The Profane Contract
Copyright© 2025 by Studio Fable
Chapter 1
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 1 - William is a man forged in steel and blood, a sellsword whose only pleasures are the rush of battle and the bitter taste of cheap ale. Weary to his bones, he rides to the fortress of the enigmatic Lord Lucian expecting little more than a coin purse and a straw bed. What he finds is a world of decadent temptation he never knew existed.
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual Heterosexual Fiction Harem Cream Pie Oral Sex Voyeurism AI Generated
The thud of hooves on packed earth was a beat that had ground its way into Sir William’s bones. Every shift in the saddle was a fresh argument between chafed skin and leather. He rolled his shoulders, a useless gesture against the knot of iron buried deep between them. When the first stone towers of Lord Lucian’s fortress finally crested in the horizon, William let out a sigh of relief.
He’d expected to be met by a sneering steward and directed to a drafty corner of the barracks. Instead, the portcullis was already raised and Lord Lucian himself stood in the arch of the gatehouse, a smile on his face as if he’d been personally awaiting the arrival of a dear friend.
“Sir William,” Lucian’s voice was as smooth as the fine wine he undoubtedly drank. “You honor my household. The journey was not too taxing, I trust?”
“The roads are what they are, my lord,” William said as he dismounted. A stable hand appearing as if from thin air took his horse’s reins. “My ass is more battered than my shield, but I’ll endure.”
Lucian chuckled. “Excellent. A man of resilience. Come, you must be famished. I’ve had a simple meal prepared.”
There was nothing simple about the meal prepared. An intimate table for two was laden with a feast for ten. Roasted quail glistened with honey, their tiny bones promising a decadent crunch. Bread still warm from the oven steamed beside a crock of sweet butter. The wine was the color of a deep ruby that coated the tongue and warmed the blood.
“Your victory at the Grimstone Pass is still the talk of the southern garrisons,” Lucian began, pouring the wine into a silver goblet. “They say you held the line alone against a dozen knights.”
William grunted, accepting the goblet. “The bards get carried away. It was six, and they were tired.”
Lucian merely swirled the deep ruby wine in his goblet, watching the liquid cling to the silver before meeting William’s gaze. “Humility in a man of your deeds is a rare vintage, Sir William. One to be savored.”
The rest of the night was a slow courtship of William’s pride. Lucian was a master, weaving praise for William’s past battles with visions of a shared future. He spoke of values, of strength respecting strength, of men of action being the true engines of history, while men of vision, like himself, merely steered the course. He was framing himself as a patron, a partner. William, a man more used to shouted commands and the clink of coin, found himself disarmed by the sheer artistry of the flattery. The fine wine warmed his belly, the succulent quail melted on his tongue, and the lord’s words began to soften the hard shell of his professional cynicism.
As the last of the quail was devoured and the third bottle of wine was breathing on the table, Lucian’s gaze hardened. “I confess, Sir William,” he began. “I have a matter requiring a man of your particular talents. A delicate situation with a neighbor who has forgotten his courtesies.” He let the words hang in the air for only a second before his expression softened. “But that is a conversation for the morrow, when your mind is clear and your body rested. Tonight, you are my esteemed guest. We’ve drawn you a bath. The water is hot. And my best girls will see to your comfort.”
William’s internal alarms, long dormant under the assault of wine and praise, began to chime faintly. This was far too much. Sellswords were given coin, a bed in the barracks, and a ration of ale. Not private feasts and personal attendants. He was being bought, but the price seemed far higher than mere coin. Yet, he was weary to his bones, his muscles aching from weeks in the saddle. The promise of a hot bath and a soft bed was a siren’s song.
“My thanks, Lord Lucian,” William said, his voice rough. “Your hospitality is considerable.”
A single, sharp clap echoed in the hall. “Excellent! Faye! Vivian! Attend to our guest! See that every speck of the road is washed from him.”
As if awaiting their cue from just beyond the door, two maids appeared.
The first, Faye, was the very image of a shy maiden. Her fair hair was pulled neatly back from a blushing face by a simple ribbon, and her wide blue eyes remained demurely fixed on the floor. The other, Vivian, was a voluptuous beauty. Her black hair fell in sleek tendrils down either side of her face accentuating her rosy complexion. Her figure was fuller, her curves more pronounced and she had a calm knowing smile that was anything but subservient.
“This way, Sir William,” they chimed, their voices blending into a single, melodic sound.
They led him from the great hall, down a corridor of polished stone and heavy tapestries. William felt like a bull being led by doves. Their presence, one on each side, was a strange comfort and a new kind of tension. The bathing chamber was an indulgence of marble and steam. The air was dense with the scent of a clean herbal aroma that was a world away from the sweat and horse piss smell of the road. In the center of the room a great sunken tub easily large enough for three or four people steamed invitingly.
