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As before, once she began to look, she found herself unable to turn away . . . to block out the sounds and images. The long, shiny lengths pumping the woman from either side . . . her cheeks hollow and her eyes wide as one man held her face steady, lifting her chin to make her throat a long, easy curve, her breasts hanging free, jolting with every movement . . . and at the rear, the slip and slide of another red cock, in and out in a smooth, sticky rhythm, faster and faster . . .

Marian swallowed, her breath rising faster as the pounding became harder and the two men lost their synchronized rhythm, slamming into the woman haphazardly so that she could barely keep her balance, breasts bouncing and swaying. Marian felt it as if it were inside her, the rise, the tension, the urgency. . . . The hot tingling in her stomach swirled lower, almost painful in its intensity, tightening at the center of her quim.

She didn’t realize she’d given a soft gasp until she felt John’s mouth near her ear.

“Ahh, so you do like that,” he said. “Drink, my lady.” He lifted a cup to her mouth.

Drink if he offers, Will had said. She opened her mouth and gulped the heavy, sweet wine and felt it flush warmly through her.

She drank more, and John’s tongue thrust through the curtain of her hair, into the depth of her ear in a parody of the activity before them. She shuddered at the invasion, even as her body began to warm, loosen. He leaned closer, and his hand slid up over her belly, her skin trembling and lurching from his touch as she tried to pull her eyes away from the scene ahead, knowing vaguely that she wanted to get away from him.

But he was the prince . . . and even though her mind was dull and murky, she knew she could not offend him.

Will, protect me.

“Nay, don’t close your eyes,” he said. “Watch as they come, watch them spew their seed and see how she takes it . . . how . . . oh.” He stopped with his own sudden low groan as the pale man whipped his cock from the woman’s mouth, and gave it two hard jerks, spurting his seed over the woman’s head.

The man behind lunged forward hard, and the woman bent her arms, resting her head on the floor as he pummeled her from behind. Her bottom rose higher now than her shoulders, her sighs and grunts filling the air with erotic sounds. Marian saw the glistening red of her quim as the cock slid in and out . . . and knew that her own was as swollen and wet, that her breathing was caught up in the same rising rhythm.

John had turned, straddling the edge of the chair, pressing against her. His fingers filtered through her hair, his breath rasping hard, low, and harsh in her ear. She could not mistake the bulge of his cock against her hip.

“More,” he ordered, lifting the goblet to her mouth again . . . and she gulped down more, the sweet wine sinking more easily into her this time.

After she swallowed half the libation, he found her hand, drawing it from where she’d clasped it against her belly, and forced it down over him . . . into the depth of his braies, where it was hot and damp and a pulsing erection raged like a smithy’s iron.

“There,” he sighed, a half command, half groan. He forced her fingers around its width, closing his hand tightly over hers, pushing his body up closer. “Now . . . mmph . . .” His command lurched to a halt as the weasel-faced man arched his back with a last violent thrust, calling out the pleasure of his orgasm with a loud moan.

Marian could not look away. The man appeared to be in agony, his face stretched and dark and pained . . . but something primal gouged her; watching him find his pleasure made something tug deep inside, leaving her skittish and out of breath . . . her heart slamming as if it had been she on the floor . . . she accepting the slick length of a cock.

John’s fingers closed tighter, and he showed her the stroke, the rhythm, and then he murmured, “And what of her?” He directed her attention to another side of the room. Though his breathing was heavy and raspy, the cadence of his voice remained smooth. “Should I bind you like so?” He lifted the wine to her lips again.

She turned to see what John was looking at and then didn’t know which was worse . . . the feel of his hot, hard erection, its skin sliding beneath her fingers . . . or the sight of the dark-haired woman splayed against the wall. Head tipped back, nude, her hands held high so that they raised her breasts, and her feet spread wide and bound in place. Another woman with short dark hair stood nearby with a whip that had clearly already left marks on her companion’s belly.

Marian swallowed, tried to catch her breath. . . . She felt the chamber walls pushing closer, warmer, redder on her until there was naught to see but the woman against the wall.

The pale man moved to take the whip, pausing to fondle the breast of the woman he’d taken it from.

“Mavis, go to her,” he ordered, and the short-haired woman moved to the wall.