Work Text:
I have been the servant to Jacques le Gris for nigh on four years now, and it's as well as any other employment one could find. He's good to me, sometimes too good. His attentions are known to be charming, but he casts his net wide.
I know there's no harm meant in it, he's merely flirtatious. The man seduces everything he passes, even his own reflection. So I don't take it so seriously when he backs me into dark corners, whispering half-hearted affections.
They don't get to me half as much as the more uncouth ones do.
When he tells me the things he could do to me, the ways he can make me scream for him. He promises me that he can give me 'the little death' like no other man before him, nor after.
That can't be too difficult, I think, being that no other man has come nigh to doing so. No other man has seen my bed, my maidenhead intact. I was intended to be a prize, but my father had died shortly after my mother, leaving me orphaned and in need of work.
Without a father to negotiate my marriage, I had no suitors.
And so I came to work here, it's not so grand a house. And le Gris is not some common slouch, there's not much to do for him which he does not do himself. And of course, there's not much to do when the lord of the house is not here.
He hasn't been home in some time, I almost miss his boisterous parties being held in the great hall. He's off at war, and winter has settled over the estate, leaving this place cold without his warm countenance.
Sometimes I allow myself to worry over him, but I find myself being reminded often that my master doesn't need worried over. He's singularly formidable, not easily worn down. I have nothing to fear.
It's quite cold tonight, the other handmaid is away, her mother having fallen ill, and the estate is left to me, the cooks, and an odd handful of stable hands. I spend too much time in my room, and I think it wouldn't hurt much to light a fire in the parlor.
I think I'll read until I'm tired enough to retire to bed.
Le Gris' library is grand. I know he spends lengths of time here, pouring over books and ledgers and maps. I play with the abacus mindlessly in passing, toying one bead to the other side and then doubling back to right it to the way it was before.
I do not want to throw off my master's work.
I hear a sudden bang; it's heavy, wood against stone. I'm startled, but go in search of the sound. As I near the front door, I'm surprised. Jacques is stumbling into the foyer, bloodied, so cold that his armor still carries snow stuck to the ice.
He looks to be in need of assistance, and though the first thought that comes to my mind should be getting one of the stable hands to assist him, I run to where he's falling onto the stone floor. Luckily, I'm able to slide on my knees just quickly enough to catch his skull from colliding with the ground.
He looks to be daily surprised for a moment before a toothy smirk falls over his face. His eyes roll back into his head, lazy grin still stretching wide, as he breathes out, "Alexis?"
Just after, he's out cold. Passed out in my arms. I can feel his weight grow heavy, impossible to move, I adjust myself to sit, maneuvering my legs to stretch out beneath his shoulders. His head lolls to the side, prominent nose nuzzling unconsciously into my bosom.
I can't help the way my breath hitches at the sensation, even though I know he's unaware of what he's doing, and his warm breath catches the attention of my nipples beneath my dressing gown. They pebble as he nuzzles closer. I glance around quickly, to assure were still alone in the foyer.
We are.
As I look back to le Gris, his eyes are open and he's looking directly at me. His eyes are clear, less hazy and more cognizant than when he'd first come stumbling in.
"Alexis."
His voice is softer than I think I've ever heard it, even pressed into corners and being forced to hear the way he claims he can own me. This is deadly soft, bordering on genuine, and it fills my gut with a dreadfully welcome warmth.
"My lord, are you injured?" I realize I'm shaking when I lift a hand to his brow bone, fingers hovering above the blood caked into his dark facial hair.
He smirks, looking like himself, and tries to lift his head.
I lean away, removing my hands from his face and head, allowing him to unfold himself from my lap. He makes no move to get up, just angles his head to look me in the eye. I meet his gaze for the first time I can remember.
Perhaps I'm merely concerned for his wellbeing.
"I miss the summertime."
He says quietly, his voice is but the ghost of a whisper, gently falling into the air.
Perhaps he's not as cognizant as I'd thought.
He may have sustained a head injury. I move to help him up, hands clasping his hulking arms to support his weight. He stumbles up and into my arms. I know I shouldn't question ulterior motives while he's in this state, but it feels as if he's playing up his injury a bit.
He leans into me heavily, leaving me no choice but to hold him close as I tow him towards the parlor, but it almost feels as if he's still carrying much of his own weight. With one of his massive arms slung over my shoulders, I wrap an arm around his middle, hugging him to my side as we hobble down the hall.
