaches the middle of his chest. 
“Tell me what’s wrong?” he asks again, concern lighting his features. It’s hard to put this caring face with the man who strikes my bottom for not replying fast enough. 
“What will happen when this is over?” I find the courage to ask. “Will you forget about me? Will I just be another conquest to smile about when you pass me in the halls?” I hate how pitiful I sound.
His strong arms pull me close. My breasts press into his abdomen. “Do you truly think you mean so little to me? Are you under the impression that I let just anyone talk to me the way you do? You enchant me Isabel, you’ve enchanted me from the moment I met you.”
The emotion behind his words causes my face to flush. I drop my head. I’m so utterly confused by them. Truly, his feeling anything for me for was the last thing I expected him to say. 
“But all we do is…” 
His expression shifts. “Yes.” A long moment passes before he speaks again. “I am not so gifted with the other parts of getting close to a woman.”
I feel my jaw drop. He smiles like an adolescent boy might the first time he’s introduced to a girl he likes.
“What is your fondest memory?” I ask. It feels strange to be the one taking charge of the situation. Especially when my brain is still whirling from the possibility that the King of England might truly feel something for me.
“Putting a sword through the man who killed my favorite horse years before on the battlefield.” He smiles. “A particularly well placed strike. He died very slowly.”
I hit him playfully in the chest. “Seriously.”
“The birth of my daughter.”
I nod. “What makes you smile?”
“The memory of the young woman bold enough to storm out of the room on her King on the day of our Introduction.”
I didn’t realize it was possible to feel even more embarrassed. I’m eager to change the subject. “What do people close to you call you?”
He smiles. “Desmond.”
Considering that his name is James Edward Tudor, I wonder how he got the nickname. I try it out. “Des—”
Something strikes the King, pushing him into me. Instinctively, I grab him. He tenses in my arms, his full weight threatening to pull us both down beneath surface.  
“What’s happened?” I ask him frantically. He shifts, unresponsive, and staring over his shoulder, I get my answer. The end of an arrow sticks up out of the King’s back. Men with torches line the edge of the lake; a couple of them have already started toward us in through the water. Chills spill down my back.
As we are still in the shallows, they reach us quickly. As I cannot keep the King’s head above the water and fight off the men too, I am helpless.
The first man, gap-toothed and balding, strikes me in the face. The world dims and when I come to my senses a moment later, I’m being dragged to the shore, the stranger’s hands groping at my breasts while he laughs. 
I’m thrown into the dirt, surrounded by still more men. I stare up at they’re leering faces; they’re grabbing themselves, the intent to rape easy to identify in their hungry eyes. I move to stand, to fight, but a foot slams into my ribcage so hard it leaves me coughing at their feet. Through the legs of the men I see them dragging the King toward the water. His body is limp. They mean to drown him.
“Don’t! He’s the King!” I shout hoarsely, but the lack of air to my lungs prevents my voice from making a sound.
The men laugh. “Say goodbye to ya’ lover,” one of them jeers. “Ya’ won’t be seeing him again.” 
Desperately, I crawl up to my feet—this time they let me—and swing my balled up fists at the nearest of them. He dodges easily and pushes me into the arms of another. They continue at this, sometimes smacking my thighs and shouting, until I lose my balance. 
There’s a knife strapped to the shin of the man nearest to me.
“Time to make this lil’ piggy squeal!” the bald man who pulled me from the lake announces, dropping his trousers. I take the knife from the other man’s leg and slam it into his crouch. With a wail he falls backwards. I go to swing my new weapon at the next man but he catches my arm, wrestles the knife free, and tosses it over his shoulder. 
He wrenches the arm painfully up my back, causing me cry out, and then bends me over. 
“Please,” I beg. “Don’t.”
The man’s grip loosens. Stunned, I spin around to find him laying in the dirt, clutching at his bloody throat and gasping for air. The King stands before me, eyes wild, holding my knife.
The men disregard me completely, going for the King at all once. I fear for him, closing my fists and giving chase. 
My assistance isn’t necessary.
My King is brutal, merciless, efficient. He is a lion among dogs, and with that knife he leaves every one of those men dead, broken, and bleeding.
Our eyes meet once the deed is done, in an instant that spans an eternity, and then he collapses, the arrow that felled him still in his back. I rush over pleading with him not to die.
He’s not breathing.
The second steamy installment due December 20!
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