Without a word, Vivian, the dark haired one with the knowing smile, moved to his side and her deft fingers went to the heavy buckle of his sword belt. William stood rigid as she worked it free, her knuckles brushing against the hard leather of his tunic with a touch that felt far from accidental. The weight of his blade, a familiar comfort he’d borne for years, was lifted from his hip, and he felt a sudden vulnerability. Faye, the fair haired one, took the sword and belt from Vivian, her eyes lingering on his face for a moment before she laid the weapon carefully on a marble bench.
They moved to his front, standing close, their combined warmth a presence in the humid air. Their hands went to the clasps of his cuirass. Faye on the left, Vivian on the right. Their fingers were nimble, finding the catches and ties. They maintained a facade of impeccable professionalism, averting their eyes at the proper moments, yet William felt their gazes on him when he was not looking. When he happened to meet Faye’s eyes, she dropped her gaze quickly, but not before he saw the flicker of something.
“Allow us, Sir William,” Vivian said, her voice low and husky.
They worked their way down his body, stripping away the layers of his journey and his identity. The steel and leather gave way to the sweat dampened padding beneath, then the rough spun linen of his tunic. With each piece of armor and clothing they removed, he felt a layer of his defenses being peeled away with it. Their touches were light, almost professional, yet with every “accidental” brush of a fingertip against his skin, every brief caress of a palm against his ribs, a slow, insistent heat began to build deep in his belly.
He stood before them, stripped down to his breeches, his body a roadmap of a hard lived life. A jagged scar sliced across the muscle of his left pectoral, a souvenir from a Northman’s axe. A dozen other smaller nicks and older, faded marks littered his torso. He saw their eyes trace the lines with a kind of appreciative reverence.
He unlaced his breeches himself, his fingers feeling big and clumsy under their watchful eyes. He let the heavy wool fall to the floor and stepped out of them, standing before them naked. For a moment, he felt a flash of defiance, a warrior’s pride that refused to be cowed. He stood tall, his powerful frame held straight, meeting their gazes directly. Vivian’s knowing smile only deepened, while Faye let out a soft gasp, her hands flying up to her face. She shielded her eyes yet he could see them peeking through the gaps in her fingers.
He turned and descended into the tub, the glorious heat of the water enveloping him like a lover’s embrace. He sank down onto a submerged bench, the water rising to his chest, and let out a long, shuddering sigh of pure, unadulterated relief. The heat began to work its magic immediately, seeping into his tired muscles, loosening the tension that had been his constant companion for weeks.
At first, their washing was almost chaste. Faye retrieved a soft linen cloth and a cake of dark, fragrant soap. She began to wash his back, her touch firm and methodical. Her knuckles pressed into the knotted muscles of his shoulders and spine, working out the aches of the road with a skill that was almost miraculous. On the other side of the tub, Vivian took a ladle and began to rinse his hair, her fingers massaging his scalp with a slow, circular motion that threatened to lull him into a stupor. For a while they maintained a respectful silence, the only sounds the sloshing of water and their even breathing.
Vivian leaned close, her lips near his ear. “Is the temperature to your liking, my lord?”
“It is,” William grunted, his eyes closed.
“You have many scars,” Faye observed from behind him. “You must be a great warrior.”
“I am a survivor,” he corrected, not opening his eyes.
It was then that he caught it. A brief pause in their movements. He opened his eyes a crack and saw them exchange a look over the top of his head. It was fleeting, but it was there.
Their touches changed. The rhythm slowed and became more deliberate. The accidental brushes became lingering caresses. Faye’s washing on his back became a slow, sensuous glide, her thumbs tracing the lines of his spine. Vivian, having finished his hair, picked up a soft linen cloth too.
“Allow me, sir,” she said, and moved to wash his front.
The cloth brushed over his chest, tracing the shape of his pectorals, swirling over the hard plane of his stomach. Her touch was professional yet beneath it, an illicit energy flowed. Her hand, slippery with soap, closed around his thigh as she submerged it to wash his leg, but her thumb strayed, stroking the sensitive skin of his inner thigh.
“We must be thorough, sir.” Vivian’s voice was no longer the soft murmur of a servant. It was husky, intimate, layered with a new meaning. “To wash away all the grime of the road.”
Her hand slid from his thigh to his groin. Then, her fingers closed around him. The touch was meant to feel practical, just another part of the washing, but there was no mistaking the slow, intimate way she squeezed him, the way her thumb found the sensitive tip and circled it. His cock, moments before dormant in the heat, woke with a violent throb.