He presses his nose to the crown of my hair, inhaling deeply. Somewhere in the recesses of my mind, I'm thankful for showering recently.
He groans as I lay him back against the chaise in the parlor, propping him up next to the fire.
"Will you be alright here, my lord?" I ask.
I should be off to find a man who's better equipped to care for my master, but there's something telling me to tend to him, myself.
"Don't leave me." He grasps my wrist, pleading before I have a chance to turn.
His eyes are wide, child like, and I don't think I've ever seen him this vulnerable – if I've ever seen him look vulnerable at all.
"I'll need to go get–"
"Don't wake anyone, please. I don't want anyone to see me in this state." He cuts me off.
I huff a breath of frustrated air, he looks almost guilty for having stopped me. I soften a bit, unwillingly.
"I just need some fresh water, if I'm to tend to your injuries myself." I say quietly, assuringly.
I find myself patting his hand gently, the hand which grips my wrist. He looks at the action, a look akin to wonderment in his eyes. It's oddly genuine, I think.
He swallows hard before letting me go, nodding gently when his eyes meet mine again. I offer him a small smile before I turn to fetch a bowl and cloth.
When I return, he's wincing as he struggles with the armor still lashed to his torso.
"May I assist you with that, my lord?" I ask, pointing to his struggle.
He smiles, nods hesitantly. His cheeks are tinted a soft pink.
Is he embarrassed?
I smile back, sitting the bowl of water down by his feet. His armor is heavy, but I find the strength to relieve him of it, discarding it next to the chaise. Beneath the armor, he wears light padding, which he removes by himself. I occupy my hands with wetting the cloth, allowing myself to watch him undress.
It's necessary I look, I tell myself; I must see where he might be in need of cleansing and binding. It's my job.
But as his shirt is finally removed and the angular planes of his chest and abdomen are revealed, it feels more like a privilege than a chore. His skin glistens with snowmelt in the firelight, muscles rippling with his movements. He pitches the soiled shirt into the fire, it cackles and flares, casting a red and orange plume of light over his face.
It catches in the hazel of his eyes, burning onto me.
Am I breathing?
I choke on my next breath, and it comes out ragged and strangled. Le Gris smiles knowingly. I take a deep breath before approaching him, patting the damp cloth against his skin. Blessedly, he seems uninjured aside from the blood on his brow, his chest and solid stomach are relatively clean and unscathed.
There are scars there, though years have healed them and the flex of his muscles tells me he's not so worn as he looks. His eyes are locked to me as I clean his chest. I wonder if he knows I can tell there's no injury here, I'm simply cleansing this area because I want to.
I don't know if I want him to know or not.
Discarding the first cloth, I dampen a new one in the fresh water before wringing it out and raising it to his face. His eyes are hard on mine, boring into my soul like he's seeking out secrets. I tremble, bite my lip.
"Will you close your eyes, my lord?"
He smiles again before obeying, no words or rebuttals. Safe from his prying eyes, I take a steadying breath and gently dab the cloth on his brow. I cannot yet distinguish the exact location nor severity of his injury, but the blood does gradually clear from his brow hairs.
"What happened?" I ask quietly.
He inhales long and deep, I almost worry I've spoken out of turn until he sighs and says,
"I miss the summertime."
Of course he must. The winter has only brought cold and war, I can't imagine the things he's seen out there. The freezing nights he's spent alone and hungry. It warms my heart to him, somehow. I understand why he must be missing the summer, but it is still odd that he's only said this.
"I fear you have hit your head, my lord. I'll need to call for a physician."
I try to turn from him, determined to wake a stable hand to call for the doctor, or even don a cloak and leave to collect him, myself.
"Alexis." Le Gris has caught my wrist again, turns me to face him.
"I'll hear none of it, you need to be seen. You're not making any sense, and you're bleeding –"
"It's not my blood." He says quickly.
I can feel my brow furrow, even more confused as he takes the cloth from my hand and wipes his brow roughly. The blood clears to reveal unscathed skin. Unthinking, I raise a hand to him and rub the other bloodied areas with my thumb, watching as it only reveals more and more uninjured skin.
He keeps his hand around my wrist the whole time. Looking up at me.
"You're not hurt, then?" I ask, not quite understanding.
He laughs gently.
"Aside from the cold and the way my limbs ache, no."
I am vaguely aware of the way his thumb begins to rub small circles into the back of my hand.
