spit & silk
♡ ser duncan the tall x brat! female reader ♡
brat taming, desperate longing, angst, sick jealousy, manhandling, size difference, class difference, praise, degradation, oral fixation, spit kink, spanking, slight choking, begging, overstimulation, very explicit language
word count: 20k
In the alley, you were a highborn brat who wished him dead. In the barracks, you were his best, wettest girl, begging for the very hands you once claimed to loathe.
You came to his bed with silver-tongued insults and left it with his spit in your mouth and his name on your breath. Your pride was a fine silk dress, and Ser Duncan the Tall just tore it to shreds.
The stench of the alley — rot, piss, and the thick, cloying copper of fresh blood — clung to the humid night air. A wet, rattling groan rose from the cobblestones, followed by the sound of someone choking on their own teeth.
Your back was pressed against the cold, weeping brick. The rough surface snagged the silk of your torn dress, a ruined scrap of finery that mirrored the jagged remains of your dignity. The chill of the stone didn't compare to the ice crystallizing in your veins.
In front of you, the wreckage lay strewn. One of them, the dark-haired lordling whose charming smirk had curdled into a rictus of agony, was trying to push himself up with a shattered arm, whimpering like a kicked dog. The other was little more than a silhouette in a spreading pool of black, his face an unrecognizable ruin of bone and gristle.
And in the center of the carnage stood Ser Duncan the Tall.
He was heaving, his massive chest rising and falling like a forge bellows. Blood was splattered across his features. A dark, crimson mask that dripped from the hard line of his jaw. He hadn't even drawn his sword. He had done this with his bare hands.
"Look at them," he rasped. His voice, usually a steady mixture of gravel and honey, was now a broken blade. He took a heavy step toward you, his shadow swallowing you whole in the flickering torchlight from the street beyond. He gestured sharply with a gore-stained hand at the filth on the ground. "Look at them. Go on. Look close."
You flinched as he loomed nearer, the damp silk of your gown clinging to your thighs like a shroud.
"See what they are," he growled, the words torn from a throat tight with fury. "See what they meant to do to you. Or are you still pretending they were just being charming?"
Your breath hitched. A small, pathetic sound that tasted like bile. You wanted to scream, to strike him, to rail against a world that had sent this brute to save you, but all that escaped was a strangled sob.
"I said look!" he roared. The sound cracked through the alley like a whip. His hand shot out, not to strike, but to clamp around your upper arm like a smith’s vise. He jerked you forward, forcing your eyes down toward the dying lordling, who was now bubbling blood through his lips.
"Look what they tried! Filth. Dregs. And you? you were going to let them?" His eyes flashed with a terrifying, righteous heat. "I heard you through the walls. Heard you telling them to stop. Heard you begging."
His lip curled in a snarl of pure disgust toward the men at his feet. "And they laughed."
His face was inches from yours now. You could feel the radiant heat of his body, smell the iron and the sweat. His blue eyes were blazing; no trace of their usual, slow-witted warmth remained. They were hard and unforgiving.
Something in you snapped. The terror and the bone-deep humiliation coalesced into a white-hot spike of vitriol, and you aimed it directly at the man holding you.
"I despise you," you spat, the words tearing from your throat like raw meat. You wrenched at his arm, but it was like trying to break a mountain. "I loathe the very ground you trudge upon, you lumbering, witless oaf! This is your doing! Your failure!"
"My failure?" he snarled, though a flicker of a wound showed in his eyes. "You think I enjoy trailing you like a kennel dog while you wander into every rat-hole in this cursed city?"
You were beyond reason now. You wanted to see him bleed.
"Yes! You and your pathetic, flea-bottom honor! You're nothing but a lowborn bastard, aren't you? A stray they took in out of pity! They gave you a sword and a title and you think it makes you a man? It doesn't! You're still just gutter-trash who got lucky!"
You were heaving for air, tears of rage stinging your eyes. You hated the smell of him, the size of him, and most of all, the sickening shame that he was the one who had seen you like this. Broken. Handled. Helpless.
"And your precious knightly honor," you continued, your voice dropping to a venomous, trembling whisper. "I’d piss on it if I could. I’d piss on your shield, on your sword, and on the memory of the dead man who gave you a name! You’re a joke, Duncan. A Great Lout in rusty armor, and I’d sooner be dead than owe my breath to a hedge-knight with delusions of grandeur!"
Every syllable was a poisoned dart. You didn't mean them, not truly, but the parasite of your pride demanded he suffer for the indignity of your rescue.
"Do you know what’s truly humiliating?" you hissed, your lip curling. "Knowing that you were the one who saw me. Gods, Duncan, I would rather those pigs had finished the job than be dragged out of it by you."
He didn't flinch. He didn't roar back. The fire in his eyes simply went out, leaving behind something vast, dark, and hollow. He let go of your arm slowly, and the sudden loss of his grip made you sway. He stood there, a blood-matted statue, accepting your blows with a stoic, unyielding silence that made you want to shriek.
"If that's what you need to believe," he said, his voice flat and empty. "Go on then. Say it again. If it makes you feel better."
He looked at the bodies, then back at your tear-streaked face. Something in him seemed to finally break. "Alright."
"That’s all?" you shrieked, lunging forward to shove at his chest with both hands. He didn't even budge. "That’s all you have to say? Alright?"
He caught your wrists in one massive, blood-slicked hand. "What else is there?" His blue eyes held yours with a terrifying honesty. "You're safe. That's all that matters."
"Safe?" You let out a bitter, ugly laugh. "I’ll never be safe! Not because of them, but because of you! Because I’m now some poor, pathetic creature who had to be fetched from the dirt by Ser Duncan the Tall!"
"You are not pathetic," he growled, a spark of the old fire returning. "You are the strongest woman I have ever known. And the most foolish."
"I am not-"
"Yes," he cut you off, his grip tightening. "You are. You walk through this city like the monsters are all tucked away in songs. Well, they're not. They're right here. They wear silk doublets and use pretty words and they want to fuck you into the dirt until you're broken."
The crude, brutal truth hit you harder than any fist. A single tear escaped, carving a path through the grime on your cheek.
"Don't you cry," he commanded, his thumb coming up to roughly brush the tear away. "Don't you dare give them the satisfaction. And don't you dare give me the satisfaction of thinking you need me."
"I don't," you whispered, but the lie tasted like ash.
"Then prove it," he murmured, his face impossibly close.
With a raw cry that was half-sob, half-scream, you ripped your wrists free and swung. Your closed fist, heavy with gold rings, connected with his jaw. It was a dull, wet thud. Your knuckles screamed in protest.
He didn't flinch. He just took it. He turned his head slowly back to you, his gaze dropping to the stones. He was standing there like a whipped dog, absorbing your shame into his own body.
You struck him again, this time with an open-handed slap that echoed through the alley. Then your hands became claws, raking at the worn leather of his doublet, trying to tear the fabric, to get at the flesh. You wanted to mark him. To brand him with your ruin.
"I wish you were dead!" you choked out. "Do you hear me? I wish you'd lain down in a ditch and died, you worthless, honor-bound bastard!"
You were sobbing in earnest now, your vision blurred, your blows growing weaker as you beat your fists against the solid wall of him.
"You ruin everything," you gasped, your forehead dropping against his chest. "My life... my peace... I hate you for it. Gods, how I hate you."
But the fight was draining away, leaving only a hollow, aching void. You were surrounded by him. Leather, sweat, blood, and the intoxicating, maddening scent of the man himself. He wasn't supposed to be this. He was supposed to be a tool. A shield. Not this infuriating, stubborn man who had just beaten two lords to a pulp and was now standing here, letting you break yourself against him.
Slowly, his massive hands covered yours, stilling their frantic motion. He didn't push you away. He just held your hands there, a gentle, imprisoning warmth.
"I know," he said softly. "I know you hate me, m’lady."
And then he did the one thing you were not prepared for. He pulled you. Not with force, but with an inexorable tenderness that was more devastating than any violence. He pulled you flush against him, your face buried in the crook of his neck, against the blood-stiffened leather. One arm wrapped around your waist, the other cradling the back of your head.
It was an embrace meant to shield you from the world. It shattered you completely.
A full-body tremor wracked you. The sobs you had been fighting broke free, fueled by a bone-deep grief you couldn't name. You hated him for being the one to hold you while you fell apart.
Your hands, which had been trying to claw him, now clutched at his doublet, bunching the leather in your fists as if he were the only thing keeping the world from swallowing you.
"I've got you," he murmured against your hair. "I've got you, m’lady. Just breathe. That's it. Just breathe."
You could feel the steady, tectonic beat of his heart against your cheek, a rhythm that anchored you in an alley that smelled of death. And just like that, you didn't know how long you stood there, a weeping mess in the arms of the man you swore you despised.
The journey back to your family's townhouse was a blur of shadowed streets and a silent, strained companionship. Duncan had wrapped his cloak around you. The heavy wool smelled of him and the copper stench of the alley, a constant and suffocating reminder. He supported you with a steady arm around your waist while you stumbled along, your mind almost entirely numb.
The guards at the gate stared at you with wide eyes. They saw their master's daughter, disheveled and blood-splattered, being half-carried by a sworn shield whose own face was a mess of swelling flesh.
Inside, the familiar scent of beeswax and herbs did nothing to calm your tremors. A serving woman gasped and reached for her mouth, but a single cold look from Duncan sent her scurrying away. He guided you up the grand staircase and down the carpeted hallway until you reached the door of your chambers.
"Here," he said, his voice still rough. He let you lean against the door as he unlocked it.
You straightened your back and forced your spine to be steel. You pulled his cloak tighter around your ruined dress and looked at him in the warm lamplight. The blood on his face was a dark, crusty mask. The side of his jaw where you had struck him was already turning purple. He looked weary, yet when he met your gaze, his blue eyes were steady and clear.
"No one," you said, your voice thin but sharp as ice. "You will tell no one. Not my father, not the captain of the guard, not even a scullery maid. Do you understand me, Ser Duncan?"
His jaw worked and a muscle ticked in his cheek. For a moment, you thought he would just nod like a big, obedient dog. Instead, he took a half-step forward and crowded you into your own doorway. His sheer size blocked out the light.
"No," he said, the word clipped and hard. "No, I don't understand you. And it is time you started understanding me."
He wasn't yelling, but his voice was a low rumble of warning that vibrated through the floorboards. It was more terrifying than a shout.
"You walk into the bowels of this city dressed like you are going to a feast with no guard and no sense. What did you expect? Did you think the filth would bow and scrape? Did you think they would admire your spirit while they imagined what it was like to spread your legs?"
The crudeness of his words made you flinch, but he didn't let you speak.
"Do you have any idea what I saw? What I heard?" The gravel in his voice ground into shards of glass. "They were talking about passing you around. They talked about how tight you would be. One was going to hold you down while the other... by the gods, I should have killed them. I should have finished it."
You shrank back against the door. His rage was a physical thing. It felt like a suffocating blanket.
"And then I find you," he continued. He took another step until you could feel the heat radiating from him. "And you have the fucking gall to tell me you hate me. To spit on my honor. To wish I was dead."
