The Captured Crusader
Ch. 1 - An Unexpected Pairing - a medieval theme to this weeks guest writer
A captured crusader finds being owned by a young princess has its perks
First off, let me explain what this story is.
I’m inviting other erotic writers to show what they can do on my Substack page. It is part of my evil plan to take over the whole of Substack with erotica! If anyone is interested in being my next guest, read this post, then DM me xxx
My eighteenth guest is Chris Jackson with a story so long I’m struggling to make it short enough to go in an email! But this slow burn to the “sexy bits” is well worth the build-up, believe me, and the next part is waiting for you right now xxx
But let’s start with a short interview
https://chrisjacksonwrites.com/
Tell us a little about yourself…
Hi! Thank you so much for having me! I’m Chris Jackson. First name is real, last name is a pen name, because reasons. Family, coworkers, friends of a certain, not so open-minded nature, perhaps. I’m happily married, and if anyone here reads a lot of my notes, I’m obsessed with my wife. She’s pretty darn cool.
I have a History and English degree, which is probably why I’m so damn long-winded in my stories. For my day job, I’m a chef/restaurant manager. I’m working part-time because it’s just enough to pay my bills, and it works as an incubator for me to try to make this writing thing work.
What are your stories normally about?
Oh lord. Well, I never really follow a theme. I write something different every week. The subject, topic, characters, everything changes for every weekly entry because that’s what makes my ADHD happy. I think the constant pivoting, the constant refreshing is how I keep things new, different, non-repetitive, and saves me from writers’ block.
That being said, I have a goal for most of my writing. And that goal is to make the reader sink their teeth into the story. I want the story to envelop the reader before the sexy part gets there. I want the reader to invest in the characters and the story before anyone drops trow. I want there to be a connection, and an investment before things get dirty.
I care a lot about feelings, about trying to make the reader feel something with the characters other than just horny. Can the reader feel the characters’ love, their anxiety? Can they feel the warmth of the characters’ chemistry? I want the reader to feel like they’re either one of the characters or intimately observing from a glass window. That connection, whatever the emotion I’m trying to evoke, is felt before the pay-off of the actual smut.
What inspired you to write erotica?
My writing started where a lot of people do, I think. I started publishing fiction on fanfiction.net under the username Superpsych96 when I was in high school. It’s really when I started merging into romance. I didn’t start writing erotica until college, though. It became more and more of what I was writing, and then it really became the only thing.
I found that it was the number one thing that made me feel on a higher level and let me express myself the most through build-up and release. Some of my stuff is clearly for the point of getting off, but some of my stuff is downright novelistic. The more novelistic stuff is still highly explicit and plentiful enough, in literally every chapter, that I call myself erotica. I think erotica has room to be flash sexy, but also should make you feel more, too. Erotica can be erotic literature and shouldn’t be something we hide about reading or writing.
How much of what you write is from lived experience?
Um, that’s a bit of a complicated question for me because of just how all over the place my stories are. I try hard to build settings, plots, and characters. Not all of these are practical or based on real life. A lot of my characters find inspiration from real people, or the stories often come from either my kinks or things I care about. The story attached with this is The Captured Crusader, inspired by my interest and degree in history, as well as being an armored combat fighter as a hobby.
My series The Chef’s Apprentice came about because a reader asked for a workplace erotica story based on my day job. My body count is one person; my wife. The way my characters often flirt, and the. emotions they share in a number of my stories are based on my wife and I, while my sex scenes are based on OMG Yes! articles, ethical porn, and just sheer desires of my dirty mind, and occasionally things from my own bedroom.
Cadwin
It was supposed to be a simple raid on a trading village outside of Damascus.
The aim of the hit and run raid was simple; cause mayhem, kill anyone wielding a weapon, and secure what foodstuffs we could to feed our own. And prisoners. Take lots of prisoners.
Even if we didn’t need them now, Saracen prisoners were like currency between either our own Christian lords, or when it came to bartering with the warlords here in the Holy Land. Who knows? Perhaps the prisoners we took here may be part of a ransom paid later for my own freedom.
Our column of 20 lances arrayed in a long, single line with another horse and rider’s width between each of us. It was a broad attack formation line with the ability to narrow or expand as needed. Simple, yet versatile.
