Red & Lucrezia: Angelic Anal Addict

Amidst the hustle and bustle of the crusaders' siege camp - amidst the tens of thousands of soldiery from all across the lands of the True Faith, milling to and fro in the execution of their daily duties - one man stalked through the press of troops and tents and siege engines, frustration visible on his face. Lustrous black hair worn in intricate braids, interwoven with fine silver decorations; a pale, finely-featured face, plainly of aristocratic blood and more pretty than handsome. Clad in a mid-length white tunic decorated lavishly with golden embroidery in various symbols of Imperial majesty, his deep crimson waist-sash and lustrous purple mantle speak of rank and position in the cryptic ranks and hierarchies of the Imperial Household of the Amethyst Throne. His leather riding boots stride through the stamped-down mud of the marshalling fields as he inevitably makes his progression towards his intended target: the tent of the nominal commander of these joint forces, the Lady Lucrezia Navarre, Knight-Sister of the So On So Forth Really Wish He Never Knew.

Time for another of the daily 'planning meetings', or, more accurately, shouting matches; the two never saw eye-to-eye on anything, and Redouane Nicetas Isidorus, Protomandator of the Basilikon, official representative of His True and Lawful Imperial Majesty's interests and wishes in this fool's crusade, had a laundry list of other matters he would rather be attending to right this instant. Foremost of all was the catamite that the Lady Navarre's messenger had interrupted him with. Still, duty was duty, as unpleasant as it was; with a frustrated 'tsch,' he makes his way straight towards that palatial red-and-black tent, noting idly that, once again, the guards seemed to have wandered off somewhere else to keep themselves distracted.

Squeezing the satchel of documents, papers, maps, and - perhaps most importantly of all - a small hip flask of good Thalmarch wine for himself, he all-but-storms through the first layer of flaps buffering her tent from the rest of the world, making no effort to announce himself. "This better be damned important that it couldn't wait a twentyminute," he openly grumbles as he swats aside the last of the drapes, coming upon the main receiving area of her field residence.

Lucrezia Navarre could not be in a fouler mood herself; appointed leader of the Church's massed legions, most would think organizing the troops might be the most difficult chore of hers, or more likely rooting out and crushing the heretical Nashqi. No, not when he was sharing the crusade with her, the man she'd become convinced must be the Devil Himself in human guise. At every turn he insisted on stymieing her, opposing her, attempting to correct her on every trivial matter, no doubt to feed his ego just as much his political machinations. A true servant and warrior of the Faith, she does not care for the paltry bureaucratic movements he busies himself with, only concerned with carrying out the Will and ending the evils of these savage hordes. She had found herself thankful for the enemy several times; if not for them, she might not be convinced to overlook the crusade's need for such a man, and summarily try him per the laws of her order.

And so she frets, absolutely dreading another meeting with the licentious bastard but needing to confirm with him several deployments of men and the raising of particular supply lines, amongst other smaller matters. They'd been without the song of swords clashing and the cries of dying men for a number of days thanks to the siege, and thus she observes a bit more lax discipline so far from the front lines, lest her building anxiety and utter frustration boil over before she has the chance to let it out on some poor heathen. Thus is why, between her soft, pale, plush cheeks, rests the golden, ruby-capped butt plug, the beloved teaser and reliever, the beautiful trinket she'd saved from a raid on a heretic noble's manse seemingly so long ago and discovered the wondrous use of.

Coated in a bit of sensuous holy oil that had mostly dried, she'd been wearing the item all morning, in dire need of some passionate release. Even now it grinds against her soft, inner flesh, unyielding to her squeezes and clenches, pressing her open several inches and so delectably stimulating her. A chaste woman, she'd taken her vows before God, but as long as her maidenhood remains intact, she believes, she has done no wrong. So on occasion, and particularly on this one, she finds it necessary to...assuage her worried and overwrought self.

She has yet to reach that peak, though, the one that leaves her gasping and shuddering, flooding all the exasperation, the irritation, the mental burden from her, at least for a time. The fair maiden is flushed, quite obviously affected in some way, and she curses herself for taking the chance and not putting her little toy away sooner; he will definitely recognize something is amiss, and with him, any perceived weakness, even slight, became a skirmish that put her warrior's mind on edge. So it is that she decides to remove the plug, despite not reaching the zenith of her pleasure, and she has bent herself over her desk, the skirt of her uniform pulled to the side, a gloved hand reaching behind her to pluck it out. It's perhaps only due to her heightened state of frustration and alertness that she detects his approach, hearing faintly the sound of tent flaps slapping against each other. She immediately assumes neutral position, turning and standing at the writing desk, an expression of utter vexation on her face.

Facing the tent flaps as they flap open, gripping the chair behind her and glaring imperiously at the nobleman, she hoists herself and stares down her nose at him. It's a bit of a mixed posture, looking somewhat unnatural and forced; for a man so skilled with subtleties as he, she'd be transparent. She hopes that lashing him with her tongue might force that aside and put him in the social wrong, as she angrily accosts him. "In the name of all holy Light, are you truly so barren of manners and common etiquette? If not for your misbegotten station, I'd have you flogged for such callous misconduct. To storm into a lady's quarter's in such a way - reviled lech!" She removes a hand from the chair, smoothing out the skirt of her hallowed uniform, the sanctified vestments a true symbol of her position as a greater Knight-Sister of the Order of the Star of Justice. They fit her form very well, the garb clinging to her shapely body in several places, the long skirt itself slit revealing the entirety of her leg at almost all times. She does her best to downplay this, now, instead holding herself regally in her indignation.

“Oh, shut it and let's get this over with, you miserably moralizing termagant. If we can finish this in the next ten minutes then my entertainment that you so inconsiderately interrupted may still be available and not snatched up by one of the other officers.” Bright blue eyes - usually inquisitive, scrutinizing, flickering with some faint inner amusement - are instead narrowed in blatant vexation as the nobleman wastes no time in pulling himself up a chair at a map-strewn table, plunking down into it in a rakish, sloppy fashion. All of this was a mountain of gross breaches of etiquette, certainly; his every betrayal of frustration or complete disregard for social niceties flew in the face of everything he had ever learned in his demanding patrician upbringing. But there was something about this woman - this high-handed, holier-than-thou bitch of a crusader, far too young in his eyes for such a task and completely inflexible in virtually all matters where Imperial practice would dictate pragmatism and versatility.

"Just because between your legs is as dry as the deserts these bastard Nashqi come from doesn't mean the rest of us are so afflicted." Luckily for the knight, Redouane seems far too wrapped up in his blatant hostility towards her to catch the subtleties of her posture; when they first met, he had thought her very pretty in an austere sort of way, but any such thoughts had long since been overwhelmed by the misery she represented in his life.

The aristocrat then turns his head over his shoulder and openly makes a spitting motion before fishing that wine flask out of his satchel, unscrewing the top and taking a quick swig as his gaze narrows pointedly upon her, as sharp and deadly as any arrows strung on Nashqi composite bows. "So what's it this time, My Most Honourable Lady Lucrezia Navarre, Ordained Knight-Sister of the Star of Justice, and Sworn Blood Enemy Of All Happiness? Did somebody have the temerity to laugh within earshot of you, or perhaps you caught some of the men, scandal of scandals, engaging in dice? You'd better not be wasting my time with more paperwork this time, harridan. Emperor's Blood, if I have to fetch one more incident report for you to banshee-wail over, ancestors so help me, I'm officially petitioning the Emperor to sign a peace with the heretics just so I won't have to put up with this every day."

Another swig of the wine flask, followed by a swishing of the sweet wine in his mouth and a crude, audible swallow. His slim, lithe body leans back decadently in his appropriated seat as Redouane gives his head a firm shake that sends his fastidiously-arranged braids a-tremble. "Hells damn you, woman, you know how difficult it is to find a decent, only-lightly-used catamite in this ship of fools by this point?"

Lucrezia Navarre boils with molten rage as she listens to the intolerable, wanton aristocrat ramble on and on, seemingly an endless fountain of outrageous slurs and mind-boggling viciousness. Every bit of the man she finds to be detestable to his depths, but his mouth, his accursed mouth, is what rankles her the most by leagues. Would that he had been born tongueless and the world might be spared the horrors of his speech! Moments after he begins speaking she finds herself reflexively clutching one of her many gilded crosses, drawing what solace she can from it and uttering a constant prayer in the favor of temperance in the back of her mind all the while. Lord bestow her with the world's worth of temperance, and the next world's, lest she be driven to cleave the rat's head clean off. To make matters worse, simply the sight of him makes her clench up, and the way he so acutely grates on her nerves pulls every muscle taut, as thought she might tense and strain herself to the point of snapping. This only makes her clamp down titillatingly hard around the plug, her sensitive innards stimulated vigorously, making her twitch almost imperceptibly

Slamming her hands down on the table between them, she practically snarls in seething fury at him, a dangerous fire dancing in her eyes as she looms. "Brainless, oafish, graceless, uncouth, coarse, vulgar, libidinous, misbegotten MONGREL!" The last she shrieks at him, her face certainly fully reddened now, the woman nearly spitting with ire at his inimicable presentation. "Were you not the appointed representative of His Majesty I would forge the iron myself and quite literally brand you a heretic, before hanging you for all eyes to see like the diseased carcass you truly are!" His effective outburst has combined with her desperate need to reach that freedom of lust to push her right to the edge, the woman struggling to keep her hand from her blade's pommel. "If I had my way YOU would be the catamite for the infidel hordes, and they'd find such solace in your meager flesh that this war would surely end anon! I am tempted, so sorely!" Releasing her grip on the wooden surface, she furiously tosses several papers out of the way, searching for those she'd summoned him here over. "The troop orders and lists for the supply lines. I ordered them to be written A WEEK AGO. Why have you not delivered them yet?!'

"Well, at least the quality of your slander is improving somewhat over the course of this waste of time," the emissary slings right back at that utterly indignant paladin with downright mocking nonchalance. "When we first started these lovely little discussions of ours," those pouty lips of his curling sardonically around the word 'discussions,' "All you would do was invoke your faith and talk about how you'd pray for temperance and moderation on my part. But you are getting better, Lady Navarre! Now you just need to get that banner-pike out of your oh-so-sanctified ass and we may even begin getting places." The worst part of the latest round of abuse is how absolutely conversational he is during all of it: his initial spleen vented, he lapses back into his tone of easy, relaxed banter, meeting her red-faced outrage with a casually mocking smile of his own. That wine flask waves back and forth in one of his slim, delicate hands, and lazily taps the heel of one boot against the rug-covered floor, 'tsk'ing softly before replying.

"As for the requisition orders, the problem is that your pell-mell coalition can't tell its stubby little pricks from its fingertips, let alone its dead from its living or its kontoubernion from its tourma! Every single damned officer of yours I've asked gives me a different head count for their forces - throughout the day, no less! That bastard Count Greichler or whatever-the-hell-his-preening-title-is in particular; I ask him in the morning how men he has, and it's two hundred and twenty. The afternoon, two hundred and seventy. The evening, a hundred and ninety! Suffice to say, unless I have something even beginning to resemble accurate spear-counts, I have no idea how many ships I need to task with the movement and escort, seeing as we're already running at about, oh, maybe half the hulls we need to maintain an adequate blockade of this miserable city."

