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The Exile

By: Zingiber



Her stylus marked the last letter in the tray of fine sand. Reading it over once more, she checked that the message was safely hidden in the jumble of letters. She copied them over onto a strip of thin paper, blotted the ink, and rolled it tightly. The sand went back into a jar. The strip of paper went into a smooth, round-ended ivory capsule that she closed with a waxed stopper. The message that had prompted her reply went into her mouth, the delicate rice paper melting on her tongue. She tidied her workspace for good measure, but there was nothing here to hide.

Waiting in the outer chamber was the messenger.

"My lady?" he said.

She inclined her head. "Are you ready to bear the reply?"

"I am," he said.

She raised the capsule and nodded. She anointed it with salve from a small pot on the windowsill. He turned away, loosened his belt, lowered his trews, and raised his tunic.

She smiled. Once upon a time his bared buttocks would have been an insult to her station. Now she had no station, and this was a matter of routine. Her slim fingers touched the ivory capsule to his opening, and when it yielded, she tucked the message inside his body.

His ring twitched, catching her forefinger as it withdrew, and his stones rose in their sack. She cupped them in her hand and squeezed gently. "You rise. Would you bear your own message to me this night?" she asked.

His breath deepened and quickened. "Your h..." he began.

"Hsht!" she stopped him. "In your heart, not on your tongue."

He bowed his head. She raised his chin and looked in his eyes, then held out a flat palm and tapped it with her gathered fingertips. He smiled, remembering the story she told of how an emperor traveling incognito was saluted discreetly by his retainers.

She reached down and took his manhood in hand. "You always rise when I touch you behind," she said softly.

"When I was a squire, my master taught me well," he said.

"Do you teach your squires so?" she asked, stroking him gently.

"Squires are few," he said. "But I am to receive a new one when I return."

"And he is to receive you?" she teased.

"He shall," he said. "And he shall rise for me."

"Tonight you rise for me," she said. "You are warm tidings from home." She leaned closer to his ear and whispered, "I am halfway between moons. Tonight you must take me like a boy."

"My lady," he whispered in return.

"Follow me to the window," she whispered. "I would look toward home." She handed him the pot of salve and stepped to the window.

He coated the nut of his manhood thickly with salve, stroked it down the length, and scooped another dab on his fingers. She stepped to the windowsill and parted the curtains to look across the walls and over the darkened hills in the direction of her native home. She pulled up the back of her plain robe and tucked it into the soft rope belt. In the candlelight her buttocks were lit with an orange-rosy glow, a dramatic shadow in her cleft. This was no squire's tight square fess, nor the skinny hindpart of the desperate refugee girl she once had been, but the broad soft rump of a mature woman who spent much of her time seated. Seated at a copyist's desk, or upon a throne, he supposed it was all one. Either way she was his Lady, and he would serve with gladness.

She braced her hands on the windowsill and presented her hindparts. "Serve me," she said urgently. "Honor me." She looked over her shoulder. "Present yourself and enter me."

"My lady," he said. He dropped to his knees and applied a gentle kiss to each soft cheek. He spread her buttocks and paused. The rich scent of her womanhood was wine, food, and perfume to him. He took in one slow deep breath of her, then dabbed the salve on the tight, springy ring of her opening. He pressed gently, rubbing, testing, rubbing, testing, until she opened as he knew she would.

"Yes," she said. "Enter."

He rose to his feet, a hand on her flank so as not to let go the touch of her skin. He steadied his manhood against her sally port. No forcing, just gentle insistence that he was a welcome, well-known guest. There was a pulse at his lance tip, a tiny kiss of wind, a quick tight slide and he was in her once again. She whimpered. He stood still, only head-deep into the heat of her bowels, but she could take little more with comfort. 

Holding his lance head-deep, he leaned forward awkwardly to whisper in her ear. "My princess. My Queen."

"My loyal knight. My champion," she breathed. "I am your squire tonight." Her ring squeezed on him. "Ah!" she exclaimed quietly, then put her mouth to the soft folds of her full sleeves. Her ring tightened again. "Mnf!" 

His own rear gate tightened on the ivory capsule she had inserted. He was the bottle for her message. His lance was the message for her bottle.