Our knight gave the order, and we lowered our lances. Another order, and 80 hooves were thundering across the dry dirt and scrub grass.
Cresting over the hill we had used to hide our assembly, the village blew rams horns to announce our impending intrusion.
Given it was just a small village, the other men-at-arms and I were not shocked when everything before us broke into disarray.
There were a few scattered Saracen soldiers, perhaps more of a militia, that tried to take a noble stand. They were not prepared for a charge of 20 horses.
However, we were unprepared for being caught in a trap. While my knight’s unit was small, and he was of minor importance, our activities up and down the Emirate of Damascus over the past year had added up.
We had corralled the civilians into the center of town and dispatched the village guard. Those activities had given a larger Saracen cavalry force—complimented by mounted archers—the opportunity to close in around us.
Taken by surprise under the veil of our own kicked up dust, we found ourselves outnumbered three-to-one.
My knight had no choice but to surrender us.
What luck we did have, was that our knight, Sir Henry of Tripoli, was known to be fair, a man of quality, even by his enemies.
He took prisoners when weapons were thrown aside, and when it came to civilians. Those who had been taken and then ransomed back spoke of the diligent care and hospitality Sir Henry offered.
While we were a raid force, we did not needlessly kill the helpless, and we were forbidden from forcing ourselves on Saracen women. Sir Henry lived by his oath and thus had us swear to follow his commands to be as upright as he was. This was not the case with every Crusader.
So, it came to me as a happy shock when we were treated as we had treated those captured by us. Our weapons and banners were forfeited, and our hands tied. However, we were not beaten, stripped, or forced to walk. We did, though, suffer the humiliation of being held at tether by riders to stop our escape. These tethers were done by hand ties, and not by ropes at the neck as if we were dogs.
“Sir Henry, what is our fate, and where is our fate to be met?”
“We are in the Emirate of Damascus, and will no doubt be brought before the court of Emir Shaheed al-Kabir. I hear he is a fair man if he is treated with respect.”
Knowing my wise knight, he would do what was necessary to keep himself and us alive. This certainly meant bowing to a foreign ruler of an adversarial religion. That was better than losing my head, though I wasn’t sure all his men would share that pragmatic view.
Yasmina
“What is it, Baba (father)?” I asked petulantly. Baba was waiting for me, looking regal as ever as I followed my assigned bodyguards to the Court.
I had been summoned, and I was not told the purpose for it.
When I arrived in the stately room with polished stone floors and great white twisted pillars, I saw just what the surprise was.
Baba was sitting a-throne, retainers in proper places. It was impossible to miss that there were 20 Christian soldiers, gathered and tied at the foot of the throne. They were allowed to stand, which meant that Baba hadn’t instantly ordered them to death. They must have agreed to show respect and decorum.
“Ah, Princess Yasmina!” Baba bellowed happily from underneath his massive white beard. “So good of you to join me. I have a surprise for you!”
I glided across the floor, my feet appearing as if they didn’t touch the stone, so were they hidden by my long, flowing royal-blue dress. As I approached my baba’s throne, I curtsied deeply to him and touched my forehead. He in turn touched his and motioned for me to take the smaller chair to his left.
The chair on his right remained empty. It has been vacant since my Umi (mother) passed away from illness last fall. Given it was still the first bloom of spring, the pain was still near to both of us.
“Dear Yasmina, before us is the noble Christian knight, Sir Henry of Tripoli. He is a worthy adversary and has shown great decorum when it comes to prisoners and those unable to defend themselves. His name is known to me as an enemy, but his integrity is known to me as well. Thus, I have stayed an order of execution. I will hold he and his brave men-at-arms until ransomed.”
My baba loves talking. While some people talk to themselves out of loneliness or to remember something, I do think my baba does it because he sees himself as a grand orator.
This was pomp for his court, as well as his own ego. I cared not at all about who these men were. I would never see them the moment they were led out of court. Why was I here, I found myself asking again.
“I am aware your birthday will be upon us next week. For your present, I wish you to pick one of these fine soldiers as your personal servant and aide.”
Ah. There it was.
My eyes scanned all 20 faces, and from their startled reaction, this was news to them as well. I could have my very own lap Christian. A novel gift from Baba.
“Well, go ahead, my dear! Inspect them! Choose one!” he demanded, yet gleefully.
