The dreams came to Caralissa like storms, the thunder crashing over the peace of her fragile sleep, lightning flashing over the horizon of her sanity. And rains, drenching and arousing, saturating her carefully preserved consciousness.
Caralissa was moaning. Calling out the name of Varik, running to find him but unable to reach him on account of crowds of men. Senelek and his priests were there along with the soldiers of Varik’s army. And Romila was there too, and Telos and Norod. The scene became a banquet hall. She was to be welcomed home by her people. But when she entered the vast room she saw upon the faces of her subjects expressions of horror and contempt. Looking down, she realised she was naked, though she’d been dressed just a moment before.
They were laughing at her and her only impulse was to find Varik, to seek comfort in his arms. For she knew he alone would not laugh. Alinor could be heard, in the centre of a huge crowd, noisily explaining his part in the night’s joke, how he convinced the queen to dress in a garment of his own invention, one designed to disappear from the wearer’s skin as soon as she donned it. They were congratulating him, Senelek and Telos and the barbarian guard too, the new one whose name she did not even know.
Romila, meanwhile, was telling Caralissa it was all her fault and that what she needed to do was to run as fast as she could from the room, out of the castle and across the moat. As soon as the words were spoken they became reality, and she really was running. In an instant she was all the way to the Forest of Night, having covered hundreds of miles of ground. Thinking she would be safe from her pursuers there - the mocking crowds still hot on her trail - she plunged into its murky depths.
Through the forest she went, though to her great distress she saw that at every turn they were already ahead of her, the laughing pointing people. Faster and faster she went. Her heart was pounding; she was becoming afraid. Behind her she heard heavy breathing, snarling. Over her shoulder she saw a tiger, white and grey, eyes bright red, teeth bared. She tried to call to it, thinking it was Ahzur, but it did not recognise her.
A few feet further into the forest she stumbled over a branch. There was more laughter as she fell at the feet of Norod and several of the councillors. Telos was there, giving inane descriptions of her wild appearance, her sweat-stained body, the scratches that covered her head to foot. The ground was made of marble and she realised she was back in the castle, in the banquet room. Somehow the tiger was still behind her. From all sides people were gathering, talking to one another, ignoring her. There were too many of them; she couldn’t run away. Everyone was oblivious as she screamed. The tiger was lunging at her, coming straight for her, its claws slashing through the air. Caralissa cried out one last time, shutting her eyes as its weight crushed down upon her.
She assumed she was dead, but when she opened her dream eyes she was unhurt. The beast was gone and in its place was Telos, a ridiculous mask on his face, that of a purple tiger. Looking at her with a smirk he made a growling sound, in a sarcastic imitation of the animal. She saw she was lying on the floor and above her the conversation was continuing. No one seemed to notice even as Telos unsheathed himself and entered her. When she moved to protest he clamped his hand over her mouth and proceeded to take her by force. To her disgust she found herself aroused, more powerfully than she’d ever before been. Telos was enjoying her predicament, laughing harder and harder. Meanwhile, behind Telos she could see men lining up to take their turns, it was endless, consisting of every man she’d ever known or even laid eyes on.
‘What’s the matter?’ Telos sneered. ‘Does the queen not wish to serve her subjects?’
The scene began to dissolve and as Telos’ dream words faded into a dim echo she heard another sound - female, a cry of distress. It was Deelia standing over her, a look of grave concern on her face. She did not know what was wrong, but when she followed Deelia’s eyes and looked down to her own person, she realised what it was. She was awake in her own bed and Deelia was looking at her actual self, in utter disbelief.
Caralissa’s hand was between her legs. In her sleep, unwittingly, she had been pleasuring herself. Quickly she sought to hide the evidence, pulling the damp sheets up around her. It was of course no crime to masturbate oneself, but it was hardly proper for a queen to do so, least of all on the morning of her trial to determine her moral fitness to rule.
‘It’s all right, Deelia,’ she reassured, but as she looked beyond the woman’s shoulder she realised it was not all right, for Deelia was not alone. In her company was the stone-faced warrior, the blond fellow with the silver breastplate and the penetrating eyes. How long had he been watching?
It was the warrior who spoke next. ‘Leave us,’ he said to the already harried maid. ‘I shall tend to the queen’s preparations this morning.’
Deelia cast a worried look to Caralissa.
‘You may go, Deelia,’ she said, gathering the sheet at her throat and sitting up to face her new opponent. ‘I will be fine.’
After the maid left she addressed the warrior directly. ‘What is the meaning of this intrusion?’ she demanded, seeking to put him in his place.
Saying nothing the man stepped forward, grabbed the sheet and pulled it from her, leaving her naked on the bed.
‘How dare you!’ she cried, covering herself as best she could with her hands.
‘You were not alone last night, were you?’ he said, phrasing his words as a statement and not a question.
Caralissa’s cheeks reddened. ‘That is none of your business!’
‘It is when I am charged with your protection.’
‘Protection?’ she snorted. ‘How is this protecting me? I am locked in my room. I have no privacy. My own throne is taken from me.’
‘That is not my concern,’ he said. ‘I do as I am charged to do.’
‘Oh?’ she challenged, tossing her dishevelled curls indignantly. ‘And what are you charged to do with me now, oh brave and fearless warrior?’
‘I am to bathe you, dress you and bring you to breakfast.’
Caralissa shrieked as he scooped her from the bed, gathering her in his arms.
‘Let go of me!’ she wailed, trying to squirm free. ‘You beast!’
‘My name is Trajor,’ he said, carrying her to the waiting bath and depositing her unceremoniously into the warm water.
‘I do not care what your name is,’ she told him as she tried to climb out again. ‘As far as I am concerned you are a beast and nothing more.’
Trajor shoved her back down. ‘You will clean yourself,’ he said, handing her the dry sponge. ‘Or I will do it for you.’
‘Touch me and die,’ she hissed, snatching the crusty brown object and plunging it into the water.
Petulantly she dabbed at her skin. Hugging her breasts, which rose just above the line of the water, and clamping her legs, she decided to make it as unpleasant as possible for the warrior. There was no way she’d allow the man to dominate her. If he thought himself her equal he was sorely mistaken.
Trajor folded his arms. ‘At this rate we shall be here till the winter feast. You will go faster and at my direction. Begin at your neck.’
Caralissa muttered a curse, but did as he instructed.
‘Your shoulders next.’
She bit her lip in fury. The rough sponge was tingly on her skin, like a warrior’s touch; it was awakening her in the secret places of her body. As infuriating as it was to have to bathe in front of this arrogant man, it was also becoming exciting, for he was commanding her now, taking from her the control of her own body.
‘Slide the sponge down now. Down your arm, then across your stomach.’
Caralissa shivered, wondering how far he would make her go and if she would be able to resist him at any point.
‘Arch your back and sit forward so that your breasts are above the water. Now cup them, one in each hand.’
Caralissa flashed a challenging glare. ‘I fail to see how this is part of my bath, warrior.’
Trajor folded his arms, regarding her with a look of steel. She tried to guess his intent. Would he denounce her for her tryst with Alinor? Or would he simply force her to obey him? ‘Why do you not speak?’ she demanded.
Again he said nothing.
With a look of pure hatred Caralissa sat forward, exposing herself. Taking her breasts in hand she proffered them as though she were the man’s whore.
Trajor reached down, retrieving a jar of lotion, which he commenced to pour over her aching breasts. The lotion was cool and creamy.
‘Rub it in,’ he commanded. ‘Very slowly.’
Even without touching them, her breasts felt full and hot. She could see the arousal, how her nipples were taut and ready, the cream running over them and down her stomach into the water like the sperm of a thousand warriors. Licking her lips she opened her mouth, very slightly. She did not want to do this thing, and yet what choice did she have? Trajor was a real man - she could see that now. He wished to put her through her paces; he wished to be aroused by her, to draw pleasure from her exploitation.
She gasped at the touch of her own fingers. How she hated being a female and yet how she loved it at the same time!
‘Take up the sponge again,’ she heard him say, uttering the words she both dreaded and needed at the same time. ‘Caress your belly with it.’
Caralissa moaned. The sponge was like dozens of tiny fingers, sending waves of undulating sensation over her soft stomach.
‘Part your legs,’ he continued matte. ‘Place the sponge inside yourself. Show me how you come.’
Caralissa opened her half-closed eyes, his latest command awakening her lulled sense of propriety. ‘I will never do that,’ she said firmly. ‘Not for you or any man. I would die first.’
His eyes continued to probe. She prayed he would not see through her clumsy lie.
‘If you do not oblige me,’ Trajor said, ‘I will reveal to the court how you had a man in your quarters last night, and how you allowed him to mistreat you as though you were a common pleasure-house wench.’
‘I did no such thing!’
Trajor wheeled round on his heels. ‘It makes no difference to me who they believe. I will simply report what I have discovered.’
‘Do that and you will have to explain why you did not intervene to stop it!’
Trajor turned back to face her. ‘There are many who wish to see you convicted,’ he shrugged. ‘They will not give much thought to the circumstances of my testimony.’
Caralissa frowned. More than likely he was right. ‘I will do it,’ she said, thrusting the sponge beneath the water. It amazed her how much easier it was becoming to abase herself, to capitulate to blackmail of even the most tenuous nature.
‘Raise your hips,’ Trajor commanded. ‘Reveal yourself to me.’
Caralissa arched her back, doing her best to expose herself above the line of the water. Pressing deep she let the sponge take her, rough and prickly, hard and demanding. Biting her lip she fought back the immediate shudders. A voice in her head told her this was slave behaviour, something she’d noted on may occasions in the pleasure-houses, but she was not ready to hear this.
Evan as the orgasm prepared to overtake her, Caralissa tried desperately to think of herself as mistress of her own pleasure, as the captain of her own ship. Simply because she was more passionate now did not mean she was becoming some pleasure pet whose very existence was to fulfil male desires. It was her own hands that touched her - the control should be hers, should it not?
No. This was not true. It was not her will that moved her, much as she might wish it to be. Opening her left eye briefly, seeing Trajor implacably observing, she surrendered herself, writhing and melting under his dispassionate gaze as though she really were a slave, or worse, an animal. It was a discomforting place to be, a terrifying one. How far this surrendering might yet go she did not know, nor did she know the true extent of the danger to her person, her very kingdom.
In the back of her mind questions raged, not least of which was how exactly Trajor knew about Alinor. Perhaps he’d viewed everything through some spy hole; but there was another possibility too, a far more disturbing one.
What if Alinor had told him directly, down to the details about his ‘abuse’ of her body? Worse still, what if someone had put Alinor up to the whole thing, someone like Telos? What if there were a conspiracy operating around her, designed to force her submission?
But she could think no more at this moment. She was a she-beast, in need of release. Under the eyes of her gaoler she must orgasm. Holding nothing back she gave him what he required. Dimly, shamefully she wondered if he found her pleasing, if she might be the sort of girl he would wish to possess. Pretending the sponge and fingers were his she tried to show him now what he might have, how she might move for him, lay for him. It was a whore’s act, a slave’s act, and yet it was coming by reflex, just as did the climax, earth shattering, overpowering.
‘Take me,’ she whispered, her arms raised to him, the words issuing forth as a confession, a terrible and damning revelation.
‘No,’ he replied, tossing her a towel. ‘You will dry yourself and then you will dress.’
Lowering her eyes, shamed and spurned, she caught the fabric, thrusting it against herself in a last ditch effort to protect her honour. It was too late, of course. Numbly she stepped from the bath. She did not know if her legs would hold her, carrying her even as far as the wardrobe where he was already awaiting her, picking out the clothes she would wear.
‘This will do,’ he said, presenting the dress, made of red velvet with a tight bodice that would reveal her cleavage.
Caralissa clothed herself wordlessly. Today was the most important of her life, a day when every little gesture, each detail could be crucial, and yet here she was donning a suggestive dress at the behest of a stranger, a man who just a few short moments ago compelled her to compromise her virtue in his presence. In her rational mind she knew it was foolhardy trusting such a man, yielding to him in this way. Where would it end - would she become his slave, too? She must fight back, and quickly!
‘You will wear your hair down,’ Trajor decided when she presented herself for inspection.
‘Yes,’ she said, walking to her dresser to pick up the brush, the one Alinor had used, inflaming her buttocks to the point of flaming passion, ‘I will.’
It was as though she were watching someone else, observing a play about a queen who resembled her but whose personality was completely different. Over and over, she stroked her hair, making it silky and pretty. Again and again she looked to Trajor, confirming that he was seeing, approving.
‘One more thing,’ he announced as they were nearly at the door.
She watched in horror as he drew a dagger from his belt and held it at her waist. ‘A small adjustment,’ he explained, piercing the fabric and drawing the knife down in a straight line. Though he did not so much as prick her skin, she shrieked to see what he was doing.
‘How dare you?’ she cried.
Trajor shrugged. ‘I do as I am commanded.’
Caralissa beheld the slit, cut from hip to ankle. The dress was no longer decent! She would barely be able to walk without exposing herself.
‘We will be late,’ he said, ushering her into the hallway.
Caralissa did her best to keep up, all the while seeking to keep her hand clenched on the sides of her gown to keep it together.
‘We must go,’ Trajor declared, his hand guiding her elbow, directing her upon invisible chains down the stairs.
It was Telos whom they encountered first in the banquet hall. ‘Your majesty!’ he cried, his voice exuberant with joy. ‘You must sit beside me; it’s all been arranged.’
Caralissa turned white as she beheld the faces at the table. There was Alinor! And Remik, as sombre as ever. And others too, spurned suitors, former councillors removed for impropriety. Conspicuously absent however was Romila, along with any other female who might balance out the obvious sexual inequality.
‘We have prepared all this for you,’ Telos beamed, spreading his arms.
The long wooden table was elaborately decorated, far more so than was usual for breakfast. There were candelabras, a silk tablecloth, bowls of colourful fruit and trays of sweetmeats and other delicacies, the food piled high upon the silver surfaces. From the look of things they’d been dining for some time. This fact was highly unusual - unheard of, actually, since she as monarch and hostess should have been given the right to begin the festivities at her command.
‘I see you began without me,’ she observed icily, eyeing King Norod who was seated at the head of the table.
The old king rose hastily to his feet, the others following suit. Their eyes were intent on her as she prayed that she was concealing the tear in her dress sufficiently.
‘Forgive us,’ the king muttered, his mouth stuffed with delicate stewed eggs. ‘I took the liberty of commencing.’
‘I do not think introductions will be required,’ Telos announced as the men resumed their places and continued eating as though she were some common wench instead of the reigning queen, ‘as we all seem to know one another. Caralissa, won’t you take your seat?’
Without waiting for her assent he directed her to an empty place directly to the right of his own seat. As he sat her Caralissa felt herself sinking quite low. It was only when she went to put her hands on the edge of the table that she realised what had been done. Her seat was lowered somehow so that she sat several inches below the others, including Telos. It was a petty thing and she could scarcely imagine any man going to the trouble of sawing off the legs of a chair to embarrass a queen, but then again, Telos was far from being a man.
‘I hope her majesty is hungry,’ Telos said, snapping his fingers for a nearby servant.
‘I will have some fruit,’ she told the serving maiden.
‘I am sorry, majesty,’ the woman said, a pained expression on her face. ‘But I am not allowed.’
Caralissa watched in shock as the servant snatched her plate and silverware away. The action seemed to startle no one and as she looked about, her neck straining to see over the piles of food, Caralissa was beginning to feel as if she’d landed once more into a nightmare. Were a tiger to show itself she could scarcely be any more surprised, or mortified than she was at this moment.
