Harem

You decide to make a harem.

Why should you constrain yourself to just one woman? Loyalty is for heroes in the stories, for the knights in ballads who die young and foolish. You know better. You stabbed your lord's heir in the back to climb this far. You will not pretend to be a storybook hero now. Striving for loyalty would only make you a hypocrite and a fool.

You are a landed knight now. You live in Lord Addam’s keep, your place among the gentry secured by blood and bold lies. Rising through the ranks of the knights is not easy. Your peasant blood stains your name like mud on polished steel, but you overcome it. You wear the title of the hero who slew the beast that killed the lord’s heir. That title polishes your name brighter than any noble lineage could. You turn whispers of your birth into praise of your deeds.

Your first conquest is Lady Rosa, the daughter of Lord Addam’s late younger brother. Padreg’s cousin.

You learn quickly that she was in love with him, deeply and hopelessly.

"You truly killed the beast that killed my Padreg, sir?" she asks you when you find her walking alone in the castle gardens. Her voice trembles with both sorrow and anger.

"Yes, I did, my lady. It was an honor to avenge him," you answer smoothly. You do not tell her that Padreg was promised to another, that he never would have married or loved his cousin. It was a one-sided love, the kind that festers and consumes.

You see it in her eyes. She is **** for something to fill the hollow left by her unrequited love. She clings to your words, to the lie of your loyalty to Padreg, to the image of you as the man who avenged him.

You make yourself her obsession. It proves far easier than you expected. Rosa is a sheltered noblewoman, tucked away in her uncle’s castle, bitter and lonely. Her heart was already a smoldering ruin from Padreg’s careless neglect. All you need to do is fan the embers.

You offer her the attention she craves. You let her see your hunger for her, let her feel desired in a way Padreg never allowed. She is a flower too long left in the shade, and you bring her into the sunlight.

Soon, she falls into your bed.

"Yes, yes, yes! Harder, Sir Cedric, harder!" Rosa cries out as you thrust into her, her nails raking across your back.

A year ago, you were a farm boy, tilling hard soil beneath an unkind sun. Now you are a knight, landed gentry, living in a stone castle, burying yourself in a noblewoman and spilling your seed inside her belly. Lord Addam’s niece. Padreg’s cousin.

You have taken Padreg’s place, and you are enjoying it more than you ever imagined.

And it is only the beginning.

Afterward, you lie together in her bedchamber, both of you unclothed, your fingers tracing lazy lines along the soft, pale skin of her belly.

"Did you know Padreg was sleeping with servant girls, tavern wenches, even whores?" you ask her, your tone casual.

"Yes, but sleeping with servants, wenches, and whores doesn't mean anything," Rosa replies without hesitation, her voice a little breathless. "Men have needs. It's normal for noblemen to have mistresses, as long as they don't disgrace their wives."

"Then would you be okay with me having other lovers?" you ask, your smile widening.

"Of course I would," she answers, her eyes shining with eager devotion. She is completely yours, and you know it.

You smile to yourself, feeling a deep satisfaction. Padreg, in his careless indulgence, has done you an unexpected favor. He trained her well, priming her to accept your hunger without question.

You will take full advantage of it.

Your next conquest is Tiffany, a young serving girl at the keep.

She is a girl of loose morals, well known among the men of the castle. She had eagerly warmed Padreg's bed before you sent him to the grave. It is no challenge at all to lure her into yours. You court her with gifts of coins and fine dresses, small luxuries that light up her eyes with greedy delight.

She giggles as she sneaks into your bedchambers at night, her arms filled with the perfume of cheap rose oil. Clothes are discarded carelessly on the floor, and she giggles again, shameless and wild, as you take your time to admire her naked body, her heavy breasts and dark nipples. She is truly a lustful creature, her curves soft and inviting, her eyes full of wicked promises.

When you take her to bed, she straddles you without hesitation, your throbbing manhood disappearing in her wet cunt, inch by inch. She rides you with the same enthusiasm she once reserved for Padreg. Her hips move eagerly, her breath coming fast, her body slick with sweat and pleasure.