I narrowed my eyes and leaned forward in my smaller seat, my elbows on my knees. Steepling my fingers together, I huffed out a small breath through my nose.
My baba laughed. “Yasmina, dear. Go up to them! Touch them, check their teeth, and skin. Find a healthy one.”
I turned my head up and looked at my sire. He wanted me to treat them just as animals, like horses to be added to our stables. Frowning, I stood up and did as he told me.
I started with the knight, Sir Henry. He was much too old. Taller than me and extremely broad, he struck a commanding figure, as a knight should. He was still old enough to be my baba, however. I wanted a younger man. One older than I, but not so old.
I walked up and down the line of soldiers. I paid attention to where their eyes went when I stood before them. Some eyes met mine. Others wandered over my body. My allure to men, and some women, was well known to me.
Out of all 20 men, only one other than Sir Henry stood straight, tall, and looked dead ahead.
“This one, Baba. I want this man.”
His eyes still didn’t budge. No tick in his strong jaw. The man was like stone. I wanted to wear that stone down into a beautiful sculpture.
Cadwin
Before, I had been standing still as if in a strict parade, like an archbishop was inspecting Christ’s warriors. Now, I stood stock-still because out of 20 men, I was going to be stuck behind.
I was to be made a show piece, a servant, a display for a young and stuck-up, spoiled sandling. My fate could not have upset me anymore.
Sir Henry and my brothers in arms are to be sitting in dungeons for the Good Lord only knows how long.
I should be among them, I told myself. Certainly, I did not want to be a servant or worse to this… this girl. It did not matter to me how beautiful she was.
Then, I felt her delicate hand take hold of my chin. She angled my head down, and I did not fight her. I kept my eyes cold and just as in place as if I was still staring ahead.
“Look at me, Soldier,” she ordered, but she stayed calm.
“He is called Cadwin. He is one of my squires,” Sir Henry answered. “Cadwin, until you are returned to my retinue, I release you from your oath of allegiance to me.”
My eyes shot to the side, trying to leave my head. Not all knights made their squares swear such oaths, but Sir Henry did. And he was a knight worth the vows.
“Sir Henry, I—”
“Cadwin,” my knight said my name again with the firmness of a scolding parent. “You are in the service of Princess Yasmina al-Kabir. You will follow her instructions, and you will make her happy.”
“Yes, Sir,” I yielded as I snapped my eyes back to the Princess.
In our Norman-French, Sir Henry confided to me, “The happier you keep the Princess, the happier her father. That keeps us in better shape until ransom.”
I understood Sir Henry’s meaning. To keep them alive and well-fed, I needed to be a good pet. As much as that would pain me.
It was also under Sir Henry’s wise tutelage that as his squire, and page before that, that I learned Arabic. I was never sure why until this moment. Translators would sometimes be available, but not always. However, it was always important that I understood my captors.
So, when Princess Yasmina ordered me to look at her, I understood her. I understood that I was now hers, as a possession, until ransom for me was paid. I felt it was in my interest to pretend to not know Arabic.
Yasmina was educated, as a princess should be. When she ordered me in Latin to look at her, then I obeyed.
Upon casting my eyes down, I didn’t see hatred. I didn’t see the over 100 years of conflict between our people. What I did see was warmth, curiosity, and… kindness?
The princess’s smile was genuine, flooding with sincerity. Like she was happy to have her very own Christian pet. And I was sure she was. But there was something about her eyes. They silently made a promise. I wasn’t sure what that promise was, but by God, she made me feel safe.
I was a large, strong crusader. I was skilled in hand-to-hand fighting, by way of wrestling and fists. I was trained in more than a few weapons. But here, in this Damascus court, I was unarmed, outmanned, and soon I would be the only Westerner above the floor.
I needed this silly young woman’s protection. But those oak-amber eyes. They told me without a single word, that I had her protection. That I was hers.
“I am Princess Yasmina al-Kabir,” the young royal told me pleasantly. “We have already been introduced, but I wanted to greet you myself.”
I kept holding her eyes, like I was mired in a thick muck, unable to wander. “I am Cadwin.” Sticking to Latin for now seemed the best way. I wasn’t ready to reveal that I could speak her native tongue. “A pleasure, your highness,” I said with a bow.
