I was such a young thing back then—so fresh and not quite ripe. At eighteen, my body was strong and flexible, as it always is in the blossom of youth, and it permitted me to do anything. Days and nights in Aquitaine—where the land was lush and the people languorous and passionate—were spent moving. In the early days, before I became duchess, I would wake midmorning and go for my ride, and later I would dance from dusk to dawn to the court musicians.
Estela was the most magnificent horse. Father had purchased her from a Castilian horse merchant four years ago just for me. She had pure white hair atop dark skin, a high-set tail, and large, dark eyes. All her tack was made from black leather per my request and had offset her coloring most strikingly.
Just last week I received a new saddle for Estela. It was much nicer than the last; the leather smoother and more firm.
When I returned to the stables after my ride, I found the building empty. I was not shocked—this was Aquitaine, after all. The stablehands were likely enjoying a nice long lunch by the pond or some alone time with their sweet hearts. I didn't mind; I was perfectly capable of removing Estela's tack on my own, and I liked the privacy.
The new saddle had been causing the oddest sensations between my legs. My cunny was tingling, like an itch that needed to be scratched but I wasn't quite sure how to do it. Once I had turned Estela loose, I found a soft patch of hay in a corner of the stables. I sat upon one of the bales and lifted my skirt to my waist. The silken material felt lovely as it brushed against the sensitive, private skin of my thighs.
I let my fingers travel to my tingling core. Experimentally, I caressed and pulled at the hard little rosy bud—how sensitive it was!—and stretched the elegantly folded flesh that framed it. The tingling increased, as did the sense of urgency to reach some sort of end. I had no idea what outcome my young desiring body was striving for—no clue what to expect. All I knew was that each moment, each touch I granted that plump little mound, felt better than the last. I dipped one finger down to the wet little hole some ways beneath my rosebud, and dragged it back upwards, moistening my already damp sex.
To my wonderment, I found myself moaning as the petting went on, becoming louder as I reached the peak of my desire. I yearned to discover the landscape of my cunny, and stuck one finger up the warm hole. I flicked my finger back and forth, swirled it around inside the tight chamber that contracted and pulsated. My finger was soaked with my juices and my pleasure was heightening. In ecstasy, I rested my head upon a patch of hay and closed my eyes as I moaned and played with myself.
"My lady?" a voice spoke. I jumped—startled—and screamed, in turn alarming the horses. My eyes shot open, and one of the troubadours—a man I knew only by sight—was standing not steps away from me and my open cunny. I was deeply humiliated.
The troubadour's name was Jaufre Rudel, and he was the most celebrated—and romantically desired—poet in the court at Poitou. Jaufre was tall—taller than most men, and had swarthy olive skin, darkened with the southern sun. His hair was black and fell below his ears—the color an intriguing contrast against his clear blue eyes. Though he was not a knight, he was very well muscled and I found myself wondering what his body looked like beneath his tunic and trousers. I blushed at the thought.
Jaufre glanced down at my open legs. I was too startled to speak, or even move in an effort to cover myself. He let his gaze linger as he appraised me.
After a few moments, I found my voice. "Please don't tell anyone," I squeaked out. I wasn't positive, but I believed what I was doing was sinful. Most everything private was a sin—that's what my nurse always told me.
Jaufre threw his head back and laughed. My skin flushed a deep red. "I won't tell, my Lady Eleanor. I promise." He stopped speaking but made no effort to move, nor did I try to close my legs.
"What I was doing—was it a sin?"
He stepped closer to me and grabbed a handful of my red-gold hair. He tugged it gently and let it fall through his fingers. The act thrilled me and sent a shiver up my spine. "Mhmm...it was very sinful. I believe you have to do three years of penance if caught—but I won't tell. You're much too beautiful a girl to keep your carnality locked in a little box until your marriage." He knelt down before me—our bodies very nearly touching; my breath caught in my throat. Slowly, he reached outwards and rested his hand upon my bare knee. "Have you done this before, Eleanor? Touched yourself down there?"
