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"...Since a man is by any mortal sin brought into the devil's service, in so far as the devil provides the outer suggestion of sin either to the senses or to the imagination, to that extent he is said to inhabit the character of a man when he is moved by every stirring temptation, like a ship in the sea without a rudder." - Malleus Maleficarum
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The day was almost over. The woman could tell this from the neat, square patch of light on the cell floor, projecting from the tiny barred window. It had gradually changed from bright yellow-white during the day, illuminating the dust particles as they floated aimlessly around, to a deepening orange.
Thankfully, Quinn had not stayed in the jailhouse watching her all day. He had gone out shortly after Garreth, presumably ingratiating himself with the good people of the village and monitoring any unusual activity thereabouts. The hours had passed uneventfully, her cell minded by different guards on a rotating shift. She had been relieved to find that slices of coarse-milled bread and a cup of drinking water were brought to her, as was a basin of water for washing. The guard's back turned, she had stripped off her dress and underthings to bathe, grateful for the chance to remove any traces of the previous evening. Physical traces, at least. In herself, she felt pleasingly altered. The glow she had felt up to her fingertips last night remained, in some way. Everything felt heightened, imbued with a hint of power, of possibility.
At sundown, the witchhunter returned.
"Damned councillors. No respect for my time..." Quinn strode into the room like a storm. He tossed a few coins toward the attendant guard next to the bars. "For your trouble."
"Thank you, sir," he stammered, the metal jangling in his fist as he fumbled for the coins, before going on his way.
The woman got to her feet instinctively, warm excitement rising in her. Having been largely unoccupied, she had naturally spent a significant amount of the day imagining what kind of additional 'questioning' would take place tonight, and she was ready for it to begin.
Quinn unfastened his cloak from his shoulders, his broad back turned. Making her wait for his attention. "Aren't you going to thank me?" came his smooth voice as he folded the cloak. "For allowing you to see the light of another day?"
The woman smiled. So, he wanted her to sing for her supper. She remained silent, not intending to start the evening on bended knee.
He turned, then, regarding her with intent. "Your defiance has returned, I see." He reached between the bars, traced the woman's jawline possessively. "No matter. I'll have you doing what I say before the night is out," he growled, his voice activating an immediate physical response.
Quinn went to his desk and sat down, leaning back in his chair and pushing the heels of his palms into his eyes with a sigh. A minute of rest after a long, hard day. How she could relieve his tension beautifully, the woman thought, the delicious possibilities of this fantasy already warming her from the inside. Slowly rubbing oil over his torso as he sat there in only his breeches. Massaging his muscular shoulders, his upper back, his chest, as he groaned with relief at her pressured touch. At some point during her visions, however, Quinn's arms had dropped, his eyes had closed and his breathing had settled into the slow rhythm of someone who was, undeniably... asleep.
The woman stared in disbelief. Well, the night was young, she supposed, lowering herself to the floor again. She would just have to sit and wait for him to wake up and carry out his promise.
It was then that she noticed the ring of keys on the floor, right in front of the bars.
Her heart leapt. The guard must have dropped it when he was trying to gather the coins. She stared at the keys, her mind racing. She could get out. She could leave the jail, be free. After a day's delay already, her trial would surely have to take place tomorrow, no matter what. That would be the sensible thing to do. The woman glanced at Quinn, reclined in his chair next to a pile of rope lying in a corner. Without his watchful eyes on her for once, she was able to look at him properly, indulgently. His huge thighs were parted, drawing her eye to the sizeable bulge at his crotch. She imagined putting her face there, feeling every contour of him as he stiffened against her. It made her wet. His arms were lying on the chair's armrests, strong hands draped over the ends. His face, so hard and domineering while awake, was peaceful. Almost... submissive.
As soon as that thought struck, the woman knew that she would not be leaving this jailhouse tonight. The suggestion that had just crept wickedly into her mind had brought on an untameable desire, and she now knew nothing except how badly she wanted to carry it out. Lowering flat onto her front, she reached a trembling hand through the bars, inching the keys - slowly, soundlessly - towards her. A couple of times, Quinn turned his head or made a noise and she froze, trying to keep her breathing even. But he did not stir, and she concentrated on her task again until, mercifully, the cold metal was in her grasp. Plying the lock gently through the bars, she turned it slowly and eased open the door bit by bit, careful not to make it squeal. Then, slipping through the narrow aperture, she was out.
