Erotica Harem

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Title: "Invalid Item"  (Lady Jessica)

Chapter: (Chapter: 1)

Author: TimM

Plot: Hmmm, a writer. This is an interesting start, Tim. As for the dialogue, it worked. It wasn’t as stilted as I first thought I might be.

Scene: Perhaps just a tad more about the park.

Character Development: We learned quite a bit about Lady Jessica, but not the main character, but I’m sure we will. I’d like to know what she looks like. We had more descriptions for the Reviewer than we did of her, but then again, we're also in her pov.

Grammar: See below. Minor line edits.

Just My Personal Opinion: I found this a delightful read, Tim. You grab the reader into a medieval world and toy with them until the end. It was a nice surprise. The little added bonus was the sex. I LOVE Hardigan. My kind of man, yessireee!

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Please remember that these are only my opinions.
Please use whatever you feel is right for you.
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Chapter 1

The carriage shook so violently as it clattered down the Claiborne Road (noc oma) that Lady Jessica had to brace herself with one hand on the seat and the other on the door handle.

“Can you not slow down!” she shouted up to the driver.

“Nay, Lady. We must be through the Fen Woods ’ere (?) ere nightfall or we run the risk of falling into evil. Would not Hardigan like to get his hands on Lady Jessica Claiborne?”

She settled back in her seat, grumbling at the man. Falling into the hands of Hardigan might be preferable to the ugly fate that awaited her, she thought. Few men in the realm were as unsightly as the Earl of Clancy, a short, bald, red-faced wretch whose only qualities were a title and the wealth that went with it. And, Moreover (?) (keeping in the style of speech?) of course, the power to choose his wife from among the eligible young women of noble birth scattered throughout the land.

That Jessica had been his choice was a delicious delicacy for the gossips of Claiborne. Speculation was ran (?) rampant on the extent of Clancy’s knowledge of Lady Jessica, and she herself wondered how much he knew of her life and habits. Surely, (introductory adverb – a comma is needed) he knew of her beauty, for although they had not seen each other for two years, not (?) since her sixteenth birthday celebration, everyone in the land spoke of her magnificent flowering into womanhood. The question was whether the tale of her subsequent deflowering had reached his ears. She hoped not. One of the few bright spots in the coming days would be his reaction when, on their wedding night, she raised her legs in front of his puffy, pock-marked face, and presented six inches from his nose the unmistakable evidence of her prior experience. She had even endured the discomfort of Matilda shaving her pubic area, so that Clancy’s view would not be obstructed by the flaming red hair that normally enshrouded her nether regions.

The carriage slowed. She raised the shutter and stuck her head out the window. Their two horses had kicked up so much dust that it was difficult to see, but the dark outline of a man standing in the middle of the road ahead soon came into view. The driver’s whip cracked, and the carriage surged ahead.

“Halt!” The shouted command was sounded (?) near, and Jessica slammed her window shut. The carriage raced on, bouncing her so high off the seat that she had to shield her head from striking the roof of the cab. The crunch of splintering wood suddenly assaulted her ears, and the carriage stopped with a violent lurch, throwing her off the seat and against the front wall. She gathered her skirt around her legs and situated herself on the tilting bench as best she could.

The door flew open to reveal a tall, ruddy-faced young man, his fists planted haughtily on his hips, (I don’t believe this commas is necessary) and his feet apart in a stance of defiance.

“So, Lady Jessica Fae Marie Claiborne, now that we are face to face, I see that your beauty is even beyond what can be seen from afar.”

“And so, too, is your thievery. Take what you want, Jean Hardigan, and begone.”

His lips widened into a hearty grin. “That, my lady, is exactly what I intend to do.” He extended his hand.

“What?” She crossed her arms in front of her chest. “Where is my driver?”

He glanced to the side. “He’s in the ditch, shaking the dirt off his britches. Be glad he’s alive. That was a foolish thing he did, attempting to run me down. Surely, (comma) he knows that a pike through the wheel spokes will stop any carriage.”

“He’s a foolish man. I had to haul him out of the Lion’s Head and slap him sober before we could set forth today. But that’s no business of yours. Stand aside while we unhitch the horses so we may yet reach my Earl’s hold ere nightfall.”

“Hah! All you will reach ere nightfall is my humble abode.” He took her hand and gently, but with clear intent, pulled her toward the door.

She wrenched her hand free. “How dare you! Clancy will steam your testicles for his dinner if you touch me again!”

He threw his head back and laughed. “So, your wit is as great as your beauty. I see that you call your bethrowed betrothed by his formal title rather than his name. Perhaps the name Percival does not roll off your tongue as easily as Clancy? Or are you loath to use the name by which you’ll call him when you share his bed? But see here, we waste time.” He leaned into the carriage, threaded one arm under her legs, the other around her back, and lifted her out.

“Unhand me!”

He set her down. She instantly (Is this adverb needed? The word “bolted” gives a vivid enough impression) bolted up the road. He took his whip from its belt fastening, and with a gentle flick he wrapped a good part of its length around her waist. She stared at him in shock.