‘There were concerns, majesty,’ Telos explained, spearing a chunk of fried meat from his heaped plate, ‘that someone might seek to poison you, given the, um, resentment felt by many over your relationship - alleged, of course - with the Rashal chieftain. I shared these concerns, naturally, and even went so far as to volunteer to serve as royal food taster.’
She watched as he took the meat from his fork, took a bite out of it and then put it in front of her face. ‘This piece is quite safe,’ he assured her as he chewed noisily.
Caralissa blinked. ‘And what exactly am I supposed to do with that, Telos?’
He looked to some of the others for support, his eyes telegraphing his bemusement, as though it were she and not he who was behaving so absurdly. ‘Why, I assumed you would eat it,’ he chuckled.
‘I will starve first,’ she informed him, rising to her feet. ‘I wish you all good day.’
She looked behind her, expecting Trajor to block her exit. Amazingly enough, however, he was not even in the room.
‘Caralissa, I am disappointed,’ she heard Norod say. The old man’s words froze her as effectively as would the intervention of a warrior.
‘I am tired,’ she lied. ‘I would like to lay down.’
Norod pinched his brow, sighing deeply. ‘Honestly, Caralissa, I have not wanted to believe the things being said about you, but when I see with my own eyes the way you behave so erratically, what am I to think? Anyhow, I am tired myself and do not wish to host alone today.’
Caralissa sat down heavily. As befuddled and ultimately untrustworthy as he might be, Norod was the closest thing she had right now to an ally. She needed him, and if that meant enduring a little more misery at the hands of this bunch of overgrown babies, she’d put up with it. ‘Forgive me, Norod,’ she smiled. ‘I would be delighted to help you host.’
‘Wise choice,’ Telos said, leaning over to whisper in her ear. ‘You won’t regret it.’
She let out a gasp of air as she felt Telos’ hand on her calf under the table, sliding upwards like a snake, tracing the line of the cut in her gown. Before she could draw another breath he reached the bridge of her thighs. So this was why Trajor cut her dress, she thought miserably.
‘I propose a toast,’ Telos announced, raising his goblet. ‘To the safe return of our queen.’
The men looked at one another, then to Norod.
‘Yes,’ agreed Norod, even as Telos worked his way under Caralissa’s undergarments, worming a finger into her sex, ‘to the queen.’
Goblets were raised, clinking. Caralissa shuddered as the first drops of moisture began to form inside her. It was absurd that this was happening and a part of her simply did not want to believe it. Either way, she was paralysed and with each passing second it was harder and harder to imagine extracting herself from the situation. Telos seemed to bank on this: on her complicity, her inability to protest.
‘To your safe return,’ Telos told her, holding his own goblet to her lips.
Caralissa put her mouth to the cold silver, allowing Telos to pour a tiny bit of the sweet cider onto her tongue. Obediently she swallowed.
‘Spread your legs wider,’ he whispered in her ear, taking the opportunity to cement his power over her.
The words were like a fire, liquid and melting. Unbidden she felt her thighs parting, the point of resistance long since passed. Henceforth she would not be able to deny the man anything. As wretched and hateful as he was, he’d found access to her submissive nature.
Telos watched her carefully as he worked his secret magic. Eyes blank, she stared straight ahead, doing her best to conceal the emotions, the arousal. She could no longer meet his gaze, for if she tried she would have no option but to lower her eyes in deference and surrender. Clenching the edge of the table with her trembling fingers she listened as he poured into her ears his dark promises. The things he would do to her. The things she would be made to do for him.
‘Open,’ he commanded.
Caralissa accepted the juicy bit of fruit, swimming in the creamy sauce. Whether on purpose or by accident Telos turned the spoon slightly as she sought to take it in, releasing thereby a tiny trail of juice which dribbled down her chin and between her breasts.
‘Leave it,’ he said simply when she moved to clean herself.
She chewed the segment of fruit, feeling the wet stickiness in her cleavage. Twice more Telos fed her, and each time she was soiled. Breasts heaving she pressed her thighs together, the sensation of the juice only heightening what his fingers were doing to her insides.
He couldn’t make her come this way, she thought miserably. He wouldn’t dare.
‘We are pleased you are joining us, Caralissa,’ said Norod. ‘In fact, it is our hope to dispense with this trial formality quite quickly and allow you to resume your place on the throne. Frankly,’ he shrugged, ‘I thought it a bit silly but certain elements of my own council insisted, and of course several of our neighbour countries. Rest assured, the trial commissioners - whom you see before you today - have been chosen with the most judicious care.’
Caralissa felt faint. These were her judges? A roomful of jilted lovers and jealous fools with axes to grind against her? How could this be?
‘What’s the matter?’ asked Telos, his voice hushed and intimate. ‘Cat get your tongue - or should I say, Rashal cock get your tongue?’
Caralissa whirled on him in fury. Too late she remembered that though her mouth was free to speak another part of her was not. At the very moment she opened her mouth Telos twisted his finger expertly, reducing her to a mass of female quivering. Shamed, broken, powerless to resist, she moved fiercely against him, opening herself to the mechanically induced orgasm.
No one seemed to notice, presumably the long tablecloth shielded her from prying eyes, but still she was being made to surrender herself at a table full of hostile men, all the while having to pretend nothing was happening - how could this not upset her?
Let it end quickly, she prayed. Let it pass soon.
Finally it did, and she nearly convinced herself that she’d gotten past the worst when Telos started again, faster, harder. ‘No,’ she whimpered under her breath. ‘No more.’
‘Very well,’ he concurred, giving in far too easily for Caralissa’s liking. ‘No more.’
He took his hand away, allowing her to relax. Eyes peeled like a hawk, she watched as he engaged himself in conversation with his neighbour, concerning trade deficits. It was the hand that she was worried about, and sure enough he was using it to pick a piece of fruit from a bowl. A moment later the fruit was inside her, absorbing her overflowing wetness.
The strong female odour was obvious as he presented it to her, as was the glistening wetness. How could the others not notice? Or were they merely pretending not to, allowing themselves to be used in some larger scheme of humiliation directed against her person?
‘Please,’ she whispered when he put the tiny green morsel to her mouth. ‘Don’t make me.’
Not even bothering to look in her direction, he thrust the juice-soaked fruit to her lips, forcing her to open, to take it in. Her lips trembled as she chewed, the flavour reminding her of the whip handle in Senelek’s hand. It was a sensation that belonged to another world and yet here she was at her own table tasting herself like a slave at the command of a cruel and stupid man.
‘Lick them,’ he said, extending his wet fingers. One by one she did, slowly and sensually, feeling like a wanton whore, not caring which of the men were watching or even if all of them were. At this very moment it did not matter, for were Telos to command it she would, without hesitation, strip off her red dress and fall to her knees, naked. To each man, then, she would crawl allowing him to fill her mouth with his hot hardness, and ultimately with his salty jism.
‘So tell us, your majesty,’ she heard Remik say, the man’s voice every bit as acerbic as she remembered it. ‘It must have been difficult, to say the least, being in the captivity of the Rashal. It is said they abuse their female prisoners, treating them like animals.’
Telos leaned close to her, adding an injunction of his own just as she was on the verge of answering. ‘Place this inside yourself,’ he whispered, pressing the small cube of ice against her belly under the table. As if in a dream Caralissa took the frozen chunk, her hand trembling as she slid it under her clothes, moving it steadily to her pulsating sex.
‘The Rashal are not civilised,’ she replied, the ice having reached her throbbing lips. ‘Their ways are not ours.’
‘All the way in,’ Telos coaxed, as he thrust the goblet to her lips.
Caralissa slurped greedily. Still the fluid came too fast, running in rivulets down her front.
‘Forgive me,’ cried Telos, as though mortally wounded. ‘You,’ he bellowed to a nearby servant, ‘take the queen at once and help her to clean herself.’
‘No,’ Caralissa protested, not daring to move in her current state. ‘I am fine.’
‘Are you certain?’ he asked, his face a picture of deep concern. ‘But won’t you at least allow me to dry you off?’
‘No,’ she hissed, even as the ice bit her with teeth of commingled pleasure and pain. ‘Do not touch me.’
‘Is something the matter?’ she heard Norod call out, the man obviously having no clue as to the real nature of this ‘breakfast’.
Telos eyed her, his gaze conveying the nature of his latest blackmail. If he were to open his mouth there was no telling what he might say, or what Norod might believe.
She flushed red. It was another trap. ‘No,’ she said, knowing herself beaten once more. ‘It is only a small stain. Telos is going to help me.’
Telos was smiling smugly, like a boy about to pull the head off of an insect. The servant handed him a rag, the thin scrap of cloth being a simple pretence to molest her in yet another form, this time upon her bosom.
Telos’ hands beneath the rag were vulgar and coarse. Running them over her bared upper chest he took his time, lingering at her breasts, working her nipples into painful readiness. That the men were saying nothing even at this juncture indicated she was already beaten, her case lost before it could be even argued. In their eyes she must already be something less than a queen, and perhaps only a little more than the sort of female one finds under one’s table begging for scraps in a pleasure-house.
Her only question was why they were persisting with this charade. Couldn’t Telos simply have possessed her upon her return, declaring her to be his slave? Or was it true that his power was limited and that he needed Norod, needed the legitimacy of his ruling? What Romila’s role was up to this point, Caralissa could not say. Did her absence bespeak complicity, or did it indicate that she too, like her sister, was under some form of duress?
So many questions. Straining against the melting ice and roaming hand, she fought to keep her concentration. The line of pleasure and pain was on the verge of disappearing again just as it did in the Rashal camp under the distinct yet equally potent influence of Varik and Senelek.
‘I for one, say the queen should be commended!’ Norod exclaimed, having begun some conversation in his own head. ‘She survived the Rashal and managed even to remove them from our lands.’
‘Indeed,’ muttered Remik, ‘she did survive. Though I can’t help asking what she did to earn that survival.’
Caralissa shuddered. She could not believe this was happening to her, that she could find herself in such a state in her own dining hall, in the middle of her own castle. She wanted to tear their eyes out, yet at the same time she was fighting the urge to tear off her clothes and beg the men to use her.
‘One does what one must,’ she said proudly, determined not to sink to the man’s level, ‘to make a stand for the honour of one’s country.’
Remik gulped the rest of his cider, throwing back his head. ‘To making a stand,’ he pronounced, holding up the empty goblet. ‘Even if it means doing so on your back.’
‘I agree,’ said Norod. ‘It is good to have Caralissa back.’
‘I think I speak for us all,’ interjected Telos, ‘when I say that no one thinks ill of our lovely queen. But we must know the truth, mustn’t we?’
All eyes were on Caralissa, who at present was allowing Telos to place a carrot stick in her mouth. The ice was melted by now and she was praying that he would not compel her to take another cube of it between her tortured legs.
‘Lick it,’ he said, moving the shaft-like object in and out of her softly inviting mouth.
Caralissa sucked the carrot like a slut. Would they find her sufficiently arousing to make her lay for them - right here on the marble floor? Or would she be found wanting? In that case they might well punish her, in the Rashal way. Telos would not be above spanking her or even whipping her. The others would happily join in, most especially Remik.
‘Stand up, now,’ Telos told her. ‘Tell us what you have become. Tell us in your heart what you are.’
Caralissa rose to her feet. She could not deny the man, nor could she hide what was inside, what she felt at this moment. For despite her indignation she was wanting to submit, needing to, in fact.
‘Tell us, Caralissa,’ Telos pressed, the smell of victory in his nostrils. ‘Take off your clothes and tell us. Strip yourself and make yourself free.’
Her mouth was dry. Fingers weak and trembling she moved to grasp the end of the crisscrossed string that tied across the bodice of her dress. She was going to do this, she really was.
‘Caralissa, why are you standing up again?’
It was Norod, trying in vain to grasp the implications of what was about to happen. His doddering voice and nasal whine were all the impetus she needed to return her to her senses. She must get away! It was her only chance. Pushing back her chair, fending off Telos’ flailing grabs, she made for the doorway. None of the guards moved to stop her. She would go to the stables, get a horse and ride. It was not a logical plan, but the time for logic was no more. It was about survival now.
No one followed her, though she knew he would come for her. Trajor.
‘Leave her to me,’ she heard him say as she fled the room, no trace of bragging in his voice. ‘I will bring her back.’
Caralissa was adept at riding. Since she was old enough to walk she’d ridden her father’s horses, both with and without saddles. She knew a way into the stables through a loose board. She also knew the fastest horses, and the ones that knew her best. She chose a grey mare with a thick mane and hoofs that struck the earth like thunder. The horse responded to her commands at once, accepting her presence as she leaped on its back. There was no time for a saddle or even a bridle and reins. Kicking off her leather shoes, tearing away the hem of her long dress, she dug in her heels, readying herself for the ride of her life.
Using the horse’s mane for steerage and calling her name, Grey Cloud, she shouted the animal into fighting frenzy. The handful of groomsmen scattered like insects as Caralissa and her mount burst out of the front of the barn, none of them were equipped to follow. Capitalising on the element of surprise, leaping over three fences in rapid succession, she soon found herself alone on the main road. Caralissa did not know where she intended to go, only that she would ride with the wind, her hair flying and her freedom intact for as long as she could manage.
To the border perhaps, and from there across to one of the nearby kingdoms. Or else she might try to get beyond the valley entirely by escaping into the Forest of Night. Yes, that would be the one place she could go where no one would dare follow, least of all the coward Telos. A pang of guilt struck her as she thought of her sister. What if Romila were in trouble? Oughtn’t she try to help? Then again, if she were recaptured what good would that do anyone?
Childishly, she thought now of Varik. What if she could ride to him and beg him to help her? Would he not champion her cause, swooping down into the valley with the host of his army, striking terror into her enemies, magically solving all her problems? Caralissa shook the foolish notion from her brain. Varik did not want her. Why couldn’t she grasp that? How clear did he have to make it? Would she be in this predicament now, a fugitive in her own land, if he cared for her even one iota?
Caralissa heard the sound of the rider behind her almost as quickly as did Grey Cloud. No sooner did the horse’s ears prick up than she herself was turning to look over her shoulder. It was a black mount, bearing down, it’s rider low to the saddle, kicking its side like a man possessed. Like a demon from the mythical pit of fire into which the wicked are cast after death. There was no need to see the glint of silver or the spray of golden hair to know who it was. It was Trajor, coming for her.
Her heart pounded in her chest. She was quarry, vulnerable to the swifter more powerful male. It was only a matter of time till she was caught unless she did something to even the odds. Pulling from the main road she took one last desperate gamble. If she could lose him in the woods, in the royal hunting reserve, she might yet win her freedom. She retained the advantage, having ridden in these woods all her life. There were hidden trails, places to hide, places a large man could not go.
Caralissa ducked to avoid the low branches. Grey Cloud was nervous and needed reassurance. ‘Hold steady, girl,’ she promised, ‘and we will find you the biggest bucket of oats in the Forest.’
Or whatever passed for oats in the Forest of Night.
It was said the Forest was full of demons, and that no one who crossed its borders lived to tell the tale. Maybe demons were what she needed, though. Maybe they were the ones who would champion her cause, find her sister and rid the valley of the interlopers who dared sit at her table, drink her fruit wine, eat her food and mock her honour.
Twice the horse nearly lost its footing. They were going down the side of a hill, the path crisscrossed with exposed roots and twisted underbrush. If she could get below the canopy of umbrella trees at the bottom of the old streambed she could ride for hours, virtually undetected. She could not hear Trajor behind her any more. He followed her as far as the first trees, but appeared to have lost his way at one of the many double-back turns she’d made. Her trail would be unreadable now and in a just a few short minutes she would be out of reach of any of them. Allowing herself a small smile of satisfaction, congratulating herself prematurely, she tucked her head to the horse’s mane, evading thereby a branch, a foot thick and craggy with aged bark.