Adrenaline pounded through her. The woman knew she had to act quickly - if Quinn woke up now, she would be dead where she stood. She crept quickly past the slumbering man, grabbing short lengths of rope from the bundle beside him. Danger had heightened her senses; every tiny sound was ringing through her body. Holding her breath, she snaked the rope around one of his wrists with a feather-light touch, and gently but tightly secured it to the arm of the chair. She did the same on the other side, and then stepped back to admire her handiwork. Lord Adam Quinn, tied to a chair.
It wasn't long before Quinn's head nodded forwards and he started to stir. He opened his eyes, blinked dazedly for a few pregnant seconds, before locking - thunderstruck - onto his wrists. The rope around them. The woman, un-jailed, standing over him. He roared in fury.
"WHAT in the-?! You-! How...?" he raged, twisting and chafing against his restraints. With effortful noises, he started grinding his hips against the sides of the chair, trying to somehow lever his sword out from his belt and towards his bound hand. But he could not. The rope rubbed at his wrists and his breath hitched as he gradually slowed to a stop, panting hard. The woman watched him with folded arms, until he looked up at her. His eyes were wild, his face flushed and shining, and best of all, she could see the outline of his growing cock straining against his taut breeches. It was the most arousing sight of her life.
"It seems you like this... Quinn," she whispered, holding his stare. That was her first liberty; she had never addressed him so disrespectfully before.
"This is an outrage," he growled, teeth gritted. "An aberration!"
She began to circle the chair, running a trembling finger over his chest, his shoulders. Her second liberty. "You act so tough, so commanding..." she continued, softly, lips brushing his left ear, the rough hairs of his beard. Quinn raised his eyes to the heavens, perhaps hoping for divine intervention. She took her third liberty.
"...but underneath all that, I think what you really want is for a woman to take you apart."
His head tipped back, his eyes closed. The groan that escaped him went straight to the woman's core. A powerful satisfaction thrilled through her, not just from the boldness of her words, but because she knew - and he knew - she was right. Wherever Adam Quinn went, surveying, questioning, expounding on the scourge of witches, she had seen the hate and desire pouring off him in waves. Now, each helpless movement and sound from Quinn only emboldened her further.
"Would you say that's true?" she suggested, slinking slowly around the other side of him. She caught his natural scent - musky, animal.
He seethed, looking away. "I will not be-"
"Answer me."
The colour rose higher in his cheeks as he fought himself inwardly, a vein standing out in his neck. He was silent, gripping the armrests hard.
"No matter," she said, dropping her pitch to a sultry murmur. "I'll have you doing what I say before the night is out." Hearing his own words used against him, Quinn couldn't hold back another deep moan. He shifted against his bonds.
"You want me to talk, don't you? That's what I'm here for," she said, pulse pounding, as she came around to face him again. "Then talk I shall. Do you want me to tell you exactly what I want to do to you? And I expect an answer this time."
A pause, desire working over his face. "Yes..." he rasped, quietly. A piece of grey hair had come down over his forehead.
"Good." Stepping between his thighs, she looked down on her captive with unbridled lust. To be able to voice such sinful thoughts directly to their source - it was intoxicating. "I want to run my hands slowly all over your body, touching every inch of you... except for where you most want it. I want to twist my fingers into your hair and pull it as I kiss up and down your neck, until you're so untidy you look like you've already been ravaged. Then, when I finally allow you to have your cock touched, I want to tease you - agonizingly slowly - with my mouth, my tongue, until you're almost, almost there. I want to bring you to the edge again and again, so close to the brink that you're aching, begging, desperate to come. And that will depend on how good you are for me."
Quinn was staring at her, ravenously. "You're a whore," he whispered, his voice choked.
"What does that make you?"
His erection was huge now, throbbing against the tight fabric. True to her word, she ignored it, unbuttoning his doublet and pushing his undershirt up. The ropes prevented her from disrobing him completely, but somehow the half-dressed appearance - chest exposed and jacket pushed down to his elbows - was hotter.
As her hands made contact with his waist, Quinn moaned softly, her touch on his bare skin after so much build-up unbearably pleasurable.
"You like that?" she murmured.