He leaned in so close that his lips nearly brushed your ear when he spoke next.
"Let me be clear about something, my lady," he sneered the title, turning it into a direct insult. "I am sworn to your father. I am sworn to protect this house. But what happened tonight does not stay between us. Your father will hear of this. I will ride to meet him tomorrow and tell him everything. How you sneaked out. What you wore. Where you went. And exactly what almost happened because of your insufferable pride and your reckless stupidity."
Panic, cold and sharp, lanced through you. "You wouldn't dare," you breathed.
He pulled back just enough to look at you with a humorless, broken smile. "Watch me."
Your fear curdled into a venomous, frantic fury.
"You do that, you son of a whore," you whispered, your voice trembling with rage. "You tell my father. And do you know what will happen? He will have those two strung up. And then he will have you dismissed. Cast out. He will strip you of that title and send you back to whatever Flea Bottom gutter you crawled out of. You will be nothing. You will die nameless in a ditch, just like I wished."
You saw a flicker of something in his eyes. It wasn't fear. It was a deep, profound hurt that you had aimed at him with surgical precision. It was almost satisfying.
"You will do no such thing," he said, his voice dropping back to that low, dangerous register. "Because if you even think of threatening me again, of holding my station over my head like something to be snatched away, I won't just tell your father about the alley. I will tell him everything."
The unspoken threat hung in the air between you. His meaning was terrifyingly clear. Everything.
"Get out," you commanded, your voice shaking. "Get out of my sight."
"As you wish, my lady," he said. The title felt like a final, bitter insult. He turned and walked away, his heavy footsteps echoing on the stone flags until they faded down the hall.
The dining hall was a cavern of oppressive wood and flickering candlelight that seemed to dim with every passing second. You sat at the long table, a porcelain mask of composure plastered on your face, though underneath, the skin felt like it was ready to peel away. You pushed the food around your plate, watching the grease congeal on the meat, feeling a deep, oily revulsion rise in your throat.
For three days, you had seen neither hide nor hair of Ser Duncan. Three days of suffocating silence. Three days of watching the servants scurry past you with their heads bowed, their eyes darting away as if you were a ghost haunting your own halls.
His seat at the high table was a gaping wound in the room, an empty space that screamed louder than any conversation. You had told yourself you were glad. You had lied to your own reflection, claiming you were finally free of his heavy, judgmental shadow. But the lie was rotting.
The laughter from the far end of the table sounded brittle, like breaking glass. You caught snippets of hushed, hurried whispers from the servants near the walls; words like courtyard and blood and justice. A knot of dread, cold and jagged, began to tighten in the pit of your stomach, winding itself around your ribs until it was hard to draw a full breath.
You turned to the young page refilling your wine. You tried to keep your voice casual, but it came out paper-thin. "Ser Duncan," you said, your eyes fixed on the dark liquid swirling in your glass. "Where is he? His absence has become... tedious."
The boy flinched so violently the silver pitcher clattered against your cup, sloshing wine across the white cloth like a fresh bloodstain. His face went the color of curdled milk.
"M-my lady," he stammered, his voice cracking. "I... I was told... I cannot say."
The dread in your gut solidified into a block of ice. It wasn't just worry; it was the realization that a wall had been built around you. You reached out and gripped the boy’s wrist, your nails digging into the soft flesh of his arm until he winced.
"Who told you that? Why are you looking at me like this?" Your voice rose, losing its edge of refinement. "You will tell me what you know. Now. Or I will have you whipped for your insolence."
The boy began to shake, tears welling in his wide, terrified eyes as he looked around the room for an escape. "Please, my lady... the captain... he said the family wasn't to be disturbed. He said it was handled."
"Handled?" The word tasted like bile. You jerked him closer, your knuckles white. "What was handled? Speak, you little coward!"
"It’s Ser Duncan, my lady," he whispered, a sob breaking through. "He's... they say he's gone. The captain's men... they took him to the courtyard three nights ago. They said he insulted the house. They said he had to be taught."
The world tilted on its axis. The candlelight blurred into long, stinging streaks of yellow. "Gone? What do you mean, gone? Where did they take him?"
"He’s in the barracks room, my lady. But they say... they say the maester stopped coming because there was nothing left to do. They say he wasn't breathing when they carried him in. They beat him for hours, my lady. I heard it. Everyone heard it.”
The revelation hit you like a physical blow to the chest. Everyone heard it but you. They had kept it from you. They had let you sit here for three days, eating and drinking, while he was broken in the dirt just yards away. And the worst part, the part that made the room spin, was that they had done it because of you. Your words. Your "I wish you were dead."
You let go of the boy as if his skin had turned to fire. A jagged, strangled sound escaped your throat. Your chair scraped backward with a screech that silenced the entire hall, the wood groaning against the stone. You didn't run; you tore through the room like a gale. You bunched your heavy skirts in your fists, your feet thundering down the corridors, your heart a frantic, wild bird battering itself to death against your ribs.
I told him to die. I told him I wished he was never born. The words played on a loop, a sickening rhythm to your footsteps.
You reached the barracks, your breath coming in scorched gasps. The heavy oak door to the small room where the guards were kept was blocked by two of the captain’s men. They were giants in leather and steel, their faces set in grim, unmoving lines.
"Move," you snarled, lunging at them. You fisted your hands in their jerkins, trying to yank them aside. "Get out of my way! Let me in!"
The guards didn't budge. "Apologies, my lady," one said, his voice flat and robotic. "The captain’s orders are absolute. No one enters. It's for your own protection. The sight... it isn't for a lady."
"A lady?" you shrieked, the sound raw and ugly, stripped of all grace. "You useless, pathetic dogs! I will have your eyes for this! I will have you flayed and fed to the hounds piece by piece! I’ll make sure you’re screaming for a week before you die! Get away from that door!"
You were a creature of undiluted madness. You clawed at their faces, your nails raking across skin until you felt the wet warmth of blood. You kicked at their shins and beat your fists against their chest-pieces, the metal bruising your hands, but you didn't care. The pain was the only thing that felt real.
The guilt was a living parasite in your stomach, curling and biting, surging up your throat. I killed him. My pride killed him.
"Move! Let me see him! Move!" you screamed, your vision swimming in a red haze of tears and fury.
"Enough!"
The command was a thunderclap. Your father was striding down the hall, his face a mask of cold, aristocratic fury. He looked at you — wild-eyed, blood on your fingernails, your hair coming undone and for the first time in your life, you saw him look at you with genuine horror.
"What is this disgraceful display?" he boomed.
"Father!" You threw yourself toward him, grabbing the fine velvet of his doublet with hands that wouldn't stop shaking. You weren't a daughter of a noble house anymore; you were a terrified animal, shivering and broken. "Father, please... tell me they’re lying. Tell me he’s alive. Duncan... my Duncan. Is he alive? Please, Daddy, tell me he’s breathing. I didn't mean it. I didn't mean any of it!"
Your voice was a high, thin wail, the sound of someone who had walked off a cliff and was still waiting to hit the ground. You were sobbing so hard you could barely form the words, your body wracked by violent, rhythmic tremors.
"They said they beat him... they said he stopped breathing... why didn't you tell me? How could you let them do it?" You were hysterical, your grip tightening on his clothes as if you were trying to climb him. "I have to see him. I have to tell him... oh gods, I have to tell him I was lying! Please, let me in! Is he alive? Is he alive?"
The world began to dissolve. The stone walls, the flickering torches, your father's stern face… it all became a chaotic, swirling mess of grey and orange. The suffocating band around your chest tightened until you couldn't get a single spark of air.
The acid that had been burning in your throat finally won. You heaved violently, the contents of your stomach splashing onto the polished boots and steel greaves of the guard you had been fighting. He swore and jumped back, but you didn't even feel the shame.
The shock of the physical sickness was the final thread snapping. The roar in your ears became a dull, hollow hum. The light in the corridor flickered and died, turning to a deep, merciful black. You felt your knees turn to water, felt your father’s strong arms catch you as the floor rose up to meet you. And then, finally, everything went silent.
The world returned in jagged pieces. First there was the scratchy feel of wool against your cheek. Then the familiar scent of lavender and clean linen. You were in your own bed. There was a cool, damp cloth on your forehead and the murmur of voices nearby. One was deep and rumbling while the other sounded higher and more agitated.
"She fainted from the shock, my lord," the maester was saying. "She is distressed. It is understandable."
"Distressed? By the gods, man, she was a wild animal. She was threatening to have my guards flayed and vomiting on their boots. What is this madness that has taken my household? First Duncan gets into a drunken brawl so grievous he is nearly beaten to death by my own men, and now my daughter behaves like a madwoman."
The words "drunken brawl" cut through your returning consciousness like a shard of glass. He had lied. That stupid, honorable, magnificent fool had lied to protect you even after everything you said. He had taken the blame for the violence to keep your reputation clean.
It made your stomach turn. The fact that he was still protecting you, even as a broken heap of meat, felt like a fresh insult to your pride.
"Your daughter is awake," the maester said carefully.
You forced your eyes open. Your father was standing by your bed with a face like a thundercloud. The worry in his eyes was poorly concealed by his anger. Beside him the maester watched you with concern, smelling of antiseptic herbs.
You sat bolt upright and ignored the way the room began to spin. "Is he alive?" you croaked. Your throat felt raw and scorched. "Is Duncan alive?"
Your father's expression softened almost imperceptibly. "The maester says yes. The fools broke three of his ribs and split his spleen. They did their best to turn his face to pulp. But he is a stubborn bastard, that one. He will live."
A breath you didn't know you were holding escaped your lips in a ragged sob. Relief, pure and overwhelming, crashed over you so potent that it left you trembling. He was alive. Duncan was alive.
But the relief was immediately followed by a wave of sick, hot shame. You hated that you cared. You hated that the mere thought of his heart stopping had brought you to your knees like a servant. The memory of your cruel words and your fists striking his face played over and over in your mind. You remembered the contempt in your voice. You still felt that contempt, but now it was directed inward. He had taken a beating that could have killed him to protect you after you had spat on his honor. His goodness was a cage. His sacrifice was a chain he had wrapped around your neck.
The days that followed were a blur of tears and visceral self-loathing. You locked yourself in your chambers and refused to eat. You ignored the concerned whispers of your handmaidens. You were a walking contradiction. You didn't want him dead, but you hated him for being alive. You hated that you were bound to him by this terrible, bloody debt.
You replayed that night in the alley constantly. You remembered the way he had held you and the solid, reassuring beat of his heart against your cheek. You remembered the scent of him: leather, sweat, and copper. It disgusted you how clearly you could still feel his hands on your skin. All the desire you had suppressed and all the want you had tried to drown in disdain came flooding back like a tidal wave. You wanted him. You wanted to reach out and touch the very bruises you had caused. The thought was a physical, grinding pain. You felt like a traitor to your own blood.
On the fifth day you could bear the isolation no longer. From your balcony you watched him like a hawk. He was leaning heavily against a wooden post in the practice yard and attempting to straighten up. Even from a distance you could see the way he moved with a stiffness that was not his own. There was a carefulness in every motion that spoke of deep, aching pain.
