This has been sat on my harddrive for a while and I keep on playing with it and trying to make it better. I don't think I'm ever really going to like it all that much but I suppose it's worth getting it out there. I blame Sweetheart From Hell completely for this oneshot, which ran away with me slightly. This was supposed to be simple PWP, somehow a little bit of plot slipped in there.
Disclaimer: Yeah, no Bevier in my bed? So it's not mine.
See Who I Am.
The brothel is dimly lit, smoky from the fire that does not draw properly up the half blocked chimney. The small bar below the rooms is filled with chatter as various patrons wait their turn with one or other of the girls. Some have specific requests and others simply do not care one way or the other so long as they get what they have paid for. Most of the men in this room, served by scantily clad woman with knowing glints in their eyes, are workmen and shop owners. The occasional soldier can be seen among them and they interact with the natural mistrust of strangers. Friends await other members of their groups, greeting those who return with lewd laughs and raucous questions and chasing others up the stairs with catcalls and unwanted advice. This is a busy place, with well-kept girls who know their business well for a reasonable price, a popular venue for the working classes.
Which is why the group of men in one corner stand out above all the others; these men are cleaner than the rest and an odd mix of nationalities though their builds identify them all as highly skilled warriors. To the trained eye it can be seen that the group consists of two Elenians, a Thalesian, a Deiran and an Arcian.
The dark haired Elenian is watching the rest of the group in a bemused fashion, his tankard of ale held somewhat laconically as he watches his companions. At some point in time his nose has been broken, set at a distinctive angle though it was obviously so long ago he does not even notice any longer. His face is weathered, though he easily seems to be at least a decade younger than his appearance would suggest, and the hint of a smile at his lips would go unnoticed by the casual observer. The blond Elenian would appear to be of a similar age, with a wide smile and a loud laugh. He is talking animatedly to the Arcian, who seems unimpressed with his suggestion.
The Thalesian is a slightly taller man, his blond hair braided tightly. With his pale skin and grey eyes it is almost impossible to place his age, although it is easy to note from his movements that he is younger than both of the Elenians. The Deiran is a moon faced man with broad shoulders and an open smile. He is not as old as the Thalesian, certainly, but not as young as the curly haired, olive skinned, Arcian. He, too, seems to have a great interest in the conversation being held, leaning closer to the younger man and adding his opinion to the matter as the Thalesian gestures to the madam of the establishment.
"We were told to ask for Saroyah," his voice is deep, gruff, with a gravelled quality that implies it is not often used. "Our friend here is long overdue an education." The Arcian blushes as his friend hands over a silver crown. It is triple the price of the young whore requested, but it means that the madam will ensure that they get the very best of her services.
The servile smile that they receive is enough to turn the stomach of the Arcian, already nervous and angered by the behaviour of his companions, and the whistle that she gives is piercing. The girl that it summons, however, is enough to earn him some gentle ribbing.
"If you don't want her, Bevier, I'm happy to take your place," the Deiran tells him.
"Leave him be, Tynian, this is my last act as an unmarried man," the blond Elenian kicks Tynian under the table and grins at Bevier. "Have fun."
The young whore is pretty enough, he supposes, but nothing out of the common way. Her long hair is chocolate brown and her hazel eyes sparkle with unexpressed mirth. The dark rings under her eyes, pale skin and slightly sunken cheeks state louder than words, however, that her life is a hard and exhausting one.
"For this price he can have the whole night, my lords," the madam tells the gathered men, "and you can have whatever you want from her so long as she is unmarked and she can work tomorrow."
The fear that flickers across her face is unmistakable, but the spluttering of the Arcian draws attention away from her as his friends laugh and offer a great deal of last minute advice. The blush that comes to his cheeks quickly lessens Saroyah's fear, though, and she places a gentle hand on his arm.