There was no way the larger, bulkier warrior on his huge steed could follow this path!
‘Good girl,’ she told the horse, even as Trajor dropped on her without warning.
He’d been hiding in the tree above her, having somehow anticipated and cut off her escape path. He landed behind her, his chest pressing her back, his thighs gripping the horse’s flanks. With one hand he clamped her waist while with the other he compelled Grey Cloud to an immediate stop. This accomplished he kicked hard into the horse’s side, issuing a single command, imperious and harsh, compelling the hapless mare to turn around.
Silently they re-ascended the hill. Caralissa voiced not an utterance of complaint, not even when he made Grey Cloud stop in front of a large oak in a grassy clearing at the edge of the woods. For several moments he looked at the tree, then dismounted, having satisfied himself on some score. Pulling Caralissa down after him he tossed her over her shoulder, carrying her effortlessly to the base of the tree.
‘Put your arms above your head,’ he ordered, as soon as he deposited her on the ground.
Caralissa gripped the black earth with her bare toes. The wispy grass tickled her calves. After a second’s hesitation and no more she did as she was told. There was in his eyes a harshness, a glint of steel not unlike that which she’d seen in the eyes of many a Rashal. It was almost a relief as he removed her dress, leaving her naked in the open air. He regarded her, her place and his now clear. She was woman and he was man, she was captive, he was captor.
At his belt he carried rope in a long coil. Tossing one end of it overhead he looped the rough and fibrous coil over a high branch. Fashioning a slipknot he tied it off then used the free end to secure her hands. In a matter of seconds he had her bound, on tiptoes, her body stretched humiliatingly, enticingly.
Unable to move a muscle she watched as he searched among the smaller branches lying about the ground. Discarding several, having tested them first by slashing the air to and fro, he finally settled on a medium-sized one. Employing a knife he stripped away the bark till it was smooth and bare.
All this he did in plain sight, taking his time, allowing her to know that she was in his power absolutely.
‘You were a prisoner of the Rashal,’ he said, placing the stick beneath her chin, raising it to eye level.
‘Yes,’ she replied defiantly.
There was, of course, no need for her to have answered. The fact of her captivity was well known by both of them.
‘I, too, was their captive,’ he said soberly.
The revelation shocked Caralissa more greatly than the surprise of having Trajor leap upon the back of her horse. ‘You?’ she managed. ‘Were a prisoner?’
Trajor nodded. ‘My people were neighbours of the Rashal,’ he told her, tracing a line with the tip of the switch in the valley of her breasts. ‘We were conquered. Most of our men were killed. I was still a boy. I was allowed to live. When I came of age I devised a plan. I escaped into the mountains and became a mercenary. My skills and my knowledge proved quite valuable in the service of those opposing the Rashal. Most recently I have served Norod.’
Caralissa enquired no further. From his tone it was clear no more would be said of the matter - particularly with regard to the details of his escape and prior to this the means of his survival among brutal foes. It was enough to know they shared something in common once, but that now their positions were in opposition. It was nothing personal. He was doing a job. For gold.
The switch played freely over her curves. Trajor was playing with her body, and yet with each touch, light as it was, she shuddered, for she knew what the switch might do to her. She suspected that Trajor, too, had felt such pain. That the experience would somehow weaken him or cause him to cower from his duty to punish her was, however, an impossibility.
Trajor was a warrior. A man of codes, a man of honours.
‘I do not permit the escape of those I am entrusted to guard,’ he told her, the tip of the freshly carved wood resting at the juncture of her thighs. ‘Were you male I would slay you for the attempt, though the act might cost me my own life at the hands of my employers.’
Caralissa’s breath was heavy. ‘I deserve punishment,’ she declared, allowing the device to graze her clitoris. ‘I beg you to punish me, Trajor. I beg you to whip my bottom.’
Trajor slashed instead across the flesh of her breasts. ‘Do not presume to tell me what to do,’ he warned.
Caralissa lowered her tear-filled eyes, the pain stinging her consciousness. ‘Forgive me.’
‘Were you my woman,’ Trajor informed her, compelling her to raise her lowered eyes yet again. ‘You would be taught obedience. As it stands now, you seek to command your masters, dictating the terms of your usage.’ He looked at her more deeply, a puzzled expression on his face. ‘I find that surprising, given where you have been of late.’
Caralissa could not resist the opportunity to brag. ‘Varik, the Rashal chief, loves me,’ she told him. ‘Beware that you do not invoke his wrath when he returns for me...’
Caralissa’s arrogant words melted into a scream as Trajor struck two blows to her belly, savage and efficient, one upon the other. Horrified and shocked she looked at him, then at the angry marks across her flesh. For an instant she contemplated opening her mouth to protest, but when she saw him poised, implacable, ready to do it again, she stifled herself, opting instead to lower her head in silence.
He regarded her. ‘This time,’ he told her, ‘you are denied permission to scream.’
The Orencian queen bit her lip, bracing herself. She’d seen it coming, his arm moving, slowly, deliberately as he positioned himself with perfection. She prayed he would not strike her sensitive sex lips. He did not, opting instead to level a slice on the tender skin across the front of her thighs. Throwing her head back she choked on her own agony, killing thereby the impulse to cry out. Long painful breaths came instead, and a low groan followed by a submissive whimper, but not one scream did she emit.
Though he said nothing by way of encouragement, Caralissa was proud of herself. She was obeying him and - she hoped - pleasing him in the process. She blushed at the implications of her thoughts. She was sounding like a beaten cur, an animal that lived for its master’s approval. Where was her fire, her indignation? Had she suffered so much abuse, and at so many different hands that she no longer grasped her own identity? If so, how would she ever prove to her subjects, let alone her enemies, that she was rightfully queen, fit to govern?
‘Trajor?’ she heard herself ask, her voice sounding hollow and distant. ‘I am hungry. Will you please feed me?’
It seemed a strange request, irrelevant at best, and yet it was only now she’d felt the sharp hunger pangs, the result of not having eaten in over a day.
Trajor gave no response except to whistle, the high-pitched sound carrying far across the meadow on the light breeze. To her amazement a few moments later his horse appeared, happily chomping on a mouthful of grass. Patting the horse in praise, he reached into one of the twin saddlebags.
In it were sugar cubes and a thick slab of bread. Taking the bread for himself, biting off a large chunk, he thrust several of the cubes up to the mouth of the horse. As the animal devoured them noisily, Trajor withdrew his sword and scabbard, which was tied to the side of his saddle. Baring the blade he thrust it cleanly overhead, severing the rope that held her, cleaving it midway between her wrists and the branch.
Caralissa’s release was unexpected. Hands still bound she lost her balance, falling forward onto her knees. Instead of offering her help Trajor snapped his fingers, pointing to a place at his feet. Remembering what he’d said, about how a woman of his should behave, she did not rise but lowered herself onto her hands so that she could crawl to him.
For a reward she was given two of the sweetened cubes, nearly as many as he gave his horse. Weak and hungry, dizzy and exhilarated, she took them from his hand, using only her lips and teeth. The sugar was good, and when she was done she felt grateful. Unbidden she pressed her head to his crotch, kissing him gently, emitting as she did so a soft sigh. It was all a dream; it must be. At any moment she’d awaken and be somewhere else - back in her room or in the tournament field or upon her throne. This was not her: this cringing girl, willing to take her place at a warrior’s feet, her status lower than that of his mount.
Caralissa rubbed her cheek over his throbbing cock, its outline clear now through the rough material of his britches. She wanted him, needed him badly. For a long time he let her beg, with her body, her kisses. At last, having been satisfied with her self-abasement, he opened his belt, allowing her to take him deep inside her hungry mouth. If only she could love him well enough, she told herself, he would keep her safe, spare her from her trials.
‘Trajor,’ she breathed, releasing his unspent shaft, ‘will you not take me away and make me yours? I will live even as your slave.’
Trajor put her mouth back on him. ‘I must take you back to the castle,’ he said. ‘It will be the dungeon for you now. A stone cell and heavy chains. You will be released each day for your trial, so long as it lasts. Whether you are freed ultimately will depend upon the verdict.’
Caralissa arched her neck, parting her lips as wide as they could go. The dungeon would be dark and lonely. She would need this memory, this final act of passion to sustain her. Trajor grunted once, twice, his tones modulated, regulated, like those of a true soldier. He flooded her then, giving her his essence to drink. Obediently she continued her motions, pulling out every last drop, not daring to move until he commanded it, not daring to release his sweet cock again until he withdrew.
‘Good girl,’ he offered softly, rubbing her head with the flat of his hand. Then, more wistfully, ‘I do believe I shall miss you.’
He gave her no opportunity to ask what he meant, for no sooner did he speak the words than he was lifting her to her feet, raising her arms and dressing her as though she were a child. Silently, passively she waited as he helped her into her torn dress, lacing it tightly.
‘You must be bound now,’ he explained, holding up the long coil of rope. Caralissa put her arms to her side, sensing his intent. The twist of his design was cunning, the rope being wrapped tightly over and across her velvet-covered breasts and down between her legs. Her dress was rucked up to her waist in the process. To conclude, he used the end of the rope to secure her arms to her body. Pursing his lips he paused to admire his work. The intent of it, clearly, was not merely to secure her but to sexually bind her, in ways that both flaunted and tamed her womanhood. Caralissa blushed at her arousal, flushing all the more completely to have him notice.
A tiny gasp escaped her lips as he rubbed her hard nipples, pinched efficiently between two layers of the cord. She gasped again when he tugged at the rope invading her crotch. Were he to check with his hand he would find her shamelessly wetting her dress with the juices of her submission.
Having accomplished this initial layer of bondage upon his fair prisoner Trajor hoisted Caralissa over his saddle, on her belly. Pulling a second coil of rope from his saddlebag he secured her, wrapping the cord tight about her so that she could move neither hand nor foot. Checking the ropes and finding them satisfactory, Trajor administered a sound smack to her upturned buttock cheeks before hoisting himself on the saddle.
What an arrogant brute he was! How like Varik, and how unlike the men of the valley, with their sneaking ways and their deceitful cunning. Barbarians, by contrast, took what they wanted and made no effort to hide their desires and lusts. They were men of few words and when they spoke it was to an end. To the end of achieving victory.
The whole way back to the castle, her own mount in tow, she thought more fully of what it would be like to yield to such a man as this mercenary Trajor. It was a frivolous thought, wicked and traitorous, but real nonetheless, reflective of desires that she feared no amount of self-denial would eliminate.
The question was what would become of her if she were made to admit those female desires before Telos and before Norod and his court. Would they use them as pretext to strip her of the throne, turning her rightful place of power over to Romila? Or was Caralissa’s sister in danger too?
Certainly there was no cause to trust the likes of Telos or to assume that he would serve anyone’s interest but his own. It was not impossible and perhaps even likely that he himself fancied the throne of Orencia.
Caralissa struggled, testing the limits of her bondage. Trajor was clearly skilled, having affixed upon her bonds that were both secure and maddening.
Upon their arrival at the castle, Trajor rode directly across the moat and into the courtyard. The dungeon keepers were already waiting for them. Caralissa identified them immediately by their sallow colouring and by their stained grey tunics. It was nearly enough to make her wretch. She had never once set foot in the dungeon, nor did she ever desire to do so. It was one of her goals, in fact, to eliminate the place entirely.
Two of the dungeon men carried her, still bound in the ropes, as though she were a rolled carpet, they lumbered down the dank narrow stairway. The stairs were circular and they seemed to go on forever. Were it not for the steady drop in temperature and corresponding rise in dampness, she might almost believe they were taking her to the very pits of fire.
Caralissa did not like it. Her tender skin, made even more sensitive by the ropes, prickled with every step. There were rumours about the dungeon and the horrors that supposedly took place down here. Stories of rats the size of cats and of brutal instruments of torture used on criminals too wicked to see the light of day.
Surely they would not subject her to such things! She was only a temporary prisoner, a defendant being held for trial. They would never dare to harm her. In fact, by all rights she should be back in her room, under guard or house arrest, and not the dungeon at all.
Caralissa stiffened, her ears pricking as she heard the mournful sound, a lonely, faraway wail. Was it some kind of bird or was it another sort of cry - a human scream to be precise? How she wished she could be with Trajor now, or even Alinor. Perish the thought, even to be in a room with Telos, his hand in her crotch, being forced to eat from his fork was better than this!
At last the stairs ended and they were on level ground. It was difficult to see, the rough stoned walls being only imperfectly illuminated by the torches, one every twenty feet or so.
In between the torches were rows of vertical metal bars. Doors to cells, within which, peering from the dark, she saw eyes. Human eyes, she assumed, though they seemed so lonely and large, so hollow and haunted. Every now and again there came the rustling of chain which made her wonder what sort of men were locked within those terrible cells. She shuddered to think what might happen to her should any of these desperate creatures actually seize hold of her and drag her into its filthy lair.
In one cell she beheld bony knuckles on the bars and deep yellow eyes. As they passed the claw-like hand reached out to graze her tightly bound breast. The fingers made contact with her tender nipple, causing her to scream in horror. A guard came running down the passage and as they passed, he could be seen entering the cell, wielding a large wooden club. From inside came a terrible din as the man surrendered to a beating.
Caralissa felt sorry for him. She hadn’t wanted to be touched but he must be so lonely and she was, after all, only a female. Only a female. Had her thinking come to this, that she would so demean herself?
She was grateful when they reached a better lit area, one with newer stone. Here the doors were rounded and wooden, like the ones upstairs in the castle. Before a particular one they stopped, one of the men rapping upon it lightly.
‘Enter,’ she heard a gruff voice proclaim.
They carried her across the threshold, depositing her on her feet before a wooden platform. Behind it, stooped over, a hammer and spike in his hand, stood an enormous man, both in girth and breadth of shoulders. His eyes were small and red. On his forehead was a birthmark in the shape of a small lake. Caralissa identified him at once as Drendel, the dungeon keeper. He seemed engrossed in breaking some bit of chain and did not even bother to look up at her.
‘Welcome, your majesty, to your humble abode.’ The voice was all too familiar and she did not have to see the man emerge from the shadows behind Drendel to know it was Telos. ‘What’s the matter, your majesty - have you nothing to say to your royal food taster?’
She looked at the man, doing her best to conceal her emotions - the revulsion, the shock, the hurt. ‘I see the answer is no,’ he conceded, his face locked in a superior expression, his gloating barely disguised. ‘In that case, perhaps you would like to greet me instead in my new capacity as your defence attorney.’
Caralissa narrowed her gaze. The news of this latest effrontery was serving to jar her from her earlier state of passivity. ‘And by whose authority is this?’ she demanded.
‘King Norod,’ he said, folding his arms cockily. ‘Apparently he was impressed with how well I took care of you this morning. Naturally, I assured him I would do a splendid job.’
‘Naturally,’ Caralissa agreed dryly.
Telos sighed, his narrow shoulders vibrating very slightly. ‘I daresay you don’t seem very excited. Should I take this personally?’
‘No, Telos, what you should take personally is your own upcoming execution - you and all the rest of your little cabal. And I assure you, this is an event I intend both to orchestrate and to personally witness, from a front row seat.’
‘Still the same old girl, I see.’ He shook his head. ‘I had so hoped the events of the last few hours in Trajor’s company would have, shall we say, altered your disposition towards me?’
She snorted. ‘Trajor is a man, Telos. Too bad you aren’t one yourself, or you might see for yourself if I’ve changed.’
‘Oh, I think I will see plenty,’ he smirked, snapping his fingers to draw Drendel’s attention. ‘Keeper, remove the prisoner’s bonds.’
‘I want to see my sister,’ she demanded, as Drendel lumbered towards her with a sharp knife, easily stripping her of the cumbersome ropes. ‘I want to see Romila.’
