Lord Dorian tipped the silver decanter and poured the dark wine into a crystal cup. He relished the spiced aroma the liquid released, crackling in the air as it poured, a richly cultured bouquet that hid a secret savor of wild fruit. He smiled. Then he poured another cup for his guest.

“So, Maximus, what do you think?” he asked casually, passing his friend the wine, dark eyes twinkling with a wicked glee. He was relaxed, comfortable, very much enjoying showing off the full extent of his hospitality. He made a sweeping gesture with his arm, taking in not only the room in which they now lounged, but also the entire Castle, its grounds, the well-stocked hunting forests and every indulgence that was to be found within the gray, stone walls of his residence. “Do you like it?”

“So far,” replied Maximus twisting his porcine flesh on the silken cushions, and raising himself on one elbow to take the cup of wine, “I have no complaints.”

“Ha! We shall have to do better than that, friend.” Lord Dorian leaned over his companion and spoke earnestly. “Before you leave us I want you not merely to lack complaint but to be addled with ecstasy, saturated in pleasure, exhausted of all desire!”

He watched Maximus raise his cup in toast and heard the breath from his nostrils as he snorted with mirth. Then his guest spoke, his face controlled in mock seriousness.

“The latter, I hope, is unlikely.”

The two men laughed, touched their cups and drank. Their banter was interrupted suddenly by the clatter of a pewter tray tumbling onto the flagstones. Lord Dorian looked about and saw a servant standing suddenly still at the doorway to the chamber. The tray was spinning on the stone floor like a giant coin. Finally it slowed, wobbled and settled onto the stone with a dull clunk. She stood pale and quiet behind the glowing braziers that warmed the room, over-shadowed by the richly decorative tapestry that hung behind her. She seemed oddly out of place, young and innocent as a sacred virgin in her simple white shift, against that bloodied purple backdrop of bacchanalian orgies and lecherous satyrs deflowering maidens amongst Elysian groves.

“Yes, what is it?” asked Lord Dorian, making no effort to conceal the irritation he felt at so untimely an interruption. “I thought I said we were not to be disturbed.”

Then he saw the look of eager lustfulness that flushed his guest’s complexion, which had brought a sudden shine to his watery eyes and excited his breathing to an almost audible pant. He looked more closely to see what had so raised the color of passion in him.

Leaning an arm over the back of his lounging chair, Lord Dorian peered into the gloomy corner where the girl stood, her hands folded in front of her, her eyes lowered so that long golden curls fell over her face. He raised an eyebrow, glancing quickly back at his companion.

“Come forward, girl,” he commanded gently, “here into the light.”

The girl slipped forward on silent, naked feet. Dorian swung his legs round and leaned forward, the better to see. He took another slow, thoughtful draught of his wine and smiled.

“Well, well. Now, raise your head, girl. Let us see that face so precious that you keep it hidden from your masters.”

The girl lifted her head and her clear blue eyes flashed quickly from one to the other of the two men. She is pretty, Lord Dorian thought. Her creamy skin was rosy at the cheek, framed by a mass of light, golden hair. Her white shift hung loosely at her shoulders, falling in folds below her neck, the form of her pert, youthful breasts visible beneath the silken cloth, the hint of the pink buds of her nipples. A silver cord tied the shift around her slender waist.

Lord Dorian stood up and walked over to the girl. He put out his hand and extending his index finger, traced the curve of her cheek and lifted her chin towards him.

“Are you virgin, child?” he asked.

“No, my Lord,” the girl smiled, meeting his gaze, and then suddenly looked away, her startling blue eyes obscured once more under long lashes. Lord Dorian raised both his eyebrows at her. He considered her a moment, contemplating the possibility that this shy demeanor was an act, a mere posture of servitude that beguiled her true nature.

“I see,” he said, thoughtfully. Then he turned to Maximus, who was now sitting forward amongst his lounging cushions and had drained his cup. Lord Dorian thought he perceived the glisten of sweat on his brow. “Do you think this creature a beauty, Maximus? How does she seem to you?”

“She is a vision, Dorian,” replied his friend quietly, his voice hoarse, fingers working at the fringes of his seat. “A sweet flower whose scent enchants the senses. A fruit ripe for the picking. A young Venus rising from the ocean’s swell. That is how she seems to me.”