Redouane then tips his head back to look up at the roof of the tent, sighing heavily. "Now, I ask Imperial forces, I get the reports back within a quarter-day. Nice, accurate, neat. At least some part of this useless, doomed endeavour knows how to buckle up their own pants; shame about the rest." And as he spits out that last part, he digs a small stack of carefully-notated parchment out of his satchel and all-but-slings it across the table surface towards his counterpart, not even bothering to look at her as he does. "So there's the Imperial portion of the requisition requirements. Tell your boytoys to stop rutting with the hill goats for a few hours so they can get me proper numbers for the rest."

Lucrezia Navarre glares threateningly at the weasel of a man, but her rage becomes a bit impotent there, as she knows he's quite correct with his summation of the Faith's organizational efforts. As much as it is her duty and station, she finds the task of corralling and coordinating the diverse thousands of troops, all led by a nobleman here, a popular crusader here, a ragtag band of the faithful there, nigh on impossible. No discipline whatsoever, no consistency in the methods of training, of camp, of anything. To Redouane's credit, the entire affair drives her quite nearly as frothing mad as he does. He'd probably find the idea hilarious, and keep pride in it, the monstrous worm. She had learned well from him, though, in their dismaying time together; she knows she must rebut him, insisting on the competence of those under her without claiming responsibility for those things he will surely latch onto and throw in her face as her failings. Mulling it over for a few tense moments, the warrior woman focuses, taking a deep breath as her plan coalesces.

"Very audacious of you to lay the blame for your slovenly men's mistakes at the feet of the followers of God. Surely, your disgusting habits, the wanton whoring, the endless carousing - " She nods her head at his flask at that. " - the endless attempts to undermine me, I am sure these have little to do with why you fail to heed me time and again." Lucrezia eyes him darkly, searching for a reaction as she goes, doing her damnedest to appear perfectly and unrelentingly domineering. Fetching up the papers he'd tossed on the table like so much detritus, she thumbs through them for several moments, a look of distaste on her face.

"These...they seem they might be accurate. I'll have to check them over myself, of course, and have my assistants do so thrice; not only for your simple errors but for the undoubted treachery you've slipped inside." The barest glimmer of a smirk draws across her lips for a moment there. "While I do so, you'll avail yourself of no strumpet but search out Elector Count Greichler yourself." She very pointedly enunciates his title, as though the man were the Lord of all the earth and to forget was childish foolishness. "Perhaps presenting yourself in the proper tone and practicing a bit of obeisance will get you what I need, and improve upon your character as well." Lifting the parchments, she turns her back to him as she studies them, grinning like a madwoman to herself. How exhilarating, to be such a horridly demeaning commander!

Stark, derisive laughter meets the crusader's attempt at conducting herself haughtily as Redouane raises the flask to his face - not to take a drink, this time, but rather to stifle his unabashed mirth in a completely pointless show of modesty. "Oh, please, save me the false indignation here. We both know what kind of mob you've brought to this sordid affair, and we both know the reason why Imperial commitments are so light on the ground is precisely because nobody expects anything of your miserable menagerie of maniacs, peasants, and pillagers. It's also the sole, solitary reason somebody like you was entrusted, albeit nominally, with soldiery of the Purple - even when you inevitably botch this, the losses - to the Throne, anyway - will be negligible."

Somewhere along the line, his amusement turned into sharp barbs, verbal daggers hammered deep and twisted ruthlessly; so too did his demeanour change, from open laughter to cold-eyed dissection. "And I, of course, am here as the fall man; third son of middling patrician family, bastard-born, with brothers just powerful enough that knocking the entire family down a few pegs is worth the effort, even if it costs a few dozen thousand lives. So let's both stop pretending that we count for anything here, Lucrezia." The jeering courtier only ever refers to the woman by her first name when he is saying something particularly acerbic; it would appear that this circumstance very well qualifies.

"As for you, well... I'm hardly privy to the machinations of the Holy Church, now am I? Perhaps somebody else is just as vexed by an insufferably stuck-up prat of a Knight-Sister as I am. But since you're so very keen on wasting my time," he now adds with downright mocking formality, "I shall go ask the most noble and reverent Elector Count Greichler. Thrice. And I will take an average of his numbers, trusting that he actually understands what numbers are. While I am at this task, do take the opportunity to pry that banner-pike out of your backside, will you? You'd be almost endurable if you'd stop being so stiff-necked about everything."

With those last shots, he slips out of the chair and practically bounds back up to his feet, his every motion catlike, fluid and sinuously sleek. "Oh, and should you fail at that, some light reading for you!" Another stack of documents, somewhat more slender than the last, is produced from the man's satchel as he fixes a coolly denigrating gaze upon her, those bright blue eyes naught but unabashed schadenfreude. "Weekly reports from the pickets on the number of deserters they've managed to round up. From your forces." He sets that packet down on the table very carefully, very delicately, then delivers a mocking half-bow at the waist, one arm folded across his chest. He then wheels on his heel and marches right out of the tent, each long stride over-exaggerated with intent to mock.

Lucrezia Navarre tightens up when the putrescent little man speaks her name, always in that tone, always sounding so predatory and disdainful. It makes her squeeze down anxiously on the large golden device insert into her bottom, sending a thrill up her spine and making her gasp just quietly enough that she dares to hope he hadn't heard. Still, his deliberate comments nettle her to the bone, and she unconsciously sets her gloved palm on the pommel of her longsword, squeezing it so tight she's apt to bruise herself. She endeavors ardently not to show a single whit of acknowledgement, going back to that practiced cant in the peace of her mind, struggling not to whirl around and tear into him, verbally or physically. Truly, the blighter is a test from God himself far greater than any trials or tribulations she'd survived yet.

Her curiosity gets the better of her, though, as she peers over her shoulder at his last little addition; a mistake, an epic mistake, as that rotten smirk and all his sarcastic deference and that staggering, winning blow, the announcement of her own soldiers turning traitor, gets the best of her. Instead of lashing out, she feels a sense of overwhelming defeat at that, and watches the bounder make off like a jester soundlessly. Her thoughts are just as desolate all of a sudden, that final dig an enormous blindside, and utterly diminishing to any victory she thought she might have won. Waiting several moments, listening as the tent flaps brush against each other noisily once again, she slumps in her stance, sighing deeply. These were the worst duels with him, the ones where regardless of how she performed in their mad little dance of viper tongues, he'd bash her over the head with something she had no idea was coming.

Drawing her fingers over those last reports, she can scarcely believe the numbers recorded; Faith preserve her, this endeavor is going so badly. Another bucketful of pressure, another satchel on her overburdened back; she almost feels guilty when she squeezes around the gemmed plug inside her and a warm wave of carnal joy spreads through her. She needs this, though, so, so severely needs this, and Redouane would be gone for twenty, thirty minutes at least. More than enough time; she quickly, eagerly tosses his delivered parchments down, the matters they'd discussed already thrust from her waking consciousness as she step over to her bed, lifting a leg and resting her knee on the well-made blankets.

Yanking her skirt to the side once more with her left arm, she delicately reaches back and runs her fingers along her tense, aching backside, already breathing hard and heavy. Silken-gloved fingertips find that ruby jeweled-handle, and give it the barest tug; the proud, elegant leader of the Church's forces moans lewdly like some common tart, shivering with delight. Close, so close, she thinks, only a bit further; gripping that golden handle tightly, she slowly turns the toy, the motion causing it to rub against every part of her inner flesh simultaneously, making her twitch as pleasure begins flowing steadily up through her. Her full, red lips part as quiet exhalations of gratification slip out, her tongue languidly drawing against them as she bathes in the sensation. The holy woman pulls back again, stretching her hole some, a bit painful and at the same time wonderful for it. Pushing back in, she clenches down at the same time, the widest part of the item's girth brushing hard against a favorite spot of hers, making her squeal.

Clenching the blankets with her other hand, she takes a deep breath, then begins rhythmically working it back and forth, grinding against that sensitive area for several moments before she climaxes. Clamping her hand over her mouth, she lets out a muffled scream as her body shakes with ecstasy, her hand coming away with the plug as she's wracked with joyful release.

As that strutting, smug-faced Imperial dignitary strides out of the tent, his motions rapidly slacken and settle into peevish foot-shuffling, his well-kept teeth grinding together furiously. Damned insufferable bitch wasting everybody's time with her bloody useless children's crusade, Redouane thinks to himself as his mud-splattered boots drive him onward. And wasting *my* time with this useless bloody errand - pike Greichler and his band of fumblers; the man may think himself some grand knight, but his rotten little band is little better than peasants with repurposed farm tools pressed into this out of corvee. Soon, his frustration - his outright annoyance - is driving him to move faster, stride more aggressively; he makes no attempts at hiding his utterly ill temper, cerulean eyes stormily narrowed as he makes his way through the camp in record time. Far sooner than anybody would have anticipated, he arrives at the camp of the Elector Count in question; the protomandator grabs one of the tired-looking men in Greichler's livery and wrenches his shoulder none-too-kindly. "Where's your miserable tub-wallowing bastard of a Count?" that slender man in the intricate white linens snarls, the pure venom of his tone causing the unsuspecting man-at-arms to blanch.

"Ah...the Lord Elector Count is...indisposed right now," the armsman shuffles, glancing meaningfully at a tent several dozen meters away. Red simply growls and begins moving in its direction before the livery-clad soldier grasps his shoulder. "Hey, no, you can't-" he begins in as much confusion as anything, all to no avail as the diplomat forcibly shoves the grip away. "I can, I will, and I'm going to," that smooth voice of his utters with cold finality, making it obvious that he's brooking no impediment in his path. "W-wait, no, maybe I can help-?" the trooper desperately begs, struggling to reassert his grasp on the hellbent Imperial. "Unless you can get me troop counts for this pigfucking brigade, no, you can't," is the sharp reply, intemperately harsh. And then, the man-at-arms pauses for a moment, letting go of Redouane. "Oh, that's easy, m'lord; two hundred and eight fighting men, such as they are, with another twenty-six followers and staff."

The furious pale man stops in his tracks. Those sky-blue eyes of his blink once, twice, thrice. And then he spins in place so furiously that his ankle cries out in dismay, but his overwhelming sense of shock far overwhelms any merely physical distress. "What," Redouane replies flatly, his expression wiped clean out of sheer incredulity. "S'true, m'lord; two hundred and eight in fighting order, and twenty-six followers. Twenty females, six males. Eighteen men-at-arms if you include myself, the rest levies."

For the first time in a long while, Redouane Nicetas Isidorus' mouth opens then closes soundlessly, his jaw suddenly having gone slack. "What."