Sir Henry’s words kept ringing in my head, though he was still near at that moment. Keep her happy.
“Such manners from the Westerner!” The young woman smiled brightly and turned to address my knight. “Sir Henry, the baring of your squire speaks highly for him, but also for you.”
Sir Henry bowed his head. “Thank you, you’re highness.” He looked like he wanted to say more, perhaps something endearing.
I knew how he felt about this war, about the reasons for it and how he really felt about us all being under the same Abrahamic God. But speaking “heresy” in the Holy Lands was rarely, if ever, a promising idea.
Then, the young woman who now held my life in her soft and untested hands turned back to her father.
“Baba,” she said back in Arabic. “Could I request my servant be unchained?”
Her father looked at her with a line across his brow, teeth tight. Then, he responded, “If you trust him not to hurt you, I will allow it.”
Yasmina nodded. “I have looked into his eyes. He will not hurt me.”
Her confidence struck me. Her trust in a much larger and considerably older man caught me off guard.
The Emir nodded towards a guard, and he produced an iron key. I kept silent and looked straight ahead like a good soldier as he unlocked my irons. Instead of letting them fall to the ground and making him stoop for them, I held them in place until he collected them.
With this guard, I also looked into his eyes. It was not a threatening glare, but one from soldier to soldier. He was doing his job, and I would do mine, whatever that would look like.
I rubbed my wrists and saw that the damage was minimal. The manacles were put on with greater care than I expected. Sir Henry’s reputation indeed preceded us.
“Baba,” Yasmina began again. “I also wish to request Cadwin be allowed to keep his uniform, and his arms.”
At this bold, maybe foolish request, I had to try to mask my shock. What was she doing? No servant would be allowed to wield a sword, let alone a Frank.
“My dear, you are asking me to leave a lion fully toothed and clawed around my bint [daughter]?”
Yasmina nodded. “Cadwin is not a servant, Baba. He is a warrior, and I think he will best serve me as such.”
“Bint, what are you suggesting?” The Emir asked.
“If he is my present, and do with as I wish, I wish for him to be my personal guard. If the greatest threat to me are Westerners, who better to protect me? And if he hurts me, his knight and his brothers in arms lives are forfeit.”
It was clear to me then. This woman was not such a fool after all. She had me right where she wanted me. This also would allow me to preserve my identity and my honor. Being a princess’s sword was no small assignment.
The emir stared at his daughter. He didn’t want to yield. I could see that. The room could nearly hear his molars grating together. But he eventually gave in.
With a half-snarl and a flick of his hand, the guard carrying my arming sword and dagger stepped forward.
Before he could hand my belt to me, Yasmina took it from him. She looked into my eyes again, daring me to look anywhere else.
Yasmina separated the ends of the belt and reached around me, tying it in place for me. My arms were up, giving her clear room. It also made me the perfect target, soft spots vulnerable.
The exchange of trust Yasmina and I showed each other was clear. The impromptu ceremony brought soft smiles to both Sir Henry and the emir.
Yasmina
His name is Cadwin. My own personal Crusader.
My baba was silly, thinking I’d want him to be reduced to a servant or a slave.
I understood the implication; breaking him down and making him feel lesser. I also entertained the idea. However, this felt better and would be a better way to keep him happy.
If he was under order to keep me happy, why should I make him miserable? He and Sir Henry are both alive because of their reputation for fairness and kindness. I should pay that forward.
That first evening the squire Cadwin and I spent together was just a tour of the palace. As my bodyguard, there were a lot of things he had to know. A lot of routes and passages to absorb. Many faces to know.
What struck me about the man was his silence, as if he belonged to a Holy order. He was not a Templar nor Hospitaller, but he had the bearing of such. The man presented as respectful, yet aloof. Foreign and exotic.
At the end of the evening, the last place I showed him was my room—our room.
“And this is where you will be lodging,” I said with a sweeping arm as I opened the door to my suite.
“Your highness,” his deep voice scratched out in Latin. “This is your chamber. Surely, there is a barracks or a servant quarter for me?” The older man paused. “I do not mean to argue or show disrespect.” He bowed his head and touched his forehead in respect. In submission.
“There would be, if that’s what I desired,” I said smoothly. “However, you are my sword. I may need you at any time. Thus, you will be with me. At every hour.”