"Who is bigger, me or Padreg?" you ask her, your voice low and sharp, watching her bounce atop you, her heavy breasts bouncing beautifully with every thrust. There is a cruel joy in the question, a dark pleasure in claiming what once belonged to the man you murdered.

"You are, Sir Cedric, you are much bigger!" Tiffany cries out, her words torn from her lips by the **** of her ecstasy. "Yes! Oh yes! Harder!"

You give the lustful serving girl what she begs for, driving into her with savage rhythm until her screams echo off the stone walls. You fill her with your seed, again and again, on nights when it is not safe to do so. You care little for safety. You want her swollen with your child, want her belly round and heavy with proof of your conquest.

You wonder how long it will take before the thick, hot seed you pour into her womb takes root. In another life, she might have carried Padreg's bastard, but that life was buried with Padreg’s corpse.

Now, she is yours. All yours. A part of your growing harem.

And you are just getting started.

A few months later, you visit Dunford.

It feels like a lifetime ago that you walked these dirt paths as a nameless farm boy, just another faceless soul in the crowd. Now you return as Sir Cedric, a landed knight, prosperous and growing wealthier by the day. Heads turn when you stride through the village, your sword at your hip and your coin purse heavy. Pride swells in your chest.

At the tavern, you order drinks for everyone. Ale flows freely and the villagers cheer your name. You toss a fat tip to the tavern girl, Nissa, the prettiest girl in Dunford and the object of your boyhood longing, your nighttime fantasies. She had always been beyond your reach when you were just a farm boy. Now, she serves you with a smile that sends a spark straight through your blood.

"Thank you, Sir Cedric," she says, her voice low and sultry. "I would be delighted if you stayed the night."

You do not need to be asked twice.

That night, you take her to bed. The farm boy turned hero knight finally claims the tavern beauty who had haunted his youthful dreams. Nissa proves to be an enthusiastic lover, her body eager and perfect beneath your hands. She moans your name again and again as you take her, as though she cannot believe her fortune.

You spend the whole night awake, indulging yourself, pouring your strength into her until you are spent. In the morning, you lie beside her, pleasantly drained, satisfied in every way as the dawn light creeps through the shutters.

"Come with me to the keep," you offer her, tracing a finger along her bare hip. "I am a landed knight under Lord Addam now. I can afford to keep a mistress. I can give you a life of luxury."

Nissa smiles, her eyes bright with delight. "I would love to, Sir Cedric."

Thus, you add her to your growing harem. A noble lady, a serving girl, and now a tavern wench. Three beautiful women, all yours. You think of Rosa’s pale beauty, Tiffany’s eager body, and now Nissa’s perfect curves.

Who will be next?

The thought excites you.

In addition to your romantic conquests, you regularly take part in knight's tourneys, adjusting to your new life as a fish to water.

Each clash of steel and roar of the crowd feeds your hunger for more. What once seemed a dream is now your life. You wield the finest equipment Lord Addam's keep can offer, forged by his best smiths and polished to perfection. Your strength, honed from years of labor in the fields, serves you well. So too does the full-time training you now enjoy. You could never have hoped for this as a poor peasant boy toiling under the sun.

Lord Addam has proven himself a generous benefactor. He grants you every tool for success, lavishing you with armor, weapons, and horses. To him, you are his best knight, the man who avenged his son by slaying the monstrous beast. Or so he believes.

Your victories mount. Gold flows into your coffers. Songs are sung of your prowess. Your name grows weighty, Sir Cedric of Dunford, whispered with respect and envy.

After one particularly triumphant tourney, where you claim the champion's purse and a small fortune, you allow yourself a well-earned indulgence. You visit the local brothel, your purse heavy with winnings. There, you pay for Sophia, the brothel's most expensive whore.

Sophia is no common harlot. She is a raven-haired beauty, her skin glowing beneath fine lingerie that flatters every curve of her flawless form. She serves only the wealthiest patrons, and tonight, she serves you.