Lord Dorian smiled and looked back at the girl. He let his finger slide quietly down the slender line of her neck, pushing the shift off her shoulder and following the curve of her breast, touching the point of her nipple, now hard and erect. He felt her tremble.

“Are you afraid, Venus?” he teased.

“No, my Lord,” she breathed.

“Then why do you tremble at my touch? Am I not gentle?”

“You are gentle my Lord.”

“Then why do you tremble?”

“I tremble with excitement, my Lord. With hope. But yes, I am also afraid.”

“And what is it that you fear?”

“I fear, my Lord…that for which I yearn.”

“And for what do you yearn?”

The girl flashed him another glance, her eyes seeming to him darker now, if blue eyes can be dark. The braziers hissed and crackled, the flickering light of the flames dancing over the tapestries, seeming to animate them, bringing the lustful satyrs to life.

“I have been bad, my Lord. I have disturbed you in your private chambers and I have been devious to enter here.”

“So this Venus that my friend here sees, is really just a bad servant, a naughty little girl, who has willfully entered my private chambers without permission?”

Lord Dorian saw the girl’s breath quicken. Her blood tinged her neck the color of a wild rose. He glanced back at his guest, whose hands seemed now to tremble. Well, well, he thought, my friend here seems to like her game. Then let us play.

“And what should we do with such a naughty, naughty girl?” said Dorian, leaning close to her ear, and making his voice stern, threatening. “Do you not think she should be punished?”

“Yes my Lord, she should be punished.” Dorian saw the girl’s lips part.

“And should she not be humiliated for her presumption?” Lord Dorian had raised his voice. The girl dropped her head.

“Yes, my Lord.”

Dorian reached out and ripped the silver cord from her waist, tearing her shift off her shoulders, exposing her breasts and midriff. He grasped the back of her head by her golden locks and yanked it upright. “Look at me when I speak to you, you bad girl!”

The girl was panting now. Lord Dorian tore the rest of her clothing from her. She stood now naked, her hands covering her neatly trimmed blonde bush.

“And do you still pretend modesty? You are not a virgin, you naughty hussy! How dare you try to deceive me?”

He took the silver cord and, pulling her hands behind her back, bound them tight at the wrists. The girl let out a little cry. With a firm hand he spun her round, so she had her back to his guest and pushed her down by the neck, bending her over so that the pert, round cheeks of her bottom, the smooth skin of her thighs, were exposed to Maximus. With his booted foot he pushed her legs apart so that her vagina was equally exposed.

“Look, Maximus, how this bad girl, this saucy little wonton exposes herself before my guest!” Lord Dorian saw the bulge in his friend’s trews, his hand playing against the inside of his thigh. “She shall be punished!”

Lord Dorian raised his hand and spanked her firm buttocks sharply. She gave out another little cry. He lifted his hand and spanked again. The girl yelped. He spanked her again and again, slapping her flesh until her cheeks were raw and pink. Maximus had released his swollen member and was wanking hard. Dorian turned the girl around again and pushed her to her knees, pulling her head up again by her hair.

“You naughty girl!” he repeated. “Look what sinful crimes of the flesh you have brought my friend to now! Crawl to him on your knees! Beg his forgiveness!”

As the girl stumbled on her knees towards Maximus, her hands tied behind her back, Dorian spanked her again. Maximus worked his manhood harder and harder. Lord Dorian pushed her head towards his guest’s throbbing penis. The girl took it in her mouth and began to work hard over his stiffened shaft. Lord Dorian spanked her again with one hand and let the fingers of the other play with lightening skill over her clitoris, sinking his thumb into her sodden cunt and ramming her harder and faster until he felt the contraction of her muscles and the warm juices of her orgasm running through his fingers. Maximus was shuddering on the lounger. He gasped and then sank back as the girl withdrew from him, falling back onto her knees, flinching slightly where her buttocks met her heels, lowering her head and swallowing hard, her breath still fast and heavy.

Lord Dorian, pleased with the results of the game and the entertainment he had been able to offer his guest, lifted the girl gently to her feet and untied the silver cord that still bound her hands behind her back.

