Serve Me — Alain & Ysabella (mature) (Patreon)

Alain sprawls on the long, plush sofa. A tall glass of wine in hand, legs propped up on the table, satin robe hanging from his shoulders.

He twirls the wine in a perfect circle as he listens to the fire crackling in the hearth. Slow and sluggish, just like his mind. His lips slip into a lazy smile, and he stretches his legs languidly, akin to a slothful cat. Alain is pleasantly content. Happy, one could almost say. If one was feeling exceptionally sentimental.

Perhaps tonight, Alain would allow himself to be sentimental.

There is a pretty thing sleeping in his bed. Lovely and spent and Alain had to leave the room to keep from waking you yet again with hot, feverish lips. Your back, he was finding, was awfully hard to resist. He wanted to tail down the path from your shoulder blades to the very end of your spine and drink in your shivers and mews.

He wanted to trace your muscles with his fingertips, born from a life so different from his own. He even wanted to taste each bump in your flesh, scars and bruises, and little scrapes that a mercenary collects as avidly as his lord father collects favors.

You are a pretty little thing with pretty little eyes and surprisingly, pretty words too. A keen mind, he was fast to realize. Much keener than what the brutish reputation of sellswords would have him expect. Alain doesn't yet know if you're just too good for the White Company or if the mercenary band is special.

He's a betting man, and if he could find someone to gamble with on this, Alain would bet that you are too good for them.

Alain takes a small sip of his wine. The flavor is rich and enticing. Addicting. Almost as much as your taste. You are proving to be addicting too.

He sighs. What silly thought to have in the middle of the night. If Ysabella could see him, he'd never hear the end of it. He'd be plagued for the next moon cycle with sly smiles and battling eyelashes and soft, gloved hands pushing him towards you whenever you—

His bedroom door opens, and out you come. Alain's smile splits wide as his rich, brown eyes slowly roam your body. You're wearing his shirt. Something in his stomach jumps at the sight, as well as something else a little bit lower.

Lord, you and I had disagreements, but tonight, I thank you.

His shirt comes down to your tights, just above that sweet spot he's learning to love, showcasing your soft skin. The chest is left unbuttoned, teasingly revealing your collarbones and the valley that drips down from their apex. The sleeves are rolled back so he can see the lines of your inner wrist all the way to the bends of your elbows.

You pause by the threshold. "I was looking for you," you tell him in a raspy voice that has pride swelling in his chest. He made you sound like that. "I woke with you gone and—"

Alain lifts a sharp hand.

You snap your mouth closed, looking at him with surprised eyes and flushed cheeks. Alain wants to swallow you whole. Instead, he keeps his voice casual. Cold. Detached. "Who gave you permission to wear that?"

You blink, looking down. "I just needed something to—"

"Take it off," he demands, straightening in his seat. You hesitate, your mouth parted, and his jaw clenches to stop silly words of reassurance from coming out.

Alain holds your gaze firmly as, finally, you grab the hem of his shirt. But just as you do, Alain speaks again. "Slowly," he drawls, eyes darkening and crotch hardening.

You freeze, and then a deep, sultry smile twists your lips. Alain thinks the expression fits you best. You move closer, your hips swaying and your skin glowing as your hands slowly, carefully, lift his shirt from your body.

His eyes drink in the sight like a thirsty, desperate man lost in the desert. The skin of your thighs, the dips in your hips, the expanse of your stomach, the sin of your chest...

He spreads his knees wider when you come to sit on his lap. Alain grabs your tights, pulling them further apart. "As you command," you whisper, leaning in and drawing his lower lip between your teeth. "My lord."

All reason flies out of the window.

His hands clench down, your flesh bulging between his fingers as Alain yanks you against him. You gasp when your core meets his, but he swallows the sound when his mouth assaults yours. Alain doesn't bother to hold back. His tongue delves in, hungry, claiming, as his hands make a prisoner of your hips.

You mewl into his mouth, the vibrations sending him spiraling. Your thighs envelop his waist, and he moves them back and forth at the same time he thrusts his tongue into and out of your mouth. Your hands come to grab his shoulders, your nails dragging down his back and igniting his nerves.

"Alain," you gasp out as you part for air, throwing your head back and giving him access to your throat. Alain latches to it, teeth dragging and lips sucking. There may be bruises in the morning, but he doesn't care. Your nails have certainly marked him too.

Let everyone know. Let everyone know he keeps a mercenary in his bed.