You take her in a bed of silk, her body a playground of carnal expertise. She uses her mouth, her tongue, her fingers, her full breasts, and every inch of herself to bring you pleasure. She is skilled in ways few women are, a master of her craft.

Afterwards, you lie beside her, savoring the warmth of her naked body against yours. You trace lazy patterns along her nipples and speak, curious.

"Did Padreg come here often?"

Sophia smiles, her voice smooth and cultured, the voice of a woman who has pleased nobles and scholars alike. "Yes, often. He was fond of my service and bought me for many nights." She pauses, then adds with a mischievous glint in her dark eyes, "His father, Lord Addam, has hired me a few times as well. He was quite pleased with me, as much as his son was."

You chuckle at the revelation. Sophia is more than a whore. She is a woman who has shared the beds of powerful men, a woman who has seen them not as lords and masters, but as men stripped bare of their titles and pride. Naked and **** in her bed, whispering secrets they'd never shared with another soul.

In a moment of impulse, you make a bold decision. With the gold from your tourney victory, you purchase her freedom from the brothel. You do not want her as a fleeting pleasure. You want her as your mistress, your partner, your confidante. A clever and sophisticated woman who can aid your ambition, and share in your rising fortunes.

When you return to the keep with Sophia at your side, Lord Addam says nothing. But you see the flicker of worry in his eyes. He knows well that Sophia carries his secrets between her lips. He cannot afford a scandal, not while he pretends to be the wise and responsible lord, proud and stern, the pillar of his house.

Days later, he hands you a small bag of coin. He calls it a reward, but you understand its true purpose. It is a bribe for your silence. You accept it with a smile, realizing the old lord now rests under the shadow of your power.

That night, you make love to Sophia again and again, filling her with your seed until you collapse in sated exhaustion. You wonder how long it will take before her belly swells with your child.

Another woman added to your growing harem.

And you are not yet finished.

The months roll by, and your influence grows with them.

You are no longer just a landed knight. You are a **** that shapes the keep itself. Even Lord Addam feels the weight of your growing power. In the corners of the hall and behind closed doors, whispers spread like wildfire. Some say you are the true power in the keep, that Lord Addam's reign continues only with your favor.

You welcome the rumors. They are as sweet as honey to your ears.

With wealth and power comes attention, especially from women. They flock to you like moths to a flame, drawn by your strength, your gold, your rising star.

Josephine is next. A serving woman at the keep, older than you, married to a servant named Lumiere. She is not a shy girl with foolish dreams. She is a woman who knows what she wants, and she comes to you willingly, her eyes filled with desire.

"I would be honored to serve you, my lord," she whispers, offering herself without shame.

You accept without hesitation, taking her in every way a man can take a woman. Her body, seasoned and eager, her breasts round and full, knows well how to please you. She becomes your mistress, her lips and hands and every part of her belonging to you.

Sometimes, you take her in front of a mirror, so the married woman can watch herself being claimed by a man who's not her husband. It only excites her, tightening her warm cunt around your cock, and making her moans more erotic, especially when she watches you spill your seed inside her.

Strangely, her husband not only permits this, but encourages it. Lumiere watches with quiet approval as his wife surrenders to you night after night. You see the truth in his eyes.

There are two kinds of men in the world. Those who rebel and those who obey.

The latter kind live to serve stronger men. They are the sort who take comfort in submission, who find peace in being ruled by others. Lumiere is that kind of man, a cuckold who feels pride in his wife being claimed by a man greater than himself.

You do not mind. In fact, you take a cruel pleasure in it. You fill Josephine's belly with your seed again and again, watching her leave your bed each morning to return to her husband, carrying the weight of your lust within her womb. Her cunt will never forget the shape of your cock.

It amuses you to imagine Lumiere holding his wife close at night, knowing she is filled with another man's child. A richer and more powerful man's child.

Your eyes turn next to a new serving girl at the keep. Her name is Emily. A simple peasant girl, freshly arrived. She is wide-eyed and innocent, untouched by any man. A virgin. She looks at you as if you are a hero from the songs, her gaze filled with naive love and blind adoration.