"But… you keep saying–"
"How I miss the summer, I know. Have you asked me why?"
I shake my head. I haven't asked.
"I miss the summertime because you always wear those flowers in your hair. Milk thistle, am I right?"
His hand comes up to my hair, wrapping around the braid that hangs over my shoulder. Suddenly my throat feels all thick – I'm having trouble breathing, lost for words. I can only look at him as he watches me.
I find the strength to nod hesitantly, mouth agape. He glances at my parted lips before a tiny gasp escapes his own. The hand which is still wrapped around my wrist pulls me toward him until he places my hand against his bare chest.
His skin is warming, slightly wet from the damp cloth I'd used to cleanse him. He tilts his head up to look at me, his lips are so close to mine, breath pouring into the little space between us.
"I love those flowers. I love the way you lace them into the plaits of your hair." He says softly.
I swallow, feeling my knees go weak.
This isn't like all the other times when he's backed me into a corner in an abandoned corridor during a party. Not like those times his breath reeked of wine and his words were filthy and hurried.
He's beneath me, urging my feet to stand on either side of his bent knee, straddling his leg as I stand. He's soft and gentle and genuine. I can tell he's genuine, he's taking his time and the words he's whispering have meaning. He means this. It's not just a carefully crafted seduction.
"Thank you, my lord."
He moans, it's quiet but intentional. He wants me to hear it, watches to see how it may affect me. And it does. My eyelids flutter closed, hand lying flat to his chest, fingertips spreading to caress the warmth of his skin. I drag my fingernails down, across his pectoral, over his nipple.
He sucks in a quick breath, pulling me tighter to him until I'm forced to sit on his knee, thighs spread.
My dress in bunched between my spread legs and his trousers, but I can still feel the glorious strength of his thigh against my sex. I fight the sudden overwhelming urge to rock my hips against him, almost unable to hear the words that spill from his lips next.
"So pretty, always so pretty." I catch, having missed the first part.
His voice is throaty as he continues.
"All I could think of. It was so cold, and so many of the men died, and all I could think of was you." One of his hands is at my back, palm sliding up my spine.
I can't function, can't breathe, I'm only listening to him speak.
"Never wanted to settle down, not if it couldn't be you ."
He's speaking in pieces now, not full sentences. His forehead rests against mine and both our eyes are closed as he admits his deepest desires against my lips.
"So cold and thought of you. Of milk thistle in your hair. Those sounds you'd make when I would back you into a wall."
I whimper, overwhelmed, and in turn he groans. Long and louder than we've been for a long time, now.
"Like that, yes. But more innocent. You never let me this close before." He whispers, lips falling closer to mine.
Just a little closer, he just needs to lean in a bit more and I might catch his lips with mine. I find myself wanting to. I need him, I want him, I think I've always wanted him.
"Alexis?"
He's leaning away and my heart drops, he must be coming to his senses. I'm a servant, that's all. Something for him to play with when he's bored. I feel stupid and desperate, I feel as if I've been fooled.
He pulls back to look at me and I meet his eye with a furrowed brow. I'm ready, ready for him to smile wolfishly and say something filthy – ready for him to ruin this beautiful moment.
"I missed you." He says instead.
I search his eyes frantically, looking for insincerity. He only stares back, looking equal parts terrified and hopeful.
I'm not even sure who leaned in first, whose lips were the first ones to attack, but all I know now is the taste of his mouth. His lips are warm and tender, tongue sweet as it sweeps across my own. I want to drink him deep, nibble on the sugar of his tongue for hours.
His arms cage around me, spread fingers feeling every inch of my back, rucking up the material of my dressing gown before eventually drawing the fabric off of my shoulders and tossing the garment to the ground.
Shamelessly, my hips rock against him. The solidness of his thigh between my own provides the perfect resistance against my sex. I feel like I'm dripping liquid fire, burning for him.
Before I know it, his hands are clutching the globes of my bottom in his grip. I can tell he's standing – no, walking – supporting my weight as he carries me off. I hope we're going to his bedroom, I often avoided it for fear I would end up seduced here. But now that I have been, I can't bring myself to care.
Though I wouldn't exactly know which bed my back collides with until after, for in this moment, the world fades away to only him. He's bent beautifully over me on the bed, gently places my feet to rest against the mattress.