You loathed yourself for watching. You were obsessed with the ruin of him. You cataloged every wince and every slow, agonizing breath he took. Duncan was not even armed. He was just trying to stand. He was trying to be a man again. You wanted to scream at him for being so weak, and in the same breath, you wanted to run down there and sink your fingers into his shoulders just to feel his heat.
You ducked back behind the heavy curtains with your heart pounding against your ribs like a trapped bird. You watched from the shadows as he pushed himself away from the post with a face full of determination. He took a single, shuffling step and then another. His knuckles were white where he gripped the wood for support. You could see the mottled purple and yellow bruises that still colored his jaw. You felt a sick thrill of horror and attraction at the sight of his brokenness. He was alive. He was walking. And you, watching from your tower, felt like a cowardly, predatory creature.
The inevitable meeting came a week later. You were walking through the gardens because you needed the air. You needed something that was not the stifling confines of your own head. The afternoon sun was warm and the scent of roses was heavy. Then you saw him coming down the gravel path toward you.
He was walking without a limp now, though he moved with a deliberate slowness. He was freshly shaved and his dark hair was clean, but the remnants of the beating were still there like a shadow on his features. The bruising had faded to a sickly yellow-green around his jaw and high cheekbone. A thin, pink scar ran through his left eyebrow.
Your breath hitched and your feet felt rooted to the spot. Every fiber of your being screamed at you to run, but the obsession held you there. You wanted to see him up close. You wanted to see what the guards had done to the man who thought he was your shield.
As he drew nearer you saw the full extent of the damage. The bridge of his nose was slightly swollen and a faint purple still clung to the skin beneath one eye. He looked like a man who had been put through a wringer. But his blue eyes were the same. They were clear and steady. As they met yours they held no trace of anger or resentment. There was only a deep, weary quiet.
His lack of anger was the worst part. If he had hated you, you could have handled it. But his kindness was a knife.
He stopped a few feet before you. In a movement that sent a dagger of agony through your heart, he executed a perfect and respectful bow. It was fluid and formal. It was the gesture of a knight to his lady. The slight wince as he straightened was almost imperceptible, but you saw it. You saw the way his ribs must have burned under his shirt.
"M’lady," he said. His voice was the same warm gravel and honey, though it was a little rougher now and frayed at the edges.
You could not speak. Your throat was a knot of unshed tears and unspoken apologies that you refused to give. You wanted to throw yourself at his feet and you wanted to slap his face again just to see if he would finally break. You were drowning in the immensity of your own shame and the terrifying, unwanted pull you felt toward him. All you could do was give a short, jerky nod of your head. It was a pathetic, inadequate response.
"Ser Duncan," you managed. Your own voice was a thin, reedy thing. You held your chin high, clinging to your pride like a shield, even as it crumbled into ash.
He seemed to take your stiffness as a sign that he should move on. He gave another slight bow and prepared to step aside to let you pass. The silence between you was a living thing, heavy and suffocating. You hated him for his silence. You hated him for his loyalty. But most of all, you hated that as he stepped past you, all you wanted to do was reach out and grab his hand.
A dam broke inside you, but you kept the flood behind your teeth. Every ounce of your being screamed at you to collapse right there on the gravel. You wanted to fall at his feet and press your face against his boots. You wanted to sob until the shame was washed away and beg him to hold you with the same iron grip he used in the alley.
But you stood your ground. You forced your hands to remain still at your sides even as your nails bit into your palms.
You swore to yourself in that moment that he would never know the truth. He would never see the jagged, obsessive shape of what was in your heart. You would let him believe you were still the cold, untouchable lady who despised him. It was the only way to survive the sight of him.
You watched him walk away, hating the way your eyes lingered on the breadth of his shoulders, and hating the fact that you were already counting the seconds until you could see him again.
For a week, you were the perfect daughter, the perfect lady. You attended dinners, made polite conversation, oversaw the household. But beneath the surface, you were a seething, miserable wreck. You hated him again. You hated his stoic silence, hated the careful way he walked, hated the easy way he spoke with the other men of the guard. You hated that he never looked at you with anything but distant, professional courtesy. It was a mask of hatred you wore to cover the gaping wound of your guilt, and it was exhausting.
At night, you became a ghost in your own home. You would slip from your rooms, a hooded shadow, and follow him. You watched him train in the yard, the controlled power in his movements a fascinating, painful dance. You watched him sit by the fire in the barracks, cleaning his sword with meticulous care, sharing a laugh with a fellow guardsman.
Once, you saw him in the kitchen late at night, getting a piece of bread from the cook, and he gave her one of his rare, genuine smiles, a smile that reached his blue eyes and made something deep inside you twist with a longing so intense it was almost a sickness. After each of these forays, you would return to your room, disgusted with yourself, sick with want and shame.
This became your new, wretched habit: a performance of disdain by day, a pilgrimage of penance by night.
A new routine emerged, one you both loathed and craved. With your father away on business, you required an escort for your rare trips into the city, and who else but your sworn shield?
The market was a riot of color and sound on a beautiful morning, the sun warm on your face. You walked a few paces behind Duncan, as was proper, but your attention was entirely on him. You hadn't thanked him. You hadn't spoken of the alley, or the beating, or any of it. The silence between you was a heavy thing, full of everything you couldn't say.
And then you saw it. At a stall selling silks and spices, he had stopped.
Not to check the perimeter, not to scan for threats, but to talk. To the merchant woman. She was pretty, with a wide, laughing mouth and expressive eyes, and she was leaning over her counter, her breasts practically spilling out of her bodice, smiling up at him. And he was smiling back. Not just a polite smile, but a real, Duncan smile, the one that crinkled the corners of his eyes. He was leaning in, listening to her with an expression of rapt attention, saying something that made her throw her head back and laugh.
A hot, sharp pang of something nasty and possessive lanced through you. You saw the way her eyes roamed over the breadth of his shoulders, the way she touched his arm as she gestured. And you saw the way he didn't pull away.
Heat flooded your face, your hands clenching into fists in the folds of your skirts. He was smiling at her. Flirting with her. In front of you.
The world narrowed to the sight of her fingers on his arm, the sound of her laughter. Something primal roared to life inside you. Without a conscious thought, you were moving, pushing through the crowd.
Your hand shot out, your fingers wrapping around his bicep, digging in hard. The muscle beneath your grip was like solid rock.
"We're leaving," you bit out, your voice low and venomous. You didn't look at the merchant woman, didn't grant her the courtesy of a glance. You just pulled, using all your weight, trying to drag your giant of a knight away.
Duncan stumbled, surprise registering on his face as he turned from the woman.
"My lady? What is it? We just arrived."
"Did you not hear me?" you snarled, your grip tightening. "I said. We. Are. Leaving." You started walking, pulling him with you.
He followed, his long legs easily keeping pace, but you could feel the tension in him. He didn't speak until you'd dragged him into a relatively quiet side street, the sounds of the market muffled by the high brick walls.
"What in the seven hells was that about?" he asked, his voice now edged with frustration. He gently but firmly pried your fingers from his arm. "You were tearing the skin off me."
You spun on him, your eyes flashing, the hot, irrational anger coursing through your veins.
"What was that about? What was that about? Have you no shame? You were practically fucking her with your eyes in the middle of the market!"
Duncan blinked, a genuinely bewildered expression on his face. "Fucking... what? I was buying spices. For your kitchen. That was Lora, she's been selling there for years."
"Don't you dare lie to me," you shrieked, your voice echoing in the narrow alley. A few passersby gave you curious looks, which only fueled your humiliation and rage. "I saw the way she was looking at you. And you! Smiling at her, like some half-wit pup who's just seen a tit for the first time! Did you think I wouldn't notice? Did you think I'm blind?"
"Notice what?" he asked, his confusion giving way to a dawning comprehension, and with it, a dangerous stillness. He took a step back, putting a sliver of space between you. "My lady, you are mistaken."
"Oh, I'm mistaken, am I?" you laughed, a harsh, ugly sound. "You stand there, letting that common whore paw at you, and I'm the one who's mistaken? Did you enjoy it, Duncan? Did you enjoy humiliating me like that? After everything...I see what it is now. You're just like them. You're just a dog who'll fuck any bitch in heat, aren't you?"
The words were out before you could stop them, a torrent of poison born from jealousy, insecurity, and the suffocating weight of unspoken feelings. You watched as the color drained from Duncan's face, as the last vestiges of warmth left his blue eyes, replaced by a cold, hard light you'd never seen before.
"You will watch your tongue," he said, his voice dropping to a low, lethal register that was far more terrifying than any shout. "You will not speak of me or what I am in such a way."
"Or what?" you taunted, pushing, needing to see him break. “You'll growl? You'll bare your teeth?" You stepped closer, invading his space, your head tilted back to meet his gaze. "You have needs, don't you? All that muscle, all that... presence. A man like you must get hard just from the wind blowing. Do you think about it? About spreading some tavern wench's legs and just... fucking? Do you imagine them on their knees for you, their mouths wet and willing?"
He flinched, a subtle tensing of his jaw, but you were on a roll, a self-destructive spiral of humiliation and arousal. Your own words were making your body heat, a flush rising on your chest.
"Answer me, Duncan," you demanded, your voice dropping to a husky whisper. "Or does the great, honorable Ser Duncan the Tall not have such base desires? Do you just lie in your cot at night, your cock heavy and aching, and think about... duty? Do you fist it, imagining some faceless woman, or do you just suffer in silence like the martyr you are?"
You could see a vein pulsing in his temple, the way his hands had curled into fists at his sides. He was fighting it, fighting you, fighting the truth.
"Stop," he gritted out, the word ground from between clenched teeth. "Just stop."
"Why?" you pushed, leaning even closer until your breasts were almost brushing against the hard plane of his chest. You could feel the heat radiating from him. "Does the truth embarrass you? Or does it excite you? Does my talking about your cock, about you fucking, make you hard right now, here in this dirty alley?"
You reached out then, a calculated, reckless risk, and let your fingertips brush against the front of his breeches, right over the swell of his cock.
He sucked in a sharp breath, a hiss of pure, unadulterated shock.
"Answer me," you whispered, your own breath coming in shallow gasps. The game had turned deadly serious. The arousal and jealousy were a maelstrom inside you, a dizzying, destructive cocktail. "Tell me you don't want it. Tell me you don't think about bending some woman over and burying yourself inside her until she screams."
His hands shot out, not to strike you, but to slam against the brick wall on either side of your head, caging you in. His face was a mask of tortured conflict, the scars on it stark in the dim light. He was breathing heavily, the exhalations hot against your cheek.
"Yes," he finally ground out, the word a raw confession torn from his throat. "Gods help me, yes. I have needs. I'm a man, not a fucking statue. I think about it. I think about it all the fucking time."
The admission hit you like a physical blow, and a wave of something hot and electric shot through you. It was exactly what you wanted to hear, and exactly what you couldn't bear to hear.
