Carried News

He could remember that voice, groaning his name hotly against the shell of his ear, teeth nipping at the nape of his neck before the King shuddered, and --

Blondel faltered in one note, for his throat had suddenly gone dry while his mouth watered simultaneously. He recovered quickly, and his drunken audience seemed not to notice at all. Blondel\'s cheeks and groin burned silently with that sudden memory, and it was after a moment\'s wonder that he realized that wine was the culprit. He had swigged back the aphrodisiac without a second thought, and the powerful vintage was already beginning to trickle potently from stomach, to loins.

His short ballad of Richard\'s imprisonment was completed, and he saw that he had managed to succeed in planting something into the minds of these men. Most advantageously, the one man clad in cloth suggesting rank. If he couldn\'t recall exactly what the minstrel had sung, Blondel was confident that his subconscious was intrigued enough to urge the man to seek him out for reminding later.

Hazy with the influence of wine, Blondel\'s eyes unfocused from the other customers in the inn. Pressure against his groin distracted him, and his fingers tightened around the neck of his lute. The pear-shaped backing of the instrument was putting delicate pressure against the front of his breeches, and the minstrel bit his lip as succulent memories rose to his vivid imagination, barriers weakened by wine. His breath caught, and one of the men at table clapped a coin upon the wooden tabletop loudly, drawing attention.

Blondel proceeded to tuck his lute away, suddenly all too aware of the eyes of the men upon him. The slender figure with long blonde hair and eyes downcast, slid his lute into its bag, ignoring the coin he suspected was not for thanks of his song, but to wring sweeter services from his lips. His gestures contained something of grace and demureness, but the lutist was well aware of the thoughts running in their wine-addled minds. Of course he was, because his own loins were aflame, yet he had needed no enticing androgynous morsel to gaze at blearily by the fireside.

He dismissed himself from the tension of the room with a faint smile, and a deliberately weary step so he would not be bothered to stay for more song, or something less innocent. His aura succeeded in deterring any comment from the men at table, and he was allowed to slip from the room into an adjoining staircase. Out of sight of the commons, he paused and glanced over his shoulder to see the barkeep reclining in a state of slumber at the same stool he\'d sat upon since Blondel\'s arrival, some two hours earlier.

The feel of the minstrel\'s passion-darkened eyes on him woke him, and he blinked to a more readily wakeful state. \"I\'ll have your bath sent up, Monsieur de Nesle...thank you for the songs..\" Recalling the factual subject of his last ballad amidst the narcotic net of the lutist\'s voice, the man\'s gruff face scrunched a little. Without further glance at Blondel, he turned and shuffled into a back room, supposedly to rouse his son or one of the other lingering staff Blondel had not seen, to get water sent up to him.

Blondel found all of his bags within the small room. It was a luxury not to have to share with anyone else, and the mattress seemed devoid of any detectable fleas, herbs freshly planted in the seams. He set his lute down with care upon a tabletop, and promptly descended to the bed.

At the long end of a journey, he heaved a sigh. He knew tomorrow inquiry would come, and he would be tugged again by the winds of his destiny to play informant and to gather information in turn, before perhaps moving on to spread the news further into England if Prince John, as he suspected, would seek to milk the situation to his favor and King Richard\'s downfall.

King Richard. His mind fixated upon that burning star within his memory, and his manhood gave a responding leap.

Ill-timed, the groom entered the room just then with a great bucket of water. Blondel feigned nonchalance and rolled over onto his stomach, hiding his rapidly rising erection.

Sleepy himself, and sensing the minstrel with his face to the pillow wanted no small talk, the barkeep\'s son didn\'t trouble Blondel, but simply emptied the steaming bucket into the wooden tub set up in the middle of the floor.

He had to return thrice to build the water\'s level to something acceptable. By that time, he had some of the hot water sloshed on himself, and Blondel was fair biting his lip with the anticipation of the boy\'s final departure.

At long last, the heavy door shuddered closed and the boy\'s steps retreated.

Blondel remained motionless upon the inn\'s great bed, head upon his folded arms. Arousal warred with weariness for a moment, but at last it was the throbbing member pinned to the bed which won. He would have a sounder sleep for appeasing it, in the end.