My nightgown is lost in a frenzy, I'm not sure whose hands found the hem first. Though I know I actively helped in the shedding of the fabric from my heated skin. I had entertained the thought of this moment before, thought I might hate it. But I am pleasantly proven incorrect.
I have thought before, if I had been seduced to le Gris' bed, he would not look at me as I would like to be looked out. Too many women have been beneath him, many more beautiful than I - to be sure. I might have thought he may tire of a naked woman's body.
Though that seems not to be the case.
He's looking at me as if I'm precious gold, glowing beneath him. Ready and his for the taking. And I am. I belong to him in this moment, though I'm unsure I ever will be again, I belong to him now and here.
His hands fill themselves with handfuls of my flesh wherever he can find purchase. He rolls my nipples between his thumbs and forefingers, pinches the buds gently to watch me keen. He kneads my breasts in his palms, slides hot hands down my stomach and trails fingertips towards the wet place between my legs.
If I'm embarrassed, it must be buried deep down, for I can't find it in me. I feel as though I should be ashamed of the sounds I hear and his fingers slip through my folds, the way he has a hard time finding a foothold through the slick. But his hands are skilled and clever, and he tunes a place as one would an instrument and I play beautifully beneath him.
I writhe and wither away, calling out nonsense and pleading with my master. For what, I'm not sure, but I know he can give it to me. And I know I want him to. He's grinning like I don't think I've ever seen him smile before, it's not cocky. Not self-satisfied and self-serving but genuinely happy. He looks happy.
I want to make him happy all the time.
He's speaking, encouraging assurances into my ear as his hands leave me to tend to himself. I know, from the accounts of other ladies, that men do not pack so much length in their pants as they boast they do. I assure myself from the many times I've been told that only two or three inches is to be expected. Only about the length of my own fingers, when I explore those places inside me.
So I am inexorably stunned when I glance down to see the behemoth between le Gris' legs.
I feel deceived, lied to. He's not going to fit. I often feel stuffed to the brim when only taking my slender fingers, but I'm fairly certain he wouldn't even fit in my grip, had I the courage to reach out and touch him. He most certainly will not fit inside me.
I whimper, looking to him for help.
"Do I frighten you, Alexis?" He asks, frown worrying his brow.
I swallow, a faint gulp is heard in the silence.
"I don't think I can accommodate you, my lord." I whisper, glancing to the heavy beast which stands at the ready between his legs.
His eyes follow mine and a wicked smile splits his face.
"You will." He says darkly.
'Will . ' Not 'can,' but 'will.'
I will take his cock.
The word is filthy, but I've thought it up myself. And I'm surprised to find the word doesn't terrify me as it might have once, not so long ago. But here and now, I find myself salivating to learn the ways he could torture me with that cock.
I wonder if he'd like to hear me say it.
If he wants me to be dirty with him, swallow the pride which has denied him many times before.
"Can I…" I lose my nerve, reaching out for him.
His look softens and he ambles closer, supporting his weight as he presents himself to me. He's slow in his movements, not hesitant, but careful to show me he's gentle. He doesn't want to scare me off. The thought is quite endearing.
I swallow that pride down in a gulp.
"I want to suck your cock, my lord."
His eyes blaze black, and his weight pins me to the downy mattress before I can blink. He's crawling over me, positioning his hips over my head and grips his length at the base.
It looks larger than life, even in his massive hands, and suddenly I'm quite concerned I may not even be able to stretch my mouth wide enough. He gives me no time to reconsider, though, before he dips the head between my lips.
He's soft and so hot . I'm worried he's running a fever, but the way his length is flushed an angry red looks to be right. I think everything is alright as I suckle on the spongy head he's notched into my mouth.
He groans long and loud, the timbre of that sound sends shockwaves through my soaking core.
"Take me further, Alexis. Open up your throat." He encourages, gentle hands on my cheeks.
It's as if he might pry me open, the way he sweeps his thumbs against my lips with an easy deftness. I can tell he's trying to hold himself back. I let my throat relax, focus on drawing him into me, and smile a bit triumphantly when I feel him seat deeper.
He's not missing a single thing and whimpers as I smile around his length.
"That's right, you like that don't you?" He coos.
It's sweet, the way he murmurs to me, as one would call to a precious child. I sweep my tongue from one side to the other, watching the way he seizes up and the next words die in his throat. Experimentally, I curl my tongue up, down the middle of the underside of his shaft.
He keens, stutters, a rush of air expels from his lungs and he looks as a knight does when hit with the blow of a lance.