Another small sound in reply. He was hers to do with as she wished. The woman's hands roamed all over his body, the wetness between her legs deepening. His arm muscles flexed as he tensed against his bindings, wrists reddening as they chafed on the rope. She held his thigh down with her knee, so he could not buck up against her, and, with one hand pushing him down by his chest, she tangled the other into Quinn's silver-grey hair. She tugged on it and his head fell back, presenting his neck to her. As she kissed it and sucked it, he began to whimper.
He was such a sight now. His once-styled hair was in total disarray, his face and chest shining with sweat, and his neck peppered with faint red marks. She drew back and surveyed him. A mess, but a compelling, passionate one, like a painting of a martyred saint. Quinn looked up at her with a desperate expression. "Touch me..." he whispered, hoarsely.
"Manners, Lord Quinn. You are a nobleman, are you not?" She knew she was being wicked, but given that she was in jail for witchcraft, she felt she had some grounds to be.
He smarted at the indignity, screwed up his eyes. "Touch me... Please."
The woman unbuckled his belt and pulled his breeches down over his hips and to his ankles. Kneeling between his thighs, she took hold of his cock - swollen and leaking already - and licked one long, slow stripe along his length. He emitted a deep, low groan, so unbearably sexy that the woman had to fight back a noise herself.
She composed herself instead by focusing her efforts on Quinn's undoing. Her tongue darted over the head in little flicks, and she observed which places elicited stronger whines or little jerks of his hips. Or, she would take him just a little way into her mouth, varying the pressure. She would give him a few seconds there, then withdraw, watching him throb and moan untouched for as long as she wanted. She carried on in this vein for some time, and as his pleasure began to build, his whimpers became desperate.
"Please..."
Glazing her lips with wetness, then, she gradually allowed him fully into her mouth. His oversensitive cock was hot and thick, and as she began to suck him properly, Quinn's thighs reflexively squeezed together around her head. Despite her own instinct, she let him go immediately, his shaft bobbing up towards his stomach.
"Oh, no. Patience is a virtue, Lord Quinn. Doesn't the scripture tell us that?" she reminded.
He stared at her, lips parted.
"If you want more, then you'll have to wait until you can control yourself again," she told him, standing up and even taking a couple of steps back.
This appeared to be the last straw for Quinn. With an exclamation of rage, he started thrashing against his bindings in protest, jerking his wrists upwards repeatedly to try and loosen the knots that held him. Imperceptibly, they were inching further and further down, until suddenly - to both the woman's and his own surprise - his hands were free.
Quinn leapt to his feet, tearing the rumpled jacket and shirt off his body. Panting, he roughly took hold of the woman's waist with both hands.
"How dare you try and exert authority over me..." he breathed, his sweaty forehead pressed against hers. He shoved her against his desk, her arse jutting into the heavy oak. "Bend backward."
Joyously, she hoisted herself onto the table as he pushed her down by the shoulders. Her back had barely touched down onto the messy pile of papers, before he hooked her legs over his shoulders and penetrated her, the hem of her dress falling back over her hips. She gasped with pleasure as she parted around him. The edging had been his, of course, but the events of the last hour had stoked a growing fire within her too, and she needed him almost as much as he needed her.
And he certainly needed her. After just a few urgent, animalistic fucks, Adam Quinn cried out loudly. His eyebrows raised, mouth in an 'O' of ecstasy, he spilled his seed inside her again and again and again. The woman clung to the sides of the desk as he rippled through her, trying to commit the sounds and the picture to memory.
It felt like an age before he gently eased out, bracing himself against the desk as the effects of his experience subsided. He picked up his clothes from the floor and re-dressed, gingerly. As the woman got off the desk - his come actually leaking out of her a little as she sat up - Quinn took her by the shoulder, marching her back into the cell. Before he locked her in again, though, he made sure to tie the rope in his hand around her wrists.
"So you can't touch yourself when I'm not here," he stated, pulling the rope tight. He reached for his cloak, put it around him.
"My Lord?"
They both jumped. Garreth had entered the room.
"Garreth. I was just leaving." Quinn cleared his throat.
"Very good, sir. I'll take the last shift. Had a bit of trouble with her, did you?" Garreth asked, nodding towards the woman's bound hands.
"What? Oh - yes. She got a little... rowdy during questioning."
"You've got to show these witches who's in charge," Garreth mused, shaking his head.
The woman bit back a laugh.
"I quite agree..." Quinn's voice was strangled, and with unusual haste, he departed the jail into the night.