“You may rise,” he said to the girl, glancing at the now flaccid penis of his companion who lay still on his couch in the ecstatic languor such men feel after orgasm. He laughed, handing the girl the tattered remains of her clothing. “Unlike my noble friend here,” he added, “ who may not. At least, I imagine, not for another ten minutes or so.”

He now turned to the girl, who had dressed herself as best as she was able, although he noted that one pretty, pink breast remained exposed.

“You did well,” he said. “You may tell your immediate superior that you are relieved of all your duties for the rest of this day on my personal authority. Indeed, if you wish, you may attend our little…gathering, this afternoon. Does that please you?”

“Yes my Lord,” the girl bowed her head but Lord Dorian thought he caught the hint of a smile curling her lips. Well, he thought, this one got what she wanted. He smiled at her and raised her face to him again with his finger. The blue eyes were glittering. The neck and cheeks still flushed under the golden curls. Really, a very pretty little thing, Dorian thought again. He smiled, letting her head fall.

“Good,” he said dismissively, turning away from her towards the table on which the decanter sat winking at him teasingly in the flickering light of the brazier. “You may go.”

He did not hear her leave but when he turned round again, his cup replenished with good vintage, she was gone. He sighed and turned back to his guest. Maximus had opened his eyes and was now lying staring at the ceiling. Lord Dorian frowned. He swilled the wine around in his cup, watching the spill of light that sparkled through the cut crystal, recognizing with satisfaction the luscious, berried scent the movement released. Now this, he thought, savoring a slow sip, is a true friend. He looked again at his reclining guest whose still exposed penis now seemed something like a stunted root vegetable, shriveled and dry from the sand and salt of winter storage. He tried to push away the disturbing sensation of boredom and disappointment that prowled around the confines of his inner thoughts. He lifted his boot and playfully kicked the recumbent body that still lay motionless on the couch.

“Put it away Maximus. It’s letting your name down.”

Maximus chuckled, hearing only the humor and not the barb that it concealed. He sat up, stuffing his manhood away and re-lacing his trews. He looked up at Dorian and his voice came quietly, slightly awed.

“With servant girls like that, I can’t imagine what you want with another wife about the place!”

Dorian turned away from him and drained his glass.

“You’ll have to improve your stamina, Maximus, if you are to take full advantage of the little entertainment that I have arranged for us this afternoon.”

“But you are taking another wife, I hear. Where did you find her?”

“One of my informers brought word of her. Her father is a tenant farmer of mine. The mother dead. A once wealthy family fallen on hard times. Two poor harvests and a war is all it takes to ruin a farmer. The girl sounds interesting. Feisty. Rampant. May need taming a bit. Very much used goods by all accounts, but interesting. I am going to inspect her tonight.”

“The servant girl…”

“Yes?”

“You invited her to the entertainment?”

“Of course.”

“Good.”

“Ye gods, Maximus! When you see what I have in store for you this afternoon you won’t be giving that poor, wretched little Venus a second thought! Now I must leave you to recover your senses and prepare for our little gathering. I shall send servants directly to bathe and dress you but I beg you, do not squander your energies on them!”

With that, Lord Dorian turned on his heel and left the room, letting the door fall shut behind him.

He had been very much looking forward to the afternoon’s scheduled revelry but found himself frowning as he paced down the pillared passageway, troubled at having to struggle with an almost peevish sense of dissatisfaction and annoyance.

At the end of the passageway there was another door, sturdily built of oak and deeply carved and gilded with lascivious scenes of every sexual act known to man. He turned the iron door ring that grated in it’s housing and pushed the door open. It gave way into a small marbled courtyard in the middle of which a fountain glittered in the soft light of the late autumnal morning.

Lord Dorian paused a moment and sat on the edge of the fountain, running his fingers through the clear, cold water. He considered his position. He had power, a fine Castle, good forests, a wealth of fertile land and people to work it. He had money and influence. He had many friends. He had only to click his fingers and servants came running to attend to his every need. Every yearning of the flesh, every sexual appetite that stirred in his groin could be satisfied instantly. He was envied and feared by many. Why then, this growing discontent, this restlessness? He shook his head, as if to shake out the dust of such unwelcome thoughts, but they settled again, persistently, on the surface of his mind.