‘All in good time,’ laughed Telos. ‘Trust me, you’ll find it worth the wait.’
Caralissa didn’t like the sound of that, not one bit. ‘So will you,’ she bluffed, ‘because after I get out of here I plan on something special for you and your little friends from breakfast. I won’t spoil the surprise, but I will say it involves your losing a bit of weight, from the neck up.’
Telos smiled condescendingly. ‘Save your breath,’ he advised, striding to a place inches from her face. ‘And concentrate on doing what you’re told. For starters, we will require the removal of your clothing.’
Caralissa straightened her back. If Telos thought he would play the part of the dominant warrior he was sadly mistaken. ‘Go ahead and try,’ she told him.
‘Really, Highness, do you think you are in a position to resist us?’
A grunt came from Drendel, who was standing close behind her. ‘Step aside,’ he complained to Telos. ‘I have no patience for your prattling. Eyeing Caralissa he growled, ‘Girl, strip yourself naked before us. Arms extended and crossed. Now.’
Caralissa complied, unable to meet Telos’ gaze. It was as this morning, only worse, for now she was betraying her open and easy submission to the horrid dungeon keeper. She wished to fight the impulse, and yet, how could she help herself? Drendel was ugly and foul, but he was a man, strong, elemental. And she was a female; weak, desirous, needful to obey.
Her knees trembling, her lips soft and open, Caralissa removed her dress. Gracefully, fearfully, she stood hands before her, wrists crossed, quite naked.
Caralissa saw the chains, dangling and gleaming in Drendel’s hands as he fetched them from the worktable.
‘You will not get away with this,’ she promised Telos as the man began to lock her in the merciless bonds of steel.
‘I already have,’ Telos countered. ‘I already have.’
For the next several days Caralissa led a double life; split, as it were, between two worlds. During the day, upstairs at her trial she was a politely demure defendant, silently sitting on a comfortable padded oak chair, the ever-leering Telos at her side. Meanwhile, by night she was an abject prisoner in the dank hole of her cell. Each morning, in order to effect the transition, Deelia was permitted to come to the dungeon to help her, cleaning her, perfuming her and helping her on with whatever particular gown Telos might choose for her to wear that day.
Not surprisingly they were all cut low at the bodice and tight at the waist. It was his special pleasure to sit beside her at the defence table gawking, his drool practically pouring onto her creamy breasts. During the trial itself she was not allowed to speak, except when asked questions by her lawyer. Moreover, she was to keep her hands in her lap at all times. This was especially challenging since Telos seemed not to know how to keep his hands off her to save his life.
At first it was infuriating and frustrating, especially as the man was so entirely childish, sneaking tiny opportunities to grope her breasts or rub his leg on hers. After a while she came to look on it as merely pathetic - an obvious sign of the man’s weakness.
On two occasions he compelled her to take him in her mouth in a dark hallway during a recess. The first time she performed the act with such dispassion he was unable to complete his ejaculation. The second time she moved so quickly he spilled himself before he could derive any enjoyment. The one time he’d tried to lay with her in the judge’s chamber she’d been as a corpse.
Her lack of emotion frustrated the man no end. If he were looking for her to betray herself before him, however, he would find himself sorely disappointed. As for the trial itself, she remained expressionless the entire time, reacting neither positively nor negatively to any of the testimony. Naturally the evidence was quite damning, the prosecution having secured endless bits of evidence of her sexual escapades since returning home.
Alinor was there, to testify to her reaction to the hairbrush on her buttocks and also concerning her wanton desire to be laid by him. Deelia provided her testimony - she sobbed the whole time, begging forgiveness from Caralissa over and over - as to the queen’s pleasuring herself in her sleep as well as her erratic behaviour with regard to the bed sheets.
Trajor, in turn, was called to account for his time with her, though to his credit he remained largely closemouthed, despite frequent warnings of proceedings against him if he did not cooperate. After a long barrage of questions, with Telos being as hostile in his inquiries as was the grey-haired prosecutor, the warrior finally rose to his feet and walked out, declaring that they would have to cut him down where he stood to induce him to speak any further on the matter. They let him go and the next day he was gone for good.
There were also the so-called expert witnesses, men claiming to be skilled in the ways of the Rashal, offering to the court outlandish accounts of ritual Rashal sex acts that would abhor any civilised man. It was a farce of course, although she was quite surprised they were being this careful, amassing such a detailed case, albeit a specious one. Personally, she’d expected to be found guilty within the first hour. Norod, however, seemed intent on dragging things out, with endless minutiae.
Frankly she wished it would all end, for there was nothing in the trial or in Telos’ behaviour that was so unnerving as the constant going back and forth to the dungeon; each emerging into the light of day for brief periods only to be returned once more to Drendel’s dark little world with its thousand miseries. How she dreaded the return each evening to her cell! For starters, she was required to strip in Drendel’s presence. The humiliation of undressing, unfortunately, did not diminish with repetition. Nor did the unwanted thrill she felt when the chains would be brought and she would be required to kneel on the cold stone floor to receive them. The routine was unshakable. First her hands would be shackled, the cold steel encircling her wrists as she placed her arms in front of her, head bowed low. Next would be the collar, with interconnecting chains that would fall directly between her breasts and thighs. At the other end of these were the ankle chains.
Her bondage was only the beginning. There were in the dungeon certain rules she must follow, rules that made her status as virtual slave indisputable. Under no circumstances was Caralissa permitted to rise to her feet unless commanded so by a guard. The occasions for standing were twofold. Number one, to be bound for a whipping or beating, and number two, to be bound for sexual usage. Otherwise she was to convey herself on all fours, head lowered, eyes continuously peeled for male boots, which she was required to kiss and lick whenever she encountered them.
Caralissa was always exhausted at the end of a day. Before she would be allowed to go to her cell, however, she must first crawl to Drendel so he might make use of her mouth. The dungeon keeper was fond of this ritual, especially as it contrasted so greatly with her position as queen - a fact that he delighted in reminding her of. Drendel generally expelled himself in her mouth. Afterwards she could not release him without permission. On one occasion he made her linger over him with her servile tongue till he re-hardened and achieved a second ejaculation.
After Caralissa paid obeisance through oral service she would be allowed to make known any needs she might have, assuming there were no other plans for her which might preclude this precious personal time. It was at this point that she could request to use the bathroom or perhaps beg for a small treat. The term ‘bathroom’, of course, was a euphemism, as she was required to relieve herself over a grate in a large common area full of chained prisoners, all male. There were also the guards who enjoyed watching her as she squatted.
The guards delighted in torturing her on these occasions, requiring her to caress her breasts as she peed. She dared not disobey, for she knew full well it was in their power to decide whether to simply use her themselves or turn her over to the inhabitants of one of the dank cells. Caralissa was quite diligent in seeking to appease the guards and proved to be for them a most arduous lover, for any omissions on her part were corrected with the whip.
If in the end she did not please them enough, or if they simply wished to be cruel, they would allow the prisoners a turn. Caralissa dreaded these times, not only for the horrible stench and the filthiness of these benighted, half-mad creatures, but for the terrible fact that she was helpless to resist these near animals. Even the dirtiest and most pathetic aroused her now and she could be heard to scream in pleasure at their slightest touch. It was as if day by day she was sliding deeper into something dark and irresistible, something in her soul which was less than human, and yet every bit female.
When not in use, Caralissa was kept in a damp cell with barely room for her to lie outstretched. Each night she endured this captivity. Upon her release shortly before dawn she would be required to observe another set of rituals, beginning with her crawling to kiss the feet of the Keeper Drendel. As a signal to rise, a whip would be tapped against the outside of her thigh, inclining her to straighten her back, prettily, obediently.
In this position, her mouth, breasts and sex were all open and available once more to the guards if they so desired, or any early morning visitors who might be present. Alinor made frequent morning stops, as did Remik and several of the council members, the ones she treated most harshly in her rule. Once she pleased the men sufficiently, performing whatever servile acts they might require, she would be allowed food, in the form of scraps for which she begged and licked, having learned quickly that her one bargaining chip was her own helplessly proffered body.
Caralissa sought to earn a good breakfast, for all too soon she would be dressed and returned to court to begin the cycle all over. With the passage of each day it grew harder to distinguish which part of her dual life was more real. At times it was the dungeon that felt like a dream, or rather a nightmare of chains and endless capitulation. And yet more and more this seemed to be her true reality, while her time in the courtroom upstairs, in the light of day, clothed and dignified, the picture of prim royalty, felt like a cruel illusion.
In any event it was with joy that she received the news from Telos towards the end of the second week that there was a ‘sudden break’ in the case and that, thanks to a plea of mercy on his part, Caralissa was to be allowed to make a full confession, after which she would abdicate the throne and receive her sentence. Telos required only her signature on a document to that effect. Naturally, he’d authored the confession himself.
As the terms were read she was put on her knees on the dungeon floor, Telos’ stiff member jammed to the rear of her throat. It made no difference to her now what she might sign or what might happen to her. All she cared about was Romila, and how at last her greatly wronged and mistreated sister would take her rightful place on the throne.
Telos grunted as he expended himself down her gullet. ‘There you have it, my dear. You need only scratch upon the dotted line and we shall be done with the matter.’ He tossed the parchment paper upon Drendel’s worktable.
‘I will not oppose you,’ she said, under his stalwart gaze.
Telos studied her where she lay exhausted at his feet, then shrugged. ‘I must admit,’ he confessed, drying his shrivelling member with a thick wad of her hair, ‘my disappointment. Have we really broken you so easily?’
‘My life is nothing,’ she told him. ‘I would have signed such a document from the beginning. I only ever wanted one thing in exchange.’
‘And what might that be, my sweet?’
‘My sister’s safety. And the knowledge that she will be made queen, as is her right.’
Telos laughed dryly. ‘You underestimate me again, my red-haired slut. Surely you can see I must remove both you and your sister if I am to become king? Guards!’ he called out through the open doorway. ‘Fetch prisoner number twelve!’
Caralissa felt a sickness in the pit of her stomach. She did not need to see the face to guess the identity of the mysterious number twelve.
‘Ah,’ Telos chortled as they brought her in. ‘The grand reunion.’
Caralissa was allowed to rise, her balance shaky in the heavy chains. It was, of course, her sister who hung limply in the arms of a huge guard. Romila was in rags, wearing the remainder of a sheer undergarment torn at the left hip and at the bodice. Her lustrous black hair was loose, a wild tangle about her shoulders. She was barefoot and dirty.
‘Romila,’ she gasped, the tears welling in her eyes. ‘What have they done to you?’
‘Let them embrace,’ Telos said, as they sought to keep the two apart. ‘I am a sentimentalist at heart.’
Romila was shaking all over. Her eyes were full of fear. Despite her earlier bravado it was clear she lacked her sister’s strength and imagination to endure her subjugation. ‘Caralissa,’ she said, her voice so very tiny. ‘What have I done to us?’
‘Romila has been our guest nearly as long as you have, my dear,’ Telos explained, folding his arms across his chest. ‘Though we’ve not given her the luxury of a cell. She is somewhat more inexperienced than you. I have taken the liberty of breaking her in personally. I keep her chained at the foot of my bed when she is not otherwise occupied.’
Romila lowered her gaze, her cheeks red with shame.
‘You son of a bitch!’ Caralissa screamed, lunging at Telos. ‘I swear I’ll kill you with my bare hands!’
She never reached him, having been seized immediately by a guard, her arms pinioned behind her.
‘Really, Caralissa,’ Telos sneered. ‘I expected better coming from you.’
She spat at him, falling far short of her target. ‘And from you I expect nothing - nothing human, at any rate!’
Telos laughed. ‘Always on your moral high horse, aren’t you? Why don’t you ask your sister what she thinks of me and my methods?’ Snapping his fingers he called to Romila. ‘Come girl, show your sister how affectionate you’ve become.’
Caralissa squirmed in the guard’s grasp. ‘No, sister, don’t do it!’ she cried, seeing how Romila was about to abase herself.
For a moment Romila hesitated, looking both to her sister and then to Telos. Finally, as he snapped his fingers again, calling her name more harshly, she jerked forward, traversing the distance step by step.
‘Good girl,’ Telos said smoothly, rubbing his hand over her head as she fell to his feet.
Caralissa felt a wave of pure nausea as she watched him put his hand to her sister’s mouth, receiving from her a series of wet, servile kisses. Romila closed her eyes and trembled the whole time, as though fighting her own desires. It seemed a conditioned response. A trained reaction.
‘Before her enslavement, your sister would never actually touch me. Did you know that, Caralissa?’
‘You won’t get away with this, Telos. My sister has committed no crime.’
Telos was busy running his pinkie finger over Romila’s lips, inducing her to open them. The girl whimpered at first, clearly ashamed, but after a few seconds she opened her mouth and began to suck at his fingers.
‘Your sister lacks your skills, Caralissa, and your natural whore’s instinct, but she’s not bad. And yes, I will get away with it. I told Norod she was kidnapped by your Rashal friends and the old fool believed me.’
Caralissa would have ripped her own arms off to escape the guard’s hold on her. In a heartbeat she would be at Telos’ throat, squeezing the life out of him. ‘By the goddess,’ she vowed, ‘you’ll pay for this, I swear it!’
If only she possessed a man’s strength - even half that of a Rashal warrior. Or for that matter, if she could but borrow a company of Varik’s men so they might sweep down upon the castle and burn it to the ground. Better to see it in ruins than under the rule of Telos. As for the crown, she wished it did not exist. What good had it done her or her father or her sister? Let the Rashal destroy everything; let them build again from the ground up.
‘Do you hear me, Telos? I curse your name.’
Telos ignored her threats, his lust-filled eyes focused exclusively on his hapless victim. ‘She lacks your curvaceous form as well,’ he observed, grabbing cruelly at Romila’s small breasts. ‘Then again, not all women can have the body of a slut.’
‘Insult me all you like, Telos. Possess me, whip me, but leave her be. She is innocent. It’s me you want.’
‘You?’ Telos snorted, pulling Romila to her feet and facing her in Caralissa’s direction. ‘What a vain little whore you are. What do you know of what I want? What do you know of true love? Romila, show your sister how much you love me. Show you sister your belly.’
Romila’s eyes were vacant, downcast. Mechanically she lifted the hem of the torn, stained garment. Caralissa nearly cried out as she saw the whip marks, crisscrossing her stomach and breasts. Further down she was wet, her open vagina, primed for use. Like herself, Romila had become a man’s plaything, nothing more.
‘Oh, sister,’ Caralissa wept. ‘I’m so sorry. It’s all my fault. It should have been me. I should have suffered in your place.’
‘No,’ said Romila, finding her voice. ‘You shouldn’t have.’ Turning her head towards Telos, she asked, ‘Sir, will you please release me, that I may go to my sister?’
The request was so mild, so servile, even Telos seemed taken aback. Wordlessly he complied with her desires.
Romila went to her sister.
‘Release her,’ Telos ordered Caralissa’s guard.
Caralissa fell into her sister’s arms. They both wept openly.
‘Romila, I’m so sorry. I only wanted to help our kingdom.’
‘Oh, Caralissa,’ her sister cried. ‘I am the one who should be sorry. I should never have allowed this to happen to you. I don’t know what came over me.’
‘It’s all right,’ Caralissa said at last. ‘Now that I see you, I know it’s all right. We love each other, that is all that matters.’
‘How touching,’ sneered Telos, yanking Romila by the hair and thrusting the blade of a dagger against her throat. ‘Now sign the paper, Caralissa, or I will kill you both.’
Numbly, as if walking on air, Caralissa went to the table and picked up the quill pen.