"Don't worry," she tells him, her voice soft but clearly audible over the laughter of the gathered men, "I'm a good teacher." She winks at Bevier's friends. "If he hasn't come down those stairs in ten minutes don't wait here for him. I promise I'll have him back to you by the morning, my lords." She takes Bevier's hand in her own and as she does so the sleeve of her thin navy cotton robe slides up enough to expose vivid bruises around her wrist. All eyes turn on the bruises and she tugs the sleeve down a little self-consciously even as she offers a wan smile and a shrug. The expression on the madam's face tells the group that she will be discussing this with Saroyah in the morning. For now, however, she leads a still protesting Bevier to the stairs.
The young man is still a little wild about the eyes as she leads him into the room that they will be using. It is not a large room, dimly lit by a few candles on a broken piece of plate, and it is completely dominated by the bed against the wall opposite the window. Although the sheets have been straightened they are stained and creased, even the threadbare blanket neatly folded on the end of the bed is stained. The curtains consist of little more than a cloth stretched across the window and it is certainly not thick enough to keep the light out. A small trunk is pressed against the foot of the bed and next to the window a short book shelf is attached to the wall with a small number of well read books piled on it. In the far corner is a wooden chair and the thin layer of dust on it says louder than words that it is never used.
Saroyah sits on the edge of the bed, crossing her legs and allowing her robe to open enough to expose the creamy expanse of her thighs. Bevier is quick to avert his gaze, still blushing slightly, and looks about ready to bolt until she speaks.
"You don't want this, do you, sir?" She whispers, flicking her hair back off her face and staring at him for a long moment. "Is it because I'm a whore? Had you hoped for some meaning to it?"
"No," he responds, explaining even though he is not certain why. "Indulging this way would mean that I will be unable to take holy orders one day." He crosses to sit on the chair, still not meeting her eyes. Her sudden laughter causes anger to boil through him, however.
"Forgive me, sir, I mean no disrespect," she holds up her hand as she calms. "Only, when I look at you, I see a warrior. You are a knight of the church, aren't you?" He nods. "I've met my share of Pandions in my time here, I know the signs of men like yourself. Do you really think that a quiet life as a cloistered monk will be enough for you?"
Her words bring to the fore of his mind the same doubts that he has experienced a number of times in his life. They are doubts that he has buried under a stubborn refusal to fail at his chosen path. It is a path common among members of his order, and it is only the sight of the happiness of his married friends that has given him a moment of pause.
"It has been my wish for many years," he tells her, watching the way that the emotions on her face flicker.
"You truly believe that such a life, sedentary and simple, would satisfy a man who is obviously well travelled? You are a man trained to fight, sir knight, and the actions of your companions tonight tells me that they have a great deal of respect for your prowess."
"An intelligent and compelling speech," he says, though it comes out a little bit more mocking than he intends it to.
"For a whore, you mean." It is not a question and the statement is somewhat bitter. "I wasn't always a whore, you know, and I hope that one day I'll be able to escape this life."
"It's not what I meant." She shakes her head, but does not answer, instead she gets to her feet and goes to the door.
"It's been ten minutes, hopefully your friends will have left," she moves to open it and he stops her with a soft mutter.
"They'll still be there. They are determined," he admits. "Even the queen wants me to remain a knight."
"She must place a great value upon you," Saroyah crosses the room so that she can place her hand on his cheek. Her walk is unconsciously seductive, the gentle caress of her hand is something that she seems to do without thought. "Take off your tunic." The sudden order startles him.
"I'm sorry?" She laughs.
"Take off your tunic and lie on your front on the bed," she giggles. "Not all of my clients come to me for that." He stares at her for a long moment and watches her go to the chest at the foot of the bed. She opens it and pulls out a small bottle, smiling back over her shoulder at him. "I know of a way to spend some time that won't require you to give up your dream."
After a little thought he does as she has instructed, settling himself on the bed and resting his head on his arms. The gentle, musty, scent of sarenwood oil fills the air shortly after he hears the pop of a bottle being unstopped. Then there is nothing but the sound of his own breathing until he feels warm, firm, hands that are slick with oil slide up his back.
Her hands are sure, complete confidence in their every movement as she kneads and soothes tense flesh and knotted muscles. After a few minutes Saroyah shifts so that she can straddle him, soft thighs on either side of his hips, and though she does not settle her weight on him is he well aware of her warmth. She hums as she works, a melody that he is not familiar with but it has a heat to it that combines with the actions of her hands and fingers.