You see the hunger in her, the longing to believe in tales of gallant knights and noble romance. She does not yet understand the truth of the world, but she will learn.

She will learn beneath you.

"Come to my bed chambers tonight," you invite, your voice smooth as velvet. You see her breath catch, her cheeks flush with the heat of her imagination. She hesitates only a moment before nodding, the dream of knightly romance overtaking whatever flickering sense of propriety she still clings to.

You wonder, as you watch her retreat, if there is a boy waiting for her back at her village. Some nameless farm boy, poor and powerless, who dared to dream she would be his first love. If so, you do not care. Farm boys do not get what they want. Only those who seize it with bloodied hands and ruthless ambition can claim their desires. Only those who kill their lord's heir and take his place.

That night, Emily comes to you as you commanded. She trembles slightly as she disrobes, her innocence laid bare before you.

"Milord, please be gentle, it is my first time," she pleads softly, her voice filled with a mix of fear and hope.

"I will," you promise her with a smile, a lie so sweet on your tongue it almost tastes like truth.

You are gentle, at first. You guide her body beneath yours, feel the tight resistance of her untouched womanhood. Your manhood claims her, penetrating her virgin flesh, breaking through with slow, deliberate hunger. She gasps, whimpers, but does not pull away. You spill your seed deep inside her, watching as her innocence surrenders to you.

But that is only the beginning.

The next time, you are less gentle. The time after that, even less so. Again and again, you take her, shaping her to your desires. Sophia and Nissa join you in her education, seasoned women teaching her the arts of pleasure. They whisper dark secrets into her ear, guide her hands, her lips, her hips.

In weeks, Emily transforms. Gone is the wide-eyed village girl. In her place is a woman who moves with purpose in your bed, who moans with practiced skill, who begs for your touch with the hunger of the corrupted.

Some might say you have ruined her, that you have led her down a wicked path.

You do not care.

You gave up on morality long ago. You gave up on heroism. The songs of noble knights and fair maidens are for fools and children. You are no hero. You are a man who takes what he desires, and you will take your pleasures wherever you find them.

Your eyes next fall upon Martha, a young whore in the brothel, a peasant girl who once held simple dreams before disgrace swallowed her whole. She was sold like livestock, bartered away by those who cared little for her fate. Yet now, she catches your attention, and you see a place for her in your growing harem.

You purchase her without hesitation. She comes willingly, relief softening her features, as though she knows it is better to belong to one man than to spread her legs for many each day.

You bring her back to the keep and claim her as your bed ****.

"I own you," you tell her, letting the truth settle into her bones. You hold her chin between your fingers, making sure she meets your gaze. "Your purpose is to serve my needs."

"Yes, milord," Martha answers, her voice low and submissive. Gratitude flickers in her eyes. She accepts her place eagerly, proud to be the seventh member of your harem.

You waste no time. Her body becomes yours, her lips and tongue devoted to your pleasure. Her hips move to your rhythm, her womanhood welcomes you without resistance. She serves you well, dutiful and eager, finding purpose in her submission.

And you spill your seed inside her womb, as you did to the six girls before her, watching it swell with your child.

Seven women now warm your bed. You look upon your harem and decide it is enough, at least for now. What you have built satisfies you, but you desire more than pleasure. You desire power. Permanence. Legacy.

You wed Lady Rosa, your first conquest, Lord Addam's niece, the noblewoman who first shared your bed. By marrying her, you tie your blood to that of Lord Addam. Your bastard-born children will be many, but your heir will be legitimate, born of noble blood.

Rosa with your heir. Tiffany, Nissa, Sophia, Josephine, Emily, and Martha, all heavy with your bastards. You look upon them and feel a fierce satisfaction burning in your chest.

This is the life you have carved from ambition and blood. The life you seized when you drove your blade through Padreg’s heart and stepped into his place. You grin, knowing your seed grows in seven fertile wombs, your legacy multiplying with every passing day.

