Arabella :Part 2: In Her Master's Courtyard
by K.A. Halle
© K.A. Halle and ABCD Webmasters, 2009
Chapter One
After the mating ritual, the lords and ladies drifted off in search of more decadent pursuits. The
tents on the greensward, the race track, the booths, and taverns in the village, all offered erotic delights,
even to the most jaded among them.
This was a day for nobleman to mingle with peasant. Festival was the time when the lowliest of
peasant was allowed to participate in sensual activity heretofore reserved for the nobility alone. And the
festivities abounded, the lustful merry-making infecting everyone. Brightly colored ribbons and streamers
fluttered and flapped in the breeze. Music played merrily from every corner. Traders loudly hawked their
wares. Naked stallions and mares, trimmed out for the occasion, wandered about, mingling with the
crowds who paraded in their colorful silks and satins, rich brocades and velvets, and the duller homespun
woolens. Cries of excitement, drunken laughter and ribaldry punctuated the festive atmosphere as erotic
amusements met the eye at every turn.
The stallion races were in progress when the Lady Xaviera, along with her companions, joined
the crowds lining the track. Plush seats were provided for those of the nobility who wished to view the
races in ease and comfort. Xaviera settled herself onto a high-backed chair beneath a shaded canopy,
gazing out over the track. Of all the festivities that took place this day of days, the stallion races were her
favorite. Lord Thayer had left her soon after the mating ritual in pursuit of his own entertainment, which
had caused her to raise one delicate eyebrow in mild surprise as he had never left her at festival without a
trusted male chaperone to guard her. But Xaviera had been too eager to get to the track to give it much
thought.
Now, she leaned forward in her seat, one be-ringed hand resting upon the rail, anticipating with
suppressed excitement, her first glimpse of the stallions. Behind, and all around her, the crush of the
bystanders craned their necks, as the stallions were paraded out onto the track. A roar of appreciation
ensued at the sight of them. They were all virile male specimens, sporting erect cocks, which danced
unashamedly between their legs.
Before each event commenced on the race track, the stallions were paraded in front of the
spectators, where hands reached out to fondle them, the length of their penises compared and measured, a
healthy set of balls weighed in the palm of a hand. The stallions, prodded along by their trainers, were not
allowed to enjoy the attentions to their genitalia, though all were aroused to an unbearable level of
excitement in preparations for the upcoming "race". To ejaculate meant disgrace on the field, followed by
punishment. And woe betide the unfortunate one who let himself cum in the hands of a pert maid or
grinning gentleman! The punishment was swift and harsh, the offending stallion dragged off to the grassy
area in the center of the track, where other disciplines were already taking place for such infractions. His
arms were lashed to a crossbeam atop a thick wooden stake set firmly into the ground, the height of the
crossbeam forcing the stallion to stand on tip-toe, helpless to whatever chastisement was meted out to
him.
His trainer would flog the stallion's genitals with a soft leather whip for the entertainment of the
crowd, as the stallion, his face flushed with shame and contorted in pain, howled. If his cock did not
become hard and erect within a decent amount of time after the flogging, he was worked with a cunning
hand until his penis rose to attention, the bulbous head, red and swollen, the stallion's hips pumping
frantically, his buttocks slamming against the upright stake. And then the whip was applied once more.
In the meantime, on the track, after being fondled and inspected, and afraid of being the next
victim upon the stake, the stallions were led away as the betting and wagering commenced among those
in the crowd.
Excitedly, Xaviera pulled open the drawstrings of her purse. Her eye had fallen on a tall,
handsome stallion, his dark hair hanging loosely about his shoulders, his sleek, muscled thighs sprouting a
well-hung cock.
"That would be Maximillian." The Lady Catherine Warrenne seated herself next to Xaviera,
leaning close upon the arm of her chair so that she could be heard above the noise of the crowd. "Isn't he
magnificent?"
"Yes." Xaviera's bosom swelled above the low décolletage of her gown, as she kept her attention
riveted on the stallion being maneuvered into position by his trainer.
Amused laughter filtered from the creamy throat of Lady Catherine as she observed Xaviera's
unconcealed interest. Never, for as long as she had been acquainted with the young mistress of Belsoie,
had she known her to show any sexual desire for any male, stallion or no, other than her husband.