Against his better judgement he finds himself becoming aroused.
At first he tries to will it away, debating on whether he should tell her to stop so that he can get himself under control once more. When he shifts, however, the momentary hard press of his hips into the mattress makes him gasp. If Saroyah notices it she says nothing about it. She simply continues to hum and massage until every subtle movement of his body has left him aching with the need for release.
"Sir Knight," her voice is hushed as she speaks, "I need you to turn over."
"Don't call me that," he tells her, not sure why it is the first thing that comes to mind even as he tries once more to will his erection away.
"What would you have me call you?" It is asked playfully, as though she expects something ridiculous from him. Whatever that may have been, however, his name is not it. "Bevier," she whispers and the sound of it goes straight to that unwanted hardness. "I still need you to turn over."
"That probably isn't a good idea," he admits finally. It gains him a throaty chuckle as she settles her weight on him and leans down so that she is pressed so tightly to his back that he can feel her nipples through the thin cotton of her robe.
"It's nothing that I haven't dealt with before," her lips ghost across his ear, her tongue darting out to taste the soft flesh behind it before she leans back and lifts up so that he can flip over.
Curious, and perhaps in a particularly foolish moment, he rolls over and looks up at her. Saroyah meets his eyes for a moment and her own are dark in the dim light before she starts to examine him. Hands that are still slightly slick with the scented oil trail lightly down his abdomen and behind them they leave twin shimmering trails.
It almost tickles, but her delicate touch is by no means hesitant. Even when she reaches the old scar that is all which remains of a wound caused by a Zemoch spear she only stops to pay a little more attention to it. Oddly, her gentle examination of him does nothing to lessen his arousal, if anything it makes it worse, and when her fingers and eyes drift lower still a wicked smile comes to her face. From the sparkle in her eyes and the heat that quickly fills them it occurs to him that this is a woman, even with her ambitions, who enjoys the majority of her work.
He watches her as the pressure of her hands increases once more, tickling brushes abandoned in favour of that same relaxing press from before. She still hums as she works, her eyes following the movement of her hands and her expression is so oddly tender in this moment that for a second he can forget her profession. The regular stretch of her arms, however, drags the sleeves of her robe upwards and once again the bruises on her wrists are exposed. On an impulse he catches one of her hands in his and runs his thumb across the wide marks.
"Who did this to you?" He questions and is surprised when she gently removes her hand and offers him a shy smile.
"It doesn't matter," she whispers, leaning so that she can touch his cheek. He sits up and she settles in his lap. The suddenness of a warm body against an erection that has not waned draws another gasp from his lips and makes his hips twitch up towards her heat of their own accord. She lets out a throaty chuckle.
"You want me, don't you?" She asks, moving her hands to tug at the tie of her robe. "Your head keeps telling you that you don't but your body betrays you, Bevier." She slips the robe off and tosses it to one side of the bed, grinning at the way that his breath catches and his eyes skim over her every feature.
She is delicately built, willowy, and her pale skin is dusted with freckles. It is the vicious bruise under her right breast that really draws his attention, however. Even in the flickering light of the few candles they have it is clearly an ugly mottle of purple and red. Just seeing that makes something fierce and protective well up inside him. She may be a whore but Bevier firmly believes that there is no reason for a man to strike a woman. Noticing the direction of his gaze she runs her still slightly oily finger through his curly hair and presses her lips to his forehead in an almost timid kiss.
"It's nothing," she assures him. "My previous employer made me endure far worse than this." He knows that it is supposed to reassure him, but instead it just makes that protective anger all the more pronounced in his mind. She reaches for the robe and that action seems to trigger something.
"Don't," he orders, grasping her arm. She turns startled eyes on him.
Bevier has met many women in his years of travel. He has met women who are looking for nothing more than free pleasure and companionship for one night, those who either abhor or have never known the touch of a man. He has met the whores who brazenly sell themselves for the paying pleasure of their customers with lewd smiles and suggestive words. He has never before been behind a closed door with one, never been aroused like this by one.
