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Bell could still feel her legs shaking as Sir Lockwood panted over her, the scars and calluses of his hands on her skin as familiar to her now as the stone corridors of the West Keep. The scent of their coupling was everywhere, and the feel of it hung heavily in the guardhouse, sweat and salt and evidence of the man's release running in rivulets down her thighs to spatter the flagstones.
It wasn't the sort of lesson her parents would approve of, of course. No lessons in refinement and manners, no ladies-in-waiting hovering like vultures around for the slightest discomfort to be whisked away before thought could regard it. No, the discomfort she'd felt when he'd pushed into her there, the slick glass vial discarded somewhere on the gnarled oak table she'd been unceremoniously pressed against, had given way to the strange tenderness in his voice and the feeling of being able to just be.
He might not be a prince, Bell knew, but Sir Lockwood seemed to know more than he let on, with the dance of fingertips and the angles just so and the way he'd guided her through discomfort into distinctly unladylike expressions indeed. The King and Queen might have his head for it, she knew, but when the candle in the guardhouse glimmered up to the Virgin's Tower, and the bedsheets beckoned for fastening and lowering, the lessons the captain taught were never ones to be late to.
Bell's reverie now was as much a matter of her own exhaustion as memory, and only Sir Lockwood's voice shook her back, the mark of him still warm inside her. Stubble tickled her cheek in that smile of his, and the notes of his whispers carried something like approval.
"Good lass, Bell. Just like that."
—
"Good lass, Bell! Just like that."
The sting of sweat dripped into Bell's eyes, Sir Lockwood's voice carrying a taunting edge to it as the sword-hilt snarled angrily against her grasp. The creature of straw and leather straps before her stood mutely there, taunting her more than the man ever could, and a hint of pressure at her side nudged her just so.
"Come up with it, eyes where you'll be, not where you are."
Wiping her brow, Bell swung again, the thunk of steel on wood sounding again in the clearing.
The journey to the castle of the Duke of the Western Marches - he would always be Uncle John, to her - still stretched far and away, a lonely road but for the company of the cluster of guards that ambled about alongside, near and far. She'd thought it would never work, the King and Queen preferring to send her for the season in style, with ladies-in-waiting and the usual coterie of courtiers, and her suggestion that an inconspicuous retinue would afford greater haste before the winter had surely been in vain. They'd assented, to her surprise, stipulating only that Sir Lockwood mind her safety along the way… and Bell had raced to her tower that night, heart thudding in elation at her success.
The guards were simple, but they had eyes, and Bell was sure they'd heard the sounds from the caravan at night. There were sounds of their own from the other wagons, though, and in the daylight even their rough manners were less pointed than the honeyed politesse of her ladies. Sir Lockwood had continued her education in his own fashion, carved pieces maneuvering around boards painted with fields and streams, and steel glimmering in sunlight. Hardly the rearing of a princess, the captain's gruff voice more often given to matters of riding - and riding - than to sugar and lace.
Even his digressions in the firelight, of lies and those who told them, of what made a man follow another and what kept people together more than coin, were like a fairy-tale to Bell, even if he did lapse into arguments about outlays and balances with the quartermaster in her earshot. A lady ought to never trouble herself, they'd have said at the Keep, but Sir Lockwood's eyes would gleam and he'd pull one of the other guards aside like that for a word of advice or counsel, and Bell would find herself making excuses to even be there for the arguments.
From time to time, he'd even ask her what she would do, in some matter of settling affairs or accounts, or measures and the minds of men, and he'd nod, eyes promising a reward once the shadows lengthened. It was a shame it was all so unrefined, sometimes. If her parents knew what things he was teaching her even before the sun sank, they'd have his head.
Thank you for reading! It really is a shame that Bell's sneaking around with the captain of the guard, isn't it? The King and Queen would be livid if they were to learn their daughter were learning all sorts of unladylike things from a man not related, like figures, fighting, and guiding others about sensibly. Truly reprehensible, really - even without Bell being drawn into it at first by the promise of the sorts of things young ladies might desire. They would be quite furious, but our heroine is determined to defy them and soak it all in.
… Not, of course, that that might ever be their plan.
I couldn't help but write the whole thing out once I got the idea! As one might expect, smut and story figure equally in this little tale, although I'm happy to go one way or another with it, or even in a different vein entirely, with the right partner.
Kinks of note for this one include: forbidden romance/affection, size differences and contrasts between partners, outdoor sex, creampies, (optionally and gentle, first-time) anal sex, dom/sub dynamics that are more guiding and affectionate, and cuddling in the afterglow. Depending on the other guards and our shared preferences, I've been toying with wholesome group-sex ideas, but that's entirely optional.
As always, cheers and thanks for reading!
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