A bright, proud smile meets that stark confusion, gap-toothed but utterly beaming. "Counted 'em all this morning, m'lord! The Elector Count asked me to do it himself." There are several long moments of inarticulate motions and inchoate stutters, before finally, the Imperial emissary brings one hand to his brow and runs his fingers through his braids, shaking his head back and forth in utter disarray. He wants to laugh, to scream, to simply demand answers for this maddening travesty of a crusade - but all he can do for the moment is begin rubbing his temples very, very firmly indeed, a long sigh coming out of his slender body. "My thanks, soldier," he finally musters in a shockingly exhausted tone, before he slowly turns himself about and begins heading back to the viper's den.

I hate everything about this place, the bewildered Imperial fumes as he retraces his steps, far less hastily than his fury-wing'd advance. I hate the self-important prats who think that their scrap of useless land in petty warlord fiefdoms makes them count for anything, I hate the stink of this place, I hate the useless bloody peasants who are here just to eat arrows so the trained soldiery can advance - and hells, I hate this *mud*, bloody everywhere! The last thought is spurred on by an unfortunate stumble into a damp patch of ground, Red's distracted state of mind drawing his attention away from where he is walking. A glance down confirms splotches of filthy muck all over his boots and one pant leg, and for a moment he looks up at the sky, simply growling like a rabid dog. Some glances - worried glances - are thrown his way by some surrounding men going about their business, but those who had spent more time with the crusade were, most likely, used to such sights by now: they were hardly uncommon, after all. And most of all, I hate this goddamn prayer-and-the-lash bitch Lucrezia Navarre, he finally settles on as he makes the final advance back towards her tacky, deeply-coloured tent. Yes, if there was one thing he hated about this entire job more than anything else, it was her.

Funny, then, the sight that awaits him as he quietly makes his way through the flaps and drapes covering the entrance of the woman's residence.

Redouane Nicetas Isidorus was no stranger to the female body. Back in the Imperial Household, he had established for himself a rather problematic reputation as a shameless flirt and womanizer, all-too-happy to find pleasant distractions with pretty young things that found themselves terribly bored by the stiff pomp and ceremony of the Empire's highest institution. Usually young girls of the patrician classes, but sometimes older matrons who sought out some novelty in their lives, or even the occasional particularly beautiful young man; his appetite was ravenous, and it was only because of his uncanny talent for plausible deniability that he had avoided being nailed up on immorality charges on more than one occasion. Suffice to say, he was well-versed in these matters, and from his very first sighting of Lucrezia Navarre, he had considered her beautiful - not merely 'pretty' or 'charming,' but genuinely beautiful, in the fashion of a flawlessly-done temple mosaic or a masterful sculpture in the finest Capitoline marble. It was the kind of aching, ethereal beauty that induced more reverence and adoration than shameful lust or degenerate desire. A shame, then, about the woman herself; any appreciation of her slender, angelic form was utterly buried beneath his overwhelming distaste for her as an individual.

But seeing her kneeling over her bed, that long, slitted skirt of hers flipped aside, one knee propped up on the sheets while the other leg was delectably outstretched, and her hand moving aggressively between the lush curves of her pale, full ass, unmistakably thrusting and grinding something into her bucking, trembling backside as tiny gasps and moans lilted out of her - well, even if a man utterly loathed a woman, such a sight would stir his base appetites. For long moments he says nothing, his predator-keen lapis gaze drinking in the most unexpected sight before him, noticing at last the glint of the gilded, bejeweled plug that she so deftly rocked and pumped into her most disgraceful of holes. My, now *this* is a sight, he growls to himself, pink tongue darting out to reflexively lick at his lips. Got you, you little whore, soon follows, fueled by days and weeks of potent indignity mingled with powerful, potent hunger. Grinning wickedly, he reaches out to openly rustle one of the flaps, making his presence known to the obviously distracted chevalier.

Lucrezia Navarre is only just coming down the far side of her climax when she hears that terrifyingly loud swishing of her tent's flaps, once more heralding an unannounced visitor. Some primal part of her mind seizes control of her through the immediate horrified panic, commanding her to leap right up to her feet; she does so, albeit somewhat unsteadily, clasping her hands behind her, the golden buttplug clenched frightfully tight now between thumb and forefinger. Standing at attention, her eyes wide as the full moon and staring at the man, she swallows uncomfortably, her breathing still fast-paced, her face still flushed scarlet. If he had a nose for it, he'd likely even smell her raw arousal, her untouched womanhood leaking a few drops of feminine fluid that bead along her labia before trickling down her thigh and into her boot. She's not a remarkably skilled actress; it's fairly obvious something just happened, though naught but the most lascivious might consider the truth.

Lascivious is what stands before her, though, looking for all the world as though he's just been crowned king and lord of all the lands under Heaven. She's utterly stricken with terror, keeping utterly still as thoughts blaze through her mind. Had the evil little reprobate seen her? No...no, she'd been quick, she'd moved like lightning tossed down from the holy Kingdom itself. He couldn't have....no, he couldn't it's simply too terrible to imagine. If he had, then...then she's doomed. Damned! Destroyed! The Knight-Sister, reputed hero and upstanding defender of the Faith, quivers as the idea screams through her head like the howl of some eldritch horror. If he'd witnessed what she'd been doing, lain eyes on her lust, her shame, her uncontrollable desire, he'd have her in the palm of his hand. As a natural response she considers immediately lopping off his head to protect herself, but her firm morality kicks that by the wayside. Nothing physical; can't accost him, unless he does her, and then only in appropriate response. Can't make up a reason; she silently begs him to draw a blade and attack her.

Though...not physical, but perhaps mental. Play his game, that's it! His absurd little need to reduce everything to the bandying of words in the way she might swing a sword. Blinking once and doing her utmost to appear more relaxed, she sniffs as she appraises him. "You...uh...you appear jolly. I trust you fulfilled your duty properly?" She feels more on edge than ever before, like standing on a razor, feeling as though she'll fall, and this life as she knows it will be over at any moment...any moment that he chooses.

"Two hundred and eight in fighting order; eighteen men-at-arms and the rest levies. Also twenty six followers of which twenty are female and six are male. Such is the tally of Greichler's petty little group." In response to her attempt at a haughty sniff, he inhales deeply; even through that heavy tunic of his, the way his chest expands and slowly contracts as that heavy breath is drawn in then slowly let out, is plainly obvious. Oh yes, he recognizes that faint musk hanging heavy in the air, that characteristic mix of scents: womanly need and sweat, topped off with just the faintest hint of warmed oil. He's been in the midst of it more than once, after all.

That grin of his only spreads wider as he begins to advance on her with long, even strides, the smugness of his smirk spreading to the rest of his features as his eyes bore into her, as flensing as any inquisitor's. What hope do secrets have against such a piercing gaze, trained from birth to peel through even the canniest of lies and deceits? Finally, he stops right before her, right within arm's reach - they stand the same height, but the way he looks down at her right then, more akin to a hawk circling a small mammal below, seems calculated to make her feel very, very small right then. And then he finally speaks, those insufferably smug lips of his curling in a manner that, somehow, seems irredeemably smutty.

"So yes, Lady Lucrezia Navarre, Knight-Sister of the Order of the Star of Justice, I have fulfilled my duty." And then Redouane leans in just a little bit closer, one eyebrow cocked in mocking curiosity. "And what about you, hmm? How goes the task of, ah, how did I put it? 'Prying that banner-pike out of your backside'?" A deeply suggestive glance is thrown down at her wrists, just peeking out slightly from behind her back. At that moment, there is no other conclusion that can be drawn: he knows. "Although I suppose it's not quite a banner-pike, is it? And from where I was standing, it looked more like you were pushing it in than trying to remove it. My, my, but the Knight-Sister does have most decadent taste in her toys, does she not?" That smooth voice drops a beat then, hotly throaty and drenched in recrimination. "And most disgraceful taste in her entertainments." With that, his hands lunge forward, snatching at her arms tucked around behind her back, forcibly attempting to wrench them to the fore so that her shameful little implement is revealed.

Lucrezia Navarre blinks, not quite understanding at first, but quickly remembering as he goes on why she'd sent him out in the first place. He starts towards her, and her instincts tell her to run; she begins to take a half step back before bringing her foot back down, determined to keep up the facade. It has to work, it has to! But that expression, that macabre grin, he knows, God in Heaven he knows. The woman struggles to keep still and stand tall as he steps right up to her, he must be able to sense her absolute horror from her, and that grin, that horrid grin, from the blackest pits of Hell. Perhaps he truly is the Devil himself, finally revealing himself in her lowest hour, come to claim her eternal soul. Perhaps she should cut him down, then; that's it! He very well could be a demon wearing the face of a man! His every action, his gestures, his words and his pose, all devilish, all to tear and scrape at her, violations of the highest morals like stones lobbed at her bare skin. She can't summon the will to reach for her blade, though, that fabled sword of Ortuhr, ancient king and Faithful, the weapon she'd been gifted with to ward of the evils of the world - like the man before her.

Her lips tremble as he speaks, the sound at once slimy and striking, precisely like a serpent winding its way through muck and tall grass, stalking its prey. The Knight-Sister can see that now; she is his quarry, whether she always has been, or only as of late to sate his boredom, and it renders her petrified. What is this strange power he has over her?! Her heart is pounding in her chest like a war drum, blood surging through her veins like a coursing river, and worst of all is that lingering warmth between her legs, the afterglow of that stupid, stupid mistake. She curses herself, and the ruinous golden relic, without which she'd never have given in to such temptations. Her grip on it becomes more feeble as the monster digs his talons deeper into her, his breath washing over her her in little licks. Then he announces it outright; he knows, Heaven forgive her, he knows truly, and she's damned! Her chest is heaving, the paladin practically panting in fear as his last appalling remarks spill from his lips, and he actually attacks her.

Lucrezia is so powerless, her will, her fire, drained by the revelation that she's been found out and caught red-handed; she cries out in dismay as Redouane grabs at her, losing her footing as she tries to escape backward. His hands, so forceful and strong compared to her, cause her to bobble the golden butt plug and send it bouncing on the bed. Pivoting on her heel, she turns as she falls, landing on her belly and covering the object of her undoing. She clenches her arms tightly underneath her, desperately trying to keep it away from him, as though the moment he takes it, everything is over.

He's on her, clawing at the blankets and at her sides, so imposing and overwhelming as she frantically fights to keep herself pressed to the bed. She kicks at him clumsily in an effort to push him away, get him away from her, send him far away where he can't do this can't ruin her can't damn her can't shake her Faith, until he's off of her and she's hyperventilating so badly she's practically sobbing, hot tears beginning to spill from her eyes as she lays there and shudders in paralyzing terror.

Realization, dread, panic, fear, terror - one by one those sensations flick across the blonde crusader's face, and Redouane Nicetas Isidorus revels in each and every single one of them. Look at that bitch writhe now, he gloats internally, the expression on his face remaining implacably - and maliciously - predatory as she begins to tremble and quiver, hyperventilate and squirm, fight-or-flight instincts obviously kicking in. He must confess, there is a moment of disappointment as he realizes that she chooses panicked retreat instead of fierce resistance, but - well, doesn't that just confirm his reservations about her all along? He's never felt like this about a woman before; never felt this ugly, overwhelming urge to violate. But then again, he cannot recall ever hating somebody quite so much as Lucrezia Navarre before, either.