“My Lord?”

Dorian looked up from his reverie and saw one of his menservants standing in the corner of the courtyard, eyes lowered according to custom.

“Yes?” he said wearily. “What is it?”

“My Lord asked me to inform him when all preparations for the afternoon were completed.”

“And so?”

“Everything is in order, my Lord. All is in readiness.”

“Very good. What hour of the clock is it?”

“Half past the hour of eleven, my Lord.”

“And my Lord Maximus?”

“He is attended to, my Lord, and is accompanied in the gardens by the five exquisite maidens of your choosing, my Lord. He seems most contented, my Lord.”

“I’m sure. Is he sober?”

The manservant cleared his throat, clearly embarrassed at having to answer so direct a question about one of his masters.

“He has been pleased to avail himself of your Lordships hospitality without undue modesty, certainly, my Lord, but seems, to my unworthy eye, still stable on his feet, coherent in his speech and of sound wit, my Lord.”

“Very good. You may go. Have them prepare me a hot bath in my room, press and lay out my clothes. Oh, and a jug of something sweet from our own vineyards, nothing special however – I would like it warmed with cinnamon and honey. I shall expect everything in order by the strike of noon. You may go.”

“Yes, my Lord.” The manservant bowed low and retreated. Then turned and spoke again.

“Forgive me, my Lord, but may I ask whom you would like to attend to your bathing, my Lord?”

Having dismissed the servant, Lord Dorian had sunk back into reverie and now looked up again distractedly.

“What say you?”

“A wife, my Lord? To attend to the bathing.”

“No wife. I wish to bathe alone. Quite, quite alone.”

* * *

Lord Dorian sat on his princely throne under the glittering chandeliers of the Great Hall, dressed in fine clothes of purple brocade, dark silks and gold trim, and watched approvingly as the drums, pipes and bells struck up their tune and the revelries began. The feast had been a fine one: a soup of wild mushrooms and oxtail; sweet potatoes and baked trout stuffed with rosemary, lemon and garlic; a roast of tender suckling pig with plum sauce; olive bread, quails eggs and asparagus; spiced sweets and fruit. All washed down with a selection of the finest vintages, which he had personally selected from the castle cellars. He looked at Maximus who had the seat next to him, the servant girl on the floor between his knees, his own wives seated either side on velvet cushions, and felt some satisfaction at the expression on his friend’s face as the erotic spectacle unfolded before him. He laughed.

“I gather by your looks you are pleased with what you see. You should see your face, you seem quite the innocent at the orgy.”

“I have never seen…” Maximus’ voice trailed away, his throat dry.

“Well, one is never too old to learn something new, my friend.” Dorian leaned towards his guest, his voice lowered to a seductive whisper. “ But breathe deep, what you see now is only the beginning. There will be, shall we say, audience participation. But all in good time. We are not greedy gluttons here at Castle Dorian. We are Epicureans, if you like. Hedonists. We wait. We tease and tantalize. We excite the appetites of the flesh and then deny them until the fever is raised to such a pitch, the longings of our lust so heated, that when we finally taste, touch, sink into the fulfillment of exquisite pleasure, every slightest sensation is an explosion of indescribable delight! To pluck and hungrily devour grapes from the vine is to waste them and they leave a bitter taste in the mouth. We must be cunning and patient, letting the juice and yeast perform its secret magic in the darkness of the oaken cask; our anticipation increasing with every moon, sharpening our palette in readiness for the rich ferment which gives body and flavor at last to the delicious liquid that satisfies the tongue and heats the mind to dizziness.”

Lord Dorian noticed indifferently then, sinking back in his throne, that his friend had lost interest in his words. Maximus was leaning forward in his seat, eyes wide and craving at the exhibition of sexual contortions acted out before him, sweating, the servant girl sitting between his legs, his hand absently fondling her tender breast.