‘Good choice,’ he told her as she showed him the completed signature. ‘Now we can conclude this ridiculous trial and send that senile old fool Norod on his way. Guards, chain these two slaves from the ceiling. We won’t be needing them for the time being.’ He pointed to the huge man and to one other, a short fellow. ‘You and you, do what you want with them for the day. Use your imagination and don’t worry about getting in trouble. I sent Drendel on errands for the day.’
‘But Telos,’ Romila cried, tears in her eyes, ‘I thought you loved me!’
Telos laughed cruelly. ‘You expected me to waste my time on a skinny little bitch like you? Don’t be ridiculous. You were valuable only when you might have become queen. Now you’re just a slut like any other.’
‘Please!’ she cried. ‘At least let my sister go! Caralissa won’t harm you!’
‘Neither of you will harm me, once Norod crowns me king.’
Telos laughed all the way to the stairs. Caralissa was trying desperately to comfort her brave sister but the guard was holding her fast, attaching her to the chain. In the end she could get no closer than a foot from Romila as together, arms pinioned overhead, they were chained on tiptoe, side by side, their bodies stretched wantonly.
‘Oh, Caralissa,’ Romila wept as her scant covering was torn away,’ I am so ashamed. Telos made me do things; he made me want him. I could not help giving him...’ Romila’s voice trailed off as calloused fingers, thick as bananas, began mauling her breasts. With his other hand the guard flicked a thumb over her dark fleece, casually, insolently.
‘We’re going to play for a while, princess,’ the hulking man croaked, the man who’d brought her in, his stinking alcohol-soaked breath in her ear. ‘Doesn’t that sound nice?’
She tried to turn her head away to avoid his kissing mouth. ‘Please, just leave us alone,’ Romila begged. ‘What have we ever done to you?’
‘Nothing,’ he conceded. ‘You did nothing, you and your stuck-up sister both, strutting your arses, flashing your tits, making us all hard and not a damned thing we could do about it.’
‘Nothing at all,’ echoed the second guard, a stocky fellow with a stringy beard who at the moment was occupied with Caralissa’s nipples, pinching them between his smaller thumbs and forefingers.
‘Just let them have what they want,’ Caralissa gasped, her words a ragged string as she fought the mounting sensations. ‘Come for them, and they won’t hurt you any more.’
‘Get away!’ Romila shrieked, ignoring her sister as she squirmed to avoid her tormentor’s liquor-saturated kisses.
‘You have to know how to handle ‘em,’ the stocky fellow advised. ‘Observe my technique.’
Caralissa saw stars. He was ratcheting up the pressure, sending shooting sensations down the front of her.
‘Kiss me, queenie,’ he told her, leaning in malevolently, one hand at her crotch. Desperately Caralissa gave him her mouth, allowing him to plunder it with his tongue. ‘There, you see?’ he bragged, releasing Caralissa’s throbbing nipples. ‘She’s nice and easy. Yours will be just the same.’
Caralissa felt herself flood at the casual mention of her subservience, her nonexistent virtue. It shamed her deeply to react this way in front of her own sister.
The big man muttered an oath. ‘Why do I always get the frigid bitches?’ he complained.
‘Why not switch?’ the other offered jovially.
‘I’d be much obliged,’ the giant said.
The stocky fellow hooked his thumb inside Caralissa’s vagina and pressed hard enough to get her attention. ‘You be nice to my friend, understand, queenie?’
‘Yes,’ she whispered out of reflex, ‘master.’
Caralissa let the new man kiss and fondle her, giving him appreciative little moans as well as the full effect of her curvaceous body, as much of it as she could move in her present bound state.
The man’s belly and shoulders heaved. He was red-faced, hard and hot. Scrambling to undo his trousers, he plucked between his legs to expose his member. Puffing and snarling he fed himself inside her. She was wet, of course, and completely open. She thought he might have a heart attack as he rutted at her. Trying to forget her own predicament she looked over to her sister. The stocky fellow, obviously the cleverer of the two, retrieved a leather drink pouch from his pants. Unscrewing the top he put the bottle to Romila’s lips.
‘Drink,’ he said menacingly. ‘Or it won’t be my cock you’ll have to slake, it’ll be a bullwhip.’
Romila looked at him wide-eyed, as if waiting for him to tell her it was all a joke. Would that it were! Alas, she knew in her heart it was only the beginning of an intended life of slavery and degradation, one that would reduce the sisters to cringing beasts, scarcely recognisable as human beings. Pinching her eyes shut against the tears she thought of Varik even as she addressed her terrified sister. ‘It’s okay, Romila,’ she lied. ‘Just drink, it’ll do you good.’
Romila parted her lips, allowing the man to press the mouth of the pouch to them. She sputtered, but managed to take down a large gulp anyway. The stuff seemed to calm her almost immediately, which was just as well, for the man was behind her now, opening his trousers, taking careful aim in the furrow of her cheeks.
Romila cried out briefly, but as he began to thrust his way in and out with increasing vigour she grew strangely silent. How Caralissa wished she knew what was going on in her sister’s mind. Was she coping, preparing to yield, or would she succumb to madness?
‘Do you like that?’ the big man asked Caralissa, having stroked himself back to life. ‘You want more?’
Caralissa bit her lip. ‘Just be quick about it,’ she pleaded. ‘For my sister’s sake.’
The big man moved behind her. Without preamble he cleaved her buttocks, forcing himself into the narrower of her two channels.
‘Quick is his middle name,’ the other man grunted, his own loins being fully immersed in the sweet womanhood of Romila.
‘At least I get off in the end,’ the big man laughed good-naturedly.
The jibes seemed to spur them both on. A few more minutes of sweating and grunting and they were done, both of them. Without saying another word they turned on their heels and left. The two girls stayed like that for a long time: silent, alone, suspended in chains with nothing to do but wait.
‘Just a while longer, Romila,’ Caralissa encouraged. ‘Just hold on and help will come. Just wait, Romila. Wait and see.’
If her sister heard her, she wasn’t sure, but after a long time of sobbing Romila seemed to hang more peacefully in her bonds. Caralissa hoped she’d managed to fall asleep. Chances are it would be the only rest Romila would get for a long time to come. As for herself, she would bide her time. There was nothing Telos could do to her now that would shake her hope in Varik.
‘Let him come,’ she whispered, ‘let him come soon. And if he cannot come then at least allow me to go on believing he will. For if I cannot believe then surely I will die.’
Caralissa knelt, her head to the marble floor, awaiting the arrival of the king. She was naked and it was his intention this morning to share her body with yet another company of his troops. This latest indignity was just one more heaped upon her by the poseur, the fraud Telos. It was three days since the conclusion of the trial. By Norod’s verdict, she was now a slave in the castle, while Romila was to be sold at auction to a pleasure-house. Her sister had fainted upon hearing her sentence, much to Telos’ delight. Personally, Caralissa would have preferred the pleasure-house; at least then she would be gone from this horrid place, and from the sight of the man she so despised.
The new king, of course, was delighting in his victory. His usage of her body was almost constant and he allowed her only a few hours of rest each day. When not actually beneath him she was forced to endure spankings, whippings and long periods of bondage. In addition he employed castle guards and soldiers whom she was required to pleasure on a regular basis. It was reaching the point where her brief respites chained by the neck to the foot of the man’s bed were a comparative diversion, an opportunity for peace and quiet.
Mostly during her ordeals she thought of Romila, distracting herself by trying to convey good thoughts to her sister. The two had been separated since their sentencing, and presumably the stoic Romila was long gone by now. Caralissa could only imagine what it was like for her; prayers on her behalf to the goddess were on her lips almost constantly. The only reassurance she felt - and this was small to be sure - was that her sister shared her blood and would therefore likely find pleasure in her treatment to at least a small degree.
For her own part, she did her best to appear neither pleased nor displeased with what was done to her. Although she could not avoid screaming her pleasure when possessed, she did manage to restrain her temper at his cruelties such that Telos derived little satisfaction from owning her. She knew it was a fight he wanted, and therefore she vowed never to give it to him.
Unable to hide his own emotions, Telos was growing more and more furious at her lack of defiance. She herself drew great joy seeing him so thoroughly confounded. Having a weak personality to begin with, it must have been eating Telos alive to see her so indifferent. In order to outwit her he devised trials to elicit what he hoped would be uncontrollable responses on her part. This morning, for example, she was to orally please twenty cavalry troops as they stood in a line.
She heard their marching feet before she saw them. The boots tromped past her, each set representing yet another organ she must take between her lips. There was a trumpet’s sound, first to signal the closing of their ranks, the second to mark the arrival of the king. It was a great flourish, a cavalcade of nonsense that would have disgusted her father. Leave it to Telos to need to have his ego fed so lavishly.
At long last the order was given and Caralissa went to work. Rising to her knees she went from man to man, inserting each to maximum depth, exerting upon them the sweetest pressure, allowing her mouth to be a dream of pleasure. There was no flavour to the men, no scent, for she blocked out such things now.
It was a matter of sheer mathematics as she counted twenty shafts with their spurting hotness. Twenty times was her mouth breeched, twenty times did she induce a climax and drink it down. Telos observed everything, following her and calling her names the entire time, seeking to compound her shame. Afterwards he put her on her back, pressing his booted heel down on her stomach.
‘How much sperm is inside you, your majesty?’ he demanded, employing her former title to maximum effect.
She gave no reply. Splayed as she was, her vagina soft and wet, her arousal thick in the air, what could she say? Using only his foot he made her orgasm then, her body spasming upon the floor. It was a degrading way to be had and naturally the sated soldiers were invited to stay on as witnesses.
‘Whore,’ he snarled at her, spitting upon her face when he was done. ‘Go now and kiss the feet of every one of those men. Thank them for using your whore’s mouth!’
She considered correcting him, pointing out that she could not be a whore, as prostitutes receive payments for their sexual acts, while she received nothing, save her life and the incidental privilege of sleeping on his floor and eating occasional scraps of food from the hand of one or another of her possessors. There seemed however little point to making this distinction as it would only earn her a beating.
‘Yes, master,’ she told Telos. Upon hands and knees, crawling from man to man, she kissed and licked the boots of each, thanking them humbly.
‘Here, girl,’ Telos snapped his fingers when they were gone. Caralissa crawled to him, weak and weary. He told her she would now have to clean the floor, to remove the filth of her sexual antics. That they had sported with her on only a few square feet of space was of no import, Telos said. She would clean the entire floor, if it took her all day. And if she complained, well then there would be no need to give her a scrub brush, would there? Not when she could use her body as a cleaning implement.
Telos waited, clearly hopeful he’d at last raised her unquenchable ire. Alas she disappointed him again. Putting her head to the floor, hair spread out about his feet, she replied, without an ounce of sarcasm, ‘If master wishes, this slave will clean the floor with her tongue or with her tits.’
Her response seemed to silence him. Without another word he stormed off. A few moments later the steward arrived to inform her that she was to scrub not the small antechamber, but the very walls of the castle itself. Had she any emotion left she might have cried to see the thirty-foot high wall, craggy and filthy made of huge cut stones, and her alone, naked, in the hot sun, with only a small bucket of suds and a tiny brush. Could there be a more cruel or more futile task?
She worked for the better part of an hour, with no end in sight. She’d done barely a fraction of the surface area by then, and her water was already so filthy she was accomplishing little more than the transport of dirt from one place to another. She was just as filthy, and covered in sweat as well. Clearly she would never make it. She would not, however, give him the satisfaction of abandoning her work. Never would he have an excuse either to punish her or to gloat over having reduced her to total failure. She was better than him and stronger, and she would prove it.
Besides, Telos was a usurper, a tyrant, and such men always got their comeuppance, even though it might be slow in coming, even though it might take years of suffering on the part of their victims. However long, she would wait. And if death came first, then from beyond the grave she would still wait.
‘What takes you so long, my queen?’
Caralissa stiffened. Telos was behind her, his sickening voice all too obvious in her ears. ‘Forgive me, master. This slave serves as best she is able,’ she replied, continuing her work.
Telos placed his booted foot between the backs of her legs, forcing her to separate them. ‘You are the picture of obedience as usual,’ he observed. ‘Forgive me if I am suspicious of your motives.’
‘Slaves have no motives. No thoughts, no rights, no feelings either.’ She resisted the urge to shudder with revulsion as he poked his gloved finger into her open loins.
‘Spoken with true and humble devotion. But we both know better in your case, don’t we?’
Caralissa heard the sound of leather slipping through the air. ‘I do not understand, master.’
The belt struck her buttocks with surprising force. It was not like the whip, but still it was enough to make her wince.
‘Do not stop your work,’ Telos commanded.
A second blow followed the first. Caralissa continued to scrub.
‘If you wish to,’ he offered, ‘you may cry out or beg for mercy.’
She stooped to dip the brush in the water. ‘Master is generous.’
‘I am thinking of selling you, you know.’
Caralissa maintained the rhythm of her scrubbing, rising on tiptoes to reach a particularly troublesome spot. ‘Oh?’
‘Yes.’ He let the belt lightly touch her heated skin, allowing the leather to make contact with her legs and sex. ‘Does the prospect frighten you? The idea that some stranger would have total power over you, your very body and life, and that you would have no say even in how he looked or whether he was kind or anything?’
She smiled grimly, knowing he was baiting her. ‘As master wishes.’
Telos grabbed her waist. ‘I want to know what you think,’ he breathed hotly in her ear. ‘And I know ways to make you talk that don’t involve the whip or belt.’
Caralissa drew a deep breath. It was true there was another way. But what he might obtain by it would mean nothing.
‘You have a delicious body, Caralissa,’ he observed, piercing her with his exposed cock. ‘It is a pleasure to own you.’
‘Yes, master,’ she sighed, pressing her breasts against the wet stones as he increased his pace.
‘Although I find your name a bit long now, a bit unwieldy for a slave. Have you any suggestions for a better one?’
She shivered as he paused, the ridge of his cock pressing her clitoris. ‘No, master.’
He shoved himself hard. ‘Hmm,’ he noted, ‘what did the Rashal chief call you? Or didn’t he give you a name while he was using you?’
She shook her head. That was a secret. She couldn’t be made to reveal such a thing.
‘Tell me,’ Telos demanded, reaching round to seize her nipples in a way fraught with pleasure and pain. ‘Tell me now.’
‘Little Flame!’ she cried, her voice breaking apart.
Telos snorted. ‘Little Flame? Well isn’t that sweet. Coming from a Rashal butcher. Personally, I prefer something simpler. Don’t you agree?’
‘Yes,’ she whimpered, miserable and broken, ‘master.’
Telos made a suggestion for a name, as vulgar as it was coarse.
Caralissa reddened. After this morning even she had to admit it was appropriate.
‘I’ll take your silence to be acquiescence. Actually, though, I think just plain ‘Cara’ might be good. Shorter, easier on the tongue. Yes, Cara it is.’
She pictured him calling her that, shaming her with the diminutive of her own name, employing it as a mere slave appellation. ‘Please, master,’ she begged, ‘may I come?’
Telos withdrew his stabbing shaft. ‘May who come?’
‘May Cara come,’ she corrected. ‘Please, master, Cara begs to come.’
He watched her, noted her writhing, the helpless twitching motions of her back and buttocks. Deciding to torture her further, he said, ‘And why should the King of Orencia be bothered giving pleasure to a slave? Do you insult his majesty?’
‘No, master,’ she thrust her buttocks towards him. ‘The slave Cara begs the king to use her unworthy body, to shoot himself deep within her.’
‘Will the slave Cara be pleasing to me, then?’ he asked, as though she were some person entirely new to him.
‘Yes, oh yes. She is hot, majesty, and delicious, by your own words.’
‘Do not use my own words against me,’ he warned. ‘I shall be the judge of your quality. For now I command you to fall naked upon your belly.’