Catherine had gleaned from the rare occasions she'd spent in bed with Lord Thayer herself, that he was
highly protective, mayhap, over-protective of his lady. Xaviera, she observed now, appeared to be bursting
at the seams with sexuality, a latent sensuality and arousal running rampant within her lush body.
"You can purchase him, you know." Catherine gave the younger woman a conspiratorial smile.
"After the race. He'll be brought to you in one of those little tents over there." She nodded regally toward
a series of white tents, their sides billowing in the breeze.
Glancing in that direction, Xaviera saw a stallion approach the entrance to one of the tents, his
high-stepping trot flawless, even as his trainer whipped his quivering buttocks through the tent flap.
"You can have Maximillian as your love-slave for the rest of the afternoon." Lady Catherine
suggested with mild encouragement. "Unless, of course, the mares are more to your liking?"
Xaviera nodded absently, her eyes returning to seek out the stallion she'd placed her wager on.
She did not wish to engage in such discussion with Lady Catherine. She was well aware that the noble
women among her acquaintance took advantage of festival time to purchase a handsome, two-legged
steed to play with, to mount with abandon; mayhap, the only time they were permitted to do so by their
husbands. But Lord Thayer had a reputation to uphold. It was beneath her dignity to be mounted by
anyone other than her husband, though this Maximillian was certainly tempting. The stallion was quite
well-endowed and a shiver coursed through her delicate body as she imagined the stallion atop her.
"Mayhap, another time." Xaviera answered the woman, feigning vague interest. "I've really only
come to enjoy the races."
"Pity." Lady Catherine murmured, tongue-in-cheek. "I've wanted Sajan for some months now,
but that scoundrel, Radegund, refuses to sell him to me. Or even to loan me his services for a single night!
And now that the mating ritual is over, his time with us here is nearly finished."
"Will the king reinstate him to the palace, do you think?" Xaviera asked, mildly curious, as she
watched the stallions, Maximillian in particular, being placed in position at the starting line.
The other woman shrugged indifferently beside her. "Madoc is known for his temper and the
grudges he holds against those who displease him. Sajan was a naughty boy and slept with his own
stepmother. He'll not be easily forgiven." Lady Catherine paused, observing the activity out on the race
track, then said, "I was the king's mistress when Sajan was but a lad. Even then, he was randy and
rebellious by nature. Much the same way King Madoc was at that age, I suppose. But Sajan does own a
man's heart." She spoke as if to herself. "He looks for a princess to wed one day. Has he found her, I
wonder?" She thought of the little mare, Arabella, who even now lay alone in her tent, while Sajan, she
had it on good authority, was indulging himself at Lord Radegund's expense, in one of the tents on the
edge of the greensward.
But Xaviera was not interested in Lady Catherine's musings. A second line of stallions was
already being placed several yards behind the first.
"The race is about to start!" She informed Lady Catherine with suppressed excitement.
The trainers, in their leather jerkins, breeches, and wide leather belts, roved up and down the
lines of nude stallions, using their whips at their leisure, barking orders, as several stable hands hurried to
oil the muscular bodies, giving a lazy penis a slap to bring it to attention, or working a stallion's cock with
a calloused hand to keep him frisky.
At last, the trainers and their retinue left the lines, the stallions, grunting and horny, anxious to
begin the race.
An expectant silence settled over the crowd. The flag was dropped and they were off, as the first
line of stallions leaped across the starting line, to the crack of the trainers' whips and the raucous cheers of
the enthusiastic crowd.
Maximillian, arms and legs pumping, muscles stretched taut beneath his well-oiled physique,
cock wagging to and fro, pulled out ahead of the others. The resultant cheer clearly determined him as the
winning favorite.
A second flag was lowered and the second line of stallions raced over the starting line, eager to
catch up to their opponents. Amid the cries of encouragement from the spectators, this second line of
males came abreast of their counterparts, grabbing the males within easy reach, wrestling them to the
ground, as others of their team raced by to capture the stallions ahead of them.
Stallions began to fall to the hard-packed dirt track, their oiled and sweating bodies causing them
to slip and slide over each other in their haste, rolling and tumbling as each tried to gain the upper hand.
