SHARDS OF CHIVALRY

My rod is thick and swelling by the second.

If I had a coin for all the times I've begged to sleep with a woman, I would be as poor as I am today, maybe poorer. It's just not my style. But for some reason, my body is reacting to the image of me on my knees looking up at my wife and asking for mercy. Maybe it is because most women throw themselves at me, and my wife has never bothered to look in my direction, whatever the case, it makes her different and more attractive in my eyes.

Beatrice has not only beauty but also intelligence. I can confirm that by the look she has on her face this very instant. She was shocked, at first, but now her face has taken the features she had yesterday before kicking that bucket of water. I should have known she would come around to my intent faster than the speed of lightning. The only reason I want to bed her is to rid her of her virginity, ruin her for any other fore-coming men. If she wants to get married after this, it will be only with the scum of the earth. The South is a non-violent place, but that doesn't mean it has no criminals. As a matter of fact, it is for that reason all the kingdoms in the South are infested with criminals and rebels from every other kingdom taking refuge there to avoid execution.

"You filthy son of a mangy whore," she starts off creatively, "Cursed hell-spawn. Your mother should have drowned you the moment you came into this world!"

"Beatrice, I don't understand why you are so-"

"Oh, spare me the act Theobald I wasn't born yesterday." she takes off her cloak and slaps it on the bed frame, hard. I am ashamed of my rod that is still growing bigger. "I cannot believe how selfish you are. You want me to grow old all alone."

"I want you to be mine and only mine." Now where the hell did that come from?

Beatrice seems surprised too, at my change in tone. She takes a moment to calm down, and afterward, I see her eyes glance at the door. She must be thinking of running away. She knows I am injured, and she has only one shot at this if she wants to make it out of this room and out of her marriage. If she's thinking that then she's probably made up her mind to abandon my father. It's not that I'm smart, it's just that she is very easy to read.

"Don't make this difficult. I won't let you leave this room."

Alright, I realize what that makes me look like. But I guess I prefer Beatrice's anger to her tears. I'd rather have her seething at me like she is right now than see her crying.

"Fine." she says, and my heart skips a beat, out of fear. I mean, I knew I was going to have to do it eventually right? Bed my wife? "Try to be gentle."

Don't worry Beatrice, it was already my intention.

She stands with her back half-turned to me, her fingers moving deftly over the ties of her gown. One by one, the laces loosen, the fitted wool slackening about her frame. She rolls her shoulders, and the fabric gives way, slipping down the curve of her arms before falling to the floor in a hush of heavy cloth. Beneath it, the pale linen of her kirtle clings closer to her form, the sun rays catching in the folds where it's bunched at her hips. She reaches for the narrow laces at her breasts, tugging them loose, angrily. I swallow, my mouth dry and my lips parted.

The kirtle yields next, sliding down a slow, soundless fall, pooling around her feet. She stands now in nothing but the thinnest layer, the smock, a whisper of linen that shifts with her breath. The fabric catches at her thighs, clinging for a moment longer, then softening as she moves again, bending to untie the garters at her legs. One stocking peels away, then the other, her bare heels meeting the stone floor.

I can hear my heart beating, loudly. At any moment now it's going to happen. I am going to sleep with Beatrice. For some reason, my body is stagnant. This has never happened before, in all my shitty life. A gorgeous woman is naked before me, and I do not know what to do.