"Alain," you call again. "You—"

He shuts you with a hard thrust of his hips. You rock, the pressure delicious, and then you moan when he grinds his hips into yours. "Let's put that pretty mouth to better use," he rasps, and Alain has never been a particularly strong-willed man.

What he wants, he simply gets. He never understood the need — the silly desire — to abstain from pleasure and satisfaction when it was right there for the taking. Life is short, or so the scholars like to warn, so why not indulge when you can?

But now, he puts himself to the test, for Alain forces his hands to still, and his hips to halt, and his tongue to stop lapping at the pulse point of your throat.

He forces his head back, panting hard, his curls falling over his eyes, but waits. Rigid. He stares, drinking you in as slowly as you come back from the brink. You lower your head to look at him with dazed eyes and swollen lips, and Alain puts the image to memory for future lonely nights.

"What?" you ask.

He softly brushes back your hair, tugging it behind your ear. Alain then lets his fingers down your cheek, his thumb tracing the scar near your lip. Your chest heaves against his, your thighs like furnaces over his pants. Alain gently cups your face.

"Kneel."

Your mouth opens into an 'O', and for a moment, you simply stare blankly at him. He smirks, never stopping his caresses. His thumb now traces your lower lip, tugging it softy. "Kneel," the noble says again, and it sounds like a command, but he can't make his voice as cold as before. It's a whispered request.

And when he sees your eyes darkening, Alain knows you'll play along. Oh, Lord in Golden Heaven. I owe you a tall glass of the finest wine.

"As my lord commands," you say again, slipping from his lap to kneel at his feet. Your hands, so lovely, rest on his thighs before you tantalizingly drag them upwards to play with his belt buckles.

Your eyes shine with mischief when you take him into your hands and squeeze.

Alain groans.

"Now, my lord has to stay very still," you murmur, your breath washing over him. Alain throws his head back, eyes shut tight, and when your tongue laps at him, as teasing as the tone of your voice and the touch of your fingertips, Alain retracts that offered wine for the almighty God.

Because he's realized, now, that he stands completely at your mercy.

- - -

She can't find them.

All her drawers are thrown open, the contents spilling out like an overflown river to the plush carpet of her bedchamber. Her wardrobe, tall and massive and coated with pure gold, has both its majestic doors wide open. The elegant shelves inside are rummaged through as if they belong to a brothel. Shawls, shoes, socks, and skirts are all tangled together in a big ball of luxurious fabric.

Ysabella would laugh at the state of her noble chambers were it any other day. She would wait for her maids to arrive and delight in their shock. She would even smile while they reported it to her lady mother, saving all the details to memory so she can later recount everything to Alain.

But today is not any other day, and she cannot find them.

Ysabella stands at the center of her room, her curls in disarray, her dress half-slipped from her shoulder, and her hands firmly set on her waist. She would puff if her strict upbringing hadn't grilled the unladylike manners out of her. So, she does the best next thing; she purses her lips and lets out a silent curse in the confines of her mind.

Damn it!

She tightens her grip on her waist, brown eyes sweeping through all her clothes yet again. The dress she's wearing is gorgeous. Marvelous. It's deep green, lined with yellow, and it has an inscription on the chest that matches perfectly with the color of your eyes. She has the necklace ready, her gloves, her rings, and her earrings. The right shoes are by the door, ready for her to slip her toes inside.

Everything is ready for her outing to see you.

Everything but the black, mid-thigh stockings that hug her legs just right. They're made of sheer fabric, just a touch from being too scandalous, and have a little bow near the knees that Ysabella was planning to tease you with. She'd let her dress rise for just a flash of a moment, just enough that you see them, and she can act as if she doesn't notice. She'd notice, of course. And she'd bat her eyelashes as you'd press closer, and...

And she can't find them.

Disappointment weighs on her chest as she looks out of the window and realizes she's running late. Ysabella allows herself one last, pitiful sigh before she straightens up and marches towards her closet. So be it. She can adapt. Maybe she won't tease you with her stockings, but she may be able to—

Knock, knock.

Ysabella spins in place.

You’re leaning casually on the threshold of her room with a cocked brow and a smile that tilts the right side of your mouth.

Knock.

You rasp your knuckles on the door again. "Am I interrupting?" you ask, the quizzical tone of your voice making butterflies soar free inside her stomach. "I would hate to stop..." You look at the mess scattered about her room, your smirk widening. "Whatever this happens to be."