But when a stallion began to tire, or accidentally lost his grip, his rival was quick to take advantage,
flipping him over onto all fours, hastily slipping his cock into the taut bum, before the weaker stallion
could think to buck him off.
Maximillian, Xaviera observed from the edge of her seat, had nearly made it to the finish line,
when a muscular brute, with shaggy, unkempt hair, broke away from his team mates and made after him,
tackling him from behind. Maximillian landed on his face, spitting dirt from his mouth. The big brute of a
stallion who lay atop him, nipped at his shoulder with hard teeth, seeking to spread his buttocks with both
hands, jabbing his cock at Maximillian's rear. With a grunt, Maximillian threw him off, quickly sitting
astride him, pinning his arms to the ground.
"That would be Bruno on the flat of his back." Lady Catherine informed Xaviera as both women
watched in breathless anticipation, fascinated by the erotic wrestling match in the center of the race track.
"Bruno was sent to us from the Wartheland, for especially difficult training and severe discipline. He
resides in Lord Garrette's stables."
This particular race was all but over for the other stallions who had nailed their opponents and
were now being led off the track by their trainers. But the entertainment continued as the two musclebound
stallions grappled and rolled with each other in the dirt, grunting with exertion. Bruno had
managed unseat Maximillian, who landed hard on his rump, legs spread-eagled, his penis jutting upwards
from his thighs. Bruno was abruptly upon him, but Maximillian wrapped his strong legs about Bruno's
waist, their cocks slapping at each other in their fury as they fought.
Among the bystanders, purse strings were hastily drawn open and wagers went up as the betting
commenced in earnest.
Bruno grabbed a handful of Maximillian's long hair in his thick fingers, tugging painfully until
both fell onto their side on the hard-packed earth. In a daring maneuver, which made the spectators catch
their breath almost collectively, Bruno grasped Maximillian's cock and began to work him in his meaty
fist, crushing his lips to the stallion's mouth, forcing his tongue inside. The crowd groaned their
disappointment. If Maximillian, the favored winner, ejaculated his seed, the race was over, and Bruno
would be declared champion.
It seemed the end was a foregone conclusion. Bruno thought so, as well, as Maximillian
shuddered, letting himself go lax in the brute's arms. Emitting a low, guttural laugh, confident victory was
his, Bruno relaxed his hold and in that one moment of weakness, to everyone's delight and amazement,
Maximillian used the strength of his legs to flip the burly stallion onto his knees. Dazed, Bruno shook his
head like a great shaggy dog, wondering what had happened. But Maximillian lost no time. He mounted
Bruno from behind, swiftly sinking his shaft into the tight anus.
The crowd roared their approval. Maximillian raised his fists high in the air, acknowledging his
victory. . . . . .
* * * * * * * * * *
Jaunting past the race track on his way into the village, Henri felt the vibration under his feet
from the tremendous roar of the crowd. The races were always popular at festival, along with the betting
it engendered. But Henri would rather wager his hard-earned coin on a sure thing; a couple of pints of ale
at a local pub and a lovely young mare or two purchased at one of the tents on the greensward.
After plying her with wine laced with a sleeping draught, Henri had left Arabella asleep in the
private tent Lord Thayer had thoughtfully provided for her near the edge of the greensward. Henri had
posted two guards outside her tent so that Arabella would be left alone while he was gone to enjoy the
festivities. Cynan and Owyn he had dismissed soon after the mating ritual, so that they might join their
companions in the village common, and thus, leave Arabella in peace.
Henri had a purse full of coins dangling heavily at his side, and he was anxious to spend it. He
pushed his way through the crowded village streets, finding himself before the Cock's Walk Tavern, the
painted wooden sign swinging above him depicting a strutting rooster and its distended, oversized penis.
He entered the crowded pub, maneuvering his way through to a table in a far corner, flinging himself into
the chair before someone else thought to claim it.
"What would you be wantin', laddie?" A flushed, overworked barmaid stood before him, her
ample breasts threatening to spill out of the bodice of her gown, her hair awry beneath the mop cap she
wore.
"Ale." Henri flipped a coin onto the table. She snatched it up, testing it between her teeth, then
turned, shouting above the din, "Eryn! A pint for the gentleman! And be quick about it!"