When she gasps and attempts to flee that quick grasp, Red moves aggressively in an attempt to keep her from retreating, but ah, his efforts are soon rendered utterly moot as the crusader fumbles and flops down on the bed, her precious, damning toy flying loose in the process. Blue, blue eyes watch its headlong path as it settles on the bed, only to be covered by Lucrezia's panicked frame before he can dip in to grasp it, but... This is fine too, floats through his head as he advances upon her splayed-out form, moving with cool, unhurried finality.

"So how long have you been doing this, Lucrezia? Stuffing your ass with some gaudy toy, I mean. Is it really any way for an anointed sister, confirmed in her oaths, to conduct herself? Seems beyond shameful, if you ask me." Redouane's silken voice is low and hotly mocking now as he reaches one hand out towards her, snatching at one of those furiously flailing legs in the midst of their inarticulate thrashing. He grabs the ankle firmly, his grip indeed stronger than his slim frame would suggest, and aided in its task by the way so much of her strength seems to have just fled out of her. And then he jerks on that leg sharply, pulling it out to the side slightly, keeping it from kicking - and, incidentally, keeping her from rolling about easily. The other hand soon follows behind, trailing with agonizing slowness down the back of that exposed leg, fingertips dragging across pale, smooth skin, starting right at the back of her knee where her boots end all along the underside of her thighs, until finally his digits reach that swishing, slashed skirt of hers. There is no fanfare or ceremony as he grasps at its' soft black fabric and briskly tosses it up over her back, leaving that broad, fleshy backside of hers fully revealed to his ravenous eyes, drinking in the sight with a cruel, intemperate hunger.

For the moment, he contents himself solely with looking, oh, but look he does indeed - at length and blatantly, occasionally making quietly approving "mm"s as his gaze roams over each and every curve. "Where were you hiding this, Lucrezia Navarre? This is hardly an ass fit for a holy warrior. Looks more like a whore's ass to me." And then he leans over her back slightly, his voice dropping into a razor-edged stage whisper. "And you know what? When I tell everybody just what Lucrezia Navarre, ordained Knight-Sister of the Order of the Star of Justice, bearer of the Sword of Ortuhr, does to her greedy little asshole when she thinks nobody's listening...whoring this fat, fuckable ass out's going to be the only option left to you." Red pauses for a moment, making a soft 'tsk'ing noise - as if such a thing would somehow be a terrible but inescapable shame. "But perhaps that idea has appeal to you, yes?"

Lucrezia Navarre begins to completely break down as she lays prone on her bed, clutching the golden plug tightly like some sort of sacred relic that her life, her very soul depends on, all while He eggs her on. Lord but his words burn her with a shame that feels as though it might annihilate her from the inside out, lay her entirely bare and scour her clean until there's nothing else. She shrieks as he seizes upon her leg, weakly pulling and kicking, only managing to make herself squirming in his grip, far too overcome with fear to summon up any strength. The Devil has her, body and soul in his hands, with naught for her to do but pray, pray and weep. He's touching her, she can feel him on her leg, the once proud warrior flinching as his fingers dance up the back of her leg, feeling as though his fingers are striking her wherever he touches, she's so tensed. Her eyes shoot open when he so casually throws her skirt out of the way, baring her flesh to him with nothing to stop him from taking in everything.

The paladin's sin is exposed to the light for all to see, the concept stupefying her, immobilizing, the sheer awfulness of it shocking her to her core. Lucrezia is a servant to God, a lauded one, heaped with praise and respect, and here is her naked, used rump on display. And his gaze, Heaven and all the Angels save her, she can feel his reviled gaze, feel his eyes dragging over every bit of her soft, plump flesh. The woman shudders and chokes, swearing she can feel him drag his sight along the curve of each delightfully round cheek, pale and flawless, with the slightest hints of blush in them, remnants of her lewd activity moments ago. They aren't perfect circles, but just a bit wider than they are tall; they look impeccably balanced between supple and firm, and just large enough to not fit his hand. Every time she shakes, the barest little ripples are visible across her sweet cheeks, and more and more as he appraises her, he's able to see her handiwork even obscured by her buttocks pressed together. The skin just below her wiggle backside has a shine to it, immediately recognizable as the stain of oil, and it leads up between those squeezable mounds of flesh. All of this, she knows he can see, all of it driving her mad.

The holy woman knows he's so right in his estimation; for near on a year, her bottom has been a playground of lust for her, a place for her to explore her libido. Since then, she has enjoyed and come to appreciate every little sensation available to her there, every happy secret, and moreso has trained herself to revel in even more. A whore's ass is accurate, with how easily a touch there excites her, even a breeze tickling her bringing randy thoughts to mind. She tries to deny it, mumbling sad little "No!"s, but even in her heart she knows that it's all true. But she grows horrified once more at his threats, looking back over her shoulder with wide, teary eyes, shaking her head, still only whimpering out her denial. Her lips tremble pitifully as more big, fat tears begin flowing from her eyes as she looks back up at him, her face contorting with sorrow. To be thrust into the light like that, to have her reputation sullied, and by him? She would lose everything, it's true, be thrown from the Church like so much chattel. All she can manage is to weakly mumble "Please!" back at him, at her wit's end as her world is crumbling down like a house of cards.

Broad and full, so smooth and perfect to behold, looking to be just the perfect mix of pliant and resilient - oh yes, Redouane enjoyed those long, lingering looks at Lucrezia's utterly exposed rear, and before he knew it, the swell of arousal began to rush through his own loins, unabashed lust at that 'whore's ass' mingling with his urge to use her, break her, degrade her, hurt her. And so, still grinning wolfishly, he pulls her grasped leg over to the side just a little bit more, spreading her apart that touch further, as he finally reaches down to grasp one of those luscious cheeks. At first his fingertips brush lightly over the smooth skin, the sensation delicate and wisplike; this only lasts for moments, however, before he roughly takes a palm's worth of that obscene flesh between tightly-clamping fingers, squeezing and kneading; he treats her rump like a baker would his dough, pressing down firmly against it, to be manipulated however he sees fit.

After long moments of that ungentle use, Redouane uses that firm, clawlike grip to wrench aside one of those pillowy mounds so that her utterly shameful hole is exposed to his eyes, still lightly oil-slicked and visibly used and parted by the toy - the Imperial lets out a throaty chuckle then, giving his head a sad little shake before he locks his gaze on the gently-stretched knot of her utter shame. "Looks rather broken in," he observes pointedly, his thumb reaching out to stroke so very, very, very near to the crinkled curl of her sphincter, but not quite touching. "Daily, then? Twice daily? How often, Lucrezia? Or do you wag this in the face of whatever esteemed Church Father you think can see you ascend the ranks a little bit faster, hmm? A sacred, sworn sister sodomite, presenting her slutty little rump to whatever impure priest waves his prick at you?" At the end of that line of cruel questioning, his grip bites in all the more as he deploys his nails more fully, scraping at the ensnared cheek in a manner both testing and distinctly uncomfortable.

"A thick, whorish ass on an insufferable bitch. Everybody thought you had a stick wedged up there; how close we were to the truth. So are you looking forward to being dragged out in the middle of the camp and tied down so that every trooper, soldier, and crusader can have their turn with your plump backside, Lucrezia? I'm sure you've fantasized about such. What else would you be doing, frigging that ass of yours so desperately?" Oh yes, the venom in Red's lightly inflected voice grows more heated indeed; he makes no secret of how much he is enjoying this, the unabashed satisfaction of seeing her cry and writhe like this plain as day on her face. "After all, what else am I supposed to do with this knowledge, hmm? Or did you want me to see, you desperate tramp? Think that you could make me a little bit more compliant by offering up your filthy asshole?"

Lucrezia Navarre lets out a nervous little gasp as those foul fingers suddenly grasp her sweetest place, the paladin immediately feeling profoundly violated as the monstrous nobleman invades such a sacred place. The part of her that aids her in her release, in relieving all of the stress and pressures of her station, that hidden place and secret indiscretion ruined, all of that ruined, her private Heaven defiled by his merest touch. But then, it's no mere touching, the beast filling his seemingly enormous hand with her cheek and taking his fill of it, squeezing, groping, handling her like simple meat. Like a whore. She whines pitifully as he does, overcome with revulsion - and, much to her horror, odd feelings of arousal, his firm fondling stirring up warm desires, each tug pulling at her pucker, reminiscent of everything she's done there herself. She doesn't enjoy this - she cannot! Despite her previous lewdness, she will not admit any of these feelings, to do so would be to give in to him, to debase herself for him, surrender herself in the worst of ways. There's a twinge of pleasure, and a strangled groan escapes, and the sheer humiliation she suffers has her bury her face into the blankets, shaking her head softly back and forth as she desperately denies it.

Then he's revealing her, pulling her open and staring directly at the scene of her sin, watching that small, round muscle clench and unclench as she silently begs to wake up from this nightmare. Her asshole, partially loose, and wet with the holy oil she so criminally uses to slip the plug in nicely. That secret place that even most prostitutes and tramps would not yield to a man, much less offer or enjoy. Her fingers curl in the woollen blanket her tears are soaking into, the woman utterly humiliated as her unchaste place is ripe for his picking. And so close her comes, his thumb so teasing, so good, sending bolts of raw pleasure up her spine, forcing her back to arch and her to inhale sharply, interrupting a sob. How debauched she must seem in that moment, as her sensitive body betrays her, the bending of her back pressing her plush ass back and up, almost as though she's presenting herself to him.

She's still feebly wrestling for control of her body as he begins laying on his cruel indictment of her erotic form and questionable character. The accusations make her stomach churn, her mind screaming in protest even as she only mumbles wretchedly; these, at least, are things she has not done, depredations of integrity she had never even dreamed. The plug is only a tool for her, if invaluable, one she employs only shamefully and in her most needful hours, going as long as she can before the wear of her life and the hunger of her body reach their limits and she can no longer resist. And the mere idea that she would tempt a man of Faith nearly makes her sick; but, to a man so perceptive as Redouane, it seems such a likelihood, that she would sell herself bodily for advancement. Does she truly seem so concupiscent? The thought is driven from her as he clamps down cruelly on her flesh, making her wail miserably, a pretty sound despite its inherent sorrow. A threat of being thrown to the dogs, as it were, and then that loathsome insinuation that she'd been putting on a show, waiting for him to return that she might mollify him with sweet sodomy. "N-no, p-please!" Her tone drips with desperation, her voice faltering as she tries to keep back her sobbing. "Y-you cannot tell a-anyone!"

