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Sir Malcolm’s quarters were hardly small. His drawing room easily accommodated the contingent of noblemen and their servants from Ilusia’s northern province. This tiny hamlet was too far from Lord Nor’s eye to be bothered with by this sovereign ruler. Governed by the powerful Mountbane, Nor had nothing to fear at his borders. This remote realm kept the fierce warrior Mountbane content. That he seemed to have little desire to conquer lands beyond his was another reason to leave the man and his passions alone. Once every two years, Nor would appear at the northern fortress for several days of revelry and leave more sure than ever that Mountbane was no threat to his absolute dominion over all the territories in Ilusia. This lusty leader was too taken with his carnal passions, which like an opiate engaged his senses in the real business of living.
The room stirred as Castile entered with his daughter at his heels.
She was a proud one. The six in Mountbane’s retinue eyed Charlotte’s efforts amusedly knowing that the harsh sting of truth would soon crush that pride before it would be rebuilt—in their Lord’s image. Such an exhilarating rush of power it would be to take a woman—nay, still a girl—of such prestige and naivete, and transform her into a worthy subject for an Ilusian sovereign!
She would be a challenge, certainly. They could see her arrogance billow like a cloud about her robust body. Just as they feared, her doltish father had hardly prepared her for what changes lay before her. Then, too, if she’d come meekly, they would have been astounded. No man wishes for himself anything but vitality in his daughters, and so, that is what they breed into them from birth. If Sir Malcolm had been smart, he would have contemplated her fate more keenly, and given her a disposition more suited to the task of service that would be required of her in her new home.
Just as well for them, however, this would be an enjoyable diversion until they deposited this chattel in their master’s hands.
“Castile,” Harrow bowed obsequiously with his smile dripping off his lips.
“Oh, this cannot be,” Charlotte cried, turning away from the wizened face of this hunchback elder.
“Ah, no, my love,” her father rushed in, “Mountbane has sent his emissaries to bring you back to Ilusia.”
She breathed more easily now.
“She will be inspected and properly shackled before we leave,” Harrow continued.
“Shackled!” Charlotte drew away, only to find her father’s long arm reach about her waist and draw her in.
“Shall you quiet your daughter, or shall I?” Harrow inquired.
“My dear, this is customary in such matters. A husband of Mountbane’s stature deserves a virgin.”
“He would inspect me so?” She blanched in fear.
“Tibor is quite gentle, so I’m told.” The old man turned to one of his companions, the doctor stepping forward as a dutiful servant. “I see no need to tarry.”
“No, sir, and I assure you that my daughter is as pure as fresh snow on Mount Elb.”
“Of course, kind gentleman. But, we have a duty to our master.”
Castile bowed as he pushed Charlotte forward into the hands of two burly men—these two not dressed in the fine array of the gnarled Harrow, or even the more sedate and scholarly clothes of Doctor Tibor. Each was clad in rough brown pants, held at the waist by belts of thick animal hide. Their hefty arms fit into sleeveless leather jerkins, which, for their broad and hairless chests could not be closed. Their beefy legs seemed rooted in their black boots, which, in turn, were planted squarely on the smooth floor beneath their feet. Charlotte, daughter of Sir Malcom Castile, was no more than a feathery flower in their fists.
Grabbing her by the arms, they led her to an oaken dining table in Castile’s quarters, laying her back against the surface as she struggled uselessly against their grit.
“I shall quit you, sirs, until your inspection is over,” Sir Malcolm announced. “I fear I am too soft on this one. Please, do your duty.”
“Father!” Charlotte shouted as she watched him leave. “Father, come back here now.”
“Hush!” The decaying nobleman, Harrow, pressed his face toward hers so closely that she could feel his breath on her cheek and smell something retched in that stench. “Your first duty, daughter of Castile, property of Mountbane, is to obey,” he wagged a finger toward her eyes. “You do anything else, you will be severely punished. You follow my order, this examination will be brief.”
Charlotte settled just so the foul man would pull away. And so he did; though she was hardly happy about the next ten minutes of humiliation. She’d heard about such dastardly rituals, conducted by the ancients—no doubt to satisfy their prurient lusts. But never, never would she have believed that her fate would one day find her lying prone on her father’s table, her skirt being raised by cold hands, and a second pair of hands yanking down the only slip of cloth protecting her personal treasure from the eyes of these gawking men. She turned her head to the side and closed her eyes, pretending she was elsewhere—in a meadow, wading in a mountain steam, anywhere but in the midst of this horror. Yet, there was little she could do to ignore the feel of the day’s wind on her exposed vulva where her Venus mound was being thoroughly examined.
With Charlotte’s skirts tossed above her navel and stripped of her underclothes, she was prepared for Tibor. The soft bush of hair at the helm of her female portal glowed warmly, even as the trace of her perfume lifted into the musky air.
“Part her thighs,” Harrow ordered, motioning to another pair of men to his left and right. These two had not the bulk of the brutes who held the woman in her place—nor were they as crudely dressed—still, their task was as malevolent. Striding forward they each grabbed one of Charlotte’s thighs and pulled it wide, bending it as they did. The effect alarmed the girl to tears as she contemplated the embarrassing exposure. Rent apart, her feminine privates were no longer private at all, but on display before this gazing company of witnesses.
The Doctor remained between her legs as the
four fellows commandeering the young woman heaved her to the very end of the table, so her ass was almost falling off the edge. Parted wider still, her hips were lifted so the proper inspection could begin. Tibor thrust with fingers that poked here and there, and spent some time stroking the delicate hymen guarding this virgin’s vital path.
“She appears intact,” he finally lifted his head and announced. “And a most suitable specimen to present to our grace. He will be glad to note that her genitals were made with the idea of breeding lust. Fully flowered, her lips swell even as she struggles against us. The bud between these plump lips,” he said as he squeezed her fat labia, “is engorged with blood. A very good sign.” He stared at her pained face, himself grinning. “Humph, how she gives herself away.”
The company nodded on hearing the Doctor’s decree, while the smile on Harrow’s thin lips transformed his mouth into a lecherous sneer. “I should be so lucky to have one as ripened as this one.”
“You should be so lucky as to have one at all,” the doctor declared. “The belt and harness please.”