A slender young nymph appeared, bearing a tankard full to overflowing in one hand, a heavy
pitcher of ale in the other. She set the tankard atop the table at Henri's elbow. Henri's eyes lit up as she
bent close to him. She was a lovely, lithesome thing, her little, upturned breasts quivering with every
breath. He glanced down at the apex of her thighs. No bell, he observed, which meant she had not come
from the stables of Belsoie. Instead, a tattoo of a tiny, petaled flower was stamped demurely just above the
opening of her venus mont, indicating she had been sold on the auction block in the not too distant past.
She gave him a fetching grin as she straightened from the table, holding the heavy clay pitcher in
both hands before her. Henri returned her smile as he sipped from the rim of the tankard, reaching down
to tweak the clitoris peeking out at him from between her nether lips.
The harried barmaid passed quite near her, reaching out to swat the girl on the rump with a
heavy hand, ordering, "Go refill those tankards at the next table and no dallying! There's work to be
done!"
Eryn scurried over to the table where a group of men were banging their tankards, yelling for
more drink. Mollified by Eryn's appearance, they took turns pinching her nipples, fondling her buttocks,
as she leant across the table to refill the tankards. One coarse gentleman, Henri observed, slipped a finger
its full length between those lovely pink nether lips, smiling wickedly at his friends as he tickled her gently.
Eryn struggled not to spill the contents of the pitcher in their laps. Her thighs trembled as the man
continued to torment her, his companions snickering and nudging each other with their elbows as Eryn
remained paralyzed by the finger penetrating her.
Henri's gaze skipped away from the scene as laughter erupted from the opposite end of the long
room. A naked stallion was clowning and cavorting with the customers.
Suddenly, there was a loud crash quite near Henri's table and when he looked again toward the
little mare, he saw the clay pitcher in pieces on the floor in a puddle of brown ale.
Offended at her clumsiness, one of the men, pulled her down over his knees and began to spank
her upturned bottom with his bare hand. Eryn squirmed and cried out, trying to shield her tender
buttocks with her hands, Henri noticed, his eyes gleaming with amusement. She was obviously a new
mare, untrained and quite undisciplined. Someone grabbed her wrists to keep her hands out of the way,
and the sound of the hand smacking her raw flesh was oddly satisfying to Henri as he leaned back in his
chair, one booted foot crossed over his knee, his tankard to his lips.
"Here! What's goin' on? What's all the rucus?" The barmaid stormed up to the table. She saw the
spilt ale, the broken pitcher, and her mouth turned down in a grim, forbidding line. "You'll pay for that,
you little witch! Darwyn!" She called over her shoulder. "Quit playing with the customers and get over
here, you buffoon!"
The youth pranced over to the table, a stupid grin on his face, halting before the angry barmaid.
Henri quickly realized what was about to happen and settled back to enjoy the spectacle. The silly, young
stallion possessed a boyish appearance, with a somewhat effeminate mouth. It was easy to see that
Darwyn preferred the attentions of men and was not happy to be called to duty with the lovely, winsome
Eryn. His penis was already going limp, which displeased the barmaid.
"Bring your cock to attention! Quickly! Before I take my strap to you as well!"
Turning his back on the little mare and facing the group of ogling men at the table, Darwyn
grasped his shaft in his hand and began pumping himself vigorously. Broad grins stretched the peasants'
faces, their upset with the mare instantly forgotten, as they watched the slender helmet of Darwyn's penis
playing hide and seek in his fist.
The young man thrust his hips toward them, hoping one, or all of them, might take an interest in
him. But, alas, the temperamental barmaid grasped him roughly by the shoulders, spinning him around to
face her. She pried his fingers loose from his engorged shaft, appeared satisfied with the result of his
efforts, and impatiently inclined her head toward the mare.
"Put your cock in her! And don't just pretend to do it! I better see it completely sheathed inside
her or there'll be another sound whipping for the customers' entertainment!" She thrust Eryn at the
dismayed Darwyn, but he obeyed his mistress. He collected the slim hips of the mare between his hands,
hastily shoving himself into the pink mound. Eryn gasped and shuddered, straining away from him, but
the woman ordered, "Hold tight to Darwyn, naughty mare! You know how Nigel hates to lose good
money in spilled ale and broken crockery! You should have thought that before deciding to be so clumsy!
