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Despite her great determination, there was a strange haunting in her heart and belly, something deeply unsettling that she could not explain. Her initial flogging in the dungeon had left her sexually breathless, with a fire inside her groin that had not died. This knowledge of her hidden character would not leave her. Her body had betrayed her in that disturbing incident; her reason tossed aside as so much wasted dust. She could ignore that moment as a clutter of senseless feelings and images, which converging on her all at once, played havoc with her sanity. Such an explanation seemed sound enough; but then, she knew it simply wasn’t true.
Late one evening, when Slave Charlotte thought herself bedded for the night, Caius came to her cell, u
nlocking the door and pulling her into a corridor, which led to the dungeon stairs. It had been nearly a month since she’d surfaced in the common world. So used to her dim subterranean home, the brightly torch-lit halls of Mountbane’s castle assaulted her eyes, nearly blinding her sight until she could adjust to the glare. She was made to crawl on her hands and knees, led along by a leash, tugged when she was prone to hesitate. Where she’d become accustomed to the naked world of Caius’ dungeon, her swift and unexpected appearance in this presumably more civil climate renewed her embarrassment.
Her shame became more real than ever, when she was forced into a dining hall filled with drunken revelers. Mountbane sat at the center of a circular table, flanked on either side by fondling slaves. Dressed as whores—in the fashion of the times—their sprite looking costumes left little for the hungering eyes of a lust-driven man to imagine. Each wore a halter of such flimsy cloth that their breasts spilled freely, leaving naked nipples popping out with every move. Next to Mountbane’s face, this Lord of Ilusia had only to turn his head in order to suckle at one pert nipple or another. In the space of Charlotte’s first shocking sixty seconds in the brothel atmosphere, her would-be husband turned one of his slave tarts over his lap; and where her skirt was cut apart, he bared her fat behind and spanked it red, while the laughing beauty giggled and tittered through the raunchy circus. She was immediately pressed into service at her master’s crotch. Pushed to her knees, she buried his prick inside her mouth, suckling it as avidly as he’d sucked her tits. Meanwhile, the master’s second whore coiled her way about his face with hands and mouth as he reached inside her skirt and played with the wet snatch at the apex of her thighs. The scenes on either side of Mountbane reflected the master’s licentious activity. Slave/whores, gentlemen and dapper aristocrats were almost screwing on the tables. One randy cunt was impaled by Sir Ellemore’s fat purple prick as the old gent clutched her disheveled hair in his fist, and rode her like a horse. She bellowed almost as obnoxiously as a fucked animal, though the sound only made sense in the brawling theatre of lecherous pleasure.
Charlotte had only seconds to appraise the rude affair before she was lifted to a standing rack, her manacled limbs tied to the four corners so she was spread wide in the shape of an X, forced to face the rowdy entertainment. To pretend she wasn’t there, she closed her eyes, thinking this her best defense against her defenseless plight. And yet, her small moment of comfort was quickly dashed as the sound of Mountbane’s voice rose above the mirth.
The bound young woman opened her eyes to see her husband’s sneer, and then a false face of concern as he withdrew from his harlots, rose to his feet, and sauntered around the table to where Charlotte hung bound.
“My, my, my, what have we here?” he stared in her eyes to gloat, then turned to his friends, “I would have preferred to present my bride in the usual manner, kind sirs, but it seems that she wishes to take a more circuitous route to surrender. I thought we might help her this evening.” Turning back, he nestled the key inside the lock of her chastity belt and freed her of the device—an act so rare now, she felt more naked than ever without the restraint.
His inebriated company began to shout their tributes.
“Why, Lord, you’ve made her bald!”
“But does she not retain that natural beauty?”
“Ah, see how she blushes.”
“You say she has no appreciation of her status?”
They were intrigued enough by the lovely ornament of virginity before them, that for a time, the masters abandoned their slaves, attending to their Lord’s theatrics.
“You say she’s shrewish, I say she deserves the cane to her plump cheeks.”
“Perhaps more pain and less indulgence.”
“A reaming of her ass with cleansing spirits.”
“More abuse to her nipples—see how they swell as if they beg defilement.”
“A greater degradation.”
“A misery of body and soul.”
The offers came fast from this sincere crowd of drunks.
“Or, perhaps, by wit and chicanery she’ll be conquered,” Mountbane suggested the alternative—seeming far more sane in his speech than the others did. “Come, Tristan. Help me now.”
“To what end, milord?” his counselor asked. Eyes lit, dark brows arching, Tristan rose, joining his sovereign before the room. Something reverberated from this man—as though the very earth at his feet rumbled from the energy of mystery embedded in his character. He stared into Charlotte’s eyes as if he were reminding the wench of the advice she’d shunned. He seemed determined now to punish her with his power to manipulate her body.
“Tease her as you wish,” Mountbane said. Those words inspired the dark knight to darker ends.
While the noble-born Tristan stared Charlotte down, his hands grazed the surface of her breasts and belly with such a delicate touch that she was trembling miserably in her efforts to turn away her arousal. Such delicacy was made of iron—with a will immovable, like Mountbane’s—though Tristan’s less quixotic and more enduring. She could not hold out with this abuse of her desires, but she would try. Each gesture made her body start—which seemed a hundred times taken to another level of need. Fingers probing girlish spaces, pinching lush folds of skin—tugging, rubbing, twisting bits of flesh, her reaction could not remain subdued. Perspiration burst on her brow, then in a wave moved downward so every pour emitted wet lust. With tension mounting at a fevered pace, she begged her body to end this torment and, so, closed her eyes.
Tristan’s hand moved immediately to her chin, tugging it around so that her eyes shot open forced on his, as his clipped nails dug into her flesh. “Don’t you dare shut me out, slave!”
“Yes, sir,” she meekly mouthed.
“Better,” he noted her more acquiescent tone as he continued his gentle torment of her flesh.
Mountbane was behind her now with his fingers moving along the cleft of her behind, finding the untried portal of her ass and rimming the sensitive tissue into a more obscene sort of pleasure than she’d ever known. And this before the luring eyes of the besotted throng. They shot off obscenities she tried to ignore, but she found ignoring made them stick with her more surely, like flies to honey.
“Take ‘err ass!”
“Fuck her, she’s your wife!”