"I think about it in the dead of night when I'm in my cot," he continued, his voice low, rough, each word a stone laid in the foundation of your shared damnation. "I think about it when I'm training, when I'm eating, when I'm supposed to be watching the gates. I think about wet heat and tight skin and the sounds a woman makes when she's lost to it."
His blue eyes bored into yours. There was no escape from the raw, naked hunger you saw there. "And yes, sometimes I'm so hard it hurts. Sometimes I have to touch myself, right there in the dark, imagining a faceless woman who wants me just as much as I want her. Because that's what men do, my lady. We want. We ache. We burn."
You felt a dizzying rush of power and a simultaneous, crushing sense of exclusion. He had needs, desires, a whole world of carnality that had nothing to do with you. The thought was unbearable.
"And Lora at the market?" you pressed, your voice trembling with a venomous cocktail of jealousy and arousal. "Did you imagine her beneath you? Did you think about spreading those merchant's legs and fucking her until she forgot her own name?"
His jaw tightened. "No," he ground out, the single word a force of will. "I did not, m’lady."
"Liar," you hissed, but the accusation lacked conviction. Your gaze dropped to his mouth, to the raw honesty of it.
"I am not a liar," he said, his voice dropping even lower, until it was a vibration you felt in your bones. "I think about wet heat, yes. But it's not the market woman. It's not a tavern wench. And it's sure as seven hells not some faceless cunt I can forget by morning."
Your breath hitched. You were trapped, pinned against the wall by his body and his words. You could feel the heat of him, smell the leather and the sweat, the lingering scent of him that haunted your nights. "Then who?" you whispered, the question tearing from you, a desperate plea you couldn't contain.
A muscle in his cheek jumped.
His hands dropped from the wall. He took a deliberate step back, creating a sliver of space that felt like a chasm. The sudden loss of his proximity was a physical shock, a cold void where his heat had been.
"Stop this, my lady," he said, his voice devoid of the passion that had moments ago vibrated through you. "Just... stop." He turned away, running a hand through his dark hair, a gesture of utter exhaustion. "This game you play. It's cruel."
You felt the flush rise from your chest to your cheeks, a hot, prickling wave of shame and something dark and thrilling. He saw. He understood. He knew the malicious, self-hating nature of your taunts, the way you were trying to poke at a wound just to see it bleed.
And the knowledge that he saw right through you only made the wet heat gathering between your thighs more pronounced, a slick, damning evidence of your own twisted desire. It was a self-mocking thing, your body's response to the thought of him with other women, a desire born of jealousy and a possessiveness you had no right to claim.
You lifted your chin, forcing a sneer onto your face. "A game? I don't play games, Ser Duncan. I speak the truth. And the truth is, I despise you. I despise your presence in my home, your constant, looming shadow, your... existence."
But even as the words left your lips, you knew they were hollow. From this moment, from this raw, painful confession in a dirty alley, you were lost. You were obsessed. The thought of him in his cot at night, fisting his cock, thinking of someone (not you, never you) was a brand on your soul. You would think of it constantly. You would torture yourself with it. Every woman you saw him speak to would become a rival in your mind. You would scrutinize his every smile, every glance, searching for evidence of this "wet heat" he desired.
"I see," he said, his voice weary, defeated. He gave you one last, long look, a look that held not anger, but a deep, profound sadness that was far more painful. "Then the feeling is mutual, my lady. I despise this... dance... we do. I despise the cruelty in your words and the sickness in my heart that still aches to please you. Now, if you'll excuse me, I believe we have both had enough of the market for one day."
He turned and walked away. He left you leaning against the cold brick with your body thrumming with unfulfilled need. You watched his broad shoulders and the powerful stride that was still marred by the ghost of a limp. He was a monument to your shame and your desire. You knew with a certainty that chilled you that you would never be free of him. You had sworn to yourself that he would never know the truth, but standing in that alley, you wanted to fall at his feet and beg him to never look at another woman again.
***
The carriage ride back to the townhouse was suffocating. The small, enclosed space was plush with velvet and silk, but it felt like a cage designed to crush the air from your lungs. You sat on one bench and he sat on the other. The space between you was a chasm of unspoken words and jagged tension. You did not look at him directly, but you watched him in your periphery. You tracked the way the passing light shifted across the hard planes of his face and the way his hands rested on his knees. They were big, capable, and terrifyingly still.
Those were the hands that had saved you. They were the hands that had beaten men into the dirt for your sake. And now, they were the hands he had admitted to using on himself in the dark of his cot. Your face burned with a cruel, hot shame at the thought. You pressed your thighs together to hide the slickness there, a damning and secret betrayal of your own body. The scent of him—leather, old wool, and the faint metallic tang of his armor—filled the small carriage until you felt like you were drowning in it.
Later, you sought refuge in the familiar chaos of the kitchens, but you found no peace there. The cooks moved with practiced grace. Their hands were a blur of motion as they were chopping, kneading, stirring, and plucking. But you were cursed. All you could see were hands. You saw hands in the dark fisting a hard cock. You saw hands spreading legs and touching wet heat. The rhythmic, steady slap of a knife against a cutting board sounded like the slap of skin against skin. The squelch of heavy dough being kneaded was a wet, carnal noise that made your stomach flip.
You were surrounded by the ghosts of your own lust. There was no escape from the images your mind was conjuring out of the steam and the noise.
That night the silence of the house was a physical presence. It pressed in on you and amplified the chaos in your own mind. Your father was still away.
That freedom should have been a relief, but instead it was an invitation to madness. A reckless and self-destructive impulse took root and bloomed in the dark. You needed to see him break. You needed to push him past his legendary control and see that raw, untamed hunger he had confessed to in the alley. You wanted that hunger aimed at you and only at you. You wanted to punish him for wanting someone else, and you wanted to punish yourself for wanting a man you were supposed to despise.
You shed your nightgown and pulled on a slip of silk the color of moonlight. It was a scandalous thing meant to be hidden under heavy skirts, not worn alone. It clung to every curve of your body. The thin fabric did nothing to hide the dark points of your nipples or the shadow between your legs. You left your feet bare. The cool flagstones were a shock against your soles as you slipped from your chambers like a thief.
You told yourself you were going to the river to see the moon on the water, but that was a lie. You knew with a sick certainty that you were walking toward him. You padded silently down the grand staircase and through the empty, echoing halls. You were a ghost of silk and pale skin. You were a target moving through the darkness.
You were halfway across the main courtyard when a shadow detached itself from the wall near the barracks. The cool night air raised goosebumps on your arms, making the silk of your shift chafe against your skin. He moved with an economy of motion that was both fluid and utterly silent. He was a wraith in steel and leather.
"And where do you think you are going?"
His voice was a low rumble in the night. It cut through your reckless spell like a blade. He stood between you and the gate, a wall of muscle and absolute disapproval. The moonlight glinted off the silver pauldrons on his shoulders and caught the hard line of his mouth.
"For a walk," you said. Your voice was a deliberate challenge. It was a silken thread of provocation designed to snag on his nerves. You stopped but you did not retreat.
You stood your ground in the center of the courtyard, letting the moonlight turn your shift into a beacon of pale skin in the darkness. You wanted him to look. You wanted him to see exactly what he was missing in the dark of his cot.
He took a step forward, his heavy boots making no sound on the flagstones. His gaze swept over you, from the top of your head to your bare toes, and the scrutiny was a stroke of fire that made your skin tighten. He didn't linger, didn't leer, but he saw everything. He saw the scandalous nature of your attire. He saw the deliberate provocation.
"A walk," he repeated, the words flat. "Dressed like that. Barefoot. To the river, I presume?"
"You presume correctly, Ser Duncan," you retorted, lifting your chin. "Is there an order against it? Am I your prisoner in my own home?"
"You are my charge," he countered, taking another step. He was close now, close enough that you could see the faint scars around his eyes, the way the moonlight made the bruises still lingering on his face appear purple and ghostly.
"Mad," he breathed, the word a curse. "You are utterly, completely mad. You walk through this house, this city, with your head so far up your own arse you can't see the danger you're inviting. You think this is a game?You think this," he gestured with a disgusted flick of his wrist at your near-naked form, "is some clever trick to make me notice you? I fucking see you. I see you every godsdamned moment of every godsdamned day. I see you when I'm awake and I see you in my nightmares. You are the most infuriating, reckless, selfish little fool I have ever had the misfortune to be sworn to protect."
His words were a torrent of ice and fire, and you felt yourself flush with a combination of shame and anger.
"You're a bastard," you spat back, emboldened by the break in his composure. "A flea-bottom lowborn with no right to speak to me like this. You're nothing but a hired sword, a dog my father keeps on a leash!"
He didn't roar. He didn't rage. He just moved. One of those massive hands of his shot out to close around your throat. It wasn't a killing grip, but it was absolute.
The air stopped. The pressure was a hot band, a point of terrifying control that made your blood sing a frantic song. Your hands flew up, clawing at his wrist, your nails scrabbling uselessly against the scarred leather of his vambrace. It was like trying to tear down a fortress with your bare hands.
“Stop, you fucking—”
"No more," he growled. The words rattled against your palm. "I have tried. Gods know I have fucking tried to be the good knight. The loyal dog. I have taken your insults. I have taken your disgust. I have taken a beating that cracked my ribs for the sake of your pride. And what for? For this? For you to parade your naked skin in the moonlight like a common whore and dare me to look?"
He looked stone cold, but his blue eyes were burning coals.
You stilled. He didn’t pull you in right away. Didn’t need to. He just stood there, close enough that you could feel the heat of him, the quiet, controlled weight of his presence pressing into the space between you.
Your eyes flickered to his mouth and away again, too quick, like it hadn’t happened, but it had, and he saw it. Of course he did.
Your chest rose, slow, uneven, betraying you inch by inch, and for a second — just a second — you thought he might stop. Let you go. Let this dissolve back into something you could pretend you understood.
But he didn’t move. And neither did you.
And then, he finally leaned in. His hot mouth crashed down on yours. There was no gentleness. He bit your lower lip, a sharp, coppery sting of blood, and then his tongue was forcing its way inside your mouth. He was hot, possessive and tasted of rage and something darker, something desperate. You fought him, your body bucking, your muffled screams swallowed and tasted by him.
You hated him. You hated how your body responded. You hated how your core clenched in a slick, molten wave of surrender that soaked the silk of your shift.
He felt you fighting. He felt the weak, frantic thrash of your limbs, and it only fueled his fire. With a raw groan of resentment, he lifted you. He just straightened his massive arm and hauled you off the flagstones. Your feet dangled, kicking uselessly in the night air.
The shift rode up your thighs. You were suspended, completely at his mercy, held only by the grip on your throat and the savage pressure of his mouth. The world swam in a dizzying rush of moonlight and adrenaline.
When he finally pulled back, you were gasping. A thin, pathetic wheeze sucked past the constriction of his fingers. A string of spittle and blood connected your lips. You saw your own hate reflected in the raw, burning depths of his eyes.
"There," he snarled. “That is better. That is more honest." He shook you slightly, making you feel like a puppet on a string. "This is what you wanted, isn't it, you little slut? To be treated like the whore you pretend to be?"
"You... bastard. Put me down right now!” Your words were a choked, wet whisper. Your hands scrabbled at his wrist, but your nails did nothing against the leather.
