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Message-ID: <39933asstr$1040220605@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: fesseln1@aol.com (FESSELN1)
Subject: {ASSM} RP On French Soil Pt1 (Mf,bd,nc,viol,hist)
Date: Wed, 18 Dec 2002 09:10:05 -0500
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                            ON FRENCH SOIL

                            By T.S. Fesseln

Disclaimer: This is a work of amatory fantasy.  Any resemblance to people
living or dead is purely coincidental.  If you are under the age of 18, please
stop reading here.  If you are a bit squeamish about graphic depiction's of
sex, please stop reading here.  The author takes no responsibility for those
who wish to reenact anything written below.

Permission is granted for private use.  The author wishes any agencies that
wish to publish this work, to please contact him at FESSELN1@aol.com  .  Any
comments are gladly accepted and encouraged.


Chapter One: 'Unto The Breach'

      The siege-fires burnished a halo in the night sky over Harfleur,
Silhouetting the broken city walls and the dead and dying men upon them.
Within those walls, the sounds of battle still echoed through the streets as
Englishmen ranged through the cobbled streets looking for the loot that would
fill their pockets about that which the young King Henry promised.

      Sir Edward de Valence lifted his visor as he rode through the narrow
streets littered with the bodies of the dead and dying, careful to make sure
that the injured of the enemy would not fight again.  The ranks had broken
and the raping of the port of Harfleur had begun in earnest.  He had even
dismissed his own men so that they could loot their share. He had another
mission in mind.

      The House of D'Astier was where he had remembered it on the street of
wine merchants.  Phillip D'Astier was a name that many a merchant of the
grape envied and hated.  His methods were mercenary and cruel and his silver
graced many an official's hand.  His cogs doubled as privateers.  His gold
could buy death.

      And it had.

      Edward's young son, Bruce, had perished in France while there on
business.  Edward's gold bought him the information he needed to know: Phillip
D'Astier may not have held the dagger, but he had paid for it.  

      And now he would pay for it again.

      The door to the two-story dwelling was broken down.  As Edward
dismounted, he could hear the cries of rage and agony within.  He gathered his
battleaxe and stepped through the darkened doorway.  

      Inside the small corridor, he found two of D'Astiers' hired men lying
dead in dark pools of blood.  The face of one had been crushed and from the
ruins of his face, protruding teeth gave Edward an unsavory grin.  The other
lay entwined in his own glistening bowels.  The small corridor had open doors
to either side, one had a bright light that spilled out of it and lit the men's
remains.

     Edward quickly glanced in there, seeing the ruins of a kitchen.  The other
doorway opened to the main hall with it's dying embers on the hearth and upset
furniture.  Another two bodies lay sprawled over the wreckage, none of which
Edward recognized.

      The cries of anguish could be heard coming from the solar.  Readying his
axe, Edward rushed toward it across the great hall to the narrow doorway from
which he heard the clatter.

      Entering the room, Edward could see the flames starting to engulf the far
side of the room and silhouetted against the inferno were three men and a
woman.   All three had stripped the young maiden and had tied her spread upon a
rough table.  By the gargoyle grins and laughs of these rough men of England,
they had had their pleasure and now left the girl to be consumed by the hungry
fingers of flame that were quickly spreading over tapestries and beams.

      These men did not know what fortune lay tied before them.

      Nor did they know that fortune would turn upon them.

      The first man, still trying to tie one of his leggings, glanced up to see
his life vanish in a single blink.  Edward's blade swung upwards, catching
underneath the roughs' chin and in a wide arc, shaving off most of the man's
face, his scream gurgling though his blood.  The second, frozen with inaction
as his mind still tried to puzzle what was happening, could only let out a
strangled cry of horror as Edward's axe buried itself into the man's soft
belly.  The force of the blow sent the wretch teetering nearly in half into the
growing flames.

      The third man had his fellows to thank for the few moments it took to arm
himself.  He was a nasty fellow with bulbous nose and teeth like broken
puss-colored stumps.  Crouched and armed with a well-worn sword, his eyes had a
madman's yellow gleam.

      "She's 'ur's if'n you want," he spat, smiling, "I's done 'er."

      Edward remained silent and stepped toward the soldier, axe glinting red
in the growing firelight.

      The rough giggled a bit, and tried to step away from the metal-clad
nightmare that had interrupted his fun.  If he could win, he could still relish
the screams and sizzling skin of the girl as his precious flames licked at her
sex.  That was all he really wanted.

      A beam snapped under the caress of the flame, sending a firefly shower of
embers over the two.  The rough shrieked as the sparks landed in his hair
seconds before the edge of Edward's axe.  The blade cleft the rough's skull
with a wet crack and stuck there.  The haft of the axe had split with Edward's
effort.

      The fire had spread to engulf two walls of the small room.  Hot plaster
chunks rained down.  The comedy of Dante could compare well but Edward did not
seem to notice, his mind locked onto the maiden tied to the table before him.

      Her nude figure was like molten bronze in the firelight.  Her eyes wide
and dark, her cloth-gagged lips as rose petals, her neck slight and graceful.
The soft curves of her full breasts seemed to plead for his touch.  Her belly
was as smooth and as flat as a stream-polished stone and her quim was cloaked
with a wonderful dark-furred patch.  Her legs were long and lithe and his
desire for the daughter of D'Astier flared as she still tried to struggle in
her tethers and scream into her gag.