“Lady Jessica,” he warned, “The next time you run from me, I’ll catch you by the feet and drag you to the ground. It would be a pity to dirty your clothes, would it not?

He placed his left hand on his sword and turned to the driver. “We’ll be off, now. Do you value your head, and its most convenient position above your shoulders?”

The driver gulped (?) and nodded.

“Then you will walk the rest of the way, and inform Earl Percival Tandy of Clancy that his bride-to-be has been saved from an unworthy fate.”

He unhitched the trembling horses from their harness and stroked their necks. “Go!” he shouted at the driver. “What are you waiting for?”

The driver took off at a run.

“Come, my lady,” Hardigan said, leading her by the hand to the smaller horse. “I know you are a more skilled rider than most men, but not more than me. Be assured that if you try to escape, you will not get far.” He put his hands on her waist and lifted her onto the horse’s bare back, handed her the reins, and mounted his own horse. “Follow me,” he commanded, and trotted into the forest.

“Hardigan!”

He turned his horse.

She pointed at his face, her hand quivering with anger. “I am the equal of any man, and better than most. You may still reconsider, and I’ll let you live.”

“This I know. Nonetheless, the reward is worth the risk. Come.”

They rode until nightfall, and further still. At first, (comma) she tried to memorize their path, but it took so many turns and forks that she soon lost track. The full moon was hung (?) high in the sky when they reached a cabin inside a small clearing. He dismounted and tied both horses. By the time he turned around to help her dismount, she was standing stood (?) on the ground, brushing bristly hair Whose hair? from her dress.

“You are a most capable woman,” he said.

“And you are a lecherous scoundrel.”

“Lechery is in the eyes of the beholder. We will see how you feel in the morning.”

She resisted the urge to slap him for his lewd suggestion, and followed him inside his cabin, trying to ignore the moist warmth between her legs that his words had *chuckles* Is this “had” necessary? inspired.

His home was sparsely decorated, containing little more than cooking implements, several casks that might hold water or more potent drink, and an assortment of rough-hewn furnishings. He pushed open a door to reveal a tiny bedroom. Handing her an oil lamp, he indicated a deerskin jerkin and pants hanging on the wall. “Go in there and change. You wouldn’t want to dirty your lovely garments.”

She squinted at the clothes hanging on the wall of the room, noting that they were much too small to fit her captor. “You were confident that you could abduct me, to have clothing of my size prepared.”

He laughed. “I succeed in my every endeavor. You are angry now, but think upon where you were bound, the man whose bed you were to share until the end of your days. You will see, (no comma) the life I offer you is sweet in comparison. Please, Lady Jessica, I am not mad. I ask only a fair chance to win your love.”

“In truth?” She gave him a mocking smile. “Do you dream that I will love a man who steals me from my carriage and holds me prisoner? You must think yourself a luscious delicacy, a truffle that tempts me beyond reason. Are you so delicious? Can you prove yourself?” She glided to him, slipping one arm around his waist and up his back, while her other hand rested on his hip. A strand of his straight, (comma) black hair brushed her cheek, and she blew it away. Touching her nose to his in a teasing caress, she inserted her thumb under the flap covering his knife, and in one smooth motion drew the blade knife and pressed its point into his back beside his spine. “Shall we have a contest? You attempt to break from my embrace as quickly as you can, and the moment I feel you move, I attempt to tickle your heart with this blade. Which of us do you suppose will win?”

His answer was a smile. There was no hint of fear in his eyes, only a merry twinkle.

“You are a woman brimming with surprises.”

“You have no idea.”

“Ah, but I do have one. I tell you that the next time an instrument of stabbing comes between us, it will press between your legs rather than into my back. Does that not sound more enjoyable, Jessica?”

She stepped away, cradling the knife in her palm. “My title is Lady Jessica. You will address me in that manner.”

He bowed his head, a cocky grin on his face. “My apologies, Lady.”

Her wrist flicked, and the knife embedded itself in the floor between his feet. “I wish to eat dinner. I will now change.”

“Yes, Lady. I will prepare your dinner. Please inform me when you are ready.” He plucked the knife from the floor, tossed it in the air, (comma) caught it, and turned his back on her, walking to a cabinet in the corner.

She retreated to her room, glancing over her shoulder before closing the door. He had extracted a haunch of smoked meat from the cabinet and was attacking attacked (?) it with his knife. He’ll be a worthy opponent, (italics for inner thoughts) she thought. Taming the outlaw, Hardigan, (comma) would be no easy task, but vastly more pleasurable than battling with Percival, Earl of Clancy, a man already so tamed by food and drink that he was little more than a flatulent slug. She stroked her hair and recalled the brigand’s * Alleviate the repeating of Hardigan's name Hardigan’s forest-green eyes dancing before her face as their noses touched. A worthy lover as well, (italics) she decided, if it should come to that.