Caralissa, now Cara, obeyed instantaneously, feverishly lowering her smooth stomach down onto the dirt as his feet. The surface of it was cool and gritty on her thighs and breasts and cheek.
Telos fell upon her, reclaiming the channel only recently vacated. ‘Now,’ he hissed, finally feeling himself to have the upper hand. ‘Tell me what you really think of me. No more lies!’
‘I hate you,’ she wailed, unable to hold back the words. ‘I despise you.’
‘And yet I am within you; and you yourself begged for me to be there.’
‘Yes!’ she cried, hating herself far worse than him. ‘I have betrayed myself and my people both.’
‘But you need to be taken, do you not? Even on your belly, on the ground for all to see, with a man you hate, who makes you scrub your own castle, who reduces you to servitude, a man who prostitutes your body and that of your sister - even from such a one, you still need it.’
‘I do,’ she cried, the confession pouring forth from deep in her soul. ‘I am a slut, a woman who has lost her honour!’
‘Women have no honour,’ he corrected. ‘Women exist to please men and for no other purpose.’ He pressed her harder, pointedly. ‘This is what you are, Cara. For all your beauty and power and privilege, this is what you were made for. Admit it.’
She grit her teeth, wincing. Yes, he was right, but it was not for him, but for Varik that she was made. It was to him she wished to yield; to him she desired to give her body and heart, to submit to his pleasure, his discipline, his incredible love. ‘Please,’ she gasped. ‘Please no more.’
‘No more?’ he fumed. ‘Do you reject your king?’
Telos retracted his hips, making room enough to smack her buttocks with his bare hand. The blow was petty, but under her current circumstances the stinging contact was maddening. Her sweat-covered body filthy on the ground, she groaned low and deep. Twice more Telos repeated the procedure, interspersing the blows with long, mind-churning thrusts.
Caralissa whimpered, mewling for her release, begging all over again for him to finish her off. She was beside herself, beyond reason. There was no limit now to what she’d promise to him, to what she’d offer to make of herself to achieve release. Thankfully Telos too seemed to be on the brink. His endless chatter ceased as he focused on his having of her. Pushing his hands onto the small of her back he positioned himself for his maximum pleasure. Liquid splashed her shoulder blades. She identified it as the man’s drool, running in a line from the corner of his mouth. He was muttering obscenities, blithering to some god or other. She could feel him swelling, readying himself to explode.
She nearly fainted when it came, a rushing torrent down into her womb, her soft body cushioning him as he fell onto her, his energy dissipating. Without asking permission she climaxed with him, though hers was an act not of conquest but of utter abasement and submission, a perfect counterpoint to his own selfish grasping. Repulsed and desperate at the same time, Caralissa screamed and cried out, making clear to any in the vicinity that she was indeed Telos’ slave now, the slut of his loins.
‘You are improving,’ he said, with a final grunt, the insulting compliment delivered along with a tongue slobbering of her ear. ‘It is too bad I am going to be selling you anyway.’
She heard the words from deep within her cocoon. She could no longer care or react or move. Telos had won. Whatever reserve of strength was left, whatever pride, it was somewhere far away. Somewhere she would have to rediscover. In her dreams, perhaps, whenever they might resurface.
She only prayed that her new master or masters, whoever they might be, would not discover them first and exploit them, chalking them up as part of her purchase price.
‘Clean me off,’ Telos commanded, compelling Caralissa to lick her own juices from his rapidly diminishing cock. Caralissa obeyed, though she knew it would only serve to arouse him again, thereby insuring her ongoing violation. What choice did she have? She was a slave now, no longer queen, no longer free.
‘That’s it,’ he encouraged as he swelled within her warm mouth. ‘Take it down take it all. It will be good practice for your auction tomorrow.’
Caralissa moaned. He was going to sell her in front of strangers, to the highest bidder.
‘That’s right, my little slut. An auction. You and your sister both. Naked, completely naked.’ Telos reached between her legs, found her wet. ‘You like that, don’t you?’ he chortled.
She shook her head vigorously but he only laughed all the harder, smearing the glistening evidence across her cheek.
Caralissa closed her eyes, telling herself for the millionth time it was not her fault. She was not a slut; she was neither enjoying nor desiring her own conquest. She was being forced, being made to respond to mechanical impulses only.
It was a lie, of course, but one she must perpetuate. How else could she endure, except that she pretended to still be a lady? Were she to truly accept the slavery of her heart and live it out there would be no hope left, no chance to ever again see the ones she loved, for Telos would have won, would have eliminated her spirit.
Hope. There was hope. If for no other reason than that Telos had let slip that Romila was still in the castle and that she would see her tomorrow. At their auction.
Cara the slave girl knelt naked in her chains watching the makeshift stage, a wooden platform hastily erected in the castle grounds. As this exact moment the naked Romila was being made to spread herself painfully wide upon it. She was on her back, her hips raised as the crowd full of strangers cheered wildly. Sweat covered her body, along with fresh red welts from the auctioneer’s whip, the lash having induced her ready cooperation with his commands, lewd and disgraceful as they were.
The need to display her thusly was understandable, of course, considering that Romila was being sold as a pleasure-house girl, a woman whose value would consist solely in her ability to arouse men through her own subjugation and degradation. She must not only know how to submit, but how to arouse men in the process. Could she make them hard by prostrating herself to their whips, by throwing herself to their feet to be beaten and taken? Could she drive them half mad with desire, begging with her bound body and eyes to be abused at their hands in the pleasure rooms?
The auctioneer was most brutal in his appraisal. He told the audience that he felt she was too thin, too frigid and inexperienced. Cheeks red, tears streaming down her face she was made to display herself, in all her imperfections. Twice she was brought to orgasm by hand, and even here her deficiencies were fully noted. Caralissa would have strangled the man if she could. He had no right to wound her pride this way. Then again, Romila was a slave now and as such she had no right to her pride or to any identity at all, save that thrust upon her by a master.
‘What am I bid?’ the man roared, his head cloaked in black cloth as he slashed across Romila’s vulnerable belly.
Caralissa winced, as though struck herself. Were she able she would take all of Romila’s pain. But there was nothing she could do, save wait her own turn on the stage, and her own fate.
A number was called out, none too high.
The auctioneer displayed shock. ‘But lords and ladies,’ he said. ‘Surely she is trainable?’
Romila was pulled up onto her knees, the man’s hands in her hair. Using the back of his whip as if it were a penis, he thrust it between the lips of the stunned girl, forcing her to take it deep. She gagged, fighting the sensation of the leather. The auctioneer was relentless, moving it in and out. Romila’s hands were over his, ineffectively trying to stop the assault.
‘Put your hands down,’ the man ordered. ‘Down, and between your legs.’
Romila went pale, her eyes desperate. She tried to shake her head, to resist, but his gaze was like iron. After a few seconds of feeble protest Romila did as she was told, commencing to masturbate, it shamed her greatly though it proved a boon to the bidding.
Higher and higher numbers were shouted as the girl awkwardly pleasured herself, all the while servicing the whip handle with her soft and gurgling mouth. At the peak of her shuddering a phenomenal price in gold was announced, and the auctioneer drew the bidding to a close. Shaken, stunned, Romila was removed from the stage, her body thrust into the hands of a dark-robed man, his face veiled.
Romila’s owner. Or her owner’s agent. Either way, she was now sold, Caralissa thought in amazement. Her sister’s body, her person, her very being now belonged to someone else, a stranger. A pleasure-house owner, if Telos’ earlier threat were made true. In which case she would be put on display, compelled to serve drinks and to have sex with an endless number of strangers on a nightly basis, earning for herself little more than the amenities one might grant a household pet.
As they dragged Romila away, a heavy chain now secured to her neck, Caralissa despaired of ever seeing her sister again. What good were all her hopes, what good in the face of steel chains and whips and men who paid money for females, bidding on them as if they were horses or dogs? What good when it was now her turn to perform, to be assessed and sold?
‘Your sister did better for us than we’d hoped for,’ the auctioneer whispered, helping her delicately up the platform steps, her bare feet pressing gingerly on the wood surface. ‘Which means we expect all the more from you.’
Caralissa reached the top step. They allowed her to wait a moment there as they hauled up the large contraption. It was quite simple in design. A flat base, covered in some sort of thick material some fifteen feet square, and in the centre a vertical spike-like object, tapering into a rounded knob, smooth and ebonite. There were gales of laughter as the men set it in place. The thing was nearly a foot and a half high and very much the shape of a man’s shaft.
Caralissa turned pale. Its purpose was all too obvious.
‘Do exactly as I say,’ the man commanded, releasing her from the shackles and seizing her left breast. ‘And be quick about it. Any trouble from you and I won’t be dainty with the lash the way I was with the other little slut. Understand?’
Caralissa nodded, her sensitive nipple cruelly twisting in the man’s grip.
‘I hope so,’ he growled, pushing her down by the neck till she was on all fours. ‘For your sake.’
His first command was for her to crawl upon the base and kiss the shaft. Upon closer inspection she saw it was a perfect representation of a penis, though far longer than any she’d seen in real life, even among the cavalry officers.
‘Rub your tits on it,’ he barked.
Caralissa put her firm breasts against the cool, seamless material. Closing her eyes she released a tiny moan. She could imagine the things that were coming next, the things she’d have to do before these men. They were sickening things, and yet she was aroused nonetheless. What a slut she was!
‘Squeeze your tits around it. Move them up and down. Faster. Faster.’
She wrapped the shaft in her soft flesh, pleasuring it there as though it were inside one of her other openings. In order to get close enough she was required to kneel up and spread her legs on either side of it. It was a hard material, but flexible nonetheless. The feel of it was making her hot, making her need to do things, sexual things. And yet she’d have to await his orders, no matter how long he made her wait.
‘Put your cunt to it, now,’ he said, punctuating the request with a slash of the whip across her back. ‘Juice yourself.’
Caralissa cried out as she thrust herself forward so that her sex was in direct contact, lengthwise. She shuddered as she slid herself up and down, tentatively. The fragrance of her arousal was heavy. Shutting her eyes against the sea of faces, she began to yield.
A bid was called. The number was respectable.
‘Remember, gentlemen, lords and ladies, this is the former queen. Would you not like to own her? To have her body to caress or beat, to put to your every whim?’
More bids; he was prickling their interest.
‘Put your mouth down over the top of it,’ the man told her, laying a stripe across her buttocks. ‘Hands behind your neck.’
Caralissa obeyed, linking herself by mouth to the shaft. She did not need to be whipped another time to know she must suck. She had to put her chin to her chest to take in the top of it, though once achieved it was a wondrous sensation. Dirty, disgusting, and yet very pleasurable. The shaft was like a lover. She was fused to it now, from her face down to her delta. It was a clever device, diabolical yet brilliant. She’d thought the design awkward at first, but she realised its nefarious purpose. For even as she felt the need to rub her clit faster and faster against the side, she found herself drawing the end deeper and deeper into her mouth.
Whimpering and mewling she deep-throated the thing like a demon, desperate to obtain the friction necessary to orgasm. Her motions, and the passion evinced by it, seemed to impress the buyers, for she was now at a hundred and fifty thousand, already ten thousand more than her sister’s price.
‘Look at her, friends. Have you ever seen such a natural slut? Which of you would not wish to be this lucky piece of rauxite?’ he joked, naming the particular material from which the shaft was composed. ‘Which of you would not like to train her to please you this way?’
Of course they all would; who in their right mind could resist the naked, aroused girl, subjugating herself, reducing herself in all their eyes to little more than a hot, sleek animal?
‘What would you do with her?’ he pressed, inflaming their imaginations and libidos alike. ‘Would you keep her naked, chain her to your bed, lock her in a cage, flay her each day with your whip? Or would you be more merciful, allowing her clothes, giving her tiny scraps of dignity so that you might have the pleasure of taking them back from her?
‘Would you require her, with her mouth and cunt and arse to earn her scraps of food, her rags? Would you compel her to lay for passers-by, for friends and enemies, would you tattoo her skin to mark her forever or is there some other dream of yours, secret and untold?’
Romila’s asking price was now doubled. Hands were flying fast in the air, men were wildly applauding and cheering. And it was all for her.
‘Enough game playing,’ said the auctioneer to Caralissa. It is time they see how well you can screw.’
The word ‘screw’ seemed apropos, for indeed that is exactly what Caralissa was forced to do, having to go up on tiptoe to fit herself over the end of the elongated shaft. She gasped as the auctioneer commanded her to squat and impale herself. The shaft filled her, making her throb with shame and need.
‘You know what to do, slut,’ he bellowed, treating her to another taste of the whip, this time across her belly. Caralissa did her best to move upon the thing, though it threatened to tear her apart. Sweat-covered, she began to writhe.
‘Surely you would want to have this for yourself?’ he proclaimed, shaming her even further by referring to her as an inanimate object. ‘The flanks, the arse. The shattered remnants of her will as queen?’
Caralissa touched her hands to her heaving breasts. She was able to push the shaft deep, very deep. She was going to come and there was nothing that could stop her. The bids were rising. Three, four times the value obtained for her unfortunate sister. The man was shouting, touching her, making them laugh and cheer and bid.
On and on it went for what felt like hours, and then finally the man shouted, ‘Sold!’ and the auction was over. They pulled her from the shaft. A steel collar was put around her neck, connected to a long chain. She was dragged from the platform and across the courtyard to a waiting wagon. It was windowless, made of thick slats of wood. Unknown hands thrust her deep within and the door was locked behind her. A few moments later she heard the sound of a whip, the sound of men ordering horses forward.
The wagon was on the move. Dazed, stunned, in the dark, she lay upon the floor, feeling the vibrations of the road underneath. The reality was only just beginning to sink in. She had been sold. Separated from her sister and sold as if she were a common animal to the highest bidder. Everything she knew and loved was gone; an unknown place awaited her and an unknown life. Her face dotted with tears, the jarring road at last lulling her, she fell into a deep sleep, silent and dreamless.
She was still unconscious as they took her from the wagon many hours later. Taking her in the back way of the arched wooden structure, down the stairs and into the basement, the black-shirted men laid her upon the floor. The surface was rough, made of stone. Caralissa stirred but did not awaken.
‘Douse her,’ said a female voice, harsh and imperious.
Buckets of water were poured upon the sweat-stained girl, she spluttered at once, sitting up with a start. ‘What are you doing?’ she cried.
A whip cracked the air between her shoulder blades, the tip singing her flesh. ‘Silence, pleasure-house girl.’
She rubbed her eyes. Where was she? A slave keep, most likely. One of the locked chambers where girls were kept when not in use by customers. But which pleasure-house was it? Was she still in Orencia or had they crossed the border?
‘She seems a bit skinny,’ she heard the woman say. ‘I’m not sure the customers will go for her.’
‘She has the mystique of her former office,’ said a male voice, deep and gruff. ‘And she’s passionate. At auction she stiffened every prick. My own included.’
‘Spare me, Jolar,’ the woman mused. ‘A good breeze stiffens your prick.’
Caralissa beheld the pair. The woman was tall with long dark hair, jewel-green eyes and a veil that covered her lower face. She wore silk pantaloons and a vest. The man sported a pointed moustache and a long thin beard, terminating in a braid. He wore silk as well, a suit of green and lavender along with leather boots. The woman was shapely, her healthy bosom accentuated by a tight waist.
‘Down, girl,’ growled the man, noting Caralissa’s gawking attention. ‘Pay homage to your mistress, Lady Fira.’
The whip whistled through the air again, this time hitting her full in the back, she fell forward in pain, her palms bracing her as she fell to the stones.
‘Crawl to us, slut,’ Jolar ordered.