He straightened up to put his weight on his feet. With well-learned patience, he moved his hips in tiny thrusts, just enough for his shaft to tug her ring a little in, a little out, a little in, a little out...

She sighed through her nostrils and breathed in deeply, nodding for him to continue.

He read the pleasure and the tension in her body, the body he had the secret privilege to know and serve, and adjusted his depth and rhythm and the grip of his warm hands on her naked skin. Longer thrusts now but never deeper than a thumb. as was his Lady's custom for the puerile service. He moved faster, always attentive to her breaths and the tone of the faint moans muffled by her sleeve.

Just as a knight would honor a squire's pleasure with a sure, stroking hand, so he would honor his lady. He reached down into her soft thicket of secret curls, finding and parting the lips. There. He took her pearl in his fingers, rolling it gently. Her hips jolted and she moaned into her sleeve. When she was a hotly pursued fugitive of war, there were many descriptions of her, good likenesses on paper, even the size of her feet. But no account had told that the fugitive princess might be known by a womanly pearl as big as a grape. And her libido was as outsized as her pearl, nor would it be denied. And so he served his Lady, polishing her pearl with his cock up her ass in the dark, drafty garret of her exile as she moved against him, craving a touch of home, seeking pleasure and release.

His cock swelled inside her and he rubbed faster and harder. No dainty pearl, his lady's swollen knob welcomed a firm, quick hand. Her hips dipped and rose as he stroked. He felt her tense just so, just so, until she bucked under him. Warm wetness splashed his hand. Her head strained up and down as the waves of her release coursed through her body. Her jaw tensed against her sleeve and she whimpered faintly.

In the long moment of her climax, feeling her ring clench his shaft again and again, he felt he owned her body and soul. But his duty, his love was to serve and protect his Lady. He would serve, take his gift, and withdraw. He moved his cock in her ass for his own pleasure now.

"My lady!" he hissed. He screwed up his face, holding his mouth clenched shut. His cock swelled and erupted in the heat of her bowels. His climactic thrusts forced him deeper than her depth of comfort. She cared not, trying to keep on her feet as her orgasm rolled on and on, wetting their clothes with her own liquid tribute.

His thrusts stuttered to a stop, as did her waves of release. He gently pulled back to a shallow depth. In a minute he softened and she squeezed him out. He blotted her quickly with a handkerchief, then fell to his knees behind her bare bottom. It glowed faintly redder and he could feel its heat on his cheeks. Odors of sweet grass and barnyard were now mingled with her rich womanly scent. He kissed her buttocks left and right. She quivered. A faint laugh sounded through her muffling sleeve.

She straightened up, the hem of her worn scholar's robe falling back down toward the floor. She bent to kiss his forehead. "Full well you served," she said. "Rise. I must retire, and you must depart."

"My lady," he said, straightening his drab tradesman's clothes.

"Go with every blessing," she said.

The Exile Ch. 02: The Squire



"Good. Now a little deeper, lad," his master told him.

The young man gulped. His eyes moistened with the effort and his throat twitched, unaccustomed to the pressure on the back of his tongue.

"Easy, lad," his master said. "Just a little more."

The young man's hands tightened on the edge of the shield where he was kneeling, holding himself in place. His breath came raggedly through his nose as he took his master's manhood deep in his mouth. The nut of flesh pressing against his gullet swelled. A tear ran down his cheek as he held firm.

His master sighed in satisfaction. "Good, it is done." He withdrew from the young man's mouth with a dull pop.

The young man's mouth was empty, left only with the taste of rough soap and a salty slipperiness.

"Now the last," his master said. He stepped around and knelt behind the young man, raising the tail of his smock. Warm, rough hands parted the cheeks of his rump. "Clean. Well done." A finger thick with grease rubbed at the center. "Once more, now." The older man cleared his throat. "Wilt thou serve as my squire, faithfully aiding me your knight master, till death or the word of myself or our Majesty the Queen release thee?"

The young man hesitated, his head swimming with fatigue after his all-night vigil in the chill of the ruined chapel. But the mention of the Queen revived him. "I will," he said firmly.

"Then receive my lance, accept it as I accept you, squire."