Now, you hold tight! Tighter, I said! And keep yourself mounted on Darwyn's cock, or I swear I'll put
you in the stocks out back of the tavern and paint that cute little cunt of yours with honey for the flies to
eat!"
Trembling, Eryn pressed herself against Darwyn's smooth, hairless chest. He was taller than she,
and she was forced to stand on tiptoe to keep his penis deep within her, as Darwyn was not about to
accommodate her by bending his knees to her height.
The barmaid produced a broad strap and began to wallop the mare's pale, quivering derriere.
Even Henri, used to wielding the lash himself at Belsoie, was impressed with the strength in the woman's
arm. With each crack of the leather, her little buttocks turned a becoming shade of red. Henri squirmed in
his seat, feeling his cock rouse in his breeches. He enjoyed viewing a good whipping as much as he
enjoyed wielding one and the little mare's buttocks were quite enticing. Shudder after shudder coursed
down the mare's spine as the spanking continued. Eryn buried her face against the stallion's shoulder to
stifle her moans, although Darwyn's expression remained one of indifference to the girl's plight.
The men at the next table hefted their tankards to their lips and stamped their feet on the floor,
encouraging the woman, her strap singing through the air as Eryn's sobs became louder, turning to panicfilled
cries as the whipping went on and on and the flesh of her buttocks began to burn.
All around them, customers came and went, drunken talk and laughter rose to a crescendo as the
ale continued to flow copiously, the punishment of one little mare of no import to anyone except herself.
Eryn was crying in earnest now. She remained planted on Darwyn's cock, her buttocks trembling with
each blow, the plump, tender flesh an angry red now.
But Henri became alarmed when he observed a thin bead of blood streaking the shivering flesh.
Even at Belsoie, it was forbidden to break the skin with too harsh a whipping. As the barmaid raised her
hand to strike another blow, Henri sprang from his chair, grabbing her wrist in his firm grip.
"Hold, woman! You've drawn blood! A bleeding mare will be of no use to you on the 'morrow!
And customers will not pay for damaged goods!"
The woman started to jerk away from Henri, glaring at him furiously for interrupting, but she
cast a narrowed look upon her handiwork and saw that he was right. A thin, red line of broken skin
appeared on the quivering flesh of the girl's rear, now a flaming red. Eryn continued to sob, though she
remained impaled on the obviously bored Darwyn.
The barmaid twisted her wrist from Henri's fingers. "Alright! Let her go, Darwyn!"
With relief, the stallion released her, sliding his cock from her unceremoniously, as if he'd done
something distasteful.
"And you!" the woman's gaze fell upon the teary-eyed mare, "Clean up this mess and get back to
work!" She turned on her heel, disappearing among the throng of customers.
The grinning peasants turned their attention to the eager stallion, beckoning him over to their
table. Happily, Darwyn plopped himself into the lap of a fat, bearded gentleman, who proceeded to
cuddle and caress him, massaging his scrotum in his large hand.
Tears streaking her lovely face, Eryn bent to pick up the broken pieces of the pitcher, but Henri's
hand stayed her.
"Come to my table, little mare." He smiled down at her sympathetically.
"Oh no, sir! I don't dare! I must clean this up before Alice returns!"
"Never mind that." Henri reassured her. "She'll not be back for a long while. She has too many
customers to attend to. And I have need of you."
Eryn had been taught to obey her superiors and Henri was a customer as well. She could not
refuse him, but she glanced with trepidation at the mess on the floor and her buttocks itched and burned
in response.
"Come." Henri helped her to her feet, escorting her back to his table. With a cursory glance at her
rump, he observed that she was no longer bleeding. The little Eryn would heal quickly and be as good as
new come the morn.
Sitting in his chair, he pulled Eryn toward him, so that she stood between his knees, his hands
resting on her hips, careful not to touch her sore and stinging buttocks just yet.
"Is she always like that?" Henri nodded to where the barmaid had disappeared moments earlier.
"Alice?" Eryn raised a delicate brow at him. "Sometimes. . . . .especially on days like this. But she
doesn't mean anything by it." She was quick to assure him.