He can acknowledge that there is something different about this woman, a sorrow that none of the others he has seen have possessed. She is seems caring and open, and there is something about her that makes him want to show her that not all men will treat her badly simply because she is a whore. It is a sentiment that shocks him.
"We don't have to..." she begins and he silences her by pressing his lips against hers.
There was a time, when he was a great deal younger and not a knight of the church, when he experimented with the idea of girls and the pleasures that they could bring, so he knows how to kiss a woman. She melts against him, her lips light and dancing against his until she pulls away with a surprised gasp. His hands are pressed against her back, pulling her tight against his chest and the soft caress of her skin against his is almost maddening. He wants more than just this and though it is not the first time he has resisted many times in the past. Her eyes are dancing when they meet his, bright and laughing in the candlelight, her hands sure on the ties of his breaches as she helps him to take them off before they settle again. She does not speak, does not question his want or need at this moment in time, instead shifting position and taking him inside her with one smooth movement.
She sighs, tilting her head back as she starts to rock. This sensation is sharp and brilliant, tight heat surrounding him and holding him, her rhythmic movements making something hot build inside him. Bevier cannot help but hold her tighter, drawing Saroyah closer and tilting her head forward so that he can kiss her once more. This kiss is almost savage, a rough thrust of tongues and nipping teeth, her hips moving slightly faster with each passing minute and Bevier can feel himself racing towards the edge.
The knight is no fool, he has pleasured himself with his hand in the past, he knows that his orgasm is fast approaching. The romantic in him wants Saroyah to experience the same bright joy in the same moment, the practical part of his mind whispers that her pleasure is not the point of this night. He squashes down that voice, that reminder that this woman has been purchased for him by well-meaning friends, and turns his attentions back to Saroyah. Bevier is meeting her thrust for thrust now, his hands tight on her hips supporting her as she leans back. A light flush is spreading across her pale skin and acting on an instinct he was previously unaware of he leans forward to lick at one nipple. The sound that his action draws from her lips is like music and he grazes his teeth across it's mate in an effort to hear that sound again.
This time she lets out a low cry, internal muscles clenching around him as her movements start to become jerky and unfocused. It is all that it takes to push the knight over the edge and into the blinding orgasm he has long denied himself. Dimly, as though through water, he hears her whisper something but the words are lost to the ringing in his ears and the hard gasps of his breath. He reclines slowly, his head coming to rest on lumpy pillows and his eyes staring up into the shadows that cover the ceiling. Saroyah does not take long to follow him down, covering his sweat coated body with her own smaller one and he runs a gentle hand through her hair.
He could come to want this, he realises, a wife who loves him and a family. Though not the point of this evening, and certainly not the outcome that his friends had been hoping to achieve, Bevier knows that he will not be taking holy orders any time soon. He wonders if he has been so easily tempted over the years because God always knew that he was not suited for them.
"You're quiet," Saroyah mutters, rolling off him and getting to her feet.
"I have much to consider," Bevier replies honestly, watching her place their discarder clothing on the chair in the corner.
"Surely I was not that much of a disappointment to you?" Her smile is faintly wicked, making him blush faintly even after all that they have just done.
"No, quite the opposite." She throws him a slightly lewd glance as she clambers back onto the bed with him. The noise from the bar below has died down, the air silent aside from the distant bark of a dog and calls of men of the watch. "I should return to the palace," he says after beat. "I would like to see you again, though."
"I'm a whore, Bevier," she reminds him, "for the right price you could see me any time you like. Her words ring with irony, this woman who enjoys her work a great deal but who dreams of greater things.
He dresses in silence and she pulls on her robe, though not out of modesty now. Then she walks him out of the room and unlatches the tavern door to let him out into the chill night air. For a moment she stands framed by dull firelight and faintly glowing candles, her hand clutched to the top of her robe to ward off the chill of an autumn night, then the door is closed and Bevier is alone in the street with his thoughts and his memories.
If you don't like it I don't want to know, but if you do, even a little bit, tell me?
Artemis