     Drawing a dagger, Edward slit the cords binding her ankles to each of the
tables' legs, then pinning them together, cinched them tight.  At the head of
the table, he did the same to her wrists, twisting them until they were pinned
behind the maid's back.  Even as helpless as she was, the bitch-child of
D'Astier continued to struggle and fight as if she wanted to perish in the
fire.

     It took no little effort to heft the slight girl over his shoulder and
carry her through what had become a pyre.  What strained Edward was her
squirming and kicking.  It took both his arms to force her out of the doors. 
Soon, he was outside beside his horse; the night air feeling like ice on his
heat drenched body.

     His prize was still struggling, but her efforts were growing weaker as the
strength drained away from her body.  Her screams had become faint mewls of
anguish and fatigue.  With no little effort, he draped her over the pommel of
his saddle.  He stroked her lovely, rounded arse; her quim peeking out like a
plum ripe for plucking.  But not, here, Edward thought as he cloaked her with a
looted tapestry.

     He climbed wearily into the saddle and settled back into its cantle.
He could still see his struggling bait in the outlines of the tapestry, but if
anyone should glance his way, her form would be hidden from sight.

     The ride through the streets of Harfleur was marked only by the amblings
of drunken Englishmen and the cries of the dispossessed French.  The siege had
left both hungry and desperate and now only the victors could make what little
merriment they could.  Weeks of being camped in bogs thick with flies and
summer stink had taken their toll.  The King had ordered out the camp followers
and the wine the men drank had been fetid.  It was no wonder that their victory
had become an orgy after the rich had been ransomed.

     Outside the walls the night air did not seem as thick as Edward urged his
mount through the wooden palisades built for the siege.  The dark skeletons of
trebuchets looked like empty gallows and the smell of fired gunpowder still
cloaked the air.  The cannons were silent this St. Maurice's Eve, the port had
surrendered to King Harry.

     There were few men in the old campsite, most of the men had moved their
belongings into the town and into what was now their homes.  Edward would soon
follow but only after he made sure his captive was secure.

      The baggage wagon that Edward had called home had become mired in the
soft ground until Edward knew it was not going to move.  It's blues and whites
and golds had become stained and faded and the dray horses slaughtered to fill
the bellies of his charges.  There was an untended fire dying and little else
left of the camp as Edward dismounted and tethered his horse.  King Harry would
see to it that Edward got his share of the ransom, for the king was indebted to
his household for more than a few coin.  There was no need for him to loot. 
One of the few things he wanted was wriggling underneath the tapestry.

      Edward pulled the covering off, brushed back the maiden's long dark
tresses and looked again into the face of his prize, Catherine D'Astier.  Her
ebony eyes were wide and doe-like in their fear and her muffled pleas from
behind her gag did nothing but arouse Edward more.  

      He brushed her cheek, smiled, then went around to the other side to lift
her off the saddle.  As he grabbed both legs, he could smell her perfume, as
heady and wanton as a mare in season.  Her maidenhead had already been sundered
so his taking her would not now damage her value to him.  Besides, Edward
thought to himself, it would bring him vengeance to swyve the daughter of the
man that had killed his son.

      He carted her over his shoulder and brought her in to lay her amongst his
baggage.  Grabbing her ankles, he bent them to meet her wrists and knotted them
there in a hog-tie. He then rolled her over onto her back so he could drink in
her body again.

     She squirmed and struggled, her breasts jiggling with the effort.  Her
nipples were stiff and erect and her knees opened almost to invite him. 
Between her legs and below her dark, thick nest, the slit of her quim showed,
swollen like ripe fruit.  Her mewls behind her gag sounded like pleas and her
eyes showed both want and fear.

     Normally, his squire would help him out of his armor, but the boy was no
where to be seen.  Edward labored to rid himself of his armor but soon he was
undressed and kneeling over the helpless Catherine.

     Edward's rough hands forced apart the knees of the girl before him,
pinning them back and exposing her sex.  A wail of pain made Edward stop to cut
the bindings between her ankles and wrists.  It relieved her from the cutting
pain of the tight rope, but did not free her.  Her perfume was strong and he
could see she was already moist.  She struggled at the sight of his cock,
trying to squirm away, but Edward's firm grip pinned her.  He eased down upon
her and felt her warm, silken muscles engulf him.

     Slowly at first, then with more violence, Edward thrust into her again and
again.  The sweet friction stoking Edward's passion and anger as did the girl's
moans.  At first they were moans of anguish but as Edward thrust, they became
more amatory.  Her knees embraced him and helped him with the rhythm. Her hips
came up to meet his.

     Again and again, thrusting and stoking his fire until he felt the spent
boiling up his shaft and shooting into Catherine, causing her to shiver and
squirm without control.  Her moans were of pleasure and when Edward tried to
slip out, she held onto him with her silken muscles and her thighs.  

     But Edward pulled himself from her and stared into Catherine's eyes until
she curled herself up into a ball.  It was not long before she fell asleep and
Edward retied her into a hog-tie.

     Edward wondered.  . .

**************************END CHAP 1***********************************

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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