She obeyed, not being anxious to taste the lash any further. When she reached their feet, the man raised his foot, pressing the toes of his boots down upon her shoulder. He did not wish her on all fours but upon her belly. The stone was hard and cold, indenting her from chin to thighs.
‘Behold the Lady Fira,’ he repeated with great fanfare, though at the moment Caralissa could see nothing but the floor. ‘Proprietress of the Silver Veil. You are her property now, available for her and for her customers, howsoever they may wish to use you.’
Caralissa grunted in pain. The boot was hurting her whip-bitten back.
‘Secure her hands behind her back,’ said Lady Fira. ‘Put her on her knees before me.’
Two of her men performed the task with lightning efficiency.
‘Better,’ Lady Fira nodded. ‘Now we can talk.’
Caralissa strained her hands against the tightly wound leather thong. ‘Where am I?’ she demanded, determined to regain the upper hand.
Jolar looked at her in fury. Rearing back his palm, he was prepared to hit her with the flat of it.
‘No,’ Fira said, causing him to freeze instantly. ‘I don’t want her face marked.’
Jolar grumbled an apology - not to Caralissa but to the Lady Fira.
‘I am sure Cara wants to be a good girl,’ Fira said, taking a step forward, sliding her pantaloons down over her waist to reveal a glisteningly bare and shaved sex. ‘Don’t you, Cara?’
Caralissa felt nauseous. Fira was stepping from the pants and putting her crotch inches from her face. It was obvious what she was going to do, and the very idea of it made her sick.
‘Have you ever tasted a woman, my dear?’ Fira crooned with deceptive sweetness. Caralissa shook her head. Never. Not even in her dreams. ‘You will taste me, Cara, or be lashed. The choice is yours.’
Caralissa locked her jaws. She’d never allow herself to do such a thing - never. She would die first.
‘How dare you disobey!’ cried Jolar, his voice rising an octave in pitch.
From behind came the inevitable, the whip cracking across her buttocks, hard enough to make her scream. Immediately Caralissa thrust her face into the woman’s opening. The scent was deep and musky, the aroma almost overpowering. Tears grazed her cheeks as she began to move her tongue to find, as she knew she must, the deepest recesses of the woman’s slick opening. Lady Fira shifted her hips, allowing Caralissa deeper access. The juices ran down Caralissa’s chin and across the bridge of her nose. The others were watching, which made it all the more disgraceful... and also arousing. For between her own legs Caralissa was aware of the familiar moisture, the strange stirrings. She only hoped they would not notice and think worse of her. She was a civilised woman, a former queen. Even now, on her knees, slavishly servicing another female, licking and caressing her sex as though her mouth were a man’s cock, she had her honour.
Honour was everything in a place like this. For so long as they imagined her to have some dignity, some sense of decorum, she could hope to avoid the worst of pleasure-house life. Even so, she knew it would not be easy. The endless parade of men, the acts, relentless and demeaning, night after night. How ironic to think she’d spent so many hours herself in pleasure-houses, watching in dreaded fascination, wondering with a morbid curiosity what it might be like to submit, to be owned and passed from customer to customer.
Caralissa’s mistress moaned. It was the self-satisfied sound of a cat, a predator. Using her talon-like nails, Fira pressed Caralissa’s face into the desired position. It was the clitoris, of course, that Caralissa knew she must find and pleasure. It was Varik who introduced her to this tiny wonder in her own body and he’d also been the first to exploit it, using its sensitivity to manipulate her into exquisite submissions.
She wished now that she’d had occasion to teach Romila a few things before they’d parted ways. It would be harder on her sister, much harder, if she did not know how to sufficiently please the patrons of her house, not to mention her master or mistress. It would be up to the goddess to keep her safe, she supposed.
‘That’s it, girl,’ Fira croaked. ‘My, but you have a gift.’
Although she did not wish to, Caralissa glowed at the compliment. It was a testimony to how far she had declined that such a remark might be taken well by her, as if she were naught but a slave, one whose sole purpose was to give pleasure.
Fira cried out, exclaiming her obvious joy. Holding Caralissa fast against her she began to rock, the juices pouring copiously till the hapless slave began to cough and sputter. Obediently Caralissa continued her ministrations till the woman’s orgasm passed, a fiery peak over which she rode with reckless abandon.
At last Caralissa was released. Now if only she could have a little attention herself, she thought, to complete her own dangling climax.
Fira shoved her backwards. ‘Place her over the horse,’ she ordered. ‘And bring me my shaft. I wish to sport with her some more.’
Sport with her some more? What on earth did that mean? And what sort of horse were they planning to bring inside the basement of a pleasure-house?
Jolar snapped his fingers, further delegating the action to two of the waiting men. The pair lifted Caralissa with ease, holding her by her bound arms as they dragged her across to the device. The thing consisted of a kind of horizontal tube with two sets of legs, set at sharp angles. They laid her across it on her stomach, pulling her arms down to cuffs that were attached to two of the legs. Her ankles were secured to the other two legs, also by cuffs. This accomplished, she was now quite exposed, head to the floor, legs spread, buttocks and vaginal opening easily accessible. Her breasts meanwhile were cruelly pressed against the sticky material that covered the tube, inducing her to clammy perspiration.
Caralissa grimaced. With her loins cleaved and her mouth and chin over the horse’s front, she felt rather like an exposed tunnel, with two vacant ends.
It was Jolar who attended her first. ‘You are no longer a queen, are you, girl?’ he demanded, swinging a large wooden paddle against her quivering buttock cheeks.
‘No,’ she cried pathetically as the paddle slammed at her nerve endings. ‘No.’
Jolar struck her again. ‘What are you, then?’
It was Fira who provided her the correct answer. ‘You are a pleasure-house slut,’ she said, having moved to a place directly in front of her, arms at her hips.
Caralissa gasped as she saw what Lady Fira was now wearing, long and terrifying, attached to her waist by means of straps and a leather belt.
‘Impressive, isn’t it?’ Fira asked, noting the horrified look as she beheld the ebonite shaft, fixed prominently as though it were a natural erection. ‘We use it for practice. Today we are practicing on you.’
Caralissa began to struggle, trying to free herself. She could get no leverage and the shackles were strong and tight. The best she could hope to accomplish was to rock the entire structure hard enough to topple it over. Alas, it was too heavy even for that.
‘What are you?’ Jolar repeated, punctuating his repeated question with another two blows of the paddle.
Caralissa winced. The paddle’s sting was not like the pure fire of the whip, nor was it like a man’s bare hand, but there was to it a cumulative effect, a kind of building heat that was rapidly approaching the point of flammability. ‘I am a pleasure-house slut!’ she cried.
‘Very good,’ Fira told her reassuringly, stretching her hand out to pat her head. Caralissa clamped her mouth shut. The shaft was approaching, and it was in line to ram between her lips.
Fira feigned surprise as the girl’s resistant lips rebuffed its tip. ‘Oh my, what have we here? Is Cara too much of a lady to sport with us?’ Fira clamped Caralissa’s nose shut before she knew what was coming. The prisoner whimpered helplessly. It was only a matter of time till she must gasp for breath, thereby leaving her mouth free to be plundered. Fira was patient, and the shaft was ever present. Cara feared she might pass out, but at last she closed her eyes and opened her mouth the tiniest bit, just for a second.
The artificial cock was thrust immediately to the back of her throat. Cara gagged, nearly retching. The thing was bigger than any man she knew, bigger perhaps than any man could be. Putting her hands on both sides of Caralissa’s cheeks, Fira pumped herself in and out mercilessly. It seemed madness that she would do this given that the woman couldn’t even feel pleasure from it, but apparently it served some purpose she did not understand.
‘We need to get it good and lubricated with your spit,’ Fira explained, ‘so we can fit it in your arse next.’
Caralissa trembled and moaned in agonising despair, her eyes dotted with tears. Was there in this woman no pity at all?
Fira began to laugh, the sound rising like a high cackle. ‘Do you smell that, boys?’ Caralissa’s invaded cheeks reddened, the scent of her arousal thick in the air. ‘I think little Cara is enjoying herself,’ the woman observed, shoving herself to the back of her mouth yet again. ‘Are you not, slut?’
Caralissa tried to shake her pinioned head. No! A thousand times no!
‘Don’t lie to me,’ Fira warned, pulling back on her damp hair. ‘You do want it. You want this in your arse. Admit it.’
Fira removed the shaft. Caralissa was weeping. ‘Yes,’ she heard herself cry, her voice small and possessed, ‘I do.’
The words were a fierce utterance, almost unearthly.
‘Very well,’ Fira said graciously. ‘Jolar, you take my place while I accommodate our fine lady.’
Jolar grunted his affirmation, and Caralissa began to swoon as he put himself in place. The last thing she remembered was the dual sensation, a pressing on both openings. The two shafts, one artificial, one natural, wreaking their havoc, piercing her, body and spirit. The orgasms seemed to come at her from all sides, like cascades of water, an overwhelming flood. She thought she would die at that moment, die of pleasure, die of shame.
‘Let us switch places,’ she heard Fira say at last, and then she passed out.
Caralissa shrugged the hand from her upper arm - a tricky prospect whilst balancing the frothy tankards. The man was drunk, his attempt to grab her playful. Shouting something to his companion, who lay head down on the table next to him, he let her go, giving her thinly-covered bottom a healthy pat as she scampered past.
She couldn’t object of course, as the man had every right to do with her as he pleased for as long as he wished. The customers awaiting their ale might have been annoyed but there was no question of her having any say in the matter. Caralissa was a pleasure-house girl. She belonged to whoever laid coins upon the table for her use.
A few tables down there was a fight. She narrowly avoided a plummeting body as she passed. Her own customers were a pair of merchants. Setting the beverages down she hoped to make a quick exit, but it was clear they had other intentions. Making her turn about they lifted her short silk skirt to examine her nether aperture.
‘Are you good and tight, girl?’ the one asked, a chubby, bearded fellow with a turban.
‘Yes, sir,’ she replied, thinking it the safest answer.
The other man, a hook-nosed fellow with thick eyebrows, stuffed his finger up her for good measure. They both laughed when she yelped. Caralissa squirmed on bare feet. She was essentially naked, the covering she wore being a sleeveless low-cut cloth garment with no underclothes.
‘What took so long with our orders, slut?’ asked the fat one, caressing her thigh.
‘She was probably off flashing her tits to some handsome soldier,’ mused the hooknose, taking a large swallow of his ale.
‘Sirs, forgive me, I—’
The fat one seized her arm. ‘We’ll teach you to be insolent,’ he interrupted as he threw her across his lap.
‘Please,’ Caralissa cried in vain as he raised the cloth and began to spank her, ‘I didn’t do anything!’
‘Careful, Minak,’ the hooknose countered, ‘or she’ll juice all over your robes; you know how hard the stains are to remove.’
Minak slammed his hand down, making her cry out. ‘Then she’ll bloody well be whipped, won’t she, Torano?’
Minak continued his relentless assault whilst Torano said nothing. There was in Minak’s hand neither sweetness nor love, only punishing blows. Hating herself for her weakness, Caralissa began to cry.
Noting the flow of tears, Minak yanked her to her feet. ‘Oh, for pity’s sake, if it’s not one stain on me it’s another! I really will have to beat you now!’
‘Later, Minak,’ Torano said. ‘There’s something else she needs to do first.’
Caralissa watched him fumbling at the belt on his robes, feeling herself reddening. The man wouldn’t make her do something here, would he, out in the open? She’d only been working three days but to her knowledge sexual acts were allowed only in the pleasure rooms.
‘Sir, I don’t think this is permitted,’ she protested meekly as Torano revealed an enormous member.
Minak shoved her down and forward in the relevant direction. ‘Oh, be silent, whore. You are boring us.’
Caralissa landed on her knees, and Torano’s slender fingers were at her head at once, positioning her tearstained face. The floor was sticky and the man tasted sour, almost rancid. She doubted he had bathed in weeks.
‘Hey, save some for us!’ she heard a nearby fellow roar. Others were laughing, too. Tankards were pounding on the table. This was wrong, she thought. Surely someone would stop it before it was too late.
‘Suck hard, little slut,’ Minak proclaimed, speaking for his friend, whose head was back in slack-eyed ecstasy. ‘We have powerful friends. Very powerful. Cross us and we’ll send you some place that makes this stinking place look like paradise.’
Caralissa tried to keep her focus, but it was all beginning to blur in her head; the innumerable sex acts since her arrival, the degradation, the cruelties. One man left her chained from the ceiling for five hours while he lay passed out next to her on the floor. Thank the goddess he’d been too drunk to touch her with the wildly flailing whip he took from the rack on the wall.
Another man poured beer over her head so his brother could lick the foam off her breasts. On more than one occasion she’d been made to take customer’s orders to the kitchen on her hands and knees so they could enjoy the sight of her wriggling buttocks. Seldom did she keep her clothing on for an entire evening. Some customers would demand she strip even before they would accept her as a waitress.
And of course there were the stares, the leers and endless probing eyes, letting her know in no uncertain terms what they planned to do to her later on. She’d been aching and sore at the end of each night, raw in every orifice. The cream, used to lubricate, was available, but it cost extra and few men desired to waste their money on the comfort of pleasure-house sluts.
‘Try to enjoy it,’ was Lady Fira’s only advice. ‘You’ll stay wet that way.’
Some of them would let her lubricate her anal passage with juices from her vagina. Even so, at the end of a shift she could barely stand. The mat on the floor in the basement, where she was allowed to sleep, neck chained to the wall, seemed like heaven to her tired body each time she lay down.
She seldom stayed awake more than a few seconds after being chained in place. Sometimes the guards would use her in the middle of the night and then she’d have to wake up again.
Her allocated four hours of sleep a night flew by like the wind. How she wished to stay in bed longer each time, but there was no avoiding the predawn call to begin her labours along with the other girls who were responsible for scrubbing, cleaning and preparing the establishment for the next night’s revels. Naked, under the eyes of an overseer, the girls would attend to their duties.
It was at these times that she thought most often of Romila, wondering what her sister was doing at such an early hour, hoping she was in a better place, sleeping peacefully.
Caralissa felt Torano shudder inside her. It was reflex to draw out the sperm, to take it down into her empty belly. She hoped she pleased him. Customers were allowed to give treats to the girls if they felt they’d earned them. It was the only supper the wenches ever saw.
Lady Fira’s theory was that needy girls were more attentive. As her chief aid, Jolar would give lectures to the girls to this effect as they ate their morning bowls of gruel, scooping out the contents with their hands. If they were lucky afterwards, Fira might call one or two of them to her chambers for the rest of the day. They’d be put through paces of course, made to submit to the woman’s seemingly endless whims and her even larger supply of strap-on phalluses.
Sometimes though, they might be allowed a little sleep too, either before or after, with Lady Fira clutching their leashes as they lay curled at her feet. Caralissa had been so summoned yesterday and when she was granted her turn in the bed - an actual mattress of feathers - she wept openly.
‘A little nourishment for you, eh?’ Torano winked, as Caralissa was finally allowed to come up for air. ‘Good for the digestion, they say.’
Silently she fumed, even as they laughed together at her expense.
‘Oh, cheer up,’ Torano drawled. ‘At least you didn’t have to swallow Minak’s cock. That thing looks worse than an over-pickled courgette.’
‘To the demons with you, Torano,’ Minak declared good-naturedly. ‘Say, little whore,’ he said, turning his attention to Caralissa who was till kneeling in front of them. ‘How about a little treat?’ Caralissa eyed the bit of shrimp freshly plucked from the heap on the man’s plate. It was pink and succulent. Her eyes widened. Minak grinned malevolently. ‘Sit up and beg for it, slut.’
Her lower lip began to tremor as she watched him dangle the seafood cruelly. She’d rather die than humiliate herself any further before these two, but she was so hungry. Who knew when she might get another chance to eat? And if she cooperated, she told herself, they might give her more food in the bargain.