The lutist rolled over, and sought to undress himself. The slender, decorative braided belt around his waist was undone swiftly, silver buckle unable to glimmer in the dark room. Next, he pulled up his long tunic. The fabric was soft, dyed a lovely blue Richard had always said looked fetching on him. Blondel agreed, but the long garment was laid aside in favor of naked skin exposed to the night air.

His hand crept into his black breeches. The ebony of them was scuffed by his travels, but he had ceased to worry about his appearance now that he was alone in his room, especially with more pressing matters to attend to. Sitting on the edge of his bed, he caressed the hot bulge between his legs while distractedly working free of his boots. After a few moments, he resigned himself to failure and diverted his hands to undoing his laces. Pushing the boots away, he gave one last glance at the door, and laid down upon the bed.

His strong, lean fingers wrapped around his manhood. He shivered both mentally and physically at the feel of the soft, delicate skin against his fingers and palm. Instinctually his hips arched, pushing his pulsing length through the pleasurable tunnel his encircling fingers made.

It had been a while since Blondel was not sleeping under the stars, so weary from travel that his halfhearted attempts at self-love ended up merely coddling him to sleep without satisfaction. His body missed these exquisite sensations, and reveled in them all the more for their temporary absence.

His flesh hungered for something even more which he could not give it right now. The feel of another man inside him, pushing his own insistent arousal within his body. He remembered one in specific; the manhood of King Richard, nestled beneath its small tuft of ruddy curls.

As he recalled Richard\'s erect cock and the wrenching pleasure it brought, he stroked his own more eagerly. His first soft moan of the evening fell sweetly from his lips, absorbed by the flat pillow as he turned his face into it. He was rewarded with the scent of herbal agrimony beneath the pillowslip. Richard had always smelled like musk and spice, some expensive concoction of fragrance unique to him alone, brewed and kept in phials which traveled with his royal caravan. But it was the scent beneath that perfume which inflamed Blondel\'s memory. The rich, masculine and human scent of the King who had coaxed him to become his bed-partner as well as traveling companion.

Many occasions of their lovemaking flickered through the minstrel\'s mind. No one in particular, but simply a ceaseless flow of passionate imagery to fuel his need. Imagining his lover\'s lean hand calloused by the sword, he slid his left palm down his torso. It ventured up again, manifesting his imagination when in his mind\'s eye, Richard rubbed his fingertips against the hard nub of his nipple.

Some chill wind crept in through a crack in the wall, and made the minstrel quake briefly as his skin trembled. It didn\'t like the chill air spring\'s night had brought, so he squeezed his eyes shut and endeavored to wrap himself more thoroughly in his heated imaginings.

His encircling hand stroked up his shaft, and paused at the blushing tip. Blondel remembered the rare, sweet times when Richard had decided to particularly spoil him and wrap his lips around the throbbing head. Remembering the feel of the king\'s moist mouth, and his persistent tongue, Blondel gasped and thrust his hips up with a soft jerk. His rear lowered to the bed again gradually, muscles clenched as his hips squirmed in quiet bliss.

His mind\'s eye and body\'s memory replayed Richard sucking hard upon him, and his thumb pressed against the very tip, mimicking the king\'s tongue gathering up the first drop given forth there. He moaned quietly again, enticing himself with the sound of his own voice. He didn\'t dare cry out much louder, conscious of the others in the small tavern despite the burning wine in his blood. He could feel the strong vintage\'s hold on him, pulsing through his body, making his member ache all the more pleasurably.

As much as wine had the tendency to heighten his passionate sensations, it also made the end come quickly. Blondel felt his climax rush towards him, and only just willed his hand to cease in its motions before he passed over the edge itself. Greedy for more moments of sensation, he allowed himself a few moments of panting recovery.

Richard had taught him the pleasures of teasing a partner to the edge again and again. Through the Lionheart, his teenage habit of charging zealously into orgasm was weaned from him, in exchange for more lengthy and passionate trysts. The king liked to see the stubborn minstrel succumb to his will time and again, several times a night.

