Medieval Women’s Lib

A tongue-in-cheek piece to celebrate the 100th anniversary of women’s suffrage in Britain


 

 

 Madam, prithee, summon thy maidservant and have her disrobe thee. I trow, my love, thou, too, must be as inflamed as I.’

She regarded him fearfully by the light of the single candle of her bedchamber. His menacing shadow fell long across the flagged floor and danced demon-like upon the tapestried wall. His eyes glistened, reflecting his lust. She clutched her night robes to her breast and shrank from him, horrified.

‘Sir, we are but betrothed.’ said lady Elenore, ‘I shall ne’re cast a clout of my raiment before thee, nay sir, not until we are wed.’ And even then, she thought, will I do with great reluctance.

‘But my beloved betrothed, my loins ache for thee with tenderest love, I desireth only to worship thee with my body bringing joy to us both.’ He dropped to one knee in supplication, his silken hose chaffed by the coarse floor.

‘Sir, I prithee arise and be gone lest thou wakest my parents who lie abed in the next chamber. Wouldst thou have me so shamed?’

He beheld her flowing flaxen hair, her slender figure, her long delicate arms and the feather-like fingers that ended them. His heart raced. He must, he would have her. 

Their marriage had been arranged as one of convenience, the castle and lands she would inherit would greatly increase his wealth and power. Her father, Sir Roger Demall, having no male heir, was desperate to secure a strong alliance to protect his estate from usurpers after he was gone.  Sir Ivan Arddon was past fifty and she but fifteen but, when she bore him a son, her future and the family lands would be secure.

Sir Ivan arose and approached her, his cajoling now replaced by lustful determination. ‘Madam, I wouldst have thee this night and delay no longer our consummation.’ He pushed her onto her bed his hand slipping up her robe.

She felt his hoary, calloused fingers slide up her tender thigh, the covers beneath her, once cosy and safe, now became a bed of pain. She felt a deep burning shame as his thick finger with its broken, blacked nail penetrated her, splitting her hymen and causing her to cry out.

He swiftly covered her mouth with his free hand pinning her like a butterfly to a specimen board. ‘Thou wilt obey me wench and bow to my will’ he croaked. He removed his hand and forced his lips to hers. His foul, malodorous breath and probing tongue nauseated her. She reached beneath her pillow.

When at last his kiss was ended she pleaded ‘good Sir, wilt thou not have mercy upon me, a poor maid of but fifteen summers? Wilt thou not forbear until our union be blessed?’

He drew his manhood from his breeches and presented it to her.

She recoiled in shock and fear at the sight of his huge organ with its purple throbbing head.

‘This, madam, is Sir Cockledo, my master and, this very hour, to be yours also. We are to be wed in but a week you and I, I see no reason to dally.’ He pushed up her gown and spread her trembling thighs. ‘I wilt have thee’ he said as he climbed upon her.

As he buried his face deep into her neck, she buried her dagger deep into his.

Good father, she thought, I wouldst have thee think anew.

 

 

 

 

 

© pronto 2018
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critique and comments welcome.

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