"Say it again," he commanded. His thumb began to stroke the delicate skin over your pulse point. The casual, possessive gesture was more terrifying than the pressure itself. "Call me a bastard again. Spit your hate at me. See where it gets you."
"Fuck-hating..." you gasped. The words were torn from your throat. "Lowborn... gutter... bastard..." You hated him, and you hated the way your cunt clenched — aching, empty, and slick with a desire that felt like a betrayal of your blood.
His grip on your throat tightened in a clear, unmistakable warning. "Careful, my lady," he breathed, the title a venomous insult. "You keep talking like that, and I might start to believe you want me to do something about it."
But then you did the unthinkable. You surged up against the constricting pressure, a frantic, desperate movement, and slammed your mouth against his again. You poured all your self-loathing and want into it. You bit at his lips, tasting your own blood mingling with the raw, masculine taste of him.
You were kissing him with all the hate you possessed, which was exactly the same as kissing him with all the love you refused to admit.
He stumbled back, caught off guard by the ferocity of your mouth. The momentum carried you both in a staggering, graceless dance of violence and lust until your back slammed hard against the heavy oak door of the barracks. The wood groaned. The impact knocked the air from your lungs…
Duncan’s other hand came up to slam flat against the door beside your head, caging you. His body was a wall of heat and hard muscle, pinning you, suffocating you. He finally broke the kiss, pulling back just enough to see the naked truth in your eyes.
He saw the want. He saw the desperate, pleading need behind the mask of your aristocratic pride. He saw that this was not a game anymore. And he saw the tears gathering in your eyes. You were broken, and you were begging him to break the pieces that were left.
"Shh, shh," he soothed. The sound was a dark mockery of comfort. His thumb continued to stroke the pulse in your neck, a slow touch that made you want to scream. "Don’t cry, m’lady. Not yet. We’re not done. I haven't even begun to punish you for the filth you spit."
"Let me go," you choked out, the command a pathetic whimper. You bucked against him, but he was an unmovable force. The fight in you was a dying ember, and all that was left was the exhilarating horror of surrender.
He reached down with his free hand and hoisted you onto his shoulder as easily as if you weighed nothing. The world tilted.
The stars became smears of liquid light above. The courtyard became a distant, detached thing, a dream painted in black and gray. The heavy oak door creaked as he pushed through into the barracks beyond.
The interior was warm after the night air, a cocoon of darkness scented with the musky smells of leather, smoke, and something darkly metallic. It wasn't fear that had your heart pounding in your chest; it was a twisted kind of excitement.
He stalked across the dimly lit room and tossed you down on his bed. The mattress was rough, covered with a bear pelt blanket. It smelled like sweat and animal musk. A wild, masculine scent that made your head spin.
He stood before you against the flickering firelight, holding you down with one knee. One arm still clasped his vambrace and gauntlet, dropping them carelessly to the floor. Metal met stone in a heavy thud. His other arm rose to unbuckle his pauldron. Another piece dropped, and then the one beneath it. He shed the metal plating like scales from a snake.
With every piece of armor he removed, you felt yourself unravel. The sheer power of his body was a brutal statement. His presence dominated the space, pressing down on you like a tangible weight. And the worst part was how helpless you were in the face of that power. As each piece fell, you felt a matching defense within you crumble.
When his hands moved to the buckles that held his gambeson, you found the strength to protest.
"Ser Duncan, please," you begged, your voice barely more than a whisper. "This is... this is madness. It can end here. Please.”
His eyes snapped to you, cold blue flaring with a furious fire. Without a word, without releasing his gaze from yours, he sat on the bed and pulled you over his knees. Your head hung down near his boots, your hair spilling like a pool of moonlight. With his left arm, he pinned you in place, a band of thick muscle across your shoulders and upper back.
"Do you know," he said, his voice calm, almost casual, but there was a cruel undercurrent to it that made you tremble, "how much it hurt?"
"I don't understand..." you tried to reply, but he ignored you.
"How I stood there and took it. Because I, unlike you, understand what real responsibility means." With his right hand, he lifted up your shift, revealing your bare, vulnerable ass. The fabric gathered around your waist, leaving you exposed and helpless.
"Every blow, every insult," he growled, the veneer of his calm cracking, replaced by the visceral anger you'd sensed simmering just below the surface. "Did you ever stop to think about what that meant?”
"Please, Ser Duncan..."
"Enough of your pleas, little bitch." His large hand landed on your naked rear with a sharp slap. Pain bloomed, spreading across your skin. You squealed, the sound muffled against the mattress. Before you could draw breath, he hit you again. And again. The sound of his palm against your flesh echoed through the barracks.
"You wanted my attention, my lady" he continued, his tone savage but controlled. Each word punctuated by another spank. "Now you have it."
Each hit sent shockwaves through you. The pain was a sharp sting at first, radiating outward, followed by a warm, throbbing heat that seemed to sink deeper with every spank. The intensity varied; some slaps were light, teasing, leaving a gentle burn in their wake. Others were firm and deliberate, designed to push your limits.
At first, you fought it. You resisted the sensation, the shame, the utter degradation of being treated like this. But Duncan was relentless, driving past your defiance with his unyielding will. Every hit chipped away at your composure until there was nothing left but primal emotion.
“Please, Ser Duncan… I… please… ahh”
But your cries gradually transformed into something else. The pain blurred with pleasure. Your shouts became moans, your struggle turning into an undulation, grinding your sex against the rough fabric of his trousers.
Duncan noticed the change in your sounds and movements immediately. It fueled him. His hand began to grab and knead the flesh he had spanked. Thick fingers dug into your buttocks, squeezing the reddened globes together. They spread you apart, exposing your most intimate places.
“Yeah... just like that,” he whispered, the vibration of his voice rattling through your bones. “Yeah... whimper again. I like the way it feels against my palm.”
And then, those rough, calloused pads of his fingertips brushed against the tiny knot of your asshole.
"No!" you yelped, trying to squirm away, but he kept you pinned. Your cheeks flushed hot with embarrassment at the mere touch. You couldn't comprehend the intimacy or vulnerability you were feeling. It was wrong, taboo, and yet your body reacted to it with an undeniable warmth that pooled in your belly.
As he manipulated you, teased you with light strokes and prodding circles, something gave way inside.
The realization dawned that you were grinding your soaking cunt against the rough fabric of his pants, leaving a wet smear of your humiliation plain for him to see. The friction caused shocks of illicit pleasure to arc up your spine.
"What's this, Lady, umm?" Duncan hissed, rubbing harder against your puckered entrance.
A hot, wet glob of spit landed directly on the sensitive skin of your anus. You jumped, a squeal caught in your throat at the shocking heat and wetness.
His rough thumb smeared it around, circling the tight furl of muscle, using his own spit as a filthy, intimate lubricant. The pressure was deliberate, a claim of ownership that made your mind go blank with shame. You were a knot of raw nerves, a creature of pure sensation.
"Good girl," he grunted, the praise a dark rumble that vibrated through his chest and into your body. He worked the slickness into your skin, pressing slightly, testing the resistance. "Look at you. So fucking greedy for it."
You couldn't stop it. Your hips began to move, a slow, shameful grind against his hard thigh. The rough wool of his trousers chafed your aching clit, and the friction was a delicious agony. You rubbed yourself against him like a bitch in heat, chasing the pleasure, desperate for more. His other hand, the one not playing with your ass, came down in a sharp spank that made you gasp.
"Don't stop," he commanded. "Rub that greedy little cunt on me. Show me how much you need this."
You whined, a broken, needy sound, and obeyed. The movement was frantic now, desperate. Your world had narrowed to the feeling of his thumb on your asshole, the scratch of fabric on your clit, and the hard muscle beneath you. He made a low, satisfied sound in his chest, a "Mmm," of pure, masculine approval at your degradation. It was the most beautiful sound you had ever heard.
He shifted, and with a flick of his wrist, he tore the thin, soaked scrap of your smallclothes from your hips. The fabric gave way with a sharp rip, leaving you completely bare to him. Cool air hit your dripping slit, and you clenched in anticipation.
Then you felt it. A single, thick finger traced the length of your soaked folds, from your throbbing clit to the wet entrance of your cunt. He didn't enter you, just teased, gathering your slickness on his calloused skin. You whimpered, trying to push back, to impale yourself on that digit, but his hand on your head held you firm. You couldn't see anything. You could only feel.
"Stay still," he grunted. His other hand came to rest on the small of your back, a heavy weight of command. "I'll tell you when you can move."
You stilled, trembling with the effort, every nerve screaming for more. His fingers parted your folds, exposing your clenching hole to the cool air. You could feel your own heartbeat pulsing in your cunt. He rubbed circles around your entrance, smearing your arousal, coating your most sensitive skin with your own shame.
"So wet," he murmured, his voice a low, possessive growl. "You’ve made such a mess on me
His finger slid inside you, a slow intrusion that made you gasp. He pumped in and out, curling the digit to stroke the sensitive ridges inside you. His thumb pressed against your clit, rubbing in slow, maddening circles. You were a mess of sensation, lost in the overwhelming pleasure of his touch.
"Don't you dare come," he warned, his voice a low growl against your ear. "Not until I say so."
You bit your lip, trying to hold back the orgasm building inside you, a tidal wave of pleasure threatening to break. You could feel it coiling in your belly, a tight, hot knot of need.
"Nngh… Please. Please, Ser Duncan."
His finger stilled. He pulled it out, leaving you feeling empty and aching. You almost sobbed with the loss.
"Please, what?" he asked, his voice cold. "Please stop? Or please fuck you, m’lady?"
Your mind was a war. The proud lady versus the wanton slut. Your blood pounded in your ears, a frantic drumbeat that drowned out everything but the sensation of his hands on you. You couldn't hide. Not anymore. Not from him, not from yourself.
A thin line of drool escaped the corner of your mouth, dripping onto the rough fabric of his gambeson. It was a disgusting, animalistic detail that sent a wave of heat through your veins.
His fingers drove back into you, harder this time. Two of them. They plunged knuckles deep, scissoring inside your dripping cunt. The wet sounds were obscene, a sloppy, squelching rhythm that filled the small room.
"Ah, Dunk... oh god," the moan was loud, a broken sound of complete surrender that made you burn with shame. Then, he stopped again.
The sudden emptiness was a physical pain. You heard a soft, wet sound, a slick suction. You knew what it was. He was tasting you. He was tasting your filth on his fingers, and the thought was so vile, so intimate, that you nearly came right then and there.
"Fuck," he growled, the word a low, guttural sound of disbelief. "So fucking sweet. You're so fucking sweet for me, aren't you?"
Before you could recover, his fingers were back inside you, pumping faster, rougher. His other hand came down to slap your reddened ass, a sharp, stinging blow that sent a jolt straight to your clit.
"Nngh! Please!" The cry that tore from your throat was unrestrained. It echoed in the small, dark room, a sound of pure, unabashed pleasure. Your cunt made wet, sloppy sounds as he finger-fucked you, each thrust a punctuation mark to your shame. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. The room smelled of sex and sweat and your own desperate arousal.