Allowing his arousal to ebb, but sustaining it, he slid his hands away from his erection entirely. Arching his hips upward, he rubbed the soft insides of his thighs, and then the engraved lines of his hips. His wrist touched the curls at the base of his erection while his fingers dipped down, hefting and rubbing the weight of his scrotum between his legs. He turned a groan into the pillow, and allowed his hand to return to his cock when the need grew too exquisite to deny.

He ached for the feel of Richard again, to let the king make carnal use of his body as he had once done so often. Just remembering the noble\'s hard length impaling him, striking that tender spot within, made him tremble and arch anew. Staved off once, his climax would not be denied this time.

His hand stroked faster as hot memories crashed and blended in his mind. Richard above him, thrusting wantonly and pinning him against the bed. The sensation of being covered in cool, scented oil, whilst being penetrated by a slick cock floated back to him suddenly amidst the sea of memories. Fingers wandered from a nipple to his mouth, and he sucked fervently at his fingers, lashing them with his tongue.

Quickly, before the saliva could dry on the cool air, Blondel returned his hand to his nether regions. Arching his hips upwards, he found the entrance Richard had often plundered, and pressed against it. Imagining his king\'s erection instead of his own fingers, he slid two inside of himself and let out a whimper of delicious pleasure.

It was more than nothing, but still not enough. He wanted more. He wanted Richard to be filling him, moving against him with soft sighs and lewd, degrading phrases the minstrel would only permit him speak whilst in the bedchamber. In the light of day, Blondel was not to be belittled or trifled with. Between the sheets, however, little flamed his body more than the idea of belonging utterly to his king.

Gasping out small noises of need which carried above the shifting of the sheets, he pumped his erection more rapidly, stroking his insides with his fingertips. He came close to the root of sin itself; that point of sudden pleasure every man had inside his carnal body, but only some dared to allow another man to discover for them. Blonde hair tangled against his back and around his bare shoulders, the minstrel gave a sharp jerk of his hips, thrusting his fingers inside one last time.

He came with a stifled groan, crying the king\'s name in his own mind as a shudder possessed him. The evidence of his orgasm hit the soft skin of his stomach, white against white.

He held his pulsing manhood to milk the last moments of intensity as the final drops spilled. The twitches subsided, and tautness flowed out of him with a relaxed sigh. His fingers uncurled from their grasp upon himself and from their explorations within, leaving his oversensitive body alone while he enjoyed these sublime moments of afterwards.

At last, his organ simply lay limp against a thigh, and the chill air came in and caressed his damp skin. Tugging his mind away from longing for Richard to be holding him in that affectionately possessive way of his, he became aware of his state, and sudden weariness. Cracking one eye open, he saw the bath was still steaming invitingly. Dimly aware of the mess he\'d made of himself, he rose and walked to the tub with limbs lighter than air.

The warm bath drew him back to earth, and he cleaned himself thoroughly. His fingers he paid special attention to, mildly chagrined at his own wantonness. He\'d have to shake hands later, and strum the strings of his lute. Now, when next he clasped the hand of another, he was sure to think back on this memory. The use of a small sliver of lavender soap assured physical cleanliness, but would not prevent a wry, self-indulgent smile to take ahold of his lips when the time came for touching another\'s hand.

He kept his long, freshly-tousled locks out of the water. To wash and dry them was a great effort, and not one he
cared to undergo this evening. His scalp crawled, and his hair would want tending to in the morning. His blonde hair had earned him his name, and the length of it was a vanity Richard eagerly promoted. The king often confessed to loving the silken brush of it against his naked skin, and was fond of drawing back the curtain of it to kiss the nape of the minstrel\'s neck during more tender lovemaking sessions.

The memory made Blondel shiver pleasantly, and he sank into the bath more fully. He absorbed the heat of it into his body and let it wrinkle his fingertips a little. At long last, satiated and warmed, he toweled himself off and donned rumpled nightclothes from within his pack, then slid into the bed his song had bought.

So relaxed and appeased was he that he managed, for once, not to worry about the business of tomorrow as he drifted off to sleep.