It would take a blind man indeed to not notice the way the disgraced warrior began to writhe and wriggle, curl and bend and crave beneath his those ungentle touches, the occasional muffled sound escaping her full, ruby-red lips. And Redouane Nicetas Isidorus is no blind man. A sharp, brusque laugh forces its way out of his slim throat as he leans just a little bit more over her still-clothed back, his claw-grip on that ludicrously pliant cheek twisting for a moment. The motion has the side effect - no doubt intentional - of forcibly dragging the joint of his thumb over and against her depraved little rear hole, subjecting it to direct pressure and attention. Then the words resume, those hateful, jagged words, delivered in a smouldering tone that could almost be imagined as lustily enthused if it did not so blatantly drip with contempt and intent to harm.

"You're actually enjoying this, aren't you?" His tone, full of blatant condemnation, makes it obvious that such is a strictly rhetorical question."Perverted little bitch; not even the catamite I was toying with before you dragged me all over this bastard camp was so easy. Oh yes, you disgustingly shameless ass-slut masquerading as a holy sister, you're going to enjoy having your face ground into the mud as the troops line up to pump this well-used ring of yours full of their vile spunk, aren't you?"

At that point he brings his thumb to said 'well-used ring', but this time it is not in an incidental brush. Oh no, his thumb is out, his nail is out, less pressing and more scraping over its surface to peel and brush the traces of oil away, the forceful little motions sharply angled and unkind in so sensitive a place. "It's going to drip, you crusading cocksleeve," the Imperial continues, hissing like the viper she imagines him to be, by now his breath hot against the back of her ear. "All that thick, fetid seed, dribbling out of your disgusting, worn-out asshole. And you're going to beg for more every moment of it, because we both know you're a disgrace to the Faith - a filthy little street-corner tramp, praying so sincerely, so desperately - for fatter pricks to ream this bloated backside of yours out!" Finally he withdraws his thumb slightly, seemingly content to keep that harsh scratching and scraping purely to the surface. And at that moment he spits right beside her head, as if talking about her at such length left a vile taste in his mouth.

Emperor's Blood, but he was hard beneath his tunic and his leggings, the cruelty of his words and - admittedly - the potently alluring scene of that outstretched, lightly-used rump flooding his length with blood and greed, the oppressive tightness of his formal clothing grinding down on him painfully with each passing moment. Oh yes, he wants that tight, disgraceful hole of hers; he wants to break it in, make it suffer and writhe and clench in confused agony and delight alike. And he wants to laugh during every moment of it, reminding her of just how much he loathes her. But for the moment, he cannot spare his hand to begin the unravelling, as he takes a moment to really grind his grip down, squeezing and wrenching with coldly detached amusement in her desperate decline.

"Why shouldn't I tell everyone, Lucrezia Navarre? In case you've forgotten, I happen to think you're an utterly despicable cunt. Give me a good reason why I shouldn't drag you right into the middle of the mustering fields like this right now, your slutty, slicked rump all prepped for use. The fact you'd hate it simply makes that all the more appealing, you know. You don't even wear underclothes beneath that shameless gown of yours - I bet you wantonly stuff that rectum of yours to the thought of the poxy peasants just flipping it up and bending you over a barrel, don't you?"

The well of her humiliation seems to be bottomless, as the Knight-Sister lets out a muffled moan when her pucker is grazed, making her flinch ever so nicely. In her nerve-wracked state, she is seemingly highly receptive to the barest of touches, unable to control her body's impure reactions. It's only worsened by his unstopping verbal assault, his every word like a slash at her defenses, wearing her down masterfully. Her face burns hotly, tears stinging as he presses it to her face, that he knows she's reveling in the pleasure of his manipulations. She's not simply some harlot, she's not! Lucrezia is a fierce, loyal champion of the Faith, the holy tenets pillars of her being, not simple supports to hold up some facade.

She...Lord in Heaven, why is his brazen touch so alluring?!

Even while she pushes his foul fantasies away from her head, she cannot deny how deeply exciting it is to have his hand on her. He does a bit to reduce that, at least, as he begins lightly clawing at her tender hole, causing her to shriek as the sensation is so incredibly acute. For a moment it seems as the proud warrior woman might take back control, lifting an arm as though she might swing back and smash it into the nobleman's face, but another twinge of sharp pain and her fist splays open, her palm slamming down into the bed as she tries to keep it from overwhelming her.

So overwrought, she is, she can barely even think as he continues indulging himself with her pliable flesh, forcing whimpers and grunts and sounds of mourning from between her lips. The beautiful woman is like a wounded angel, her lustrous, pale blonde hair spilling over her back and shoulders awkwardly, already a mess. Some sticks to her face, cloying there thanks to the salty tears having forged a defined path down her slightly rounded cheeks, cheeks red with all her emotional agitation. The uniform seems so inappropriate, somehow, the regal garments acting more as an enticing promise the way it hugs her body, showing off her curves, alluding to just how voluptuous she really is. She is thankful, at least, that she still has that, still has the faintest bit of dignity and hasn't been rendered completely naked and low.

Once more does she vainly attempt to hold back a pleasured cry as he crushes her so sensuously in his grip, every single time a brutal blow to her pride. And then, his ultimatum - does his inhumanity know no bounds? He's not merely bandying words, either, the barbarian is wholly intent in his intimidation, she can sense that deep in her heart. "N-no, Redouane, y-you cannot! I-I beg you!" So painful, this is, as she's made to bow to him, made to grovel so frantically - but the promise of what lies down the other path is worlds worse. "A-anything, you, you cannot out me!"

Even now - particularly now - the emissary cannot help but find Lucrezia beautiful. Her every feature so delicate and refined, so prim and austere; now reduced to matted sweat and desperate sobbing, pale cheeks flushed red with shame and fear and desperate horror. Yes, it is precisely that she has been laid so low that nearly brings Redouane to a soft moan, but instead he simply snorts derisively behind and atop her as he, lingeringly, withdraws his grip from her well-marred backside. The previous pristine cheeks now show angry red marks from his rough scratching, and the dark marks of where his fingers had forced down and wrenched so furiously will surely bruise and ache for days to come. Ah, but those cheeks, those cheeks! Every other part of her was a sanctified statue, seemingly exhorting men on with promises of holiness and virtuosity. But that full, curvy backside...in all his years of degeneracy and depravity, the man had never seen one that spoke so purely of shameless, debauched lust; cried out to be used and abused with every ounce of strength available. What a perfect little contradiction, Redouane sneers to himself as his temporarily-free hand begins untying his sash with short, hard movements.

"You stupid scrap of buggery-bait," is spat out as he sets that bright crimson sash down aside her on the bed, the motion surprisingly fastidious. "There's not a single Patriarch-damned thing you can offer me that I can't take from you already." The tunic is rapidly unhooked, its cross-body folds swinging open to reveal a lithe, slim body more suited to an acrobat or a gymnast than a dissolute aristocrat: all long, lean lines and taut-wrapped muscle, well-honed and compact. At that point he forcibly presses his hips against Lucrezia's upturned hindquarters, pointedly grinding the blatant, impossible-to-miss bulge in them against the crack of those swollen cheeks. "Feel that, my dear Ordained Knight-Sister of the Order of the Drooling Asspucker?" For good measure he rocks his lower body against her again, harder, the crotch of his linen pants scraping between the cleavage of her thick rear as his cloth-swaddled tip glances against her pleasured sphincter before dragging away.

"It's going to be the first of many, many cocks in this slutty, sanctified shitter of yours, Lucrezia Navarre." He makes sure she can hear the way he roughly pulls loose the lacing of his leggings as his teeth just barely brush against the back of her ear, his body bent over hers so closely know. "And do you know why that is, whore?" The way that cruel, cruel man twists every word he utters and snarls in the shamed paladin's ear, his voice awash in jeering insincerity and cold contempt for her - there is no tenderness there, no pity or mercy.

Finally her soft cheek is free from his terrible grip, a deep ache setting in, and indelibly reminder of him. Idly, it occurs to her that it likely won't be the only one, and she shudders at the thought. What manner of things will he inflict on her, by the end? The dame wonders how she will survive this, whether it will be her at the end of his degradations, or something lesser; what parts of her will Redouane allow her to keep, and what parts will he burn up in his dark lust? She mourns for herself with soft weeping, her lamentations seeping from her faintly almost as though to avoid provoking him further. It seems under his baleful gaze, every response she has only drives him to treat her with more depravity, and so she only hopes to give him less reason.

The sash catches her sight as it flutters down to the blanket next to her, its meaning as clear as his intent declaration. How had she not yet realized what he meant to do? Blithering, stupid fool, of course he's going to avail himself of her! It is an ugly thought, though, she knows not what to think of it but that it's vile because it is him, and because it is him he will make her suffer. But what else? Bravely daring to glance back at him, she is surprised to find him so well-fit, finding aristocrats generally soft and flabby at times. She finds herself thankful that at least his is not some corpulent, physically repugnant fellow, before berating herself for the thought; no, there is nothing about him that is not repulsive, she must not falter in this estimation!

As he so directly grinds himself against her, though, that belief tumbles away, gasping audibly at the remarkably thrilling sensation it delivers her. So similar to the touch of that golden plug, but so different, so hot, somehow feeling even harder. Yes, she feels him, the holy woman once more pressing her hand over her lips to stifle her cries, stunned by the electrifying pleasure it delivers to her; she moans licentiously against her palm, shivering as he does it again. Blessedly does he pull away, Lucrezia reeling from the shock, but quickly clinging to the teachings of the Church; this is temptation, far more than what she had fallen to before, and he the Devil himself. She must, she must deny him...she must...but... His raw, demeaning voice matches the aggressive closeness of his form to hers, her will crumbling more and more by the moment. Her voice is barely a whisper. "I don't...I don't know..."

"It's very simple, Lucrezia." Redouane sounds so very matter-of-fact there, smirking blatantly as he catches sight of her runny-eyed glance backward - and oh yes, the quiet approval in those smoky green orbs, no matter what teachings or self-justifications she may have levied in her head afterwards to beat down that visceral response. A few more deft, one-handed loops follows, and finally his leggings sag and relax, sagging on his slender hips; lewdly, they seem to be held up only by the potent jutting-out of his loins. And when he so simply reaches down to pull that white linen down past them, dragging his simple silken undergarments with them, the cloth sinks down to his knees just as his engorged erection surges forth, swollen with his cruelly rapacious hunger for what is to come.

He is long and smooth, thick and needy; he is not massive in the way of the most ribald pillow-books, but he certainly has nothing to be ashamed of compared to more mundane specimens of humanity, and nobody would ever confuse him for being even average. His surging arousal has left his broad, velvety tip exposed, glistening faintly from the fluids gathering at its apex. The rest of his shaft is straight and true, jutting forward boldly like some carved simulacra; only down at the base is the unsullied texture interrupted by signs of thick, needy vasculature, half-obscured behind a layer of closely-cropped black hair. And oh, it is red now, an ugly, deep shade of it, speaking of barely-restrained need and just how much blood is pulsing and thumping in that faintly-swaying length of the man's. Redouane shifts his position slightly then, clamping one of her legs underneath one knee of his so that the now-freed hand can grab the base of his bloated prick. His other hand goes forward to roughly ensnare a fistful of her smooth blond locks between his clenching fingers as he slides his entire lissome form closer to her, the heavy glans of that impressive manhood brushing against her pucker in a fashion almost gentle.