Cadwin turned his ocean-blue eyes away from me as my hands went to my headpiece.
“You may look, Cadwin. You will be seeing me without this when that door is closed.”
The crusader remained quiet but understood my permission to look was a thinly veiled order. I wanted him to see me.
He was my Westerner. The only man I would allow to see me with my hair down. Quite literally.
He stayed silent as a grave as I began to take off my heavy overdress.
“Cadwin, you stopped looking,” I said knowingly. “And when it is the two of us, I wish you only to call me Yasmina. You’ll have to call me ‘highness’ enough as it will be when we are among others. If it wasn’t for my baba, I swear I would forget my real name,” I laughed.
“It would be improper for me to watch, Yasmina. You are a young princess. I am your bodyguard. In no court would this abide.”
I shook my head and laughed. “Cadwin, this is not a court. I am a member of my baba’s court, but I am Yasmina. My own woman.”
I was tired of being a Princess. Tired of being just a member of my baba’s court. I wanted to simply be Yasmina. To be me. I had hoped to Allah this Christian would help me with that. Why did he have to be so damned respectful?
And then he did the damnedest thing. He returned his eyes to me.
They were instantly hungry, seeing me in a light blue shift. It wasn’t translucent, but it showed more of my shape than my overdress.
After hunger, it was replaced by shame. Shame, I could play with.
“What’s the matter, Cadwin? Surely, you’ve seen a woman’s body before?” I teased. Was I about to make a crusader blush, I wondered.
“I have, but never the body of a princess,” he mumbled. The words were low in his throat, like he was struggling to say anything at all.
I let out a ladylike giggle and then let my long black hair down. “You won’t be sleeping in that armor, Cadwin. Off with it.” I could have made it an order, but that’s not the relationship I wanted with this older warrior.
There was, however, a certain kind of relationship I wanted to have with him. I desired Cadwin. He was strong, noble, all man, and utterly different.
I watched intently as he shed his tunic. Watching him wiggle out of his heavy chainmail also brought me no small amount of entertainment.
“You look like you could use a bath. Being captured and wearing all that armor? I bet you’re a dirty and sweaty boy.”
The way he snarled at being called a ‘boy’ by the likes of me. Fucking. Delicious.
“That would be relieving, Yasmina.” He nodded his thanks, and I had to try not to laugh, watching himself rein in his pride.
I rang a little bell that was beside my large bed. As Cadwin got out of his padded jacket, a serving girl had arrived.
“Asma!” I said enthusiastically. “Just the woman I want to see!” Arabic seemed like the best choice. I wanted this to be a surprise for Cadwin. “My guard and I would like to bathe. Would you please draw a bath for us?”
Asma, the closest servant I had to a friend, smiled knowingly. “I can arrange a bath,” she replied.
If I could trust anyone to purposefully misunderstand my directive—to give me just what I really wanted—it was Asma.
Cadwin wasn’t shy about being seen bare-chested. Nor did he have anything to be shy about.
The man was a barrel-chested and scarred piece of finery. Strong muscle, fine and pale skin, dark hair dusting his torso. One hell of a Western man. And he was mine.
“Asma will have a bath drawn in a moment. While you have your armor, we do not have Western clothes.” My voice was apologetic, but inside, I wasn’t.
I couldn’t care less about what he wore out of armor. Preferably, I could entice him into wearing little.
“Arab clothes will be fine,” he said. He didn’t seem excited, nor did he seem crestfallen.
With something resembling a smile, he added, “Arab cloth have always been more pleasing to me.”
That was the key word, wasn’t it? Pleasing. Did he mean his sentiment, or was he simply trying to please me? A test was in order.
“Arab textures are better than Europe’s?” I asked. “What is it you like about our feel?” I took his hand, and he did not stop me. I put the flat of his hand on my belly, only the thin underdress between our skin.
His eyes held mine boldly. The self-restraint of this warrior made my knees weak, whereas I had tried to weaken his.
What was more? He didn’t speak. Didn’t wet his lips. I knew I had an effect on men, but I was wondering… maybe he wasn’t into women?
I had an idea of how to check.
Taking his hand, I put it directly on my chest. “Don’t you love how full; how soft and perfect Arab textiles are?” This question wasn’t about cloth.