The music played on, the heat in the room tangibly increasing in intensity, rhythmic slaps of flesh on flesh, the crack of a whip and cries of passion accompanying the drum, the pipe, the bells. But Dorian found his eyes wandering away from the performance. They followed the line of the Great Hall’s fluted pillars up to the fine tracery of the fan vaulting. It occurred to him then, for the first time, how very much the architecture resembled the towering stature of ancient trees. It was as if he sat, not in a castle fabricated by the hands of men at all, but rather amidst a vast petrified forest. He was vaguely aware that several of the entertainers: women strapped in leather, a comic dwarf wearing an exaggerated wooden phallus, a muscular African who needed no such appendage; had now led Maximus and his servant girl into their midst. Other guests were moving. The drum sounded a steady beat. A gong echoed and reverberated amongst the ancient stones. The orgy had begun.

Perhaps he was tired, he thought. Perhaps the feast and the wine were making him drowsy, dulling his senses and appetite, but Lord Dorian found he had little interest in the activities of his court, his famed entertainment and hospitality. He glanced up again at the vaulted ceiling. For a moment he thought he really saw branches above him and leaves shimmering on a summer’s eve of long ago, rather than carved stone. He blinked and shook his head. The feeling of peevish annoyance that had haunted him all the morning gave way now to a deeper sense of disturbance that clawed restlessly at the doorway to his mind, a nagging disquiet troubling his spirits.

He looked about, remembering his duties as host, trying to smile, over the satyrs and nymphs that played their forbidden games now amongst the Great Hall’s forest of pillars. Over the music and the groaning he heard thunder crack directly above the castle. The Hall darkened, making the revelers - their flesh seeming scorched in the red light of the torches and lanterns - so many demons writhing in Hell. Rain lashed against the tall leaded windows, the wind whipping the cold stone until it screamed. Dorian felt dizzy and rested his elbow on the arm of his throne, pinching the bridge of his nose between forefinger and thumb. His head swam. He took a deep breath and looked up. Lightening flashed. Another crack of thunder. The musicians played louder, the drumbeat continued steadily. He moved to stand, to push himself up from his seat, when the naked body of Maximus tumbled on the steps at his feet. His guest laughed and gasped for breath. Three maidens of exquisite form fell upon him, licking, nibbling, biting and clawing over his flesh. He looked up and Lord Dorian’s eyes met his, glistening, unfocussed and bloodshot. Maximus cried out to him.

“You take your Epicurean ideals too far, Dorian! Join us! Are you not sufficiently enflamed?” he laughed. “I must thank you! I have never…”

Maximus lost the thread of his speech as one of the women strapped a leather thong at the root of his scrotum. Lord Dorian was silent. He felt bile rising in his throat. Maximus recovered his senses.

“But what should I expect in a land where even the faeries lust for maidens!”

“What are you saying?” asked Dorian, his voice turned suddenly cold, dangerous.

Thunder rumbled overhead. Cymbals crashed. A woman cried out. The dwarf cackled with maniacal laughter.

“Surely you know your own legends? I mean only Tam Lin who dwells in Carterhaugh.”

It was as if the tide of disquiet that had been rising in Lord Dorian during the morning and afternoon had at last swelled into a monstrous black wave of rage that now crashed around him, submerging his senses and drowning his reason. He sprung from his seat in a cold fury, his boot smiting tender flesh as he kicked the women away from Maximus. Before his guest could realize what was happening, Dorian had him by the neck.

“Never,” he hissed, his voice like steel scraping on ice, “say that name in my hearing again!”

The wind howled, the rain spat against the castle walls, thunder and lightening grumbled and flashed from the darkening clouds. And then it seemed to Lord Dorian that there was a strange silence. He was dizzy. He felt sickness in his belly. He saw the look of horror fixed like a grotesque mask across his friend’s face, the bulging eyes and bluish lips, the purple bruising on the skin as he unlocked his fingers from around Maximus’ neck and stumbled back, leaning against the throne, swaying.

There was no music. There was no movement. He was watched, it seemed to him, by a thousand eyes. And it was as if the eyes saw into his very soul. Maximus had begun to breathe again, coughing and spluttering at his feet, unable to rise.

“Forgive me,” he whispered.

Lord Dorian snapped his fingers to summon servants.

“Attend to him! Attend to him for the sake of the gods!” he commanded, gesturing at Maximus. “Then saddle for me my fastest horse and summon the retinue. We leave for the farmstead.” Then, righting himself, he strode from the heat of the Great Hall and out into the storm.