"Yeah, let me hear it," he rumbled, the bed creaking under his weight. "Keep making those pretty noises for me. My best, loudest girl."
He pulled his fingers out again, and this time, he brought them to your lips. They were slick with your juices, glistening in the faint firelight.
"Open up," he commanded, his voice dark and final. "Clean them off. Show me how much you want it. Taste what a filthy little slut you are."
You opened your mouth without hesitation. He shoved his fingers inside, practically fucking your mouth with them. You could taste yourself, the tang of your own cunt on his skin. You swirled your tongue around them, licking and sucking, cleaning him of your mess. It was a disgusting, humiliating act, and it made you burn with a desire so intense it was painful.
"Good girl," he grunted. "Such a greedy little whore."
He finally allowed you to raise your head. You looked up at him, your vision blurred with tears of pleasure and humiliation. You saw the raw, possessive lust in his eyes, the way his jaw was clenched with the effort of controlling himself. And you put on a show for him.
You took his fingers in both of your hands, holding them like a holy relic. You brought them to your lips and kissed them, your tongue darting out to taste the last lingering drops of your arousal. You licked them clean, your eyes locked on his, a silent promise of your complete and utter submission.
"Please, Duncan," you begged, the name a raw, desperate plea. "Please fuck me. Please." Your voice was a hoarse whisper, a prayer to a god you had never believed in.
He growled, a low, animalistic sound of pure possession. His eyes were burning coals in the dim light. He shoved you off his lap, and you landed on the stone floor in a graceless heap. The impact knocked the breath from your lungs, and you looked up at him from your hands and knees.
"You made a fucking mess," he snarled, gesturing to the dark, wet patch on the thigh of his breeches. "Clean it."
You didn't hesitate. You crawled to him, the stones cold against your knees. You lowered your head and pressed your tongue against the rough wool. You could taste yourself, the tang of your arousal a heady, intoxicating flavor. You licked the fabric clean, your tongue tracing the outline of the wet patch, your submission a tangible thing in the small room.
You could feel the hard ridge of his cock straining against the fabric, a hot, heavy weight that promised a world of pain and pleasure. You couldn't resist. You nuzzled against it, your tongue darting out to trace the outline through the damp wool. It was so thick, so fat, so fucking big. You had never seen anything like it. The sheer size of it was intimidating, but it only made you want it more.
You started to tease him, your tongue and teeth working at the fabric, trying to get closer to the prize beneath. He was hard as steel, and the heat of him was a brand against your skin. You could hear the ragged sound of his breathing, the way his control was starting to fray.
He noticed. Of course, he noticed. He noticed that you weren't fighting anymore, that you weren't trying to escape. He noticed that you were completely and utterly captivated by him. He didn't need to hold you down anymore. You weren't going anywhere.
"Are you going to swear at me anymore?" he asked, his voice a low, dangerous growl.
You shook your head frantically, your tongue still busy with his cock. "No," you mumbled, the word muffled by the fabric. "No, never again."
"Are you going to disobey me again?" he pressed.
"No," you repeated, your voice a desperate, earnest plea. "Never. I swear."
He reached down and tangled his fingers in your hair, pulling your head back. He looked down at you, his expression unreadable, a mask of cold, hard stone. "Then prove it," he snarled.
He reached down with his other hand and ripped open the laces of his breeches. His cock sprang free, and you gasped. It was even bigger than you had imagined. It was a thick, heavy shaft of flesh, a monument to raw, masculine power. The head was a dark, angry purple, beaded with pre-come. A thick, prominent vein ran along the underside, a pulsing river of life.
You stared at it, mesmerized. You had never seen anything so beautiful, so terrifying, so utterly perfect. You wanted it. You wanted it inside you, filling you, stretching you, breaking you.
He guided it to your lips, and you opened your mouth without hesitation. He pushed inside, and you moaned as he filled your mouth. The taste of him was a heady, intoxicating rush, a drug that you were instantly addicted to.
"Suck," he commanded.
You obeyed, your tongue swirling around the head, your lips stretched tight around his girth. You took him as deep as you could, your throat constricting around him. He groaned, a low, guttural sound of pleasure that made your cunt clench with need.
"Fuck," he growled. “Ohhh seven… fuck…”
His fingers, still tangled in your hair, didn't force you. They just held you, a possessive anchor in a sea of sensation. He let you set the pace, a slow, reverent exploration. You pulled back, your lips slick with saliva, to look at it. It was a monster of a thing, a weapon of flesh that made your cunt ache with a deep, hollow need.
"Gods," you breathed, the word a puff of hot air against his wet skin. "It's... it's so big."
You looked up at him, your eyes wide with a mixture of fear and awe. "I've never... I've never seen anything like this."
A low groan rumbled in his chest. The raw, unfiltered admiration in your voice seemed to hit him harder than any insult. "Yeah?" he grunted, his voice a rough, guttural sound of pure male pride. "You like that, don't you, little slut? You like my big, bastard cock."
You didn't answer with words. You leaned forward and pressed a wet, open-mouthed kiss to the head. You let your tongue dart out, swirling around the sensitive ridge, tasting the salty, slightly bitter flavor of his pre-come. Your lips were swollen and red, stretched tight around his girth as you slowly took him back into your mouth.
You let your drool coat him, your saliva a slick, messy offering. It dripped down your chin, onto your breasts, a dirty, intimate marker of your submission. The sight of your red, swollen lips stretched around his thick cock, the way you were drooling on him like a hungry animal, seemed to drive him wild.
The taste was a revelation. A salty, musky, purely masculine flavor that was more intoxicating than any wine you'd ever tasted. It was a taste of power and you were addicted. You made wet, sloppy sounds as you took him deeper, your throat working to accommodate his impressive size. The obscene gagging and sucking noises filled the room, a symphony of your own degradation.
His grip on your hair tightened, and he began to move his hips, a slow, deliberate rhythm that matched the bobbing of your head. He was fucking your face, and the realization sent a jolt of pure, unadulterated pleasure through you. This was it. This was what you had been craving, what you had been seeking with your childish games and cruel taunts.
You looked up at him, your eyes wide and pleading, a silent apology for all the pain you had caused him. He saw the look in your eyes, and a slow, predatory smile spread across his face.
"What's that?" he grunted, his hips still moving in a slow, steady rhythm. "Are you trying to tell me something, my little slut?"
You couldn't speak with your mouth full, but you tried to communicate your remorse with your actions. You took him deeper, your throat constricting around him, your tongue working to please him. You were a mess of saliva and tears, beautiful and fucked up.
"I'm... sorry," you mumbled, the words muffled by the thick shaft of his cock. "I'm sorry... for everything."
The apology was a jumble of words and spit, a desperate, garbled plea for forgiveness that was muffled by the sheer size of him. He stilled for a moment, the rhythm broken by your raw, choked confession.
"Sorry?" he repeated, the word a low, dangerous growl. He pulled out just enough for you to draw a breath, a ragged, wet gasp. "Sorry for what? Sorry for being a spoiled, arrogant little cunt? Sorry for treating me like dirt under your heel? Or sorry for wanting this all along, you fucking tease?"
His hand tightened in your hair, a clear warning. “Nnn-hn”, you whined, a high, pathetic sound, and shook your head as much as you could with your hair held in his iron grip.
"No," you choked out. "I... I was wrong. I'm... sorry."
"Good," he snarled, a cruel, triumphant glint in his eyes. "Now, are you going to be a good girl from now on?"
"Y-yes," you whimpered, the word a desperate, earnest plea. "Yes, I'll be good. I promise."
He seemed to accept your answer, or perhaps he was just too lost in the heat of the moment to care. He pushed back into your mouth, and you took him eagerly, your throat relaxing to accommodate his size. You were a perfect, pliant little slut, for him. Only ever for him, but you were still too spoiled to admit.
He fucked your face with a renewed vigor, his hips pumping in a fast, hard rhythm that left you breathless and dizzy. You could feel the tension in his body, the way his muscles were ready to snap. You knew he was close. You could taste it in the salty, slightly bitter flavor of his pre-come, feel it in the desperate way he moved.
He pulled out of your mouth with a wet, obscene pop. A string of saliva connected your swollen, red lips to the head of his cock. You looked up at him, your face a mess of tears and drool, your eyes wide with a mixture of fear and anticipation.
"You will only tell the truth to me tonight. He yanked your head back by the hair. The sharp pain at your scalp made you gasp. "Understood?"
You nodded, your eyes wide and obedient.
"Good," he grunted. He leaned down, and you thought he was going to kiss you. Instead, he spat directly into your open mouth. It was hot, wet, a claim of ownership that made your cunt clench.
Then he kissed you, a messy, demanding, spit-filled kiss that was the most intimate, disgusting thing you had ever experienced. You moaned into his mouth, your tongue tangling with his, tasting the musky, masculine flavor of him, the salty tang of yourself, and the heady, addictive taste of his spit. It was the best thing you had ever tasted.
He lifted you as if you weighed nothing and tossed you onto the bed. You landed on the rough bear pelt with a soft thud, the air knocked from your lungs. Before you could move, he was on you, flipping you over, positioning you so you were kneeling over his face. His rough hands gripped your thighs, holding you in place, forcing your dripping cunt down onto his mouth.
"This is what I dream of," he growled against your wet skin, the vibration rattling your bones. "This is what I think about when I'm standing guard like a dog outside your door. Every time you looked down your nose at me, I imagined doing exactly this."
You could only moan. His tongue was a hot, rough, insistent force against your clit, licking, sucking, probing. He ate you like a starving man, his face buried in your cunt, his stubble a delicious, abrasive friction against your sensitive skin.
"Tell me," he demanded, his words muffled by your flesh. "Tell me you want this. Tell me you've been wanting a lowborn bastard to put his face in you since the first day I arrived, you fucking tease."
His hands, rough and calloused from years of wielding a sword, closed around the soft flesh of your ass. They squeezed, a possessive, claiming grip that made you gasp. He pulled you down, forcing you to put your full weight on his face. You hesitated, a flicker of fear in your pleasure-fogged mind. You were going to smother him. You were going to break him.
"Don't you fucking dare hold back," he growled, the command a hot vibration against your cunt. "Sit on my face. Suffocate me with your cunt. Take what you need."
You obeyed, a wave of relief washing over you. You lowered your full weight onto him, and he took it without a moment's hesitation. He was a beast, a powerful, unyielding force, and he could take anything you gave him. His tongue was a relentless, insistent pressure against your clit, and you could feel the tension building in your body, a tight, hot knot of need.
"Don't you dare come," he warned, his voice dropping into a dangerous, dark register. "Not until I say."
You whined, a high, pathetic sound of protest. You were so close, so fucking close, and his command was a form of exquisite torture. "Please, Dunk... I'm dying... I'm right there..."
"Tell me," he demanded. "Tell me the truth. Why did you do it? Why did you push me?"
"I... I was jealous!" you admitted, the words a raw, desperate confession. "I saw the other girls looking at you. The serving girls. The... the whores in the village. They all wanted you. And I... I couldn't stand it. I wanted you to only look at me, even if it was with hate."