Then, I felt it. A tiny, almost imperceptible squeeze. I let him have the staring contest victory as I dropped my eyes. He. Was. Hard.
“Your highness,” Asma said. Her voice was innocent, as if I hadn’t put my shirtless Christian bodyguard’s hand on my mostly bare breast. “Your bath is ready.”
She left without waiting for dismissal. Quite a faux pa, but she must have known my words would have come out squeaky.
Cadwin
This was not the manner and decorum I expected from a princess. Sure, I had not met a princess before, but this was far from the norm.
Asma seemed to be in Yasmina’s confidence, but had anyone else seen us, it could have been a terrible end for me.
Yes, I was attracted to her. She was a beautiful princess who must have been some 10 years younger than me. But I was not willing to sacrifice my head for adulterous activity.
I was wearing naught but my trousers, and she, her shift. Nevertheless, she led me out of her suite by the hand.
My heart was in my ears, feeling like I was deep in enemy territory. Well, I was. As deep as could be, in truth.
Being in the bowels of the palace with a mostly naked princess was enough to have my heart between my eyes.
Luckily for me, the baths were in the same hall of the palace as Yasmina’s suite. I wasn’t prepared to call it our room.
The princess closed the door behind me. Before I could turn around, I heard the whisper of fine cashmere sliding down flesh. Then the whoosh of it piling on cold tile.
Princess Yasmina of Damascus walked past me in her naked, brown-skinned splendor.
Tall, flawless, round-assed and dancer-hipped. She left my mouth dry as she confidently waded into the deep in-ground pool. The water was steaming hot, and the surface was laden with Arabic Jasmine and lavender.
“You can’t properly bathe in your trousers, Cadwin.” Yasmina was smiling at me, her younger body hidden by the water.
The princess watched shamelessly as I undid my belt and then my trousers. My breeches went next.
And her face. The proper word was gawking. She was slack jawed when my breeches hit the tile, and my cock was bare and free.
Had she never seen a naked man despite her confidence and flirting?
“You’re perfect,” Yasmina breathed, oak-amber eyes wide.
“Perfect for what?” I asked as I approached the pool.
“Perfect for me. Perfect to teach me all the things the pleasure servants and houses are forbidden from letting me experience.”
I blinked. What more could I do?
“Get over here, Cadwin. Wash yourself. Please.” Yasmina was blushing furiously. She must have been anxious that I was going to refuse her, deny her.
I should have.
Like the baser male I am, like the man ordered to keep her happy, I obeyed.
I wasn’t even fully in the steaming water before Yasmina’s soft hand was wrapping around my hard cock.
“Princess.” Her title left my lips like a growled warning. A lion who wasn’t hungry but would still snap if approached.
She ignored me completely. Instead of heeding my words, she carefully stroked me. There was no twist, only a simple forward and back push and pull. The touch of a curious but inexperienced young woman.
“Yasmina, is this your first cock?” I asked, not stopping her. I didn’t have any ground to stop her.
She kept stroking me but looked up. Her face was innocent and bewildered. “It’s obvious, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” I responded plainly. I couldn’t tell her to stop, but I wasn’t going to encourage this.
“I am sorry I don’t know what I’m doing. I was planning on you being able to tutor me.”
I stared down at her, but her eyes were back on my length. Extremely close to it. I could feel her exhale on the tip. “Yasmina, why me?”
She looked up again as she anxiously licked her lips. “Because you’re the only one who can, Cadwin. My baba has denied me men because he doesn’t want an accident.”
“He doesn’t want you carrying a concubine’s bastard.” It was blatant, but the obvious answer.
Her hand stopped and she looked up at me. “Yes.” She narrowed her eyes, probably at my audacity. “Thank you for putting it so tactfully.”
I half-expected that to end this situation, but I was mistaken.
“Twist your wrist and loosen your fingers.”
“Pardon?” Yasmina asked. Her brows nearly came together in consternation.
“When you pleasure a man with your hand. Use your wrist more, and don’t squeeze too hard. You’ll rip his cock off.”
It was Yasmina’s turn to blink, but she followed my advice, much to my pleasure. “Could you be any more uncouth?”
“I could be,” I confirmed with an easy nod. “You’re a princess and I am a soldier. Not knighted. Do you want a knight, or do you want a brute?”