Ysabella's cheeks heat. "Oh, I just thought it was time for a change," she says, twisting her hands behind her back. She doesn't know why but she's suddenly feeling nervous.

It's so silly, really. She's not some innocent, sheltered lady. But yet...

Yet, you've never been in her room before. She has dreamed of you here so many times, and never did Ysabella think it would be like this. "Fall is coming, after all," she keeps talking, her voice as cheery as ever. "And as I looked at my closet, I realized just how much I dislike everything I own."

You chuckle and push away from the doorway to stalk into her room. With an agile kick, you close the door behind you, the click sending shivers down her spine. You're inside her room for the first time. Ysabella sinks her teeth into her lower lip and watches as you slowly circle the space.

"Hmm," you hum, your long legs dragging on her carpet. You look to the ceiling and then to the tall windows before finally, your eyes settle on her. So striking. She sees them glance at her shoulder and then follow the downward path to her cleavage. And Ysabella is nervous, but her smile turns a little bit more confident.

You may make butterflies rage in her stomach, but she also has an effect on you. She sees it in the way your pupils darken and suddenly, she wonders why it was she needed those stockings, to begin with.

Her slipped dress does the job marvelously well.

"Well, I'm quite fond of that dress," you drawl.

Ysabella looks down at herself. "Really? I might have to rethink my decision to shred it, then."

"Oh, please, if you wish to shred it, don't stop on my account," you reply, your smirk so handsome, it makes her chest tighten. "Do go on."

Ysabella giggles, feeling eased into the conversation. It's so easy to talk to you. "Have anyone told you how delightfully witty you are?" she asks, coming closer. You smile as she puts her hand on your chest and stay obediently still as Ysabella raises on her toes to leave a light kiss on your jaw.

When she drops, your eyes are darker yet again. The butterflies suddenly melt into a curling heat. "I wouldn't mind hearing it again," you say.

Ysabella shakes her curls as she walks past you, making sure to sway her hips with each step. "When you've earned it," she says over her shoulder, stopping near her windowsill.

She hears your chuckle from behind, but when she turns around, you're not watching her. You study her closet again. "So, you aren't trying to trash the place?"

"I'm not," she admits, sitting down on the velvet bench beside the window. "If I were to destroy my room, I'd be sure to call on your help."

"I'd be offended if you didn't," you say, turning around with a smile. You pause, then, eyes on her, and Ysabella finds herself at a loss for words. She can't name the expression on your face, she just knows...

She knows she wants to see it again and again and again.

"Will you tell me what's going on?" you ask, at last, your voice lower and without any sarcasm. You walk closer. "I was waiting for you."

Ysabella sighs. "I know, I'm sorry. I lost track of time. I was trying to..." She bites her lips. "It's silly."

You stop in front of the bench. "Silly?"

Ysabella looks to the side. "Very. I don't want to say it. You'll make fun of me, and my fragile maiden heart won't be able to take it."

You smile. "Why don't you try me?" You reach a hand to her chin, and Ysabella holds her breath as you slowly tilt it.

She stares up at you. "My stockings."

You blink. "What?"

She's glad her skin is dark enough that you can't see her blush. "I can't find my favorite stockings. It's— it's maddening! I looked for them everywhere." Ysabella snaps her mouth close and looks to the side. She can't turn her face, not with you holding her chin, but she suddenly can't meet your gaze. "I told you it was ridiculous."

You're quiet for a long while. Ysabella frowns and then musters the courage to steal a glance at you.

You're smiling wide, your eyes twinkling, and she knows that look. "What?" she asks. "What is—"

"Do you mean these stockings?" you interrupt, pulling something from your pocket. And right there, hanging between your fingers, Ysabella sees the black stockings.

She gapes. "You—" She goes to grab them, but you snap your hand away, holding them at a safe distance. "How?"

"One of your maids threw them at me," you say with a low chuckle. She tries to grab them again, but you catch her wrist mid-air, your strong fingers wrapping around her. "She saw me in the waiting room, and I think she mistook me for a helper or a guard because next thing I know, these pretty things were flying at my face."

You turn your hand, your thumb sliding into her inner wrist as you loom closer to her. "'Take these to Lady Ysabella. She wants them promptly,’" you mimic the maid, your voice low and deep and resonating in the air between you.

The heat in her belly slides lower, making her body flush all over. Ysabella stares as you kneel before her. "So, like a good little servant, here I am."

"Well, I thank you kindly," Ysabella manages to say. She's whispering too, but not by choice. All the air seems to get stuck in her throat. She tugs her wrist, but you don't relent, only tightening your grip. "You may give them back."