"Very, very simple, Lucrezia," the diplomat repeats again, his lips gliding against the lobe of her ear as his voice takes on an almost soothing tone. The feel of his length against her backside disspates for the moment, drawn back. And then he speaks once more, all that softness dropping away like the falsehoods they were. He wrenches violently on her hair with that grip of his, striving to jerk her head back sharply as he all-but-spits in her ear. "I hate you," he snarls with all the unabashed spite he can muster. And then, with every ounce of strength - every scrap of intemperate force, every drop of vindictive cruelty - contained in his tightly-wound frame, he whip-crack plunges forward with his hips, curling his entire lower body into the motion as he forces that thick, brutal implement of his right against her thoroughly unprepared asshole, holding absolutely nothing back in that furious, headlong drive against tense muscle and clenching flesh.

The sight of her tormentor's manhood stuns the woman; she has seen one once or twice, but never like this, at attention - and never bent over before it. It's only natural, then, that she cannot stop staring at it, wide-eyed and speechless as she studies the swollen length. Such power and vitality it communicates, the promise of ferocity, of savagery, attributes more befitting a northern barbarian that this puffy wellborn. There is a certain beauty in it, the holy woman finds, in its robust shape, the way in which it reaches up towards the sky reminding her of something vaguely - and obscenely - holy. Vitality indeed, for it seems so energetic as if it strains against itself, primed for its purpose as it is. She is again reminded of well-muscled warriors, those with proud bodies forged of battle and iron, the scarlet shade of his stiffness so alike their furious faces as they prepared to fight. Lucrezia finally catches herself admiring it with such wonder, nearly scalding herself with castigation, her cheeks flushing a deep red to nearly match him.

Any thoughts of appreciation are thrust from her as he begins his mount, trapping her leg while she's still reeling from his exhibition. That vicious handhold of her elegant hair - one of the few things she'd dared let herself take pride in - firmly puts her back in her place, reminding her of the truth of the situation, that her is the darkest of evils coming to consume her. The warrior winces as Redouane tugs her back meanly, as though yanking on a horse's mane to bring it to heel, her back bending further, her backside fully displayed to him in all its shivering glory. Grunting, she twists and turns, trying to lessen that painful tautness, find some sort of relief; she finds some when that bloated tip presses to her, causing a fluttering gasp to emanate from her lips. How, how could that feel so wondrous? Is she really so miserable a wretch, to be so easily inflamed by such infernal seduction?

She is already lost against him, she thinks, already fallen to his sinister methods; he knows her weakness and will exploit it infinitely, and without an ounce of time for her to mount a defense. So cruel he is to pile such tantalizing whispers in her ear on top of every other explicit act, such perfectly placed jabs and slashes at her defenses that whatever final blow he prepares will demolish her.

The harsh whiplash he delivers sends pain simmering through her scalp, but it is nary even a herald of what's to come, his utterance echoing in her head as his most terrible deed comes. She does not know what has happened, cannot even begin to think on it, the agony is so tremendous. A sense of defenses obliterated, of being driven into, of a wild, unfathomable pain screaming through her. Lucrezia does not realize yet that she reflects that scream, an anguished cry ripped from her throat as the bastard's engorged length drives into her without the barest ounce of mercy. Never has she suffered so grievous an attack, never suffered such pain, and her body and mind are totally unprepared, reacting and lashing out in the most visceral manner.

Her arms pull out from under her and flail, leaving her held up only by his callous grip, and her long leg kicks once, eliciting an agonizing twinge inside her. Her pucker spasms along with the rest of her inner flesh, trying to grip and shove out this horrific invader and receiving only deeply rooted aches for it. He plunges into her entirely, whatever pitiful resistance she might have put up swept aside in his wrathful thrust, his throbbing manhood reaching farther into her than she'd ever gone with the plug or otherwise. Whatever beauty she might have seen in it is forgotten as brutal torment is the only attribute she acknowledges now.

A rough, snarling grunt wrenches out between the Imperial's tightly-clenched teeth as he brutally drives home his rock-hard length into the paladin's desperately spasming gut. He'd never admit it openly, but there had been little about that act that had been physical pleasurable for him: her too-tight hole, intentionally deprived of any easing lubrication, scraped and ground against him roughly with every desperately-fought inchward advance, and the brutal force with which he had driven himself - still drives himself - forward left little room for pleasant sensation, replacing everything with the crude battering against her tightness that he now indulged in. He felt strangled inside her, the brutalized ring of her sphincter still managing to clamp down against him with enough force that the diplomat could almost swear that the blood flow to his over-engorged shaft was in risk of being cut off. But this was never about his own base material satisfaction.

Oh no, he loves every heartbeat of this, revels in it, has to beat down the urge to simply burst right then and there, and it has nothing to do with the overpowering friction of the violated crusader's innards. It's her scream that drives him on now, that utterly agonized cry that tore out of her; the way her entire body furiously spasmed and seizured under that violent penetration. It was her pain that delighted him to his very core right then, and it is her pain that spurs him onward in his indignities.

Releasing his steadying grip from the base of his length, he ferociously rakes his nails over the upturned swell of her ass, exposing the hitherto-intact cheek to lines of sharp, ragged scrapes while he prepares his move. At first, his entry into that absurdly full ass had been almost mockingly easy, but that only lasted so deep as the attentions of her toy; beyond that was hellish going, as stiff and unyielding as the defenses of this damnable city that they were besieging. And so, his furious lancing being halted by the tension of those unplumbed depths, he immediately shifts over to a series of short, stabbing dagger-sharp thrusts, battering against her clenching, virgin innards like a siege ram at the gates.

Oh yes, there were ways he could have done this that would have been far easier, far more gentle and considerate: that is precisely why they were discounted. He instead opts for brutal force, simply smashing against whatever tension arises against his greed-bloated glans as it invades her anus, roughly shifting his hips from side to side amidst pistoning pumps to demandingly stretch her out, her body's willingness be damned. That hand in her proud, lustrous locks gives another sharp, reinlike tug before cinching up its grip even deeper, fingers scraping against her scalp in anticipation of the forceful shove down against the woollen sheets that follows, smothering her face into the bedspread as he hacks and bludgeons his manhood into her upturned ass, seeking to hilt himself utterly.

Could this be her end? It's the singular thought that avails itself to her through the haze of mind-shattering agony. It certainly feels as though it might be, and she knows it is possible for true damage to occur; she draw blood before, pushing herself to far when she had first begun exploring herself. There is no doubt in her mind that he is capable of drawing much more, capable perhaps of impaling her innards and dragging them out of her. It certainly feels as though he might be. Or more likely it could be that he's simply forcing her body to conform to his shape, the way she had done so with that golden plug, though so much more furiously and without a care for her delights. Oh, and with only the sparse leavings of oil left over from her day's mischief, it is so ragged, it burns her inside, so like her first attempts at penetrating herself yet to a far greater degree. It does not help, either, that she cannot relax herself, making each of his motions that much worse as her body tries to pry him away.

No, this is like her own methods in only the worst ways; even the fullness inside her, something usually happily enjoyed, is unbearable, Lucrezia feeling as though she'll burst at the seams at any moment. It's worsened still by how ready she had been, this torture coming on the heels of an intense release; despite the brutality of it, and much to her uncertain disgust, there are still twinges of pleasure as he continues his assault, particularly her cinching ring buzzing with sensation as he rails against her with a mighty friction.

Her agonized cry ends with a choked sob, the woman shrieking from behind clenched teeth, hissing as the mercilessness proceeds. Her tears return, salty beads shaken from her eyes to splatter on the bed or in her hair with the violence of his passion. The paladin's soft flesh twitches under the sharp, clawing swipe, sending little jolts of oddly teasing pain up through the waves of unbelievable torment, and as he begins to pummel her depths open, each short thrust causes her pale cheeks to jiggle ever so enticingly. She's nearly stricken nauseous by the attempts, feeling the force of his pounding all the way up to her belly, deep, smarting pain every time he bashes that overfull head against her.

She's driven face first into the bed mid-screech, and finds herself glad, so that she might let her cry loose that much more easily; it's not lost on her in the least that a passersby would hear her easily. The wool;en blanket brings her and odd solace, then, as not only can she howl and wail more freely, but somehow she can more easily stand all the mounting sensations, all the savage attacks. Lucrezia can focus more acutely on every little motion as the nobleman takes her so strongly and so deep; the intense pain, yes, but also the undeniable bits that appeal to her. Latching on to them, she doesn't worry about the implications, that she's subtly enjoying the monstrous rape; unthinking, she instinctively fixates on the way his bulging manhood drags across a sensitive spot her, or how the pressure there is so like her plug.

Every time Lucrezia's innards seize up or attempt to reject Redouane's ungentle affections, the cruel nobleman responds by driving himself against her all the harder: the occasional long, hammering pelvic drive that sees him drag much of his half-buried prick out of her agonized anal cavity, scraping and grinding in jaggedly choppy motions against her chafing inner walls before strongly arching his back and surging forward once more, smashing up and through any attempts at resistance with all the subtlety and finesse of a kataphraktos charge. And every time he does it - every time he forcibly wedges just a little bit more of himself into her, draws another broken sob out of her as her face is twisted and ground against the wool - a surge of ugly, sadistic delight washes over him, causing his swollen shaft to twitch and surge palpably in the overtight confines of her backside.

It is during one of these nail-driving break-ins that, finally, the cold-eyed Imperial feels his pubic mound smack up against the lush roundness of her alabaster cheeks, increasingly marked and crisscrossed by the reddened trails of his 'caresses'. As if in doubt, he corkscrews his hips savagely, his entire body twisting slightly as he oppressively tries to wrench deeper into her by grinding his tense, lean body against hers all the harder, his full sac bouncing against her untouched slit. And when he realizes that, indeed, he is fully buried in her, a jeering laugh rings out of his throat, right beside her downturned head. "Feel that, bitch? This is the sword you were meant to bear, you dockside doxy! A - ghhh! - hard prick sheathed fully in your shameless prostitute's pucker!"

Lucrezia Navarre claws at the bed, digging her fingers into the roughspun cloth as he so ruthlessly violates her, sinking further into the bedding with each slam against her shuddering flesh. It doesn't take long for him to savage her wide and deep, the paladin putting up no conscious resistance; all it takes is for him to teach her body the lesson, one hateful thrust at a time, until that hot, grasping flesh has been loosened up enough for him to sink in to his limit. Finally, after seemingly endless attempts and an equal number of wracked cries from her, the outrageous pain is beginning to lessen, her hole growing accustomed to the carnal punishment. Certainly not the end of her anguish, no; unlubricated as she is, still, and the rampant rape spreading what little wetness there is inside her thin and drying it up some. His viciousness has yet to abate an ounce, as well, still driving that incredible hardness up against whatever defiant flesh still lays within her.

