The Price of Freedom (Page 9)

His chest was like nothing she’d ever seen before. He was banded with strong, lean muscle, the result of his manual labor in the mine, she supposed. Lying against it was a crude necklace, a string holding a shiny round pendant. Lifting it in one hand, she looked at it curiously for a moment, then let it drop. His necklace was none of her business, she reminded herself firmly. His stomach was rippled, and a line of dark hair trailed from beneath his pants up and across his chest. His upper chest was covered in the dark, curly hair, another thing that was new to her. Her husband had been old—she had never even seen him without a shirt, she realized. This man was young, and his body was strong… The sight of him was compelling. She felt her cheeks growing warm.

Unable to control her curiosity, she dropped one finger to his stomach, trailing it along the line of hair.

His skin was soft, but the hairs were stiff and wiry. The sensation was intriguing; she flattened her palm just above his skin, allowing the tiny hairs to tickle her hand as she moved it. A shiver went through her, and for some reason she felt tense. She snatched her hand back from his body, stood up quickly and picked up the bucket. It was time to clean him.

Moving as efficiently as possible, she wiped down his upper body. It was hard not to touch him with her bare skin, but she managed to keep the rag between them the entire time. His arms were thick with ropy muscles, his stomach tight and hard. Just looking at him made her feel dizzy. All too soon, his upper body was clean. Time to deal with the rest of him.

She looked speculatively at his lower body, still clothed in filthy trousers. She was going to have to cut those off, too. Stifling a sigh, she started cutting carefully along the right seam. As she moved down the length of his leg with her scissors, his flesh was revealed. Like his arms, his legs were thick with muscles, and small dark hairs bristled against the backs of her fingers whenever she touched him by accident.

She finished the seam, then moved around to the other side of his body. Once again she attacked the rough threads of his garment, determined to preserve the fabric. She would wash it and stitch it back together for him.

When both sides were cut, she gathered a deep breath and started to pull the fabric off his limp body.

Fortunately, she was able to get the pants off without moving him too much, although she did have to reach one arm under his back to lift his lower body slightly. She kept her eyes averted from his genitals, embarrassed by how much she wanted to look at him. The air was chilly, and before her eyes small bumps rose on his leg. He was cold, she realized. She needed to get him covered.

She looked around the storeroom and found a blanket, folded neatly beside the pallet Bragan had made up for himself. She brought it back out to her patient, and draped it across his upper body and groin. In doing so, she couldn’t help but notice the smooth length of his soft penis. Even at rest, it was much larger than her husband’s had been. What would it look like fully aroused, she wondered? A shiver passed through her at the thought. Blushing, she forced herself to look away. Then she attacked his lower legs with her water-soaked rag.

His feet were huge. That was her first thought—so much bigger than her own. Her husband’s had been smaller than this, too. This slave was tall, she remembered, from when she’d seen him the barracks.

Much taller than any of the Pilgrim men. Around each ankle were vicious scars. The manacles used to restrain him must have caused them, she realized. She trailed one finger along the ridge of twisted skin, a mixture of old, white scars over-laid with newer red ones. He had suffered a long time. She shuddered, thinking of the pain those scars represented. Don’t think about it , she reminded herself. There’s nothing you can do about that. It’s just the way things are.

Both feet clean, she started working her way up. His calves were lean and tight. The tiny hairs bristled at her touch as she washed him. The further she moved up his body, the more mesmerizing she found her task. His skin was smooth, but still much rougher than hers. She shivered, wondering what was wrong with her. It was hardly cold. She felt hot and restless. If anything, she wanted to loosen her collar and get some fresh air.

By the time she reached his knees she had grown short of breath. There was something about the feel of his skin that made her feel almost lightheaded. Each muscle in his leg was sharply defined; not an ounce of extra skin to be found anywhere.

All too quickly she reached the point where she had to move the blanket aside, exposing his groin. She tried not to look at his penis, moving briskly and efficiently. But her eye kept catching on it, and she just had to find something out…was it as soft and smooth as it looked? Glancing behind her quickly to make sure no one had magically appeared to watch her, she touched the length of it. The skin was incredibly soft. Much softer than she would have dreamt possible on a man as hard as this one. It was longer than her hand, and she allowed her fingers to drift down the length toward the smooth head. Tracing the flared tip, she realized that it was changing slightly. He was hardening under her touch, and she jerked her fingers back in horror. But when she looked at his face, she realized he was still completely unconscious.

Of course, touching him was wrong, but when would she ever have another chance like this one? For all she knew he would never wake up again. And if he didn’t, she would be dead in two weeks. Startled by her own daring, Bethany reached toward his penis again, lifting it gently with her fingers. She stroked it up and down several times, and was rewarded by the sight of it growing longer and harder under her ministrations. To her fascination, the head turned dark red, and then a small bead of moisture welled from the tip.

She was feeling fluttery, her breath coming quickly. Under the harsh fabric of her tunic, she could feel her ni**les peaking. They were so sensitive that they almost hurt as she leaned further across the man to examine his face. The fabric of her dress was intolerably rough. She shook her head, trying to regain control of herself. But instead she leaned in closer to his face, studying it. It remained completely blank, but his lips looked so soft and inviting she couldn’t prevent herself from wanting to touch them again.

Without pausing to consider her actions, she lowered her lips to his, kissing them gently. She brushed against them once, twice, then sat up and pulled the blanket over his body. Flushing deeply, she took a few deep breaths and sat back on her heels.

She knew what she had done was wrong. She sat there, examining her feelings for a few minutes, and realized that she didn’t regret her actions one bit. In fact, just thinking about touching him excited her in a way that was totally different from anything she’d ever felt with her aging husband. This man was young, and strong. He was sick, but he was still more interesting than any of the Pilgrim men she’d ever met.