Your smile turns dangerous. "Oh, I intend to," you say, letting go of her wrist to slowly, so gently, put your hand on the side of her leg. She jumps at the touch, your fingers playing with the slit of her dress. "Will my lady allow me?"

As you brush your knuckles on the bare skin of her outer thigh, Ysabella finally understands what you mean. "Oh." Her mouth falls open, and her chest springs to life, but even as her cheeks heat once more, she cannot help the tilt of her lips. Or the sultriness of her voice. "You may."

You smile back. Arrogant, smug, and looking so thrilling that Ysabella feels like she'll explode. You gently pick up her leg, your fingers encircling her ankle. They send sparks up her spine. Ysabella grabs the side of the bench, gloved nails digging as she feels you move your hands upwards.

It's slow and gentle. You massage her calf, hands rotating in long circles as you move them to her knee. As they journey upwards, they part her dress, exposing her leg. The tips of your fingers brush the sensitive skin right above her knee, and she digs her teeth into her lip.

But you stop. Putting her heel on your lap, you then grab the first stocking and begin to slide it on her toes. "I need you to be still," you murmur. Ysabella hadn't realized she was shaking.

She grips the bench tighter. "Sorry."

You smile before you look down again. You slip the stocking over her foot, past her ankle and sheer, black silk slowly envelops her calf. You bring it all the way to her knee, knuckles brushing the soft flesh as you gently secure the stocking around her thigh.

Ysabella's eyelashes lower as you proceed to pick up her other foot. She watches with hooded eyes as your fingers circle her ankle, and then massage her leg. The process repeated, the heat on her core slowly drowning her. She doesn't know if the world turns quieter or if she simply blocks everything that doesn't concern you.

"Just a bit closer," you say as you grab the back of her knees and pull her toward you. Ysabella slides on the bench until her backside is on the edge, her knees parted to fit you between them. You move your hands to her inner thighs, soothing circles on her skin. "There you go."

She's sure her lip will be bruised, but she can't stop chewing on it. She gazes as you kneel before her, the sight sparking a fire in her nerves. She wants you.

She needs you.

"Dearest," she says as you start to pull her dress upwards. You roam the side of her legs, hands slipping to her hips, and your eyes drink each inch of her skin. "Dearest," she says again.

A proper lady would be mortified to be exposed like this. A proper lady would gasp and try to cover her dignity. A proper lady would not burn so hot that she verges on oblivion.

But if it's oblivion that awaits her, Ysabella will welcome it with open arms. Because it means she can watch your face as she's unraveled before you. Your eyes are completely black as you look over her breasts, heaving on her tight corset. And when you lower them to her knickers, there's a hunger in your features Ysabella has never seen before.

It makes her core moisten.

"Bella," you say, voice thundering. The sound akin to a growl like those dangerous, exciting beasts she has read about. Your fingers aren't as gentle as you hold possessively onto her thighs. "You're stunning."

The second stocking lies forgotten when you lean over and kiss the inside of her knee. Ysabella mews to the air. You kiss her again, a little further up, and this time, it isn't quick. It's an open-mouth kiss, your tongue swirling the skin and fingers digging into her flesh. You drop wet, sloppy kisses all over her inner thighs, occasionally dragging the tip of your teeth against her.

"Oh God," Ysabella heaves. Her hands fly to your hair, fingers digging into the strands, and you grunt in appreciation against her. The vibrations are maddening, sending her into a frenzy. She throws her head back, feeling you coming closer and closer to the apex of her thighs.

"Oh, Lord. God. God." She doesn't know what pours from her lips, she can't see anything because her eyes are shut tight.

But she feels you kissing her damp knickers, and she would jump if you weren't holding her so firmly. Your arms are circling her hips, locking her in place as slowly, teasingly, you brush the fabric to the side with your nose.

You pause then, and Ysabella feels you lifting your head. She opens her eyes and looks down at you, eyes dazed and thoughts sluggish. "What?" she babbles. She cups your jaw, fingers begging. "Why have you stopped? Please, don't stop."

You smile. Your lips are puffed, and you look so lovely. You are so lovely. "Eyes on me," you command before you lean forward and lick a broad stroke over her womanhood.

Ysabella wants to yell, but she can't. All sound gets stuck in her throat as pleasure rocks through her.

Your eyes stay locked on hers the whole time. Hungry, famished, starved.

Dangerous.