Slowly, agonisingly, Caralissa put out her hands, cupping them. ‘Please?’ she mewed, making her voice as soft as possible. ‘Please feed me.’
Minak guffawed. ‘Oh, come on, you can do better than that!’
Torano wagged his tongue for her, holding out his hands like paws. ‘Try it like this,’ he suggested, simulating as he did the panting of a dog. Tears in her eyes, Caralissa imitated the degrading position.
Minak shook his head, still unsatisfied. ‘Dogs wear no clothes,’ he pointed out. ‘Your performance is lacking in that regard.’
They watched as Caralissa lowered her eyes, reaching for the hem of the skimpy covering. In a single motion she pulled it overhead, baring her lithe body. Cheeks red now, her sex throbbing, she repeated the gesture.
Like a pet, she thought - naked and begging for scraps.
Minak sighed, appearing to consider. ‘Maybe, but let me see you play with your tits first.’
Caralissa cupped her warm breasts. Her already erect nipples pulsed beneath her palms.
‘You’d do anything for this shrimp, wouldn’t you, slut?’ Minak sneered as she rubbed her hands slowly, helplessly over her firm mounds.
‘Yes,’ she whispered shamefully.
‘Spread your legs, then.’
Caralissa widened her knees, exposing her soft, glistening nether lips.
‘Taste yourself,’ Minak ordered.
As if in a dream Caralissa lowered her head, her hands and fingers brushing the moist opening, collecting a healthy sample. A moment later she was sucking, her fingers deep in her mouth.
Minak looked at her, eyes glowing. ‘Stand up, slut.’
Caralissa did so, her belly at the level of his fat waist. She watched as he took the bit of sea meat, pinched between his thumb and forefinger and held it in front of her. Still grinning, he pressed it deep inside her, between her legs. Slowly, very slowly, he twisted it, allowing it to soak up her juices.
‘Use only your mouth,’ he said casually as he extracted the shrimp and threw it to the floor at her feet.
Caralissa hesitated only a moment before getting down on all fours, lowering herself to the ale-soaked wooden surface. Daintily, using her teeth and tongue only, she seized the little piece of meat. It tasted of her own saltiness and the staleness of beer. Greedily she swallowed it down.
She hoped the worst was over now, but as she tried to raise her head she found she could not move. Minak’s foot was there, on her fan of hair, pinning her in place. Panic gripped her. She was trapped, cheek to the floor.
‘Oh, how clumsy I am!’ Minak exclaimed sarcastically as he began to pour his drink slowly and deliberately on the floor next to her. The rivulets of ale were landing a mere inch from her head, the spray splashing up to soak her face and hair. ‘Lick it up,’ he told her. ‘Every drop.’
Caralissa sobbed silently as she extended her tongue, reluctantly, half-heartedly, onto the disgusting surface.
‘Harder!’ Minak demanded.
‘No,’ she heard a male voice say. ‘That is enough.’
Caralissa’s heart jumped. That voice - was her mind playing tricks on her or could it be him?
‘Are you addressing me?’ Minak asked. ‘I certainly hope not, for your sake.’
‘Yes,’ the man responded, very tall, his face and body disguised behind a black hooded cloak. ‘I am addressing you. Let the girl go.’
Minak growled from low in his throat. ‘See here,’ he said, his voice suddenly agitated, ‘you are obviously a stranger and probably from some other world because you obviously do not know that I am Minak, the foremost?’
‘I do not need to know who you are,’ the man replied as he stepped across Caralissa to grab the huge man by the collar of his robes, ‘to know that you are rude and disrespectful.’
‘Let me go!’ he squealed, feet kicking foolishly in air as the stranger lifted him clean off his feet.
‘Now see here,’ Torano began, his voice high-pitched and nervous. ‘If you think you can just?’
‘Get out,’ the man said to Torano. ‘Both of you.’
Caralissa knelt up, beholding the mysterious, powerful interloper. It was Varik. It had to be. And yet what would he be doing here and alone?
‘Never mind, Torano,’ Minak said hastily, having been set down on his feet once more. ‘We shall deal with this man in our own time.’
A blade was drawn smoothly and cleanly from a scabbard slung across the newcomer’s back. The tip of it was brought to rest a millimetre from Minak’s throat.
‘Do not make threats, merchant,’ the man said, ‘that you do not intend to keep.’
Minak’s eyes popped nearly from his head. Sweat was pouring from his forehead. ‘Please,’ he whimpered, ‘we meant no offence. Let us go about our business and we will trouble you no more.’
‘We will never return to this place again,’ added Torano. ‘We swear it!’
The man’s eyes looked deeply into those of Minak, the sword still in place. A second later a puddle appeared on the floor at the huge man’s feet. The man blanched red in shame.
‘Go,’ the stranger repeated, replacing the sword in its scabbard. ‘Now.’
Torano and Minak nearly demolished each other in their race for the door.
Caralissa was overwhelmed; she wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. She wanted to embrace this man and thank him. But there was something else she needed to do first. Grabbing his arm, looking up into the darkened shadow of his cloaked face, on tiptoe, she asked, ‘Varik, is it you?’
‘Be silent, woman. And follow me.’
A wide path was formed for the cloaked man, as girls and men alike stepped warily from his way. Caralissa hoped he might lead her out the front door, but alas he led her directly back to one of the pleasure rooms.
‘Wait here,’ he said, when she was inside.
She stood there in the dark, heart thumping, trying to discern if she was crazy or if she was really being rescued by the chieftain of the Rashal.
A few moments later he returned with a clean towel, dampened. ‘Wash yourself,’ he told her, tossing the thick cloth.
Numbly, Caralissa wiped the towel over her stained face. It was a guest towel, a privilege ordinarily denied to pleasure girls. For her part, ever since her arrival, her body had been allowed to touch nothing but rags.
‘Who are you?’ she asked, as he drew the curtain closed behind him.
‘Turn your back to me,’ he said. ‘And put yourself on all fours.’
Caralissa’s knees were so weak it was hard to obey, hard to keep from collapsing at the man’s feet. His power was so overwhelming. Who was this man? The voice was right, but the solitary figure so silent and gracious was a mystery. If he wasn’t Varik why did she feel so safe and sexy in his presence, even in the middle of this dingy room, with the chains on the wall, the whips, the stone floor?
Gravity itself compelled her downward. The lowness, the solidity of the prone position was what she desperately needed at this moment. She felt so open, so vulnerable. Terror gripped her briefly as she realised that if he was a stranger he might hurt her, or even kill her. If she was wrong about his identity she might not survive the night.
‘Spread,’ he ordered, manually widening her calves with the toe of his boot. ‘You have a sweet arse,’ he told her, kneeling beside her on one knee.
Caralissa cried out as the flat of his hand impacted possessively against her quivering cheeks. It wasn’t pain, but recognition she felt. That hand - she’d know it anywhere! ‘Varik!’ she cried joyfully.
‘Silence, wench,’ he complained, repositioning himself to fill her opening. ‘Do you want the entire house to know our business?’
‘No,’ she smiled, ‘master.’
‘Do not call me that,’ he chastised. ‘I do not own you.’
Caralissa backed against him, taking him inside her to the hilt. ‘Yes, you do.’
Varik withdrew halfway only to plunge into her again, more forcefully and with a deep grunt. ‘Insolent girl,’ he exhaled.
‘Yes,’ she agreed, ‘master.’
They came together in a flooding torrent, powerful enough to wash away the world, even with all its history, all its pain. As she began to regain her powers of thought, she said a silent prayer.
Let this not be a dream. Let it be reality.
Caralissa saw her sister first. She was in a long line of prisoners, marching between two columns of Rashal soldiers.
‘Romila!’ she screamed from high atop her horse, Grey Cloud.
‘Caralissa,’ Varik chided, seated beside her on his own mount. ‘Show some dignity, will you please?’
‘Sorry,’ she smiled, ‘master.’
Romila was running towards them, having broken through the ranks unimpeded. Caralissa dismounted and the two embraced: the elder sister still in rags, the younger in a long green dress, belted with a sash in the Rashal manner.
‘Little sister?’ Romila wept, beholding the redheaded braids, the feathers and claws on Caralissa’s necklace. ‘Is it really you? I thought you were dead! Oh, sister,’ she cried, throwing herself into Caralissa’s arms. ‘It was terrible. After the auction I was taken to this horrible pleasure-house. The most unspeakable things were done to me there. I thought I would die there, but then, quite out of the blue, we came under attack and the whole place was in flames. It was the Rashal, we were told, under a new leader, the old one having been deposed.’
‘Voluntarily stepped down,’ Varik corrected, looking down on the two sisters. ‘My brother and I came to a new arrangement. He will run the empire, and I will chart new territories for him.’
Caralissa beamed. ‘Varik and I are journeying together. Into the Forest of Night.’
Romila blinked. ‘But what of the rest of us - what of Orencia?’
Varik pointed to a body of horsemen, fast approaching. ‘Your answer is coming now.’
They watched as Senelek rode proudly towards them at the head of a squad of mounted warriors, behind them on a long chain, a line of naked prisoners, all males.
‘Greetings, brother,’ said Senelek, as the party came to a halt in front of them.
‘Greetings, chieftain,’ replied Varik.
‘No, Romila!’ Caralissa was saying as she tried to hold her sister back from one of the prisoners, a small weasel of a man who held particular interest for her. ‘Do not acknowledge his existence. Let him be taken away and executed with the others.’
‘Get her off me!’ Telos wailed pitifully, unable to raise his chained hands in self-defence against the flailing arms of the princess.
Realising her sister would do little harm to the man she decided to let her have her fun.
‘Mercy!’ the prisoner begged, falling to his knees as Romila fell on him.
‘Mercy!’ begged Remik, who was chained to Telos’ left.
‘Mercy!’ parroted Alinor, chained at his right.
‘Chieftain,’ Varik said, trying to maintain the dignity of the meeting. ‘The princess Romila is obviously quite spirited. May I recommend her as administrator in this new region of the empire?’
Senelek inclined his head. ‘We take the counsel of our brother with the utmost seriousness. Consider it done.’
Caralissa tried to keep herself from giggling as she noted the scar on Senelek’s briefly down-turned forehead. There were similar ones on Varik’s chest. According to the former chieftain, the two had hammered out their peace under torchlight, in the dead of night upon a lonely hillside, grappling at one another for the better part of four hours until they finally collapsed together, utterly exhausted.
‘The great chieftain is most generous,’ Romila spoke up, straightening herself proudly, revealing herself to be a natural born politician and pragmatist. ‘We shall humbly serve the Rashal. May we make, to this end, one small request?’
‘Name it,’ said Senelek. ‘Romila, Administrator of the Valley of Seven Kingdoms.’
Romila looked at the chained men, a wicked smile slowly snaking across her lips. ‘Allow me to take these prisoners off your hands, my lord. We can find use for them here, as our slaves.’
The men trembled at the queen’s words, particularly the final one. Caralissa allowed herself a smirk. She had no doubt these arrogant fools would pay dearly for their crimes under Romila’s new administration.
‘So be it.’ Senelek raised his hand in a gesture of finality. How splendid he looked in his chief’s armour and cloak. ‘Deliver these wretches to the castle,’ he commanded a nearby officer. ‘I must bid you farewell,’ he said to his brother. ‘There is much work to be done.’
Varik bowed low in his saddle. ‘Your presence has honoured me, chieftain. Until we meet again, I shall serve you ceaselessly.’
Senelek’s lips moved into a near smile, the closest she’d ever seen the man come to actual mirth. ‘I’ve no doubt of that, Varik.’ Pulling up on his reins to commence a turn, he added, ‘I fully expect when next we meet that you will have single-handedly subdued the entire Forest of Night.’
Varik pressed his lips together. ‘As you command. But as I am no longer alone in the world,’ he declared, indicating Caralissa, ‘I shall be due only half the credit.’
Sometime later, in a humble tent, a lone traveller reclined upon his side, bare-chested, his head resting on his hand as he regarded the splendid kneeling girl. For the better part of an hour he held her in this position, hands clasped behind her head, knees spread, breasts prominently displayed, as he finished his supper of warm meat chunks and gravy served with thick brown bread. As he beheld her now, his eyes lingered on the most delicious parts of her.
‘Have you something to say?’ Varik asked with amusement, breaking her enforced silence.
Caralissa’s eyes burned with fury. ‘Your girl is hungry,’ she said, stating the obvious. ‘If it pleases her master.’
Varik belched, picking a bit of meat from between his teeth with a toothpick. ‘And what concern is that of mine?’ he enquired.
‘Your girl will starve, master,’ she reminded him, ‘if master does not feed her.’
‘Indeed.’ He raised an eyebrow, as though this were some revelation. ‘Am I simply to give away my hard earned bread, then?’
‘No, master,’ she replied, with as much sarcasm as she could still manage. ‘Allow your girl to earn her pitiful allotment of food. Allow her to please you as a god.’
He exhaled uneasily, eying the half a loaf of bread and partially filled pot of soup. ‘For such a feast,’ he said, ‘a girl would have to be very pleasing indeed.’
Caralissa cast him a wicked glare, promising much. ‘Yes, master,’ she replied huskily, lowering herself to her belly on the dirt. ‘Your girl understands.’
Caralissa was prostrate, slithering her way to Varik’s feet. Her aching nipples chafed on the ground, her tender sex twitched with need.
‘I beg permission to kiss your feet,’ Caralissa said, her mouth ripe and needful.
‘Permission granted.’
Caralissa closed her eyes as she worked her lips over his skin. As far as she was concerned - her present anger aside - every part of Varik really was sacred to her. Gradually he allowed her higher up on his body, compelling her to bathe every inch of his feet and legs with her tongue.
How she longed to rush ahead to his manhood, skipping the rest of the preliminaries. And yet she knew she must earn that right, as she must earn the right even to beg, offering her willing body in exchange for food or beverage.
Varik was a ruthless master. Devious and harsh. He kept the reins tight. Though it was only a few days since they’d reunited, he had already tamed her considerably. Obedient and attentive, she was readily assuming her place as second in the household behind the boisterous Ahzur. To her surprise she was even becoming jealous of Varik’s attentions to the beast, the way he petted the animal, allowing it the privilege of lying beside him whenever it wished, the way he allowed it to eat and drink as it desired.
The first night she threw a fit when he revealed to her that if she were thirsty she would take water from Ahzur’s dish, lapping it with her tongue. All through the night, feverish and parched, she’d lain, chained in the dirt, too stubborn to move. Finally, shortly before dawn, humbled and desperate, she begged for the opportunity to use the once spurned dish.
‘Across my lap, wench,’ Varik told her now.
Caralissa shuddered, knowing immediately what he intended. Once again he would feed her under discipline, compelling her to beg for a spanking in order to receive a few measly scraps of bread.
‘Is Cara hungry?’ he asked, employing the diminutive she so hated.
‘Yes, master,’ she replied, her buttocks warming under the spread of his caressing fingers, ‘Cara is hungry.’
‘Bread is five strokes a bite tonight,’ he told her.
‘The rates have gone up,’ she noted. ‘Master.’
‘Inflation,’ he shrugged, applying his hand for the first stroke.
Though she did not wish him to see it, she was grinning. He was such a beast!
Her buttocks red and inflamed, she opened her mouth at last to receive the piece of bread. She licked his fingers as he fed it to her.
‘Are you ready to earn another?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ she whispered, ‘master.’
Bracing herself, she made a vow in her heart. Before the night was done she’d have the whole loaf - and a healthy dose of his semen as well.
‘I love you, master,’ she told him.
‘And I you,’ he acknowledged, his hand swatting her yet again. ‘And I you.’