Still, that inkling of pleasure that she's so frantically clutching seems to grow a bit, finding room to build as the unbelievable agony ever so slowly begins to wane. Lucrezia finds herself thankful, then, for the jeweled relic that had stretched her out the past several hours; without that, she surely would have gone mad from the unimaginable agony, which would have gone on even longer. She might not be so sensitive to the inherent delights, either, without it, surely much against Redouane's intent. Oh, he's so completely inside her; that fullness is beginning to fade over into something wonderful, how simultaneously horrid and splendid. And when he so angrily grinds against her, pressing their bodies so tight together, it hurts, oh it hurts, but the entrance to her ass is powerfully, deliciously stimulated. Were she not so caught up in the pure sensation of it all, she might realize how wanton she is becoming; as it is, she simply writhes noisily under him, clenching around him at his comment.

It is that sudden tightening around his balls-deep manhood that suddenly twigs the man's awareness that, perhaps, there is more to Lucrezia's responses than simply the expected misery, and the very thought brings a perverse rictus grin to his face, lips curled back to expose those white, white teeth hidden behind his full, flushed lips. With slow, casual authority, he drags her head back up from the bed, arching her neck acutely with an unhurried dominion over her slack, trembling body. "What's this?" he whispers so sultrily in her ear, as if cruelly hinting at how smoothly sensuous his dulcet tones could be under happier conditions, even as he begins dragging his length back out of her needily proffered rear at a harshly acute angle clearly intended more to stretch and strain than ease passage.

"Are you actually getting off on this, you disgusting tramp?" Still so silky, still so smoulderingly suggestive; his voice pours out of that venom-filled mouth like sweet honey, even as he dips his head in to oh-so-lightly brush his mouth just over the hinge of her jaw, breath ticklishly warm. By now he is almost completely removed from her, the flared corona of his cockhead catching against the inside of her punished sphincter before just barely popping out of it, leaving only the tip inside. That hand of his, previously occupied with raking and ravaging the cheeks of her rump, slips around her front to - for the first time in the evening - quickly brush over her pristine slit, the lightness of that touch utterly at odds with all the other events.

And then, suddenly shifting his position so that he is all-but-mounting her upturned buttocks, he puts all his weight into a long, brutal re-entry of her asshole, forcibly splitting her open again as gravity and a powerful downward drive of his lower body savagely forces all eight inches of his turgid manhood right back into her raw rectum. The sheer burning friction of the movement squeezes a choked-back gasp out of Redouane, followed by a harsh growl.

Swallowing as her flushed, tear-moistened face is lifted, pulling her from that small bit of sanctuary, Lucrezia presses her eyes shut tight as she can, her jaw trembling as she awaits his next obscene attention. He's so close to her, touching her here and there, his presence so indomitable and omnipresent that she seemingly can't even escape into her mind without finding him there. So hot and alluring he is against her ear, soft and enticing, even as he meanly pulls himself out in such a ragged fashion. The Knight-Sister grunts as she tries to endure it, the attempt all the more difficult as she tries to suppress that hint of joy in her cries as well, failing at both. His pulling away hurts, yes, but is relieving as well, letting her breathe a bit easier.

As if to answer his brutish accusation, a delirious little pleased whimper slips past her lips as his bulging tip drags against her just right, sending a telling shiver up her spine. Is she? She cannot lie, and now thinks she would not, if she even dared to speak. The paladin closes her mouth just as he comes so intimately close to her, causing her to tremble further, afraid he might be so bold as to kiss her. That would be it, wouldn't it, the thing to seal her fate, that remarkably profound act that would surrender her deepest self.

He's slipped almost entirely away from her, her pucker sloppily grasping at his length, when he touches her there in her most sacred place, the one belonging to God that she vowed would remain untouched. Fearful panic wells up inside her, as it dawns on her that yes, the monster that is Redouane Nicetas Isidorus would take that from her, would defile her holiest of places, simply to degrade her as a woman of the Faith. Just as she opens her mouth to dissuade him, she's suddenly plugged full of him once again, his forcing back into her setting off a thousand sensations all buzzing through her head, making her gurgle and moan at the mixture of pain and pleasure.

"You are." Farewell to those lurid, seductive tones from Redouane; the voice in the savaged templar's ear is once again all delighted cruelty and unadorned contempt for her, pronouncing judgement on her with the finality of any church tribunal. Finding his motions slightly eased now - mostly by virtue of having savagely beaten and bludgeoned down the worst of the resistance contained within her splayed-out sphincter - he begins rocking that oppressive length back and forth in her ass, sawing roughly at her still-clenching entry.

"You're actually getting off on having your shameful ass violated, Lucrezia Navarre. I knew you were a filthy, depraved wench who...nnngh!" His words are interrupted as he inflicts a particularly vigorous pump against her cheeks, wrenching his cock into her amidst a particularly violent upward jerking of his hips that, once again, forces her to stretch and flex in ways that her rear passage was never strictly intended to. "...wench that craved to turn her blessed little bottom into a fucksleeve for stiff cocks, but thi-thhhhhh-this is...this is far beyond what even I assumed, you sickening bitch."

The almost gleeful delight in the paladin's misery, psychological and physical alike, is blatant in the way he spits out each word, pressing his half-clad body hard against her black-and-crimson gown, the light sweat trickling off his taut frame soaking into its sanctified fabrics. He is arched over her back now, atop her, his legs alongside hers as his hips rest atop her arched-up hindquarters. His presence is against hers utterly - the soft, snarling pants as he pumps erratically into her backside precisely so she cannot settle into a rhythm; the faint almond scent of his intricate black locks, heated from his exertions, as their interlaced silver baubles gently chime and clank against each other. And always the feel of him atop her, within her, pressing and oppressing, filling her ruthlessly or pushing her all the more down against the crusader's own bedspread. "You're not even fit for the l-l-lghhhh-lowliest conscripts to fuck, bitch," he whispers once more, the sound sharp like the scrape of drawn steel. "I ought to turn you over to the hunting kennels for the warhounds to knot."

Lucrezia Navarre feels her last bit of dignity wither up and die as his words wash over her; no, not the words, but that ugly, knowing way he says it. That tone that intimates his demonic glee, the one that is all those cruel, heartless insults he's hurled at her, the one that sounds so smug and victorious. She can't even summon up an ounce of will to deny him, languishing in the sensations he's thrusting upon her as he is. His manhood feels harder than ever as he works at her, forcing her gripping insides back nearly effortlessly, each movement of that seemingly iron rod bringing forth intense, throbbing waves of aching pleasure. The worst agonies seem to have subsided now, settling to a dull soreness muffled by the more present feelings a backdrop to her continued violation as though she were a canvas and his furious rape a masterpiece. Her attempts to focus on the awful thrills he lauds her with seems to have worked, as more and more his rancorous movements draw shivers of pleasure from her, perhaps a testament to her obscene body, or rather the obscenity that she had made it.

Her labored pants become less anguished and more salacious, readily evident to one such as he that she is deriving some carnal joy from this. Every one of his more vicious stabs into her provokes a surprisingly lewd response, a soft cry that ends with her groaning. The paladin so desperately tries to shake away his vulgar suggestions, but they match so immediately with her body's response, with the way he masterfully manipulates her, that they take root easily. The idea that even someone so debauched and immoral as he would find her licentious shakes her to her core, even while seeping arousal spreads through her. The devil is pressing into such a nice spot, she thinks, such a perfect spot and so well, such a practiced manner, so dominantly on and above and inside her, rutting into her like some bestial alpha male, and that familiar warmth is coalescing between her legs...

The holy woman begs herself not to, not like this, it will stain her eternal soul for it to happen like this; he threatens so quietly, so intently to give her over to the dogs just as he grinds into her, and she wails, so sorrowful and so beautiful all at once. For she climaxes, the bound up and coiled sensations pushing her over that edge with gusto, and her already trembling form sets to seizing below him, even as her pucker clamps around him like a long lost love. Worst of all is how her hips spasm, press back, and feminine fluids spray from her maidenhood as she quakes, spilling over the edge of the bed onto the floor. Her breath coming in shallow, gasped bits, her eyes roll up as she completely loses herself to this unbidden bliss, mastery of her body falling to him. It's no surprise, then, when she slumps, and the acrid scent of urine becomes apparent as the yellow liquid begins leaking hotly down her thighs.

There was a certain quandary - a contradiction - that Redouane Nicetas Isidorus, Protomandator of the Basilikon, found himself facing down. On one hand, every shame-laden gasp and groan of this harlot templar beneath him, every little moan and sigh of growing pleasure she exhibited, gave him new arrows for his quiver of disgraces to heap upon her; more fodder for his endless barrage of insults regarding her ability to derive pleasure from being taken so savagely. Furthermore, he had to confess, the way her quivering insides had begun to rhythmically relax and tense against his ferocious hammer-blow strokes was delicious.

Rather than simply extract satisfaction from the utter breakdown of Lucrezia's sense of self-worth, he could enjoy the warmth of her broken-in gut, or the now-pleasantly manageable tightness about his cock, enjoyably pliant after being so cruelly pummelled into line. The lack of lubrication still meant far more rough, scraping friction than was strictly optimal, but...yes, the dark-haired man had to admit that he was beginning to enjoy this, her torment aside; that this was pleasurable in its own right for him. The problem was that Lucrezia Navarre was enjoying it. Her growing enthusiasm meant that he would be unable to wield simple physical torment as a weapon against her, and the more delight she took in her degradation, well...that, increasingly, cut down on his verbal options as well.

Such are the calculations ticking away in the Imperial's head as he continues to force himself upon her well-worn anus with raw-rubbing intensity, laughing derisively at her utter breakdown of pride in between increasingly intense gasps and growls. That entire line of distracted thought shatters utterly as the paladin completely falls apart beneath him, however.

Redouane's first response is incredulity - if Lucrezia was in any state to look back at him, she would see the momentary shock flicker across his pale, sweat-slicked features, plain as day in those widened blue eyes. Divine Father Above, she's actually...she's actually *finishing* from this? His motions slack for just a moment, the man's brain freezing up as he tries to process this utterly mad piece of information. Oh yes, he'd jeered and mocked her to such an extent, but for her to genuinely climax from it, and, judging by the feel about him, with vigour as well...once again he finds his train of thought interrupted, this time by a fierce clamping-down along his entire lust-bloated penis that he gasps out in unabashed pleasure. That sudden surge of delightful tension helps Red find his equilibrium once more, however, and he responds accordingly: tightness in this bitch's ass is tightness to be broken, orgasm-induced or no.

