This long-awaited sequel to "The Barbarian" brings Lord
Giles' brother Rolfe an enthusiastic damsel to rescue and
ravage, but she knows not her name or from whence she came,
or whether she is lady or serf.
The lover Rolfe calls Jasmine enchants and seduces him into
abandoning his search for an heiress who will bring him
wealth and title—but will his having taken her cost him his
life when she turns out to be a marriage prize beyond his
Sexual Content: Rated E-rotic
Genre: Medieval / Historical
Book Length: Novella
An Excerpt From: He Calls Her Jasmine
© Copyright Ann Jacobs, 2003.
All Rights Reserved, Ellora's Cave, Inc.
When she extended her arms, she could touch all four walls of the cloister cell meant to become her prison for life. Damn, but there was more room in the oubliettes where her sire tortured his prisoners. Joan of Summerfield stared at damp, dank stones that formed the impenetrable walls from which soon there would be no escape.
Joan wanted to be a bride, but of a lusty warrior, not Christ. Six months ago, the fierce warlord to whom she had been betrothed had died in battle. Her brother Will’s mettle had been found wanting by the same fearsome knight who had slain her betrothed husband. Later, while Will lay near death in the great hall of Summerfield, their sire had promised her to the Church if God would but spare the life of his heir. ‘Twas though she'd been naught to him but a gaming piece, expendable in the cause of saving her brother's life.
A fortnight later Will had still breathed. As though Joan meant no more to him than the pigs and sheep he sent each Michelmas as tribute to the holy sisters, her sire had packed her off to this dismal nunnery.
She wept for the loss of her fine garments and cursed the chafing from this robe of meanest unbleached woolen. Roughly-made rope sandals had rubbed blisters on feet accustomed to slippers of softest silk. While Joan languished on a rough-hewn stone shelf in this windowless cell with naught but a scratchy blanket to ward off the cold, she fantasized about her old bed and its down-filled mattress heaped with furs. Her stained-glass window with its jewel tones of red, purple, and blue. The fine tapestries that had brightened the solar's massive stone walls.
She dreamed of a handsome, powerful dark knight who’d come and spirit her away to his castle in the clouds where he’d worship her body and teach her all the carnal pleasures denied her in this dismal place. Of lying with him and exploring his massive chest, his hard-muscled belly and rock hard thighs…his swollen cock and the sac beneath it that held his seed.
Her mouth watered and her cunt dripped hot juices down her thigh at the thought of her fantasy lover fucking her there, feeding his mighty cock to her mouth and even her puckered rear passage, as she’d seen her sire and his knights do to the serving girls in dark corners of the castle. She was made to love a man, not some deity she could neither see nor touch nor taste.
A real man, not a fantasy dreamed up in her mind.
Christ's blood. They’d not make her promise poverty, chastity, or obedience. She would never kneel before the altar and meekly let them hack away her hair ‘til naught was left but bloody stubble. Joan would not live out her life in this prison of piety, prayer and contemplation.
For Joan believed in prayer no more. Spending hours on her knees had done naught to deter her lord father from consigning her to this house of pious horrors.
She snatched off her veil and unwrapped the wimple to let her hip-length raven tresses flow free. They’d not cut off her crowning glory. Not while she breathed.
Defiant, she stood and lifted off the robe that was her only garment. The chilly air made her shiver and caused skin abraded by the rough wool to sting.
As she had seen her sire’s men do to the serf girls at Summerfield, she pinched her nipples until they tingled and hardened. Longing began deep in her belly and settled between her thighs. She moved her hand to her hot, wet channel and with one finger she found the tiny kernel where those tantalizing sensations were strongest. Light strokes of her finger on the sensitive flesh hardened it and heated her blood, caused a throbbing in her cunt—the empty sheath she’d been given to accommodate a man.
‘Twas made to fit a cock, hard, thick, and pulsing, like those she’d seen when she bathed her sire’s highborn guests. Since the convent boasted no man save the elderly priest, Joan pictured the knight of her fantasies and pleasured herself as she planned her escape.
The pressure built in her cunt, sending waves of tingling sensation to her quivering thighs, her breasts, even to her fingers and toes when it finally burst. Her climax spread through her body, bringing blessed release and hardening Joan’s resolve.
Somehow, some way, she would escape this pious hell. Death would be preferable to an existence devoid of all earthly pleasures.