One by one, she pulled the lacings of her bodice through the eyelets until she could peel the wretched garment from her body. She let it fall to the floor, followed by two layers of underclothes. The effrontery of that villain, she thought, to steal her from her carriage and set her on a horse like she was nothing more than a sack of potatoes. Would this have more impact worded as a personal thought? That would be the first thing to set right.

Her eyes fell on a huge keyhole in the door, and her heart jumped into her mouth. Was he watching? What kind of a worthless wretch would spy on a lady changing? She was bare as the day she was born, her every item of clothing scattered on the floor. She ran to the door and peered through the keyhole.

He was not watching. He was, in fact, standing with his back to her, naked in front of a wash basin. She had never seen a more muscular man. He must have been strong, to be able to lift her above his head and place her on the horse with no more effort than if he were lifting a child. But this made her heart pound. As he moved, splashing water on his body and rubbing it clean, muscles rippled beneath his flesh. She watched, mesmerized, while he washed every part of his body, from head to toe. Every part. She couldn’t help but notice when he spent an inordinate amount of time toward his midsection.

He turned around to grab a rag from a hook on the adjoining wall. She caught her breath when his member presented itself. It’s size suited him well. He rubbed himself dry, starting from his neck and working down to his feet. The whole time, she never took her eyes off his glorious appendage, watching it jiggle and dance with his every move.

“How are you progressing?” he called out.

“I am doing well.”

He lifted a clean pair of leather pants from a hook on the wall and stepped into them, pulling them up. She was about to turn away from the keyhole and fetch her own clothes when she stopped. With his pants halfway up his legs, he had paused to stare at her door. She had the uncomfortable feeling that he could see right through it to her naked body, though she knew this was impossible. Could he see the glint of her eye at the keyhole, and know that she was watching him? Surely, (comma) his eyesight was not that keen.

His hand crept to his member and fondled it. As he held his pose, seemingly meeting her own gaze through the keyhole, the object of her attention grew. With slow, steady pulsations it lengthened and rose. He stroked it, tickling its underside. Soon it was standing rigid.

She had seen only three such displays before. Well, four, but Stephen was hardly worth remembering. This one was different from the others, not only longer, but with an intriguing bend to it, like a curved sword. The tip jutted upward at enough of an angle to make her wonder how it would feel as it entered. Would it tickle in a special way? The thought tumbled through her mind, inspiring all sorts of possibilities.

With a sudden grunt, Hardigan pulled his pants up the rest of the way and continued hacking at the venison. Jessica leaned against the door and closed her eyes, summoning the memory of what she had just seen. Her hand sought the moistness between her legs. She slipped a finger into her slit and glided it up and down. A heat crept into her loins, warm at first, and then strengthening to a blaze that spread to her chest and thighs, consuming her being with its need for more fuel. This presence was an old friend, making her heart pound with the knowledge that stopping was now impossible. Taking it to its end was the only way to quench the fire. She put two fingers on her special spot and traced circles around it, feeling it tighten at her touch. As her fingers flicked over the mound, the tension in her gut grew until it became a craving, a demand for that great curved sword she had seen, almost within reach beyond the keyhole. She panted at the thought of it filling her swollen womanhood, (comma) for more emphasis to feed the desire that raged inside.

A knock came the door. “Lady Jessica,” Hardigan called out. “Are you ready yet?”

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Jessica closed her laptop and set it on the bench beside her. She picked up the box of Chinese takeout, now cold, and spooned a heap of it into her mouth. Glancing at her watch, she groaned and chewed faster. Across the path, a dozen ducks glided over the pond, flipping their butts in the air every few seconds to snatch a tasty morsel from the mud. A little ways down the path, a tall, fair-skinned man watched her. He averted his eyes when her gaze met his. He turned away to look at the ducks for a minute before sauntering over to her bench.

“You’re a writer,” he said.

She gave him a cautious smile. “Sort of. How did you know.”

“By the way you type. You stare into space for a few minutes, and then wildly type wildly. Then more staring, then and more typing. Only writers work that way.”

She laughed. “Good deduction, Sherlock. I suppose not many people would notice that.”

“I notice. I’m an editor at The Little River Review. In case you haven’t heard of it, we’re a literary magazine. We don’t pay much, but we get names out. Maybe you should submit your story to us.”

She shook her head. “No way. I’m not good enough.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Let me take a look at what you’ve written.” He sat down beside her, picking up her notebook computer and handing it to her.

A hot flush crept up her face until her ears burned. “No, really. I can’t.”

“Okay. Suit yourself. Little River Review. Remember that, in case you change your mind. We’re always looking for fresh talent.” He got up and walked away, whistling Follow the Yellow Brick Road as he went

She took a deep breath, held it until her heart stopped pounding, and let it out slowly, willing herself to calm down. After one last bite of lunch, she rummaged through her purse for the thumb drive, backed up the story, and dropped the drive back in her purse. “Off to the salt mines,” she said to herself as she threw the food box in the trash and headed back to work.

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