"Greedy little slut," he grunted, but there was a note of triumph in his voice. "You wanted me all to yourself. Well, you've got me. Move. Ride my face. Take your pleasure."
You obeyed, your hips beginning to move in a slow, deliberate rhythm. You ground your cunt against his face, your movements growing more and more frantic as the pleasure built. You were a desperate, shameless whore, and you didn't care. All that mattered was the pleasure, the exquisite, mind-blowing pleasure of his tongue on your clit.
"Is this what you needed?" he growled, the words a hot, wet vibration against your flesh. "Did you need to be eaten by a bastard from Flea Bottom to finally shut your fucking mouth?"
"Yes!" you sobbed, your fingers clawing at the pelt. "Yes, that's what I needed! I'm your bitch, Dunk... please... please don't stop!"
You were close. So close. The pleasure was a force of nature that threatened to sweep you away. You could feel your orgasm building, a tight, hot knot in your belly that was about to snap.
He felt the tremor start in your thighs, the tell-tale tightening of your muscles that screamed of impending release. He stopped. Just like that. The hot, rough tongue that had been your god, your salvation, your entire world, was gone. He pulled back slightly, leaving your dripping, desperate cunt hovering over his mouth, denied and pulsing.
"What did I fucking tell you?" he roared, the vibration of his words a physical shock against your aching flesh.
"Ser Duncan... please, gods, please let me cum! I’ll be so good, I’ll be your best girl, just let me have it!"
He held you there. Suspended. Your thighs burned with the strain, but it was nothing, nothing at all compared to the hollow, aching emptiness in your cunt. His strength was an insult. You were a doll, a plaything, and he was showing you how little effort it took to control your every breath, your every heartbeat, every desperate pulse between your legs. Your juices dripped onto his face, a slow, steady trickle of your shame, and he just lay there, letting you fall apart above him.
You were going to die. You were sure of it. Your body was a taut wire, humming with a need that was so sharp it was a form of agony. You could feel the ghost of your orgasm, a phantom limb that throbbed with a phantom pleasure. You needed it. You needed it more than you had ever needed air, or water, or food.
"Please," you sobbed, the word a ragged, desperate plea. "Please, Ser Duncan. I'll do anything. Anything you want. I’ll never speak back again, I’ll be your quiet little pet, just please..."
He just looked up at you, his eyes dark, unreadable pools in the dim light. There was no mercy in them. No pity. Only a cold, hard, possessive lust that made your blood run hot.
"Anything?" he asked, the word a low, dangerous growl.
"Anything," you repeated, your voice a desperate, earnest promise.
He lowered you slightly, just enough for your cunt to brush against his lips. The contact was a jolt of pure electricity, a spark that nearly set you ablaze.
"Say it again," he commanded. "Say you're my little slut."
"I'm... your little slut," you whimpered, the words a raw, desperate confession. "I'm your whore. I'm your... your bitch. Use me, Dunk. Just use me."
He seemed satisfied with your answer. He lowered you again, and this time, he let you take a little more of his weight. His tongue darted out, a quick, teasing flick against your clit. You gasped, your back arching in pleasure.
"Please," you begged, your hips bucking against his face. "Please, don't stop. I need you."
He rewarded you with a long, slow lick that sent shivers down your spine. His tongue was a hot, rough, insistent force against your clit, and you could feel the tension building in your body again. This was it. This was what you had been craving, what you had been seeking with your childish games and cruel taunts. This was the raw, unfiltered pleasure that only he could give you.
He let you ride his face, your movements growing more and more frantic as the pleasure built. You were a desperate, shameless whore, and you didn't care.
He took it all. Every desperate, rhythmic grind, every slick, hot smear of your arousal. He let you use his face like a tool, a thing for your pleasure, and the sheer debasement of it was a heady rush. You could feel your juices on his chin, dripping down the corded muscle of his neck, marking him as yours even as he claimed you with every possessive growl.
You were losing your mind, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer, harder against you. You didn't care about the pride of your house or the silk of your gown—you only cared about the rough, wet friction of his tongue.
"More... Dunk, please... harder," you gasped, your voice a fractured, ruined thing. "Eat me... eat your little whore... I'm yours... I'm all yours..."
He secretly loved it, you knew. The way he devoured you, the way he couldn't seem to get enough of your taste, was a dead giveaway. He would never admit it, never tell you how good you tasted, how ripe and ready and perfect your little cunt was, how it fit against his mouth like it was made for him. But you could feel it in the way he ate you, the way his fingers bruised your hips, the way he seemed to want to drown in you.
He could feel it again. The tell-tale, violent trembling in your thighs, the way your breath hitched and broke in your throat. This time, he didn't deny you.
"Cum," he commanded, the word a hot, wet vibration directly against your clit. "Cum for me, you little slut. Soak my fucking face. Now!"
It was a detonation. A wave of pure, unadulterated pleasure crashed over you, drowning you in its intensity. You screamed, a raw, ragged sound that was part pleasure, part pain, part pure, unadulterated release. “Dunk—! Oh, gods, please please yes—! Take it! Take all of me!” Your body convulsed, your back arching, your hips bucking frantically against his mouth as your orgasm ripped through you. You weren't a lady anymore; you were a creature of pure, shaking need.
He held you through it, his strong hands anchoring your hips, forcing you to stay pressed against him as you rode out the waves of your pleasure. He let you make a mess. He let you soak him in your arousal, a wet, sticky offering that he eagerly accepted. His face was slick and glistening with your juices, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, but he didn't care. All that mattered was you, and the way you were falling apart because of him.
When the tremors finally subsided, you collapsed onto the bed, a boneless, spent heap of limbs. You were crying, not from sadness, but from the overwhelming weight of finally being broken.
He moved, a slow, deliberate shift of heavy muscle. He propped himself up on one elbow, looking down at you. He reached out and brushed a stray, damp strand of hair from your face, his touch both a caress and a claim.
"You're welcome, my lady," he said, the title a venomous, low-voiced insult—a cruel reminder of the pride you’d traded for this.
You looked up at him, your vision blurred, and saw the raw, possessive lust in his eyes. You didn't look away. Instead, you reached out, your hand shaking as you traced the line of your own slickness on his jaw.
“Do it again,” you whispered, your voice a hoarse, unhinged plea. “I don't want to be a lady. I want to be yours. I want you to ruin me, Dunk. Please... I'm so fucking hungry for you.”
He leaned in, his shadow swallowing you whole. “I’m going to do more than just this,” he rumbled, his voice dark with masculine pride. “You’re my best, wettest girl, and you’re never going back.”
You looked up at him, your vision blurred with tears, and saw the raw, possessive lust in his eyes, the way his jaw was clenched with the effort of controlling himself. And you knew, with a certainty that chilled you to the bone, that this was only the beginning. He had claimed you, body and soul, and he was never going to let you go.
He rolled you over with one arm, the movement lazy but absolute. You ended up on your back, gasping as your sweat-slicked skin hit the cool air of the barracks. He didn't say a word. He just took your ankles in his huge, calloused hands and folded you back, pushing your knees toward your shoulders until you were bent nearly in half.
The position was obscene—completely vulnerable, your dripping cunt and the tight, sensitive pucker of your ass spread wide for his inspection. A flash of shame, hot and sharp, was immediately swallowed by a dark, thrilling pride. You were a feast laid out on a table of rough fur.
Then, a thought struck you—a bizarre, clinical observation in the middle of your raw, emotional haze. He wouldn't fit. Looking at the thick, heavy shaft of him, then back at your own small, trembling frame, the math didn't work. But then you realized: the way he had eaten you, the way he had savaged you with his tongue until you were sobbing and slick—it hadn't just been for your pleasure. It was a service. The bastard had been meticulously preparing your body for the sheer, punishing size of him. He was taking care of you, even while he was destroying you.
“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that rattled through the floorboards.
You obeyed, your eyes wet and blown wide. He was a mountain of muscle and shadow, his gaze a hot, possessive brand. Something in you snapped—a mad, desperate impulse to touch the thing that was about to claim you. With a frustrated cry, you ripped at the laces of his tunic. Your hands were all over his chest, your nails scraping against his skin, leaving faint red trails.
“Easy, little slut,” he grunted, his hands holding your legs steady, keeping you open.
Your hands slid down, your fingers tangling in the coarse, dark hair at the base of his cock. “Gods... you’re so big,” you sobbed, a low, guttural sound of pure lust escaping you. “Dunk, please... I’m so small... I don't think I can take it all.”
“You can,” he rumbled, his thumb tracing the swollen line of your entrance, spreading your own juices to make the path as easy as possible. “I’ve made sure you can. Just breathe for me. Stay open.”
He shifted his hips, and you felt the blunt, heavy head of his cock press against you. Even with all the preparation, the sheer girth of him was a shock that made your breath hitch in a sharp “Ah!”
He pushed inside. It was a slow, relentless invasion. He wasn't rushing; he was deliberate, giving your body time to stretch, to accommodate the impossible bulk of him. He made a low, pained grunt of pleasure as he felt your tight walls fighting to let him in.
“Nnn-gh! Dunk—! Oh, gods, it’s... it’s so much...” You cried out, a ragged, desperate sound. Your walls clenched around him, pulsing in a frantic attempt to hold him.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered harshly, his face contorting as he forced himself to stay slow, his knuckles white where he gripped your thighs. “I’m right here. Just take it... take all of me, my best girl.”
He buried himself to the hilt, a deep, invasive pressure that made you feel completely possessed. He stayed there for a moment, letting you adjust to the weight of him, his breath hot and ragged against your neck. He grunted again, a deep, masculine sound of pure satisfaction as he felt how perfectly you were stretched around him.
“You’re so full of me,” he growled, a dark, triumphant note in his voice. “Look at you. So small, and you’re taking every bit of your bastard knight. Does that feel good? To finally be filled?”
“Yes,” you sobbed, your head thrashing against the furs. “Yes, please... don't ever move. Just stay... stay inside me forever.”
You could feel him everywhere, a thick, heavy presence that filled you completely, a bulge in your stomach that was a physical proof of his possession.
The sound was what finally broke your sanity—the heavy, rhythmic slap of his thick thighs against yours, and the messy, wet squelch of your own juices being churned into a froth by the relentless drive of his hips. You were stretched so wide it felt like you were being split, every pulse of the thick vein along his shaft a hot, invasive throb that you felt deep in your chest.
"Seven," he grunted, the word a jagged, breathless rasp against your ear. "You're... you're so goddamn small. Like a doll. I'm gonna break you if I don't watch it."
"Don't watch it," you sobbed, your head thrashing against the cold stone as he hammered into you. "I want it, Dunk. I want all of you... every bit of your bastard self. Fill me up... I've never felt anything like this. I’m never going back. I can’t... I only want you."
He didn't give you a poetic answer. He just growled, a deep, animalistic sound that started in his gut and vibrated through your entire body. He shifted his grip, his massive, calloused hands bunching the flesh of your ass, lifting you higher so he could drive even deeper. With every brutal, bottoming thrust, your cunt clenched and swallowed him, the red, swollen lips of your sex snapping back around his base with a wet, suctioning seal.