He pulls away from me too soon, spoiling my fun. I enjoy controlling the way he reacts, I enjoy watching him lose himself to my actions. I have no idea of what's to come, but from the way the other ladies talk, I will not enjoy it so much. I frown as he pulls himself free.
"Don't pout, Alexis."
He grins at me, resituating as he removes his weight from my chest. He lines our hips up and takes one of my legs in a firm grip, carelessly wrapping it around his hip and hindquarters. I can feel the hardness of his muscle there, against my calf.
"Need to feel your cunt."
I am unutterably full . Though, that's not quite the word. I'm bursting. I'm being split open. And it hurts, but not exactly in the way I've been told. I feel as though I should want to scream and pull away, close my sinful legs and die of shame and pain. But there's something blissful and bright on the horizon, and I let him push on. Fill me more.
And yet more, and more . I've about lost my patience. There can't possibly be more to go. I'm just about to voice my concern, open my pinched eyes to see just how much more there is left to go, when:
"Oh. You're, you're –"
He's reached the end, I can feel it. His cockhead is pressed up against the back wall of me, blunt and burning and aching beautifully against my ripe womb. I can feel every pump of blood through his prominent veins, every twitch and throb as he moves inside me.
I'm at a loss for words, opening my eyes to Jacques - hoping he'll fill the silence.
His eyes are already on me, jaw slack, hanging open as he stares at me incredulously.
"You're– are you a virgin ?"
I swallow, feeling a heavy dread fill my chest. Would he not prefer I be? I know a husband expects virginity of a wife, but perhaps my lord expects more experience of a bedfellow whom he has no intent of marrying.
"I– am. Yes. " I squeak, terrified and guilty.
His brows raise, lips parted beautifully as a disbelieving-breathy laugh escapes his tongue. He smiles, bears down and draws out just a fraction of a centimeter before he slams back into me with force. I squeak and he whimpers pitifully, pinching his brow together.
"So tight, and all mine ?"
Oh. Oh.
"Fuck, knew you were perfect." He growls.
He's moving now, hips pistoning as he spears his way into me over and over again. I whine under him, pleased and full and cock-hungry.
"Knew you belonged to me."
He grows faster and faster, still. It seems he may never tire as he drives himself into the heat between my legs. He buries himself there like it's consecrated ground, grinding the spongy tip of himself against this spot which makes me–
"Ohh my God!" I curse, toes curling against his back.
I fling my arms above me, looming for support against the headboard. My legs spread wider, and I hook my knees above his shoulders. There's a flash in his eyes before he falls forward hard, harder, deep, deeper! He's so deep and I'm so impossibly full and I feel my walls clamp down on him once, twice, three times — too many times to count! I'm clenching over and over again uncontrollably.
Le Gris is pounding the headboard with a fist, hip bones slamming into the flesh behind my thighs with punishing force. His face is contorted into a lovely grimace, one that looks as if he's mourning a death. Or perhaps dying himself. A little death.
A little death! I'm there, I'm there! It's so close, he's pushing me over this edge - this toppling edge, I'm teetering, just there, about to fall, I clench around him so tight, trying to topple him over with me. There's a coil wound tight inside me, tighter still, so tight it's blinding and my scream is silent to deaf ears!
"FUCK!" Jacques bellows, and I'm able to hear it across the abyss as I float away on a cloud of sighs.
My womb is clenching constantly, his seed is sticky, ebbing around his throbbing cock still lodged tightly inside. His weight collapses above me, heavy and warm. I feel I should want to push him away, but my ankles lock loosely behind his back and I hold him to me. He nuzzles my bare chest, nose nudging the softness of my breast.
"Could marry you." He muses quietly, and my heart stills its heavy thundering.
"What?" I whisper in disbelief.
"No one to negotiate with, would just have to ask you." He murmurs to my neck.
I pull back to look at him with misty eyes, hoping he can't see. He just looks at me, small smile on his lips.
"Can do it better than this, another time. Forget it for now."
He rests his head on my chest, wrapping his arms around my middle. My heart throbs for him, full and sated, like the rest of me.
"Forget for now, but someday?" I ask, barely a whisper.
"Someday soon. I can make it perfect. But sleep now, rest before I take my fill of you again." He says simply, as if this isn't a miracle that he should want to marry me.
" Again ?" I laugh.
He raises his head to grin at me like a wolf does a lamb.
"Again and again and again."