The tip of his master's rod prodded him between the cheeks. The young man lowered his head and breathed slowly as he had been taught. He tried to push back upon the blunt point, but nothing was gained.

"No, lad, hold still. Push out at me, bear down and push OUT," his master said. "There, there, like that."

"Ah-ahhh!" The young man's voice betrayed him as his master's lance pierced his body. His breath caught. The intense stretching and pushing filled the world of his senses. His master paused until the young man was breathing again.

"I salute you with my lance, squire," his master said. "Honor only the worthy with yours."

"Yes. My. My lord," the young man panted out his reply.

Their breaths replaced words. The older man breathed steadily. The young man's ragged gasps slowed and deepened until he matched the rhythm of his master's breaths.

"Yes. Good, lad, good. Did you ever receive another lad thus?"

"N-no my lord. My family was most noble, so I was always atop," the young man said. The unfamiliar fullness in his body was gradually losing its sense of discomfort.

"That lack is filled today," his master said. "When you covered your fellows, did you honor their shafts?"

"What, my lord?"

A warm, hard hand reached under the young man's belly and squeezed his shaft. "Like so."

"No, my lord," the young man said. "Ahhh."

"A gentleman does not fail to offer honor to the man he sheathes his lance within. If he is worthy to receive your shaft, his shaft is worthy of your honor, be he noble, common, or base."

"Yes, my lord." His shaft filled in the warm grip of the older man's hand. His master's hairs tickled the groove of his bottom. So big inside his bum, so warm. "Ah."

"Do not forget. Always honor, never abuse. Now attend. Stroke thus." The older man's hand gripped just below the crown. His strokes slid the skin up and down over the head.

"My lord. Ah."

"Now the next time you mount another fellow, what will you do?"

"Frig him!" The young man squeezed his eyes tight. "Ah. Why did you stop?"

"What will you do?"

"Honor his shaft. With my hand. My lord." His master resumed his hand strokes. The young man's breath hissed between his teeth. "As you honor mine. My lord. Ahh."

"Do not fail. Now recite."

His master's lance filled him, tight and intense. His master's hand stroked slowly on his own shaft. The fullness in his bowels became a good thing, a right thing.

"I swear. To serve you faithfully. As your squire. To care for your arms. And all you require. My lord."

The young man's shaft pulsed in the knight's hand, weeping slick tears.

The knight redoubled his thrusts and hand strokes.

"Yes, take me, my lord!"

The knight charged the other, "Let your seed be your seal. Let my seed be my seal."

"My lord!"

The squire's shaft leaped in his master's fist, spraying white laces across the fabric of his master's padded coat which lay atop the shield.

"Yes, lad, yes! Under Heaven and our Queen, I take you as my squire!" The knight moved both hands to the young man's buttocks and gripped tightly, thrusting toward his goal.

"My lord, my lord!" the young man called out. The pleasure in his master's thrusting turned towards pain as his climax ebbed.

"For the Queen!" the knight cried out, hammering at the young man's breech.

"Ah! The Queen!" the young man yelled.

The knight growled aloud. His lance swelled in the young man's body and spat hot seed within.

For a long moment they held in place, warm from the rite of Zeus and Ganymede which is the secret joust of knight and squire, deeply connected, trembling against one another. At length the knight withdrew and cleaned his soiled lance.

"Kneel, squire," the knight ordered. He stood before the youth and tapped each shoulder with his softening member. "You are accepted. Rise now."

The squire stumbled to his feet, and now the knight knelt before him.

"I accept the service of your lance for myself and our Queen," the knight said. "Spend once more to bless this day." He took the young man's penis in his own mouth, feeling it stiffen again. A tug at the squire's balls brought it to full hardness. The squire's hands fell gently upon his lord's head to steady himself as the knight sucked deeply. The knight pulled him closer, swallowing the tip of the squire's lance into his gullet. The squire's eyes rolled up toward the brightening sky showing through the damaged roof.

The new squire's cry echoed in the ruined chapel as he filled his lord's throat with seed. He swayed and crumpled to the ground, his legs failing with the fatigue he finally felt.

The knight covered the exhausted squire in his mantle and watched over him in the morning light as he slept. "And now we will serve our Lady together," he murmured. "For there is much to do."