"You're mine now," he rasped, his knuckles white as he gripped your hair, tilting your head back to see your glazed eyes. "No other man's ever gonna fit after me. I've stretched you out too good. You're my girl now. My dirty little highborn girl."
"Yes! Yours!" you wailed, your voice cracking as he hit your cervix again—a blunt, electric shock that made your toes curl. "I don't want to be a Lady! I just want to be yours! I love you, Dunk! I love you so much it hurts! Just keep fucking me! Please!"
The "love" hit him harder than a mace to the chest. He went unhinged. The pace became a frantic, blurring violence, his hips slamming against yours with a messy, rhythmic thud-squelch that echoed off the barracks walls. He wasn't a knight in that moment; he was the boy from the gutters, taking what he wanted with a terrifying, primal strength.
"Say it again," he commanded, his breath hot and smelling of raw desire. "Say you're mine. Say you want to be fucked by Dunk of Flea Bottom."
"I'm yours!" you screamed, the sound raw and inhuman, your nails drawing red furrows down his back as you pulled him closer, desperate to merge your skin with his. "I want you! Only you! Fuck me, Dunk! My Dunk of Flea Bottom. Fuck your girl!"
"Mine," he roared, his pace reaching a fever pitch, his entire body coiling like a spring. "All mine."
You were vibrating, your entire body humming like a struck wire. You were so full of him — so heavy with the weight of his cock and the heat of his skin — that there was no room left for pride or the world outside. You felt the pressure building, a tidal wave of overstimulation that threatened to shatter your mind.
"Dunk! Oh gods, I'm... I'm going to—!"
"Hold it," he grunted, his voice thick and desperate as his own rhythm became shaky. "Don't you go yet. Take it. Take every bit of me. Be a good girl and take it all."
The air in the room was thick with the scent of salt and sex, the only sound the rhythmic, violent slap of his heavy thighs against yours and the obscene, wet squelch of your own heat being beaten into a froth. He was a relentless, driving force, a storm of pure, unadulterated lust, and you were the shore he was crashing against. You were a ragdoll in his massive arms, a toy for his pleasure, and you loved every second of the ruin. Every time his hips slammed home, you felt the air leave your lungs in a broken, high-pitched cry. "Dunk! Oh gods! Fuck, Dunk!"
He bit you. His teeth sank into the soft, pale flesh of your shoulder, a sharp, possessive claim that sent a jolt of pure, electric heat straight to your core. You cried out, a raw, ragged sound that was half pain and half delirious ecstasy.
"Remember this," he snarled, his voice a hot, wet vibration against your mangled skin. "Remember whose fucking pussy this is."
"Yours," you sobbed, the word a desperate, frantic promise. "It's yours. All yours. Dunk, I can feel every bit of you inside me. God, it feels so good."
You knew. With a terrifying, soul-crushing certainty, you knew you could never go back. The silk sheets, the feigned indifference, the hollow little games—they were all ashes in your mouth now.
This. This brutal, filthy truth against a cold stone wall was the only thing that was real. You were so full of him it felt like you were being split in two, a deep, invasive pressure that made your vision swim. You had never felt so heavy, so completely occupied by another person. It was a thick, blunt ache that made your inner muscles clench in a frantic attempt to hold every inch of him.
Your hand snaked down between your sweat-slick bodies. Your fingers found your clit, a hard, throbbing nub of desperate need. You circled it, matching the punishing, rhythmic thud of his hips.
The dual sensation was a symphony of agony and bliss. Your inner muscles clamped around the thick shaft impaling you, a tight, desperate suction that tried to pull every drop of him inside. You felt the first internal spasm, a violent, honeyed contraction that rippled through your walls and squeezed him until he groaned.
"Dunk! Oh gods, I'm coming! I'm coming on your cock!" you wailed, your head thrashing against the stone.
He let out a raw, guttural moan as he felt you seize around him, his own control finally shattering.
"Seven, girl... you're fucking milking me," he rasped, his pace becoming a frantic, blurring violence as he hammered into your heat. "You're so tight... drowning me in it... feels so fucking good, you little slut."
That was it. That broke him.
A raw, guttural roar tore from his throat, a sound of pure, unhinged surrender. He pulled out of you so fast you were left empty and reeling. He fisted your hair, yanking your head back so your throat was bared.
"Look at me," he panted, his face a dark, angry mask of pure, masculine triumph.
His other hand fisted around his cock, pumping it with three rough, desperate strokes. Hot, thick jets of cum splashed across your face, painting your lips, your cheeks, and your eyelids in heavy, white streaks. You opened your mouth, greedy and unhinged, catching the salty, sharp taste of his climax on your tongue.
He dropped you. Just let go.
You crumpled to the stone floor in a graceless, shaking heap. Your body was a mass of thrumming aches, a ruined, beautiful mess dripping with his salt and your own spent arousal.
"Your fault," he panted, the words a raw, ragged accusation. He stood over you, a monster of muscle and shadow, his chest heaving with each ragged breath. "This is all your fucking fault."
You looked up at him, your vision blurred by the cum and tears in your eyes. You saw the raw, possessive lust in his gaze, the way his jaw was firmed with the effort of controlling himself.
"I won't be able to have you just once," he admitted, the words a low, dangerous growl. "This is wrong. So fucking wrong. You're my charge. The daughter of my liege lord."
You didn't care. You didn't care about the rules, about the consequences, about the world outside this small, dark room. All that mattered was him. You scrambled to your feet and knelt before him, your head bowed in a gesture of complete and utter submission. You pressed your lips to the hard, corded muscles of his hamstrings, a desperate, worshipful kiss.
"I don't want any other men," you whispered, your words a raw, desperate plea. "I only want you. I'll be your good girl. I promise. I’ll be your dirty secret.”
Duncan let out a long, shuddering breath—a sound that was half agony, half relief. He leaned down, his body a wall of radiating heat, and kissed you. It was a slow, deep pull, a stark contrast to the brutal, punishing mouth from before. His tongue explored yours in a gentle, possessive dance that felt like both a promise and a threat.
You were a beautiful, broken thing, covered in his sticky, drying seed. It was in your hair, on your face, smeared across your breasts—the tangible proof of your submission. You were his girl. His property. And you wouldn't have it any other way.
He pulled back, his blue eyes dark and unreadable. He reached out and wiped a stray glob of cum from your cheek with his thumb. He brought it to your lips, and you opened your mouth without hesitation, your tongue darting out to clean him of the mess he had made. He didn't respond with words; he just watched you, studying the details of your face, the way the firelight glinted in your tear-streaked eyes, and the way your lips stayed swollen and red from his kisses.
Then, he stood up, a slow shift of bone and heavy muscle. He was a magnificent creature, a god of war and lust, and you were the devoted follower. You watched him, your eyes wide and adoring, as he walked over to the small table in the corner. He poured a cup of water from a pitcher and brought it back to you.
"Drink," he commanded, his voice a low rumble.
You took the cup, your hands trembling so badly the water sloshed against the rim. You drank, the cool liquid a balm to your parched, sore throat. When you were done, you handed the cup back. "Thank you," you whispered.
He just grunted, a noncommittal sound of acknowledgement. He set the cup on the floor, his naked body a display of raw power in the shadows. His hands were on you again, not with the violence of before, but with a strength that was just as absolute. One arm hooked behind your knees, the other around your back. He scooped you up from the cold stone floor as if you were nothing; a doll, a prize. Your head fell back against his shoulder, your limbs loose and useless.
"You should go back to your room," he said, the words rough, but the vibration in his chest was a comfort against your cheek.
You clung to him, your arms wrapping around his thick neck, your face burying in the warm, sweaty skin of his shoulder. You inhaled. He smelled of leather, steel, and the sharp, metallic tang of your own sex on him. It was the best thing you had ever smelled.
You thought of the courtyard—of the way he had knelt in the mud and taken the weight of the other guards' boots against his ribs just to keep them away from you. You’d never admit it, but when you saw him fall, you felt your own life end.
"Don't send me away," you whimpered, your voice a small, broken thing. "Please, Duncan."
"I’ll give you my..." he started, his voice a gruff, reluctant offer. "I’ll give you my cloak. Something to wear. You can sneak through the kitchens before the guards rotate. You can’t be seen like this."
You shook your head, your hair brushing against his jaw. "No," you whispered, your lips moving against his skin. "I don’t want a cloak. I don't want to hide what you did to me."
He didn’t answer. He just started to walk, carrying you to the bed. He laid you down on the rough bear-pelt, a gentle, deliberate movement. He lay down beside you, but he left a space—a carefully constructed gap between your bodies.
You moved. You closed the distance, pressing your naked, sticky body against his side, your head pillowed on his chest. His skin was a living furnace. You could feel the steady, tectonic beat of his heart under your ear.
"I want to stay here with you," you whispered, a raw, desperate confession. "I want to be yours."
His arm came around you, a slow movement that was both a possessive claim and a gesture of comfort. He hauled you close until there was no air between you. "You are," he grunted, the word a low sound of pure satisfaction. "You're mine now."
He just held you, a silent, possessive presence in the dark. The drying cum on your skin felt like a visible sign that you belonged to him. Every shift of your body was a reminder of his possession. You didn't want to wash it off.
You looked up at him, your vision blurred by the sticky fluid on your eyelashes. You could see the dark shadow of his jaw, the faint glint of the firelight in his eyes. He was watching you, his expression unreadable.
"Will you... will you still be my knight?" you whispered. "Will you still protect me?"
He didn't answer for a long moment. He just held you, his arm a heavy weight around your shoulders.
"I'll always be your knight," he said, the words a low, rough sound of absolute certainty. "But things are different now. You can't go back to the way they were.”
"I don't want to go back," you said, a fierce declaration. "I want to stay here. With you."
He pulled the heavy pelt over both of you. The fur was coarse, smelling of old winter and the oil he used on his blade. You pressed your face into the hollow of his neck, your tongue darting out to taste the salt of his sweat. You were small against him, a scrap of pale silk vanished against the mountain of his chest.
He reached up, his hand cupping the side of your face, his thumb dragging across your bottom lip, which was still swollen and stained from his mouth.
"You realize what this is," he rasped, his blue eyes turning dark as the sea at night. "There’s no honor in this bed. No songs for what we just did. If I keep you here, I’m not your protector anymore. I’m the man who ruins you every time the sun goes down."
"Then ruin me," you breathed, pressing a kiss into his palm. "Every night. Until there's nothing left for my father to recognize."
A low, possessive growl started deep in his chest. He didn't speak again. He simply rolled, pinning you beneath the heavy heat of his body one last time. He didn't enter you again, not yet. He just buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling the scent of your combined spent lust as if it were the only air left in the world.
Outside, the first grey light of dawn began to bleed into the courtyard, but inside the barracks, the shadows were absolute. You closed your eyes, listening to the steady, tectonic thud of his heart against your own.
You would have traded your crown for a collar, your pride for his touch, and as his rough hands began to wander over your hips again, you knew you had never been more powerful than you were right now: broken, filthy, and entirely his.