In time, the cries of newborns fill the keep. Seven mothers, eight children born of your seed, your legacy brought screaming into the world.

Rosa, your noble wife, bears you a strong and healthy boy. She insists he be named Padreg, after her first love and the man you claimed to avenge and secretly murdered. You swallow your bitterness and agree. The child inherits her golden hair and your sharp eyes. Even as an infant, there is something regal in his gaze. He is your heir, the future lord of this keep.

Tiffany, with her full breasts and playful smile, gives you a daughter, Ellyn, fair and beautiful like her mother. She has an easy smile even as a child, you know she will be popular the keep, though perhaps more suited to charm than to govern. In another life, she might have been Padreg's bastard, but in this life, she is your flesh and blood.

Nissa, your fiery tavern wench, bears you a son, Cenric. He comes into the world bawling loud enough to shake the rafters, his tiny fists already clenched as though ready to fight the world. His spirit is wild, too wild for the walls of this keep. You see an adventurer in him, a wild boy who will not be content to live as a knight’s bastard. He will seek glory on faraway fields.

Sophia, the raven-haired courtesan of refined tastes, gives birth to a quiet boy, Victor, dark-eyed and clever, already watching the world as though he sees its secrets. You suspect greatness in him, the subtle kind that moves unseen. But you also notice him staring enviously at his trueborn half-brother Padreg, the heir to the keep. You feel uneasy, wondering if you had planted the seed for a future conflict. Making things more complicated than needed.

Josephine, the married serving woman, delivers a daughter, Belle, plain of face but sturdy and sharp of wit. She will never turn heads, but she should have a content life. Everyone in the keep knows she is your bastard, even though her mother is married to another man.

Emily, your once innocent peasant girl, blesses you with twins, a boy and a girl. The boy, Gawain, is frail, coughing and sickly, though his mind seems sharp beyond his years. The girl, Emma, healthy and bright-eyed, laughs often and loudly, not the cleverest child in the world, but bringing warmth wherever she is carried.

Martha, your obedient bed ****, gives you a strong, robust son, Brand, broad-shouldered and heavy of bone. He may not have his mother’s beauty or your cunning, but he will grow into a brute of a man, one fit for the front lines of any battle.

You look upon them all, your blood made flesh, and feel a swelling pride. Some of these children will rise to greatness. Some will fade away into mediocrity or worse. But they are yours. All of them.

Your nights remain full of pleasures, your bed never empty. Seven women warm you, seven mouths, seven cunts, seven assholes, seven bodies eager to please. They fulfill every desire you have, draining you of your seed and leaving you satisfied beyond anything you once dreamed as a farm boy.

Yet, on some quiet nights, when the fires burn low and your harem sleeps tangled around you, your mind drifts.

You think of the boy you once were, tilling the stubborn earth with calloused hands and dreaming of glory. You think of simpler hopes, of heroism, of songs sung by the firelight.

Most of all, you think of Lillian.

Your childhood friend. Her laughter like summer rain, her eyes full of dreams untainted by the world's cruelty. You wonder where she is now, if she found a good man, if she smiles in the arms of another. You wonder if she ever thinks of you.

Your wives and mistresses give you pleasure, yes. Intense, intoxicating pleasure. But not love. Not like Lillian could have given you. What you have with them is power, lust, and obedience.

But it is not love.

Lying there in the heavy warmth of seven bodies, their scents clinging to your skin, you feel a pang of doubt. A question creeps into your heart.

Should I have chosen love instead?

For a moment, your chest tightens. Regret, sharp as a blade, cuts through the fog of lust.

But then you shake your head. You bury the thought deep inside, as you bury yourself once more in the arms of your harem. You tell yourself the truth as you have always known it.

You chose power. You chose lust. You chose victory.

You chose to win.

And you have.

This is your life, carved from blood and iron, from ambition and desire. You have no need for old dreams.

You close your eyes, a smile playing on your lips, and let sleep take you.

Ending 8: Knight's Harem