The way she shuddered! She may be in charge, but the way her body betrayed her told me all I wanted to know. When it was only she and I, I was the master.
“Cadwin… treat me like a brothel whore.” The words tumbled from her mouth. She sounded unsure, like she was afraid to say the words aloud.
But her eyes. Her eyes gave her away. What she asked for was exactly what she wanted.
I shook my head, though, and she looked downcast at once. “No. You’re inexperienced, Yasmina. You’ve a lot to learn before I would do that.”
The princess nodded in understanding, though she still looked a little off put. But then, there was a sparkle in her eyes.
“Can you talk to me like one, at least?” Hope was in her voice as she asked me to verbally degrade her.
What an odd little bird.
I stroked her cheek with a thumb as I looked down at her. She was kneeling on a stone bench in the pool, while I was still standing. Her royal face was right at level with my hardness.
“Why do you want me to disrespect you, Princess?” I asked carefully.
“Because my entire life, everyone but my baba has walked on eggshells around me. I’m tired of it. My entire life has been image and title. No one would dare speak to me like you already have. I already crave it. Talk to me like I’m not Princess Yasmina al-Kalib. Talk to me like I’m Yasmina the tavern bitch,” she pleaded.
“Very well. I will meet you in the middle,” I yielded. “While we start off slowly, I will talk to you like a common street girl, if that’s what you seek.”
“It is what I wish, Cadwin. Teach me how to pleasure a man, how to be good in bed. Since I was old enough to be allowed pleasure servants, I have only been receiving pleasure. I want to give.”
This princess was something different. Special. She didn’t want me to be her pleasure servant. She wanted to be mine. She picked me because she didn’t want to be treated like a princess behind closed doors.
She picked the right crusader.
“Put those soft, spoiled rich hands on me again,” I said. My voice was low, deep, and commanding.
The princess was just about to wrap both of her hands around me, but I tutted. “Lick your palms.”
Yasmina looked up at me, those light kohl eyes watching for approval as her tongue met one palm and then the other.
The lesson about the importance of twist and not strangling my cock had sunk in.
“Keep looking up at me,” I instructed. “Eye contact is alluring and makes your man feel like he’s all that matters.”
Yasmina licked her lips and purred, “Yes, Mudarris (teacher).”
Without me having to suggest it, her hand traveled lower to my balls. She scraped them with her long fingernails, making my breath hitch. The hum of satisfaction, that feeling of knowing she discovered something all on her own, was coursing through her.
My own contentment was high. I was a captured Christian in a Saracen palace. Instead of being in chains, I was in a private bath, a naked princess before me.
Said naked princess was doing her best to pleasure me, requesting I teach her how to make me happy.
Perhaps I had died in that village, and this was my afterlife?
Yasmina reapplied her tongue to her palms and wrapped them around me again.
“I like this,” she said softly. “Making you feel good, playing with someone’s body instead of mine being the center. It’s new, forbidden, and intoxicating.”
“You can be my secret whore if you wish, but it must remain that; a secret. If anyone discovered that you were touching me like this... my life would be over.”
“I am aware, Cadwin. Perhaps the forbidden nature is part of the desire. The secrecy, the danger, may be contributing to why my hand around your thick cock is making me so wet between my thighs.”
My eyebrows rose up my forehead as I listened to her speak. “My. The princess may have a whore’s tongue in her royal mouth after all.”
Yasmina smiled gleefully and looked up at me with pride. “Do men like hearing women talk like that?”
Her hands never stopped stroking me as we spoke. Like we were having a casual conversation, and she just so happened to like a cock in her hands. This may have been the case.
“It depends, I believe. From a proper lady like you? Absolutely. A whore using a whore’s mouth isn’t quite so scintillating as hearing a proper lady talk about her love for cock. The unexpected is the draw there.”
Yasmina’s instinct surprised me yet again when she spit on the purplish head of my cock. It wasn’t so much a spit as it was pressing saliva to the end.
“I got tired of stopping just to wet my palms,” she said coquettishly. “Applying from the source made sense.”
“It’s a smart move,” I said and cleared my throat.
She preened under my praise. This poor girl. She may be a princess, but she was so starved for acceptance and admiration.