"Is she your mistress?" The pads of his thumbs gently kneaded her flesh.
But Eryn shook her head. "No, sir. I belong to Nigel, the tavern owner. He thinks himself too
lenient when it comes to disciplining either Darwyn or me, so he gives Alice a free hand with the whip."
"Are the two of you the only mare and stallion in this place?" Henri frowned as he looked beyond
her for signs of other nude wenches or stallions busy serving or entertaining customers, before bringing
his gaze back to rest on Eryn.
"We're all Nigel could afford off the auction block." Eryn replied.
"And how long has it been since he purchased you?" Henri asked out of curiosity.
"Only two months, sir. He knew festival time was drawing near and Nigel felt he ought to have
extra help here in the tavern."
"And do you like Alice? Is she kind to you the rest of the time?"
Eryn brushed the trail of a tear from her cheek, giving him a watery smile. "Oh, yes! She's not so
bad! I've been with worse. She'll feel guilty on the 'morrow once festival is over and will have me back in
her bed."
"Ah!" Henri grinned. He slid his hands up to cup her breasts, tested their weight in his palms.
He grinned at Eryn's gasp of delight. "I take it the 'fair' Darwyn does nothing to heat your blood?"
"No, sir." Eryn replied somberly. "He'd much rather Nigel impale him, or one of the customers.
He paints himself and dons one of Alice's old dresses late at night, at Nigel's urging."
"I see." Henri murmured. "And you? Would you rather be impaled by one of the customers,
sweet Eryn? Is that a service Nigel offers his customers?"
"Oh yes, sir!" Eryn answered with eagerness. "I'd be happy to oblige you, if you see fit!"
"Have you had any formal training? Any practical discipline?" Henri asked.
"No, sir. I came straight off the auction block to the tavern."
"Come, then. Untie my laces." Henri let go of her hips, leaning back in his chair. "And mind that
you hurry, wench. I want to enjoy what remains of the day's festivities!"
Eryn quickly and efficiently loosened the laces at his waist, his cock springing out, eager and
horny, its little eye staring up at her unabashedly.
Henri patted his knee with his hand, urging her to sit upon his lap. Shyly, she did so, assisting
him inside her, her slender fingers curled around his hard shaft. Henri thrust his hips upward, planting
himself deep inside her slim body. His large, calloused hands spanned her waist as she wriggled in delight
atop him. He grinned, tightening his fingers about her waist to hold her still.
" 'Tis good that you are so eager to please, Eryn," He told her. "but a proper mare considers her
stallion's pleasure first and foremost." He slid his hands around to cup her sore buttocks. Eryn gasped in
shock and pain, straining away from his touch, but Henri held her fast. "Another sign of a good mare is
that she enjoys her pain and accepts it gracefully as her due. You cannot receive proper training and
discipline without it." He assured her. His calloused palms rubbed over the inflamed flesh as Eryn held
her breath, struggling to hold herself still, though the tiny darts of pain radiating from her tender rear
were excruciating. "My name is Henri." He told her. "I am posted at the stables of Belsoie." His fingertips
kneaded the raised welts on her little bottom. "I trained Arabella, the festival mare," he boasted, "and if
you listen to me and heed my words, Eryn, you can make of yourself something more than a mere tavern
keep's chattel. What say you? Are you willing to learn a few simple lessons I have to teach you?" he asked.
"Truly, sir?" Eryn gasped as a small dart of pain stabbed her. She arched her back, lifting her
buttocks slightly, but Henri kept a firm grip on her slim derriere.
"Truly." Henri replied. "Mayhap, one day, you will be under my care at Belsoie itself, if you catch
the eye of Lord Thayer. But he wants only the best for his stables. He takes nothing less than those mares
who show a willingness to excel in their training and discipline. You have a lot to learn and I can only start
you on your way. But the first lesson you must learn, is willingness. If a mare is submissive and willing, she
can do anything her master requires of her."
"Sir, I would that you teach me these things. I do long to be out of the tavern and to serve only
one master, instead of these many." She indicated the male customers around them.
Henri spent the next half hour tutoring the little Eryn in the finer arts of sensuality and obedience
as she sat atop him, her tiny vaginal muscles clenching and unclenching around him. He pinched