Accordingly, he removes the hand from the back of her head to instead thoroughly clasp down on her full, pleasantly-formed hips, using that grip as leverage as he recklessly throws himself into another round of battering, piercing piston-pumps against that quavering asshole, grunting audibly at the effort - and the ecstacy - of smashing through her contractions and spasms with brutal, unreasoning force, utterly unable to accept any restrictions upon the full-length, hip-shuddering thrusts he ruthlessly subjects her overwhelmed backside to, working completely contrary to the uncontrolled rocking hip-thrusts of the hard-fucked knight so that each brutal bottoming-out cracks against her cheeks with the force of a strike, stinging hotly and ringing out through the air.

Just as he is about to begin a new round of insults, he sniffs slightly, then wrinkles his pretty features in distaste. "Did you just..." he utters, the revulsion in his tone apparent. Sliding the majority of his ardent arousal out of her while straightening up off her back, he harshly grabs onto one of her legs to pull it aside as he looks down, seeking to confirm his suspicions. And when indeed he sees the sign of her complete loss of control dribbling down her thights, he makes a soft gagging noise before his voice growls to life in a distinctly accusatory tone, full of utter rejection and unabashed disgust. "You filthy, filthy slut. Sacred Patriarch, that's disgusting, you shameless whore! Pissing yourself like some swaddling toddler - eugh! Sickening! This is why you're fit only for the hounds!" One hand of his winds back to crack down ferociously against one of her red-tinged cheeks, heel of the palm angled in sharply to make for a jarring, bruising impact. "What do you have to say for yourself, pissbitch?!"

Finding herself awash in a torrent of wild bliss, the paladin leaves physicality behind as she swirls in her own head, lost to the result of his depredations. That worldly battle - or rather, outright defeat - disappears as currents of ecstasy latch on to her and drag her violently through some colorful space, leaving her dizzy and drunk and glorious. There's something akin to all those depictions of the Kingdom of God, she feels, something there that vaguely reminds her of the wonder in the voices of those that had spoken of Heaven. She glows with a warmth and a deep happiness, but it lasts only for a moment before it all falls away, and she's back again to heaving and shuddering and gasping for air. Lucrezia simply lays there, her mortal form momentarily spent, the processes of her body catching up with that amazing burst of rapture.

Everything seems sharper, in a way, the colors of the woolen blanket and the wall of the tent and the strands of her hair hanging down; the sounds of her labored breathing, and someone else's, and spoken words; the feeling of her body resting against the bed, that's right, she's on her bed, and she feels very relaxed, though there's a bit of pain at her head, and a good deal more farther back, and some distention there that's lessening, now, almost disappearing. A smell, something strong that stands before the others, and more talking, and some sense of dread comes to her as things start spilling back into her head, like a pail of water being dumped in reverse.

Right as she's coming to, the assorted pieces of recent events sliding back together, a startling blow lands on her, sending a deep, aching pain through her, and she whips her head around to stare at Redouane, finally back firmly in her head to hear his last insult. She seems entirely bewildered, like some lost child presented with incomprehensible questions, her mouth slowly hanging open as she blinks, looking around for a moment then back at him. "I-I...wha...I..." The lady stammers and swallows, struggling to come to some understanding, rifling through what she can remember; the scene earlier, him leaving, her being caught, the utter terror and his mad glee, his...his despoliation of her... It's then she realizes that's indeed his fat cock inside her, though she presses down around him to be sure. Then she feels the moistness between her legs, and with the pungent scent his slander suddenly makes sense. The paladin had urinated, like some common beast...but why? There's that other smell, too, the sweet one, nearly drowned out by the smell of filth, the odor of that liquid she occasionally dispels when she...when she... Staring up at him in realization, it hits her; the rapacious fiend had forced her to reach that release, and it had been so powerful that she'd lost sway over her own body.

The answer astonishes her; hadn't she been sobbing, desperate for him to stop? pressing a silken gloved finger to her cheeks, she comes away with tear-stained cloth. Yes, it's true. Why then does she feel so...at ease? So placid? She...she had reach that peak, because of him, yes, but why isn't she so horrified as she was? Had it really been so strong as to knock all of that away? Lucrezia must look an idiot to him, with this confusion plastered across her face; he's waiting for an answer, and so she simply says what comes to mind. "I...I'm sorry..."

"You're sorry." The leaden deadpan of Redouane's response to that feeble apology is utterly crushing, as is the way he simply glares at the buttfucked swordmaiden through sharp-honed, furrowed eyes. For a moment he is very quiet as he slightly pulls her body up to reach around her front and grasp the front skirt-flap of her sacred dress...which he promptly uses to begin wiping down her urine-stained thighs with hard, brisk movements. When that is done, he drops the fabric with a full-body shiver, his revulsion still blatant. And then he speaks again, the cold absolution of his earlier tone replaced by genuine smouldering indignation - something that Lucrezia has not had much of an opportunity from hear from him to date. "You're sorry. Sorry for what, you perverted anal fucktoy?"

SMACK - That hand of his comes down on her still-trembling backside, just as hard as before, the smack of his outstretched palm on her meaty, broad-set butt ringing starkly through the air.

"Sorry for pissing all over yourself like some sort of bitch-in-heat?"

SMACK - again the hand, but this time as a sharp, whip-crack backhand, knuckles flexing on impact. "Sorry for being a depraved sodomite of a sacred sister?"

SMACK - a flexy, stinging finger-strike, with the wrist arched sharply into the impact just as his hand makes contact with that lushly well-appointed ass of hers.

"Sorry for cumming from being raped in the ass, you whorish little painslut of a knight?!"

SMACK-SMACK - one full-armed, shoulder-rotating spank rapidly flows into a backhand, one cheek then the other, twisting in sharply from the elbow to maximize sheer force of impact.

By the time he is finished with that last strike, he is panting heavily behind her, his entire lithe body trembling with barely-repressed fury. He throws his striking hand out to the side, shaking it out briskly as he flexes those fingers, the violence of the blows having left his own hand stinging. With an utterly unreserved snarl, his other hand grabs onto one of those well-beaten ass-cheeks and squeezes down furiously until the flesh bulges beneath his fingertips, whereupon he clamps down and uses that impromptu grip as leverage to utterly bury himself into her rectum once more, going from almost-removed to fully-hilted in a single, punishing slam.

"Whore," he spits out, and he does indeed spit out - he sucks in for a moment before spitting right on the back of her head, onto her disarrayed blond locks, his entire expression snarled up into unchecked, bestial hatred. And then his lower body flings itself into motion, bucking and grinding at her thoroughly-ravaged pucker with reckless abandon, utterly devoid of pacing or method or discipline. There is only force, raw and direct, grinding her down onto the mattress, sawing, forcing, shoving, filling.

Lucrezia Navarre crinkles her face in an apologetic, guilty expression, wincing as he repositions her and sops up the mess she'd made of herself none too gently. He'd lavished her with a release so great that all that fear and woe had seeped away, and in return she'd leaked all over; the disgusted gestures her ravisher makes fill her with a strange guilt. Certainly, something so dirty is below a Knight-Sister of the Order of the Star of Justice - how shameful! Surely her superiors would cluck their tongues and tut at her for such a display, soiling herself and nearly her attacker. Swallowing again, she shakes her head as she tries to come up with an acceptable reason, her thoughts cut off by his angry tirade.

The first blow has her mouth hang wide open, her eyebrows curling as she's shocked by the intensity of the strike cracking off her thick behind. The next makes her flinch powerfully, the blow stinging so acutely it makes her eye twitch; the next, less so, but still enough to send hot pain shooting through her. The last two rock her, the first felt deep within her flesh, likely bruising her pelvis, the second like the lash of a whip, her skin burning where he'd hit her. In the end she's dazed by the punishment, her lips still soundlessly parted as she simply tries to register it all. Perhaps if she'd said yes, apologized more profusely, he'd not have been so harsh?

The knight would say as much but he's already moved on, and crushing her cheek so tightly she finds her voice, letting out a pointed, pained groan, that turns into a surprised gasp as her well-used passage is filled to the brim once again. That name rings true, "whore", as her tongue spills out, the woman stricken with delights by his bloated length. The pressure inside, her flesh pressed to his appointed limits by his ravaging member, is...exquisite! As well is the remarkable rigidity, unyielding to her soft, clenching insides, presenting her with gratification where it slides it rubs and nudges.

Whore is her title, then, or her name, he's proved that, and strangely she not only does not deny him, but feels no compunction for it. Especially as he begins to avail himself of her with fierce ardor, his relentless girth scraping and shoving at every bit of her asshole in a manner most savage. It makes her think of a word she'd heard spoken by common men, a coarse one reserved for lowly company; fucking.Yes, Redouane is fucking her single-mindedly, so brutishly and with such fervor as though to discipline her for her transgression; she hasn't the heart, or for that matter the wit, to tell him it's having rather the opposite effect. So grandly does he gouge and grind that she's set to pleasured whimpering, letting out high-pitched sounds of joy as she barely holds herself up, drooling all the while.

One hand violently squeezing the delectable curve of the cavalier's pillowy derriere, the other lunging back up to her hair, winding some of it around his wrist to yank at sharply like a bridle; Redouane seems to have utterly thrown himself into this mad sprint of furious fucking, his teeth grit furiously as he unstintingly batters at her pucker, angling his thrusts downward to scrape pointedly against her pelvic floor. Her dishevelled hair is given another fierce tug just as the messenger aggressively hilts himself inside her ass once more, his hips shifting over to a close, twisting grind punctuated by rapid-fire staccato pumping, always aiming to drive or drag along her increasingly sloppy inner walls.

"'Reviled lech.' 'Brainless, oafish, graceless, uncouth, coarse, vulgar, libidinous, misbegotten mongrel.' 'Diseased carcass.'" He says these words slowly, emphatically; their repetition is broken up by a steady stream of barely-restrained groans and hungry pants, and, most of all, the loud, reverberating smacking of his hard-driving pelvis against her all-too-receptive rear. "Remember those wo-oh-uhhhhnnn-wo-AH!-ords, Lucrezia? And n-nnn-nnngh-now look at you, with your...mmnnnHHH!-slut-lusting fuckpuppet shithole, spas-mm-mmm-mmming and hungerin-ering around this misbego-ghhh-gotten mongrel's cock!"

Even those mocking, incisive words are difficult for him; he has to beat down the roiling burst of intemperate fury skulking inside him to restore some semblance of his usual snide self, and the overwhelming, cloying friction of her (by now) nigh-utterly compliant ass is fraying away at his continued endurance, hungry sensations crawling through the base of his skull. "Did you-youyouyouyouuuuuuunnnn---- PRAY for this, Lucrezia? To get...reamed by my stiff prick, to peak like a-a-a-ahhhhh-a catamite?" After those words, Red has to swallow hard, his neck tensing - his entire body is increasingly rigid as his flexibility begins locking up, reducing him to inelegant, machine-like hammer-blows. But this does not stop him. Even if he cannot roll his hips and briskly curl his lower back into the apex of each pummeling pump, he can still throw his entire body into it, his lungs burning and sweat streaming off him from the reckless exertion. His entire engorged length feels swollen and twitchy inside her, trembling with each new rough-hewn slide within her guts, but still he pushes onward, his entire body language speaking of intense, desperate concentration.