The desert beauty spread more spit from her lips to my cock, and her hands started to make a slick and wet sound. Her hands were gliding, moving faster.
My balls were tightening, and I knew I would explode on this naïve face soon.
“Your testicles are so close to your cock now!” She marveled.
“I’m close to climaxing,” I explained with a chuckle. The innocence of her.
“So, I’m not doing a terrible job?” She asked. Her bright voice was laced with hope, a need for more exaltation.
“It’s exceptionally good for your first time, Yasmina. Not only do you make a fine figure of a princess, but you may be a pleasure prodigy as well.”
Yasmina’s face was stretched with a pleased smile. “You talk sweetly, Cadwin. Thank you.” She was blushing from forehead to top of breast.
“Perhaps that should be our deal. You speak with a naughtiness you have never been allowed to know, and I will speak to you with a softness you crave.”
Yasmina stroked me faster, with determination and confidence. “Yes!” She hissed. “Tell me how much you love what I’m doing. Tell me I’m the Orient’s greatest whore for you. I need to hear it!” The princess pleaded.
I ran my fingers through her silky, inky black hair. “You are, Yasmina. I will teach you everything you want to know about pleasing a man, and I shall tell you everything your heart desires to be told.”
“No,” she said sternly. The proud and defiant princess that wanted to be more than her father’s daughter was back. “I don’t care about pleasing men. Teach me how to please you, Cadwin. You’re promising to treat me like no other man will. I want to treat you like no other woman will.”
The words, the tension, the forbidden passing of everything between us, her hands wringing my cock of the seed churning in my balls. It was far too great.
“Yasmina, you need to stop.” My hands were in her hair, gently pulling, willing her to stop before it was too late.
“No,” she told me, shaking her head, the water lapping around her breasts, a rich brown nipple peaking just below the surface. “I want you to climax for me. Release for your princess,” Yasmina purred. “You are my bodyguard andyou will let me bring your release.”
The demanding, possessive growl in her usually sweet voice told me not to argue. I didn’t have much time to argue. The way she set her foot down, reminding me she was the princess, made it harder for me to disobey.
“Allah, I can feel you swelling!” she said, glee in those cinnamon eyes.
“Yasmina, it’s your last chance!” I warned, pulling her hair now, her mouth so close to my straining member.
“You can’t release into the water. They’ll know what we’ve done....” She looked perturbed, like she was trying to crack some mysterious puzzle. “Ah!” The confusion was gone, replaced by a self-satisfied grin.
“Yasmina, don’t!” I tried to warn her off. She didn’t listen.
The young, headstrong princess just wrapped her lips around the flared head of my cock.
I tried to pull my hips back, but she kept her mouth on me just enough to keep me in the warm and wet confines of her mouth. Her hands hadn’t stopped pulling on me, and I couldn’t hold back without pain.
As I let go, and my climax burst out of me, I groaned deeply. My eyes closed, screwed tight, and my vision went blank for a moment. But I could still hear.
Yasmina wasn’t sickened or revolted by my seed filling her innocent mouth. She was humming. Pleased. Like she had just sampled her favorite dish or drink.
“Yasmina?” I asked. It didn’t come out softly, but my voice was gravely and quiet. I reopened my eyes, and she was looking up at me.
Her eyes were a mix of pride and insufferable. This would not be the only time she drained my balls, I was sure.
She kept suckling on just the tip, making my toes continuously curl. Yasmina didn’t stop until she was sure there was no more to come. And then she licked her lips.
This was going to be a long and treacherous imprisonment.
“I just wanted to make sure there wouldn’t be any evidence. You didn’t tell me it would taste salty and rich.” She grabbed my hand and tugged me into the water. “We will be doing this more.”
I dipped my head and respectfully touched my forehead. “You are the princess,” I yielded. “Next time, I’d be happy to have you pleasure me with just your mouth. I’m sure you’ll be a savant at that, as well.”
Her eyes glimmered at the promise and praise. She clutched my hand to her breasts, trapped in her hands. “That would be lovely, Cadwin. I can’t wait to taste you again. You have so much to teach me, and I’m your willing pupil, Muddaris.”
What a surprising pair we made; a captured crusader and his sex-hungry princess.
 | A guest post by
|
I like it. Historic fictional smut is interesting. I reading something different.